Chapter 8 Art Lover
Art Lover
With their journey to the city ending so awkwardly, Margaret was afraid she’d cast a chill over her barely bloomed friendship
with Charlotte and possibly even damaged future prospects for the book club in the process.
After seeing the kids off to school and Walt off to work in the morning—neither of them acknowledging her nightmare or their
testy exchange—Margaret went about her routine. But she was so distracted that she failed to notice that she tossed Suzy’s
red shorts into the wrong load of laundry and dyed Walt’s underwear pink.
She put them into the sink to soak in a bleach solution, then fired up the vacuum, keeping one ear cocked for the ringing
phone, fearing Charlotte would call to say she’d changed her mind about joining the Bettys. For two whole days, Margaret heard
nothing, and the calls she placed to Charlotte went unanswered and unreturned.
On the third day, Charlotte did call, with an invitation.
“After completely striking out at Bergdorf’s and never making it to B. Altman, I still feel compelled to buy something. I thought I’d try my luck at some of the shops in Alexandria. Do you want to come along? I mean, if you’re not too busy.”
At the time, Margaret had been reading the second to last chapter of The Feminine Mystique titled “The Forfeited Self.” She not only wanted to finish the book before the next meeting but planned to read the whole
thing a second time. She had a hair appointment scheduled for the afternoon and needed to squeeze in some writing as well.
“I’m not doing a thing,” she said, promising she’d write twice as much the next day.
Charlotte picked her up half an hour later, cheery as ever, behaving as if the incident on the train had been forgotten completely.
Margaret was grateful, and relieved.
They had a wonderful time. Charlotte seemed to purchase about every third item she laid her eyes on. Margaret, who couldn’t
possibly keep up, contented herself with window shopping. But she soon realized that, even there, she had to watch her step.
When Margaret admired a hat she couldn’t afford, Charlotte offered to buy it for her and could only be dissuaded when Margaret
said that, on second thought, the pink was too chalky, like Pepto-Bismol, and that veils reminded her of funerals and widow’s
weeds. At her words, Charlotte laughed so hard she almost cried.
“My mother adores veils.”
Three days later—two weeks before the next book club meeting, which Charlotte had volunteered to host—she called again.
“Since I really can’t cook, I’ve elected myself the official Bettys’ bartender. But I really need to expand my repertoire
beyond vodka stingers before the meeting, so I just mixed up some sidecars. Want to be my taste tester?”
This was a far more appealing prospect than cleaning the oven, and Margaret said she’d be right over. When she arrived, Charlotte
ushered her through the house to the back patio.
“Promise you won’t look,” Charlotte said as they passed through the living room. “Everything’s still such a mess.”
Margaret couldn’t help but look. This wasn’t an instance of false modesty or a woman being house-proud; everything really was a mess.
Open but full moving cartons were scattered everywhere, like picked-over boxes of chocolates that had been pilfered of nuts and chews.
It didn’t seem as if Charlotte had made any progress unpacking since the Bettys had come over two weeks before.
“I’ll have it all sorted before book club,” Charlotte said. “But you don’t want to rush these things. Put something in the
wrong spot and it’s there for the duration.”
Margaret believed in doing things right the first time, so this made sense to her. Still . . .
“You’ve got so many beautiful things,” she said, which was true. Margaret had never seen a house so stuffed with expensive
furniture, rugs, and accessories. Her own living room looked like an empty warehouse by comparison. “But it’s a big job. Are
you sure you don’t want some help? I’d be happy to lend a hand.”
“You’re sweet to offer, but it’s not as bad as it looks,” Charlotte said brightly, handing Margaret a frosted cocktail glass
with a thin wedge of orange perched on the rim. “Honestly, it’s all but done. Shouldn’t take more than two or three hours
once I get going. I just need to buckle down and focus. Besides, Denise will help me.”
Margaret had doubts about that.
She had already met Charlotte’s children, all except Howard Jr., who went to a military academy—his father and grandfather’s
idea, Charlotte said, making her disapproval and desire to have her boy back home clear. Though Charlotte sometimes cracked
sarcastic jokes about the “joys of motherhood,” Margaret knew she adored her kids. The smile that came into her eyes whenever
they entered a room made that obvious. The little ones, Laura and Andrew, were sweet as could be and clearly adored her right
back.
But Charlotte’s eldest was . . . different.
Denise was studious and reserved—Charlotte’s polar opposite in everything except intelligence and a tendency toward irreverence, though without her mother’s humor.
The girl’s eyes were solemn and her gaze was alert, as if she was taking mental notes about everything around her.
Margaret got the feeling that she spent her life waiting for the other shoe to drop, which seemed odd in someone so young.
But it was the way Denise sometimes spoke to Charlotte that surprised her most, with an impatience that teetered on disrespect.
More surprising still was the fact that Charlotte generally let it pass, because Charlotte never let anything pass.
Margaret understood better than most that mother-daughter relationships could be complicated and contradictory, but she couldn’t
imagine Denise helping Charlotte with the unpacking, not willingly. But, she reminded herself, it was none of her business.
Margaret lifted the cocktail glass to her lips, taking a tentative sip of her sidecar.
“Ooh, yummy. What’s in it?”
“Lemon juice, orange liqueur, and cognac,” Charlotte said, taking a sip for herself and then laughing. “Cognac always reminds
me of Switzerland.”
“Switzerland? I thought cognac came from France.”
“Yes, but I had my first taste in Switzerland,” Charlotte said, then went on to explain.
Apparently, after she was expelled from just about every private school in New York, Charlotte’s parents shipped her off to
a finishing school in Switzerland. Three days after arriving, Charlotte stole half a ham and a bottle of cognac from the school
kitchen, then disappeared for two weeks.
“Hang on a second,” Charlotte said, interrupting her story and jogging toward the door. “There’s something I want to show
you.”
She returned a couple of minutes later carrying a framed photograph. It was a snapshot of her sixteen-year-old self, posing
on an Alpine summit with the cognac bottle tipped to her lips. According to Charlotte, it was one of her most prized possessions.
“Two days after this was taken, Madame Bergé discovered my whereabouts, personally escorted me by train to Le Havre, and put
me on the first boat back to New York.” The slow spread of Charlotte’s smile, like butter melting on toast, told Margaret
this had been her plan all along. “I was finished, all right. Not quite the way my parents planned.”
Charlotte was always cracking wise and sharing funny stories. But later when Margaret replayed them in her head, she’d sometimes
hear an edge she hadn’t picked up on the first time. There were times when she wanted to dig a little deeper with Charlotte,
but she resisted the urge. Despite its short duration, Charlotte’s friendship had come to mean a lot to Margaret.
Viv, of course, was the closest friend she had in Concordia, one of her closest friends ever, which made sense. They lived
on the same block, moved in on the same day, and hit it off right away.
But the friendship really took hold about a month after the move, when Viv diagnosed the rash on Suzy’s tummy as scarlet fever
and advised Margaret to call the doctor right away. Scarlet fever could be dangerous if left untreated, and Margaret was so
grateful that she baked a strawberry pavlova and brought it to the Buschettis as a thank-you. Viv insisted she stay and have
some, and they ended up talking for over three hours. Having a nurse in the neighborhood was a boon. People were always asking
Viv for medical advice, but there was more to it than that. Margaret and Viv shared similar working-class backgrounds and
a practical, can-do approach to life. Naturally, they were friends.
By contrast, Margaret and Charlotte had almost nothing in common.
Oddly, this was part of the attraction. Charlotte was intriguing and unpredictable.
She did and said things that surprised and even challenged Margaret, making her brain light up with ideas that hadn’t occurred to her before.
Though Charlotte wasn’t as forthcoming as Viv, the things she did reveal made Margaret curious to know more.
However, the way Charlotte shut down when Margaret overstepped the boundary on the train had taught her to tread lightly.
This first transgression had cost only a temporary silence, but a slammed door might never open again.
The impromptu cocktail hour on the patio marked a new phase in their relationship. They spent a lot more time together after
that, talked on the telephone nearly every day, and met up in person a couple of times a week. They’d had chicken salad sandwiches
and strawberry milkshakes at the soda fountain in Mayer’s Drugstore, and Folgers and snickerdoodles—this time with the cream of tartar—in Margaret’s kitchen.
And four days before the second book club meeting, Charlotte phoned to say she wanted to take all the Bettys on a field trip.
* * *
Charlotte’s sedan—a light blue Buick Riviera with white upholstered bucket seats front and back—was brand-new and equipped