Chapter 11 Mothers and Daughters #2
How was that possible? What had she been doing in here? And why?
“It was all but done,” Charlotte said. “But that trip to the gallery was so inspiring. I woke up in the middle of the night, started
painting, and just couldn’t seem to stop.”
Margaret found this explanation about as convincing as that of a car thief telling the judge he hadn’t really stolen the vehicle but had merely gone for a joyride. With Bitsy and Viv due to arrive in forty minutes, there wasn’t time to discuss
Charlotte’s dissembling, or to properly clean her living room. Glancing toward the box-laden Radio Flyer wagon, she realized
Denise had been onto something.
“Charlotte, why don’t you tow the wagon to the garage? We can stow stuff there for the time being. I’ll find more boxes so we can pack up everything and get it out of sight.”
With Margaret in charge, things moved quickly.
Mountains of debris were stuffed into boxes and hauled to the garage. Unfolded laundry was piled in a basket and carted away
to an upstairs bedroom. Dirty dishes and overflowing ashtrays were stacked onto a tray and transported to the kitchen. Then
the ashtrays were emptied, washed, and stacked back onto the tray along with Margaret’s cake and some clean cocktail glasses
she discovered in a cupboard. Charlotte didn’t seem to own a broom and dustpan, but she had enough martini and highball glasses
to stock the Round Robin Bar at the Willard Hotel. Margaret carried the tray to the living room and laid everything out on
the newly decluttered sideboard.
They worked quickly and as a team. With five minutes left on the clock, Charlotte’s home was beginning to look, if not sparkling
clean, at least presentable, so long as nobody opened a closet or wandered into the other rooms. As Margaret started gathering
up the canvases, she told Charlotte to take a dustcloth to the tables. Charlotte got right to it.
It wasn’t that Charlotte was lazy, Margaret decided—more that she genuinely had no idea of what to do.
“We had a maid in New York,” Charlotte said, swiping a rag across the coffee table. “Renate Badenhorst, a German war bride
who got off the boat, took one look at her fiancé, and changed her mind. Efficient, dour, and blunt as a hammer. Never thought
I’d miss her, but I do.”
“Pick up the ashtray,” Margaret instructed. “Dust under it, not just around it.”
“Dr. Barry won’t let me hire a new maid.
He thinks that doing housework is therapeutic and will help me ‘adjust to my role.’” Charlotte made air quotes with her fingers, then gave the coffee table a final swipe.
“Howard says he agrees, but I think he’s just being cheap.
Pretty funny, considering it’s my trust that supplied the down payment for this bourgeois monstrosity of a house and my father’s company that pays his salary.
Anyway, he’s never here, so what does he care? ”
Charlotte took a seat on the sofa and lit up a cigarette. Margaret carried a stack of canvases off to the dining room, then
started folding up the drop cloths.
“Don’t forget the side tables. And the lamps. They’re covered with dust.”
“Right.” Charlotte picked up the cloth. “Howard is somewhat more amenable to the idea of hiring a cook. Especially after this
weekend. I made brunch—waffles with chicken liver gravy.”
Margaret choked out a laugh. “What? You purposely made something inedible just so he’ll let you hire a cook? Oh, Charlotte,
you didn’t.”
“I don’t set out to cook something inedible. It happens all on its own, believe me.” Charlotte shrugged. “Probably won’t come to anything.
Even if Howard agreed to hire a cook, where would I find one here in the sticks? Good help is so hard to find these days.”
Charlotte laughed and then kept laughing, choking on cigarette smoke and whatever else she found so hilarious. When she didn’t
stop, Margaret put aside the drop cloth, crossed quickly to the couch, and started pounding her on the back.
“I’m fine,” Charlotte said in a raspy voice after Margaret offered to get her some water. “But did you hear me? I sounded
exactly like my veil-wearing mother and all her mindless, mahjong-playing friends on Park Avenue.” She took another puff and settled
back into the sofa cushions, a wry smile curving her lips.
“Maybe the therapy is working. Maybe I’m finally adjusting to my role. God help me.”
Charlotte let out one of those long sighs that acknowledges life’s ironies, then swung her arm across her body and silently offered Margaret a drag.
Margaret put the cigarette between her lips and inhaled, then rocked her head back and blew a smooth column of smoke toward the ceiling.
Charlotte had not brought up the subject, not directly.
But the camaraderie of the moment and Charlotte’s mention of her old life made Margaret feel safe probing more deeply about potential entanglements with Ahlgren and the dangers he might pose.
Margaret took a breath before giving voice to her concerns.
“Oh, Margaret. Sweet, earnest Margaret. Do you have any idea how provincial you sound?”
Margaret had no doubt that the answer was very. But some things were right, and some things were wrong. If believing that made her provincial, then she supposed she was—but
there was more to it than that. There were children to consider. Margaret knew all about the collateral damage that could
be caused if an unhappy woman made a rash and foolish mistake.
“Really, Margaret. Quit being so dramatic. Lawrence is an old friend, a brilliant, talented old friend who knows absolutely
everybody in the art world.”
Charlotte pushed herself out of the cushions and perched at the edge of the sofa.
“So what if he’s got a teeny crush on me? So what if I encourage it? It’s nothing serious. I’m just hoping he will put in
a word for me at some of the galleries, open a door or two. And it’s not like we’re hurting anyone. Lawrence and Enid have
an open marriage. He doesn’t believe in being tied down.”
Margaret’s eyes went wide. “Do you?”
The doorbell rang.
Charlotte popped up from the sofa to answer it, leaving the question unanswered.