I finally realized the time difference. After all, for me
it was three hours later than it was for everyone here.
I'll just rest for a few minutes, I thought and lay back,
closing my eyes. A sharp rap on my door woke me
immediately. I sprang into a sitting position. "What? Yes?"
The door opened and Alec gazed in at me. "Mr. and Mrs. Livingston are waiting for you in
the dining room," he announced.
"Oh. Oh, I fell asleep! I'll be right there," I cried
and hopped off the bed. He grimaced and closed the
door.
I splashed cold water on my face, practically
tore off my blouse and jeans, and pulled on my dress.
I ran my brush through my hair once and then hurried
out of the room and down the stairs.
The Livingstons were at the far end of the long
table. Mr. Livingston sat at the end. He was dressed in
a dark sport coat and navy blue tie. His thinning dark
brown hair was parted on the right side and cut neatly
around his ears. He glanced up at me, his hazel eyes
sweeping over me quickly before turning downward
again to look over the bridge of his narrow, bony
nose, under which he wore a well-trimmed mustache.
He had thin lips and a soft, almost round chin. "Hello dear. I'd like you to meet Philip. Philip,
this is Holly's little friend, Melody."
"Hello," he said quickly and flashed a smile that
swept across his lips so fast, it was as if someone had
turned a light on and off.
"Just sit right there, dear," Dorothy said,
nodding at the seat across from her. She wore a black
evening dress with puffy sleeves and a frilly, square
collar, a pair of teardrop diamond earrings with a
matching necklace and bracelet, and at least two more
rings than she had on when I had first met her. I took my seat and Philip looked up instantly at
Alec. He moved quickly to begin serving us. "I told Philip all about your little episode
today," Dorothy continued, "and he made a wonderful
suggestion. Tell her, Philip," she said.
"You're doing fine," he replied, glancing at me
and then at his plate as he drummed his fingers on the
table. Alec began serving us bowls of what looked
like clear chicken broth with some rice and carrots. "Philip says this woman has to have a social
security number. Everyone has a social security
number. He will call the business manager at the
catalogue company and check the number to see if it's
under her name or your mother's name. Isn't that a
wonderful suggestion?"
I nodded and looked at Philip. He began eating
his soup.
"Just common sense," he muttered between
slurps.
Then he paused, his spoon perfectly still before
him, not a tremble in his hand. "Of course, people
have been known to produce phoney identification
and get a new social security number. We'll see," he
added.
"So you see, dear, you don't have to spend any
more time chasing down this woman. Just relax and
enjoy your visit," Dorothy said.
Philip twisted the right corner of his mouth so
deeply it looked like his lips were made of pale pink
clay.
"It won't be something I can do overnight," he
muttered.
"That's all right. I'll still want to meet this
woman," I said.
"Philip thinks that might be dangerous." "I didn't say dangerous. I said unpleasant." "Well, that's practically the same thing,"
Dorothy insisted.
He put his spoon down and sat back. Alec
moved instantly to remove his soup bowl. I had barely
eaten half of my small portion and took two quick
spoonfuls when I felt Alec hovering over my
shoulder. Dorothy didn't dip her spoon into the cup
more than twice, but that seemed to be enough. A small dinner salad followed, accompanied by
the thinnest slices of bread, paper-thin slices that
crumbled in your fingers.
Our main course was veal medallions in a
lemon sauce, accompanied by string beans and
mashed potatoes with a flavor I couldn't recognize.
Everything was delicious, but as I ate, I noticed Dorothy watching me and recalled her warning about eating too much. I could have eaten more, but I
stopped.
Philip made little conversation but he was
interested in my description of the lobster fishing
business and the Cape Cod tourist business. He said
he had some clients interested in investing in a hotel
chain that serviced the Cape and he was not keen
about it.
Dinner was followed by coffee in a silver
service and a custard dessert. It had been a wonderful
meal and I said so as I thanked them.
"Maybe we should ask Selena to prepare lobster
for us tomorrow night, Philip, in Melody's honor,"
Dorothy said as the meal came to an end.
"Lobster's overpriced these days," he grumbled.
How could anyone with this much money worry about
the price of lobster? I wondered.
"Oh nonsense," Dorothy said.
"I don't enjoy eating things that I know are
overpriced," he insisted.
"I really don't need to have lobster, Dorothy." "Of course she doesn't," Philip said, nodding.
"She gets it dirt cheap back on the Cape and it won't
be as good here. Think of something else," he said. "I've got some work to finish in my office," he explained as he rose. I realized he was not quite as tall as Dorothy. "It was nice meeting you," he added,
nodding as he walked away.
"Philip's the most efficient man I've ever
known," Dorothy said shaking her head. "He reviews
the household accounts once a month and makes
brilliant suggestions to save money. He says he does it
for his clients, why can't he do it for himself? I
suppose that's true. Well, do you want to find
something to read? You can look in our library. I try
to keep up with everything. I belong to three book
clubs."
"First, I'd like to try to call Gina Simon," I
explained.
"Oh. Well then, why don't you use the phone in
the parlor. You'll have some privacy there," she
suggested.
"Thank you," I said, trying to remember where
the parlor was in this big house. She must have read
that in my face.
"Just go down the corridor to the third doorway
on the left, dear. There's a phone book on the shelf of
the small table."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. I'll be in after a while and
then we can go to the den and watch some television
if you like. Desperate Lives is on tonight. Do you
watch it? Philip calls it nothing more than a soap
opera, but it's so much more than that, it's . . . just
more," she said.
"No, I haven't heard of it," I said.
"Haven't heard of it? Oh dear. Well, maybe
you'll like it," she said and I went to the parlor. I
found the phone book and discovered three Gina
Simons, but the address pointed out the right one.
With my fingers trembling again, I lifted t
he receiver.
It was an antique brass and ivory dial phone and I
misdialed the first time and got a phone number that
was disconnected.
I dialed correctly the next time, but after only
three rings, an answering machine came on. "This is Gina Simon. I'm sorry I'm not able to
take this call. Please leave your name, the time of
your call and a brief message at the sound of the
beep," the voice directed. I listened closely. It did
sound like Mommy, but there was an affectation, an
attention to diction I didn't recognize. I waited and
called again just to hear the voice. It sounds like her, I
told myself. It must be Mommy.
Dorothy entered the parlor, a small white
angora cat in her arms.
"This is Fluffy," she said. "Isn't she beautiful?"
"Yes, she is."
"Philip won't let me keep her in the house
proper. She stays with Selena. He says whenever she's
permitted to run through the house, she leaves hairs
everywhere. He's so finicky about the house. If a
piece of dust is out of place, Philip knows it." She sighed and sat in the soft cushioned chair
across from me, the cat purring in her lap.
"So, did you try calling that woman?" "I got an answering machine," I said. "It sounds
like my mother."
"Did you leave a message?"
"No. I wasn't sure what to say."
"She might have been there, listening," Dorothy
said, nodding. "People often do that here. They wait to
see if it's someone important and then they answer. If
it's not someone important enough, they let the
machine take the call. It's a power thing, Philip says." "Power thing?"
"Yes, you just don't speak to anyone. It
diminishes your importance."
"I can't imagine my mother thinking that way." "Well, if this woman wants to be someone in
the industry, she behaves that way, believe me. I've
met enough of them."
I thought about it. What was it Billy Maxwell
had told me just before I had left New York . . . be
prepared to find a very different woman, even if she
was my mother. Perhaps that was very true. "I wish the world we lived in wasn't so
conscious of every little thing," Dorothy said, dreamyeyed as she petted the purring cat in her lap. "Philip
wants me to be perfect, to remain perfect. If I have a
hair out of place, he asks why I didn't go to the beauty
salon this week," she said a bit more mournfully than
I would have expected.
"He doesn't seem like that," I told her. She
snapped out of her reverie and raised her eyebrows. "He's a man, isn't he? They're all the same,
waving a magnifying glass over you, checking for
wrinkles, for age spots, measuring your bosom, your
waist, your hips, looking for an ounce of ugly fat. "I have a personal trainer," she continued, "who
comes to the house three times a week. It's such a
bore, but I bear it for Philip's sake. And my own, I
suppose," she said with a sigh. "Well, a woman has to
do all she can, doesn't she?" she added.
"I'm not sure. I've never really thought about it I
guess," I said.
"Of course you haven't. You're still young and
beautiful. You have a way to go, but believe me, one
day you'll wake up and look in the mirror and notice a
little wrinkle here, a little more puffiness there and
you'll realize it's going to take some work to look
beautiful.
"Of course," she continued, "if you're bright
enough, you won't settle for just anyone and you'll
marry someone substantial as I did, so he can provide
you with the best there is when it comes to cosmetic
surgery."
"Surgery?"
"Now don't sit there and flatter me and tell me
you didn't notice how firm my buttocks are for a
woman of my age without thinking I had something
done," she said smiling.
"I didn't really notice, but . ." An operation on
her rear end?
"It's nothing more involved than a tummy tuck.
I can't tell you how. many times I've had that done.
Oh, and my eyes of course. Some people are so lucky.
They're born with genes that help them to remain
young-looking longer. Philip's mother, for example, hardly had a wrinkle in her late seventies and look at Philip. Well, it's always different for men anyway. They can have wrinkles. It makes them distinguished
looking, but we girls .
"Well," she said with a little more animation in
her face, "do you think our sexual relationship would
be as strong as it is if I didn't keep myself attractive?
There's an article about it in my latest issue of Venus.
According to scientific studies, a successful
relationship means a husband and wife make love on
the average of five times a month, even at our ages. I
told Philip about it and he said his own research
indicated between four and six times. We mark the
calendar. You probably noticed it on the wall by our
bed. Philip appreciates order in his life.
"Oh, I know what men do when they have ugly
wives," she continued, ignoring my gaping mouth,
"especially in this town," she said, nodding. "A
woman has to work on her relationship. That's her job.
And I don't mind telling you I'm very successful at it. "You saw how the young male waiters were
gazing at me at The Vine," she said, batting her
eyelashes and smiling. "They have no idea how old I
am, and they'll never know," she said firmly. "You
guard your age like you guard your life. Never tell a man your true age. Always subtract five to seven
years at the least," she advised.
"Oh no," she said suddenly, rising to her feet.
"Desperate Lives has started. Quickly," she ordered
and marched out of the parlor.
I sat there for a moment, trying to digest the
things she had told me the way you would try to
digest food that was far too spicy. The words kept
repeating themselves.
"Come along, dear!" she shouted.
I rose and joined her in the hallway. She turned
in to the den and flipped on the television set. Then
she plopped herself into her overstuffed chair, curling
her legs under her lap, and gazed at the television
screen like a teenager about to see her teen idol. I sat
on the sofa beside her and listened to her little moans
and sighs as one handsome young man after another
paraded before us on the large television screen. But fatigue began to rise in my body like
mercury in a thermometer. I felt my eyelids getting
heavier and heavier and drifted off a few times, only
to be wakened by her shouts at the television set,
complaining about something a character said or did,
as if she thought they could actually hear her. "Doesn't that just get you infuriated," she railed, turning my way. I nodded, even though I had no idea why she was so upset. "And I hate it when they leave you hanging like that. But," she said, smiling suddenly, her mood swinging radically in the opposite direction, "as Philip says, that's how they get you to tune in night after night and how they get to sell all those products. You
look tired, dear. Perhaps you
should go to bed. I know it's late for you."
"Yes, I guess it's all finally caught up with me,"
I said, rising. "Thank you so much for everything." "Nonsense. Tomorrow, right after breakfast,
we'll go to Rodeo Drive and get you something proper
to wear. Don't," she said, raising her hand to stop any
protest, "say anything that will make me deaf. Philip
and I have no children. I was never fond of the idea of
being pregnant and Philip really can't tolerate little
people very well anyway. But we both enjoy doing
things for young people now and then. When they're
deserving, as you are, of course." She smiled. "Have a
good night's rest."
"Thank you," I said again, too tired to argue
anyway, and went upstairs, taking the steps as if I
were already walking in my sleep.
Despite my exhaustion, before I turned out the
lights and crawled under the cover, I lifted the phone receiver and dialed Gina Simon's number. It rang and rang until the answering machine came on again, and again, I listened closely to her voice, feeling more and more confident that it sounded like Mommy's voice.
Or was I just wishing it did?
And why wasn't she picking up? Had she gone
away? Maybe it would be days, weeks, before I stood
face to face with her.
I lay my head back on the pillow and closed my
eyes, grateful I was too tired to continue thinking, but
still apprehensive as to what tomorrow would bring.
5
A Bitter Pill
.
Once again it was a gentle knock on my door
that woke me, but this time a pleasant-looking woman with strands of gray running through her dark brown hair entered. The breakfast tray she carried was laden with a silver coffee pot, cup and saucer, a plate, silverware, eggs in a dish, a croissant, jelly and butter and a tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. Alongside everything was a small vase with a single fresh red rose.
"Good morning," the woman said. She had a pretty smile brightened with the warmest blue eyes I had ever seen. She was about five feet two with a small bosom and hips definitely too wide for Dorothy's taste. Her forearms were strong, but she had small hands. "I'm Christina, Mrs. Livingston's maid. She asked me to bring up your breakfast this morning."
"Oh, you didn't have to do that," I said, sitting up and struggling to get my eyelids to stay open. "What time is it?" I gazed at the clock in the belly of a light blue ceramic, seagull. "I've never slept this late."
"It's all right, dear. Mrs. Livingston insisted," Christina said, placing the tray on a bed table she'd retrieved from the closet.