The Last Original Wife

  “I have to bring my kid,” she said with a groan, still angling for a way out.

  “Why don’t I pick y’all up?” I said, cringing at her unattractive reference to my sweet Holly.

  “Nah, then I have to move her car seat and that’s a whole big pain. I’ll pick you up.”

  We only lived ten minutes apart so she was there in my driveway before I could even reapply some lipstick. I hurried outside to meet them so Charlotte wouldn’t have to unbuckle Holly and then repeat the whole rigmarole of lifting her up into the car, waiting for her to scramble into her seat, and buckling her up again. A three-year-old little girl was not like a bag of groceries you could just pick up and toss into the backseat of an SUV.

  “Gammy!” Holly squealed with delight when I opened the door and got in.

  “Hey, princess!” I said. I kissed my fingertips, slipped my arm into the backseat, and squeezed her toes. She giggled so spontaneously that I could feel it in my heart. “Hey, darlin’!” I leaned over and gave Charlotte an air kiss.

  “Hi, Mom!” She made a smooching noise and smiled. “Okay. Want to start with Saks?”

  “Why not?”

  We backed out of the driveway and headed toward the Phipps Plaza Mall.

  “What’s the temperature going to be in Scotland?”

  “Probably about ten degrees cooler than here,” I said. “And I think it drizzles a lot.”

  “Okay, so we’re looking for things to layer,” she said. “Got it.”

  “You see? This is why I wanted to shop with you. You just know to make a strategic plan and then go for it. I’d be rambling around all day!”

  “Oh, I doubt that.”

  Before long I had an armful of new clothes, all of it on sale, of course, and I was standing at the checkout counter, ready to pay. Between Charlotte and an excellent saleswoman I felt like the choices I’d made took a few years away from my appearance. Shopping had seldom been easier or more efficient.

  “Thanks for coming with me and doing this,” I said to Charlotte.

  “No problem. I don’t like to think about those two little hoes making you so unhappy.”

  “It’s just a really terrible situation that’s never gonna get fixed.”

  “Well, when they see you in that pink jacket, it will give them something to think about.”

  “I hope so.”

  Charlotte and Marcy, the saleswoman, had run all around the store pulling clothes in khaki and black for me to try on. I stayed in the dressing room with Holly and colored in her coloring book. Then once we established the core pieces, they ran around again for accessories and I colored some more. I had scarves and belts and faux jewelry and all sorts of things I probably never would have chosen for myself. And the best-looking pink silk blazer I had ever seen. I hoped Wes wouldn’t kill me for spending so much money. But look how much I saved! And then I thought, Really? To heck with that! He could rant and rave until he barked like a fox, I deserved some new clothes from time to time. Did he check with me when he bought a new suit? No. He did not.

  “You know what’s amazing, Mom?” she said. “The difference in your posture and your attitude when you’re all accessorized from head to toe. You’re just, I don’t know, more sure of yourself.”

  “You’re right. Isn’t that funny? But I think that would probably apply to most people. Anybody want to go to the Varsity for a chili cheese slaw dog and a chocolate shake?”

  “I do! I do!” Holly said.

  “Let’s make it quick.” Charlotte said. “I’m supposed to show a house this afternoon. Can you take Holly for a few hours?”

  “Of course!” I said and knew Charlotte would come in around eleven, smelling like alcohol and that I’d say, Holly’s asleep—why don’t you let me just bring her home in the morning? Then I’d say, Come sit on the couch by me and let’s watch House Hunters International and she’d fall asleep in five minutes. I’d cover her with a blanket like I always did and I’d go to bed. In the morning, I’d make breakfast, and neither Charlotte nor I would say a word about the previous night. My daughter was a bit of a barfly and I knew it. I hoped with all my heart that she’d meet a nice guy and Holly would have a daddy in her life. But cruising the bar scene was probably not the best way to meet a nice guy. Maybe I’d suggest one of the online services to her—wasn’t that how people found love these days?

  The following week Wes and I were in our living room, having a glass of wine with Paolo, Lisette, Harold, and Cornelia. We were waiting for our car service to take us to the airport and Paolo and Lisette had come by to wish us a safe trip.

  “Boy, it’s a good thing we live in Atlanta or else we’d have to change planes.” I said this in the direction of Cornelia and Lisette, deciding to make small talk, you know, to set a lighthearted tone.

  “What are you talking about?” Cornelia said.

  “Well, there’s an old saying that if you die and go to hell, you still have to change planes in Atlanta,” I said in my most charming voice. And youthful voice too. Yes, I sounded decidedly youthful.

  They looked at me as though I’d lost my mind.

  “I never heard that,” Lisette said and looked to Cornelia. “Did you?”

  “No,” she said. “What does it mean, Les?”

  “Oh, never mind,” I said, feeling two thousand years old. “It’s a dumb saying anyway.”

  “Oh,” they said, and they began discussing Lady Gaga’s latest concert.

  Now, just to set the record straight on this one, I’m well aware of Gaga’s meat dress and that she was born that way and I even sort of like her music.

  Not really. But right there and then I knew it was going to take a lot more than a pink silk jacket to get me through this trip.

  CHAPTER 6

  Les—Post-Edinburgh

  After many visits to the oral surgeon and orthopedist, I was finally feeling and looking almost like myself again. But it wasn’t just my teeth that were broken or my left arm, it was my spirit. Of course, Wes didn’t notice any significant difference in my mood but—here comes old and lame golf humor—that was par for the course.

  It was Wednesday, the twenty-third, right before the spring dance at the club. Danette brought over a pound cake, still warm from her oven. She listened as I recounted (for the fiftieth time) the horrors of the trip over coffee in my kitchen.

  “I still can’t believe what happened. He actually left you in a hospital in a foreign country and went off with Harold to play golf and thought that was okay? You’re kidding, right?”

  “No. I am not kidding. And he said the accident was my own fault, that I was lollygagging, taking pictures, and not watching where I was going. Maybe that’s true, but there’s another truth here and that’s that it was a forty-minute walk back to the hotel. So for forty minutes . . .”

  “He didn’t realize you weren’t by his side.”

  “That’s right. That’s what upsets me more than anything else. But actually, his judgment sucks all around. Remember when he didn’t show up for Tessa’s funeral because he had a lunch date?”

  “You’re right. Awful.”

  Danette and I looked at each other. The implications of Wes’s attitude were so heartbreaking and disappointing. I had been reliving the entire ordeal in my mind. The first face I saw when I regained consciousness was Cornelia’s, not Wesley’s. Her gigantic boobs were staring at me. This simple fact angered me in a way I had never known. I was beyond furious with him. What if I’d had a serious head injury? What if a decision had to be made and I was unconscious? Would Cornelia be making that call? Did she know I was allergic to penicillin? No. I could have been dead and laid out on a cold marble slab in a Scottish morgue with an ID tag on my big toe, but don’t worry, Harold and Wes were sinking putts on the Old Course.

  Danette sighed deeply and rapped the tips of her fingers on the table a few times.

  “Oh, Les, don’t read so deeply into this, honey. When it comes to things like this? Men are just like, well, a
s dumb as a pile of rocks. We both know that.”

  “No. Wes is many things, but stupid isn’t one of them. You know, Danette, I might as well face it. Wes doesn’t love me anymore. I don’t think he’s shown me any real affection in ten years. And I haven’t been much better about showing him any either.”

  “Oh, come on now. You’ve had a nasty accident and you’re surprised that Wes isn’t all over you, seeing to your every need? Are you serious? He was never that kind of guy. Harold’s not either. And to tell you the truth, most successful men aren’t very sensitive to the needs of others.”

  “That doesn’t make it right.”

  “No, it doesn’t make it right, but it’s the way it is. That’s why we need girlfriends. And sisters. Now tell me how you’re feeling otherwise. You still sore?”

  “Well, my bruises are all faded and the really terrible one here on my cheekbone I can cover up with makeup. My mouth is still sore. Oh, who cares? I don’t know . . . I just . . .”

  “You’ve got the blues, shugah! And you’re entitled to a good case of them from time to time—we all are. Let’s have some more cake. We’ll both feel better.”

  Danette was right. Sometimes cake was the answer.

  Since we had arrived back at home from Scotland I had been marinating in a stew of marital discontent. But the silver lining was that my sweet brother, Harlan, had been calling me twice a day.

  “Every time I talk to you, you sound a little better!” he said.

  “It’s because I’m hearing your voice,” I said. “Best medicine in the world!”

  “Are you, like, up and around and driving and going to the grocery store?”

  “Only if I want to eat,” I said.

  “Wait a second here; doesn’t Charlotte go shopping for you?”

  “Only on the first day back,” I said.

  “Oh, and now she can’t because she’s too busy showing houses that she never sells?”

  “Oh, hell’s bells, Harlan, she has her own life, you know? Anyway, you don’t have to worry about me. Danette’s here all the time, and we’re a long way from starving. Believe me.”

  “Well, I can’t be there because I have to work, but if I could, I’d be there and cheer you up. And PS, I don’t see why you can’t convalesce in Charleston. Lord, here I am in this big old house all by my lonesome, except for my ghosts and my little darling! I’d love to have you here to fuss over!”

  Harlan had an adorable little dog, Miss Jo or sometimes he called her Miss JP, named for the aristocrat who had once owned his home. Josephine Pinckney was her name, and Harlan’s historic house was as incredible as Josephine Pinckney’s life had supposedly been.

  “There’s nothing to fuss over. I’m fine, really I am.”

  “Well, we’re just going to have to find an excuse for you to come for a visit, and I think I might have just the ticket. Did I tell you about my summer plans?”

  “Nope.”

  “I can’t believe I didn’t tell you! But then I’ve been so focused on your accident and all . . .”

  “For heaven’s sake, Harlan! Tell me!”

  “Well, it seems that I have been asked to lead a group of trustees and donors through the ancient art and ruins of Italy for a month.”

  “A month?”

  “Yes. It’s a pretty posh trip—we’re staying at the Gritti Palace in Venice and the Hassler in Rome—first class everything. I haven’t been there since Leonard and I went to Carnival in Venice years ago. I’m superexcited.”

  “No kidding! Who wouldn’t be? It sounds like the experience of a lifetime!”

  “It should be. I wish you would come with me. I promise you’d have a better time than you did in Scotland.”

  “Very funny. Listen, you could take me waterskiing on the river Styx and I’d have a better time than I did in Scotland. Anyway, I can just see me walking out of here for a whole month. Wes would die.”

  “Oh, please. No, he wouldn’t. Seriously, Les, I’m not leaving until the eleventh of June. So I’m thinking of giving myself a bon voyage party. Why don’t you come down and spend the weekend? And maybe Miss Jo would like to see her auntie?”

  Miss Jo, my niece in question, was a three-year-old female Havanese with more personality and spirit than you would ever expect to find in a dog that was not in the entertainment business. She had an elaborate bed in every room of Harlan’s house and a wardrobe to suit every occasion. With accessories. Harlan and Miss Jo went everywhere together. She probably would be desolate with him gone for a month. If I actually went to his party, maybe I could bring her back to Atlanta with me. Holly would adore having a little dog to play with.

  “Well, we’ll see,” I said. “Let me know when your plans are all set.”

  Harlan and I hung up, and I walked around the house like a zombie. It dawned on me that I hadn’t dusted in a while. My conscience was rattled a little by that so I went to the kitchen and took out my bucket of cleaning supplies, even though my arm was still in a cast and a sling. I wondered what Wes would say if I wanted to go to Italy with Harlan? What would he do if I was gone for a month? He could hire a full-time housekeeper, but would she know to rotate his undies? The towels? The dishes? I didn’t know whether to laugh imagining Wes’s frustration or cry my eyes out because this was my life.

  After I gave the living room a straightening up as best I could, I wandered into his study with a dust cloth intending to put a spritz of lemon wax on his bookshelves and desk. I was dusting away when I noticed that one of his lower cabinets was unlocked. They held his personal files, and for whatever his stupid reason was, he kept those cabinets bolted like Fort Knox. Part of me was curious to see what was in there and another part of me—the she-devil who lives in all women—wanted to see if he was hiding anything. I mean, why were the doors always locked?

  I pulled out a folder from the crammed drawers. Its contents were articles he had clipped from various magazines and newspapers regarding different golf courses, golf clubs, and golf pros. On the one hand I thought, He really ought to widen his horizons—you know, what about taking a wine-tasting course or something? What about sports cars? And on the other hand I thought, Well, at least he knows what he likes.

  I replaced that file and thumbed through another huge one. This one was from our bank where we had various accounts, and it held statements going back to 1988. Boring, I thought, but for some inexplicable reason, I pulled out the most recent one and opened it carefully.

  How are we doing, Wes? I thought.

  For decades Wes had been tucking away money for our retirement, even though his company offered generous retirement benefits. Every year his company gave him stock options and he’d been exercising them and then telling me he wouldn’t sell any stock, not one share, because you never knew what horrors we might find in old age. It was true that 80 percent of the average person’s health-care expenses were spent in the last eighteen months of the individual’s life. At least that was what Wes said and I believed him. Back in the eighties, every now and then he would say to me, Oh, by the way, I took my bonus money and bought Apple in the IPO for practically nothing a share. Or he’d mention, I snagged a huge block of Microsoft today in a killing! Or Motorola, or Nokia, or Pfizer.

  Whatever, I’d think, and I’d diaper a baby or drag a garbage can to the curb or defrost a pot roast. He may as well have been speaking Chinese.

  Wes was always very prudent, and not that I had much of a choice, I supported it. Who could argue with prudence? Besides, until I had my accident, I could not have cared less what he did with his money, even though there was barely enough to go around. I recognized that he had some primal need to have control of the family finances, which I thought was ridiculous but not worth fighting about. Now suddenly, post-Edinburgh, I was feeling that his control was maniacal, and I resented his secrecy.

  I decided to open the envelope. I wanted to see for myself how our little nest egg was doing. Then I had the breath knocked out of me. To my utter and complete
astonishment, it showed a portfolio balance of over twenty-two million dollars at current market value. What? That couldn’t be right. I felt my blood pressure drop and thought I might faint. At first I was positive I was reading it wrong, so I took my reading glasses and planted them on my nose, clucking to myself about losing my eyesight and my mind at the same time. I sat down at his desk and counted the zeros and rechecked the decimal point at least ten times. I was no math whiz, but I began to understand what I was reading. It read two two comma zero zero seven comma three one six point two four. What in the world? How could this be? Why didn’t I know this? I knew he was buying stocks and putting money in a fund now and then but twenty-two million dollars?

  On that day and in that very moment, the compliant little lamb I used to be died.

  It dawned on me like an atomic blast. I didn’t know about it because Wes didn’t want me to know about it. And why wouldn’t he want me to know? The immediate answer to that, one that made any sense at all, was that Wes was a miserly bastard who didn’t even trust his wife of thirty years to know what he was worth. I was pissed, like my momma used to say, in purple, paisley, and puce. Pissed big-time. Here I was, dusting his office with my arm in a sling because he would only let me have a housekeeper once a month. Here I was driving used cars and watching every penny and worrying about money my whole married life while he was sitting on an insane fortune.

  But wait. My heart started to race. How had he come to acquire such an enormous amount of money? Was it stolen? Was Wes in trouble? I could tell no one. I didn’t want to be an accessory to a crime. It was obvious to me that Wesley had committed some kind of terrible robbery and eventually he was going to be found out and have to go to jail. Decent people didn’t come by that kind of money honestly. It just wasn’t possible. Was he selling drugs? Was he an arms trader? Suddenly I was ashamed. How powerful was his need to hoard and why? Why would he risk his reputation and his freedom this way? It was a sickness; that much was certain. Keeping a secret of this magnitude was surely going to eat me alive. I didn’t know what to do. I stuck the envelope in my sling and closed his cabinet door. It automatically locked.