We are in awe. Mouths open. Watering.
“Can you get the popovers, sweetheart?” Mom asks me, pulling out the place mats, dishes and cutlery. She walks back over into the kitchen, takes the potatoes out of the roasting pan and puts them onto a large Depression Glass platter. I grab the gingham-lined basket filled with homemade popovers and wind through the now bustling kitchen.
Mom continues. “Jill, sweetheart? Can you finish setting the table?” Jill looks from me to my mom. I motion that she should probably get on that. Lisa smiles.
“Yes, Mrs. Reid.” Jill snaps out of her haze and begins to set the table, moving around the chairs with place mats, plates and an unabashed idolatry of the real deal. My mother is everything Jill fancies herself to be. Wants to be.
After carving the roast beef and placing it on a platter, Dad brings it over to the table. He sets it in the center and awaits further instructions.
“You can sit, Hank,” Mom says, bringing the potatoes over to the table. He waits. Mom finally sits. Dad holds her chair for her and then he sits, as well.
“Lisa? Please,” Mom says, motioning for her to sit. I set the popovers on the table and tuck myself in, and Lisa and Jill sit down across from me.
“What a treat this is,” Mom says, flipping her napkin into her lap.
“Mrs. Reid, this meal is . . . I don’t think I’ve eaten this well since . . . well, since the last time I saw my mom,” Jill says, her voice cracking just a bit. Looking at this spread, I can’t help but think of Sam. He would have loved this meal. Whether he believes he deserves it is a whole other conversation apparently.
“Oh, well . . . it’s my pleasure, sweetheart,” Mom says, grabbing her hand with a tight squeeze. I see Jill fight back emotion as she settles her napkin in her lap. She looks at me with an apologetic shrug. I smile. And smile . . . until later that night when I realize that my mom has set out a pair of pajamas that she bought for me at a local boutique. Thought they’d be perfect for me. As I stand at my bathroom sink and gaze at myself in head-to-toe garden gnomes I wish I could crawl in a hole. But I can’t. I have to walk down the hallway that chronicles my questionable fashion sense through the ages, walk past the Jungle Room and Floral Suite and into my teenage bedroom with its twin bed, Tiger Beat magazines and giant poster of Parker Stevenson.
I can only shake my head.
“Are those garden gnomes?” Lisa asks, coming up behind me in the tiny bathroom with her bag of toiletries.
“Don’t say a word,” I say, taking out my contact lenses and putting on my glasses. All I need is my dental night guard and I’d better lock my door!
“Oh, I won’t,” Lisa says, starting to brush her teeth.
“Are those garden gnomes?” Jill asks, walking into the now crowded bathroom.
“Don’t say a word,” I say. Lisa spits.
“I haven’t eaten like that in years. I’m just going to own this thing, you know? Gain a thousand pounds, the whole nine,” Jill says, pulling up her shirt to expose her still-flat belly.
“You go, girl,” Lisa says.
“I’m going to buy a muumuu for your wedding, Lis. In your colors, of course,” Jill says, looking at herself from the side. From the front. From the side.
“And what might my colors be?”
“Harvest colors. Persimmon, chocolate brown . . . you know,” Jill says, finally tearing her gaze away from the mirror.
“Say good night to Polly before you turn in, girls,” Dad says.
“Yes, Mr. Reid.”
“Frannie? You do the same.”
“Okay, Dad,” I say, slinking behind Jill and Lisa to Mom and Dad’s bedroom.
“Good night, Mrs. Reid,” we all say in unison.
“Good night, girls,” my parents say.
NO NIGHTMARES. NO BUSES, no dusty campsites. Just the deepest sleep I’ve had in weeks. I think about Sam and what he’s dealing with right now. I hope . . . I hope I see him again. I think about Clara and Emma’s paintings. I can’t wait to see the one she’s chosen to donate. I know it’s going to be spectacular.
And then I think of Emma. Beautiful Emma. A woman I barely knew but knew best of all. It’s time to say good-bye. And thank you.
Breakfast and coffee is on the deck overlooking Sausalito, Tiburon, the San Francisco Bay and San Francisco in the distance. Jill questions my mom about various items in our home and Lisa talks sports with my dad. However blissful the morning is, we all slowly begin to come down to earth as ten A.M. looms. Jill walks out of the Jungle Room in a navy blue shirtdress cinched at the waist. Lisa is wearing a black pencil skirt, a navy blue silk shirt and a black cardigan. I join them on the deck in my pressed black sheath and beaded forest-green sweater.
As we drive to the Marin County Country Club, we are quiet. My hand rests on the gearshift. Lisa looks out the passenger-side window, her hair blowing in the wind. Jill is biting her nails. Gnawing and chewing as we go. There’s nothing to say. It’s all been said. Now it’s just about showing up and paying our last respects.
We pull up to what looks like a large, traditional mansion set up on a hill. Valets rush around in red vests, taking keys, handing out parking slips and speeding off to places unknown.
“I’ve never been to a memorial service with a valet,” Lisa says, waiting in line.
“This is a country club. I’ve actually never been to anything here. Heard about it though,” I say, watching the lines of mourners hike up the steep hill to the country club’s main house.
I step out of the car, handing the keys to the valet and receiving a ticket in return. Jill and Lisa step out of the car. Not a word. We join the rest of the mourners in the migration up to the main house.
This place is big. Beyond big. If I were to blur my vision for a moment I could mistake it for the White House. The columns, the white official-looking exterior, the sweeping driveway. So out of place in this woodsy, casual setting. As we get closer, no one makes eye contact with anyone else. What do you say? Emma didn’t die of old age or a terrible disease or even in a car accident. Emma Dunham was murdered. By her husband. Whom everyone here knew. None of us know how to unpack that.
The crowd at today’s “celebration” offers no surprises. All white, all moneyed and all completely at a loss for words. We climb the steps up to the vast porch and finally into the club itself. I look up and take in the coffered ceilings, the sweeping staircases with marble floors . . . the sheer expanse of just this first room. I feel like I’m on some museum tour and in line to see Michelangelo’s David.
A quartet plays tasteful chamber music in the corner as tuxedoed staff with trays filled with appetizers wend and snake their way through the mournful crowd. Flower arrangements are abundant, set atop any available surface, the smell of stargazer lilies thick in the air. I begin to search the crowd for Clara.
“Hey there.” From behind me. I turn. As do Jill and Lisa.
Ryan.
“What . . . what are you doing here?” I ask as he leans in for a hug. Jill and Lisa are quiet. Seething, yet quiet.
“I’ve come to pay my last respects,” Ryan says.
“You didn’t even know Emma,” I say, feeling protective of her.
“I knew her as well as you did.”
“I’m not going to . . . you have every right to be here. Godspeed,” I say, lifting my hand in a wave.
“Frannie, I—”
I stop. Wait.
“Can we have a second?” Ryan says to Jill and Lisa.
Jill leans in close and whispers so just Ryan can hear her, “I hear that’s all you need.” A quick wink. Ryan clears his throat as Jill and Lisa make their way over to the bar.
It’s just Ryan and me. We move into a more private corner. I’m already annoyed.
“What do you want?” I ask, scanning the room again for Clara. I don’t see her, but I do see a large painting swathed in white silk. That must be Emma’s. Clara is here.
“I thought we could be there for each other. You know?
To get through this?”
“I’ve already slogged through quite enough without you, but thanks anyway.”
“I’m here for you now, Frannie.”
“What’s happening here? Do you want to get back together with me? Is that what’s happening here? At a funeral . . . I’m sorry, a memorial celebration?”
“What?”
“What exactly do you want?” I remember what Pamela said about not going back if I didn’t want to. And I don’t want to. It’s up to me to make sure I never do. Going back means going back with Ryan. This can’t happen. I won’t let it.
“I want to be there for you.”
“What does that mean? What does ‘being there for me’ look like for you?”
“You know . . .”
“No, I don’t. I know that I thought being in a committed relationship meant that you didn’t sleep with other girls, but apparently our definitions were different.”
“I want to make this work.”
“What does that mean?”
“Why are you so caught up on what things mean?”
“Because I don’t know what you’re talking about. Like, what you’re actually saying. Do you even know anymore? ‘Be there for you.’ ‘Make this work.’ These words are meaningless, Ryan.”
“It took a lot for me to come up here.”
“What does that mean? ‘Took a lot’? How so?”
“I took a chance.”
“There’s no chance. You knew I’d be here. We know each other. Of course I’m going to talk to you.”
“Why are you doing this?!” Ryan’s voice is sharp and angry. It cuts through the room. Jill and Lisa look over from the bar. I wave them off.
“Doing what? Be. Specific.”
“Twisting my words around. This.”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Nothing has changed. Still so intense.”
“No, Ryan. I’m clear. I say what I mean and mean what I say. So, when I tell you that we’re through, reeeeeeally through, you’d better listen.”
“It took a lot for me to come up here,” Ryan says again, turning to leave.
“I still don’t know what that means.” He doesn’t turn back around, but I can see from here that the curl in his lip is disdainful yet snubbed and insecure. God, that felt good. After years of filling in all the holes of his verbal ambiguities, all it took was pushing him to be clear about what he actually meant that finally shooed him away. The terrifying prospect of specificity ran Ryan off.
“Good riddance,” Lisa says, handing me a sparkling water.
“What was he thinking?” I say, taking a long sip.
“That he could swoop in as you grieved,” Jill says.
“That felt good,” I say.
“For all of us,” Jill says.
“I don’t care if Sam ever comes back, I’m never going back with Ryan,” I say, turning around once again and searching the crowd.
Lisa and Jill just smile.
“What?”
“Our girl’s all grown up,” Jill says, wrapping her arm around Lisa.
“I have to go to the ladies’,” I say.
“Okay, we’ll be right here,” Lisa says.
“You’ll be right here?”
“Yep,” Jill says, nodding.
I walk through the crowd of people—no one makes eye contact with me—and wait behind a trio of women for the bathroom. They’re speaking in hushed tones. No one can believe it, they say. She was such a pretty girl, they say. He seemed like such a nice man, they say. A woman in a tasteful black Chanel suit steps out of the bathroom. The trio of women immediately goes to her, surrounds her and steadies her.
“Jane, honey? Do you need anything?” one of the women says. It’s her. The woman from the graduation picture in Emma’s bathroom. Jane Stanforth. Emma’s mother. She looks exactly like Emma, just a few decades older. Her blond hair is curled just at her shoulders; her high cheekbones and bright blue eyes are effortlessly aristocratic. Her smooth forehead, no longer capable of furrowing, is cast down; she doesn’t want to make eye contact with anyone.
“Please, let me get you something,” Jane Stanforth finally says, holding out an extended hand to one of the women.
“Jane?!” the women say in unison.
“It helps to be busy. Let me get you something,” Jane Stanforth says, again now using one of the women to stabilize her. To hold her up.
“Mrs. Stanforth?” I ask, stepping forward. The trio of women take my measure, are unimpressed and are just about to tell me to leave Mrs. Stanforth alone, when. . .
“Yes, dear,” Jane Stanforth says, her pool-like blue eyes falling on me.
“I worked with Emma,” I say, each word a triumph.
“Oh . . . ,” Jane Stanforth says, her head bowing.
“At Markham . . . ,” I say, trailing off. Looking at her. Hoping that she understands the significance.
“At Markham,” Jane Stanforth repeats, looking directly at me. Through me.
“Emma was a remarkable head of school. Truly a master,” I say, the emotion bubbling up at the truth to these words.
“You . . . you were there,” Jane Stanforth says, reaching out to me. The trio of women crowd around us.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say gently.
“You were there,” Jane Stanforth says again.
I nod. Yes. Yes, I was there.
“You . . .” Jane Stanforth can’t finish her sentence. She doesn’t want to know, but I can see her trying to read me. Trying to pull answers from just under my words, my skin, behind my eyes. It’s all there. The nightmares. The horror movie slide show. The blood. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. She can see it in my eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, looking away.
“What’s your name?” Jane Stanforth asks. The trio of women stand sentry. I can see Jill and Lisa out of the corner of my eye. They’re watching. Now they’re setting their glasses of water down and walking toward me. Quickly.
“Frances Reid, ma’am,” I say. Lisa and Jill are now standing in the archway of the hall. Watching, craning to see what’s going on. Another step forward.
“Frances Reid,” Jane Stanforth repeats in a daze.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say.
“You knew my daughter,” she says, wobbly on her feet.
“I did,” I say.
“You knew my daughter,” she says again.
“Yes, ma’am. She was one of the most admirable women I’ve ever known,” I say, my throat closing. Was.
“Jane?” A small man in a perfectly tailored suit strides over to our little group. His face is . . . unruffled. Blank. His skin is pale and transparent. His long, white fingers curl around the stem of a wineglass. My stomach drops and I feel instantly sick. I look from him to Jill and Lisa. It’s as if my nightmares are real. Again. They’re . . . it’s happening again. It’s happening again. I panic. I can’t breathe. My eyes are darting wildly, my legs are unsteady and I can’t—
“Nigel, honey, this is Frances Reid, she—”
“Jane, I need you to ask someone to check in the cellar for some more of those Spanish reds. We’re out,” Nigel Stanforth says, his eyes bored and inconvenienced. I purse my lips together as tears pool behind my eyes. The trio of women have disappeared.
“Mr. and Mrs. Stanforth, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Lisa says, extending one hand to Nigel and pulling me in close with the other. Nigel languidly extends his hand to Lisa, thanking her for coming today. Jane is wobbly and can’t stop staring at me. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused.
“She knew our girl, Nigel,” Jane Stanforth says, looking at me.
“Everyone here knew Emma, that’s how memorial services work, Jane,” Nigel says.
“We have to go,” I say suddenly, blinking back the tears and trying to steady my breathing. I have a primal need to get out of here. A gut feeling. This place is bad. Nothing good ever happened here. I gulp back the tears as Lisa extends her hand once ag
ain to Nigel and then to Jane Stanforth, trying to take the focus off me. I’m in a daze as we head toward the front door.
How stupid. I thought it was my conversation about Harry Sprague that changed things. As we walk back out into the main room I know with everything in my being that . . . that Emma never had a chance. She just never had a chance.
“He was Jamie. I mean, he was Jamie,” I say, my voice a whisper.
“I know,” Jill says, picking up three water glasses from a passing tray.
“She married her father,” I say.
“I know,” Jill says, her jaw tight.
“And her mom . . . I mean . . . ,” I say.
“I know,” Jill says, her voice elsewhere.
We are quiet.
“How many people do you think knew?” I ask.
“About what?”
“About it all! The parents, Emma. Jamie! I mean, everyone knew and just signed off on it. Why? Because they’re wealthy and they have a big house?”
“People know how to hide things, Frannie. We didn’t know about Emma and Jamie until . . . well, until it was too late,” Lisa says.
I can’t stop shaking my head.
“Frannie?” I look up to see Clara. I take a deep breath.
“Hey,” I say, giving her a big hug. I continue once we’ve broken apart. “Oh, I’m sorry. Clara Grey, this is Jill Fleming and Lisa Campanari. We all work—worked with Emma.” Jill and Lisa offer Clara condolences and respect. Clara nods and thanks them. Bruce comes up behind Clara with two glasses of wine.
“Oh, hey, babe. Bruce, you remember Frannie. And these are her friends . . . I’m sorry . . . I’ve already forgotten your names. I’m . . . this is all a bit much for me. I’m so sorry,” Clara stammers, taking a glass of wine from Bruce.
“Bruce Grey,” he says, extending his hand to Jill and Lisa as they introduce themselves. He pulls Clara in close, soothing her. Easing her.
“I see the painting is all ready to go,” I say.
“Oh, yes. It’s ready to go,” Clara says, eyeing the swathed gilt frame that hangs over today’s proceedings. Bruce rubs her back.
Minutes pass. We are quiet. Clara and Bruce share a few glances as Jane and Nigel Stanforth make their rounds. The resemblance to Jamie is uncanny. I can’t wrap my head around it.