her,” Cindy instructed her daughter, returning to the bedroom, the brush dangling from her hair.
“Have you heard from her?” Heather asked dutifully, then shook her head in her mother’s direction. “Okay, well, if you do,” Heather continued over her mother’s continued prompting, “have her call home. Okay? Yeah, everything’s fine. I just want to speak to her. Okay, yeah. Bye.” She hung up the phone.
“Julia’s not there?”
Heather shrugged her indifference. “She’s fine, Mom.”
“It would be nice if she phoned, that’s all.”
“How come you call Fiona a cookie?”
Cindy shrugged, pulling roughly at the brush in her hair, feeling the handle break off in her hand. “Oh, that’s just great.”
“I’ll do it.” Slowly, gently, Heather extricated the headof the brush from her mother’s hair. Then she slid it back into the handle and began tenderly manipulating Cindy’s soft curls. “You’ll see. I’m going to make you absolutely gorgeous for your date tonight.”
“It’s not a date.”
“I know it’s not.”
“I probably shouldn’t even be going.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine here by myself.”
“It’s Julia I’m worried about.”
Heather stopped her gentle ministrations.
“That’s it? You’re done?”
Heather nodded, returning the brush to her mother’s hands. “You don’t need me,” she said.
FIVE
“S O , how do you know Trish?”
Cindy tucked her hair behind her right ear, less from necessity and more because it gave her something to do with her hands. She straightened the cutlery on the white tablecloth, although it was already perfectly straight, and refolded the burgundy-colored napkin in her lap. Then she tucked the hair behind her right ear a second time and stared out the long window behind Neil Macfarlane’s head, watching the blue slowly leak from the sky, bathing the expansive panorama in muted gray. Soon it would be dark, she thought, mindful that the days were getting shorter. Hold that thought, she told herself. Save it for when the conversation runs dry, for when the small talk gets so tiny it threatens to disappear altogether. Isn’t that why she stopped dating in the first place, why she vowed never to subject herself to the single scene’s unpleasant vagaries again? Or was it because the men had simply stopped calling? “We met about ten years ago. At one of the makeup counters in Holt’s. We actually walked right into one another, reaching for the same bottle of moisturizing cream,” Cindy continued,unable to stop the unexpected torrent of words. “We were both in a hurry. It was during the film festival, and we didn’t have much time between films.”
The man across the table nodded. “I understand Trish is quite the movie fan.”
“Yes. We both are.” Of course, the most logical follow-up would be for her to ask, “And you? Do you like movies too?” But she didn’t because such a question would imply she was interested in whether Neil Macfarlane liked movies or not. And she was determined not to be interested in anything about Neil Macfarlane at all. So instead, Cindy scratched at the back of her neck and reached for the bread basket, although she merely shifted it a little to the left before returning her hands to her lap. She didn’t want to fill up on bread. She didn’t want to get bread crumbs all over her white blouse and gray linen pants. She didn’t want the waiter approaching with one of those frightening little gadgets they employed to clean the tables of assorted debris, each roll offering a silent rebuke for being such a sloppy eater. All she wanted was to finish her dinner, assuming the waiter ever came by to take their order, drink her wine, assuming the wine steward could locate the expensive Bordeaux Neil had ordered, and get the hell out of the restaurant and home to Julia, assuming her older daughter had finally decided to put in an appearance. Where was she anyway? At the very least, why
“Have you heard from her?” Heather asked dutifully, then shook her head in her mother’s direction. “Okay, well, if you do,” Heather continued over her mother’s continued prompting, “have her call home. Okay? Yeah, everything’s fine. I just want to speak to her. Okay, yeah. Bye.” She hung up the phone.
“Julia’s not there?”
Heather shrugged her indifference. “She’s fine, Mom.”
“It would be nice if she phoned, that’s all.”
“How come you call Fiona a cookie?”
Cindy shrugged, pulling roughly at the brush in her hair, feeling the handle break off in her hand. “Oh, that’s just great.”
“I’ll do it.” Slowly, gently, Heather extricated the headof the brush from her mother’s hair. Then she slid it back into the handle and began tenderly manipulating Cindy’s soft curls. “You’ll see. I’m going to make you absolutely gorgeous for your date tonight.”
“It’s not a date.”
“I know it’s not.”
“I probably shouldn’t even be going.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll be fine here by myself.”
“It’s Julia I’m worried about.”
Heather stopped her gentle ministrations.
“That’s it? You’re done?”
Heather nodded, returning the brush to her mother’s hands. “You don’t need me,” she said.
FIVE
“S O , how do you know Trish?”
Cindy tucked her hair behind her right ear, less from necessity and more because it gave her something to do with her hands. She straightened the cutlery on the white tablecloth, although it was already perfectly straight, and refolded the burgundy-colored napkin in her lap. Then she tucked the hair behind her right ear a second time and stared out the long window behind Neil Macfarlane’s head, watching the blue slowly leak from the sky, bathing the expansive panorama in muted gray. Soon it would be dark, she thought, mindful that the days were getting shorter. Hold that thought, she told herself. Save it for when the conversation runs dry, for when the small talk gets so tiny it threatens to disappear altogether. Isn’t that why she stopped dating in the first place, why she vowed never to subject herself to the single scene’s unpleasant vagaries again? Or was it because the men had simply stopped calling? “We met about ten years ago. At one of the makeup counters in Holt’s. We actually walked right into one another, reaching for the same bottle of moisturizing cream,” Cindy continued,unable to stop the unexpected torrent of words. “We were both in a hurry. It was during the film festival, and we didn’t have much time between films.”
The man across the table nodded. “I understand Trish is quite the movie fan.”
“Yes. We both are.” Of course, the most logical follow-up would be for her to ask, “And you? Do you like movies too?” But she didn’t because such a question would imply she was interested in whether Neil Macfarlane liked movies or not. And she was determined not to be interested in anything about Neil Macfarlane at all. So instead, Cindy scratched at the back of her neck and reached for the bread basket, although she merely shifted it a little to the left before returning her hands to her lap. She didn’t want to fill up on bread. She didn’t want to get bread crumbs all over her white blouse and gray linen pants. She didn’t want the waiter approaching with one of those frightening little gadgets they employed to clean the tables of assorted debris, each roll offering a silent rebuke for being such a sloppy eater. All she wanted was to finish her dinner, assuming the waiter ever came by to take their order, drink her wine, assuming the wine steward could locate the expensive Bordeaux Neil had ordered, and get the hell out of the restaurant and home to Julia, assuming her older daughter had finally decided to put in an appearance. Where was she anyway? At the very least, why
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