personal. Because boarding school was really awful.”
I laughed then, a surprised, natural laugh, and Isabelle joined in. We spent the rest of the night gossiping about books and the weekend’s quickie Vegas wedding between an aging movie star and a cocktail waitress (“Doesn’t anyone believe in true love anymore?” Isabelle wondered. “I think those crazy kids are going to make it.”) We rolled our eyes as Michael gobbled down both of our desserts along with his own.
“Does he always eat this way?” Isabelle asked me.
“No, I think he’s dieting.”
“We should kill him,” Isabelle decided. “Men have died for lesser sins.”
“But then who would drive you home?” Michael asked me.
“Oh—you mean you don’t …?” Isabelle fell silent.
“Don’t what?” I prodded.
“Sorry, I was just going to say, don’t you have a driver? I usually have mine take me to parties so I don’t have to worry about driving after a few drinks,” she said.
Michael and I looked at each other, and I could see him adding it to his running mental to-do list: Hire a driver. Get a personal chef. Learn about wines (Isabelle’s date and another man at the table had spent fifteen minutes discussing the nuances of the white burgundy we were drinking, and I could tell it was killing Michael not to be able to add to the conversation). We were playing catch-up as quickly as we could, and I felt like everyone could see us scrambling.
“What was it like?” Isabelle asked now, leaning closer to me. “I mean, this is really wild. Did he see a white light?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. We didn’t spend that long talking about it. He just said it was an amazing feeling.”
“Better than sex?”
“You are the only person in the world who would ask that.”
“What else did he say?”
Just then our house phone rang. I picked up the cordless and checked caller ID.
“It’s Bettina,” I groaned.
“Why don’t phone calls come with warning labels?” Isabelle wondered, lazily tracing a fingertip around the rim of her glass. “Answer at your own risk: Contents may be toxic.”
Bettina was Dale’s wife. She looked like she’d been drawn with a straightedge: her chin-length white-blond hair was always flat ironed, her clothes hung from her frame as cleanly as if she was a wire hanger, and her nose was a sharp triangle. Bettina even spoke in staccato sentences. Once when I was at her house for a cocktail party, she’d casually discussed the merits of the various maids she employed like they were hors d’oeuvres.
“I tried Hispanics. Asians are better,” she’d announced as a maid wandered by within hearing distance.
She and Dale were absolutely perfect for each other.
“Just let the machine get it,” Isabelle advised.
“No, I’d better take it,” I said. “In case there’s a work emergency or something.”
“Julia, how are you?” Bettina asked. She didn’t wait for my answer. “I heard what happened. Incredible!”
“I know,” I said, eager to spin the conversation in a good direction. “Michael’s doing so well, and he’ll probably be out of the hospital by Tuesday.”
“I see,” Bettina said. “And what will you do next?”
“Next?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
She paused, and I could hear her inhaling smoke from one of her long, thin cigarettes.
“Michael told everyone he wasn’t returning to work. Dale said he announced it as they loaded him into the ambulance.”
I couldn’t help it; I gasped. I could almost see the victorious grin forming on Bettina’s lips. She’d probably burn up the phone lines tonight describing my gasp to everyone she knew.
“Didn’t he tell you?” Bettina inquired, her tone cloyingly sweet.
What? Isabelle mouthed. I shook my head at her; I still couldn’t speak. Isabelle read the shock in my eyes and wrestled the phone out of my hand.
“It’s Isabelle. What’s going on? Did something happen to Michael?”
Isabelle was
I laughed then, a surprised, natural laugh, and Isabelle joined in. We spent the rest of the night gossiping about books and the weekend’s quickie Vegas wedding between an aging movie star and a cocktail waitress (“Doesn’t anyone believe in true love anymore?” Isabelle wondered. “I think those crazy kids are going to make it.”) We rolled our eyes as Michael gobbled down both of our desserts along with his own.
“Does he always eat this way?” Isabelle asked me.
“No, I think he’s dieting.”
“We should kill him,” Isabelle decided. “Men have died for lesser sins.”
“But then who would drive you home?” Michael asked me.
“Oh—you mean you don’t …?” Isabelle fell silent.
“Don’t what?” I prodded.
“Sorry, I was just going to say, don’t you have a driver? I usually have mine take me to parties so I don’t have to worry about driving after a few drinks,” she said.
Michael and I looked at each other, and I could see him adding it to his running mental to-do list: Hire a driver. Get a personal chef. Learn about wines (Isabelle’s date and another man at the table had spent fifteen minutes discussing the nuances of the white burgundy we were drinking, and I could tell it was killing Michael not to be able to add to the conversation). We were playing catch-up as quickly as we could, and I felt like everyone could see us scrambling.
“What was it like?” Isabelle asked now, leaning closer to me. “I mean, this is really wild. Did he see a white light?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think so. We didn’t spend that long talking about it. He just said it was an amazing feeling.”
“Better than sex?”
“You are the only person in the world who would ask that.”
“What else did he say?”
Just then our house phone rang. I picked up the cordless and checked caller ID.
“It’s Bettina,” I groaned.
“Why don’t phone calls come with warning labels?” Isabelle wondered, lazily tracing a fingertip around the rim of her glass. “Answer at your own risk: Contents may be toxic.”
Bettina was Dale’s wife. She looked like she’d been drawn with a straightedge: her chin-length white-blond hair was always flat ironed, her clothes hung from her frame as cleanly as if she was a wire hanger, and her nose was a sharp triangle. Bettina even spoke in staccato sentences. Once when I was at her house for a cocktail party, she’d casually discussed the merits of the various maids she employed like they were hors d’oeuvres.
“I tried Hispanics. Asians are better,” she’d announced as a maid wandered by within hearing distance.
She and Dale were absolutely perfect for each other.
“Just let the machine get it,” Isabelle advised.
“No, I’d better take it,” I said. “In case there’s a work emergency or something.”
“Julia, how are you?” Bettina asked. She didn’t wait for my answer. “I heard what happened. Incredible!”
“I know,” I said, eager to spin the conversation in a good direction. “Michael’s doing so well, and he’ll probably be out of the hospital by Tuesday.”
“I see,” Bettina said. “And what will you do next?”
“Next?” I asked. “What do you mean?”
She paused, and I could hear her inhaling smoke from one of her long, thin cigarettes.
“Michael told everyone he wasn’t returning to work. Dale said he announced it as they loaded him into the ambulance.”
I couldn’t help it; I gasped. I could almost see the victorious grin forming on Bettina’s lips. She’d probably burn up the phone lines tonight describing my gasp to everyone she knew.
“Didn’t he tell you?” Bettina inquired, her tone cloyingly sweet.
What? Isabelle mouthed. I shook my head at her; I still couldn’t speak. Isabelle read the shock in my eyes and wrestled the phone out of my hand.
“It’s Isabelle. What’s going on? Did something happen to Michael?”
Isabelle was
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