for the first fifteen years. Peter thought instantly whether his own substance had a shelf life to Ilene. Was there a point when a woman—any woman—started to want what she didn’t think she had?
Peter said, “Look, Mrs. McFarthing, I’d be happy to make some calls on his behalf.”
“Don’t bother,” she said, lifting her face off his tie. She brushed the tears away with the back of her hand. When she looked up, shamed by her outburst, confused about what she’d do next, Peter saw a vulnerability that was, actually, quite terrifying.
She said, “My name is Peggy.”
He shook. “Peter.”
“I know,” she said, sniffing. “Sorry about your tie.”
“Bruce will find a job,” he lied.
“I’m sure he will. For as long as that one lasts.” Peggy took a mirror out of her purse. She looked at her eyes. She snapped the compact closed, startling Peter.
“I look terrible,” she said.
“You’re fine,” he said.
She was fine. A fine-looking woman, but not beautiful or sexy. Bruce had chosen Peggy over what must have been an endless supply of sexy women. Maybe Peggy was brilliant, or rich.
Peter asked, “Are you also a writer?”
Peggy said, “I’m a nutritionist.”
“You help people diet?”
“Yes,” she said, regaining composure.
“My wife would like me to lose twenty pounds.”
Peggy said, “I’d say forty.”
Okay, he really had to go now. “Good luck with everything,” he said.
“You, too, Mr. Vermillion,” she said. “You’re going to need it.”
Chapter 10
Thursday, October 17
8:12 P . M .
The three sisters sat together at Bouillabaisse, a tiny bistro near Ilene’s apartment in Chelsea, for their monthly dinner/ agenda meeting. The restaurant’s menu changed nightly and was written in script on a chalkboard that the waiter had to lug from table to table. No liquor license. Diners could bring their own wine. Ilene had selected both the vintage (’01 Shiraz) and the place. Betty noticed that whenever it was Ilene’s turn to choose, she always picked a place in her own neighborhood.
They all met at Ilene and Peter’s expansive Chelsea apartment first. Betty came up from the East Village with Peter’s package of books. He’d apologized again about blowing her off last week, and asked if he could take her to lunch to make it up to her. Betty had never had a solo meal with Peter. She hesitated, wondering what the two would say to each other for an hour. But Peter had insisted. Betty was stuck. She thought he was decent enough, but they’d never had much of a bond.
Frieda and Justin arrived next from Brooklyn. Peter and Justin settled in to watch the World Series. Betty had to admit, Peter was brilliant with Justin. He’d offered to step up after Gregg died, and he had, taking Justin to Knicks games, accompanying Frieda to parent-teacher conferences. Ilene must like seeing him with Justin, too. She kissed her husband on the forehead, and the sisters took off for Bouillabaisse.
Everyone was in a good mood tonight, thought Betty. She smiled across the table at Frieda in a blossom pink sweater. Ilene was in her usual black, but her dress was flirty linen. Betty considered her own baggy T-shirt and jeans. Not flirty. But comfortable, as was her aim.
Ilene took the lead. “Shall I read the minutes from our last meeting?” she said.
Betty groaned. “For once, can we just sit down to dinner without the framework of a social-club agenda?”
“I have an announcement to make,” said Frieda.
Ilene and Betty turned toward her. Frieda was smiling so hard, Betty feared her jaw might unhinge.
“I’ve met a man,” said Frieda. “He’s from Maine!”
“Maine?” said Ilene. “How masculine. He must know how to build a fire and trudge through ice in snowshoes.”
“He came into the store,” said Frieda. She told them the story of meeting Sam Hill, reciting the Times review from memory, giving some biographical details.
“He’s Catholic?” asked
Peter said, “Look, Mrs. McFarthing, I’d be happy to make some calls on his behalf.”
“Don’t bother,” she said, lifting her face off his tie. She brushed the tears away with the back of her hand. When she looked up, shamed by her outburst, confused about what she’d do next, Peter saw a vulnerability that was, actually, quite terrifying.
She said, “My name is Peggy.”
He shook. “Peter.”
“I know,” she said, sniffing. “Sorry about your tie.”
“Bruce will find a job,” he lied.
“I’m sure he will. For as long as that one lasts.” Peggy took a mirror out of her purse. She looked at her eyes. She snapped the compact closed, startling Peter.
“I look terrible,” she said.
“You’re fine,” he said.
She was fine. A fine-looking woman, but not beautiful or sexy. Bruce had chosen Peggy over what must have been an endless supply of sexy women. Maybe Peggy was brilliant, or rich.
Peter asked, “Are you also a writer?”
Peggy said, “I’m a nutritionist.”
“You help people diet?”
“Yes,” she said, regaining composure.
“My wife would like me to lose twenty pounds.”
Peggy said, “I’d say forty.”
Okay, he really had to go now. “Good luck with everything,” he said.
“You, too, Mr. Vermillion,” she said. “You’re going to need it.”
Chapter 10
Thursday, October 17
8:12 P . M .
The three sisters sat together at Bouillabaisse, a tiny bistro near Ilene’s apartment in Chelsea, for their monthly dinner/ agenda meeting. The restaurant’s menu changed nightly and was written in script on a chalkboard that the waiter had to lug from table to table. No liquor license. Diners could bring their own wine. Ilene had selected both the vintage (’01 Shiraz) and the place. Betty noticed that whenever it was Ilene’s turn to choose, she always picked a place in her own neighborhood.
They all met at Ilene and Peter’s expansive Chelsea apartment first. Betty came up from the East Village with Peter’s package of books. He’d apologized again about blowing her off last week, and asked if he could take her to lunch to make it up to her. Betty had never had a solo meal with Peter. She hesitated, wondering what the two would say to each other for an hour. But Peter had insisted. Betty was stuck. She thought he was decent enough, but they’d never had much of a bond.
Frieda and Justin arrived next from Brooklyn. Peter and Justin settled in to watch the World Series. Betty had to admit, Peter was brilliant with Justin. He’d offered to step up after Gregg died, and he had, taking Justin to Knicks games, accompanying Frieda to parent-teacher conferences. Ilene must like seeing him with Justin, too. She kissed her husband on the forehead, and the sisters took off for Bouillabaisse.
Everyone was in a good mood tonight, thought Betty. She smiled across the table at Frieda in a blossom pink sweater. Ilene was in her usual black, but her dress was flirty linen. Betty considered her own baggy T-shirt and jeans. Not flirty. But comfortable, as was her aim.
Ilene took the lead. “Shall I read the minutes from our last meeting?” she said.
Betty groaned. “For once, can we just sit down to dinner without the framework of a social-club agenda?”
“I have an announcement to make,” said Frieda.
Ilene and Betty turned toward her. Frieda was smiling so hard, Betty feared her jaw might unhinge.
“I’ve met a man,” said Frieda. “He’s from Maine!”
“Maine?” said Ilene. “How masculine. He must know how to build a fire and trudge through ice in snowshoes.”
“He came into the store,” said Frieda. She told them the story of meeting Sam Hill, reciting the Times review from memory, giving some biographical details.
“He’s Catholic?” asked
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