Birthday Girls (26 page)

Kris was quiet a moment. Then she slowly turned and faced Abigail. “No,” she said, grabbing the suitcase from her. “I did it so I wouldn’t hurt you. So you would never know that the father of my child was your precious grandfather.”

She could almost hear the hiss of life deflate Abigail’s lungs. The woman turned pale—ghastly, ghostly pale. Her jaw went slack; her lower lip began to twitch.

Still Kris could not stop, the decades of hurt unleashing themselves and hurling them smack into Abigail’s horrified face. “You always thought you were so much better than the rest of us,” Kris seethed. “You never liked Betty Ann. I doubt if you ever liked Maddie. And the only reason you tolerated me was because I was some kind of toy for you. Your little black friend. Someone you could prance in front of and show off your beautiful house to and your frilly-ass room and … your grandfather.

“Well, guess what, princess, your grandfather wanted me. He screwed me again and again and he liked it just fine. And I would have had his baby, but I was afraid it would end up too much like you.”

Abigail’s hands flew to her ears. “Shut up!” she screamed. “Shut up and get out of my house!”

“No problem,” Kris said. “I know the way.”

The Thanksgiving
weekend was at last over and done with. Maddie sat at the stool in her studio, hunched over her light box, waiting for Cody to deliver an order of processing chemicals. He’d offered to bring it; he’d said it would give him a chance to touch her, and that he desperately needed to touch her. Maddie had laughed and told him he was a horny bastard, to which Cody quickly had agreed.

She had not told Abigail; she had not told Kris. It was almost as if she was afraid the sizzle would dwindle if they knew—if anyone knew—how good Cody made her feel.

Sitting up straight, Maddie stretched her back, then began to scrutinize a proof sheet for the latest
Savoir
cover: three hot new models making exorbitant fees for hawking makeup, fragrances, and body cremes. They were sensuous and alluring; they were provocative and daring. The trouble was, they were only eleven. Eleven years old, yet looking twenty-five. She doubted any of them could have survived the drug-riddled, “heroin chic” culture of the fashion world that had only recently gone out of vogue. She wondered if
these kids had mothers, and if so, how they felt about their babies peddling sex.

“Your job is to shoot,”
Savoir
editor Brian Dixon had ordered when Maddie protested. “Shoot them; don’t judge them. The
Savoir
cover is not a platform for morals.”

She supposed Brian Dixon would never vote for Dan Quayle. She supposed Brian Dixon would have loved it if he’d seen her in Cody’s bedroom acting like a teenager. Brian would have loved it; Abigail and Kris would have applauded. Still, Maddie could not help but wonder what the world was coming to, and if she was contributing to its decline.

A knock came on the studio door. She jumped. Her pulse beat quickly; she smoothed her sweater, brushed the wrinkles from her short, sueded-silk skirt, and remembered how much easier it was to dress in sweatpants and flannel shirts.

But that was the old Maddie. This was the new.

She slid off the stool, ran her hands through her hair, and opened the door.

It was not Cody on the other side. It was Parker.

Her heart flew into her throat.

“Maddie,” he said, “I tried the front door. No one answered.”

She leaned against the doorjamb. “Sophie’s at yoga class.” Her words squeaked past her aorta.

Parker smiled. “She’s really something.”

Maddie nodded.

“Could I come in?”

He was wearing a blue shirt again. His eyes flashed in the sunshine; his smile warmed in the light. It was the first time he’d come to her studio door, the first time he’d asked to come in. “Why?” she asked nervously. “Is something wrong?”

“No. I have these pictures that Timmy shot. I wanted to return them …” He handed her an 8 × 10 envelope.

“And you were in the neighborhood?”

“Sort of.” He grinned.

His grin was like the photo on the editorial page of
Our World
. It was warm and charming and … 
Oh, God
, Maddie thought.
The files. The pictures. He can’t come in here
. Her mind’s eye darted around the studio. Was anything out that could incriminate her? Any magazine back issues? Any blow-up shots of … 
him
 … with Sharlene dismembered and Maddie’s hiding place revealed?

She touched her throat.
And Cody
. Cody would be coming any minute now. “Well,” she stammered, “actually, I’m expecting someone …” “Oh?”

“Yes,” she replied, hoping and praying that Cody wouldn’t show up just then, hoping and praying that he would. Then Parker would know. Then he would become jealous. Then …

“Timmy’s a natural, Maddie. He’s got your talent, that’s for sure.”

“Maybe you should put him on the payroll.”

He remained in the doorway. She wished he would go. She wished he would stay.

“The truth is,” he said, “I wanted to see you.”

She gripped the envelope as though it were a life preserver, salvation from a sinking ship.

“I’ve been concerned … you know. Since Thanksgiving. Since you fainted. And I noticed that you’ve lost weight …”

Somehow Maddie managed to laugh. “Did you? Well, I’m feeling fine, thanks.” She didn’t want to tell him that it was just menopause; she didn’t want to remind him how much older she was than Sharlene. “As for the weight loss,” she continued, “you have no idea how hard I’ve worked at it. I’m not sick, Parker. In fact, for once in my life I’m getting healthy.”

And I’m screwing a twenty-eight-year-old
, she wanted to add.
Are you jealous now?

“Healthy enough to take in an exhibit this weekend?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“There’s a show at the Guggenheim. Manuel Alvarez Bravo. I thought Timmy might enjoy it. And that you might like to come along.”

She admired the realistic style of the renowned Mexican photographer. She wondered if Parker had remembered. “And Sharlene? Will she ‘come along’ as well?” From wherever the courage came to ask, she had no idea but was grateful.

“Sharlene is in Paris. Christmas shopping.”

Well
, Maddie thought.
Isn’t that cushy
. Sharlene was in Paris, Christmas shopping, while Maddie was here, wondering how she was going to afford Hanukkah gifts for the twins this year without dipping into her stash of child support. That money was for … she didn’t know what the money was going to be used for, but she knew she wasn’t going to touch it.

“Saturday?” he asked.

She heard the crunch of gravel before she saw Cody’s pickup truck. An image of his small bedroom, a reminder of his gentle touch, an aroma of his scent on the rumpled sheets—everything flooded into her mind at once, a giant, unstoppable tidal wave of orgasmic memory. Then Maddie pushed the bangs from her brow and looked into Parker’s warm, charming eyes.

“Better make it Sunday,” she replied. “Saturday I have other plans.”

Rockefeller Center
glowed in its holiday glory. The Guggenheim exhibit was spectacular; the crisp winter day was even more glorious, with the sun sparkling off the tall buildings and transforming the windows to diamond-like glitters.

Timmy had challenged them to walk the thirty-plus
blocks from the museum; Parker had at first protested, but Maddie was ready. The incredible sex she’d had with Cody the night before left her invigorated, feeling light as if she were twenty again. She wanted to ask Parker if sex with Sharlene made him feel this way, too. She wanted to ask but did not want to know.

“Do you want to skate?” Parker asked Timmy as they settled in the café for hot chocolate.

“Sure,” he responded, grabbing some bills from his father and vanishing through the crowd.

Then they were alone. Together. Maddie and Parker. Alone in a restaurant. The way they had been that first night so long ago. There were no raindrops that frosted his beard, no passion that danced in his eyes, but they were alone. The way she had dreamed.

The odd thing was, it felt different from what she’d expected. She felt oddly detached. Unaffected. Safe from being dragged into his emotional web. Safe, protected by Cody, a man who desired her.

“Timmy’s quite a kid,” Parker said.

“Yes,” Maddie answered. “Both the boys are.”

Parker looked out to the skating rink. “He’s like you, Maddie.”

“And Bobby’s like you.” She followed his gaze out to the rink, where the skaters glided over the glasslike floor, aglow from the colored lights of the huge Christmas tree. Sitting back in her chair, Maddie realized what she felt was almost like comfort. The comfort of being with someone you know, who knows you well. The old shoe. She did not feel like an old shoe with Cody, more like an open-toed sandal: free, loose, though sometimes a bit of a clog. She was unsure which feeling she preferred.

“Maddie,” Parker said, lowering his eyes and staring into his cup. “I’m glad you came with us today. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

The bubble of her comfort burst, its rainbow hues
splitting then spitting into the air. She gulped her hot chocolate and braced herself for something she didn’t want to hear: that he was moving to London, that Sharlene was pregnant, that he was going to die. Running her hand through her newly cropped hair, Maddie wondered why, despite the changes she’d worked so hard to make in herself, why in a heartbeat—in one, catch-her-off-guard sentence—she could so easily become the old Maddie, the insecure, stumbling, unworthy Maddie.

“I told you that Sharlene is in Paris.”

Oh, God
, Maddie thought.
He’s not moving to London. He’s moving to Paris
. She looked out to the rink again, her eyes hunting for Timmy, hunting for something to balance her plunging emotions. “Yes,” she said calmly, “you told me.”

“I’ll be joining her for the holidays.”

She kept her gaze fixed on the ice. Then she saw Timmy. She forced a smile and waved. “How nice,” she said.

She was aware that Parker was shifting on his chair.
Squirming
, she thought. Squirming, she hoped.

“I’d like the boys to go with me.”

If he had reached across the table and stabbed her with his butter knife, the pain in her chest would not have been greater. Raising her hand to her breast, she turned to him. “What?”

“I said I’d like the boys to go with me.”

“I heard you.”

“Well?”

She had never said no to him. Never. Not when he asked for the divorce. Not when he said it would be better for the boys if he, not she, took the business. The old Maddie had never said no. She closed her eyes, paused, then opened them. “No,” the new Maddie said. “Absolutely not.”

He reached a gloved hand toward her. “Maddie, this will be a great chance for them to …”

Her gaze shifted back to the rink. “The holidays are
hard enough without you,” she said in a whisper. Her head began to pound; the glitter of lights off the ice and the blur of the skaters’ motion now hurt her eyes. “Please don’t take away my sons, too.” She tried to drink her hot chocolate again, but the taste had grown sour.

“Maddie,” he said quietly, “I don’t expect you to understand this, but things between Sharlene and me are not … well, they’re not perfect.”

She wanted to say “Excuse me for not giving a shit.” But the words were trapped in her heart, her old Maddie, insecure, heart-in-her-throat. Then she realized what he had said:
Things between Sharlene and me are not perfect
.

She focused on Timmy as he cut a figure “8,” and slowly she began to wonder …

The last
remnants of sun crawled around the edges of the draperies, but Abigail barely noticed. She lay on her back staring at the ceiling, the same way she’d been laying through the days, through the nights, all alone, crushed by pain. She thought it might be Saturday. Or Sunday. Not that it mattered.

She’d hoped it would help to come here, into the bedroom of her childhood. Amid the teddy bears and antique dolls, untouched since her youth, she’d hoped she might find answers—or at least some comfort. She had not.

Turning on her side, Abigail noticed the silver lap tray resting on the white wicker table. Louisa must have brought it in earlier; that, too, did not matter, for the orange sections, the water biscuit, and the pot of jam would remain untouched. The thought of putting food to her lips, into her stomach, revolted her.

She had told Louisa she would see no one, talk to no one. Not Edmund. Not Larry. No one. Even that, apparently, did not matter. Edmund was off to Washington to host an opening exhibit at the National Museum of Art.
Larry—well, God only knew what he was doing. Arranging reruns, probably Basking in the power of calling all the shots. Maybe working out his plan to betray her.

Betray her.

As Kris had.

As Kris had.

The father of my child was your precious grandfather
.

Abigail clutched her stomach. A low moan rose from somewhere; perhaps it was from her.