Authors: Janice Weber
“What sort of accident?”
“A woman had digestive problems after eating at the restaurant.”
“I see. And now the concerned chef is checking her food sources. I appreciate your diligence, my dear, but I think I know
good mushrooms from bad. Has the victim recovered?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Are you expecting a lawsuit?”
“What? No! The woman’s a personal friend of mine.”
“Excellent.” Augustine amusedly placed his coffee cup on the table. “Who else suspects my mushrooms?”
“Just me,” Emily faltered. “I apologize.”
“No need. As long as you’re here, would you like to see my retrievers?
Not really, but she owed him for the mushrooms. “Sure.”
He led her through the cavernous foyer to a rear door. They walked along a grape arbor, pausing where a narrow path led into
the woods. “This might be a bit muddy,” Augustine said. “Its’s been raining.” Smiling grittily, Emily followed him into the
foliage. Who the hell wanted to see a bunch of dogs? “We’re almost there,” he called after a while.
The rocky path slithered up a hill. Cursing under her breath as she slipped on the damp stones, Emily followed Augustine to
its crest. Suddenly the trees ended and she was gazing at a building that seemed to erupt from the hillside. It looked like
a cross between the World Trade Center and a gigantic centrifuge.
“That’s the kennel?”
“No, that’s our chapel.”
“It’s ... uh ... pretty amazing.” Emily knew whose work this was. The clues were everywhere.
“The original chapel burned to the ground. We received a most generous gift to build a new one.” Augustine studied her face
as she stared. “Do you like it?”
No. She had never liked Dana’s architecture. “It’s stunning. May I look inside?”
“I’m afraid not. The monks are saying their Divine Offices. But we could walk around in front, if you like. The kennel is
just over the hill. Come.” Augustine went ahead.
The path ran a few feet from the cornerstone. As she walked by, Emily read the familiar credits: Major & Forbes, Architects.
Ross had never mentioned the project to her. Why should he have? Dana had probably sat down one morning with a pencil and
a hangover and had drawn a bunch of asymmetrical windows
and shingles. Maybe, on a few nice afternoons, he had come out here in his Jaguar to supervise construction and mortify the
nuns. Imagine someone commissioning Dana to design a chapel! What a joke!
She caught up with Augustine, who was walking quite fast now. They finally reached the kennel, where a dozen pups milled inside
a high cage. When Augustine whistled, two trotted over. “Well, what do you think?” he asked proudly, sticking a few fingers
through the mesh.
Emily knelt beside the monk. “Major and Forbes designed your chapel?”
Augustine played with a dog. “I understand they’re a very distinguished firm.”
Emily waited but the monk provided no further information. “They must have been very expensive.”
“Our patron was very generous.”
Another wait, another silence. Finally Emily said, “I read in the paper that Dana Forbes died recently.”
Augustine muttered a few words in Latin. “How?”
“Drugs.”
He continued maddeningly with the dog. Had Augustine asked one tiny question, made one tiny comment, Emily would have told
him everything; she ached with secrets. But she couldn’t begin cold. Perhaps the monk knew that; when he finally stood up,
putting a hand on her shoulder, she felt that his silence had been in reality a question, and that her silence had somehow
answered it.
“I’ll pray for him,” was all Augustine said. He took her to another path behind the kennel. In a few minutes, they were back
at the main house.
“Sorry to have bothered you,” Emily said, getting into her car.
“Not at all.” He patted her hand. “God be with you.”
Sounded like he was shipping her off to war. Emily got back to the main road and immediately called Ross’s office on the car
phone; she needed to ask him about Dana’s little chapel in the woods. No answer on his private line, so Emily dialed the main
switchboard. An assistant told her that Ross would be out all
day with clients. “What about Marjorie?” Emily asked, already guessing the answer.
“She’s with Mr. Major.”
Why the fuck did God create secretaries? Emily nearly drove into a ditch trying to locate her position on a road map. Finally
she yanked the car off the road and slapped the map around the steering wheel. Ah, there she was, on that wobbly blue line,
heading north toward her second stop, Peace Power Farm. Christ! What was she doing out here chasing phantoms, wasting time,
trying to appear busy while her husband got domestic with Marjorie? Emily stomped on the gas, spewing stones everywhere as
she skidded back onto the road.
Twenty minutes later, she found a neat, white sign for Peace Power Farm.
WE LOVE VISITORS,
it said. Emily pulled into a dirt driveway with a strip of high grass in the center. It tickled her car’s underbelly as she
bumped toward the rundown house in the distance. Halfway there, a collie bounded off the porch and ran alongside her, yapping.
As she stopped her Saab in front of the house, a woman in a leotard emerged. She seemed about Emily’s age, but floppier: Somehow
the natural look didn’t seem quite as natural on bodies whose elastic was shot. “The farm stand isn’t open today,” she called,
frowning at Emily’s high-octane car.
“I’m looking for Bruna,” Emily shouted over the barking.
“She’s busy.”
“I won’t be long. Would you mind calling off your dog?”
“Fidel! Come here!” The collie returned to the porch. “Who are you?”
“Emily Major.” She stepped onto the grass. “I’m from Boston.”
“Are you a corrections officer?”
In high heels and a red suede skirt? “No, I’m a chef. Bruna is one of my suppliers.”
“She might be in the barn.”
Emily walked past an archery range, where two women were intently practicing, to the dilapidated barn. There were no cows
inside, just Bruna and her leviathan pickup truck. Seeing her
visitor, Bruna abruptly stopped prying off a dented fender. “What are you doing here?”
“I was in the area and thought I’d drop by.”
“What for? Tea and scones?”
“I’m visiting my suppliers and happened to be driving by. I like your farm.”
“It’s not a farm. It’s a training center for battered women.” With her bare hands, Bruna twisted the fender to an excruciating
angle. “We teach them to batter back.”
“Aha.” Emily looked around at the old harnesses, scythes, and rusty implements cluttering the walls. “What happened to your
truck?” she asked after a few moments, trying to sound friendly.
“It hit a phone pole.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“Yeah! My truck!” In a fury, Bruna ripped the fender off. “Look, do you mind? I have a lot of work to do. Come back some other
time. Try calling first.”
So much for that
WE LOVE VISITORS.
“See you Monday?”
“If I can get a new radiator.” Bruna turned her attention to the flat front tire.
Making a hasty three-point turn across the front lawn, Emily decided to skip the remaining courtesy calls on her list and
return to Boston; her next impromptu visit would be to her husband’s office. Noticing not one brilliant leaf, not one pumpkin,
she sped back to the turnpike. An hour later, she was wedged between a garbage truck and a hearse on State Street, inching
toward the traffic light at the corner, growing hotter by the minute because she knew that neither Ross nor Marjorie would
be at the office. Still, she felt she had to make an appearance, if only to gain the high moral ground. One of these days,
she’d need it.
Emily parked and took the elevator to the forty-eighth floor. Summoning all her courage, she unlocked Ross’s private entrance.
What if she discovered him on the couch with Marjorie? Classy wives were supposed to observe for a moment before leaving in
arctic silence. Emily didn’t know if she could do that; the temptation to belt whomever was on top would just be too
great. She counted to three, dashed open the door: empty. She walked slowly past Ross’s desk. All his papers dealt with business
matters. Every single piece of correspondence had Marjorie’s initials typed neatly at the bottom; somehow that defeated Emily.
She grabbed the phone and called Cafe Presto. A Swedish voice answered. “I would like to speak with Guy Witten. It’s an emergency.”
“Vun moment.”
She heard hammering, scrooping, then Guy shouting, “Who is it? You have to get their names, Lina!” After a long time, footsteps
approached the phone. “Yes?” he snapped.
“It’s me,” Emily said. “How are you feeling?”
There was a short silence. “Go to hell!” Guy replied furiously, hanging up.
Emily felt ill. What had brought that on? For the first time, she had heard genuine hatred in his voice, raising the possibility
that he never wanted to see her again: horrifying thought, one she had never really entertained. Demoting him from lover to
friend had been hard enough. Losing even that bittersweet friendship would throw her totally out of sync; she needed Guy to
counterbalance Ross. Damn, damn, this was a very bad day. Emily ripped the top page off of Ross’s daily note calendar and
scribbled
Sorry I missed you. Love, E.
She didn’t mean any of it, but Marjorie ought to know she had been here. Dogs peed to mark their turf, wives left little
notes on their husbands’desks. How pathetically depressing.
She next called Philippa in New York. “I’m on my way.”
“Great! Is Ross coming?”
“Nope.” Emily drove to a salon on Newbury Street. “I need a facial right away,” she told the artfully overbeautiful girl at
the front desk. “Do you have an opening?”
“I don’t think so.” The girl took a second look. “Excuse me, but are you Philippa Banks?”
This time, Emily thought a moment. “I am.”
Abracadabra: two hours, two hundred bucks later, she left the salon with a new face, new nails, and swelled head. No wonder
Philippa was always in such a sunny mood: Complete strangers
told her hundreds of times a day that she was beautiful, talented, and terrific. Emily floated to the ludicrously expensive
boutique next door and bought an oufit to wear to New York. Already feeling better, she walked down Newbury Street with a
little more swivel in the hips, more mischief in the eye, and lunched at the Ritz, this time ordering vodka with four dried
cherries.
Emily took the shuttle to New York, arriving late in the afternoon at Philippa’s hotel on Central Park. She knocked on the
door of her sister’s penthouse suite. “It’s me,” she called. Finally the knob turned.
For a long moment, the twins stared at each other. Emily spoke first. “What the hell happened, Philippa?”
No reply: Philippa couldn’t take her eyes off Emily, who looked radiant in a dark green silk outfit. “Perfect, Em,” Philippa
said unsteadily. “You look just like me.” What a lie: Emily looked fifty times better than Philippa ever would.
Emily strode into the room and studied her sister’s purple bruises in the light. “Don’t tell me a bathtub did this.”
Realizing with relief that Emily still knew nothing about her accident last night at Guy’s, Philippa shrugged philosophically.
“All right. It was a man.”
“You have to press charges. This is assault.”
“I can’t. Don’t know who he was.”
“You picked someone up? Are you nuts?”
“How was I supposed to know? He said he was a dentist.”
“Where did you meet him?”
Philippa’s mind went blank until she remembered the plot of one of her soap operas. “In a health bar on Park Ave. He happened
to have two tickets to the ballet.”
“I thought you hated ballet.”
“I do, I do!” Philippa became desperate. “We only stayed for the first act. Then we went dancing.”
“Dancing? You hate dancing, too. This must have been some dentist. Why did he beat you up? Didn’t he know who you were?”
“No, he didn’t know who I was!” Philippa exploded, for once
telling the truth. “All right, I made a mistake! This can’t get in the papers, Em. I’ll be the laughingstock of L.A.”
“We wouldn’t want that. Have you seen a doctor, at least?”
“I’m sick and tired of doctors! This is nothing. I’ll be all right in a week. Maybe I can hole up somewhere.” Philippa waited
in vain for Emily to invite her to Boston.
“Did you tell your agent what happened?”
“Eh—another time. He’s a little edgy about the opening tonight.”
“He has no idea I’m doing this? What’s he going to do when he finds out?”
“He’s going to kiss your feet, Em. You saved his ass. And mine.” Philippa poured two glasses of champagne, her fifth, Emily’s
first. “Listen, here’s the deal. Simon’s coming in the limo. You just sit through the movie and party a little afterward.
Then you can go home.”
“Sounds thrilling. Is this movie going to embarrass me?”
“Probably.” Philippa went to the bedroom closet. “Just wait until you see what you have to wear.”
Until Simon appeared, the sisters played dress-up. It was almost like being children again, but with alcohol and false eyelashes.
Emily was corseted to the point of asphyxiation in a red dress that was little more than a floor-length bra with sequins.
Philippa’s spike heels hurt Emily’s feet and her gigantic blond wig felt like an army blanket, with fleas. At least the diamonds
were real: Philippa’s five husbands, had, in some respects, paid off. Philippa was baptizing Emily with sickening perfume
when the bell rang.
“I don’t know whether I can go through with this,” Emily said.
“Shut up! Just imitate me!” Philippa hissed, diving behind the couch. “Wear the white cape in the closet! Be affectionate
with everyone! Wiggle! Remember, you’re a star!”
Star? Black Hole was more like it. Emily staggered to the door. “Simon! Darling!”
A tanned, hypergroomed man in tails entered. When he smiled, his little white teeth glittered. Emily pegged him at sixty
going on eighteen. “You look ferocious, babe,” he said after a moment’s appraisal. “I was worried there for a while.”