Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (22 page)

Around 1:30 in the afternoon, Sandy dropped Jessie and Emma off at the mall in search of party decorations and returned home to pay some bills that had piled up. She hadn't seen Jessie quite so psyched about anything in a while. It was a huge relief and a personal victory. Thank God Dylan had responded so enthusiastically to the request that the band play. But then why wouldn't he? She'd offered to pay them $200!

Though she agreed with Bill, who called the money “no small potatoes,” he'd said it in a way that was unlike him. As if he resented it, and that seemed strange, because to him $200 barely counted as pocket money, an attitude she'd adopted over the years.
Chump change
, he might say.

In fact, earlier in the day he'd said a few other things that had put her in a sour mood. Like, “Ya know, I'm not sure you should try to
buy
Dylan for our daughter. You really think that's a good idea?”

She'd tried staring him down, then said, “I don't know what you're talking about,” while fiddling with her hair, twirling a lock round and round her finger.

He smiled, a maddening smile, really, and said, “Oh, I think you do.” But he hadn't left the conversation there. He'd been more insistent than usual. “Don't you think she should have the opportunity to work that sort of thing out herself?”

“Well, what I'm thinking is that you should just stop asking questions,” she said, trying to gain the upper hand.

He frowned. “Don't go overboard trying to make Jessie happy, okay?” he said before walking out the door and leaving her sitting there to stew. The nerve!

Now, as she sat before the computer, about to fulfill a few
Slenderella
orders, she was tempted to call Ron. No, she told herself, not yet. She'd intentionally waited to call or write him after their “brief” lunch, which had turned into an hour-and-a-half event. Men hated overly eager, clingy women and she didn't want him to think she was one of those. But they'd had fun. More than fun. He'd lusted after her.

It began when he'd reached for her hand across the table in a quiet booth at the Quill. She quickly figured out he'd chosen this spot so his flirtation would go unnoticed, and she'd gone to great lengths to present both her most earnest and most vulnerable sides. She laughed demurely, all the while observing him, clear-eyed, like a panther stalking her prey, and knew that he underestimated her.

But she'd also underestimated his effect on her. They'd each had a glass of wine, which she sipped and he drank rather quickly. He ordered another. When their food came, she picked at it, he'd noticed, and she brushed off his suggestion that she didn't like the salad, saying she was so impressed with his “new job and all” that she forgot to eat. A flirty smile, a bit of light laughter, when all the while she felt like ravaging him. God, he was cute.

As she recollected the memory, Bill briefly entered her thoughts and she apologized to him despite his earlier behavior.
You have your fantasies, too
, she claimed.

“Does that mean you'll be on the road a lot?” she'd asked Ron slyly.

“It does,” he said, staring into her eyes, then letting his gaze drop, running over her throat and down to her breasts, where they remained, rather brazenly, as he asked, “Do you like to travel?” before lifting them again to see her lips part then turn into a becoming smile.

“Sometimes, but I'm kind of a homebody,” she said, which was only half true.

She'd toyed with him this way. Had let him stroke her hand with his finger, at one point she'd kissed two of her own fingers and placed them on his mouth. “I really need to get going,” she said, though she'd had to tear herself away. Even now she grew hot at the memory.

“Do you?” he asked, his tone braided with regret.

She thought he might just run to the front desk and do whatever was needed to get her up to a room. A man ripe for the picking, but she'd felt so turned on that if he'd pursued it, she would have agreed in a hot second.

“Maybe we can do this again,” she said, “when
you
have more time.”

He looked slightly off balance, as if surprised she was leaving, but nodded. When they got up from their chairs she went over and gave him a little taste of what might be in store for him. “You are one handsome, successful man, Ron Murrow,” she whispered in his ear, then touched his jaw with her fingertips, drew his face toward her and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Thank you for a wonderful lunch.” She didn't wait for him to answer, but instead hurried off, knowing he was watching her as she sashayed away.

Now, she clicked on “new email” and dashed off a thank you note. It would only be a matter of time before he'd contact her and want to “see” her again. Interestingly, they'd never touched on the subject of Jessie and Phoebe, the presumed reason for lunch, though she had told him about Jessie's party and said she hoped Phoebe could make it. Which wasn't true. It was Ron she could hardly wait to see again. Each time she thought of him, she tingled with excitement. This was something she hadn't expected, but she couldn't help recalling his slightly cocky attitude, so irresistible in a guy. All because he had a new job.

Though Amanda didn't work, Isabel thought she might as well have since she served on several boards, corporate and non-profit, and raised money for everything from the Choral Arts Society to the Capitol Hill homeless shelter. Thus far Amanda and Isabel's views on all the room parent issues blended beautifully, and while Amanda had a more easygoing nature when it came to child-rearing, one Isabel attributed to the fact that she had sons and not daughters, she certainly agreed with Isabel about getting a handle on “this drug thing” when she brought it up.

“The pitfalls of parenthood,” Amanda said lightly, “are legion. No wonder our teens resent us. All we do is say ‘no,' ‘be careful,' and ‘don't.' ‘No drinking, no drugs, no sex!' ‘Be careful driving, don't stay out too late, make sure you call me,' blah, blah, blah!” She laughed.

“It's so true, but what are we to do? Abdicate our responsibilities? Like some parents we know?” She looked at Amanda meaningfully then leaned in. “Can I be candid with you?”

“Of course.”

“I take it you've heard about the party coming up at the Littletons'?”

Amanda snorted softly. “Have I ever! Sandy had Dylan over on Thursday, presumably to check out the space where the band will play. Of course I offered to drive him over, but she wouldn't hear of it. No, she picked him and Jessie up after school and then drove him all the way back here two hours later, but not without first calling and begging to feed him dinner, after I'd specifically said he needed to be home. He procrastinates like crazy when it comes to doing his homework. So of course I said no, but it was a bit awkward.”

Isabel nodded her head. “I understand completely.”

“Confidentially, I think Jessie might have her young heart set on Dylan. Poor thing! She has no idea what she's getting herself into,” Amanda said with an arch look.

Isabel smiled. “He's adorable and you know it.”

“Someday. Hopefully. We'll see,” she mused.

“Well, I, for one, am beginning to see the merits of arranged marriages!” Isabel said with a grin.

“There's an idea. Can you imagine?” Then her expression grew serious. “So, let me guess, you're worried Sandy and company will let the kids drink?”

Isabel frowned. She'd heard that at a party the previous year, when they were away at Christmas, Sandy had done everything but place beer in the hands of the kids. And another in the summer. “That's right,” she said. “I wonder if she and Bill have any intention of providing oversight. I mean the real kind. Not just pretending.”

“How about if we send something out reminding parents of their responsibilities as hosts and chaperones of a party?”

“Maybe we could offer to chaperone?” Isabel said with a laugh, though it brought to mind Ron's suggestion of reaching out to Sandy. This memory briefly clouded her thoughts, until she heard Amanda say, “That would be quite an experience. Of course, Dylan would kill me, or maybe the other way around.”

They both chuckled and Isabel forgot all about Ron, thinking how much fun it was to be working with a woman the caliber of Amanda Thomas, someone who shared her sensibilities.

They spoke a while about the issues of drugs, drinking and sex and finally decided to send out an e-mail underscoring the “no alcohol” rule at parties. They would list all the ways kids tried to sneak it in – water bottles, flasks, etcetera – and places they might store it outside. If parents failed to uphold this most basic rule –
NO alcohol at parties
– then the ones to be blamed for drinking problems were the parents.

And Isabel, as an attorney, would add language about how parents were not only responsible, but could also be prosecuted, especially if something horrible happened after a party where alcohol “had been served or allowed.” It wasn't unusual for upper classmen to crash such parties, which raised the issue of drunk driving. Perhaps she would cite recent incidents in which teens had either died or suffered serious injuries.

They'd end the missive by encouraging parents to keep an eye on their children and watch for any possible alcohol or drug use. And, of course, there really was no replacement for staying in close contact with one's sons and daughters.

Armed with this, Isabel left for home, though without Phoebe. She and Dylan hadn't returned yet, and Amanda insisted she'd bring her home in a while. They both laughed simultaneously, thinking of Sandy. “Please don't go out of your way. Really, I don't mind if she takes the bus,” Isabel said.

“All right, I'll leave it up to her. But if I don't take her, I'll let you know.”

Isabel prayed that by hanging out with Dylan, Phoebe would get her mind off this Shane person, whoever he was. She'd thought about raising the topic with Amanda, but then decided to keep it to herself. She'd discuss it with Ron later, including why he hadn't told her about him.

On the drive home, her thoughts turned to Ron. To events of the past week. If she didn't know him better, she'd think the
Washington Post
offer had completely gone to his head. Of course, he had every right to be thrilled. It was his dream job, but the way he'd behaved, so annoyingly self-assured, like some teenager. At first, she'd thought it was her imagination, until Thursday night, when he suddenly seemed not only cocky, but also somewhat distant. Men could be such children, she thought.

At home, Isabel found herself alone climbing the stairs to Phoebe's room; Ron was still at Jackson's soccer game. She'd decided to go through Phoebe's things, something she'd avoided for weeks; there hadn't been much point since Phoebe was grounded, and the truth of it was she hated the sneaky dishonesty of it. On the other hand, she'd long ago convinced herself that in order to keep her daughter safe, she needed to know what was going on. Especially after the discovery of her secret romance.

The bulletin board drew her attention and there, dead center, a photo of a boy she assumed was Shane, her daughter's romantic obsession. She had to admit he was ruggedly handsome. So easy to lose yourself in starry-eyed dreams about someone you don't know.

Her eyes cast about the room, briefly landing on Phoebe's very colorful childhood painting – “I See the Moon,” she'd called it. It reminded her of the talk she'd had with Phoebe about the illusory appearance of things, and even people. Then she'd used the moon as a metaphor for Skyla, now she added Shane to the long list of things to discuss with Phoebe.

She roused herself back to her task. Where to start?

Well, drawers were always the first place she looked. She glanced in the usual places, beneath panties and t-shirts and bulky sweaters. Nothing. She opened her jewelry box, a multi-drawer affair, but again found nothing unusual. She noted that Phoebe still kept a couple of baby teeth in a tiny see-through jewelry bag, a lock of her strawberry blonde baby hair tied with a piece of pink yarn, and a narrow blue ribbon that had once graced the knitted cap of her favorite bear. She'd always intended to stitch it back on, but there it lay.

She fondled the hair. How quickly time passed. In the blink of an eye her daughter had gone from innocent babe to budding adolescent. She touched the baby hair to her cheek, sniffed it, and then gently placed it back in the jewelry drawer, tears welling up. She wiped them away and moved to the dollhouse. Her fingers grazed the roof as she recalled the hours she'd spent playing here with Phoebe. The tiny furniture, the toy people. Their funny pretend conversations. Peering inside, she noticed the miniature couch. It was out of place. She was about to move it when the phone rang and she left the room.