Saving Phoebe Murrow: A Novel (6 page)

Heading home, Isabel pressed the button to turn the car radio on and again noticed the botched polish on her index finger. She'd nicked it in her rush to leave the salon. How annoying. Now, she'd have to live with this imperfection for an entire evening. Thuy would gladly have fixed it, but after her outburst, Isabel had felt too embarrassed and all she'd wanted was out.

She switched to a news channel, hoping to find out about events in Adams Morgan, and praying there was no connection to Phoebe, who shouldn't have been there, in any case, and who hadn't answered when she'd called. Eventually, the announcer had stated that a drug ring had been infiltrated, a dozen people arrested. They provided the names of the leaders, part of a local Latino gang, several of whom had connections to drug kingpins in Mexico and Central America. There was no mention of Phoebe or her friends. Thank God!

Isabel shook her head, partly at herself, and also because she was glad the police had been successful. She knew, however, that for every apprehended criminal, there were dozens more who roamed free. Until recently, it hadn't bothered her how often she defended guilty clients. Everyone had the right to a defense. But lately it galled her that she spent more time on her clients than with her family, and that so many got off virtually scot-free.

The ride home calmed Isabel. She reproached herself for jumping to a conclusion, which in law school she'd been taught to avoid. Witnesses did it all the time. They put the wrong two and two together to arrive at incorrect assumptions.

Having seen the words “Adams Morgan,” she'd thought of Phoebe and assumed she'd been talking to the policeman, possibly that he was arresting her. She tried to summon the TV image to review what the girl had been wearing and what she'd looked like. After careful consideration she decided the girl appeared similar to but had not been Phoebe. To be absolutely certain, she'd simply ask her when she came home. Of course she'd have to phrase the question just so, but then she spent her life doing that.

Isabel arrived home a few minutes past five. Maybe a little early to have a drink, but after such a harrowing manicure she breezed through the clean rooms and headed straight for the wine fridge in the kitchen. She pulled out a bottle of Sonoma-Cutrer Chardonnay. The cork made a lovely popping sound, and the golden liquid gurgled as it filled the glass.

On the way to the solarium, she picked up her worn leather briefcase in the hallway; maybe she'd review some briefs for a case going to trial in a few weeks. The large glassed-in room was her favorite. At least a dozen orchids were in full bloom, not only Phalaenopsis, but other rarer breeds, too. And in assorted colors.

Curled up in the peacock chair, she was almost instantly greeted by Hagrid, who jumped on her lap and began to purr as Isabel stroked his thick black fur. She took a few sips of wine, stared outside at the brilliant display of fall in the backyard – two maples seemed aflame and a gingko's gold leaves shimmered in the slight breeze – then closed her eyes. “Ahhh,” she said, finally relaxing and enjoying the quiet moment. It was 5:20.

Instead of the legal brief, though, she picked up the latest copy of Phoebe's
Seventeen
, which had arrived in the mail. It was yet one more way to get a handle on her daughter's teenage mind, and something they could talk about.

One by one she flipped the pages, taking in the teen fashions, admiring some, disparaging others. She examined the emaciated models – their toothpick legs, the dark bruises under some of their eyes – and wondered about their lives. She'd read about heroin addiction. Though Phoebe's collage of teen idols included a couple such photos, from what she gathered Phoebe had no desire to be one of them. She had chosen the images for the clothing they wore. Among them was a short gathered skirt, which actually resembled an item Phoebe had copied and sewn. At times, Isabel felt a grudging admiration for her skill.

She took another sip of wine then thought she heard movement at the front door. She suspected it was Phoebe and realized she'd given little thought to what she would say to her daughter. Her mind raced to find the right phrases and words. The doorbell rang and an alarmed Hagrid dug his claws into her thigh before scampering off.

“Ouch!” Isabel said in a half whisper.

Fully expecting to see Phoebe when she opened the door, it startled her to see Jackson. “Oh, it's you,” she said, “hi, honey.” Behind him a silver SUV tooted its horn. Though normally she might have taken a minute to chat with her friend Kat, now Isabel just waved and shouted, “Thank you.”

“Bye,” came the response. The vehicle sped off.

“Did you forget your key, honey?” Isabel ushered Jackson inside.

He shook his head and looked at her sheepishly. “I saw your car in the driveway.”

She ran her fingers through his brown mop, a virtual replica of Ron's. “You rascal you,” she said, “too lazy to get your key out, huh?” In the kitchen she offered her ten-year-old son a snack. After a few minutes of rather distractedly asking him about his day and getting short monosyllabic answers, she conveniently allowed him to play his new video game.

She ran through several scenarios of what to say to Phoebe, expecting her at any moment. When she saw that it was nearly six, she grew worried. She should have been home by now. Only then did the specter of something actually having happened to her daughter return. What if Phoebe had been arrested? Police swoop in, arrest everyone in sight. Guilty or not. Had that girl talking to the policeman been Phoebe after all?

No, she couldn't have been arrested. The police would have called. She'll be here any minute. Reluctantly, she turned to a news channel on the kitchen's small flat-screen TV, the same channel she'd watched at Aqua.

As the news anchors appeared, Isabel found herself white-knuckling the counter, afraid of what she might see and hear, but her anxiety turned out to be pointless because a few minutes later Phoebe strolled through the door. Isabel was so relieved to see her daughter that she ran over to give her a hug.

“Hi, Mom,” Phoebe said, shrugging her off after a two-second embrace and dropping her backpack on the floor. She continued toward the Sub-Zero, where she heaved open the massive door and stared inside.

A peculiar smell in Phoebe's hair registered in Isabel's mind, but this bad habit of her daughter's – leaving the fridge open and allowing the cold air to escape, the waste of energy, et cetera – distracted her. She was about to reprimand her, then remembered her mission and bit her tongue. “How was your afternoon, honey?”

“Oh, fine,” Phoebe said, keeping her eyes trained on the refrigerator shelves. She pulled out a bottle of carrot juice and poured herself a glass. It was part of the healthy diet regimen Phoebe had adopted over the summer.

In as level a tone as she could muster, Isabel asked, “Where'd you go?”

“Where do you think we went, Mom?” Phoebe said, a slight rise in the pitch of her voice.

Isabel blanched. “Georgetown?” she said, making every effort to imbue the word with a neutrality she didn't feel.

“Checked out a few shops, had a soda, took the bus home. Oh joy, exciting life. And now I get to babysit!” She released a long exasperated sigh.

Under normal circumstances Phoebe's attitude might threaten Isabel's patience, but now only happiness surged through her. Phoebe hadn't been in Adams Morgan. All that worrying for nothing. She poured a little more wine, took a sip and invited Phoebe to come sit with her in the solarium and chat.

Just then the sound of an incoming text caught Phoebe's attention.

Isabel watched her daughter's thumbs fly across the tiny keyboard.

“I've been going through the new issue of
Seventeen
, honey, and thought maybe we'd go shopping tomorrow. You could use a few things, right?”

“Yeah, maybe. But I promised Emma I'd go with her to take some photographs for a project she's working on.”

“What project?”

“Some thing on homeless people.”

The thought of this set off all sorts of alarms, but Isabel suppressed both a groan and her safety lecture. Really, though, was this an appropriate activity for young teenage girls?

Phoebe sucked down the carrot juice and rummaged through the cupboard where snacks were kept. “Hey, guess what? A few guys I know are going to start a band. I think they might ask me to design their outfits.” She turned and looked at her mother. “Cool, huh?” Hagrid rubbed his black fur against her leg and she squatted down to pet the cat.

“Oh, that is cool,” Isabel agreed.

“I've got some stuff to do before I babysit, so is it okay if I go to my room?”

“Sure, Phoebe,” Isabel said, wishing she could have spent a few more minutes with her daughter. She pulled out some leftovers for Jackson and Phoebe's dinner, then went upstairs to choose an outfit, half wondering what Sandy might show up in. As an alum of Georgetown Academy and a room parent for Phoebe's class, Isabel thought people might look to her for insight into the school, and she wanted to look her best. Not that she didn't “dress for success” every day of her working life. But this was different. And now that Phoebe was home, safe and sound, her attitude toward finding just the right outfit had improved considerably.

Glancing at herself in the closet mirror she thought about doing her hair in a French braid. That's when the smell in Phoebe's hair returned to her. She'd mention it to Ron.

But Isabel did not tell Ron about the smell in Phoebe's hair, nor did she relay her worries about Adams Morgan, or anything else that might ruin the semi-romantic evening she'd planned in her mind. She clasped her husband's hand on the short ride, which ended as Ron pulled into the circular drive of the stately Georgetown home of Amanda and JP Thomas, Dylan's parents. Several young Latino men were stationed there to park people's cars, and almost instantly Isabel's door swung open with one of the valets helping her out.

She was slightly awestruck by the 1875 stone and brick three-story mansion. She'd never been inside and was curious to see how Amanda had decorated it. She'd heard it was exquisite. But then they had loads of money. Amanda, and JP, came from considerable wealth. They were among Washington's social elite, the coveted A-list.

As Ron circled the car and joined Isabel, he asked, “What's the dad do?”

“The dad? I thought you knew?” she said.

He gave her a look. “I don't track the career of every socialite's husband, honey.”

“Oh, didn't I tell you?” Isabel realized she'd only mentioned Amanda's name. “Her husband's JP Thomas, that high-profile guy at Treasury, under Clinton; he went there after quite a career on Wall Street, then stayed on under
W—
” she scowled slightly as she said “W.”

“Now he's working on the Obama campaign.”

“That's whose house this is?” Suddenly Ron exuded enthusiasm. They climbed the wide steps to the front door. There, he stopped. “You mean they actually named their son Dylan?” When she looked slightly puzzled, he added, “You know, as in Dylan Thomas? Christ, that takes balls.”

The thought made Isabel smile. She linked her arm inside his and pecked him on the cheek. “Let's not stay too late tonight, okay?” she whispered.

“No problem there, Iz.” He dropped his hand and gave her buttocks a squeeze. “It's your room parent debut, so you call the shots.”

“Honey, it's so much more than that. We're doing it to get to know the parents of Phoebe's friends; so take notes. Mental notes. We'll compare at the end of the night.”

“Count on it,” he said and laughed again.

She rolled her eyes. “Men!” Then with a sly look, she added, “What if I told you a couple of members of Congress will probably be here? Several diplomats too, not to mention power players in the presidential campaign. They all have kids in Phoebe's grade.”

He shot her a lopsided grin. “As if I care about that sort of thing!”

“Right,” she said.

“Okay, spill it. Who's coming?”

Before she could say another word, a man dressed in a butler's tuxedo opened the door and led them into a two-story foyer with twin spiral staircases and a massive crystal chandelier. Sprays of light danced on the marble floor, the pale silk-lined walls and the high-domed ceiling. It had a magical Gatsby-like effect, and made her carefree and giddy.

The classically designed house had quite a history of previous famous owners. Just then Amanda descended the marble steps to the massive entryway. The tall beauty, whose clothes reflected a comfortable elegance, wore black silk chiffon pants and a white taffeta high-collared shirt wound tightly about her slender waist. Ferragamo ballet slippers on her feet.

Isabel could tell she was one of those rare women destined to do everything with grace and aplomb, whether decorating, throwing a party, or designing a wardrobe, something Isabel envied, though she wondered how she was at raising four sons. Surely the woman had hoped for a girl. Dylan was the second youngest. If she had to guess, Isabel put her age at forty-plus. Doubtful she would try for another.

“Welcome, welcome,” Amanda said, greeting several guests at once and reaching for their hands. She folded her own around each one in succession and those she seemed to know she leaned in for an air kiss. “So good to see you.”

Isabel introduced herself and Ron. Amanda leaned back a bit as if to fully take them in, then said, “Phoebe's parents, right? And you're my room parent partner, Isabel?” To which Isabel nodded. Lifting her manicured brow and shaking her head, Amanda added, “Quite a day the kids had.”

Her statement puzzled Isabel, but not wanting to appear uninformed, she merely smiled and said, “How's Dylan enjoying school?”

“Oh, it's not school I'm worried about. It's the rest of life these kids have to navigate that concerns me.” Amanda laughed lightly. “I suppose they'll muddle through. The way we all do.”

Yet again, Amanda's words surprised Isabel. How difficult could life be with their obvious wealth, and the privileges and advantages that came with it? Ron jumped in, saying, “That's the truth isn't it? We all muddle through.”

Isabel caught him admiring their hostess, her swept back hair and graceful neck that reminded her a little of Audrey Hepburn's. Isabel was, by nature, rather confident. Still, like many women, she wasn't immune to the occasional twinge of jealousy and she noted Ron's reaction.

Amanda called to one of the waiters carrying a tray of drinks and motioned him over. “Help yourselves,” she said. “Enjoy the evening.” Turning to Isabel, who chose a glass of white wine, she added, “Maybe we'll have a chance to chat about this room parent thing. Right now, I'm afraid, duty calls. I'll be stationed here for the next half hour or so. There's plenty of food. Don't be shy. I'm counting on you to encourage the others.”

With that she turned to the next guests and welcomed them, saying something fresh and new. As if she had an endless list of phrases handy for occasions such as this. Of course, she does, Isabel told herself. She probably spends half her life entertaining. Though she envied Amanda's effortless grace, this was a task Isabel did not covet. She and Ron received plenty of invitations, but constant socializing was not her cup of tea.

“What on earth was she talking about?” Isabel asked Ron, then sipped the wine.

“What do you mean?”

“You know for a supposedly observant reporter you can be awfully obtuse.”

“Thank you,” he said, with a small bow.

“I'm referring to her comment about what a day the kids had, as if something happened.”

“Maybe something did.”

Adams Morgan and the drug arrest she'd seen on TV coiled back into her mind. About to say something, she stopped herself. As far as she knew Phoebe hadn't gone to Adams Morgan and the arrest had absolutely nothing to do with their daughter. So why would she even mention it? If she did, it would only elicit a typical Ron response, of the “stop worrying” variety, so she said nothing. She took another sip of her wine. “Mmm, delicious. I wonder what it is.”

“I could go for a beer or a scotch. You mind if I get myself one?”

“No, go ahead. But come back. I want you to meet some of the parents with me, okay?”

He nodded and trotted off. She spotted a few of the VIP guests, but before she could make her way over to them, Skyla's mother, Liz, waved at her. She wanted to pretend she hadn't seen her, but that would be rude. They hadn't spoken much since all the unpleasantness between Skyla and Phoebe. Several people's heads turned as Isabel passed. Though Isabel knew she was a good-looking woman, she felt an uncomfortable undercurrent of something.

After bussing one another's cheeks, Liz asked how Phoebe liked Georgetown. “What's not to like,” Isabel said, “but thanks for asking. She seems to be adjusting pretty well. Surprisingly well, in fact. And Skyla?” Though tempted to ask how the heck she'd gotten in, Isabel refrained.

“She's in love with the place. Especially the fact that there are
four
grades of boys. Can you believe that?” She arched her brow and released a boisterous laugh.

“Kids!” Isabel said with a tight smile, already wondering how to extricate herself.

“I told her, ‘you'd better hit the books, kiddo; this isn't Woodmont.'” She laughed again.

“You're right about that,” Isabel said and glanced around in search of Ron.

“By the way, Skyla mentioned something about a joint birthday party. Wouldn't that be fun?” Liz said, her eyes wide with anticipation.

For the second time this evening, Isabel tried hard not to appear surprised. “Hmm, a joint party?” Why hadn't Phoebe said a word?

“Oh, yes. Skyla came home today, all excited, even mentioned having it at the Chevy Chase Club, so I'm guessing that was Phoebe's idea.”

“Really? I guess Phoebe forgot to mention it. She came home a little late and I was getting ready. For this,” she said. “Oh, shoot, will you forgive me, I see a couple of people I need to catch up with. Room parent duty, you know. Get to know the new parents.”

“Sure, but let's catch up soon, okay?” Liz said, clutching Isabel's wrist. “It's been too long. Have a glass of wine and make plans for the kids' party?”

Isabel slowly retracted her arm. “Sure. I'll touch base with Phoebe. Call me?” Perhaps this was Liz's version of an olive branch, but she'd put the ball in Liz's court. After all, she only worked part-time, some cupcake venture, a business that seemed at best half-serious.

“I'll do that,” Liz said cheerfully and waltzed off.

Isabel imagined that getting together might not just be about patching things up or even the girls' party. Inevitably, talk would turn to Liz and Steve launching a second bid to join the Club, which didn't particularly bother her, but now it seemed they'd be hosting a birthday party there too. That baffled her. Was Phoebe really ready to trust Skyla? More to the point, was she? She wasn't sure. Actually no, but maybe meeting up with Liz wasn't such a bad idea. And perhaps Phoebe should invite Skyla, so she could get a sense of the girl.

As she made her way through the clusters of people, and occasionally waved or said “hello,” she ran into Ron. “Oh, there you are. Thank God.” She was about to mention her encounter with Liz when she noticed the distressed look on his face.

“Listen, I have to tell you something,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper, “and you're not going to like it. A few kids were—” he hesitated as if hunting for the right word, “—caught smoking marijuana at some guy's house in Adams Morgan today.” He grew circumspect. “I think Phoebe might know something about it.”

The afternoon came flooding back. Isabel placed a hand on Ron's arm to steady herself. “What exactly would she know?” she managed.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I think she was there, along with Jessie and Emma and a few boys. The only name I recognized was Dylan's.”

Isabel grappled with the news. So that's what Amanda had meant, and that's why people had been looking at her. They knew. Unlike me, she thought, whose daughter had actually been there. She couldn't bring herself to believe that Phoebe too had been smoking – but how had she acted so normal? And now she recalled the smell! That's what it was. She wasn't sure which hit her harder: the actual news of Phoebe's friends smoking marijuana or her daughter's flawless fabrication. No wonder she hadn't said a word about Skyla or a party.

She shifted her stance to face Ron and the plum-colored wall behind him. She didn't want people to see her distraught expression, or anything else for that matter. “What happened? What do you know?”

“Apparently they were at a boy's home in Adams Morgan, an apartment, and the boy's mother barged in on them. Pretty stupid.”

She nodded emptily. Already she could imagine the gossip that must be circulating. She only hoped that it wouldn't be taken up at school. If it was, people would believe that Isabel, as an alum, room parent, and donor, not to mention potential future board member, would shield Phoebe from any unpleasant aftermath. Though from Isabel's perspective, the exact opposite was true. Along with her status came the expectation that she be a role model; Phoebe would have to suffer the consequences of this idiotic event. “Oh, lord,” she moaned.

Ron stared at her. “What?”

“You do realize what this means, don't you?”

“What?” he said again.

“Dammit, I should have told you earlier.”

“You're not making sense.”

Just then a parent she should have recognized, but whose name she couldn't recall, stopped by and said hello. Isabel pasted on a smile and greeted him. She glanced down in the hope that he would keep going, and after a brief exchange with Ron he did.

“I was afraid you'd tell me I was being ridiculous,” she said and proceeded to describe her conversation with Phoebe, about going to a thrift store with Jessie and Emma, and then what she'd seen on TV while at Aqua. “My intuition told me something was up but I didn't want to believe she'd disobey me.” She turned slightly to see if anyone was watching them.

Ron held her hand. “You do realize the drug bust in Adams Morgan and the kids getting caught smoking aren't linked. Not in any way. The two things are entirely coincidental.”

Isabel gave him an alien look. As if, now, he weren't making any sense. Then, “Yes, of course, but you can't believe what a perfect little liar she was when she came home. Seemed so happy. Like nothing had happened. Christ!” She took a long drink of wine.

“Iz, don't go jumping to conclusions.”

She looked at him pointedly. “Ron, don't be stupid, Phoebe lied. She withheld the truth. And what if she was smoking too?” Isabel's face crumbled. The thought made her want to weep.

“So she smoked once,” Ron said in a firm tone and held her elbow tightly, “maybe.”

Isabel shook his hand loose. “I also just found out that she's planning a birthday party with Skyla.” She watched his face cloud over. As if having a party with her former tormentor was worse than her lying or possibly smoking.

“You're sure?”

“Got it straight from Liz; she was all excited about having it at the
Club
!” She released a long sigh. “We should get home and deal with this.”