Social Lives (2 page)

That they would lose all of that was a given, and she didn't care. Everything she'd done for them socially had been calculated to keep David happy so he could do his job—the one that brought home the money. And it was the money that paid for the rooms, the schools, the happily-ever-after. That was the end goal of the professional's wife. They had nothing without the
job, which was the very thing David had placed in jeopardy. Even if he avoided prison, no one would ever trust him again. And for Jacks, the working world was as far gone as her own childhood. It had been more than seventeen years since she'd earned a paycheck as a waitress. What would she put on her résumé now? Still attractive after bearing three children? What about her perfectly decorated house? Her trendsetting taste? Her honed sense of timing that made it possible for her to get so close to the Barlows? No. None of that would be worth a damned thing. After seventeen years, she would return to the workforce exactly where she'd left it. If they really lost everything, if David went to jail, how could she raise three children on the salary of a middle-aged waitress?

She was in her closet now, moving robotically from section to section as she chose the various items. Undergarments, skirt, blouse, shoes. She could smell David's cologne drifting in from the bathroom, and it brought back, for the smallest moment, the feeling of him—David the man, beyond the provider, the father. There had been times when he'd held her and she'd felt herself lost in his strength, his certainty, when he'd been able to reach behind the curtains where she kept her true self, the one with the memories and the pain. And in those instances, she had believed that the struggle could finally end, that her life might actually be what it appeared from the outside. Good. Happy. Normal. She inhaled deeper and pulled back the tears that were starting to come. No matter what he meant to her outside all of this, she could not leave her life, and the lives of her girls, in his hands. She would not lay herself down in the arms of faith. That was not the way of a survivor.

She'd been through it in her head and kept coming back to the same conclusion. Seventeen years ago, she'd let go of her raft, the one that had kept her afloat but could never fight the tide, and climbed onto David's cruise liner. If what she believed now was true—if that ship was about to go down, taking her and the kids along with it—then it was time to find a lifeboat.

 

 

 

 

 

“D
O IT
, D
ADDY
! D
O
it!”

Melanie Barlow screamed with excitement, her four-year-old body jumping up and down at the edge of the pool.

“Should I do it?” her father teased. He was standing at the end of the high diving board, dripping wet, and smiling at his audience.

Two more small voices joined in. “Do it, Daddy! Now!”

Seated in a lounge chair a bit farther back from Mellie and her twin brothers, Caitlin Barlow pretended not to care, her ear glued to a cell phone. At fourteen, she was old enough to see all this for what it was, and had recently grown tired of her father's juvenile efforts to endear himself to his children. Then, of course, there was the deep trouble in which she now found herself, and the way it had trapped her inside a vault constructed from defiance and shame.

“I'm gonna do it!” Ernest Barlow threatened one last time before leaping spread-eagle from the diving board. As he sailed through the air, the shrieks of his children filled his ears until he hit the water with a loud smack and sank beneath its surface.

Nine-year-old Matthew was impressed. “Aw, man, that's
gotta
hurt!”

The smaller of the twins, John, had suddenly taken to repeating every word Matthew spoke, and now agreed wholeheartedly. “That's
gotta
hurt!”

“Shut up!” Caitlin yelled from the lounge chair, shaking her head at the escalation of her father's immaturity, and her own annoyance at his attempt to balance the scale against years of absence.

Ignoring their sister, as was common practice, the three young ones gathered near the deep-end ladder, staring into nine feet of dark blue-gray water that, to their eyes, was as mysterious as the depths of the ocean. Mellie moved closer, leaning over to get a better view of the bottom. Her brothers followed, and Matthew grabbed the straps of his sister's suit to keep her from tumbling in. It was then, and only then, that their champion appeared, popping out with a loud roar from the edge where they were standing, scaring them into hysterical laughter.

They parted as their father climbed out, making room for him to pass through their ranks and find a towel. It was late fall and the air was crisp, sneaking in through the glass walls that enclosed the pool complex.

Barlow (as he liked to be called—partly because the alternative was Ernie, and mostly because he could get away with it) dried his face, then wrapped the towel around his broad shoulders.

“Well?”

Matthew and John offered their hands for high fives. “Awesome!” Matthew said.

His echo followed in short order. “Awesome!” John was smiling, his eyes wide.

“Check out this belly!” Barlow opened the towel to reveal streaks of red against golden flesh from forehead to knees. He tousled Mellie's hair. “Pretty gruesome, huh?”

Mellie nodded as she took it in, not sure what she thought of their glee at watching their father hurt himself, and his willingness to do it. Then there was the inevitable influence of Caitlin, whose response, though unwelcome, seemed inherently more appropriate.

After a moment, her father's need, which was innately felt by the four-year-old, rushed in, forcing a smile to gather around her plump cheeks and eventually overwhelming her. She fell into his arms and gave him a hug. “Good, Daddy.”

Barlow kissed her forehead, his eyes glancing first through the glass walls to the stone mansion in the distance, and then to his oldest daughter.

“Want to better that, Cait?” His tone was sarcastic, drawing a carefully perfected look of disgust that was as brief as it was cutting.

Caitlin Barlow rolled her eyes, then looked away as she dialed up the volume of her own voice on the phone call.

“I can't tonight,” she said into the phone. “I have to help babysit.” Again, the disgust resounded in the early evening air, a silent predator circling around Barlow and the younger three. She couldn't stop her father from employing his tactics, but she could infiltrate each maneuver, dispensing a subtle sense of doubt that would stand between Barlow and his children's love like an invisible bullshit shield. And given the suddenness of the change in his daughter's overall disposition, Barlow was at a loss as to how to dismantle it.

A soft monotone voice seeped from a small post built into the stone tile floor. It was Rosalyn Barlow, the mother, whose interruption of their fun had become a daily occurrence.

“It's seven o'clock. Time to come up.”

Letting go of little Mellie, Barlow seized the moment. “Darnit! And I was just about to try one on my back.”

Matthew's eyes were still on the post, as though his mother might somehow appear, catching up to her voice like thunder to a lightning bolt. “You have time! Do it, Daddy!” he said.

“Yeah, do it, Daddy!” John was at his side, tugging at his suit and looking at him with pleading eyes.

Barlow shook his head, feigning regret. “No, no. Mommy's the boss. Grab your towels, and let's go.”

His answer came as no surprise to any of them, least of all Mellie, who was already walking outside to the golf cart that would deliver them back to the house. Not one of them needed reminding that Mommy was the boss, and enforcing her rules to the disappointment of his children was as much a part of Barlow's self-amusement as was breaking them.

Barlow gathered kids, towels, goggles, and shoes, then loaded everyone into the golf cart.

“You coming?” he said to Caitlin.

She took a long second to excuse herself from the call, then placed her hand over the receiver. “I'll walk.”

“Suit yourself. The boss and I are leaving at eight. It's your behind if you're not ready.”

Caitlin waved him off. “Whatever.”

As he climbed beside the driver, Barlow sized up the battle. There'd been points on both sides, but overall, he felt victorious. The young ones were happy, and he would now leave this new war with the girl who'd become a “teenstranger” to the more capable adversary waiting inside the house.

“Move over, Roger, and watch how it's done,” he said, smiling now. In a few minutes there would be dinner, baths, homework for the boys, then bed. He listened to his children giggling behind him, and he knew. The fun was over, but at the end of this day, the fun was all they would remember.

 

From the window in her dressing suite, Rosalyn Barlow watched the cart bump up and down across the sprawling lawn as it made the long journey from the pool. Having pushed aside the driver, Barlow was at the wheel and moving fast to impress the kids as they shivered through their wet towels. With nothing on himself but a suit and towel, his dark overgrown hair blowing wildly against his tanned, unshaven face, he looked like a child himself. And at forty-five years of age, looking like a child meant looking like an idiot. Still, it suited him, Rosalyn supposed as she moved to her vanity table to finish her makeup.
My brilliant billionaire idiot husband
. She leaned forward to study her eyes, holding them perfectly still to apply a light brown liner. They were, she liked to believe, the eyes of her mother—almond shaped, pale green. Calm. Steady. Even with Barlow's hooting and hollering coming within earshot and the image it provoked of him swerving about, tearing up the grass and endangering the lives of her children, she could hold their expression. Their
absence
of expression.

She finished the liner, replaced the plastic top to the pencil, and gave the mascara a slight shake. He was a complete child now, wasn't he? It was more an acknowledgment than a judgment, and was perfectly justified. The onetime workaholic entrepreneur was now a very wealthy, but retired, little boy. Every purposeless day brought with it further regression toward infantile behavior. Then there was the alcohol. Cocktails at five. Cocktails at six. Cocktails all night until he passed out in a pool of sweat and drool on her fine upholstery.

She brushed on the mascara, then dabbed her lashes with a tissue to remove the small pearls of liquid that had failed to spread evenly. Leaning back, she placed the cap on the mascara and twisted it between her long manicured fingers.

Late nights playing poker. Driving around in that ridiculous Creamsicle-orange Corvette. Golf and tennis all summer. Paddle tennis and skiing all winter. The hockey league.
Hockey
, of all the blessed things. A long sigh sneaked out of her body before she could catch it, and she felt herself shudder, as though she could shake off the source of its inception. She leaned into the mirror again and checked the stillness in her eyes.
Good
, she thought.
We're just fine.
She studied her skin tone, pale ivory, before selecting the lipstick.

Caitlin hadn't been in the cart. Of course not. Her oldest daughter had remained behind in an effort to avoid her father. She would stay there, Rosalyn imagined, just long enough to cause them to worry about being late to the benefit. Yes, she would appear just in the nick of time for babysitting duty, which was, in fact, little more than a contrived punishment. Their two nannies could easily handle the children. Still, there had to be some consequences after what had transpired.

A soft red, just a few shades beyond her natural lip color. It would go with the neutral silk blouse and beige suit. It had been two days. Everyone would know, and even if they didn't, Rosalyn had to make that assumption, and the decisions that followed. They would not decline the benefit. Regardless of the humiliation—which was appropriate and which she would have to display (within reason, of course)—they would attend and hold their heads high. And, of course, support Mellie's school. The Barlows were dignified survivors of this little tragedy. That was what they would leave behind when they politely excused themselves before the dancing began. Dressed conservatively in her neutrals, discreet makeup, pinned-back blond hair, and nothing to adorn her lovely hands but a simple gold wedding band, Rosalyn Barlow would let them all have their moment of glee. If she didn't do it now, her first real outing since the tragedy, they would hunger for it like savages. No—she had to throw them a bone. Then she could get on with the work of rising above it all.

She heard the cart pulling around the side of the house. She listened as the team of young Polish nannies bounded down the steps from the servants'
quarters to meet the children. Then the outside door closing, and those heavy accents. “Give to me towel. . . . Upstairs wid you, Miss Mellie. . . . Out of wets suits.”