Social Lives (28 page)

“I'm just thinking, that's all.”

“Thinking? What are you thinking?”

Sara turned to face him, looking him dead in the eye. “Do you really want to know? I mean
really
?”

Barlow was curious, and his smile was infused with enthusiasm. This was their third encounter, and he once again had the feeling that beneath her awkward attempts to fit in among them, there was something interesting waiting to be found.

“I asked, didn't I?”

Sara shrugged and took a sip of the wine. “Okay. I'll tell you. I'm thinking about little calves chained to wood troughs in stalls so small they can't move. And I'm thinking that I'm a complete hypocrite because if this were a cheeseburger, I'd be all over it.”

Barlow's smile widened. “I see. So it's better to let them run free and grow up, then pound a battering ram between their eyes?”

Sara pretended to be indignant. “Jeez—I already admitted to being a hypocrite.”

“But you still aren't touching the veal.”

She shrugged again.

“Maybe your objection is to what that piece of meat is saying to you.”

“Saying to me? You think the meat is sending me a secret message?” Sara was smiling now, fully, as she pulled off a piece of her dinner roll.

“Yes. Shhh . . .” Barlow tilted his head and leaned his ear over Sara's plate. “I hear it!”

“Stop!” Sara was laughing, suddenly self-conscious as she felt her mood lifting.

“It spoke to me, I swear it,” Barlow said, sitting straight again. He took a long sip of his wine, then cut off a large chunk of his own veal and put it in his mouth.

“Apparently, it didn't ask you not to eat its friend.”

Barlow kept chewing, but nodded to acknowledge the worthy retort. Then he washed down the veal with more wine and pretended to ponder the situation of the meat on Sara's plate. “Here's what I think,” he began.

“Okay . . .” Sara watched him carefully, waiting for the next amusement from Ernest Barlow. That he was a billionaire seemed incomprehensible to her, as did his interest in this conversation. Still, it felt genuine.

“Veal is the meat of the wealthy. Hamburger is not. Therein lies your
objection to our chef's finest work—not the plight of milk-fed, imprisoned calves.”

Sara could feel her mind engaged, even through the alcohol. Even among this crowd, which had so intimidated her before. “Really? You think? 'Cause calves are pretty cute, and their plight is certainly worthy of concern beyond the socioeconomics of meat consumption.”

Barlow nodded and leaned back in his chair. “Mrs. Livingston, I think you just might be a socialist.”

This made her laugh. She wasn't a socialist, but her views were downright radical in a town that was this concerned with money. “Maybe by Wilshire standards. Anywhere else, I'm a moderate Democrat.”

“Good God, woman! Don't use the D-word around here.”

“I know. It's a sacrilege.” Sara took a drink of water, now oblivious of the rest of the table that was buzzing away with chatter about ski resorts. “Why is that? I've only been here a few months, but why is it that all these Northeastern, liberally educated people are such staunch Republicans?”

Allowing a servant to remove his plate, Barlow turned his chair slightly to face her, crossed his legs, and perched his elbow on the table, where the veal had been. “Oh, come on. You seem like a smart girl. You must know.”

“Taxes. I know. But really? Isn't there enough money?”

Barlow's laughter now filled the room. “All right, let's have it. What's so funny?” Eva asked from across the table, masking the worry that had been growing all night.

Sara looked at Barlow pleadingly. But he was having too much fun to let her off the hook. “We are discussing the quandary of Wilshire politics, and in particular, why we vote Republican despite our liberal social views.”

Eva managed to smile at them, but this wasn't good. Barlow loved to talk politics, especially with idealistic people like Sara Livingston, who were still untainted by the corrupting influences of their privileged lives.

“Taxes,” Marcus Ridley said matter-of-factly from his seat next to Rosalyn.

Barlow was quick with an answer. “We know that, Marcus. But why don't we ever admit that we have enough and it's time to give back? That is the question on the table.”

Sara felt her cheeks flush. “Not exactly—I mean that's not exactly the question.”

Barlow reached out and touched the back of her hand with his. “It's okay. It's a good question.”

Rosalyn managed a smile, though she was irritated by the complete lack of discretion her husband and his lover were displaying. She had brought Sara here for one reason: to keep her enemy closer. Now she was finding it hard to swallow.

“It's not difficult to understand, Sara.” Rosalyn's voice was laced with condescension. “Money buys us out of reliance on the government. Paying taxes is the only way the government touches us.”

“Christ, Rosalyn Barlow,” Eva replied scornfully. “You make us sound like anarchists!”

“Anarchy! I like it!” Barlow said, fully enjoying himself.

Marcus Ridley moved in with smooth, nonchalant charm. “Maybe we should secede. The Republic of Wilshire. Jacks, what do you think?”

Seated beside Marcus, Jacks tried to care about the unfolding complexities the conversation had taken on. What was actually concerning her at the moment was the ease with which she had displaced Rosalyn's suspicions on this unsuspecting young woman, and the guilt that would not be quelled by the abundance of wine.

She smiled coyly because it seemed appropriate. “What is it they say? Never discuss politics, religion, or pets at a social gathering.”

Marcus was shaking his head. “I think it's children. Never discuss politics, religion, or
children
.”

“What the hell's the difference?” Eva's remark brought uniform laughter to the table, though little of it was real. Still, it gave Rosalyn the chance she needed to change the subject.

“So enough about all of those things. Let's move on to something totally selfish and indulgent.”

“I'll drink to that.” David Halstead had been politely quiet for most of the evening, latching on to small chances like this one to say something benign.

Rosalyn allowed her expression to soften. She looked first to Sara, then focused on Nick—ignoring her husband as his face morphed back to a state of misery. She was going to do this, sponsor the Livingstons at the club, and
there wasn't a damned thing he could do to stop her. She needed to offer the membership committee an alternative to the Conrads, and the Livingstons were the obvious choice. Their lives would become instantly enmeshed with hers, and Barlow's, making the affair a living hell for all of them.

“Let's talk about frivolous, ostentatious, and offensively exclusive country clubs.”

 

 

 

 

 

“M
ERRY
C
HRISTMAS
.” B
ARLOW'S VOICE
was sullen, his mood sulky in a childish way as Jacks rushed about the room, gathering her clothing.

“It's still two weeks away,” she said, though they both knew they would not see each other until after the holidays. Still, she could not pretend to join him in his displeasure. For her it was a relief, and there had been enough pretending for one afternoon.

“Come over here.” He was reaching out for her with a bare arm, the rest of him snuggled beneath the plush bed coverings.

Jacks looked over with a playful smile, though it was close to painful. She could feel Barlow's need for her, his unrelenting desire to love and be loved, which she could not provide. He felt it.
He must.
And yet he kept trying to squeeze it out of the twisted, corrupt thing that their affair had become.

When she was in his arms again, he pecked her lips with a passionless kiss. “I'll miss you. Will you be all right?”

“I'll be fine. And I'll miss you. But the time will fly by. You'll see. It always does.” She felt him against her with a strange intensity—the coarse hair of his legs, the sticky sweat that was still on his chest. She was suddenly aware of every inch of him, and it was unbearable. “I really need to go,” she said, smiling again as she pulled away.

He didn't stop her. “I guess I should get going, too.” Pulling back the covers, he sighed loudly. Then he swung his legs around the side of the bed and plopped his feet on the floor. Another sigh.

Jacks finished buttoning her blouse, which had been strewn across a chair. Then she walked to the bed and stood before him. “You'll be all right. I promise.”

He nodded and looked up at her, and it was then that she saw it. Whatever she had made him feel that night in the wine cellar was fading, and it was fading fast. It was inevitable that the truth would appear, she knew. Deception carried a strong odor that even the best practitioners could not mask indefinitely. And she was hardly the best, perhaps not good at all. Maybe there was some comfort in that—in knowing that she still had a soul. But David was in trouble, serious trouble, and the man standing before her in this hotel room was the only way out she could see.

A sick feeling rushed through her. She leaned down and kissed Barlow hard on the mouth. “Will I see you first thing—after Florida?”

Surprised, Barlow smiled at her and stroked the side of her face. “Sure. First thing.”

She met his eyes and held them, hoping he would see beyond the disgust she held for both of them. “Okay.”

She pulled away, grabbing her coat and purse, then headed for the door. She did not look back again, but instead rushed to her car. Tears streamed down her face as she drove. It was nearly three. The girls would all be home—two on the bus, Beth with the nanny who'd taken her to a friend's house to play. How carefully she had orchestrated this day, thinking through their schedules and plans. And now it was done and she was returning to them, her sweet girls, her house, her life. The insurgent resurfacing from the bottom of a rancid cesspool. How could she see those beautiful faces, the bright blue eyes, the shining hair and chubby cheeks, and not feel totally and completely vile in their presence?

She pulled into the driveway, then stopped abruptly when she saw his car. Parked in the garage with the door left open was David's black BMW. Thoughts flew in and out.
He knows, he's waiting inside to confront me
. She wiped the tears from her face, but her face was still flushed. There was nothing she could do. She'd gone through the gate. It was too late to turn back.

She constructed her response. Surprise would be appropriate. Worry, perhaps, as well, given the phone calls that had started coming again. Once, twice, sometimes three times a night, and each time David had either taken them behind the closed doors of his study or ignored them, stepping outside for a cigar and a glass of whiskey. She had not asked questions, and he had not offered explanations. She had, instead, become acutely aware of her surroundings. Doors were locked when they were home. She followed the school bus in the mornings and turned down playdates for her girls. When they were not at school, they were under her supervision, or that of their trusted nanny. When they were gone, so was Jacks, using the season as an excuse not to ever be home alone.

And now here they were, in the middle of the afternoon, David home from his work and Jacks home from hers.

She walked in the house through the garage, set her purse and coat down in the mudroom. “David?” she called into the kitchen, but there was no answer.

She saw his briefcase open on the counter, its contents strewn about as though he'd been in a hurry. Whatever worry she had that this was somehow about her and Barlow was erased in that instant, and she knew in her gut that this was far worse.

“David!” she called as she bounded up the stairs.

The door to their bedroom was open.

“David!”

The room was empty. The sound of running water seeped beneath the closed bathroom door. Jacks moved cautiously toward it. “David?” she said again, softer this time.

She knocked but there was no answer.

“Honey?” she whispered as she turned the knob and pushed the door open. “Oh, God!”

He was there, though it took a moment for Jacks to see him. He was more like a small child in a man's body, curled up in the bath, hugging his legs, and rocking back and forth. A faucet was running at the sink.

Stepping cautiously, Jacks walked to the sink and wet a cloth under the running water. Then she turned off the open faucet, all the while talking slowly. “It's okay now. You're going to be okay.” Returning to his side, she
pressed the cold cloth to his forehead and watched him respond, pulling back from the state of shock. His eyes broke their stare and turned to meet hers, briefly and with confusion. “Shhh,” she whispered.