The Good House: A Novel (30 page)

“I’ve always wanted to leave this town, Hildy. I live in my father’s house. I went to my father’s prep school. I went to the same fucking medical school as my old man. I think that was part of what I found so attractive about Rebecca, her … otherness. She lived in Africa; she speaks five languages. Did you know that? She’s so worldly, so energetic. I really thought that maybe we could be together. I don’t know what I was thinking. She was my patient. I’d never be able to practice again.”

“Peter, I’m sorry about your situation. Really. But I still don’t see why you wouldn’t list your house with me. That’s all I care about in this situation. I just really could use the listing. And, well, I think your father would have wanted you to list it with me, rather than with Sotheby’s, for Christ’s sake. Have you signed a contract with Wendy yet?”

“No. I think she was sending some papers over to the house. They’re probably there now. I was planning to go over them and sign them tonight.”

“Listen to me now, Peter. I’m Rebecca’s friend. I think I can help you. Don’t sign Wendy’s papers.”

“Hildy.” Peter’s voice was so strained. “I’m in a pretty desperate place right now. I was foolish to let things with Rebecca get so out of hand. I’ve never intentionally hurt anybody in my life. Rebecca and I are both adults. People have affairs all the time. Why is mine a crime?”

“I don’t know, I guess shrinks are not considered to be mortal creatures. Apparently, you have magic powers. I have no idea. I don’t make the laws, and I don’t judge what happened between you and Rebecca. But I can help you, I think. I can help you sort things out. I just really need you to list with me.”

“No, Hildy, I’m terribly sorry. Elise and I already promised it to Wendy. She’s already taken photos for the brochure.”

My pity evaporated.
An emotional vampire,
he had called me.

“Wendy Heatherton is a fool. She should have waited until you signed the contract before she started designing a brochure. I can help you, Peter, but you have to list the house with me.”

“You’re a real piece of work, Hildy Good,” Peter said. “I’ve never been able to speak truthfully to any person in this office, since I’ve only ever had patients in here, but now I can say what I really think. You’re a real nasty piece of work, trying to blackmail me this way. Now, when I’m at the end of my fucking rope.”

“Peter. I’m just doing business. Small-town business with an old friend. This is getting all twisted up. I have a relationship with Rebecca. I have a relationship with you. You have a relationship with Rebecca. So what? This is about business, Peter. My livelihood. I don’t care about your affair and I’m not going to tell anybody. I don’t know how you think I could. But I must say, I think you handled this wrong. You’re not much of a judge of character. I wonder what you were doing all those years in psychiatry school.”

“What do you mean?”

“Frankie Getchell is a high school dropout, but he told me he knew Rebecca was crazy the minute he met her. You believed she wouldn’t tell anyone about your affair, yet I’ve known for months. Peter, don’t you know women at all? I would have thought you’d have learned something about the female brain during those summers hanging around Allie and Mamie and Lindsey and me. Didn’t we teach you anything about women?”

Peter let out a deep breath and his face relaxed. “I think about Allie Dyer sometimes. I always recall the way her hair smelled like apricots. And a yellow bikini she liked to wear. But, truthfully, if I saw her on the street today, I probably wouldn’t even know her. I wouldn’t be able to pick her out of a crowd.”

“No, that’s true, you wouldn’t. She died of breast cancer five years ago.”

“Oh,” Peter said. Then, looking out his window, he mused, “The way her hair always smelled. I guess it was her shampoo. Sometimes I’ll smell it on a person.… It always brings me back.”

I thought about how little Peter had wanted to buy ten dollars’ worth of Allie’s time. Ten dollars’ worth of her attention and affection and what he perceived as love. Now people paid him for much of the same. All except Rebecca. With her, he had tried to bury the business end of the thing and make it all about love. And now that it was blowing up in his face, he was thinking about dead old Allie Dyer’s shampoo.

“Peter, listen, I’m giving you my word: I haven’t told anybody about Rebecca and you, and I won’t. But I want you to list with me. We’ll do a quiet listing. I won’t put it on the MLS and I won’t advertise. I’ll just put the word out with the other brokers. All you have to do is call Wendy and tell her you’ve changed your mind. That you’re listing with me. I can help you,” I said.

“Do you know your daughters wanted me to help them with your intervention? They called me and asked me to help.”

I felt my cheeks burn.

“And?” I said. “SO?”

“I told them I don’t believe in interventions. I don’t think they work. You can’t make a person stop wanting to drink. I told them that, but they didn’t listen. You can’t remove a person’s denial for them. Denial is like a blanket surrounding a person who’s, well, almost naked underneath. You can’t just pull it off of them. You can’t just expose them to the cold and all that shame. A person can only remove it for herself when she’s ready. And I guess I was right, they should have listened to me.”

“What do you mean? I haven’t had a drink in months.”

“I know, Rebecca told me. I’m glad you finally sorted it out for yourself. I’m glad for you, Hildy, I really am. And now … it also…”

“What?”

“Well, it gives me more confidence. In listing with you. In trusting you.”

The rage inspired by his insinuations about my character, about my alleged alcoholism was not in the least bit soothed by his sudden announcement that he would list with me. But I didn’t let him see.
He’s a shrink,
I thought
. He knows the right buttons to push.
I wouldn’t grant him the satisfaction of letting him think he had gotten to me. What a scam, psychiatry. This was a low blow, but I took it with grace. A real alcoholic would have become flustered and angry.

I smiled. “So you’ll list with me?”

“Yes.”

He signed the contracts before I left his office.

The next morning, Wendy called me in a rage, threatening to sue. She carried on about something to do with “egregious interference with a contract.”

“What contract?” I asked.

She hung up on me.

eighteen

I met with Vince and Nick Santorelli the following Friday. We were at the Barnacle, a restaurant next to the landing at Wendover Harbor. It was a busy night, the start of Memorial Day weekend. I presented my proposal. I had all my plans about the aerial photos and the
New York Times Magazine
ads. And I had the Newbold property in my portfolio—one of the nicest properties in Essex County, asking 5.5 million. A record for Wendover. I told them to take their time and consider my proposal. Vince said that they didn’t need to take any time. They wanted me to have the listing.

“Let’s drink on it,” said Vince. “What’ll you have, Hildy?”

“I’ll have a vodka,” I said. I didn’t give it a thought, really. It had been five months since my last drink, but I didn’t hesitate for a moment when Vince asked what I’d like.

“Vodka? Vodka and what?” asked Nick.

“More vodka,” I said, and the brothers laughed and ordered three Stolis on the rocks. We clinked our glasses and toasted Grey’s Point.

I only had a few drinks with the brothers and then I headed for home. I was flying high. I really was having a hard time coping with all my fabulousness. I stood to make a fortune this year. A FORTUNE. I drove toward the Crossing, but instead of turning home, I headed up Wendover Rise. I drove past Rebecca’s dark house and on up to Frankie’s. His light was on and smoke was coming out of his chimney. I thought about knocking on his door, but instead, I called him from my cell phone.

“Yup?”

“Hey, Frank.”

“Hey, Hildy.”

“What’re you up to?”

Silence. Then: “Not much. Where ya at, Hildy?”

“I’m outside your house, in my car. I wanted to see if you felt like coming over.”

“Ya been drinkin’, Hil?”

“What? Why?”

“I just thought you told me you quit is all.”

“Well, I just got the Santorelli brothers to list their property with me. WE’RE LISTING IT AT TEN MILLION DOLLARS.” I was laughing and bellowing the news at the same time.

Frank laughed. “Come in if you want. I’m not sure if I feel like goin’ out.”

I thought this over. I had never been inside Frankie’s house. I’d seen enough of the outside to make me satisfied with never setting foot inside. There was nothing in this world that Frankie didn’t think was worth salvaging, and I imagined his house piled to the rafters with his recovered “treasures.”

“Whatta ya have to drink?” I asked.

A pause, then: “Beer’s all.”

“Come on over to my house, Frankie. I have some wine in my cellar.”

“Nah, I’m tired, Hildy. Go home. Go to bed. Don’t go openin’ any of that wine, now. Just go to bed.”

“What’re you trying to say? You think I shouldn’t drink? Because of what my daughters think? I’m the most successful Realtor … the most successful businesswoman in this whole town. In this whole fucking county. Who are you to tell me what to do? I’m not a child. I’ll do whatever I want. I’m going home to celebrate, you son of a bitch.”

“G’night, Hildy,” Frank said. “Drive careful.”

“Fuck you.”

I did go home and open that bottle of wine. Frankie Getchell, the fix-it man, the
garbageman,
thought he knew best about what I should do? It was laughable. It made me laugh. I stormed down the cellar stairs, grabbed a bottle, and marched back up to the kitchen with it hanging from my clenched fist like a club. I would drink the wine in my den, not the cellar. I would drink as much of the wine as I pleased. Frank Getchell and that fucker Peter Newbold thought they knew me better than I knew myself? The way Peter had praised me for stopping drinking, like I was a child. What a laugh. He knew whether I was an alcoholic or not? I’d never been drunk in his company, ever. Some doctor. Well, I was not a child. I was a very successful businesswoman. I would celebrate with a little wine. I wouldn’t drink the whole bottle, no. I just wanted a glass or two. Just to celebrate. In the den, not the cellar. In the den, like any civilized person, with my dogs beside me, and a nice CD playing.

I poured the wine into one of my favorite wineglasses and took a sip. I was amazingly sober, considering I had already had three drinks with the Santorellis, but the wine tasted off. I guess it was the fact that I had started off with the vodka. It just didn’t taste as delicious as I had remembered it. I turned up the music and sat on the sofa. Babs and Molly snuggled up beside me. I sipped my wine and tried to summon up the joy that should have been mine—that
had
been mine only a short while ago. Who was Frankie Getchell to tell me what to do? If only my dad could have lived to see the day when I would stand to make hundreds of thousands of dollars in one day alone.

I considered calling my sister, Lisa. It was much earlier in Los Angeles; still early enough to call. But I had vowed never to drink and dial, even if I didn’t feel particularly drunk. It caused jackpots, and who needed those? Not me.

I finished my glass of wine. Was it possible that I had grown immune to the effects of alcohol? I just wasn’t getting buzzed off the stuff. I must have been so wound up about the deal that I couldn’t get drunk. I poured myself another glass, then I sat back against the sofa, and just as I was taking a sip, Molly pawed my arm, as she often does when she wants to be petted. Wine spilled all over the front of my new blouse.

“Get OFF,” I hollered, and swiped at both the dogs until they jumped from the couch.
Fucking
dogs
,
I thought. Molly was
so
annoying, so needy, with her constant pawing. And Babs was going to get me sued someday, the bitch, if she didn’t stop snapping at people. I finished the wine in my glass and glowered at Molly, who was now squirming and grinning horribly.

There was just a little left in the bottle. It would be a shame not to finish it. I wasn’t even tipsy.

“MOVE,” I hollered at the dogs. I couldn’t stand the way they were staring at me and the way Molly still grimaced so. “GET,” I shouted, and I watched with some satisfaction as they slunk off to the kitchen.

There was still a little wine left in the bottle. It seemed a waste not to finish it off. I wasn’t even tipsy.

*   *   *

Frankie was there when I woke the next morning. I had fallen asleep in my den, slouched over on one of the leather club chairs, half-undressed. When Frankie shook me awake, I was wearing only my bra and skirt.

“This … isn’t … the way it looks,” I said after I’d had a few moments to take myself in, but he was already in the kitchen, rattling around with the coffeemaker.

In the bathroom, I saw yesterday’s makeup smeared all over my face. I took a shower, put on some clean clothes, and when I went back downstairs, Frank had a pot of hot coffee waiting.

We drank our coffee in silence. Then I told him I was sorry about yelling at him the night before. He didn’t say anything. I was a little shaky, even with the coffee in me. I hadn’t really felt the alcohol the previous night, but I felt it now. Soon, I knew, I would be sick with remorse and shame. I walked over to where Frankie sat. I knelt down next to him and placed my head in his lap, wrapping my arms around his legs. I felt Frankie’s hands in my hair—he was stroking it gently, which made me smile and sniffle a little—and then, without warning, he grabbed a chunk of my hair in his hands and pulled my head back so that I was looking up at him.

“What the FUCK is wrong with you?” he demanded. He was actually growling when he said it. Growling through his teeth like an animal. His eyes were swollen, as if he had been crying, and I saw now that his face was filthy.

“What?” I whispered.

“Do you have any idea what you did last night?”

“Well, yes…”