“No,” Belinda said, though her froggy voice probably gave him a clear picture of her still sprawled across her king-size bed in her suite at the Beverly Wilshire, and possibly also suggested that she’d been out drinking and smoking with Naomi Watts the night before. “Is something the matter, sweetheart?”
“I just had a chat with Joan,” Bob said. Joan was Mrs. Greene, their housekeeper and nanny, a woman cut from strict schoolmarm cloth. She looked a little like Betty Crocker, but with slender, steel-framed spectacles. Belinda knew that Mrs. Greene’s first name was Joan, but, unlike Bob, she had never been invited to call Mrs. Greene by her first name.
“Did you?” Belinda said. She felt as if the bed were tilting. Mrs. Greene was Belinda’s harshest critic. She constantly judged Belinda’s parenting and constantly found it lacking.
“I did,” Bob said. “She informed me you’re going to Nantucket this weekend? I told her she must be mistaken, but she insisted.”
“She’s correct,” Belinda said. “It’s the memorial I told you about? The family is going to spread Deacon’s ashes. I told you this, Bob.”
“I thought you were in L.A., working,” Bob said.
“That’s where I am now,” Belinda said. “I leave for the East Coast tonight.”
Silence from Bob, then an exhale. She imagined him accepting this news, cigar clenched between his teeth. In the background, Belinda heard the horses on the track. She pictured Bob checking out Stella’s ass, raised pertly over Skyrocket’s back. Seven years earlier, Belinda had demanded that Bob fire Carrie, at which point he had hired Jules. When Belinda ordered Bob to fire Jules, he hired Stella, who was by far the most alluring of the three, with her South African accent, those big, green eyes, and that ass.
“What about the girls?” Bob said. “Today is the last day of school.”
Belinda was, frankly, astonished that Bob knew this. The girls, Mary and Laura, and the details of their schedules, were Belinda’s domain.
“They’ll have to stay put,” Belinda said. “I mean, I can’t bring them.”
“Why not?” Bob said. “They’re not ‘family’?”
Belinda couldn’t believe he was picking a fight with her. Deacon was dead.
“Not that family,” Belinda said archly. She had played a number of coldhearted bitches in her day, starting with Lady Macbeth in tenth grade and then again twenty years later, on the big screen. And she had been nominated for the remake of Cleopatra.
“Who’s going to be there?” Bob asked. If Belinda wasn’t mistaken, Bob sounded jealous. Was that possible?
“Well, Angie, I guess, and Hayes and Laurel,” Belinda said.
“Laurel hates you.”
“I realize this, Bob.” Frankly, Belinda had been shocked when Buck invited her to the memorial weekend. Her first question had been, Will Laurel be there? Yes, Buck had said. Her second question had been, Does Laurel know I’m coming? Yes, Buck said. And she’s okay with that? Belinda asked. To which Buck responded, Laurel is an adult, Belinda. That wasn’t really an answer to Belinda’s question, although Belinda had accepted it as such at the time. Maybe Laurel’s feelings for Belinda—anger, resentment, dark, stinking hatred—had vanished when Deacon died.
What did the past matter now?
Belinda thought back to the first time she had ever met Laurel. Belinda had gone with Deacon to return Hayes, who had been seven years old, to Laurel’s apartment on West 119th Street. It was late autumn and growing dark at four thirty on a Sunday afternoon; Deacon and Belinda were flying to Los Angeles the next day. Deacon seemed to be having mixed feelings about leaving—happy to be starting a new life with Belinda, inconsolable about leaving his son. He didn’t think it was a good idea for Belinda to come up to the apartment, but Belinda insisted. She said, If I’m going to be in your life, I have to meet her. She had also been banking on her fame to save her. Laurel would naturally hate her, but Belinda thought she might also be a little star struck. Most people were.
Laurel had opened the door to the apartment, and Hayes rushed into his mother’s arms. Laurel had eyed Belinda over Hayes’s shoulder. “Don’t come in here,” she said.
“I’m Belinda,” Belinda had said. “Belinda Rowe.” She had offered her hand.
“You’re a thief,” Laurel had said, staring at Belinda’s hand as if it were a slimy newt. “A shameless thief.” Laurel had then looked at Deacon. “Don’t you come in, either. You two go. Please, just go.”
“Laurel…,” Deacon had said. His voice, Belinda remembered, had been full of tears and contrition and something else. It had been full of love, Belinda realized now. But at the time, thankfully, she hadn’t recognized this. She had taken Deacon’s arm and led him to the elevator. When they were safely down on the street, Belinda had said, “She’s just angry. She’ll get over it.”
Belinda didn’t see Laurel again until Hayes’s high school graduation. Laurel had refused to speak to Belinda; she wouldn’t even say hello. It had been an afternoon filled with toxic looks, and Belinda had been intimidated—not because she feared Laurel, but because she knew Laurel had every right to hate her. Belinda had skipped the party at Laurel’s apartment afterward; she had gone around the corner to get her nails done while Deacon made an appearance.
Things were marginally better when Hayes graduated from Vanderbilt. There was at least an icy hello, and Laurel had agreed to sit at dinner at Margot Café with Belinda, albeit at a long table crowded with Hayes’s college pals and Deacon and Angie. Laurel had sat at one end and Belinda at the other end, facing the same direction, so no conversation was required. But after dinner, as everyone was getting ready to leave, Belinda had bumped into Laurel in the ladies’ room, and they had locked eyes in the mirror. Belinda had consumed enough wine that her fear had mellowed. She was ready to clear the air, finally! Laurel had held Belinda’s gaze for a long moment before giving a tiny smile, which seemed to be an acknowledgment that she was ready to forgive. But no words came forth. Laurel washed her hands, snapped a paper towel out of the dispenser, and left.
“I don’t understand why you would willingly enter a combat zone,” Bob said. “I thought you were all about peace, love, and yoga.”
“I am,” Belinda said. “But there are extenuating circumstances. Deacon is dead, Bob.”
“Have you talked to Angie?” Bob asked.
“Not since she’s gone back to work,” Belinda said. Belinda had called Angie every day for the past six weeks, but Angie often banished Belinda to voice mail, like a queen sending an infidel to the dungeon—which, when Belinda thought about it, meant things were returning to normal. Belinda’s relationship with Angie had been strained ever since Belinda married Bob and discovered she was able to have children after all. Clearly I’m not enough, Angie had said. Clearly you wanted your own children, white children. Belinda had pointed out that Deacon had had another child as well, but that fell on deaf ears. Angie loved her father blindly.
“Just be careful,” Bob said. “They’re probably going to ask you for something. Money, or a favor. Or both.”
“Why do you have to be such a cynic?” Belinda said. “Isn’t it possible someone would want me around just for the joy of my company? Not everyone wants something from me, Bob.”
“If you feel you have to go—and obviously you do—then I advise you to say your good-byes and cut ties with those people and with that place once and for all. I mean, come on, Belinda—you don’t even swim.”
“I’ll find other things to do,” Belinda said. “Like I did in the past.”
“Ah, the past,” Bob said. “That’s what this weekend is really about, isn’t it? Reliving the past. Going back to the house you shared with Deacon.”
Definitely jealous, Belinda thought. She couldn’t believe it. She felt a surge of something like triumph. In the ten years of their marriage, it was always Belinda who had been the jealous one—ever since she had first caught Bob in the tack room with Carrie. It was refreshing to see the tables turned.