On Turpentine Lane(35)

Stuart seemed to be enjoying that voice-mail introduction and profile. He asked if he could give Brooke my name, too, as a personal reference. I said, “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Is Brooke someone who holds grudges?” Stuart asked. “Like, is she judgmental?”

“Not at all,” Nick said. “She’s a peach.”

Stuart said, “If it’s meant to be, it’ll happen. If it doesn’t, no sweat. I’ll explore other options.”

“Such as?”—I couldn’t help asking.

“My father and Linda have an extra bedroom. And I’ve been in touch with my ex since I’ve been back.”

“I thought Faith was your ex,” said Nick.

“I meant my ex-wife.”

“In fact, she’s a double ex. They were married and divorced twice,” I told Nick.

“Quite the good no-grudge holder,” Nick said.

Happily complimented, Stuart headed toward the front door, but not before bestowing hugs on both of us.

As soon as I heard his surely borrowed, rainbow-bumper-stickered Volvo leaving the driveway, I said, “You know he’s going to go all feng shui on the place, and then there’s the meat in the refrigerator and the leather in the closets. He’s not mister live-and-let-live.”

“Is that so? Poor Brooke. I’ll be sure to cry me a river over that.”

We’d moved to the kitchen table, coffee poured, toast in the toaster, newspaper divided. I started a few articles, not sticking with any, before I said, “You never told me you were still sharing Brooke’s rent.”

“Two months is all I promised. Three max. I figured she’d get a real job, or move, or ask her parents to pitch in.”

I walked to the refrigerator for a milk-and-juice survey, this being Saturday and shopping day. “Should we stick with two percent?” I asked.

“Fine.”

Still staring into the refrigerator, I confessed, “Stuart’s something of a nudist.”

“He would be.”

“When she meets him, won’t it be clear that you were playing a joke on her?”

Nick didn’t answer. Instead, he grumbled about the dearth of the Echo’s reporting on Everton Country Day’s football team’s six-and-two season. Finally, he looked up and asked, “You never met Brooke, did you?”

“True.”

“Here’s what’ll happen, vengeful joke or not. She’ll answer Stuart’s charming bullshit introductory e-mail. They’ll write back and forth, and before finding out he doesn’t have a pot to piss in and doesn’t bathe, she’ll decide to give it a shot.”

I said, “Okay, fine. Let them live happily ever after for all I care.” I sat down again, looked up from my shopping list to ask, “Any requests outside the usual?”

We didn’t grocery shop together, since two people pushing a cart on a Saturday morning looked like a couple. He put out his hand, palm up. For a bold half second I thought of squeezing it, but instead I just passed him paper and pen.





24





Oh No, Oh No, Oh No


Must THERE BE A time in a modern parent’s life when he decides that his adult children are mature enough to help unburden his tortured soul over lunch?

This is what Henry Frankel told Joel and me as the three of us tried to eat stylish luncheon fare at the café in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts: that he couldn’t go on living a lie. Against all odds and defying logic, he’d met someone and they were—so sorry!—deeply in love.

Nearly in one voice, my brother and I demanded who, when, and why now.

“Her name is Tracy,” he pronounced most reverently.

“Tracy! How old can someone named Tracy be?” I asked.

“Is that really important? And is that really what needs to be discussed?”

“How old?” I repeated.

“Almost forty,” he said.

“Wait,” said Joel. “You’re telling us you’re having an affair with a woman who’s Faith’s age?”

“Not Faith’s age.” He turned, and asked, “You can’t be close to forty, can you?”

“No. But for purposes of this conversation, yes!”

“What about Mom?” Joel asked.

“Your mother’s figured it out,” he said quietly.

“When?”

“Over the course of the last few weeks. In terms of telling you two, our timing was deliberate. We didn’t want to add to any of Faith’s woes, but now all seems relatively peaceful.”

“Until, like, sixty seconds ago!” said Joel. He gave his plate a shove, the plate holding the triple-decker sandwich with the bacon smoked over alder wood that he’d been so delighted to find on the menu.

“I didn’t want to tell you over the phone.” Dad sighed heavily. “And now I’m thinking this”—public space, eager ears—“wasn’t such a good idea, either.”

“Who is she?” I asked.

He started with “She’s a housewife,” followed by a correction that technically she was not a housewife because she was divorced, but that would have applied when she was married, with two daughters and a big house to care for. However, she was a law school graduate and member of the Massachusetts bar.