On Turpentine Lane(48)

I said, “I have a ton of work, so if you’ll excuse me . . .”

“Okay, sure. Just sayin’.”

“Just sayin’ what?”

He smiled. “You could do okay out there.”

“Bye,” I said. “And close the door behind you for once.” I waited for the sound of Reggie’s footsteps to fade. “From now on, we work with the door closed. No more eavesdropping for that yenta,” I said to Nick.

“It’s reportable,” he said. “You don’t ask employees about their personal lives. Ever.”

Of course, he’d heard every word.



Brooke’s apartment was crimson walled, with odd objects hung in the living room: a toy ukulele, a mangy fur-trimmed cardigan on a hanger, and a framed Boston Globe front page featuring Jackie Kennedy’s marriage to Aristotle Onassis. Brooke may have realized that the woman in the black-velvet tunic over lacy tights from a Soho boutique, with freshly cut and blown-dry hair, was me, but she clearly wasn’t in the business of greeting or welcoming her guests.

“Mulled cider on the stove,” Stuart told me. “Cups somewhere close by. We figured it would be do-it-yourself. So great you came!”

The kitchen was merely one end of the living room, with a counter dividing the space, and a mess of epic proportions. It was as if every pot, pan, and utensil used in the preparation of the buffet offerings was on display, unwashed, on every surface and piled high in the sink. A few onion skins and potato peels decorated the floor.

This was when Brooke found me, staring—perhaps a little smugly—at the inexplicable mess. “Disgusting, right?” I heard.

I said, “No. No. Perfectly understandable. This is what a kitchen looks like when you’re getting ready for a party.”

“I should’ve started earlier. Did you ever make lotkeys?”

“Um, excuse me? Did I ever make what?”

“For Hanukkah? Potato lotkeys. It didn’t sound like such a big deal until I did it. What a mess. I was still in the shower when the first guests showed up.”

I said, “It was nice of you to acknowledge Hanukkah.”

“It was Stuart’s idea. He’s Jewish.”

I said I knew.

“How do you know him?” she asked.

Really? I took the opportunity to downplay my embarrassing and unaccountable romantic alliance with him by saying only “I supported his walk across . . . the early states.”

“I’m Brooke,” she said. “You probably figured that out already.”

“I’m Faith Frankel.”

A curtain of ice dropped between us. “You work with Nick,” she said. “Side by side, I understand.”

Maybe if there had been congeniality rather than accusation in her tone, I wouldn’t have answered as I did. “That’s right. I work and live with him.”

“Thanks a lot. Thanks for everything,” she sputtered.

I’d like to report that I’d answered cleverly, but I was too stunned to speak. And I may also have failed to report that Brooke, by any standard, with the blond streaks in her abundantly perfect hair and dewy everything else, was exceedingly, scarily attractive.

“Saint Faith,” she spat. “The perfect coworker and . . . and”—with a sweeping gesture that took in the mess—“so organized! Okay, and smart. Well, thank you, because I left a really good job and moved here because of him and that stupid school!” And with that, she strode to the refrigerator, where I watched her root around for something that turned out to be a carton of sour cream.

I finally said, “I’m not Saint Faith, not by a long shot.”

“Oh, believe me, I know that! I’m not stupid. Do you know what he likes? Need any tips?”

Of course, I could have protested the sexual innuendo, but the inner actress I didn’t often summon said, “No, thanks. I’m doing just fine.”

Before a frosty good-bye, I added, “FYI? Applesauce should be served as well as sour cream.”

Did I even need to find Stuart for a good-bye? No. Let bratty Brooke tell him that I’d been the target of her tantrum.

I went straight to the smaller bedroom where I found my jacket and scarf buried under someone’s big raccoon coat. I was still buttoning up and arranging my outerwear in a mottled mirror when I heard “Faith?”

Reflected in the mirror was the round, hopeful, unadorned face of Rebecca, Stuart’s mother. She launched her coat across the bed, revealing a blue and white sweatshirt, decorated with a puffy dreidel, then enfolded me in a hug.

I extricated myself at the shortest possible polite interval, and said, “Happy Hanukkah.”

“Iona will be so delighted to see you. Shall we mingle?”

I said, “No, sorry, I’m leaving.”

“You can’t!”

“I have to.” And not because I was looking for sympathy but only to squeal on Brooke, I announced, “Your son’s cohostess was unaccountably rude to me after I told her who I was.”

“What did she say?”

“She called me Saint Faith—”

“Which could be taken as a compliment!”

“Believe me, it wasn’t. She was extremely sarcastic and she called Everton Country Day ‘that stupid school.’?”