On Turpentine Lane(49)
“Are you quite sure she wasn’t saying it in a joking, affectionate way? Like I might say”—she pointed to the dreidel—“my wife bought me this stupid sweatshirt.’?”
“Believe me, it’s not about the school. It’s because Nick, my office-and housemate, used to be her live-in boyfriend. And it ended badly.”
“Maybe it’s just her manner,” said Rebecca. “Some people come off as cold. It’s cultural.” She whispered, “Her last name is Winthrop. And why would she invite you to her party if she disliked you?”
“She didn’t invite me. Stuart did.”
That answer seemed to make her happy. “Are you keeping in touch with him?”
“He is. I don’t answer.”
“He’s buckling down,” said Rebecca. “You know he runs our practice?”
“He told me he was your substitute receptionist.”
“Exactly. Receptionists run the world!”
I said, “I can’t stay. Say hello to Iona . . .”
“I’m sure there’s an explanation,” said Rebecca.
“For what?”
“Brooke’s lashing out.” She paused. “It could be the green-eyed monster. Stuart might have confided in her. About you, about his feelings—”
It was then that Stuart appeared in the doorway, clueless and grinning, holding two plastic glasses of eggnog. “Two of my favorite women!” he boomed. “I wondered what was taking so long in here! C’mon in. Brooke just brought out the potato latkes.”
Rebecca said, “I’ve been having a heart-to-heart with Faith.” Then, turning to me: “Do you want to tell Stuart what you felt transpired earlier?”
I said, “No, I don’t,” and to Stuart: “Gotta run. I have another party to go to.”
“C’mon,” he said. “Five more minutes. I was hoping everyone would be here for the announcement.”
“Announcement?” I repeated.
“We’re excited,” said Rebecca, beaming.
I didn’t quite leave, but stood by the front door, a mittened hand on the doorknob, listening to the breaking news. Stuart, tall and messily handsome, his walkathon tan not entirely faded, his hairline unreceded, announced in a wobbly voice, hand on heart that he, Stuart Ira Levine, had the honor of being chosen to father a child by two friends of his moms! Granted, he wouldn’t have any legal standing, but what a thrill to help two wonderful women become a family. How could he not share such happy news, which he’d just found out himself yesterday, that his enzymes had worked their magic. The baby was due in August, the very month of his own birthday! Another Leo! He raised his glass. “To the future! To a little Levine—not that he or she will have my name, but still mind-blowing. And so flattering, to be chosen over an entire sperm bank catalogue! And what better present this holiday season: to be a biological dad, even the silent kind, at forty! L’chaim!”
Except for his two moms, the most common expression on the faces of this small crowd was perplexed. Who gets excited about being a sperm donor? Surely everyone else was entertaining the same thoughts that were running through my mind. How much money changed hands for this donation, how did the job get done, and who in all of Everton, Massachusetts, was a bigger jackass than Stuart Ira Levine?
31
Table for Two
IF I WAS RACING off to anything, it was back home to regale Nick with tales of Brooke’s breathtaking rudeness. But somewhere between the party and my driveway, I thought better of that inclination. Gossip is never becoming, I reminded myself. I knew how to be diplomatic. Didn’t I engage in it daily, testifying to alums that Everton Country Day was ever so grateful for their paltry contribution or their donation of a bat, ball, and glove?
Home by eight o’clock, I found Nick in front of the TV, watching the original Miracle on 34th Street. “How was it?” he asked.
“Not great.”
His next question, eyes never leaving a colorized Kris Kringle, was “How did you find Brooke?”
I said she’d been busy with her cohost duties, that we’d only talked briefly while she was putting out the latkes. “First time she made them,” I continued. “They weren’t bad . . . undersalted and a little undercooked. But nice of her to make the effort, don’t you think? That’s all I’ve eaten since breakfast: one latke.”
When he didn’t take the hint, I asked if he’d had dinner, and if not, did he want to go out?
“Where?”
“The Terrace? Or La Grotta?” I patted my velvet tunic and said it was a shame to waste the outfit.
Nick said rather formally, “You look very nice.” And then, “Was Stuart being Stuart?”
“Oh, boy. Do I have a story for you.”
He waited. I said, “Not now. I’ll describe the grand finale over dinner. Can I talk you into it?”
His answer was un-Nick-like and off topic. “Maybe I should’ve gone with you. I just hung around. I read the paper. I did some Christmas shopping online. I called my dad, who was heading for mass in a rush. I forgot he’s a lector. He wished me a merry Christmas and a happy new year—like that was it, as if we wouldn’t talk for another month.”