Rich and Pretty(78)

The toy store is not far from their place, so she walks. It is sticky—New York in August, the air dense and swampy, what little breeze there is hot and ineffectual. The asphalt looks shiny, like it’s melting, and the garbage cans on the corners, overflowing with discarded Popsicle wrappers and other effluvia, smell terrible. The tote bag weighs heavily on her shoulder—she’s brought her most recent book, for Sarah, a monograph on creative spaces for children: playrooms with chalkboard walls, an old ballroom fitted out with a trampoline and basketball court, bunk beds carved to look like a pirate ship. Silly, but it had been fun to work on.

Lauren rings the bell, waits, then, hearing nothing, knocks, loudly but hopefully not insistently. She’s thirsty.

She can see Dan’s sweaty face through the door, distorted by the warp of the glass. He gives an impatient wave before pulling the door open. “Lauren,” he says. “Hey!”

He sounds mildly out of breath. He’s gained weight, Dan, a gradual process, over the years, but heavier, now, he looks more like himself, like the person he’s always been in the process of becoming. Sweating has made his hair a little unkempt. He’s wearing a blue polo shirt, so faded at the collar, it must be a well-loved one, and khaki shorts, swollen with pockets. “Hi!”

“We were wondering where you were,” he says. “Hot, right? Come in.”

“August,” she says. The house is cool; the previous owners installed central air-conditioning, a rarity in these century-old brownstones. It’s very quiet inside.

“August,” he says, closing the door behind her forcefully, shutting the month of August outside where it belongs. “Sarah’s just tidying up.”

“Tidying up?” She follows him down the stairs to the basement. The steps lead directly to the kitchen, mostly white, very bright.

Sarah is standing at the island. “You made it!” she says. “Sorry, this is disgusting.” She’s scraping some sort of brown goop into the sink. She grimaces, rinses her hands, dries them. She walks toward her, waddles really, hugs her, as much as is possible, given her incredible girth.

“Wow,” Lauren says without thinking. “You look—great.” She does though; Sarah, hair pulled back, pregnant and fat, like a lady of the canyon, like a painting from Northern Europe’s Renaissance, all creamy skin and sly smiles.

“I look massive, you mean,” Sarah says. “I know. Six weeks left, too. I think he’s going to be a basketball player.”

“Where’s Henry?” She looks around—the kitchen, too, is quiet. There are no sounds from the playroom, behind them.

“Henry’s asleep,” Sarah says. “The party ended at twelve.”

“Shit,” she says. “I thought it was at two.”

Sarah shrugs. “He’ll probably sleep another hour. It’s fine. This way we can talk.”

“I missed the whole party?” She feels foolish.

“A kid’s party,” Sarah says. “You didn’t miss anything. Henry’s worn-out, from all that running around, all that sugar. Plus all the stupid presents.”

“Sugar?” Lauren drops the parcels onto the kitchen counter.

“Cake’s in the fridge. It’s so hot outside it was melting. And there’s ice cream. A ridiculous amount, actually. Help yourself.”

“I’m going to finish up those e-mails,” Dan says. “Lauren, say good-bye before you go.” He trots back up the stairs.

“I can wash those,” Lauren says.

“I won’t even argue.” Sarah perches precariously on a stool. “Just rinse. We’ll run the dishwasher.”

“I’ll load,” Lauren says. “After cake.” There’s still more than half the cake left, a sprawling chocolate thing in the shape of a fire truck. She takes it from the fridge, sets it on the kitchen island, opens the freezer door, takes out the chocolate ice cream. “Do you want some?”

“Why the f*ck not,” Sarah says. “I can’t possibly get any bigger.”

“You’re eating for two, enjoy it,” she says. She serves: modest slices of cake, massive mounds of ice cream. She scrapes the paper carton clean, tosses the container in the garbage. The spoons are silver, incredibly shiny. She tastes it. It tastes exactly how she wants it to taste. It’s so good she leans into the island. Standing across from Sarah, as though they were bartender and patron: This feels confessional, or therapeutic. She’s moved to ask Sarah to tell her all her problems, though here, in this beautifully cold kitchen, with cake, with shining silver spoons, she seems not to have any. “Sorry I missed the party.”

“You don’t have kids,” Sarah says. “You’re on human time.”

“I just thought you said two,” she says.

“It’s better this way, we can talk. I haven’t seen you in forever.”

“So another boy, huh?” Sarah had mentioned it before; Lauren can’t remember when. “Is Henry excited?”

“He is,” she says. “Baby brother. He talks about him constantly. We’ll see how he feels about sharing a room, though.”

“Sharing a room?” Lauren gestures at the ceiling, at the many square feet that unfold overhead. “You must have plenty of space.”