Golden Girl(110)

“Willa?” Pamela says. “Is that you?”

“Yes!”

“Be right down!” Pamela draws out the word right, letting Willa know that she won’t be right down. Willa hears a clock ticking in her head as she studies the family portraits on the server under the stairs. There are four years represented, photos taken by Laurie Richards at Steps Beach. Pamela, Zach, Peter. They look happy, is the thing. Pamela is actually smiling. Pamela and Zach are holding hands in a photo of just the two of them. Looking at these pictures makes Willa think of family dinners, weekly game nights, driving lessons in school parking lots, and Christmas mornings, not of a troubled kid at school and a husband who’s sleeping around.

Pamela finally descends the stairs. Her feet are bare, her hair is wet, she’s wearing a turquoise linen shift with a statement necklace (oversize wooden beads on a string that looks like a bigger version of something Peter might have made at the Children’s House), and she’s clutching something red in her hand.

She holds it out to Willa. “I found this in the laundry.”

“This” is a red lace thong. Willa has to fight to keep her morning tea down. She was right—she doesn’t want to see this, some other woman’s skanky underwear. At least they’ve been through the wash, Willa thinks.

“I take it those aren’t yours?” Willa asks.

“Uh, no. Does this look like something I’d wear?”

Definitely not, Willa wants to say—but that might be insulting. And the truth is, no one can tell what kind of underwear a person wears, just like no one can tell what’s lurking beneath a seemingly happy family portrait.

“They’re Hanky Panky,” Willa says without thinking. Despite her revulsion, she lifts the thong from Pamela’s palm.

“How can you tell? There’s no tag. Do you wear underwear like this?” Her voice sounds accusatory and also incredulous.

“No,” Willa says. She nearly adds, My sister does, but she stops herself. Pamela is right; the tag has been cut out, leaving a hole the size of a dime. A wave of nausea rolls over Willa; there’s no avoiding it. She races for the powder room right there in the hall and vomits.

When she emerges, Pamela opens her arms for a hug. “You poor thing. I made myself forget you’re pregnant so I don’t slip and tell someone.”

“It’s fine,” Willa says. The thong is lying on the server at the base of the most recent family portrait. What a juxtaposition.

Willa says, “Have you asked Zach about it?”

“Not yet. I’m going to wait. I’m collecting evidence, building a case.”

“And you’re sure these aren’t from a friend of Peter’s?”

“Peter has been at camp all summer,” Pamela says.

“I only ask because this is the kind of underwear that young people wear.”

“Zach’s lover is younger!” Pamela says. “She wears hooker panties!”

“Why was it in the laundry?” Willa asks. “Was the woman here, in the house?”

“No!” Pamela shrieks. “At least, I don’t think so. I hope not. I found it stuffed deep in the pocket of Zach’s khakis. I thought I would pull out a sock, you know how that happens in the wash sometimes, and it was this. She must have given it to him.”

“Ew,” Willa says.

Pamela shakes her head. “You have no idea what it’s like getting older, Willa. I hope Rip doesn’t ever do this to you.”

The notion is outrageous. And mean-spirited. Willa is pregnant. Who says such a thing to a pregnant woman?

“Anyway, I have to get ready for work,” Pamela says. Willa is being dismissed. “Thank you for coming over. I needed to share this with someone.”

“You’re welcome,” Willa says. This whole encounter has been very distasteful and Willa is still smarting from the comment about Rip. As if!

But that’s not what bothers Willa the most. What bothers her the most is…something she’s too addled to admit even to herself.

Pamela heads to the kitchen, calling out, “Coffee, here I come!” and Willa heads for the front door, scooping the thong up as she leaves.





Amy




Amy loves Sundays with Dennis because he knows how to relax. JP was always up at the crack of dawn, which arrives very, very early in the summer, because he liked to be waiting outside the Hub on Main Street when the guy arrived to deliver the New York Times. JP claimed this behavior had been ingrained in him from childhood in Manhattan—Sundays didn’t begin for Lucinda or his grandparents until the Times was snapped open—but Amy suspects it has more to do with Vivi and the bestseller list. After he secured the paper, it was off to the Downyflake to get a box of doughnuts and then home to make a second pot of coffee.

Dennis, however, likes to sleep in. He has what Amy thinks of as a talent for sleep. He sleeps deep and hard and nothing can stir him or wake him until morning. He makes a soft growling noise like a snuggly woodland creature, a welcome change from JP’s snoring, which sounded like someone jackhammering asphalt. It was occasionally so bad that Amy would think, No wonder Vivi didn’t fight harder to reconcile.

When Dennis wakes up, he heads to the bathroom to relieve himself and brush his teeth, then he returns to bed and makes love to Amy (skillfully; he’s by far the best lover she’s ever had) and falls back to sleep. Sundays are his only day off (same with Amy in the summer) and he doesn’t feel the need to plan anything. Sunday is as God intended: a day of rest.