Good Riddance(37)

Did she just wink at the end of my tirade?

“Before this . . .” she began.

“What? Before what?”

“Before this, you struck me as a logical person. Someone who thinks before she speaks.”

I huffed that I always thought before I spoke.

“Daphne,” she said, sounding weary and charitable. “I’ve distributed the questionnaire. If anyone sends it back, hinting at some kind of hanky-panky, I’m off and running. There’s my story. I’d be quoting that person on deep background, not you. And maybe you don’t know the whole story. You’re the daughter. But I can find someone who’s been waiting decades to squeal.”

I said no, no, no, she wouldn’t. “People in New Hampshire would never speak ill of the dead.”

Who was I trying to convince, Geneva or myself?





19


Suddenly There Are Girlfriends



I had to send Peter Armstrong a thank-you note, didn’t I? More than a week had passed since the check for $5,000 had arrived. I’d been mulling over how to express my gratitude without sounding effusive or daughterly due to the grudge I was holding for his arresting my father.

Finally, I wrote, “I’ve received and cashed your first check, which was most welcome and generous. Thank you. Sincerely, Daphne.”

So why did it come back with “Return to Sender” scrawled in purple felt-tip pen? The envelope had been opened and taped shut. Inside, attached to my note, was a Post-it rudely demanding, “Oh, really? ‘FIRST check?’ Who are you?”

Who the hell are you? I might ask. Did Armstrong have a gatekeeper/secretary/girlfriend/boyfriend/live-in accountant who opened and passed judgment on his private correspondence?

This was hate mail, I decided. I found his business card and called his direct line. After dozens of rings went nowhere, he picked up with a brusque “Armstrong!”

“It’s Daphne,” I said, then plunged in with “I wrote you a thank-you note—thank you, by the way, for the check—but the note was returned in a manner I’d describe as crazy.”

“Wait,” he said. “Start over.”

I summarized: A note I’d sent him came back defaced—rudely and anonymously.

I’d expected shock and outrage, but his question was lawyerly. “You wrote me an actual letter on paper, and then what happened?”

I quoted my own innocent dispatch and the uncalled-for counterattack.

“Go on.”

Go on? That much wasn’t offensive enough? “Who opens your mail and writes in purple?” I asked.

“I have to take this call. Can you hold?”

I waited. Just before giving up, I heard, “That would be Bonnie.”

“Just now? Calling you?”

“No. The person who mistakenly returned your note.”

“And who is Bonnie?”

“My partner.”

“What kind of partner?”

“I think you can guess.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Correct.”

“Is she a secret girlfriend?”

No answer.

“A live-in girlfriend?”

“No—”

“Yet she intercepts your mail?”

“Force of habit.”

“Force of whose habit? Isn’t opening other people’s mail against the law?”

“Not in this case.” Then, reverently: “Bonnie was my office manager at the firm.”

“Is that why this is hush-hush?”

More silence.

“Is she married?”

“Not anymore.”

“Kids?”

“Two.”

“How old?”

“Ten and thirteen? Something like that.”

“And Bonnie herself is how old?”

“Daphne. I don’t think you realize that you’re giving me the third degree as if . . . Oh, never mind.”

As if I were a real daughter who’d earned the right to interrogate and judge. I knew the answer anyway: Bonnie was young. And nuts. I tried to imbue my next question with a modicum of concern, a more psychiatric “Is she a stable person?”

“There’s a vote happening downstairs. Let me get back to you.”

“You should tell her she made a terrible first impression.”

“Clearly.”

“And inform her why you’re sending me quarterly checks.”

“Gotta run. I’ll get back to you if there’s anything satisfactory to report.”

“She’s trouble,” I told the dial tone.



Speaking of girlfriends who suddenly materialize, Kathi the piano teacher sent me an email dinner invitation with the subject line, “From Sammi’s mom.” Three upcoming dates were proposed. I chose the middle one, Thursday of the following week, asking what I could bring. She wrote back: “I’ve heard about your culinary talents from your greatest fan! Would it be rude to ask you to bring one of your famous desserts?”

Famous where? Never mind. I said yes, happy to do that. Was she allergic to nuts?

No. She was not. I deduced from a heart emoji that she loved them.



A good guest does her homework. I suggested to my dad that we get together for a pre-dinner-party briefing. I chose a Swedish film at the Paris Theatre about a curmudgeonly suicidal widower who is rescued, literally and figuratively, by a lovely young Iranian neighbor. Waiting in the theater lobby for the earlier show to empty, he said in the direction of two smiling older ladies, “This is my daughter. Aren’t I lucky that she wants to see a movie with her old man?” Adorable, the women’s expressions seemed to say. Once seated, I said, “That could work for you.”