Surfside Sisters(51)
She enticed her mother to come for the week before Christmas. They took in the latest plays and ate at the most fashionable restaurants. Keely heard all the latest Nantucket news, especially about the doctors and nurses and hospital renovations.
“I have to retire in January,” Eloise told Keely over steak frites in a chic new restaurant called La Boheme. “I’m sixty-five now.”
“Wow, really?” Keely studied her mother. “How do you feel about that?”
Eloise shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not sure. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. What will I do with myself?”
“Mom, don’t be silly. You have a thousand friends. You’ve been wanting to read about a hundred books. You’ll be able to sleep late, have lunch with Brenda…”
“I suppose…I’m just not that kind of person.”
“You can change. You can relax and enjoy life. Maybe spend more time with me here in the city.”
“Maybe.” Suddenly Eloise broke down, bringing her hands up to cover her face and her tears.
“You’re so sweet to bring me here,” she told Keely. “And I’m so very proud of you, darling. I can’t imagine why you—why anyone—would want to spend time with me. I’m just a worthless old woman. You should just drag me out on an iceberg and let me float away to die in the ocean.”
Keely burst out laughing. “Could you be any more dramatic? Come on, Mom. You’re sixty-five, and lots of people retire at that age. You own your house clear and free, and that’s amazing. You’ve got savings and your pension to pay your insurance and taxes and to buy a few luxuries if you’d ever think of yourself. You have friends, you can join a book club, a lunch group, a knitting group.”
“I suppose you’re right,” her mother reluctantly agreed.
“I know you miss Dad. I know you miss me. But you’ve got so many talents of your own. I mean, have you thought about volunteering? There are only about three thousand nonprofits on the island that need help.”
“How can I help? I’ve got a bad back. I know it doesn’t show, Keely, and I wish it did, I wish it were some kind of rash breaking out all over my face, or a broken leg so I’d need a cane, something to show people I’m not just a lazy old lady.”
“Mom! No one who knows you would ever think that!” She reached across the table to take her mother’s hand. “I think you should try antidepressants.”
“You know I don’t like pills.”
“You’re a nurse. You are Pills R Us. You just think you’re better than pills, and that’s ridiculous. Everyone needs help at some point in their life. Mom, I really wish you’d see a doctor. At least a counselor.”
Eloise sagged. “All right, darling. I’ll try.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
When Eloise flew home to work on Christmas Day, Keely felt glad but guilty. Really, her mother had been hard work. Keely spent Christmas Day watching British mysteries and eating ice cream right from the Ben & Jerry’s carton.
After Christmas, she forced herself to write. She felt as if she were trudging through molasses. When Juan texted her to remind her he was taking her to a New Year’s Eve party, she almost cried with relief. She was so glad to think of something other than her plot and her own lonely inner world.
* * *
—
When Juan had texted Keely about the party, he’d added: I’m not merely inviting you. I’m ordering you. You will meet everyone there. So go out and buy something fabulous.
At nine o’clock on New Year’s Eve, Keely met Juan at the foyer of a penthouse on Park Avenue. She wore an expensive white T-shirt hanging almost to the hem of her ripped gold sequined short shorts, topped with a gauzy orange cardigan. And five-inch Manolo Blahnik stilettos that killed her feet. At Juan’s insistence, Keely’s glossy brown hair had been professionally piled high on her head with strands painstakingly teased to hang carelessly down. Her nails and lipstick were a deep burgundy and the eye shadow over her topaz eyes was noir. Her only jewelry was a heavy necklace of geometric metal links. Juan assured she looked rad, but secretly, Keely thought she looked like a bit of an idiot.
“Darling,” Juan exclaimed. “Such a party!” Taking her arm, he escorted her up the elevator and into the room, already a crush of people and laughter.
“You must meet Keely Green,” Juan said to a Botoxed woman weighted down with jewels. “She’s a rising star in the bright young writers’ scene. I’m sure you read Rich Girl. Poor Girl will be out this summer.”
The other woman nodded to Keely, looking overwhelmed by Juan’s rush of information.
Keely said, “Hello.”
Juan said, “I’m off to get us champagne.”
Keely knew by now that Juan was off to get himself a glass of champagne and then to find his friends. She made polite talk with the other woman, then excused herself and slid away through the crowd to the bar.
She wandered aimlessly here and there, holding her glass of Dom Perignon so it wouldn’t spill, feeling desperately lonely. She talked with—yelled at—the few people she knew: another writer, a minor TV personality who had interviewed her, a reviewer for a popular blog.