The Lifeguards(36)

“Do you have any of that amazing cinnamon coffee? I’m dying,” said Whitney.

My Mr. Coffee was empty. I felt a tension in my jaw and almost wanted to say, “Sorry, I don’t.” But I swallowed my annoyance and stood. “Let me just make a fresh pot,” I said.

“I love you,” said Whitney, lifting her phone to check her messages while I ground the beans from my Costco-sized bag, breathing evenly to dispel my irritation. I was barefoot, still in red-and-green-plaid Christmas pajamas.

I tidied up the kitchen while I waited for the coffee to brew, making notes on Sam’s “breakfast soup” recipe, which maybe needed something to make it sweeter for American palates.

When the pot was full, I retrieved one of the two nice mugs I’d found in the sale room in the back of the Anthropologie store, filled it, and brought it to Whitney with one Splenda and a dollop of milk.

Whitney sipped, still not looking up from her phone. “Mmm, perfect,” she said. Whitney loved being cared for, and she did look after me as well. If sometimes it felt as if she treated me like staff, I could live with that. Wasn’t I using her, too, in my own way? Would I still love her if she were poor, or less influential, less glamorous? I liked to think I would, but I couldn’t know for sure.

As Whitney scrolled on her phone, I tried to think of a way to say, Are you hiring me a lawyer? If I coddle you and make you coffee, will you take care of me and Charlie?

Whitney began tapping an email. I was silent, all the words I wanted to speak forming a ball in my gut. Or maybe it was the spicy soup.

Finally, Whitney put her phone down. “I’m scared,” she said.

“What?” I said. I hadn’t ever heard her say these words before.

“Can you promise to keep a secret?” said Whitney.

“Of course,” I said. “You know you can trust me.”

“I do know,” she said. “And by the way, we need to talk about a lawyer for Charlie. I haven’t forgotten. But this…I don’t know where to…who to tell. But I can’t…I don’t know what to do. Jules won’t…he refuses…” Whitney’s face transformed before my eyes. Her polished veneer cracked, and she looked almost feral. It was such a dramatic transformation that I wondered if it was fake. I had a strange feeling, as if Whitney was acting.

“I’m only telling you,” she said, putting her hand on mine.

“What is it?” I said. “You’re scaring me.”

“This is only between you and me, OK? You’re my best friend.”

“Yes, of course. I promise,” I said. As always, the term “best friend” made me feel warm—chosen.

“It’s Roma,” said Whitney, her tone grave.

“Roma?” I was surprised, though I knew Roma was a perennial problem. She could be cruel, but despite a few truly alarming incidents, I tried to believe that Roma was, at heart, a good person. Charlie had once asked, “Mom? What do I do if every time I see someone, I feel bad about myself?”

“Sweetheart,” I’d said, “you can try to make friendships work, but it’s OK to just let some people go.”

Charlie had nodded grimly. I felt that I’d taught him a good lesson…until Whitney called, crying, saying Charlie had told Roma they couldn’t hang out anymore. I confronted Charlie, and he’d said, “Mom! You told me it was OK to let people go!”

“But not Roma,” I’d said, pleadingly.

Charlie had looked at me with disgust. I pretended I hadn’t seen it, inviting both the twins over that evening for “Make Your Own Pizza” night, ignoring Charlie’s withdrawn demeanor.



* * *



—

“ROMA?” I REPEATED NOW, taking a gulp of hot coffee. “What happened?”

Whitney took off her visor, and her hair fell into her face. She rubbed her eyes. Was she crying? I didn’t see any tears, berated myself for checking for moisture. “You can trust me,” I said. I moved to her side of the table and hugged my friend. Usually, I felt comforted when I was near Whitney, but today, I just felt raw.

Whitney lifted her head. Her eyes were reddish but dry. “I don’t know where she went night before last,” said Whitney. “She left the house while we were drinking wine…she says she lost her phone. And I don’t know where she was. I’m afraid…I’m just afraid. Do you think Roma could have had something to do with that woman’s death?”

Whitney certainly looked afraid. I tried to speak soothingly. “Come on, Whitney,” I said. “You know she didn’t.”

Whitney nodded, but this news really was worrisome. It was another item on the list of disturbing events involving Roma. There had been the fractured elbow. The neighbor’s cat. Xavier’s mysterious poisoning. And worst: the incident in New Zealand. Whitney had confided in me in the early years about Roma’s troubling behavior, but a wall had come down sometime in the last few years. Was it possible Roma had been on the greenbelt and somehow hurt the woman, left her for the boys to discover?

If so, why?

“Promise you’ll never say anything?” said Whitney, putting her hands around my wrists. “I had to tell someone. I had to.”

“I promise,” I said, biting my lip. Whitney’s grip was painful, but I repeated, “I promise, Whitney.”