The Vanishing Half(58)

Stella paused, her heart thrumming.

“She’s not my friend,” she said.

“Well, people are saying that you’ve been calling on her,” Cath said.

“So?”

“So is it true? Have you been visiting with her?”

“I don’t think that’s any of your goddamn business,” Stella said.

Betsy Roberts gasped. Tom Pearson laughed uncomfortably, as if he were willing it to become a joke. Suddenly, Stella felt as if she had transformed into a totally new creature in their eyes. Something wild and feral. Cath stepped back, her cheeks pink.

“Well, everyone’s talking,” she said. “I just thought you should know.”



* * *



—

THE NERVE OF THAT WOMAN.

In front of the bathroom mirror, Stella fumed, splashing water on her face. Where did Cath Johansen get off anyway? Storming into her house with that dry slab of fruit cake and telling her, to her face, in her own home, in front of everyone, that the entire neighborhood was judging her. Dale grinning dumbly beside her, Blake watching with that confused look on his face like he’d woken up from a nap to find all these strangers standing around in his living room. She’d stormed upstairs and smoked a cigarette hanging out the bedroom window. She could hear the quiet murmuring of the party downstairs, Blake, no doubt, making excuses for her. Oh don’t mind, Stella, she’s always a little testy this time of the year. Yes, her holiday blues, who knows, who can understand that woman half the time anyway? Then the Johansens and the Hawthornes and the Pearsons stepping carefully down the walkway, past the manicured lawns, behind their identical front doors to whisper about her. If only they knew. The thought ran through her head deliciously, the same way she always thought, driving on an overpass, of turning her wheel and sending herself careening over the rail. There was nothing more tantalizing than the possibility of total destruction.

“I mean, can you believe it?” she told Blake. “In my own home! Talking to me like that. I mean, where does she find the nerve?”

She furiously spread night cream on her face. Blake lingered behind her, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he said. He didn’t look angry, only worried.

“There’s nothing to tell,” she said. “The girls like playing together—”

“Then why wouldn’t you tell me? Why would you lie about going to Cath’s—”

“I don’t know!” she said. “I just thought—it seemed easier that way, all right? I knew you would have all your questions—”

“Can you blame me?” he said. “You’ve never been like this. You didn’t even want them to move in—”

“Well, the girls like playing! What was I supposed to do?”

“Not lie to me,” he said. “Not tell me you’re doing one thing then sneaking over there all the time—”

“It’s not all the time.”

“Cath said it was twice this week!”

Stella laughed. “You can’t be serious,” she said. “You can’t truly be taking Cath Johansen’s side over mine.”

“It’s not about sides!” he said. “I’ve been noticing it too, you know. You’re not yourself. You’ve been walking around like you’ve got your head in the clouds. And now you’re chasing after that Loretta woman. It’s not normal. It’s—” He eased up behind her, cupping her shoulders. “I understand, Stella, I do. You’re lonely. That’s right, isn’t it? You never wanted to move to Los Angeles in the first place and now you’re lonely as all hell. And Kennedy’s getting older. So you probably . . . well, you should take a class or something. Something you’ve always wanted to do. Like learn Italian or make pottery. We’ll find you something good to do, Stel. Don’t worry.”

One night, long ago in New Orleans, Blake had invited her to a work banquet. “I’d hate to go alone,” he told her, “you know how these things are,” and she’d nodded, even though, of course, she didn’t. She told Desiree she had to work late and instead borrowed a dress from one of the other secretaries. Blake met her in the lobby of the banquet hall, as dashing as any leading man. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” he whispered into her hair. All evening, he never left her side, his hand always lingering at the small of her back. At the end of the night, he brought her to a café for coffee, and halfway through her cherry pie, he told her that he was moving back to Boston. His father was sick, and he wanted to be closer to home.

“Oh,” she said, dropping her fork. She hadn’t realized how desperately she wanted more nights with him like tonight until she realized that there would never be another. But he surprised her, touching her hand.

“I know it’s crazy,” he said, “but I’ve got a job offer in Boston and—” He faltered a second, then laughed. “It’s crazy, Stella, but would you join me? I’ll need a secretary there and I just thought . . .”

They hadn’t even kissed yet but his question sounded as serious as a marriage proposal. “Just say yes,” he said, and the word tasted like cherries, sweet and tart and easy. Yes, and just like that, she could become Miss Vignes for good. She didn’t give herself a chance to second-guess. She didn’t plan how she would leave her sister, how she would settle in a new city on her own. For the first time in her life, she didn’t worry about any of the practical details when she told Blake Sanders yes. The hardest part about becoming someone else was deciding to. The rest was only logistics.