days. I guess that means his business is doing well but I thought we'd have more time together now that the children were older, not less.'
When it came to relationship advice my specialty was 'Screw him. He doesn't deserve you.' That worked pretty well for most of my single New York friends. Here in the 'burbs I was in uncharted territory. I didn't have the first clue as to how to comfort an empty nester.
'I take a few classes . . .' she said, trailing off. 'Mostly to get out of the house and see people.'
My laptop went into sleep mode; I pushed it back a few inches. I was antsy to get back to work but it was pointless until Caroline finished unburdening herself.
'What kinds of classes are you taking?' I asked. Part of me really cared.
'What haven't I taken?' She threw her head back, laughing and rolling her eyes. 'Real housewife stuff. You'll think they're silly. I guess they are.'
'No I won't. Tell me.'
'This year, glassblowing and wreath making. I drive to the city for the glassblowing class and take wreath making at Mary Ellen's Craft Shop in New Canaan.'
'They're not silly; my mother does a lot of that stuff.' She winced. Wrong move—what woman wants to be compared to her friend's mother? I regrouped. 'That's impressive. I'm not good with my hands except for digging. So what have you made?'
'Nothing. That's just it,' she said, recovering from the insult and pouring herself another drink. 'I lose interest. I have a room filled with half-finished projects—shell art, calligraphy, pottery. That hobby room is a shrine to my failures.'
'You shouldn't think of it that way. At least you've tried.' I took a sip of the mimosa, just to be sociable. There was dead silence for a minute. Trying to empathize, I told her about the tag-sale treadmill in the garage that silently mocked me every time I pulled out of my driveway. 'And who doesn't have an unfinished scarf or poncho in her closet?' I said. 'Although if you're talking about baby booties from fifteen years ago, you might want to pitch them.'
She finally cracked a smile. 'I can't seem to throw any of it out. The potter's wheel I bought after I saw the movie
'Have a tag sale or take them to the thrift shop. The twins would be thrilled to have them. And dumb schmucks like me will be happy to assume the burden of ownership until they realize they aren't going to use them either. Maybe there's really only one potter's wheel and one loom,' I said, 'like they used to say there was only one fruitcake that was passed around and regifted during the holidays.'
Caroline was laughing and sniffling now, finishing one drink and instantly pouring herself another. She made a move to refill my glass then realized she didn't need to.
She'd snapped out of her funk, but drinking at this rate, what was she going to be like by noon? If she wanted to drink herself stupid by lunchtime that was her call; it wasn't up to me to give her advice, but that didn't stop me. I repositioned my laptop and slightly, unnecessarily, moved her glass just out of her reach.
'You're a big girl, Caroline, you know what you're doing. But maybe you're focusing on keeping your hands busy when you should be thinking about keeping your mind busy.' Which she couldn't do if she was plastered.
She stared blankly into space.
'Forget it. I don't know what I'm talking about,' I added quickly, fearing I'd overstepped the bounds of our quasi-friendship. 'I'm just trying to be solutional. That's my nature.'
'No. You're right. That's it,' Caroline said, the light dawning. She raised her glass to toast me, and I obliged by taking another small sip from mine. 'So what do you think I should do?' she asked, reminding me of the eager interns we'd had at my old company.
'Well, first you need to decide what you want in your garden.'
The lines on her forehead disappeared as if they had been Photoshopped out. She reached for drink number four, but didn't take a sip, and I could tell Caroline was busy plotting some activity other than merely saying yes or no to my designs for her property. She nodded absentmindedly at almost everything I suggested and I began to wonder if she was really agreeing or was just wasted.
A scratching sound came from another room.
'What's that?' I asked.
'Oh, that's my houseguest,' Caroline answered, sliding off her high-backed kitchen stool. She crossed the kitchen floor on unsteady, ballet-slippered feet to open a narrow door that led to her mudroom. Out popped a small white dog.
'There you are, precious. Did you miss your Auntie Caroline? Paula, this is my new friend, April.' A small white Maltese that looked very much like the one I'd seen at Titans two days earlier in the care of a full-figured redhead.
Twelve
What were the odds? You could go to any park or dog run in Connecticut and yell Maggie and a dozen pooches would come running. And there was no shortage of Tesses, Maxes, or Rileys. But April was not a common name for a dog in these parts. It was like naming a dog Barry or Helen. It just wasn't done that often.
Caroline told me she was doing a favor for a colleague of Grant's who'd had to unexpectedly join him on a business trip and hadn't had time to find a pet sitter.
'Grant brought her home last night. To keep me company, I guess. Isn't she darling?' Caroline bent down to give the dog a scratch and a gourmet dog biscuit she fished out of a decorative tin on the counter.
You'd have to have some cojones to fly off on a tryst with your girlfriend and make your wife watch the woman's dog. From what I'd heard about him, Grant Sturgis was too much of a wuss for that brazen a move. Still, who knew? I was hardly an expert on suburban mores. Or men.
Grant Sturgis was a management consultant, whatever that meant. Everyone I knew who was unemployed refers to himself or herself as a consultant, but apparently there are people who really do it, and full-time, not just while they're waiting for the permanent job to come along.
According to Caroline, who'd quietly gone back to sipping her mimosa, Grant's work took him from Chicago to Georgia to Massachusetts, with the occasional trip to Europe. Despite her halfhearted attempts to join him, she never went. Every time she'd brought it up, he'd mumble something about boring clients, lengthy business dinners, and generic hotels. With that kind of review, I'd have stayed home, too.
'It can't be that boring,' she said. 'Chicago has museums, Marshall Field's, Buddy Guy's.' Shopping on the Miracle Mile and Frango mints, yes, but I hadn't pegged her for a blues fan.
'Marshall Field's isn't there anymore,' I said. 'And B. B. King's is a lot closer than Buddy Guy's.'
'You're right,' she said. 'It's not him.' Had I said that? Maybe I was better at this suburban advice thing than I realized.
'I need to find something more mentally engaging,' she announced, nuzzling the tiny dog she now held with both hands.
I steered her back to our garden discussion. Seeing the dog had put some very uncharitable thoughts about Grant Sturgis in my head—I didn't like the idea that he might be boffing some cocktail waitress while making his wife pick up his mistress's dog's poop. I longed for the old days when my pals had easier problems like 'It's Thursday, why hasn't he called?'
Under the circumstances, I felt a little guilty but got Caroline to sign off on plans and purchases for the garden; I should remember to get all my clients tanked before meetings. I watched the wrinkled forehead return along with a determined little set to her mouth.
As I got up to leave, she mumbled something about going out, too, so when she wasn't looking, I reached into the tin that held the dog biscuits, got one for April, and left Caroline's car keys in the tin. Not to drive her crazy, just to keep her in the house long enough to realize driving was a bad idea.
The three spoonfuls of cereal I'd had for breakfast were starting to feel lonely in my stomach, so I turned left out of Caroline's driveway and headed back to Springfield for an early lunch at the Paradise.
I pulled in past a line of vehicles that made the diner's parking lot look like an emissions control station on
