lifted a dirty dish in fifteen years, but who pitched right in, clearing the table without a second's hesitation. There were good reasons Chet Wagner had stuck with her for so long. If only Phyllis could see the one excellent reason he got fed up.
Jane was quiet all the way to Fiona's house, mentally chastising herself. Wasn't part of the reason she got irritated with Phyllis a matter of simple jealousy? She'd mentally accused John Wagner of being jealous over money, but maybe she was, too. After all, Phyllis was an extraordinarily wealthy woman. Jane, who wasn't exactly poor, still had to carefully monitor every penny.
Steve's life insurance and his share of the family-owned drugstores had left her with enough money to comfortably afford the necessities and a precious few of the less expensive luxuries. But while Phyllis was ordering up a Jag for Bobby to drive around without even needing to ask what it cost, Jane was driving a four-year-old station wagon and would have to drive it to death—either its or hers.
Was it Phyllis's money that was getting under Jane's skin? Jane thought not. Lots of people had more money than Jane did. Almost everyone she knew, in fact, either had more or lived as though they did. And she'd never been particularly aware of resentment before. Fiona Howard, for instance, was certainly in a financial class with Phyllis. She must have been her husband's heir, and Richie Divine records were still played on the radio all the time. Just last summer Jane had bought a tape of his old stuff. They hadn't had children, so all the royalties must be going to Fiona. And yet, Jane had never felt jealous of Fiona, only mildly curious about how she lived.
For that matter, the Nowacks were absolutely loaded, but she never felt jealous of Shelley. Shelley's husband had started and owned a nationwide Greek fast-food franchise that was nearly as common nationally as any of the hamburger or pizza places. But Shelley still bought her sneakers at K Mart and saved grocery store coupons and was always complaining about telephone bills. Of course, if Shelley had been renting a car, as Phyllis did a short time ago, Shelley would have found out the price of everything on the lot and would have demanded a discount if the tires had more than a thousand miles on them.
No, it wasn't a matter of money or lack of it. It was a basic difference in mentality or outlook or something that made Phyllis rub Jane the wrong way. No point in analyzing it, Jane told herself as she steered the old station wagon into the Howards' hedge-lined drive. Phyllis and her hideous son would be out of her life pretty soon, and she wouldn't need to worry about it. In a day or two, she'd just have to tell Phyllis in the nicest way possible that they were going to have to move into a hotel. And if she couldn't find a nice way—well, she'd worry about that later.
Fiona met them in the driveway. 'Jane, I've been calling, but I missed you. I'm so sorry I put you to this trouble. Just after we hung up, the exterminators called and said their truck broke down, and they won't be here until tomorrow. I've dragged you out for nothing.'
“It's fine. It still has to be done by tomorrow, and we might as well do it now. Fiona, this is my friend Phyllis Wagner, who's visiting me—for a few days,' she added. 'Phyllis, Fiona Howard.”
The two women greeted each other, subtly summing each other up as women do. A flickering glance to assess hair, clothes, manners then—recognizing they were nominally equals—the warmth of tentative acceptance passed between them. 'Fiona, you and Phyllis have some friends in common.'
“Oh? Who is that?”
Phyllis looked confused. 'I'm not sure. I mean, I told Jane I knew about you living herebecause someone mentioned it, and I recognized the name of the suburb because of Jane. But I can't remember who it was.'
“What a pity. Where are you from?'
“Originally Philadelphia, then Chicago. But for the last thirteen years, my husband and I have been living on a little island in the Caribbean.”
She made it sound like she had a Quonset hut on somebody else's beach.
“Phyllis and her husband own the island and the hotel on it,' Jane couldn't resist saying.
Anybody else might have goggled at this; Fiona was unmoved. 'How interesting that must be,' she said with friendly blandness. 'I've always liked the Caribbean, but I can't stay there long, because I sunburn so badly. Albert and I went to Jamaica once, and I got a horrible burn, in spite of the fact that I slathered on so much suntan lotion I couldn't sit on a chair without sliding off. Do you miss the seasonal changes?”
This, of course, was one of Phyllis's favorite topics and elaborations took them into the house and into the ground floor guest room where the church bazaar cartons were stored. Jane studied the array of boxes for a moment, wondering where to start. They were stacked everywhere with only a narrow aisle between them. Fiona had said a few people had dropped things off since this morning, but it looked more like an army had looted a small, holiday-oriented country and left all the spoils here.
As Jane stood, gazing with bewilderment, she heard Phyllis saying, '... And it will be so nice to be back permanently.'
“Back permanently?' Jane asked, roused from her stupor by these chilling words.
“Yes, I was telling Fiona about moving back. We haven't had time to talk about it yet, Jane. Chet told me to find a nice house here, and he'd buy it for Bobby and me if I wanted.'
“You're going to live in Chicago?' Jane tried to sound bright and cheerful but felt like she had a mouthful of mud. Having Bobby Bryant around permanently would be about as much fun as having a car wreck in a Pinto. She had to suppress the urge to run to the nearest phone, call Shelley, and scream, 'Help me! Help me!'
“Maybe you'd be interested in the house next door?' Fiona asked, obviously as a conversational gambit, not as a sincere suggestion. 'I was telling Jane about it just this morning.' She went on to explain chattily about the old lady, the nursing home, and the son's anxiety to get a tax break by selling before the end of the year.
“That might be very nice,' Phyllis said. 'At least it would give me time to look around for something else without imposing on Jane. And we'd be so close. Wouldn't that be fun, Jane? Just like the old days.”
Eight
Jane held up a pinecone wreath and pretended she hadn't heard the question. 'I wonder who made this. It's awfully nice work, isn't it? It's got these little peppermint sticks woven in, but they're not meant to be eaten anyway—'
“Would you really like to take a look?' Fiona was asking. 'The man left us a key in case I wanted to show it to anyone.'
“That would be fun, but we should help Jane—'
“Why don't I have Albert run over with you, while I—'
“Did I hear my name being taken in vain?' Albert had apparently come down the hallway just as Fiona referred to him.
“Oh, Albert—you know Jane Jeffry, she was here earlier. And this is her friend Phyllis Wagner,' Fiona said.
He looked at Phyllis, at Jane, and at the room full of cartons and was struck dumb.
“It's not as chaotic as it looks,' Jane assured him. The man had actually paled at the sight of what had happened to his home. 'I pretty well know what all this stuff is, and it'll be out of your house in another week ' or so, after the sale.”
Fiona explained to Albert, who still looked stricken, what she wanted him to do, but he obviously didn't want to be bothered acting as somebody else's real estate agent. 'I'm expecting the accountant any minute. He's bringing some forms over that need to go in by midnight.'
“I'll keep him entertained if he shows up,' his wife assured him. 'It'll only take you a minute.”
“But Fiona—”
Jane glanced up, aware of the tension growing in the room. Albert was on the verge of digging his heels in. Phyllis was looking at him with undisguised fascination, as if he were some sort of museum exhibit: 'The Nerd Who Married Richie Divine's Widow.' Jane suddenly understood why Phyllis couldn't think of the name of the friend they had in common. There wasn't such a person. Phyllis had just kept up with the fan magazines and had been curious about Fiona and her husband.
Too bad Albert was such a loser, physically—the little pot belly, the thinning dull hair, the jowls that drew attention to his almost complete lack of chin. Everybody must look at him and make the comparison between
