Which made me cry a little. But she was really, really nice about it and gave me another glass of wine. It turns out we have so much in common! We’re both orphans, for instance. Of course, I never knew my father and my mother died driving home drunk from the Dew Drop Inn on Route 9 and her parents died when their private jet crashed into the Alps as they were returning from a ski trip to Gstaad, but still the end results were the same. As Laurel said, We were both alone in the world so we latched onto men who promised security.
Of course, her parents left her a gazillion-dollar trust fund and my mother left me a closet full of tacky dresses and her collection of feathered roach clips, but still . . . we even both went to library school. I got my library degree at SUNY Albany and worked at a school library and she got her undergraduate degree at St. Andrews and her archival degree at the University of Edinburgh, then interned at the National Library of Scotland. But as Laurel put it: Quelle surprise! We both wanted to put the world in order after it had fallen to pieces.
We’re practically the same person! We even look a little alike—at least, Laurel thinks so. I mean, I’m not as tall or thin and my hair isn’t as blond, but when I pointed all that out Laurel said, “So the only difference between us is heels, a good colorist, and a couple of baby pounds?” Which made me laugh.
I even told her the story about the bird that got trapped in Chloe’s nursery and she said, “Well, of course you freaked out! It made you realize how trapped you feel being saddled with a baby!”
We had so much to talk about, we totally lost track of time and Vanessa had to remind me that she had to get back. Laurel called a taxi for us and while we were waiting for it her husband, Stan, came back. And that’s something else we have in common; we both married older men. I think Stan might even be older than Peter—he certainly looks older but maybe that’s because he dresses more old-fashioned. He seemed nice and he didn’t get mad that we were sitting around drinking wine in the middle of the day while the sitters took care of the babies. He seemed to find it funny and he even offered to give Chloë her bath.
I had the taxi drop Vanessa off at her apartment first so it was really late by the time we got home. When I saw Peter’s car in the driveway I was worried that he was going to be mad that I’d left the car in the church lot and that I was late and dinner wasn’t ready and the house was a mess. And sure enough the minute I walked in he started in with Why are you late? and Where’s the car? I was about to say I was sorry but then I thought about what Laurel said about it being Peter’s fault I’d worked through my pregnancy and about men being cheap so instead of apologizing I said, “This is the first friend I’ve made since Chloe was born and I really like her, so please don’t ruin it.”
His eyes got big and I thought he was going to explode, but instead he said, “I was just afraid something had happened to you and Chloe. I’ve been sitting here imagining you driving off the road or driving onto the train tracks like that woman in Valhalla last year. I’ve had the news on to listen for any traffic accidents. Then when the I saw the taxi pull up . . .” He turned away.
So then I felt really bad. It must have been scary for Peter when I got so depressed after Chloe was born and now to see me so forgetful. And it was a terrible story about that poor woman who drove onto the train tracks by mistake—not half an hour from where we lived!
I told him I was sorry and that I’d never forget to call him if I was late again. I also made a mental note to myself to avoid train crossings from now on.
Chapter Four
At first I am so worried about Billie finding those papers in the diaper bag that I can barely pay attention to what Sky Bennett is telling me, but as she launches into the story of her childhood I get so caught up in it that I forget all about Billie finding my ID and exposing me as Daphne Marist. I forget all about Daphne Marist and Laurel Hobbes altogether. I guess that’s what a really good story does—it makes you forget about yourself for a while.
And Sky’s is such an amazing story—like something out of Dickens! Her father was the director of Crantham from the late forties through the early seventies. They moved here from New York City.
“Imagine what a shock that must have been for my mother! One minute swanning through teas and dinner parties on the Upper East Side and the next stuck up here in the wilderness.”
I’m having a harder time imagining living on the Upper East Side, but I don’t say so.
“But in those days a wife went where her husband’s job took her, and this was an important opportunity for my father. It’s hard to remember now that everyone’s on Prozac that in those days the only place for the mentally ill was in the big hospitals—many of which were just awful. Little more than prison workhouses! But Crantham was different. It was founded in the 1870s on the principles of ‘moral treatment’ for the mentally ill. Have you seen the grounds yet?”
The question startles me and for a minute I think
