SUSAN’S HAIR WAS WRAPPED IN A HUGE WHITE TURBAN OF towel. Her eyes twinkled, her skin glowed, and she smelled like magnolia soap. She took Molly’s hand at the front door and led us into the house. I wasn’t ready to let Molly go; I hadn’t spent time with her all day. But Susan whisked her away, removing her pink woolly mittens and matching parka, and Emily ran out, and the two of them scampered off together.
“Zoe—it’s great you finally hit it off with someone, even if he is a cop.”
“I told you. We didn’t ‘hit it off’—”
“You didn’t have to say it. It’s obvious. It’s in your voice and on your face. You’re wearing it.” I was? Damn.
The aroma of something deliciously garlicky drifted in from the kitchen. I looked around. The tree glittered in the living room, presents scattered underneath; stockings were hung by the chimney with care. In the sunroom, Lisa was reading and Mozart was playing; Julie was doing needlepoint.
Grinning, Susan pounded her chest as she walked to the kitchen. “Zoe, guess what—I’ve been planning my trial strategy. And I’m going to win. My guys are going to get off.” She was practically squealing, floating above the floor, waltzing lightly along the hall, leading me to the kitchen.
I followed, unbuttoning my coat, noticing how uncluttered the house was. There were no boots or bookbags to stumble over, no half-eaten snacks or scattered clothes. In her internal life, Susan rode a roller coaster, but somehow, in her external roles and relationships, she remained a rock.
“I thought you thought they were guilty.”
“Defendants aren’t guilty until the jury says they are. And my clients will be judged not guilty by juries of their peers, thank you very much.” She curtsied, grinning, and called, “Molly, you like spaghetti, don’t you?”
“With meatballs?”
She nodded. “Of course, with meatballs. And you and Emily can make the garlic bread. Come on, I’ll get you started.”
I stared at Susan, wondering what drug she was on. Or should be on. “Judged not guilty?” I brought her back to our topic. “But how?”
She took out butter, garlic, a garlic press. “What do you mean, how? They have a good lawyer. Criminal defense work isn’t about what clients have or have not done. It’s about their right to a zealous defense, a fair trial, and the presumption of innocence.”
I knew better than to comment. Susan would argue legal ethics all night, would spin defensively in emotional somersaults. I thought it best to keep my mouth shut while she showed the girls how to make garlic bread. She fluttered from topic to topic, happily bantering about the joys of fresh garlic in the same breath as the art of jury selection and the luster-building capabilities of her new shampoo.
“You really ought to use some—wash your hair with it before you go out with Stiles.” She opened a cupboard and pulled out a breadbasket.
“Mom, what did Susan say? Who are you going out with?” Molly had an uncanny knack for selective hearing. “I told you. I have a meeting.” “Make yourself look good, Zoe. He’s a hunk.”
“A hunk? Who, Mom?” Molly looked at Emily and they both began to giggle.
“Does your mom have a boyfriend?”
Molly’s eyes widened, “Mom, do you have a boyfriend?”
“Come on, Molly. You’d know if I did.”
Susan smiled. “Your mom’s got a business meeting tonight. Candlelight, soft music, wine, and business.” She took the melted garlic butter off the stove and put it on the table in front of the girls, along with brushes and bread. Immediately, they got to work.
“Speaking of your business meeting,” Susan whispered, “what about the jogger?” “What jogger?”
Susan turned away so the girls wouldn’t hear. “Some jogger found another finger in Washington Square. They think it’s one of the nannies’.”
I went cold.
“And you’ll appreciate this—according to the news, this is the first body part that’s been found.” “What about my finger?”
“What finger? Apparently, that never happened. This just shows you that the news doesn’t mean anything. Reporters read whatever gets put in front of them. They don’t know what’s really going on. The cops aren’t releasing all the facts on this one. And guess who’s in charge of the cops? Your boyfriend.”
I didn’t take the bait. “Maybe,” I breathed, “they held off telling about my finger so people wouldn’t panic.”
“Maybe. But the cops aren’t telling us everything. We’re having a moms’ meeting Thursday night. At gymnastics.”
“What are you whispering about, Mommy? Your boyfriend? Come on, tell me. Who is he?”
“Molly, I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Is he that guy who always stares at you?” What was she talking about? “What guy who stares at me?” “You know who. That guy—on our street.” “On our street? You mean Victor? Or the new guy with the Santa Claus—Mr. Woods? Or Charlie?” “Charlie? Charlie’s your boyfriend!” She reeled with laughter. I leaned over and kissed her. It was time to go. “See you later. Be good. I love you.”
“Zoe, wait—take that shampoo.” Susan rushed out of the room. “No, thanks.”
“Yes. Try it. I’ll be right down.”
The girls painted bread with garlic butter. The house was unusually calm. No television, no bickering kids. Where was the chaos, the conflict, the general tumult that typically surrounded Susan? Mozart floated through the house. Dinner was simmering, and the children were happy and organized. There was no trace of turmoil, no sense of danger here. Even grisly news of vanished women, of a finger found in the park, couldn’t shake the pervasive warmth.
I suddenly felt very alone. I went to Molly and stood beside her at the table. A dish towel was tucked into her sweatshirt for protection, but she concentrated, trying not to drip. I smoothed her hair, and she squirmed.
“Stop, Mom. You’ll make me spill.”
“Sorry.”
I took my hand away.
“I won’t be late,” I said. “Have fun. I love you, Mollybear.” “Have fun, too. I love you, too.” Her words were distracted, automatic.
“Remember, she can spend the night, if you want.” Susan was back, handing me a bottle of shampoo.
“I can? Can I sleep over, Mom?” Molly asked, carelessly dripping butter all over the counter. Emily chimed in, begging.
“Please? Please?” They were a duet, a chorus of begging. “Can we have a sleepover?”
Susan’s skin glowed, her house gleamed clean, her children were radiant, and her husband was around somewhere, upstairs. Her home was warm and alive. “It’s fine with us,” she said.
I looked at my daughter. She was happy here, blending in, entirely at home. “Not tonight,” I said. “Another time.”
“Why? Why not tonight? Please?”
They continued pleading as I buttoned my coat, and I left quickly, selfishly, before I could be swayed.