Appearances Read online

  Appearances

  Copyright © 2019 Sondra Helene

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2019

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-499-8 pbk.

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-500-1 ebk.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018961556

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1569 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  Book design by Stacey Aaronson

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For my sister, with love.

  Chapter One

  Before I receive the phone call that separates my life into before and after, I am out with my husband, Richard A. Freeman, at a fund-raiser in a swank suburb of Boston. It’s for Pine Cliff College, where Richard is on the board: a small private school in the affluent suburb of Chestnut Hill, named for a stretch of trees that once ran from Dunster Street to Reservoir Lane. Richard, a Harvard Business School graduate with a career in private equity—which I google whenever I have to explain it—thrives on boards like this. It’s in his blood to give back, especially to those without the financial means that my husband has worked his whole life to achieve.

  Richard is six foot one and lean, with a full head of wavy hair the color of smoke. Tonight my husband’s late-summer tan and the jade pocket square accenting his deep-set green eyes make him look ten years younger than fifty-nine. I am thirteen years his junior, five foot eight, with highlighted auburn hair that grazes my shoulders when I use a flatiron. Richard stands with perfect posture. Were we to embrace, his lips would meet the slope of my hairline. From all outside appearances, people say we belong together.

  It’s a warm and humid early September evening, the last month the trees are lush and green before setting off their autumn fireworks. The air is thick, and, even though I’m fresh from the shower, my thighs stick to the mint leather interior of Richard’s Aston Martin. Richard pondered for years whether to buy this car. He considers himself a value guy. Even though he can afford it, for example, Richard would never think to charter a private plane. But he held a torch for this car for five years, driving thirty minutes to the dealership every few months to talk the salesman’s ear off and take the Aston for a test-drive. Finally, our preteen daughter, Alexandra, convinced him to buy it. Using a cliché she must have heard somewhere but, at eleven, couldn’t fully understand, Alexandra said, “Daddy, you’re not getting any younger,” and giggled.

  Richard lowers the top, puts the AC on high, and fiddles with the radio until he finds WEEI 850 AM sports talk. We pull out of the garage and drive a few miles on Route 9 to the fund-raiser. Richard has been on Pine Cliff’s board for the past four years and has helped this annual event to become a huge success. He likes to invite people he enjoys, who possess a sense of humor, with whom he can have what he calls a “solid conversation” about politics, sports, cigars, and world events. Richard doesn’t waste time on gossip, on whoever is selling their home, filing for bankruptcy, or getting divorced—like some people we know.

  During the ride, I’m quiet. I can’t stop thinking about my sister, Elizabeth. She’s been complaining about a pain in her hip from a pulled muscle during our workout weeks ago. When we met for coffee yesterday, she had trouble scaling the few steps into the café. Her pain worries me. But I haven’t expressed my concern to Richard. He and I don’t talk about Elizabeth anymore.

  Tonight is Pine Cliff’s largest fund-raiser of the year. The students from the culinary school will prepare and serve dinner; silent and live auctions will span the evening. The superstar hired auctioneer is a genius entertainer, jumping on chairs, using comedy to charm and disarm attendees out of their money, and all for a good cause. Last year, in 2002, the fund-raiser grossed half a million dollars. The goal this year is even greater. The proceeds will fund a new Student Success Center, a sorely needed campus hub.

  In the Aston we follow an elegant, topiaried, figure-eight drive to park at the college’s VIP entrance, where a valet takes our keys. “Cool car, sir,” the student says, as other eighteenyear-olds clad in red valet jackets swarm.

  “Careful, please,” Richard says, and laughs, but I know he is serious.

  Richard opens my door. With a gentleman’s flair, he takes my hand. I gracefully step out in my Manolo heels and a black cocktail dress. Richard is wearing a charcoal Brioni suit with a crisp white shirt. We lock eyes before my husband kisses me on the lips and says, “Still beautiful.” This is Richard with his most contagious confidence: about to perform his ideal self and our ideal marriage in public.

  Our friends—Jeffrey and Jordana, Bob and Carol—arrive after us. Richard and I await them at the curb.

  “Hey, Rich!” Jeffrey says, walking toward us with his modelthin, thirtysomething wife Jordana on his arm as the valet drives away in their Porsche. She’s very sweet.

  “Richie, baby!” Bob says from a couple of paces behind Jeff, waving frantically.

  “Hi, Samantha,” Carol says when they reach us, bathing me in the scent of her apricot perfume. Carol slopes her shoulders to give my arm a squeeze, towering above me in her four-inch platform stilettos embossed with rhinestones, like disco balls.

  “Thanks so much for coming,” Richard says, “I really appreciate it.” He shakes the men’s hands, hoping his friends will bid high once they go inside. Richard kisses each of the women chastely on the cheek, before saying, “This way,” and leading us to the cocktails. With a smile fixed on my face, I follow the others, my heart sinking like the sun on the horizon. Years ago, I would have invited my sister and her husband, Jake, to join us at the event, but now the hostility between them and Richard makes it impossible. I brace myself for a night of trophy wives and garish perfume.

  “Tasteful decorations,” I say inside, to no one in particular. The gala committee has dimmed the lights and set elegant tables, transforming the drab college auditorium with floor-length tablecloths, fuchsia napkins, and dense centerpieces of French roses. As at any respectable fund-raiser, there must be at least five hundred people here.

  Hors d’oeuvres are passed. Servers squeeze invisibly between us with silver trays of mouthwatering crab cakes, spicy shrimp on skewers, and adorable mini–lamb chops. Everything smells yummy, but I’m going to save my calories for dinner. My sister canceled our workout this morning so she could rest her sore hip. I decided it wouldn’t kill me to miss a day. But no cardio this morning means I have to watch what I eat even more carefully tonight.

  Richard and I stroll to the bar, where he orders two glasses of pinot grigio. Thank God they have pinot grigio, because I don’t drink oaky Chardonnay, and I take pleasure in a couple of glasses of wine at these events. Richard stands tall, relaxing his shoulders down his back to swell his chest. Since we met, he’s had a presence, a confidence like a force field that I imagine extends to me. My husband is powerful and smart, one of my definitions of sexy. While Richard and I sta
nd coupled at the bar, a different sort of man approaches, short and wearing a red bow tie.

  “Nice to see you, Mr. Freeman, and your lovely wife.” The college president bows to me, then addresses my husband. “Pine Cliff certainly appreciates—relies—on your generosity. Let’s hope we gross the most money yet.”

  “Our friends will bid high,” Richard says. “I’ll lean on them. This is the best fund-raiser in town,” he says excitedly, adjusting his tie knot. “I only invited people who want to support the school.”

  “Mr. President,” I say, “we look forward to this every year. Last year we won the ski trip to Aspen.” The Pine Cliff president smiles and shakes our hands before moving on to greet more patrons. He’s perfect for this job, affable and not overbearing.

  Richard and I mingle, finding our guests at the silent-auction tables before a bay window overlooking the soccer field. Carol and I make small talk about our kids, dance classes, and gymnastics. Jordana, who has a nine-month-old, gushes about being a new mom. They are superficial friends whose company I enjoy, but I would never think of confiding my real troubles in them.

  “Richard, what’s new in the empire?” I overhear Bob, a real estate developer, ask.

  “I closed on Boylston. Going to move my offices. Just have to file with the BRA now for the build-out.”

  “Location, location,” Bob says, slapping Richard on the back. “You really know how to catch the market.”

  “I know my business,” Richard replies. “And a bit of yours.” They both laugh, and my husband beams, completely in his element.

  Dinner is served. In the perfect performance, Richard takes my hand; we glide to our table, and he pulls out my chair. I observe where our guests are seated. Even though I like them well enough, I consider them all acquaintances, Richard’s friends. I have actually begun to like it better this way. Because if the company we keep is not my own family or friends, at least I don’t have to worry about what anyone says or how they treat each other.

  “Who wants to play golf tomorrow?” Richard asks, as he cuts into his grilled chicken. “We can make it a threesome.” Both Bob and Jeff instantaneously free up their schedules for a coveted round of golf at the exclusive Rose Wood Country Club, where Richard and I are members.

  “Yeah, baby,” Richard says, as the server asks if we want red or white. Richard’s arms soar into the air. “I’ll bring cigars!”

  These men are high achievers, hedge fund and real estate guys at the peak of their careers, who own their businesses. But not only that: Bob and Jeff are family men, and they are charitable.

  “Remind me where your kids are in school?” I lean over to ask Carol.

  “I switched them out of public to Rivers last year,” she says, using a broad “a” in “last” with a Kennedy-esque accent. “They get much more attention.” Rivers is a private school with a well-paid faculty in Weston, another upscale suburb. Richard would not be pleased, because, unlike many of our friends and neighbors in Wellesley, he believes in public education unless a child has a learning or behavior problem.

  “You made the right decision,” I say to Carol. If she wants her kids in private school, why not?

  After dinner, the president steps to the podium.

  “Good evening. Tonight we are raising money for our new student center.” For 2003, this is the cutting edge of campus life. He ends his speech, thanking everyone for their support. “Bid high and bid often,” the president says, pinching his bow tie.

  Richard leans over and whispers loudly in Carol’s ear, “Make Bob bid. About time he takes you on a nice trip.”

  This comment sets off belly laughs between Bob, Carol, and Richard. I sip my wine. A thousand memories and resentments come to mind, of Richard’s feuds with Elizabeth and Jake, my family, and none of them makes me laugh.

  Paul, the auctioneer, takes the stage. “Shh! Shh! Shh!” he blows, testing the microphone before his voice fills the room. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s start with a bang! This first item is just the tip of the iceberg.” He details a fournight stay at the Georges V Hotel in Paris. I know Paris well and this landmark is mere steps from the Champs-Élysées, walking distance to the Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, and nearly every designer store I can think of. “The City of Lights, people! Go deep in your pockets for this one.” Paul quits the stage and walks between tables, sharing perks of the luxury package: a king-size bed, a marble bathroom, breakfast included. “Four nights and five days. Starts at two thousand. Do I hear three? Four?”

  Richard’s number stirs on the tablecloth. Before lifting it, he seeks my permission with a raised brow. I nod, reluctantly, and Richard raises his number. Only we know that our marriage is crumbling. A loudmouth at the next table, wearing a poorly tailored coat, initially beats our offer, but Richard’s friends, rowdy from the wine, spur him on. When Richard wants something, he’s nothing but persistent.

  “Sold for seven thousand!” Paul declares when Richard wears the other guy out, $250 at a time. The auctioneer races over to congratulate us, recognizing Richard as a trustee. “They say a happy wife is a happy life—Mr. and Mrs. Freeman are going to Paris!” Paul cheers and the crowd claps. It’s not his job to understand that no trip to Paris will make this wife happy.

  I lean over and kiss Richard drily on the cheek. “Thank you,” I say. But a sinking feeling overcomes me, dread settling like the humidity outside, a suffocating feeling. I hate myself as Richard takes my hand, strokes my sweating fingers. How will I explain to Elizabeth that we’re going to Paris?

  Our friends applaud and congratulate us. As the evening passes, with Richard’s encouragement, they bid on various items. Some prevail and others are outbid, but returns are high for Pine Cliff. The more people drink, the more they spend. The school raises $750,000, outdoing last year, and Richard is on cloud nine.

  As we share goodbyes, hugging friends, my smile again fades. The valet brings us the Aston. I plop onto the seat, worn out from the evening, and can’t help but land on the issue that has been at the top of my mind for years: Will I ever reconcile the animosity between my husband and my sister, or is my only solution divorce? I notice the pride that Richard exudes from the event’s success, and it irks me. He seems unaware of my grief—of who, what extension of me, is always missing from these happy moments. He fondles my knee while starting the car, but I turn away toward the window.

  I’m a bit tipsy from three glasses of wine, pining for my sister, whom I know as well as I do myself. But no matter how much I drink, it doesn’t change the facts. At family dinners, Richard sits off by himself, staring at the cubes in his drink. And when Elizabeth’s husband, Jake, comes to our home, my brother-in-law sits across from Richard but obscures his face with a stiff newspaper. The tension has settled on our children now, an unmelting snow. They tiptoe around both fathers, on eggshells.

  At a stoplight on our way home, I am watching the gypsy moths beat themselves insensibly against the red, rounded eye of glass, and Richard blurts, “Can’t you just be happy—once?” He seals his lips on a moody silence that lasts the rest of the night.

  Being Richard’s wife is a full-time job. If only I could get it right.

  Chapter Two

  From a young age, I was confident that I knew how I wanted to live my life: surrounded by a loving family- grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. Maybe I was foolish not to realize that my husband might find my family connections stifling when he didn’t have the luxury of the same attachments. When there was a whole world out there of fascinating people yet to meet.

  I didn’t grow up thinking there might be a rift, a feud, in my own adult family. The tense, long-standing conflict that my life has become was never on my radar. When I heard that two brothers didn’t talk because of a clash in a family business, I couldn’t imagine it being something they couldn’t fix. When a friend told me she hated her sister because her sister had deep-seated jealousy of her, I couldn’t relate. Sisters share. My sister has alwa
ys been a part of me.

  The Charles River Park complex was a perfect place in the 1980s for singles and young professionals to live; its apartments were full of lawyers, stockbrokers, and medical interns and residents. The courtyards were impeccably landscaped: impatiens for the summer, yellow and orange mums in the fall. Gardeners strewed white lights on trees for the winter and cultivated tulips and daffodils to usher in spring. Each building had a doorman, and up-to-date apartments featured the newest GE Profile appliances. Though I did not consider Charles River Park home, because my heart still lodged with my parents and siblings, it was the perfect middle ground between graduate school for speech pathology and starting my so-called real life.

  Although I loved having roommates in college, I quickly eased into living alone at Charles River Park. I framed posters from Vogue for my walls and stacked back issues of Cosmopolitan on my coffee table. Living alone entailed certain freedoms: to come and go as I pleased, to leave breakfast dishes in the sink if I didn’t feel like tidying, and to litter my makeup and shampoo in the bathroom without worrying about being in someone’s way. I wasn’t lonely, either. Friends from high school and college also lived at CRP. We were the epitome of trendy. On weekends we’d eat at Friday’s on Newbury Street, jump in a cab to hit the disco at Fan Club, and always end up at Jason’s, the “it” nightclub. Behind all this frivolity, however, was a serious purpose: as I brushed on my makeup, ordered glasses of wine, or danced until closing to Saturday Night Fever, my singular goal was to meet someone.

  My sister, Elizabeth, who was three years younger and worked as a paralegal at a fancy firm, had already found that love. Her boyfriend, Jake Gordon, grew up on Atlantic Road, our family’s street in Gloucester, a waterfront city on Massachusetts’s North Shore known for beautiful beaches and a strong fishing industry. Elizabeth, Jake, and I spent years together as kids, but neither Elizabeth nor Jake maintained contact until they ran into each other as students at Northeastern University. I remembered Jake as charming and flirtatious, a bit of a troublemaker. Elizabeth was petite, thin, and lovable, always trying to make people feel comfortable. Her big blue eyes drew the attention of plenty of male suitors.