“I mean, Finch and Beau are good kids! From good families!” she said once again, removing an elastic band from her hair, shaking it out, then putting it up in a fresher ponytail. “And Lyla is so not their type.”
“She is very pretty, though,” I said, mostly just musing aloud.
“Have you seen her in person?”
I shook my head and said, “No. But I saw some other photos of her.”
“Is she mulatto?…Beau said she is. Is that true?”
“Mulatto? I haven’t heard that in years,” I said, wondering if it was still politically correct and feeling pretty certain that it was not.
She shrugged. “Whatever the term is. Mixed? Biracial? I can’t keep it straight. Is she?”
“She’s half Brazilian,” I said.
“Huh,” she said. “So her mom must be foreign. Because I heard her dad’s white. I also heard her mother’s in jail for drugs and prostitution. No wonder Lyla’s so promiscuous.”
“Who said she was promiscuous?” I asked, thinking that Melanie was trying to have it both ways. Lyla didn’t do anything that night with our boys, yet she was also promiscuous? Which one was it?
“Did you not see her outfit?” Melanie tugged on her tank as she made a cross-eyed, tongue-lolling face.
“Come on, Mel. You know better than that,” I said, tensing. “An outfit doesn’t make someone promiscuous. That’s almost like saying ‘She wore a short skirt, so she had it coming.’?”
Melanie stared at me for a beat then said, “Okay. What’s going on? Why are you so Team Lyla? I don’t get it.”
“I’m not,” I said. “I just have the feeling she’s a nice girl who got caught up in something she didn’t ask for.”
“And why do you think that?”
“Because. I had coffee with Lyla’s father,” I blurted out, as my mind exploded with a flowchart of possible repercussions that came from Melanie knowing this. She was well intentioned in our friendship but had an absolute inability to keep much of anything to herself.
“You did?” she said, probably already mapping out who she would tell the second she left my house. “When?”
“Yesterday,” I said, making a split-second decision not to make it more irresistible by telling her to keep it a secret. “It was no big deal, really….It just felt like the right thing to do.”
She nodded. “So? What was he like?”
“You’ve actually met him,” I said. “His name is Tom Volpe. Ring a bell?”
She gave me a blank stare, shook her head, then said, “Wait. That does sound familiar. How do I know that name?” She repeated Volpe under her breath a couple times, frowning as if trying to place him.
“He did your butler’s pantry,” I said. “And your keeping room shelves.”
Her face suddenly lit up. “Oh yeah! That Tom! Right. He was hot. You know—in a scruffy, blue-collar way….”
The characterization slightly annoyed me, though I couldn’t pinpoint why, especially given that it was a pretty accurate description. In any case, I just nodded and said, “Yeah. I guess.”
“Wait. His daughter is Lyla?”
I nodded.
“That’s surprising,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Because he’s a carpenter, I guess? There aren’t a lot of carpenters’ kids at Windsor….She must be on financial aid.”
“Maybe. Who knows,” I said, resisting the temptation to add and who cares. Instead I said, “But if she came in the ninth grade, then she also must be pretty smart. Or supertalented in some area.”
Everyone knew that admissions standards became more stringent in high school, whereas the criteria for five-and six-year-olds were considerably broader and had much more to do with who your parents were. Nobody said it, but it seemed pretty clear that if two applicants were completely equal but for the ability to make a big donation, the big donation won. To Kirk, there was nothing troubling about that. It was just life.
“Or maybe she got in because of the mulatto thing,” Melanie said. “You know how Walter is about diversity.”
I shrugged, feeling intensely uncomfortable. To deflect, I pointed at a bottle of pinot noir that I’d opened with dinner and said, “Would you like a glass?”
“Maybe just a teensy one. I’m trying to cut down on sugar….I’m so fat. Ugh…” She leaned forward so that she could get a pinch of skin covering her washboard stomach as I poured a glass and handed it to her.
She took a sip, then said, “So? Details. Did he ask to meet with you or what?”
“No. I asked to meet with him,” I said, refilling my glass, too.
“Why? To talk him out of pressing charges?”
“No,” I said. “To apologize to him.”
“Oh yeah, of course. I just thought there might be something else,” she said, bouncing her foot again and looking wounded. It was an expression she wore often. In some ways, I loved this vulnerability about her, even when it felt misplaced. It was unlike so many of the other housewives of Belle Meade, who wore perma-masks of bliss. From those types, the answer to the simple and actually not very curious question “How are you doing?” was always a gushing litany of how wonderfully full and satisfying their lives were. Busy, busy, busy! Happy, happy, happy! All good! Busy, happy, and good! I had one friend who would actually answer with a chipper Better than terrific! Her marriage, her kids, her holidays, her summer—were all, always, better than terrific.
Even the breezy I can’t complain! grated on me. First of all, sure you can complain, and you do, and you will. You’ll complain about your kid’s teachers and coaches, your neighbors and your neighbors’ pets, your fellow committee members on whatever charity or school function you’re working on (whether it’s because they’re not doing their fair share or because they’re being too bossy and trying to take the whole thing over); you’ll complain when people don’t reply fast enough to your correspondence or when they hit reply all, giving you needless information that swamps your oh-so-important in-boxes; you’ll complain over your housekeepers and nannies and gardeners and anyone at all who comes into your home to do any kind of work for you. You’ll complain over everything and nothing unless it is any kind of reflection on you, your kids, your marriage, or your life. And if, God forbid, you or your children make a misstep, you blame everyone else and insist that you’re the victim from a “good family.” I knew the drill.
“Can I just say?” Melanie began now. “It hurts my feelings a little bit that you didn’t tell me. Especially since Beau’s involved.”
“But I just told you.”
“I mean, sooner. Right away. Before you even met with him.”
“I guess I forgot to mention it,” I fibbed. “I’m sorry, Mel.”
Her frown lines grew as deep as her Botox would allow. “Did he mention Beau? Or the party itself? Is he mad about that?”
“No,” I said. “I’m pretty sure that’s the least of his concerns right now.”
Melanie nodded, then took a deep breath. “Listen. I admire you, Nina. So much. You’re such a good person—and your heart’s in the right place….I admire the fact that you’re trying to make this right. But…I really think you’re being too hard on yourself. And Finch.”
I nodded, torn. Her steadfast loyalty certainly felt better than Julie’s tough love. Yet I was also frustrated by her inability—or at least refusal—to see what was at stake. I guess my friends couldn’t win. I knew that’s what Kirk would say if he could read my mind now. He hated when I got this way, at least when my feelings threatened his agenda. You’re impossible to please, he’d tell me. Move on and stop obsessing.
Of course, he obsessed over plenty of things, too. But in his mind, those things were different. They were obsession-worthy because they were about the big financial picture—or another quantifiable issue. It was almost as if anything related to relationships or emotions was trivial to him. A disagreement with my mother? She’ll get over it. A friend getting on my nerves? Stop hanging out with her. A feeling that I wasn’t doing enough in the world or guilt about all we had? We give more than enough money away to charity. And now: our own son’s character? He’s a good kid who made one little mistake. Move on, let it go.