“Yeah. He’s here,” I say, grinning wider.
“Why, hello there, April,” he says, rolling his eyes again. Nick likes April well enough, but doesn’t understand why we’re so close and accuses her of being neurotic and overly intense—both irrefutable. But I’ve explained to him that when you live on the same suburban street, and have children the same ages (her son, Henry, is six months older than Frank), that’s all it really takes to bond. Although, in truth, I think our friendship runs deeper than circumstance or convenience. For one, she is the sort of friend who would do absolutely anything for you—and she doesn’t just make the empty offer; she actually initiates and always follows through. She brings the soup when you’re sick. She loans you the dress when you have nothing suitable to wear and forgot to go shopping. She babysits your kids when you’re in a pinch. For another, she is a planner who consistently puts together fun things for us to do, either with the kids, the couples, or just the two of us. And finally, she is quick to pour a glass of wine—or two or three—and becomes hilariously frank and irreverent when she drinks. It is a surprising quirk in an otherwise utterly disciplined persona and one that always makes for a good time.
But now she is all business—the helpful, earnest perfectionist I love, sometimes in spite of herself.
“It was a good thought,” she says in a patronizing tone I don’t even think she knows she’s adopted. “But I’m sure we can come up with something better.”
I picture her pacing in her kitchen, her lean, tennis-toned arms and legs working overtime as always. “Oh! I got it . . . I just made the most yummy carrot muffins. They’d be perfect.”
Nick winces—he hates food adjectives like yummy and tasty and, his least favorite combination of them all, moist and chewy.
“Hmm. Yeah. Not so sure I have time to make muffins,” I say.
“They’re soo easy, Tessa. A cinch.”
To April, everything is easy. Last year, she actually had the audacity to call beef Wellington “a cinch” when I told her I had to come up with something for Christmas dinner. Incidentally, I ended up ordering the entire meal and then getting busted when my motherin-law asked me how I made the gravy, and my mind went perfectly blank as to how to make any gravy, let alone the kind residing on my table.
“Yeah. I think I’ll have to go store-bought on this one,” I say, taking the phone off speaker to spare Nick from hearing more.
“Hmm. Well, there’s always fruit skewers,” she says, explaining that I need only pick up little plastic stirrers at the party store and then spear the grapes, strawberries, pineapples, melon. “Then just pick up a few bags of organic popcorn . . . that Pirate’s Booty stuff is pretty tasty . . . although popcorn is listed as a leading choking hazard in a recent consumer report, along with grapes, hot dogs, raisins, gum, and candy . . . So maybe not such a good idea . . . Choking always scares me. That and drowning. And God. . , not to be a total downer, but that’s . . . sort of why I’m calling . . .”
“To warn me against choking hazards?” I say, knowing that it’s not out of the realm of possibility.
“No . . . Didn’t Nick tell you?” she asks, her voice returning to a whisper.
”You’re off speaker,” I say. “Tell me what?”
“About the accident?”
“What accident?”
At the word accident, Nick shoots me a look—somehow, we both know what is coming.
“The little boy in Grayson Croft’s class . . . Charlie Anderson?”
“Yeah?” I say.
“He was burned at Romy’s house—in a campfire accident.”
I am speechless as my mind ticks through the few degrees of separation which are so typical in Wellesley: Romy Croft is one of April’s closest friends on her tennis team. Romy’s son and April’s daughter are in the same kindergarten class at Longmere Country Day, apparently along with Nick’s patient.
Sure enough, April says, “Isn’t Nick his doctor? That’s the word going around . . .”
“Yes,” I say, marveling that the rumor mill can churn so efficiently over the weekend.
“What?” Nick asks, now staring at me.
I put my hand over the phone and say, “Your patient Friday night. He was at Romy Croft’s house when it happened . . .”
“Who?” he asks, proving once again how bad he is with names and any sort of social networking. He is so bad, in fact, that sometimes it seems as if he is doing it on purpose, almost as a point of pride. Especially when it involves a high-profile type, like Romy, who throws lavish, renowned dinner parties, is involved in just about every charity in town, and is on the board of Longmere—which I hope Ruby will attend next year.
I shake my head and hold up one index finger, indicating that he’ll have to wait a second. Meanwhile, April is telling me that Romy is beside herself with worry.