Romy raises a big wicker basket filled with a bouquet of white and yellow flowers, which appear to be handpicked but artfully arranged, and fruit so waxy and perfect in appearance that it looks fake.
“I brought you this,” Romy says, carefully placing the basket at her feet. Valerie looks down, noticing a bottle of wine, angled opposite the flowers, raffia tied around its neck. She scans the French label, registers that the bottle is from a vineyard in Provence—and feels a wave of rage at the inappropriateness of wine at a time like this one. She glances around the room, feeling trapped, realizing she has nowhere to go, no possible escape route short of pushing past the women and running out the door. And of course, she can’t leave. She told Nick that this is where she would be.
Valerie acknowledges the basket with a nod, but refuses to thank Romy for the offering, instead turning to gaze at the other woman.
“Hello, Valerie,” she says, speaking slowly as if communicating with a foreigner. “My name is April. My daughter, Olivia, is in Charlie’s class. We just wanted to tell you that the whole class is behind you. The whole school. We’re all so terribly sorry for you and Charlie. How is he?”
“He’s fine,” Valerie says, instantly regretting this answer, especially as she studies April’s expression. There is something about it that Valerie finds distasteful—condescending and aggressive at once. Besides, Charlie’s not fine. He’s not fine at all. So she tells them, “He’s in surgery now.”
The two women exchange a surprised, uneasy glance, solidifying Valerie’s cynicism and suspicion that Romy is worried about a lawsuit, about parting with some of her money. She suddenly remembers Romy’s earrings—the big diamond studs she wore at the open house at school—and notices that small silver hoops are in their place. Gone, too, is her hulking engagement ring. Everything about her appearance is understated, a portrait of a woman trying hard to show she does not have deep pockets.
“Surgery?” Romy says.
“Yes. A skin graft.”
Romy’s hand reaches up to touch her own cheek. “How. . . is . . . his face?”
Valerie’s response is reflexive and terse. “I’d rather not discuss it.”
Another look is exchanged between the two friends, this one more overtly worried, self-interested. Romy’s lower lip quivers as she says, “We were just concerned.”
“About who?” Valerie snaps.
“About Charlie,” April says, stepping in to defend her friend.
Valerie bristles at the sound of her son’s name, spoken by this stranger who has no business being here in the first place.
“Look. I’m not going to sue, if that’s what you’re worried about. No matter how negligent you were.”
Romy looks as if she might cry, while April says, “She wasn’t negligent.”
“Oh?” Valerie says. “So you think it was a good idea to roast marshmallows at a birthday party with a bunch of little boys?”
“Accidents happen. Even when you’re careful,” Romy insists, her eyes now filling with tears.
“Well, can you tell me what happened?” she presses, her volume rising. She notices a man in the corner who has been engrossed in a book glance their way, sensing controversy. “Because your husband said he wasn’t sure. Do you know? Does anyone know?”
Romy stops her tears on demand, further proof that they are fake. “The boys were roughhousing.”
“Six-year-old boys will do that,” April adds.
“Right. So once again,” Valerie says, in her cross-examination mode, “how is unsupervised marshmallow roasting a good idea for a bunch of six-year-olds who are prone to roughhousing?”
“I don’t know. I’m . . . I’m sorry,” Romy says, her words empty, hollow.
“You should have started there,” Valerie snaps.
“She tried to start there,” April says. “You won’t take her calls.”
“I’ve been a little busy here. Forgive me.”
“Look,” Romy tries again. “We know your son is hurt and that you—”
“You don’t know anything about me,” Valerie says, standing, her voice louder. “You think you know me. But you have no clue. None.”
April taps Romy’s shoulder, then nods toward the door. “Let’s go,” she says.
“Great idea. Please. Go,” Valerie says. “And take your wine and flowers with you. Maybe you can use them at your next party.”
***
Minutes after the women leave, Nick arrives in the waiting room. He is not smiling, but he might as well be. Valerie has learned that this is his version of a happy face—relaxed but dauntless—and she knows in an instant that Charlie is okay. She stands expectantly, awaiting confirmation.
“He did great,” Nick says, which of course means that Nick did great.
This nuance is not lost on Valerie, who feels overcome with emotion as she says, “Thank you so much.”
Nick nods and says, “I’m really pleased with the results.”