And so, to Frederick's surprise, it came to pass.
"Gwen, would you mind if I took the girls to the Met today? There's a toddler tour of the European paintings . . ." "Oh, Felicity, you have managed to make this apartment both grand and yet so personal. You really used a decorator? It feels so organic to your personality. You must be a fabulous manager . . ." "Gwen, did you hear Juliet singing the Dora the Explorer song? Have you considered voice lessons?"
Amber was blatant, brilliant. Frederick watched with amazement as the flattery did its work on his prickly daughter and pricklier sister. If Amber had been rubbing her hands together and muttering how 'umble she was, she could not have been more obsequious. "I'm sorry--what? You made this dinner and you worked all day?" she said to Felicity. "If that handsome boss of yours were ever foolish enough to let you go"--and here she simpered at Joseph, who smiled foolishly back--"God, you could so get a job as a chef. I mean, who am I to even say that, just your grateful, useless houseguest, but I can't help it--you should try out for Top Chef. You're totally what they're looking for, totally telegenic."
And on and on it went, this sycophantic barrage. Amber went to Dumbo and found trendy baby blankets and bibs for Gwen. She appeared at Joseph's office with a basket of designer cookies and gave them to Felicity, then helped her pass them out to the employees, all the while giving the impression that it had been Felicity's idea.
"I went all the way to Red Hook for them," she told Crystal that night in a whisper. They lay side by side in twin beds.
"Why? There's bakeries all over this neighborhood."
"But they never leave Manhattan, these people. Red Hook is totally exotic. So that makes it like I made this big effort."
"But you did make a big effort."
"You have to invest in your future, Crystal. Don't you ever watch Suze Orman?"
Perhaps it was the massage that finally turned the tide of Amber's Barrow fortunes, for, as it happened, she was a truly gifted massage therapist, just as her sister had claimed. She offered frequent and free sessions. It was more than either woman could resist. Evan became a regular visitor at the big apartment on Central Park West, too, making faint noises of physical discomfort and twitching his shoulders (once bringing his latest girlfriend, a dancer, as well) until Amber picked up the hint and offered her help.
Both Gwen and Felicity were accustomed to a certain intimacy with the people who tended to their personal and cosmetic needs. The hair cutter, the colorist, the manicurist, the personal trainer--these were all members of a netherworld of women with whom they never would have thought to socialize, yet trusted as confidantes. Amber benefited from that familiarity and comfort. She fitted herself into the family as someone not quite an equal, and so not a threat, but she was not quite a servant, either.
Gwen began to ask Amber to join her for lunch, to go on shopping trips for maternity clothes. Amber stood in for Ron as her coach a few times at her birthing classes. They even went away for a weekend to a spa. Crystal accompanied them sometimes, but she was in hot pursuit of an insurance broker she'd met at a club.
"Crystal, he's very bridge-and-tunnel, okay? Just don't bring him around the Barrows."
"Why? You don't think they would like him?"
Amber laughed.
"Yeah, I know," Crystal said. "Hey, have you noticed that Evan pays a lot of attention to me? I think he might be hot for me."
Amber rolled her eyes. "Dream on. Anyway, you're better off with the B&T guy."
"Yeah. We go to really good clubs. Of course, you don't care about clubs anymore, being engaged."
"True," Amber said. "I have priorities." Then: "Which clubs?"
17
On a warm spring day when even the hard, cracked earth surrounding the cottage offered itself up as welcoming and full of promise, Miranda received the news that she was officially bankrupt.
The call came from her lawyer in the mid-morning sunlight as she sat on the concrete steps with a cup of coffee. Her cell phone rang, an artificial chirp, a vibration in the back pocket of her jeans.
"Hello, Brian."
"Hello, Miranda," said her lawyer.
Silence. A robin raised its head from a patch of crabgrass and turned one bead of an eye at her.
"Bad news?" she asked.
"Sorry, Miranda."
"The Miranda Weissmann Literary Agency is now in bankruptcy, officially?"
"Again, I'm terribly, terribly sorry."
"So it's over?"
"Well no. I explained this all to you. You still have creditors. Any money you earn from previous properties . . ."