I turned the knob and pushed open the door, letting go and waiting, almost counting to three before stepping inside.
The laundry room looked like a newfangled Maytag commercial, bright and uncluttered with glistening stainless steel appliances, but no evidence dirty laundry had ever been there. The boot racks had been abandoned for summer and the cubbies were bare, save for some dangling goggles and headphones. To the right, the family room was neutral and calm with a sectional sofa that looked like a chunky toddler puzzle. Warmth emanated from the room, with its decorative pillows and chenille throws, its oversized chair and nearby stacks of books. The outside of the house was stark, yet alluring. The inside was pristine yet cozy.
Just a few steps up and to the left and I knew I’d land in Josie’s kitchen. Voices and footsteps drifted toward me and kept me at bay. I’d expected an empty house, and to help Josie set up whatever one sets up for a book club—unread books, themed snacks, kitschy cocktails. I thought I’d help her greet the guests, and ease myself into a comfortable spot within the group.
Josie bounded in with a swish of shopping bags and slipped her hand into mine. She swung our arms back and forth as if we were grade-school chums again.
“It’s like riding a bike,” she said. “Let’s go.”
“Everybody might not be as excited to see me as you were.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re Teddi Lerner.”
Josie tugged me right into the kitchen and launched me at a crowd of women I hadn’t seen in years. The women buzzed with enthusiasm, moving en masse like a hive of busy bees.
“Look who’s here,” someone said. “It’s Teddi!”
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said.
“Oh, nonsense!” The voice seemed to emanate from the group. “You know how we operate … if it’s the same day, you’re not late.”
Everyone hushed, inhaled a collective deep breath, and then broke out in a litany of Teddis and welcomes and hugs. I’d grown accustomed to crowds, but not to being the focus of their attention.
My racing heart slowed, my shoulders eased. I released Josie’s hand to offer a hug.
These women were the friends I’d left behind.
I knew everyone used the word “friends” indiscriminately these days. I tried not to, always arranging people into sections in my head and roping them off. But these women were more than acquaintances. Much more. We’d grown up together. We knew the names of each other’s childhood pets and signed our high school yearbooks with secret symbols and X’s and O’s. We shared milestones (their weddings, their children) and had a common history.
But now these were women whom I followed on social media but rarely checked in on with a phone call or personal e-mail. I liked them. I was interested in what they said when they said it, but didn’t necessarily need or want details. Was that a friend? A friendly acquaintance? An old friend? A former friend? A potential friend?
The difference was critical to me.
I never craved minutiae, except from Celia. With Annie everything circled around work. For me and Simon, our banter was pointed and precise.
“You’re doing great,” Josie whispered. “It’s just us. Relax.”
All I had to do was step in and take my place, so, I breathed deep. I helloed and hugged. I smiled and nodded. I behaved as if this was normal. Fake it till you make it. I wasn’t faking it, exactly; I was making it real. Because that’s what Celia would have done. I could only see her, feel her, know her, this way, here. In Chance. And I’d left and stayed away. Maybe the particles of healing existed here alongside pain, not separate from it, with these women and in this town. With Shay. With Miles. And with Beck, if I was being honest. Even in the dashes of memories shared with Cameron on the swing.
Celia hadn’t thought about that when she insisted I leave, so I couldn’t blame her.
Yet sometimes I did.
Chapter 10
CHANCE HAD NOT HEARD of the “small plates” culinary movement, so I loaded up: mini sandwiches piled with corned beef and coleslaw, tuna, and egg salad; kugel, sweet and firm (no raisins); apricot rugelach, flakey and firm, but soft to bite.
Try this. Try that. Not enough. Save room for more.
Chance residents shared a proud heritage of overfeeding. Today, these women, the Wagoneers as they were lovingly called, were upholding grand tradition. The Chance Women’s Welcome Wagon started over a hundred years ago, when its job was to welcome new Jewish families to town. Nowadays, there weren’t many new families in Chance, so the Wagoneers showed up at every shiva and simcha with appropriate amounts of food, armed with either sympathy or celebration. Thankfully, my visit seemed to fall into the joy category. But it was strange to see that the Wagoneers were now my age and not my mother’s.
Somewhere between my greeting and dessert, I was no longer an outsider. Lydia was talking about her master’s thesis. Ellen told us about her husband’s health scare. Katie’s daughter had started medical school. Josie showed us Instagram photos of her son’s summer travels, and, slowly at first, Samantha admitted she and her husband were in counseling. We all listened.
I had always wanted the best for these women, for their husbands and children, their careers and dreams. But I hadn’t wondered much about them. When I traveled I didn’t see tchotchkes that would make them laugh or jewelry that could make them tear up. Not the way I still did with Celia, my parents, Shay—even Beck.
But these women were shedding my defenses faster than I could gather them.
“When do you talk about the book?” I asked.
Everyone laughed.
“Next time, we’ll talk about the book,” Josie said.
“That’s what we always say.” The words came from each person at different intervals, in different tones.
“So, what’s it like living in fancy hotels?”
“It’s nice,” I said. “Lots of perks.” Like not paying a mortgage or rent.
“Like a laundry service.”
“And room service.”
“And cabana boys!”
“Cabana boys call me ‘ma’am,’” I said.
The women laughed.
“I read the article.”
“Is your boss as hot as he is in those pictures?”
“He is very handsome.” I stuffed my mouth with a forkful of chopped liver, then swallowed. “He has a reputation of being a bit of a recluse, but he’s not. He’s very friendly to his staff and the guests. He’s very hands-on.” A smile pressed against the inside of my cheeks.
“Hands-on what exactly?”
Everyone giggled.
“Have you spent a lot of time with him?”
“Of course she has, she’s like, in charge of everything.”
“Not everything. Just event photography.”
“And Simon photography.”
I laughed. “I suppose.”
“So how well do you know him? My sister just got divorced,” Katie said.
“I’ll be sure to tell him.” I left the table and helped myself to another mini tuna sandwich.
After that, the conversation drifted away from me and on to the food, frantic summer schedules, and the latest episodes of Real Housewives of Anywhere.