Elizabeth Manwill sighed. “All right,” she said at last. “I’m tied up the next few days, but how about Thursday?”
The two women scheduled a lunch date, and Mrs. Richardson hung up the phone. She would soon have this cleared up. Poor woman, she thought, thinking of Bebe with new generosity. If she had had an abortion, who could blame her? In the middle of this custody case, with only a dead-end job, and after what she’d been through with the first. No one had an abortion without regret, she thought; abortions were an action of last resort, when there was no better option. No, Mrs. Richardson could not blame Bebe, even as she still hoped the McCulloughs kept the baby. But she can always have another, Mrs. Richardson thought, once she gets her life together, and she propped her office door open again.
18
Mrs. Richardson’s benevolent mood toward Bebe lasted until her lunch date with Elizabeth Manwill.
“Betsy,” she said as she was buzzed into the office on Thursday. “It’s been way too long. When did we last get together?”
“I can’t remember. Holiday party last year, maybe. How are the kids?”
Mrs. Richardson took a moment to brag: Lexie’s plans for Yale, Trip’s latest lacrosse game, Moody’s good grades. As usual, she glossed over the topic of Izzy, but Elizabeth didn’t notice. Until that very moment she had planned to help Elena; Elena had done so much for her, after all, and anyway, Elena Richardson never stopped until she got what she wanted. She had even gone so far as to pull up the records Elena had asked for, a list of all the patients in the past few months who’d had a procedure at the clinic; they were in a separate window on her screen, behind a budgeting spreadsheet. But now, as Elena prattled on about her marvelous children, her husband’s high-profile case, the new landscaping they planned to do in the backyard once the summer came, Elizabeth changed her mind. She had forgotten, until they were face-to-face, how Elena so often talked to her as if she were a child, as if she, Elena, were the expert in everything and Elizabeth should be taking notes. Well, she wasn’t a child. This was her office, her clinic. Out of habit she’d picked up a pen at the sight of Elena, and now she set it down.
“It’ll be strange having just three of them in the house next year,” Mrs. Richardson was saying. “And of course Bill is so frazzled about this case. You remember Linda and Mark from some of our parties, no? Linda recommended that dog sitter for you a couple of years back. We’re all hoping it’s over soon, and that they get to keep their baby for good.”
Elizabeth stood up. “Ready for lunch?” she said, reaching for her handbag, but Mrs. Richardson did not move from her seat.
“There was that one thing I wanted your advice on, Betsy,” she said. “Remember?” With one hand she pushed the door shut.
Elizabeth sat down again and sighed. As if Elena could have forgotten what she wanted. “Elena,” she said. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Betsy,” Mrs. Richardson said quietly, “one quick glance. That’s all. Just to know if there’s even anything to find out.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to help you—”
“I would never put you at any risk. I’d never use this information. This is just to see if we need to keep digging.”
“I would love to help you, Elena. But I’ve been thinking it over, and—”
“Betsy, how many times have we stuck our necks out for each other? How much have we done for one another?” Betsy Manwill, Mrs. Richardson thought, had always been timid. She’d always needed a good push to do anything, even things she wanted to do. You had to give her permission for every little thing: to wear lipstick, to buy a pretty dress, to put her hand up in class. Wishy-washy. She needed a firm hand.
“This is confidential information.” Elizabeth sat up a bit straighter. “I’m sorry.”
“Betsy. I have to admit I’m hurt. That after all these years of friendship, you don’t trust me.”
“It’s not about trust,” Elizabeth began, but Mrs. Richardson went on as if she hadn’t been interrupted. After all she’d done for Betsy, she thought. She’d nurtured her like a mother and coaxed her out of her shell and here was Betsy now, at her big desk in her posh office at the job Elena had helped her get, not even willing to grant her a little favor.
She opened her purse and drew out a gold tube of lipstick and a palm-sized mirror. “Well, you trusted my advice all through college, didn’t you? And when I told you you should come to our Christmas party all those years ago? You trusted me when I told you that you should call Derrick instead of waiting for him to call you. And you were engaged—what?—by Valentine’s Day.” With small precise strokes she traced the contours of her mouth and clicked the tube shut. “You got a husband and a child by trusting me, so I’d say trusting my judgment has worked out well for you every time before.”
It confirmed something Elizabeth had long suspected: all these years, Elena had been building up credit. Perhaps she’d honestly wanted to help, perhaps she’d been motivated by kindness. But even so, she’d been keeping a running tally of everything she’d ever done for Elizabeth, too, every bit of support she’d given, and now she expected to be repaid. Elena thought she was owed this, Elizabeth realized suddenly; she thought it was a question of fairness, about getting what she deserved under the rules.
“I hope you aren’t planning to take credit for my entire marriage,” she said, and Mrs. Richardson was taken aback at the sharpness in her voice.
“Of course I didn’t mean that—” she began.
“You know that I’ll always help you any way I can. But there are laws. And ethics, Elena. I’m disappointed that you would even ask for such a thing. You’ve always been so concerned with what’s right and wrong.” Their eyes met across the desk, and Mrs. Richardson had never seen Betsy’s gaze so clear and steady and fierce. Neither of them spoke, and in that pocket of silence, the phone on the desk rang. Elizabeth held the stare for a moment more and then lifted the receiver.