I’d like to report that I’d answered cleverly, but I was too stunned to speak. And I may also have failed to report that Brooke, by any standard, with the blond streaks in her abundantly perfect hair and dewy everything else, was exceedingly, scarily attractive.
“Saint Faith,” she spat. “The perfect coworker and . . . and”—with a sweeping gesture that took in the mess—“so organized! Okay, and smart. Well, thank you, because I left a really good job and moved here because of him and that stupid school!” And with that, she strode to the refrigerator, where I watched her root around for something that turned out to be a carton of sour cream.
I finally said, “I’m not Saint Faith, not by a long shot.”
“Oh, believe me, I know that! I’m not stupid. Do you know what he likes? Need any tips?”
Of course, I could have protested the sexual innuendo, but the inner actress I didn’t often summon said, “No, thanks. I’m doing just fine.”
Before a frosty good-bye, I added, “FYI? Applesauce should be served as well as sour cream.”
Did I even need to find Stuart for a good-bye? No. Let bratty Brooke tell him that I’d been the target of her tantrum.
I went straight to the smaller bedroom where I found my jacket and scarf buried under someone’s big raccoon coat. I was still buttoning up and arranging my outerwear in a mottled mirror when I heard “Faith?”
Reflected in the mirror was the round, hopeful, unadorned face of Rebecca, Stuart’s mother. She launched her coat across the bed, revealing a blue and white sweatshirt, decorated with a puffy dreidel, then enfolded me in a hug.
I extricated myself at the shortest possible polite interval, and said, “Happy Hanukkah.”
“Iona will be so delighted to see you. Shall we mingle?”
I said, “No, sorry, I’m leaving.”
“You can’t!”
“I have to.” And not because I was looking for sympathy but only to squeal on Brooke, I announced, “Your son’s cohostess was unaccountably rude to me after I told her who I was.”
“What did she say?”
“She called me Saint Faith—”
“Which could be taken as a compliment!”
“Believe me, it wasn’t. She was extremely sarcastic and she called Everton Country Day ‘that stupid school.’?”
“Are you quite sure she wasn’t saying it in a joking, affectionate way? Like I might say”—she pointed to the dreidel—“my wife bought me this stupid sweatshirt.’?”
“Believe me, it’s not about the school. It’s because Nick, my office-and housemate, used to be her live-in boyfriend. And it ended badly.”
“Maybe it’s just her manner,” said Rebecca. “Some people come off as cold. It’s cultural.” She whispered, “Her last name is Winthrop. And why would she invite you to her party if she disliked you?”
“She didn’t invite me. Stuart did.”
That answer seemed to make her happy. “Are you keeping in touch with him?”
“He is. I don’t answer.”
“He’s buckling down,” said Rebecca. “You know he runs our practice?”
“He told me he was your substitute receptionist.”
“Exactly. Receptionists run the world!”
I said, “I can’t stay. Say hello to Iona . . .”
“I’m sure there’s an explanation,” said Rebecca.
“For what?”
“Brooke’s lashing out.” She paused. “It could be the green-eyed monster. Stuart might have confided in her. About you, about his feelings—”
It was then that Stuart appeared in the doorway, clueless and grinning, holding two plastic glasses of eggnog. “Two of my favorite women!” he boomed. “I wondered what was taking so long in here! C’mon in. Brooke just brought out the potato latkes.”
Rebecca said, “I’ve been having a heart-to-heart with Faith.” Then, turning to me: “Do you want to tell Stuart what you felt transpired earlier?”
I said, “No, I don’t,” and to Stuart: “Gotta run. I have another party to go to.”
“C’mon,” he said. “Five more minutes. I was hoping everyone would be here for the announcement.”
“Announcement?” I repeated.
“We’re excited,” said Rebecca, beaming.
I didn’t quite leave, but stood by the front door, a mittened hand on the doorknob, listening to the breaking news. Stuart, tall and messily handsome, his walkathon tan not entirely faded, his hairline unreceded, announced in a wobbly voice, hand on heart that he, Stuart Ira Levine, had the honor of being chosen to father a child by two friends of his moms! Granted, he wouldn’t have any legal standing, but what a thrill to help two wonderful women become a family. How could he not share such happy news, which he’d just found out himself yesterday, that his enzymes had worked their magic. The baby was due in August, the very month of his own birthday! Another Leo! He raised his glass. “To the future! To a little Levine—not that he or she will have my name, but still mind-blowing. And so flattering, to be chosen over an entire sperm bank catalogue! And what better present this holiday season: to be a biological dad, even the silent kind, at forty! L’chaim!”
Except for his two moms, the most common expression on the faces of this small crowd was perplexed. Who gets excited about being a sperm donor? Surely everyone else was entertaining the same thoughts that were running through my mind. How much money changed hands for this donation, how did the job get done, and who in all of Everton, Massachusetts, was a bigger jackass than Stuart Ira Levine?
31
Table for Two
IF I WAS RACING off to anything, it was back home to regale Nick with tales of Brooke’s breathtaking rudeness. But somewhere between the party and my driveway, I thought better of that inclination. Gossip is never becoming, I reminded myself. I knew how to be diplomatic. Didn’t I engage in it daily, testifying to alums that Everton Country Day was ever so grateful for their paltry contribution or their donation of a bat, ball, and glove?
Home by eight o’clock, I found Nick in front of the TV, watching the original Miracle on 34th Street. “How was it?” he asked.
“Not great.”