The Captain's Daughter

She had chosen the dress she would wear to the gala: an Ulla Johnson corded Japanese satin blouson dress in marigold. The Cleo dress, it was called. Not everyone could pull off marigold, but, with her natural skin tone plus the extra sun she’d gotten over the past couple of weeks, Deirdre could. (Sheila would never be able to pull off marigold.) Deirdre thought that the dress color would serve as a nice homage to Africa. She wouldn’t do anything more obvious than that. Well, maybe some ruby earrings and a touch of green around her neck.

Though the gala was still weeks away, she had secured a mani-pedi appointment for the day before at Nails! Nails! Nails! and a hair appointment with Shonda, her stylist at Luxe, in downtown Barton, for the morning of. Shonda had been known to nail a killer updo, though with the ruffle collar of the Cleo Deirdre thought wearing her hair down and ironed silk-straight might be the way to go. Or maybe soft curls would be better. Not that the EANY kids would or should care how Deirdre wore her hair to the gala. Get over yourself, Deirdre. Keep your mind on the task at hand.

But her mind kept returning to seeing Rob outside of St. Matthew’s.

“It was nothing,” Rob had said, about their encounter, first in the bar, and after in the Tahoe.

She disagreed.

It was only kissing, but it wasn’t nothing. Deirdre believed in being honest. It had happened, and calling it nothing didn’t change the situation, just like putting glasses on a dog and naming the dog Professor Sparkles didn’t make the dog any smarter.

She was getting a headache. It was a guilt headache.

Lunch!

Emily Boyd was on Phase 1 of the Fast Metabolism Diet: fruits, whole grains, lean proteins. Gabby Gardner was doing Whole30: no grains, all proteins, most fruits. Sheila could eat only protein, no fruits or veggies. Just one day a week, to keep her “plan on track.” But that day happened to be today.

Holy moly.

At least Deirdre didn’t have to serve wine with lunch. Nobody was drinking during the week anymore; half the women out on the last Ladies’ Night had only had seltzer. They were all “saving their drinks” for the night of the gala.

What was she supposed to serve for lunch? Bread and water, like a prison matron? No, of course not, don’t be an idiot, Deirdre. Nobody on the decorating committee would touch bread.

Her headache got a little bit worse.

This was normally something she would have called Eliza about—Eliza never dieted; her metabolism was naturally speedy—and she and Eliza would have snickered and felt nobly superior while Eliza worked her way through a package of Junior Mints and Deirdre ate salt-and-pepper potato chips straight from the bag.

But she couldn’t call Eliza, not now, not after the encounter.

The day after the encounter, while Kristi Osgood took Sofia to the club, Deirdre had arranged for a mobile detailing of the Tahoe. The guy came right to her house with all sorts of equipment, and she sat in her office, peering out the window at him, working out her complicated feelings.

She kept thinking of Lady Macbeth, consumed by guilt and handwashing. She’d seen a production of Macbeth on a trip with her parents to Stratford-on-Avon the summer between high school and college, and the image had really stuck.

Out, damned spot!

When the mobile car detailing guy rang the doorbell to present Deirdre with the bill he said, “I prettied her up as much as I could. But really that thing was already friggin’ pristine.”

“Not really,” Deirdre had said, remembering her hand on the back of Rob’s neck. “There was a lot of, um, invisible grime. I hope you got it all.”

Out, damned spot!

Lunch! Think about the lunch.

In the end, she put an array of beautiful salad fixings in her favorite wooden bowls and laid them out along the sideboard in the dining room. She added two pounds of poached salmon she’d picked up from Whole Foods. Then, on further consideration, a bowl of hard-boiled eggs. Peeled or unpeeled? She wavered, then peeled half. To each woman, her own salad. She left fruit out of the equation altogether. Fruit was too fraught.

She was bringing into the dining room some of the materials that EANY had promised to send in time for the gala—giant blown-up photographs of the children in their dirt-floor school, a super-close-up of a beautiful Malawi girl with intricately braided hair, pierced ears, and giant crooked teeth—when her phone buzzed.

Eliza.

Out, damned spot!

She hovered her finger over the answer button. To answer or not to answer, that was the question. Obviously, a different Shakespeare play, but relevant nonetheless.

She answered.

“Hey,” said Eliza. “I’m sorry if you’re busy, with the gala. I just needed an ear.”

“I have an ear!” said Deirdre. In her mind she rubbed away the damned spot. “In fact I have two.”

“It’s just—I don’t know what to do. I want to bring my dad to Boston for treatment. He won’t even entertain the idea. He’s totally against it. I thought if I stayed here for a while I could convince him, but. He hasn’t budged.”

“Oh, Eliza.” This was what real problems looked like—this, not some messy, drunken, college-like hookup in a bar. “Oh, Eliza. I’m so sorry.”

“I think I should come home for a while, give him some space. I’m driving him crazy. And I need to see the girls.”

A river of panic coursed through Deirdre. Talking to Eliza on the phone when she was safely four hours to the north was one thing; seeing her in person was quite another.

Her brain was thinking that of course Eliza should come home and see her girls, but then all of a sudden her mouth was saying, “Oh, Eliza. Your girls are fine. I promise you. I think your dad needs you more than the girls do right now.”

Out, out, out damned spot.

“You think so?” Eliza’s voice wobbled, and Deirdre’s heart wrenched.

“I do.”

“No, you’re right. I should stay here. He does need me, even if he won’t admit it. I wish they could come up here. But I know Rob is swamped with Cabot Lodge, he can’t leave…”

Deirdre took a deep breath, swallowed her guilt and her remorse, and said, “I could bring them up to you.” She would do it. She would sacrifice the gala preparations, and she would bring the girls to Eliza. This would be her penance.

“Oh no. No, Deirdre. Thank you, but I know how much you have going on. I know this is the crucial time for the gala.”

Deirdre considered the salad bowls. She said, “Maybe you should see if your mother-in-law can bring them up to you?”

Out.

“I don’t know—”

Damned.

“Do you think Judith would do it? Really?”

Spot!

“I bet she would. And, honestly, Eliza, don’t you want the girls to see your dad now? Before, well—”

“Before it’s too late,” Eliza filled in.

“Well, yes.”

“You’re right. I’ll ask her,” Eliza said, suddenly and firmly. “What else are mothers-in-law for, right? You have to be able to ask for help when you need it. Whatever our differences have been in the past. Or the present.”

“Exactly,” said Deirdre. “Exactly. But you know if she can’t do it, I will.”

“I’m going to call Judith now,” said Eliza. “I needed this talk, Deirdre. Thank you. You’re such a good friend.”

Out, damned spot.

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