She took a long breath before answering her daughter. God likely wired two-year-olds with grating voices so that parents couldn’t ignore them, and then added shots of big-eyed lovability to prevent those same parents from throwing them into traffic.
“Lower your voice, honey,” Phoebe said. “Mommy needs to get dressed, but if you’re a good girl I’ll let you play with something special.” Phoebe handed Katie a powder puff and a closed lipstick cylinder, confident Katie didn’t possess the motor skills to uncap the tube. “Pretend you’re going to a party. Just like Mommy.”
Katie grabbed the forbidden treasure and then raced away, crouching from view so the prizes wouldn’t be taken from her. Phoebe had to finish dolling up before Jake rushed in—her babysitting mother in tow—ready to take a three-minute shower, step into a fresh suit, and leave.
“Katie pretty, Mama?” She fluffed whatever particles of powder remained on the puff over her face and made a moue of her lips.
Apple.
Tree.
Katie.
Phoebe.
“You’re the smartest, strongest little girl in the world.” She and her still-best-friend, Helen, prayed that their daughters might grow up with a greater lust for doctorates than wedding rings. Jake rolled his eyes at the tiny trucks and sturdy blocks Phoebe bought, but she wanted her girl to reach for everything.
Katie stamped her foot as she continued tugging at the lipstick cap.
“Say ‘pretty,’ Mama!” Katie imitated Jake’s stubborn inflection down to a frightening degree. “Katie is pretty!”
“Yes. You’re pretty. More important, you’re smart, and you’re strong.”
Katie shook her head as though educating her mother had become a full-time job. Phoebe resumed matching her face to a recent Vogue cover, trying for a similar wash of a monochromatic complexion contrasting with focused drama on the eyes.
Left to her own devices, she went for simplicity, but Jake insisted she “gussy up” when they went fishing for clients—an expression she despised. Each time he said the words, her lips curled in till she felt the blood leave, imagining herself a sharp-hooked liar reeling in a guppy.
Phoebe assured her husband daily that she understood the psychology he used to grow the Club side of JPE. At first, she’d been insecure about her ability to follow his orders, but he reminded her that they were creating a family business. Doing her share meant building interest for him. He’d schooled her in how to present the Club: always talk about JPE in a sideways manner, subtly working the conversation to the topic—as though the words popped out despite yourself. Eventually, she had not only gotten good at the game but also enjoyed her performance.
“Jake hates when I reveal anything about his sideline,” she’d murmur. “He does love the science of investment. Sometimes I think the Club’s more for him than anyone else—he finds the work fascinating, playing around with formulas and strategies he’s devised. He won’t even tell me the details. He calls it using the Pierce Principles for his secret sauce.”
Followed by:
“Don’t mention investing to Jake. He won’t talk about the fund, he only does—”
At this stage in the conversation, Jake mandated shaking her head as though discouraging them.
“Look, it’s better if you just give me your phone number, and I’ll have his girl get in touch if you really want. Trust me, he’s not going to talk to you directly about this,” she’d say. “Anything else—he loves talking about boats since we moved to the ocean—but not this. You’ll hear from his girl, and she’ll give you a yes or a no.
“Just between us? Sometimes I think the decision is all about what mood he’s in when she approaches him.”
The “girl” translated to Gita-Rae, and what she did with the information, Phoebe didn’t know or care. Supposedly, Phoebe’s routine increased the client base mightily, and in the end, her act helped everyone:
Jake got more clients.
The Club made more money.
Clients benefited from Jake’s principles.
Nobody lost money with the Club. Steady soup beat a sizzling pan every time, Jake said.
“Bring Mommy the lipstick, honey.” Phoebe examined herself. She’d rimmed her eyes in deep chocolate, separated her lashes into fans of black with tips of gold, and burnished her skin with illuminators until her complexion appeared suffused with pale incandescence. Still, no matter how lovely the effect, she doubted the result was worth an hour of her time or wrestling with Katie.
“No,” Katie said. “Mine.”
“No, honey. Not yours. Mine.” She leaned in closer to the mirror and shook her head. Sparkly gold earrings reflected her shine. Phoebe practiced a sensuous smile, appreciating her sexy image. Black waves spilled over one shoulder; she’d grown out her Jackie O bouffant. Too bad they weren’t going to a hotel instead of the country club.
When she listened to her friends, Phoebe realized she didn’t have much company in her attitude toward the bedroom. Just last week, Helen had admitted that between her daughter’s constant demands and working, she never felt like having sex. Not Phoebe. Jake’s success excited her, which in turn frightened her. She saw how his stupid crooked grin attracted women; how they brushed up against him. The aura of money drew them.
“Give me the lipstick, Katie. Now!”
Katie threw the heavy tube, hitting Phoebe in the thigh. Yes, two-year-olds had been put on this earth to test you.
Thank God for her mother providing breaks as often as she did. Lola might drive Phoebe nuts, but Jake and Phoebe trusted that Katie would live through the hours spent with Grandma Lola. The child’s safety with Jake’s mother? Not such a given. The last time they had left Katie with Nan, they had returned to find his mother sprawled out asleep in front of Johnny Carson while Katie rearranged cigarette butts in the ashtray.
They’d never invited Grandma Nan to babysit again, limiting her time with Katie to family functions—all of which were now held at their house.
Because they had the biggest house.
Because they had the water view.
Because being in Brooklyn depressed Jake.
Helen’s mother’s funeral had been their last trip back together, with Jake’s attendance in question until the last minute. Phoebe had been ready to take the train and drop Katie at Lola’s house, but after finding out how many of the old crowd would show up, Jake decided to go.
She’d like to think Jake wanted to please her, but driving down the Hutchinson River Parkway, he’d instructed her, once again, on dropping hints about the Club.
? ? ?
“Guess what he talked about the whole drive?” Her mother stood in her hallmark inquisition pose, arms crossed over her chest with her chin thrust out.
“Murder? Mayhem? Sex? Tell me, Mom. What offended you?” Phoebe glanced up the stairs, anxious for Jake’s appearance.