At what point would her mother be proud of Phoebe’s choices? Dear Lord, they stood in a house on the fucking water. Neither she nor Jake had passed the age of thirty, and they had the money to spend for a Tabatabai Tabriz rug in their huge family room. For Lola’s last birthday, Phoebe and Jake had given her an Ebel watch.
“Be careful with that tone, missy. Someday you’ll be on the other side, and that voice will bounce right back at you.” Her mother tipped her head toward the living room. “God and your daughter are listening.”
“God should worry about more than my jokes.”
“Trust me, he worries. About everything and everyone, including your husband. All Jake talked about during the ride—with me stuck in the backseat while his buddy sat up front like a king—was who owned what boat and who had a driver and who bought what house.”
The “buddy” was Ollie Howard. He and his wife—not Phoebe’s best friend, by any measure—lived next door. Of course, “next door” in Greenwich hardly meant sugar-borrowing close.
“Plus, he made me take the train from Brooklyn to his office.”
“So you said. Twice. He offered to pay for a cab, Mom.”
“What? Your father and I can’t afford a taxi?”
“What’s your point?”
“My point? A son-in-law looks out for his mother-in-law. You think Daddy would ask Grandma—may she rest in peace—to schlep into Manhattan by train? Or to take a filthy taxi with some stranger yakking at her the whole way?”
Phoebe put on a concerned expression as she waited for her mother’s motor to run down.
“What kind of men cackle over boats like women over jewelry?” Lola touched her fingers to her temples as though trying to contain her shock at the men’s antics.
“I very much doubt Ollie or Jake cackled.” Phoebe took hold of the banister and once again glanced up the stairs.
“Oh, trust me. They cackled like witches. Your husband has you wrapped up like a mummy. Jake said this! Jake did that! Did you start your knippel? Must I remind you every week?”
“Again with the knippel. Does it seem like I need to hide cash?” Phoebe gestured around the house, sweeping in the oversized windows highlighting the view. The foyer where they stood could fit Deb’s Brooklyn kitchen, dining room, and living room. Why did her mother think she needed to keep a cache of money like an old woman in a shtetl?
Phoebe’s mother kept her own knippel in an old white pot on top of the cabinets. She’d showed the girls her hiding spot at the same time she whispered the secret passed down from mother to daughter each generation. Deb had been sixteen at the time, Phoebe fourteen, when they learned about the custom of women keeping a secret stash of money.
“Listen to me,” Mom had said. “You know I love Daddy.”
But? Mom’s wisdom was usually prefaced with a but.
“Daddy’s a good man—the best man—but he trusts everyone too much,” she said. “I worry about you girls. You need to keep your eyes open. Don’t be a schlemiel.”
The implication being that Daddy was a schlemiel and people took advantage of him. Deb and Phoebe would nod—unwilling to risk their mother’s cutting remarks—and then go in their room and pinky swear that they’d never be pinched and distrustful like that. They wouldn’t knock down their husbands or roll their eyes behind their backs.
Nevertheless, hide dollar bills they did. Mom made them absolutely swear, on her grave, may they rot in hell if they disobeyed, to always have their own money. No woman should be so dependent that she can’t buy a loaf of bread, a bottle of milk, or go to the beauty parlor without a man’s goodwill.
Phoebe hoarded a bit of cash as she’d promised, but irritation at her mother’s attitude toward Jake kept her from admitting it.
“I’ve told you this a hundred times. The future is shrouded. Nobody can lift that veil. Look, your father is an angel. Truly, sometimes I don’t know how he puts up with me. Who needs to hide money less than me, right? But my mother told me to make a knippel, and so I did. Thank you, God, in the end, I used the knippel to surprise your father with a cruise to Jamaica, and not a divorce lawyer like some woman after her husband beat her half to death.”
“We can afford ten cruises, and Jake would never hurt me. So we’re okay on all fronts.” Phoebe crossed her arms and rolled her eyes.
Katie began crying, but Lola blocked Phoebe from rushing to her. “I’ll go. You wait here for your wonderful husband. Who, no, I don’t think will beat you. He’s not the type. But marriage means watching out for all sorts of troubles. Sure, you think he’s the greatest thing since sliced bread, but trust me, he’s the sneaky kind. When I turn out to be totally off the mark, a blessing on your head.”
? ? ?
A shocking ring of color circled the dance floor. Bright yellow linens decorated with psychedelic orange daisies concealed the wooden tabletops. Fuchsia glass jars of deceptively simple zinnias—from the most expensive florist in town—served as centerpieces. The staid fund-raising committee had chosen the Broadway show Hair as the theme, honoring the wildly popular musical as it worked overtime to attract a younger crowd.
Perhaps in reaction to feeling ancient at twenty-eight in this Age of Aquarius, perhaps wanting to catch Jake’s eye, Phoebe wore a stoplight-red halter dress slit almost to her waist, in direct contrast with most other women in the room, who chose flowing faux-hippie fashions. The slash up the side along with staggeringly uncomfortable high heels showed off her shapely legs.
“Don’t forget to talk to Joan Frankel.” Jake lifted a light-colored bourbon and water from the gleaming bar. After finishing the drink, he locked fingers with her. “And by the way, I’d love to take you to bed right this minute. That’s just how steamy you look. Anyway, Joan’s husband’s loaded, but he won’t do a thing without her. He owns a chain of tire stores.”
She didn’t want to let go of his hand. “So I look okay?”
Jake eyed her from top to bottom, backing away and crossing his arms as though taking in the entire view. “Like I said: sexy as all hell. Red’s a good color for you. The dress is almost perfect, but it’s cut a little low. Not for me. I love provocative. Money likes conservative.”
“Are you in charge of making the next Mr. Blackwell list for best dressed? How about I dress like Queen Elizabeth? Should I carry a little white handbag and wear pink lipstick?”
“Phoebe. You’re more beautiful than any woman here. Which would be fantastic if you were working on the men, but it’s the wives you’re after tonight. But make sure you wear that dress next time we go dancing.”
“When’s the last time we went out dancing?” she asked.
He raised his eyebrows and held out a hand. Sometimes Phoebe forgot just how sexy he could be. “How about right now?”