Goodnight Beautiful Read online

  “Juiciest thing someone’s talked about,” Sam says contemplatively. “Probably an orange.”

  They both stare at him a moment, silent, and then burst into laughter. Sidney slaps his arm. “You’re still as charming as ever, Sam.”

  “Isn’t he though?” Annie’s back by his side. Sam slips an arm around her, relieved.

  “Congratulations on nailing down Mr. Least Likely to Commit,” Sidney says.

  “No, that wasn’t Sam,” Becky corrects her. “That was Mike Hammill. Sam was voted Class Heartbreaker. Right, Sam?”

  “That’s right,” he says, aware of Annie’s gaze. “And don’t forget prom king, two years in a row.”

  “Oh please,” Annie says under her breath.

  “What’s it like being married to a therapist?” Sidney asks, addressing Annie. “He must read you like a book.”

  “Yes, he does,” Annie says. “But one of those books where the woman is crazy and you can’t trust a thing she says.”

  They’re interrupted by the sound of someone clinking a glass, and the crowd begins to disperse, moving toward the front of the room, where the candidate is poised to speak. “Listen, there’s a bunch of us who get together sometimes,” Sidney says, in a hushed tone. “Dinner Club, we call it. Mandy, Ash. You remember them, Sam.”

  Sam nods, though he hasn’t the faintest idea who she means.

  “You should join us.”

  “That’d be fun,” Annie says. “Sam will bake cookies.”

  The women smile and walk away, toward the candidate, who is calling for people’s attention. Sam reaches for his drink, seeing the expression on Annie’s face. “What?” he whispers.

  “‘Probably an orange’?”

  “You heard that?” he asks, smirking.

  “Yes, I heard that.”

  “It was funny.”

  She rolls her eyes again and walks past him, toward a guy with a tray of champagne. “Okay, heartbreaker. Whatever you say.”

  Chapter 8

  Sam is at work, and I am in a five-star mood.

  The Mumble Twins had a major breakthrough during their session this morning, and I couldn’t be happier. Mumbly Wife wanted to spend the summer in Spain, but Mumbly Husband took a job without telling her. A freelance design gig for Apple (at least I think that’s what he said; the two of them talk like they’ve got marbles in their mouths). He couldn’t turn it down, and it led to a big fight, which led them to an appointment with Sam at ten o’clock this morning and the realization of a harmful and long-standing dynamic between them. It’s related to how critical Mumbly Husband’s mother was, and it’s too much to get into, but between their good news and the crisp scent of autumn in the air, I am in a fabulous mood.

  I can hardly remember the early days anymore, those first weeks after moving here, when I wondered if I’d made a terrible mistake, agreeing to this whole situation. Moving into a money pit of a house. Giving up the city for this place. Chestnut Hill, NY, where every day feels like Wednesday.

  But if Wednesday is going to be anything like this past Wednesday, I am all for it. That’s the day I pulled out of Farrell’s at 1:00 p.m. with a trunk full of groceries and spotted Sam through the window of the Parlor. I parked at the bank, snuck up behind him at the bar, where he was doing the crossword puzzle and nursing a seltzer with lime. We enjoyed a quiet lunch, the fish sandwich for him, a Mediterranean sampler for me. The whole thing was so marvelously relaxed, nothing like the stress of the city, where I would never think of ordering a twenty-dollar lunch entree, not worrying about a thing in the world. Until I lied to Sam again.

  Not for the first time, he asked if I had given any more thought to my long-term plans, and while he did his best to keep any judgment from his voice, I could sense the underlying message. Are you ever going to do something useful with your days? I hate feeling stupid, and so I lied. “Funny you should ask,” I said. “I just so happened to accept a volunteer position today. I was planning on telling you at happy hour.”

  Tour guide at the Chestnut Hill Historical Society, I said, all smiles. I’d been thinking about volunteering for some time (somewhat true), and, on a whim, went to the organization’s website (less true, but not out of the question). I saw the volunteer posting and decided to apply (patently false).

  Sam was polite enough not to point out what we both know is true: I am exceedingly overqualified for this (fake) volunteer opportunity. But we agreed it was something to do, and to be honest, I’ve been enjoying the image of myself leading a busload of old biddies from Boston up and down Main Street, pointing out all the shops under new management, necessary amenities for the recent settlers from the city. Mid-century floor lamps. Farmhouse dining tables. Eighteen-dollar hamburgers that don’t have the decency to come with a side of fries.

  And while lying to Sam is a terrible habit, there are worse things for me than getting into the shower and out of the house two hours a day, three times a week (that’s my schedule, subject to change). I’ve made a list of the cultural destinations I plan to visit on the hours I need to be out of the house, making the most of this lie, starting right now, at three o’clock on a lovely Wednesday afternoon, my first day on the “job”: the Chestnut Hill Historical Society. It is, after all, only fitting that I start here, and my spirits are high when I pull into the parking lot in front of the little white house. Built in 1798, it houses a collection of pieces from when Chestnut Hill was a thriving center of brick manufacturing, a display of artifacts from the Civil War, and a permanent exhibit on the Lawrences, the town’s founding family.

  I park beside the only other car in the lot, a dark-brown Buick, and climb the three rickety steps. The bald man behind the desk looks genuinely surprised to see me. “Help you?”

  “Yes, I’m here to view the permanent exhibit.” I hold up the paper I’d printed from the website. “The Lawrences: Chestnut Hill’s Founding Family.” I can’t resist leaning forward to offer a bit of advice. “This title? You might want to suggest something a little more inspired.”

  “Second floor,” he says, blank-faced. “Elevator’s broken, use the stairs.”

  “Thank you.” I take the stairs two at a time, excited to learn more about this family whose house I occupy—chemical magnates, building a fortune off polluting the earth, their efforts memorialized here on the second floor: thirty-two foam-core panels that could use a good dusting.

  I start at the beginning. James Michael Lawrence, made his money in oil before turning to chemicals.

  Philip, big patron of the arts.

  Martin, invested in newspapers, and his wife Celeste.

  I feel like I know them all intimately, having worked my way through most of Agatha Lawrence’s papers. James’s bout with scarlet fever. Martin’s nagging colitis. Philip’s work to bring prohibition to Green County.

  Of course, it’s Agatha who intrigues me the most.

  People here think they knew her: the single sixty-seven-year-old woman who died alone; the poor spinster up on the hill. But that wasn’t her at all. In fact, she may be the most interesting woman I’ve ever come across. Yesterday, in between patients, I found her journals, and the portrait that is emerging is truly fascinating. She was brazenly independent and smart, part of the first class of women admitted to Princeton in 1969. After leaving for college, she rarely spoke to the others in her family, all of them staunch conservatives. A textile designer, she traveled the world, most of the time alone. Her work was exhibited in galleries in New York and London, and she was living with a woman in San Francisco when she got news her father had died. She knew this day was coming, that she’d become the sole heir of the Lawrence estate, and she returned to Chestnut Hill, to the family house, where she surprised everyone by selling the company and using most of the proceeds to buy large swaths of land that she put into a trust, making amends for her family’s role as the worst polluter in New York State for several decades.

  “Spitfire,” that’s what my dad called women like her, and
it was not meant as a compliment. Too ambitious and brash. But I’m enamored. There’s a photograph at the end of the exhibit of her in front of an easel set up in the living room of the house, along with a caption: “Agatha Lawrence died in the Lawrence House at the age of sixty-seven. She was the last surviving member of the family.” I stand in front of it for a long time, transfixed by the curious expression on her face, the bright red hair; wondering if she felt afraid the day she died, alone in her study.

  The alarm on my watch chimes loudly, my reminder that happy hour with Sam starts in forty-five minutes. I head for the door, eager to go home and see him. He’ll want to hear all about my day.

  Chapter 9

  Sam takes a step forward in line, giddy, the paperwork signed by his mother on Rushing Waters letterhead tucked under his arm. There’s one bank teller—a girl in her twenties with auburn curls and a face full of freckles. She chews her bottom lip as she waits for the woman at the counter to fish her ATM card out of her wallet. Sam shifts back and forth, impatient. The bell rings. He steps forward and clears his throat.

  “I’m here to close an account and place it in my name. I have this document—” He slides the letter toward her.

  “I can help you with that,” she says, shooting him a bright smile. He keeps his eyes on her face, away from her blouse, where the buttons are battling it out in a magnificent tug-of-war across her breasts. Don’t do it, Sam. Don’t look down. She scans the paperwork, turns to her keyboard. “You got your Halloween costume ready?” she asks, her long pink fingernails click-clacking across her keyboard.

  Sam smiles, the response he would have once offered on the tip of his tongue. No, but I like yours. Hot bank teller. Very clever.

  “Not yet,” he says instead. In his mind he’s already on his way to the Parlor, where he’s scheduled to meet Annie in twenty minutes. She doesn’t know that the letter arrived. She wasn’t home when the mail came, and he opened the letter standing at the mailbox, feeling the weight lifting. Finally. A letter was included from a physician on staff, saying he had deemed Margaret of sound mind. Relieved, Sam went inside and wrote checks to the credit card companies before calling the Parlor to reserve the table in the back and a bottle of the 2009 Château Palmer Margaux with notes of graphite and licorice and a $150 price tag.

  Sam reaches for a mini Snickers from the bowl next to the cup of pens as a piece of paper shoots out of the printer. The girl sets it down in front of him. He feels obscenely awkward; surely she’s not accustomed to people walking in here worth $2 million. But her expression is immobile, and he has to hand it to her. She’s a real pro.

  “Okay,” she says with a wink when he finishes signing. “You want this in cash?”

  He laughs. “Definitely. Maybe you can dump it all into a few large trash bags?”

  She laughs along and then hesitates, unsure. “You serious? You want cash?”

  “No,” he says. “Cashier’s check is fine.”

  She taps the keyboard again as he feels a rise of excitement.

  “All set,” the girl says, sliding a check toward him.

  $274.18.

  “This isn’t right.” He looks up at her, panic surging through his body like a jolt of adrenaline. “It’s um . . . more.”

  She returns to the screen. “Let me see.” She traces a finger down the screen, checking the tally. “Sorry, you’re right.” He exhales, relieved. “I should have explained that we recently started charging four dollars to close an account. Wish there was something I could do, but it’s programmed in here automatically.” She leans forward and lowers her voice. “Banks, man. They sure do know how to screw the little guy. Anyway, that explains the discrepancy.” She shoots him a bright smile. “Anything else we can help you with today? We’re offering a pretty good deal on a new Visa.”

  “No, I think that’s it,” he says, his voice wobbly.

  “Well, thank you for banking at NorthStar, and oh—here.” She pulls a Tootsie Pop from a drawer and slides it to him. “It’s my birthday. I’m giving these out.”

  “Thank you.” He takes the lollipop and turns around, barely making it to a chair in the waiting area. He’s having a hard time breathing and his palms are tingly and he has to remind himself that the impending sense of death isn’t real. He’s experiencing the symptoms of a panic attack. Which is unnecessary, because there’s an explanation for this. There has to be. Another account with a different number, maybe. Something in his father’s name.

  “Tell me that isn’t Sam Statler.” It’s a man’s voice, coming from behind him. Not now. He turns around.

  Crush Andersen. Class of 1993. All-star linebacker, known for taking Joey Amblin’s dare and downing six liters of Orange Crush at a field party after they lost the state finals. “How you doing, man?” Crush says, slapping Sam’s hand and pulling him in for an awkward hug.

  “I’m good, Crush, I’m good.” Except for a serious concern that he’s about to vomit.

  “Yeah, man?” Crush says. “What’s happening?”

  “Oh, you know,” he says. “Same old same old.” Sam doesn’t know why he says this, other than it’s what he expects a guy like Crush is used to hearing when he asks this question, and then Crush is telling him how the other day Jesse Alter came in, and what is this, some sort of class reunion at NorthStar Community Bank? Sam tries his best to feign attention—three years as assistant branch manager, six as a volunteer EMT for the fire department—but he needs to focus on keeping his lunch down. “What about you?” Crush lowers his voice and curls his lip. “Your dad still with the Sports Illustrated model?”

  “It was Talbots,” Sam says. “And no, that didn’t last. Listen, Crush.” Sam takes Crush by the elbow. “Any chance you can check and see if there’s an account here under his name? Ted Statler.”

  “Sorry, buddy, not authorized to share that information,” Crush says, then leans in close and winks. “But why don’t we go discuss it in my corner suite?” He leads Sam to a small glass cubicle and sits down behind the desk, gesturing for him to take a seat on a hard plastic chair. Crush pecks at the keyboard as Sam tells himself it’s going to be okay. His mother made a mistake. The account is not in her name, it’s in his father’s. It’s—

  “Nope,” Crush says. “No account for any Statler except your mom.”

  “All right then.” Sam smacks his thighs. “Thanks for the help.”

  “Nice to see you, man. And listen, dude. A bunch of us might go watch the game this weekend. You should come. You’re not too good for us, are you, Stats?”

  His legs feel weak as he stands. “No, Crush. No way, man. Of course I’m not.”

  Chapter 10

  I’m in the bath, a chorus of bubbles popping at my neck, a chill in my bones. Everything is cold. The air, the water, Sam.

  Three days now he’s been in a state. Grouchy, short, showing exactly zero interest in my (fake) volunteer position. I thought he’d be at least a little curious to hear about the interesting pieces of trivia I picked up as the town’s newly anointed resident expert, but I got barely a half-hearted grunt the other morning when I asked him if he knew that in 1797, Chestnut Hill came within one vote of being named the state capital. And then the incident with the Post-it note. It was stuck to the front door, neon-green paper and fat Sharpie letters so I’d be sure to see it on my way out. Can you move your car up. Patients need room.

  That’s it. Not even the common decency of proper punctuation. It wouldn’t have been that big a deal if that note hadn’t basically been our only communication all day, as apparently he also wasn’t in the mood for happy hour. (A headache, he claimed. I recommended two glasses of water and a good night’s sleep, choosing to stay silent on the fact that his headache probably had something to do with the two cans of beer I heard him open downstairs, where he stayed for an hour after the Somber Superintendent of Schools left, forlorn as usual, at five thirty.) It pains me to say it, but it’s a side of him I haven’t seen before, and which I don’t pa
rticularly like: trudging around, all Eeyore-eyed.

  But too bad. I’ve decided I’m not going to allow Sam’s crankiness to get me down.

  Reasons to Remain Happy Despite Sam’s Mood: A List in Descending Order

  It’s true what they say: hard work pays off, because as of yesterday morning, I am the fifteenth-ranked reviewer on Amazon (suck it, Lola from Pensacola!).

  It’s been raining all morning, and surely no fake tour takers are going to show up at my fake job, allowing me a well-earned afternoon of self-care, leading me to the top item on my list, the best reason of all to stay on the bright side:

  President Josiah Edward Bartlet, the essence of humility.

  The West Wing, my god. It’s Sam’s all-time favorite show, and now I can see why. I have never seen it, and I decided to turn it on this morning after he went to work, take a look at the pilot. Three hours later I couldn’t be any more invested in the conflict between Jed Bartlet the president and Jed Bartlet the man. I’m going to cheer Sam up with the news at happy hour tonight. I did it, I watched season 1. You’re right, it’s genius.

  I pull the plug in the bathtub and stand up, my skin prickling in the cold air as I reach for the towel, reminding myself that whatever is going on with Sam probably has nothing to do with me. After all, it’s not only me he’s being weird around, it’s them, too: our patients. Distracted, unfocused. Yesterday’s one o’clock was a new woman named Pamela—a therapist herself from twenty miles east, thinking of sending her troubled son to boarding school. Twice he called her Marlene before she corrected him, and I could feel all three of us cringing through the remaining thirty-two minutes of the session.

  I brush my hair in the mirror, noticing the gray, reminding myself to take care of that. It’s a fear of mine: coming here and letting myself go, just like a local. I should try something bold—bright red, maybe, like Agatha Lawrence. I found four boxes of her hair color—Nice’n Easy in Flaming Red—in the bathroom closet, and I’m thinking I’d look good as a redhead as I go to the window and thumb away a circle of mist, checking in on Sidney, the friendly neighbor. The Pigeon, as I’ve come to call her, like those annoying birds that can’t take a hint. She’s everywhere: Hi neighbor!-ing from behind the potato chip display in the middle of the produce section; strolling across the bridge with that weird-looking dog two days ago, as Sam happened to be on his way out of work, stopping to say hello, all doe-eyed.