"I thought you might have a suggestion about my upcoming trip to the Lord Winslow," Poppy said. Though Momma had married only Papa ("There could never be another"), she'd had her share of lovers after a mugger shot Papa as he left the 1964 World's Fair, the theme of which had been Peace through Understanding. Momma maintained that most of life was irony, anyway. "I'm going to wear a wig," Poppy continued. "I've always wanted to be a blonde."
Momma took another bite, chewed a little, then closed her eyes as if it were naptime. After a thoughtful moment, she said, "I'm not sure blonde is a good idea. The less attention you call to yourself, the better. That way if questions come up later, you won't be memorable."
Momma was a genius, no matter what people said.
"Play down your looks," Momma continued. "Wear short heels, not stilettos. Leave your big purse here and take one of my small ones. And get rid of the coral nails."
Looking down at her nails, Poppy smiled. Then she delved into her Miu Miu with glee. "Oh, Momma, you are the best. And just for that, you get a prize." She pulled out the silver call bell and held it up for inspection.
Ding-ding, ding-ding.
Momma clapped her hands and jumped up from the Queen Anne. "From the Lord Winslow?" she asked and Poppy nodded and Momma snatched it from her and flip-flopped to the grand piano, where she added it to the "hotel collection" as she called it: the creamer from the Waldorf, the salt and peppers from the St. Regis, the water pitcher from the Plaza before the place had been gutted. Some were gifts from Poppy, others Momma had collected herself; all were shiny silver, like the stars. Next to growing orchids, Momma liked looking at "her" stars.
"I must go to Yolanda's now and try on a few wigs," Poppy said, then kissed her mother's paper cheek. "But first, I'll get a small purse from Lila. I love you, sweetest Momma."
But Momma, sweet or otherwise, was now distracted by her latest acquisition and didn't seem to notice that her only child was leaving the room.
"Momma says I shouldn't attract attention," Poppy said to Yolanda, when she arrived after a quick drive to New Falls. "So I'll be a brunette after all. Do you have something nondescript?"
Yolanda frowned. "You told your mother about Elinor?"
"Well, of course. Momma won't tell anyone. She's probably forgotten already." Poppy sat down at a big round mirror and stared at her reflection. She hadn't combed her hair since they'd left for Manhattan that morning. Maybe she could get Yolanda to do a comb-through while she was there. No sense looking like a banshee in case her husband was home when she got there. Duane was so particular about the way she looked.
Ooops! For a minute, she'd forgotten he might be a blackmailer. And sleeping with Elinor.
Yolanda brushed back Poppy's hair and sealed it in a do-rag, as if Poppy belonged in a gang. Then she snapped the dial of a yellow plastic radio that sat on the counter. "Baby monitor," she said. "My daughter is upstairs asleep. Would you keep an ear out for her while I go dig up the wigs?" Without waiting for an answer, she left the room.
Poppy stared at the walkie-talkie. She wondered what she should do if sounds started coming out. She'd never really known if she'd wanted kids; if she was strong enough to endure pregnancy and childbirth, not to mention the crying and pooping and spitting up that followed, and the fact that you were totally responsible for their little lives. Yes, it was probably good that she'd never had kids. Momma said she might regret that decision in her old age, that kids were what kept you young. Alice and Elinor, however, always seemed older than Poppy.
"Hello?" a voice called out, not from the plastic device, but from behind her. She turned to see a handsome, latte-skinned man. He had wide, sturdy-looking shoulders, a crinkly face, and happy, dark eyes. His smile revealed perfect white teeth. "Is Yolanda here?"
She didn't move, not one little inch. Was he Yolanda's boyfriend? He was wearing nice pants, a short-sleeved shirt, a tie, and...a badge! Oh, no! He was a cop!
"Hello?" he said again, stepping into the shop and waving his hand.
"We're closed," Poppy replied. "It's Monday and we're closed."
He laughed. "I'm not here for a haircut." He loosened his tie, then rubbed his head. That's when she realized he was totally bald.
"Well, then, go away," Poppy said. "We haven't done anything wrong."
"Are you sure?" he asked. He kept walking toward her. She wished he wouldn't do that. The presence of policemen always made it difficult for her to breathe.
She tried to remember she'd come a long way. She sucked in her breath and slid off the chair. "Stop right where you are," she commanded, "or I'll call the police." Well, okay, so it sounded stupid. Maybe he was an imposter. These days, you couldn't be too careful.
"You must be Poppy," he said as he halted.
She tore the do-rag off her banshee hair and ran her fingers through the tangled mess.
"I'm Manny," he said, extending his hand for her to shake.
She shook. He looked older than Yolanda. Poppy had heard that Yolanda's dead husband had been older than her, too. It wasn't right for younger women to get the good ones and leave women like Poppy rummaging through the scraps.
Oh, wait! Why should she care? She was married to Duane!
Manny pressed his firm hand into hers. It occurred to her that she might gladly turn Duane over to Yolanda if she could have this one for herself.
"I'm Veronica," she said, but even as she said it, the name sounded foreign to her ears. She worked up a little smile. "Everyone calls me Poppy."
"I thought it must be you," he said, his eyes staying on her a moment, his hand pulling away too soon. He gestured toward the do-rag. "Are you trying on wigs?"
She watched him eye the knit cap that she held in her hand. She didn't know what to say.
He smiled again. "I think your hair is pretty just the way it is. The color's nice, you know?"
No, she didn't know. "It's a little red," she said, trying to finger-style it again without the use of comb, brush, or mirror.
"Well, look who's here," Yolanda said as she reappeared, carrying a plastic trash bag. "I see you've met Manuel."
"Yes," Poppy said. "I thought he'd come to arrest me." She was trying to make a joke, but she realized it wasn't funny under the circumstances. She returned to her chair and tried to replace the do-rag by herself.
"He wouldn't dare," Yolanda said, then dumped the bag on Poppy's lap. "Take your pick. Twelve shades of brunette."
Poppy bit her lip and hesitantly reached inside the bag. She tried not to recoil from what felt like mounds of furry critters lying stealthily in wait.
"I like the red," Manny said again, and Poppy blushed.
"Men," Yolanda said. "Especially brothers. What do they know, anyway?"
Brothers? Manny wasn't Yolanda's boyfriend but her brother?
"Forget it," Yolanda said to Manny after Poppy left with three choices of wigs. "She's married."
"Forget it," Poppy said to herself when she climbed into her BMW and buckled up. "You're married. And you are not Elinor."
So they both forgot it.
Ha-ha.
Fifteen.
If Elinor could only call him. She knew that if he would just hold her, if he would just touch her, everything would be all right.
But Tuesday morning, as she sat in the bedroom, with both her cell and her land lines close at hand, she knew there was no way she could call him.
Since the note had arrived, she'd lived with the reality that she'd have to figure this out without him, that she must endure the anguish and the waiting, not to mention the fact that she'd have to cough up the ransom, all while her nerves were unraveling like a cheap sweater.
She didn't know yet if she had been foolish to enlist her friends. She'd had little choice: She couldn't be proactive while sitting by the phone. And Elinor knew the importance of being proactive, of doing unto others before they could do unto you. It was the first lesson one learned in Washington.
Yes, it would be easier if she could call him.
But it had been an unspoken rule when their affair had begun, or rather, before it had begun, because it had, after all, been a scheduled event, like a Rose Garden press conference or a Camp David summit.
The Vice President of the United States of America requests your presence at a luncheon on February 6th at 12:30 p.m. to discuss your national health care recommendations. A car will be provided.
She'd known from the start that it was a ruse. Elinor Harding Young had no more of an answer to the nation's healthcare problems than anyone on the hill, in the country, or in the world, for that matter. The previous week she had, however, been standing in a long line that trickled from the ladies' room of the Jefferson Hotel after the mandarin gelato with mint wafer had been served, before the guest speaker from the Friends of the Homeless ascended the podium.
It had been a photo op, so the vice president was there; in fact, he was scheduled to introduce the speaker.
Elinor had known that. She hadn't known, however, that he would walk by just as she said to the woman in front of her, "If the vice president wants to introduce something really fixable, he should propose a law that every hotel in America have double the rest rooms for women as they do for men. It should be part of a national health care package. Think of the bladders he'd save."
"The vice president doesn't make laws," a sudden whisper said in her ear. She knew the voice: Remy had been to their town house a few times when his father had been sick and Malcolm was helping. And, of course, he was a visible VP, famous for giving sound bites to CNN and the rest.
A slow blush had moved from her neck to her cheeks. She turned to apologize, but he had left, chuckling, no doubt, because he was known for his humor, along with his crooked half smile.
And then, a week later, she'd been swept to the Naval Observatory, the official residence of the nation's number-two official.
She'd never dreamed she'd go to his house without Malcolm, without the cover of business.
"To ladies' toilets," Remy had toasted with a glass of champagne when they'd been left alone in the family dining room. His wife was in Bangkok, their daughter at Radcliff. His blue eyes had twinkled, and Elinor was a goner. She'd always been attracted to power: proof that she and CJ weren't as identical as it appeared.
He'd set down his glass and folded his arms. "Bold women amuse me," he said. "It helps when they're beautiful."
He'd been lying, of course. She and CJ had never been beautiful. Cute, maybe. Pretty, perhaps. But beautiful? She digested the compliment along with the champagne.
"I'd like to see you," he said, "on a more intimate basis."
In case she hadn't understood what he meant (she had), he rose from the mahogany Taft-period chair, crossed to her side of the table, and asked her to get up.
Of course, she had.
He untied the silk bow of her blouse, then released the pearl buttons one at a time. And before Elinor knew it, his mouth was on hers, his fingers plucked her nipples, and her hands found their way to his zipper.
After their third rendezvous she stopped asking, "Why me?" and gave in to the pleasure in spite of the danger.
"I feel like a bungee jumper," she told him one hot afternoon after quick sex in the men's room at his office. His office!
"Risk is part of life," he replied with that crooked half smile.
They never talked about love or marriage or how many "risks" he had taken with whom. As long as words were unspoken, Elinor did not have to face them.
Until now.
She sat with her spine straight, perfectly proper, a testament to the McCready School. She stared at the phone. Did she dare make one little call?
She'd never called him before. Never intruded on his life, never asked for something as mundane as love.
But she was entitled to respect, wasn't she?
The way she'd been entitled to great sex?
Long ago, Elinor had decided that she had indeed been entitled, after all the years that she'd suffered, after all the torment she'd endured because of the actions of her husband and her own freaking sister-both of whom no doubt believed she hadn't guessed that long after Jonas had been conceived, born, and raised, they'd continued to do the same things with each other that Elinor now did with Remy.
Or had done with Remy.
Gripping her stomach, she leaned slightly forward.
Had done with Remy.
It was the first time Elinor considered that their affair would have to end now. Before the whole bloody world found out.
Sixteen.
At one o'clock in the afternoon, Poppy said good-bye to Alice and alighted from the Esplanade, which was parked at the front entrance of the Lord Winslow. Yolanda had stayed at her shop in New Falls, and CJ had made it clear that she, too, had to work. Not everyone had a husband or a trust fund, which, she'd made sure to add, "was just fine with her." Poppy hadn't taken offense.
Once inside the lobby, the brunette in low heels wandered from one end to the other, checking her watch at frequent intervals. One could never be sure who might be watching and what camera might be perched where. All Poppy could hope was that they'd timed it right and that Javier, the night manager, was off duty.
After a full fifteen minutes, she set her face in a scowl and meandered to the reception desk.
Ding-ding.
She smiled when she noticed that the call bell had been replaced. Then she glanced at the security camera.
Had the camera caught her in action yesterday?
Adjusting the short wig and turning her head, Poppy suddenly feared she'd be recognized. She considered departing just as a young woman appeared.
"May I help you?"
Poppy remembered the lines she'd practiced this morning in front of the mirror. "It's Momma," she said with a soft Southern drawl and a couple of prayers that the young woman couldn't see her heart racing. "I seem to have lost her."
"What room are you in?"