Home > A Palm Beach Scandal(8)

A Palm Beach Scandal(8)
Author: Susannah Marren

“We should go—skip dinner. I’m the designated driver.… Tomorrow morning we have an early—”

“Wait, wait,” James says. “I’ve got one question for Tyler. About the audio system?”

“Sure, I can recommend a few. Bose is great. People say you hear every nuance, every drumbeat.”

“Excellent.” James is pleased.

Aubrey and I are quiet. Then she asks, “What’s the architecture going to be?”

“Well, it’s a new house, we plan to create it in the style of Howard Major—an early-twentieth-century Palm Beach architect,” James says.

“What Mom calls ‘tropical classic,’” I say.

I view us from Aubrey and Tyler’s stance. Are we nothing but a younger version of the Veronica and Simon Show? Why else build this place? Four blocks to the north our parents have similar views and their own double-vaulted entryway. James and I have been a team for this—geared to match the essentials, which include a library, sunroom, patio with an infinity pool, access beneath the A1A to our own beach and cabana. When I began planning the garden, the shrubs mattered. So did purple cornflowers. After reading four books on indigenous plants, I knew I’d stick with bougainvillea, yarrows, and beautyberries. Only a few months ago I had more zeal for floor plans and decor than I do today. Before the miscarriage.

Out of nowhere the wind picks up. Although I’ve been in Palm Beach my entire life, I’ve never adjusted to the sound of the ocean that carries onto land. Or that it happens no matter which side of the island you’re on, Intracoastal or by the sea. The shoreline has gone dark and is hardly discernible in the moonlight. I shiver.

“So what about dinner—a quick bite in town? We can take one car and drop you back.” I wait for Aubrey to decide.

“That’s fine,” Aubrey says. “Perfect.”

 

* * *

 

Again the moonless night as we wind down the A1A to Buccan. James’s BMW 5 sedan purrs with Aubrey at the wheel.

“You two are quite a pair of sisters.” Tyler, in the passenger seat, turns to me.

“Just the two of them,” James adds.

“I have two sisters—both back in Portland—and I’m in the middle. They’re like Aubrey and Elodie, thick as thieves,” Tyler says.

“Did you read about that study on siblings a few years ago? In The Atlantic?” I ask.

“I read it!” Aubrey says. “I knew you’d have seen it, too!”

“I kept thinking that for sisters it’s a more profound connection. Here’s the question: If you’re in a sinking boat and there’s only one life vest, do you give it to your husband or your sister?”

“Exactly the right question!” Aubrey says.

“Evolutionary psychology provides the answer,” James offers.

“What?” Aubrey says.

“It does,” James insists. “Because we’re adaptive. If you think about it, your DNA is more important than a marriage. The sister will save her sister to preserve their genes.” James is doing that brainy, nerdy bit to which he occasionally succumbs.

“Hey, could be the sister likes her sister and not her husband,” Tyler says.

“Or you could argue that your spouse matters more, since when you got married, you left the family of origin,” I say. “There is the idea that loyalty shifts from the family that raised you to the new family or marriage, the family of procreation.”

“Oh, Elodie, it’s fine.” Aubrey laughs. “You would save James. James would get the life vest.”

“Eh, who gives a damn, really. I mean, maybe all three are strong swimmers—no need for the one life vest,” Tyler says.

“Right, in a perfect world the strong swimming would save the day,” Aubrey says. “You wouldn’t have to choose.”

 

 

CHAPTER 5

 

ELODIE


Rain clouds darken the A1A as I drive home from the Literary Society. Although it’s only six o’clock, floodlights from private homes shine over an opaque ocean. I pass El Brillo, where my parents live, and to the south the pink towers of Mar-a-Lago are the only illumination in a murky sky.

James is waiting on the flagstone steps, as if he has time to spare. The scenario is unfamiliar and my first instinct is to panic. Until I see how happily he holds a food basket with gold and green ribbons.

“Wow, who arranged this?” I ask when I pull up to our house—the home we have lived in for almost seven years.

“Justine’s prepares and delivers. I thought we’d try it out. Your sister reminded me last night that you love prepared food.”

“True,” I say. “But Christina could have cooked tonight. You didn’t have to order dinner.”

Christina, my parents’ housekeeper, who comes to clean twice a week for us, has been especially disheartened by my miscarriage. She had promised that her second cousin, who is a trained nanny, would take care of our baby. To this end, Christina has been among those I’ve avoided these past few weeks.

James unlocks our front door. “Only the two of us. No interference—an empty kitchen.”

I wrap my arms around his neck and we kiss.

“Is there some gift box after this?” I ask.

“No, there isn’t,” James replies.

“How unlike husbands in the area,” I say.

“Right, no assistant from my office has gone on the Avenue to get you a link bracelet from Seaman Schepps.”

We kiss again.

 

* * *

 

After he unpacks the basket, he begins arranging dinner in a purposeful way. He transfers the zucchini and yellow squash into a large bowl. I walk past him toward the double sink, where he has placed a bouquet of deep-violet pansies, marigolds, and primroses, late-autumn/early-winter colors. Suddenly the granite island in our kitchen, the honey-colored hardwood floors, the double doors that lead to the terrace and pool—our entire home—feel dear to me. Why do we need another house—why did I sign up for building a grander, finer version? Not only Katie, but my friend Nina has already completed her upgraded house. She and her husband were enmeshed during the construction—more so than on their wedding day or when their children were born, she says.

“Not that it lasts,” Nina said when she heard about the property we bought. “It was our joint venture; then there’s an emptiness. I don’t even go to the Literary Society for lectures on the architecture, because the house is built. And get this: My girls miss the old house, where they shared a bathroom. Chaz and I tell them this is bigger, better for our family. I’m not sure they believe it.”

Our endeavor loops us in a singular pattern, too. The house has a life of its own, and while I was undergoing in vitro, James and I had begun to speak in shorthand about change orders, vintage Belgian door handles, and crown moldings. Less about the family part, the nesting part.

“Higher Love,” by Steve Winwood, plays on our Sphaeron Excalibur system. James raises the volume a notch and leads me in a dance. We dance around the kitchen and I remember what a fine dancer he is, how strong his arms are, how straight his back is. He knows the steps for real; I fudge well.

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