Act Two: Rachel holds Annie close and lets her cry; she brings over casseroles with heating instructions on Post-its stuck to the dish; she offers to accompany her to her doctor’s appointments and treatments.
Act Three is, of course, the inevitable. Accompanied by a noble, affirmation-of-the-human-spirit consoling and cathartic eulogy.
Now the whistle goes off. Annie pours the water into Annie’s Samwich mugs, dunks a tea bag in each, finds a couple of broken biscotti, and puts everything on a tray. Better not to confide in Rachel, she decides. How can she tell anyone without telling Sam first? Such a lapse would be a huge transgression, like breaking her marriage contract or backtracking on a promise or casting herself into a mean-girl role, favoring some, excluding others. Still, protecting a husband must count as an honorable motive. Especially to someone who knows Sam.
She grabs two napkins off the counter top. A hostess gift from dinner guests last summer, they sport rainbows and daffodils and frolicking kittens with the kind of unrelenting good cheer that made her wince when she opened them.
Rachel sips the tea. Annie passes her the plate of biscotti. Rachel shakes her head. “I shouldn’t,” she says.
Annie looks at her friend, who is as slim and pretty as when they were roommates at Bowdoin together, roommates before she became roommates with Sam.
“Why not?” she asks, scarfing down her own cookie without even tasting it.
“Because, unlike you, I’m searching for a husband. A boyfriend. Someone to date. You have no idea what’s it like out there, what the competition is.”
“With Ursula as a mother? I know a bit about competition.”
Rachel groans. “Remember when she came to visit you at school? She had all your friends, the cool guys, the faculty, the hairnetted ladies in the cafeteria, and Dean Pretty Boy eating out of her hand. Bejeweled hand.”
“The story of my life.”
Rachel sighs. “Including me. Talk about a fair-weather friend; I abandoned you to sit at her feet. And oh, what feet. Those shoes she wore.”
“Still wears …”
“Can you imagine what she must spend on them?” Rachel scoops out the tea bag and wraps it in the cheerful napkin, which instantly turns brown and sodden. “But Sam never succumbed. He only had eyes for you; he didn’t care if you sat around in sweat pants all day and barely combed your hair. While the rest of us wasted hours primping, using up our meal-ticket allowance on moisturizer and eyelash curlers.”
Annie did remember. “Ursula was so glad we roomed together. She was sure you’d be a good influence on me.”
“Ha! By getting pregnant? I should have taken lessons from you. That jerk I married. How could I have missed the signs? Particularly when he kept suggesting I get my teeth whitened because I’d”—she curls her fingers into commas—“quote, look younger, unquote.”
“And now he gets to listen to Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus all day.” Annie laughs, amazed to hear sounds of merriment coming from her mouth.
“Megan reports Cindi-with-an-i has signed him up for yoga. They have his-and-hers mats. He goes to a stylist instead of the barber. He’s got highlights. And he’s lasered all the hair off his back and chest.”
“Which won’t change his essential asshole-ness,” Annie says in solidarity. And because Rachel has begun to look a little sad, as though she’s missing, if not a hairy husband, then a favorite stuffed animal, Annie shifts the subject. “So, how’s work?”
“The usual. Eating disorders. Cutting. Helicopter parents. Divorce. Stepsiblings. SATs. Bad boyfriends. Adolescence sucks.”
“Megan turned out great.”
“At least one good thing came out of that marriage.” Rachel beams. “She did turn out great, didn’t she?”
“No goddaughter of mine would dare be otherwise.” Annie dumps an extra teaspoonful of sugar into her mug and reaches for Rachel’s biscotti. “So, what is going on with you and the search for Mr. Right?”
Rachel unrolls the afghan from her legs and pulls it up to her neck. Annie recognizes the impulse. “Please, can I just stay buried here until my hormone levels drop?”
“Rachel …?”
Rachel plucks at a yellow-and-turquoise square. She scrapes something—a pizza crust?—off of it. “I joined Match.com, eHarmony, OkCupid, JDate, and …”
“JDate?” Annie interrupts.
“What? A perfectly acceptable gentile girl can’t hope for a nice Jewish boy like Sam?”
“Sam? You’re always pointing out his shortcomings. You and Ursula.”
“Which doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate him. Your husband has many sterling qualities … and those good looks. But …”
“But …?”
“You’ve spoiled him.” Shrink-like, she appraises Annie, scanning for defensive twitches or clenched fists. “Maybe because Ursula is so critical, maybe because your father died, maybe because you need someone to mother, maybe—”
Annie holds up her hand. “Spare me the analysis.”
“Sorry. My default mode. Nevertheless, Annie, a man like Sam can be trained.”
Trained? For what? she wonders. Trained to pick up his laundry? To morph into a social butterfly? She folds her napkin. Trained to live without her?
“And I even drove to Boston once,” Rachel continues. “Why? To have lunch with a doofus who wears the remains of every meal he’s ever eaten on his tie, who divides the bill in half—on his calculator. A guy in Portland brought along an album of photos of his dead Weimaraner. One jerk handed me his four-hundred-sixty-eight-page manuscript, single-spaced, all capital letters. ‘That’s how you’ll get to know me,’ he advised.”
Annie shakes her head. “I couldn’t do it.”
“You’ll never need to do it. Sam would never leave you.”
Annie brushes crumbs off her knees and onto her plate. “If something happened to him … well, I guess I’d just remain an old maid.”
“Nonsense. Remember what’s-his-name with that amazing loft?”
“Charles?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Leaving Sam out of the equation, you never learned to flirt, even with my fine example and Charles to practice on. Granted, he wasn’t around long enough for you to hone any skills. But you’re not hopeless. Check out the self-help section of the bookstore. There are instructions for everything. Relationship manuals. Rules for dating, for going after what you want. Rules for playing it cool. I should write one myself.”
“That would keep you busy in your two seconds of spare time.” Annie steadies her mug. She peers inside. No doubt there are diagrams on how to read tea leaves, too. “Sam and I consulted guides to small businesses and restaurant equipment. I just haven’t sampled the kind you’re talking about.”
“Not even The Joy of Sex?”
“Ha! That, of course.” Annie points to Rachel’s empty cup. “A refill?”
“Thanks, but no. I have to get those sandwiches home. And steam some broccoli for Megan. Since she’s been interning at your shop, her nutrition has gone to ruin.”
Annie smiles. “Pickles don’t count as a vegetable?”