Cathleen Schine - The Three Weissmanns of Westport

"But they never leave Manhattan, these people. Red Hook is totally exotic. So that makes it like I made this big effort."

"But you did make a big effort."

"You have to invest in your future, Crystal. Don't you ever watch Suze Orman?"

Perhaps it was the massage that finally turned the tide of Amber's Barrow fortunes, for, as it happened, she was a truly gifted massage therapist, just as her sister had claimed. She offered frequent and free sessions. It was more than either woman could resist. Evan became a regular visitor at the big apartment on Central Park West, too, making faint noises of physical discomfort and twitching his shoulders (once bringing his latest girlfriend, a dancer, as well) until Amber picked up the hint and offered her help.

Both Gwen and Felicity were accustomed to a certain intimacy with the people who tended to their personal and cosmetic needs. The hair cutter, the colorist, the manicurist, the personal trainer-these were all members of a netherworld of women with whom they never would have thought to socialize, yet trusted as confidantes. Amber benefited from that familiarity and comfort. She fitted herself into the family as someone not quite an equal, and so not a threat, but she was not quite a servant, either.

Gwen began to ask Amber to join her for lunch, to go on shopping trips for maternity clothes. Amber stood in for Ron as her coach a few times at her birthing classes. They even went away for a weekend to a spa. Crystal accompanied them sometimes, but she was in hot pursuit of an insurance broker she'd met at a club.

"Crystal, he's very bridge-and-tunnel, okay? Just don't bring him around the Barrows."

"Why? You don't think they would like him?"

Amber laughed.

"Yeah, I know," Crystal said. "Hey, have you noticed that Evan pays a lot of attention to me? I think he might be hot for me."

Amber rolled her eyes. "Dream on. Anyway, you're better off with the B &T guy."

"Yeah. We go to really good clubs. Of course, you don't care about clubs anymore, being engaged."

"True," Amber said. "I have priorities." Then: "Which clubs?"

On a warm spring day when even the hard, cracked earth surrounding the cottage offered itself up as welcoming and full of promise, Miranda received the news that she was officially bankrupt.

The call came from her lawyer in the mid-morning sunlight as she sat on the concrete steps with a cup of coffee. Her cell phone rang, an artificial chirp, a vibration in the back pocket of her jeans.

"Hello, Brian."

"Hello, Miranda," said her lawyer.

Silence. A robin raised its head from a patch of crabgrass and turned one bead of an eye at her.

"Bad news?" she asked.

"Sorry, Miranda."

"The Miranda Weissmann Literary Agency is now in bankruptcy, officially?"

"Again, I'm terribly, terribly sorry."

"So it's over?"

"Well no. I explained this all to you. You still have creditors. Any money you earn from previous properties…"

Miranda stopped listening. It was over.

"Thanks, Brian. Thanks for all your help." She hung up and stared, dry-eyed, at the robin. When she was a child, she used to draw robins with bright blue bodies and bright red breasts. But robins were really brown. Their breasts were not red, they were rust-colored. She had never really thought about the discrepancy until just this moment. Where had she gotten the idea that robins were royal blue and red? Some amalgamation of children's book illustrations? Robin redbreast. English robins had red breasts. Bluebird of happiness. Bluebirds were blue. She had never seen either in real life. She is too fond of books. It has turned her brain. Well, well. Real life. Time to start a new real life. Time to start over.

She waited for the great flood of self-pitying tears. If I don't pity myself, who will? she thought. If not now, when?

But she didn't cry. She felt only impatience. Time to start over. Off we go. Get a wiggle on. Yes, but as what? She stared unseeing at the brown- and rust-feathered robin. And as whom?

There was a pot of tea at the tea at Aunt Charlotte's, but little else. A few crackers. A small piece of sweaty cheese. Betty was glad she had brought the cake from Balducci's. The goyim, she had explained to the girls, do not feed their guests; it is not their custom, and we must respect the customs of other cultures, but that does not mean we have to starve. She always kept saltines and Life Savers in her bag in case of a blood sugar drop, but she did not think she ought to haul either out at a tea party, even if there had been enough to share. The cake, on the other hand… no one could object to guests bringing a nice crumb cake. Miranda and Annie had laughed at her. But now, as she watched Miranda attempting to cut a strip of the rubbery cheese and put it on a limp cracker, she felt vindicated.

Charlotte Maybank seemed pleased with her cake, too. She was a woman of about eighty, small and birdlike except for her teeth, which were rather prominent. She had awaited their arrival in the living room, laid out, quite literally, in a new automatic recliner that looked bulbously incongruous among the eighteenth-century furniture.

When presented with the white box tied up in red string, she activated the chair's controls, which whirred importantly until her head was an inch or two higher. Then she eyed the cake greedily, her teeth bared in a smile. "Well, well. You know, I think I'd better take some cake now, Leanne," she said as if the cake box were a bottle of pills. She handed the box to Henry's mother. "I could use a piece of cake."

"Keep up your strength," Leanne said, heading for the kitchen, a smile hidden from her aunt.

"Surgery," the old woman said to her guests. She motioned her guests to a hard, slender, bow-backed sofa and two wooden arm chairs facing her.

"Oh," Annie said, "I hope…"

"Successful," the old woman said, cutting her off.

There was silence then.

"These are lovely," Betty said finally, running her hand along the arm of the chair she sat in.

"Want them? Leanne!" the woman shouted, waving a taut little arm toward the kitchen. "Leanne!"

Leanne appeared, followed by Hilda, the ancient retainer, the same old woman who had opened the door for them, carrying a tray. Miranda thought she saw Leanne give her aunt an ironic salute as she approached, but she might just have been pushing the hair from her eyes. She had fine, reddish-blond hair, not at all like Henry's black glossy locks. And yet, there was something, something so Henry-like about her. Miranda smiled as she watched Leanne move across the room, wondering what it was. Her hands? The set of her shoulders, just a little rounded? Maybe. When Leanne caught her staring and smiled back, with a questioning look and slightly tilted head, Miranda quickly averted her gaze to a large painting of some sort of hunting dog. But she had found the answer to her question. The smile. The tilted head. The expression of curiosity.

"Leanne," the aunt continued, "this charming person admired the Hepplewhites. Make sure she bids on them." She turned back to Betty. "When I'm gone. The whole place, you know: up for grabs, on the auction block, when I'm gone." She shook her finger at Betty. "Mind, I'm not gone yet."

"Hardly," Leanne said, handing her aunt a plate bearing a thick slice of cake.

"The dishes, too," the old woman said, tapping her fork on the dessert plate, which was exquisite, Betty noticed. But really, Betty had her own chairs and plates. She didn't need this woman's household goods. And where would she keep them, anyway? So little room in the cottage as it was. And of course, even auctioned, these pieces would go for a pretty penny. She began thinking what a lovely phrase that was, "pretty penny," only vaguely aware of the aunt continuing her catalogue: "Forks, knives, spoons… the whole shebang. Get out your checkbooks, ladies."