Wellesley Wives (New England Trilogy) (7 page)

“What? You’re saying this is me going down in a blaze of glory? Popsy, I don’t plan on dropping dead this winter.” She sounded annoyed.

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that, as you—or rather any woman—stops producing eggs, her body sometimes goes into overdrive and she’ll produce a load in say the last six months before menopause. She’ll also have very strong, um, urges to produce babies.”

Popsy knew she should choose her words carefully. “Your urges, that is to say, what you feel at the moment about wanting a baby—that could be real. And if it is, chances are you could be fully loaded with eggs.” It didn’t quite come out as she planned because she felt a little loaded herself with the champagne, but Sandra looked delighted.

“So what you’re actually saying is what I’m feeling is perfectly natural and there’s a good chance I’ll get pregnant because I’m loaded with eggs as well as hormones.”

“Did I say that?” Popsy tilted her head. “It’s just that I haven’t had time to eat at all today, and a glass is enough to give me a buzz.”

“You sure you’re not just a dying bee?” Sandra nudged her and smiled. It appeared that she was in much better form all of a sudden. “This is great news. I’ll be preggers in no time.”

“Now just hold on a second there, honey,” Popsy said, trying to stem her friend’s enthusiasm just as the doorbell rang.

“Honey? Ha, that’s a good one! Now come on, get up.” She rose to her feet and headed for the door. “That will be the others.”

“Sandy,” Popsy stayed sitting, “the caterers will answer the door. Listen, a word of advice. Go easy on Jack.”

“What?”

“It’s just that, well, you seemed quite frosty with him, even angry, when you came in.”

“No, I wasn’t—”

“You did kind of go for him there, when you arrived. I mean, he was only giving me a compliment. It wasn’t an indirect shot at you, but you took it that way. Sandra, trust me, you need to lighten up a little.”

Sandra looked genuinely surprised. “Funny, I thought he was just trying to annoy me.”

Popsy shook her head and stood. The sound of strangers’ voices filled the hall. “Maybe you need to get away together. Spend a little time remembering all the reasons you fell in love in the first place.”

Sandra put her arm around her friend’s waist and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “Good idea. Plus, it will give me lots of chances to seduce him.” Then she became more serious. “Because, to be frank, if I don’t have a baby with him within the next few months, I’m going to leave him and find myself a younger man who really does want a family.”

Such strong words worried Popsy. She looked at her friend of so many years. These conversations were similar to the ones she’d had with Olga twenty years ago. He’d stopped having sex with her, too, and that was the first sign their marriage was in trouble.

Was she witnessing another Jack Hoffman breakup? Popsy decided to talk with Jack later in the evening, if she could.

The Europeans were very reserved and their wives were perfect guests, but as Popsy expected, everybody’s guard was up. These nights were very different from having a shower of friends in for supper in the kitchen. Even though it masqueraded itself as a dinner party, everybody knew that this was work. After having two glasses of champagne earlier, Popsy nursed the same glass of wine all night.

She discussed culture and fine art with her guests without referencing the business connection. They all talked about favorite ski resorts in both Europe and the U.S., and they sparred in a polite manner over the best sun spots in the world. Everybody commented on the storm brewing outside and said they hoped that it would not affect the next day’s flight schedules.

The truth was, working dinners were quite wearing. In other circumstances, she may have ended up being friends with women like these, but this was business, or “war” as Peter sometimes called it, and her job was to entertain in a cordial manner. The one plus was that everybody knew the rules, so before midnight, the guests politely took their leave.

Popsy was happy enough to see them go. It would have been a much better night if the business deal had gone through, but the five men were meeting again in the morning at seven. Nobody was interested in staying up late, not to mention partying.

“Thank God that’s over.” Peter sighed as he headed to the liquor cabinet to fix himself a large whiskey. Just like his wife, he didn’t drink much while in the company of prospective business partners, but now that they were gone, he was free to imbibe. “Ladies? Jack? What will you have?”

“Mine’s a brandy,” Popsy requested. “And Peter, in the future, please don’t arrange these dinners until the deal is done.”

“Here here,” Sandra agreed. “And I’ll have a brandy, too.”

Jack was more pensive. He clasped his hands together as if in prayer.

“Jack?” Sandra looked at her husband. “You okay?”

“What? Oh yeah, I’ll have a whiskey. You know, if they don’t go for this deal tomorrow—”

“They will. They have to.”

Popsy heard the tension in his voice, a certain urgency she hadn’t noticed before. “Oh come on, guys. If it doesn’t get done, there’ll be other deals. No need to worry.”

She took the glass Peter was handing her but didn’t miss the look he gave his business partner. “Peter?” She glanced from one man to the other. “What’s going on? What’s up?”

But her husband just winked at her. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with, doll. Have I ever let you down before? We’re just stressed because it’s a big deal. But don’t worry, I’ll get it over the line. I always do.”

Jack headed out, and Popsy assumed he was going to the bathroom. She decided this was her chance to catch up with him, so she waited about three minutes, and then followed him.

From the dining room there was a long hall to the bathroom and kitchen, so she was able to wander down in the pretense of getting more ice. But Jack wasn’t in the bathroom. He was on his phone and glanced up when Popsy walked up to him.

“Everything okay?” She knew her voice was too perky, but what the heck was he doing out in the hall making phone calls? “Are you calling the driver, already? Stay for a little while longer.”

“No, no, just checking my messages. I’m driving this evening.”

Now was her chance, for sure. She touched his arm. “Jack, is everything okay? It’s just, well, I’ve known you for a long time, and I like to think I know you pretty well. You seem a little . . . distracted,” she said, trying to find the right words.

He looked straight into her eyes like he might find some answer there, then he heaved an enormous sigh. “Life is complicated, Popsy.” He managed a smile. “That’s all there is to it. Life is really complicated.”

“Can I help?” She cupped his face in her hands. “I mean, you and I, there’s very little we don’t know about each other at this stage. You’re like a brother to me and Peter, and of course, the girls. They think of you like the uncle they never had.”

He pulled away. Had she touched on something? It was the reference to children. Sandra was right.

“Is it Sandra? I mean, she’s a friend of mine, but if you need somebody to listen . . .” She tried to reach him, but the moment was gone. “How about lunch?”

“What?” He looked confused.

“Why don’t I treat you to lunch?” She smiled at him, but he looked even more tortured.

“Popsy, haven’t you learned by now? When somebody says ‘it’s only lunch,’ it’s never only lunch.”

“Jack,” Peter said as he came down the hall, “your whiskey’s getting warm. Do I have to drink it for you, too?”

He looked glad for the interruption. Jack regarded her with a smile now fixed firmly in place. “Thanks for the offer, Popsy, but really, I can handle my own life. You just take care of yourself.” He squeezed her shoulder in a paternal manner.

“Excuse me?” She was a little surprised by the turn in the conversation.

“Just watch your back,” he added in a low voice.

“Me? Jack, what are you talking about?”

But he was walking away from her. Then he glanced back over his shoulder and put his finger to his mouth as if to say that it was a secret.

“I’m absolutely fine,” Popsy protested. “My life has never been better.”

But Jack was gone.

“Why would I need to watch my back?” she whispered, quite put out by her old friend. “I’m not the one whose partner is thinking of leaving them.”

Chapter 6 

The Morning After

Popsy was still half-asleep when she felt the empty space where Peter should have been.

    “Honey?” she called, assuming he was in his en suite bathroom, but he didn’t reply. “Peter, where are you?”

She pulled the eiderdown comforter over her in an effort to get cozy again and felt the soft sheets slide along her limbs. Popsy realized she was naked and then she remembered the night she’d had with her husband after their guests left. Peter still knew how to make a woman feel loved, even after all these years. She smiled smugly as she tried to slip back to sleep.

An elegant, arched bay window with double bay sashes ensured their bedroom was flooded with natural light by day but the hand-woven, ice-blue, silk curtains were still drawn shut. Peter had obviously left early enough this morning to leave them closed so she could sleep. A thick winter-white carpet covered the expanse of the room and absorbed any noise that there might have been—not that there was any this Sunday morning. All was quiet.

The room may have been dim, but Popsy’s mind was clearing. Despite her best efforts, it looked like she was not going back to sleep.

The last thing she’d said to him before they’d fallen asleep the night before was to be home in time for lunch. “The girls are coming. I want my birthday lunch to be perfect.”

“Yes, dear,” he’d mumbled and almost instantly started to snore.

“Darn whiskey,” Popsy grumbled as she pulled herself up into a sitting position and switched on her antique bedside lamp. To be fair, over the years she’d become accustomed to her husband’s snoring, and now she was able to sleep right through it, but it would be nice if he was a quiet sleeper.

Like the rest of the house, Popsy had decorated their bedroom with antiques. Her parents had given her a lump sum when she married, and all of it went into their home. Early in their marriage, they’d taken a vacation to New Orleans where they found the most amazing antique shops and art galleries. As a result, Popsy had furnished her entire house with Victorian, Georgian, and Edwardian treasures.

Of course these days it was so out of vogue, but she didn’t care. She loved their bedroom. It was warm and welcoming, and the old pieces gave her a feeling of security and permanence.

The bed was the only exception she’d made to her “everything should be antique” rule. It looked like it was from the mid-1800s, but was, in fact, a modern reproduction. Peter had insisted.

“I don’t want a bed that hundreds of people have slept, screwed, and quite possibly died in,” he’d argued persuasively umpteen years ago. “I want a brand-new bed, and what’s more, I want the biggest bed money can buy—one that I can chase you around for the next fifty years. I guess I want a bed that I can sleep, screw, and maybe even die in myself! But at least I’ll die happy.”

Popsy had it custom made to look old but with every modern comfort and back-saving piece of technology she could get. The result was a four-poster bed that could have slept six if they felt the urge, which of course they never did. It was maybe her favorite place. Her comfort zone she would call it. Their “play zone” Peter had nicknamed it.

Popsy thought it was worth every penny of the tens of thousands she’d spent. The four posters did not hold up a canopy over the bed but rather stood proud. Over the years, Peter had been very inventive with all of them. And while current trends were more Feng Shui than Louis XIV, Popsy was certain that romance would never go out of fashion. Oceans of brilliant white cotton on a bed of deep mahogany had worked for her and her man for almost thirty years now, and she wasn’t going to change the winning formula.

Sitting in a cloud of white pillows with her knees drawn up to her chest and her comforter pulled under her chin, Popsy let her mind rest on the events of the evening before. The dinner party certainly wouldn’t go down in history as the best she’d ever thrown, but it wasn’t all bad. The business friends of Peter seemed quite nice, but she wished the deal wasn’t taking so long.

What gave her the most concern this morning were Sandra and Jack. His warning came back to her again. Why did she have to watch her back?

Peter had made it abundantly clear how much he was still in love with her. Okay, so they didn’t have sex every night, but she rarely turned him down. Given a second glass of champagne she could, on occasion, even initiate things. So Popsy was pretty sure that Jack wasn’t trying to warn her about her husband’s possible philandering.

What else was there?

Work? It couldn’t be. The boys were good businessmen, and she knew her financial position was secure. It always had been.

So what had Jack been talking about?

The girls? Popsy always worried about her daughters. Was Rosie happy? Why hadn’t Lily found the right man yet? Then again, what mother didn’t worry about her children? She’d once heard an old saying that “a mother was only as happy as her saddest child.” It was so true. Well, the girls were coming over for lunch, so she could talk to Rosie then and find out what was on her mind.

Popsy slipped out of bed and headed to the bathroom.

She caught sight of herself unclothed in her full-length mirror as she walked the floor. It made her stop and have a look. She didn’t usually parade around the room with no clothes on because Matilda could walk in at anytime, and Lord knew if Peter walked in and saw her naked, he would get ideas for sure. It just wasn’t something she did too often. But it was Sunday morning, so Matilda was off, and she knew that Peter was at the office. She looked at her body—the body of a now fifty-year-old woman.

“Wow.” She sighed. “Where did all those years go?”