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“Wow,” Kat said, looking impressed. I could feel my cheeks growing hot. “What did you teach?”
“Logic.”
“You mean like Mr. Spock?” Kat asked.
I smiled. “Not exactly, although he always was my favorite Star Trek character. I taught systemic reasoning.” Kat’s eyebrows knit together, and I knew she wanted an example. “Problems like...all humans are mortal. Kat is a human.” I gestured toward her with a wave of the hand. “Therefore Kat is mortal.”
Kat wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think I like that problem.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“I’m just kidding,” Kat said. “I think it’s fascinating. So these days you’re, what—illogical?”
I laughed. “Pretty much. That’s what being a stay-at-home mother feels like a lot of the time. But, no, actually I’m writing a book of logic puzzles for kids.” I surprised myself by telling her this. Hardly anyone knew about my little project, as I thought of it. I looked at it much like not telling anyone you’re pregnant until you get past the risky first trimester. I didn’t want everyone asking me about it if I failed to finish or publish the book. So why had I told Kat? Was I trying to show off?
Kat looked impressed. “Good for you.”
“What do you do?” I asked. I had already clocked her Louis Vuitton carry-on, her navy cashmere sweater, the diamond studs sparkling in her ears that I suspected were not cubic zirconia, like the pair I was wearing. If she was a stay-at-home mom, it was on a different level than the one I lived on. “You said you have kids?”
“Kid. One daughter, but she’s all grown up now. She’s premed at Vanderbilt. She obviously didn’t take after me, since I faint at the sight of blood.” Kat smiled. “I have an art gallery, which is probably about as far away from medicine as you can get.”
“Wow,” I said, intrigued. “What kind of art do you sell?”
“Mostly modern and contemporary, although my real passion is sculpture,” Kat said. “That’s why I came up to New York after Christmas. To tour some galleries, follow a few leads. Nothing panned out, but what are you going to do? How about you? Were you staying in the city?”
“No, we were in Syracuse, visiting family,” I said.
“You’re smarter than me. I don’t know what I was thinking going to Manhattan on New Year’s.” Kat rolled her eyes. “The crowds were insane. I finally gave up and spent the last two days holed up in my hotel room, eating room service and watching reality TV, which I really don’t get at all. Why does anyone find watching grown women wearing far too much makeup, going to awkward social events and throwing temper tantrums entertaining? It’s so bizarre. And why would anyone want to have someone following her around, filming her? That would be my worst nightmare.”
Her trip sounded incredibly glamorous to me. The idea of having two days to myself to luxuriate in a posh hotel, ordering room service and watching mindless television shows sounded like sheer decadence. I couldn’t remember the last time I had traveled without my husband or children.
“Total nightmare,” I agreed.
“Anyway—” Kat sighed and took a large sip of her drink “—New Year’s Eve is my least favorite holiday. I much prefer the cozy ones like Thanksgiving and Christmas, when you can curl up and relax at home all day.”
“Me, too,” I said, although I wasn’t sure about the relaxing part. Every year, the weeks that stretched from mid-October to late December devolved into a marathon of shopping, cooking, baking, sewing costumes and wrapping endless piles of presents, all while having to attend a never-ending series of school performances and holiday parties for every extracurricular activity the children were involved in.
There was another pause in our conversation as my children’s food arrived. A hamburger and fries for Liam, fried chicken tenders and fries for Bridget. Not a vegetable in sight. But then, my view on airport food was much like my view on airport electronics: anything goes. I took a moment to open Liam’s ketchup packs and cut Bridget’s chicken up with the dull plastic knife provided. By the time they were settled in, munching happily, and I turned back to Kat, she was grinning at me.
“What?” I asked.
“I just ordered us another round,” she said, tapping a short manicured nail against her martini glass.
“You didn’t!”
She giggled, and her girlishness surprised me. I almost demurred. My head was already starting to swirl from the first drink. But then I felt an uncharacteristic rush of recklessness. Why shouldn’t I have another cocktail? My children were safe and accounted for. I wasn’t driving.
“If we’re going to have another round, let me get it,” I said, digging out my wallet.
Kat waved me away. “Too late. Besides, you’re doing me a favor. I was bored to tears sitting here by myself before you came along.”
Over our second round of drinks, which I was careful to sip much more slowly, Kat and I got to know one another. She grew up in Palm Beach, and her parents and brother still lived there. She had studied art history at Tulane, and after graduation, she had landed a plum job with the Hirshhorn Museum at the Smithsonian in Washington, DC. She had worked there for two years before returning home to Florida to open her small art gallery near Worth Avenue in Palm Beach. She’d met her husband, Howard—who, she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, did “something in finance”—when he came into the gallery looking for a painting.
“He didn’t have any interest in art. He just had blank walls in his condo and was looking for investment pieces to hang there,” Kat explained.
“Did he end up buying one from you?”
“Yes, but at that point, he was more interested in trying to impress me than he was in the art.” Kat smiled, again displaying her straight white teeth. “It didn’t work, of course. But he eventually wore me down.”
“How long have you been married?”
“Eighteen wonderful years,” Kat answered, holding up her martini glass. “Or more like two wonderful years and sixteen mediocre ones. Oh, well. How about you?”
I thought Kat was probably kidding, since her tone was light, and I could already tell she had a sardonic sense of humor. But I had the feeling there was some truth hidden inside the joke.
I told her that I’d grown up in Syracuse and gone to the university there and then Cornell for graduate school. After I graduated, I accepted a job as an assistant professor at the University of Miami. Unlike Kat, I didn’t have a cute story about how I’d met my husband. Todd certainly didn’t woo me by buying expensive artwork, or whatever the equivalent would be in my line of work. Instead I’d met him at a rather pedestrian birthday party for one of my work colleagues. We chatted over plastic cups of boxed red wine and paper plates of previously frozen lasagna. A week later, Todd called and asked me out. On our first date, we went to the movies.
“Sometimes I wonder if the concept of marriage to one person for the rest of your life is unrealistic,” Kat mused.
I glanced at my children. They were both immersed in their electronic handheld games and weren’t paying any attention to us.
“I know what you mean,” I said, making sure to keep my voice low. “Everyone always says that marriage is something you have to work at. But I don’t think it’s possible to grasp what that means until you’ve been married for a while. The constant grind of it.”
“On my wedding day, my mother told me the secret to a happy marriage is to develop a blind eye and a forgiving heart,” Kat said. She rolled her eyes dramatically. “As you can probably imagine, that gave me all sorts of unwanted insights into my parents’ marriage.”
“She told you that on your wedding day?” I laughed. “I’m surprised you went through with it.”
“I know, but I really liked my dress,” Kat confessed. “I thought it was fabulous. It had this high neck and huge puffy sleeves.” She demonstrated by drawing circles in the air away from her arm. “Looking back, it was hideous, of course.”
“We are ready to begin boarding Flight 523 to West Palm Beach,” a female voice announced over the loudspeaker. A cheer went up from the ragged horde of travelers waiting by the gate. “We would like to invite our first-class passengers to board now.”
“That’s me,” Kat said, hopping off her stool and shouldering an expensive-looking orange leather handbag along with her designer carry-on. She was shorter than I had expected, even in high-heeled boots. Kat looked at me expectantly. “Are you coming?”
I laughed. “Oh, no. We’re not in first class. The Campbell family always flies steerage.”
“What a bummer,” Kat exclaimed. “I was hoping we’d be sitting near each other. It’s been fun talking to you.”
“You, too,” I said, feeling incredibly flattered by her warm words. “Bye.”
Kat strode off, seemingly unaffected by the alcohol. The two martinis had made me light-headed, and I fumbled with our bags as I got the children organized to board. When we walked onto the plane, Kat was comfortably ensconced in her plush first-class seat, studying a magazine. She didn’t look up as we passed by.
* * *
I probably would never have seen Kat again if not for a mishap at baggage claim when we reached Palm Beach International Airport.
Todd met us at the security checkpoint, kissed me hello and hugged Liam and Bridget. The family Campbell made our way to the baggage carousel just as it ground into motion and began spitting out suitcases. I noticed Kat on the other side of the carousel, standing alone while she waited for her bag. I wondered why her husband hadn’t met her but shrugged it off. Maybe he was out of town, or she had a car waiting to pick her up. Either way, it really wasn’t any of my business.
I watched as Kat grabbed her suitcase off the conveyor belt, snapped the pull handle up and turned to stride off in what I was already recognizing as her signature walk—a little faster than necessary, as though it perplexed her that everyone else was moving so slowly. Then I saw something fall out of her shoulder bag. Kat didn’t notice it.
“Kat,” I called after her, but she didn’t hear me. I turned to Todd. “I’ll be right back.”
Before my husband could respond, I darted forward and around the conveyor belt before anyone saw the dropped item. It was a wallet, made of leather and stamped with the same Hermes brand as her handbag. It probably cost more money than Todd and I currently had in our checking account. I bent down to pick it up just as a man—white-haired, potbellied and grunting with the effort—was moving toward it.
“It’s my friend’s,” I explained. “She dropped it.”
The man gaped at me, but I was already turning away to hurry after Kat. I reached her just as she got to the sliding glass exit doors.
“Kat!” I said. “Wait! You dropped your wallet.”
Kat turned, her eyes wide with surprise. I held up the Hermes wallet.
“Oh, no!” Kat exclaimed, taking it from me and pressing it to her chest. “I can’t believe I did that! Can you imagine what a disaster it would have been if I lost my wallet? All of my cards are in here. And my license. I can’t believe I was that stupid. Thank you so much, Alice.”
“It’s no problem. I’m just glad I saw it before someone else grabbed it.”
“I am, too! I can’t thank you enough.”
I waved her apology away and smiled. “It was nice meeting you earlier,” I said, and just as I was about to turn away and head back to my waiting family, Kat rested a hand on my arm to stop me.
“Let me take you to lunch,” Kat said. “So I can properly show my appreciation.”
“You really don’t have to do that. It wasn’t a big deal at all.”
“It is to me. Besides, I liked talking with you, too. It would be fun to get together again.” When Kat smiled, the angles of her face softened, and she looked suddenly younger and prettier.
“Okay,” I said impulsively. “I’d love to.”
We made vague plans to have lunch the following week and exchanged phone numbers. Kat squeezed my arm. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Todd and the children had retrieved our suitcases and were waiting for me back at the luggage carousel.
“Who was that?” Todd asked.
“Just a woman I met while we were delayed at JFK,” I said. “We might get together for lunch or something.”
“Aw, look at you. You made a friend,” Todd teased me.
I gave him a whack on the arm. “Come on, let’s get home. We’re exhausted.”
4
Three Years Earlier
The K-Gallery was located on Highway A1A on the island of Palm Beach, not far from Worth Avenue. It occupied the ground floor of a five-story building that was painted peach with elaborate white cornices. I probably would have missed it if the GPS in my car hadn’t insisted that I had arrived at the correct address. The only signage was a simple brass plate next to the door.
Feeling a little nervous in a way that strangely reminded me of being the new kid at school on the first day of classes, I opened the large glass-paned door, setting off a chime as I entered. K-Gallery had white walls and a dark hardwood floor. It was spacious and airy. Small sculptures of twisted metal wire were displayed on white pedestals. A series of large abstract canvases hung on the walls, painted in moody blues and stormy grays. They reminded me of the finger paintings my children had made when they were little, although I thought I probably shouldn’t mention that to Kat.
“Alice!” Kat called, sweeping into the room. She gave me a quick hug, which I returned. “I’m so glad we were able to get together.”
“I am, too.” I had been surprised but pleased when she called me a week after our flight back to West Palm Beach and invited me to lunch.
Kat was wearing an immaculate sleeveless white shift dress and black heeled sandals. I was glad I had opted to dress up for our lunch, wearing a cotton sweater and skirt I’d bought on clearance at J.Crew, instead of my usual uniform that consisted of a T-shirt and yoga pants.
Kat noticed that I was admiring the wire sculptures. “Aren’t they exquisite? They were done by an artist in Miami who welds in a storage locker with no air-conditioning, if you can believe it. I think he’s going to be the next big thing.”
“The paintings are incredible, too.”
“You think?” Kat tipped her head to one side, regarding the closest one, which featured wild swirls of olive green paint. “They’re by an English artist named Crispin Murray. He’s quite successful, and they sell wonderfully. But I have to admit, his paintings always remind me of the ones my daughter brought home when she was in preschool.”
I laughed. “I actually thought the exact same thing but was afraid it would sound gauche if I admitted as much. Especially since I don’t know anything about modern art.”
“Not at all! I can’t stand it when people get pompous about art, as though there’s only one valid opinion. Art is supposed to elicit a reaction from you. Or at least, good art is. And your reaction is as valid as anyone else’s.” Kat waved a hand. “Enough with the art talk. Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”
* * *
Kat suggested we eat at Renato’s, an Italian bistro on Worth Avenue. It was a glorious day, cool and sunny, so we decided to walk to the restaurant.
Even though Palm Beach was only a short drive from Jupiter, I hadn’t spent much time on the tony island. As we strolled down the sidewalk, I was struck by how picturesque it was, from the neat rows of royal palms to the luxury stores housed in Mediterranean-style buildings to the Rolls-Royces and Aston Martins parked on the street. My earlier nerves dissipated, replaced by a frothy, bubbling sense of well-being. Here there were no dishes to wash, no homework assignments to check over, no piles of laundry to fold. Only a delicious lunch to look forward to and, possibly, a new friendship.
We decided to sit in the elegant outdoor courtyard, which was filled with round tables dressed in starched white linens and surrounded by flowering bougainvillea. Our waiter, who was young and handsome with a slight build, beamed at Kat as he handed her a menu.
“Welcome back, Mrs. Grant.” He spoke with a slight Italian accent. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“You know I can’t stay away,” Kat said, returning his smile. “I’m craving the risotto.”
The waiter rolled his eyes upward. “It is sublime, no? Shall I bring you the wine list?”
Kat looked at me and asked mischievously, “What do you think? Should we?”
I almost never drank wine at lunch, other than the occasional indulgence on vacation. But I was suddenly feeling festive.
“Why not?” I said.
Kat ordered a bottle of something white and imported, and the waiter swiftly returned with the bottle in hand. After he went through the presentation of uncorking it, offering Kat a taste and filling our glasses, he set the bottle in a silver bucket of ice. Kat raised her glass to me.
“Cheers,” she said. “To new friendships.”
We clinked our glasses together. The wine was cold and crisp and delicious.
“Your gallery is beautiful,” I said.
“Thank you,” Kat said. I would later learn that Kat always accepted compliments with a simple thank-you. She did not brush them off with the self-deprecating remarks many women, including myself, fell back on. Kat was not an especially vain woman, but she was perfectly willing to accept compliments on her appearance, her taste, her home, as nothing more than an obvious truth.
“How long has your gallery been open?” I asked.
“It’s hard to believe, but nearly twenty years. I opened it when I was pregnant with Amanda, and she turned nineteen in November,” Kat said.
“I thought you said you met your husband at your gallery.” I immediately regretted this intrusive remark. The details of when she’d met her husband and when she’d given birth to her daughter were none of my business.
But Kat didn’t seem put out. She just smiled and said, “You have a good memory. Yes, I met Howard after Amanda was born.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You didn’t. It’s not a secret. Well, it’s not a secret that Howard isn’t Amanda’s biological father. The truth is—” Kat leaned forward and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper “—when I was living in DC, I had an affair with a married man. A politician, if you can believe it. I know, it was reckless. But I was young and selfish, and foolish enough to believe that my feelings were more important than his family.” She shook her head. “Looking back, I want to slap my younger self for being such a brat.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I said. “Everyone makes bad choices when they’re young.”
“Yes,” Kat agreed. “But trust me, I deserve to be hard on myself. I did my best to convince him to leave his perfectly nice and blameless wife and their two young children. All because I was in love.”
“He was the one who was breaking his vows,” I said. “So he was more at fault than you were.”
I wasn’t sure why I was arguing the point. Of course, Kat was right. What she had done was selfish and destructive. But at the same time, twenty years of self-flagellation seemed a heavy price to pay. I’d also noticed that she hadn’t named her daughter’s father. I wondered if he was someone I would’ve known from the news.
“I’m sure you won’t be surprised to learn he didn’t turn out to be a good guy in the end,” Kat said. “When I told him I was pregnant, he ended the relationship. Actually, first he tried to talk me into having an abortion, and then, after I refused, he said he never wanted to see me again.”
“Wasn’t he worried you’d bring a paternity suit against him?”
“No.” Kat shook her dark, glossy head. “He knew I’d never do that. Anyway, I decided it was time to leave DC and headed home to Florida. My mother was horrified, of course—she’s easily horrified—but my father was more pragmatic. He said if I was going to be a single mother, I needed to have a business to support us, so he encouraged me to open K-Gallery.”
“Had you always wanted to open an art gallery?” I asked.
“Not really. Before I got pregnant, I was working at the Smithsonian and thought that if things didn’t work out with the married man, I would probably move to London or Paris, where I’d work as a curator for one of the great museums.” Kat rolled her eyes. “I’m sure whatever I imagined that life to be like was something out of a movie and not in any way rooted in reality. Romantic dinners at a Paris café, cocktails at the glamorous hotel bars, love affairs with handsome foreigners. I certainly wasn’t calculating in the long hours, toiling away in an office to build the sort of career I imagined myself having. It’s not like they hire twentysomethings to buy Renoirs or organize Rodin exhibits. And the simple truth is that I wasn’t ambitious or driven to succeed in that sort of world. There are too many hungrier candidates for those positions out there. So in the end, having my own gallery has suited me very well. I can exhibit art that interests me and close early for the day when I feel like it. And, of course, I had Amanda. The affair was a bad choice, obviously, but having her was not.”
I listened to Kat’s story with interest. I was impressed that she was self-aware enough to recognize and accept her limitations. But it was also true that unlike most of those hungrier would-be art curators, Kat had enough money to open her own art gallery in Palm Beach.
Our conversation was interrupted by the return of the handsome waiter, eager to take our order. Kat ordered the lobster risotto. I chose a decadent-sounding dish of fettuccine with grilled chicken in a light cream sauce. The waiter effusively praised our choices and hurried away.
“Amanda was just a few months old when I met Howard. So he’s the only father she’s ever known,” Kat said. She paused to take a sip of her wine. “Actually, Amanda is probably what brought us together. Howard was definitely not my type. But between having a baby and getting the gallery up and running, I was so overwhelmed. Hormonal, too, I suppose, and still nursing a broken heart. And Howard was just so—”
She stopped abruptly, searching to find the right word. I expected her to say something like kind or supportive or nurturing.
But instead she said, “Forceful.”
“Forceful,” I repeated. It did not seem, to me at least, to be a foundation for romance. Sexual excitement, perhaps, but that usually wasn’t enough of a basis for eighteen years of marriage. At least, I didn’t think it was.
“Yes. Howard’s primary motivation in every aspect of his life is to get what he wants when he wants it. He’s unapologetic about it.” Kat lifted her wineglass to her lips again. “And at that time, I was just so tired. Tired of making the decisions, tired of being in charge of everything, tired of my mother’s endless badgering that I needed to get married for Amanda’s sake. Not that Howard was ever all that interested in being a father.” Kat laughed. “But he was more than happy to step in and straighten out my life. Suddenly I was hiring an assistant for the gallery and a full-time nanny for the baby and then, somehow, planning a wedding. I think if I had ever stopped to catch my breath and really thought about what I was doing, I would never have gone through with it.”
“Which part?”
“The part where I married a man I wasn’t in love with,” Kat said. She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “But I did. And here I still am eighteen years later.”
“Why are you still married?” Then, realizing that I might again be dangerously close to crossing a too-personal line, I raised a hand. “I’m sorry. That was intrusive. You don’t have to answer.”
“No, it’s fine. I just don’t have a good answer. A divorce would be messy and expensive...”
“And you had your daughter to think of,” I offered.
“Actually, I’m not sure how much our divorcing would bother Amanda. She and Howard have never been close. I’ve often wondered if that’s because she wasn’t his, at least not biologically,” Kat said.
“Did Howard adopt her?”
Kat nodded. “When Amanda was twelve. I thought it might bring them closer together, but...” She trailed off and shrugged. “It didn’t work out that way. I think Howard always resented the time and attention I gave to Amanda. And Amanda’s a smart girl. I’m sure she sensed it.”