“Hey, Mom?” Katrina said, looking at her with curious concern. “Let’s go find Daddy.” And taking Nico’s hand, she skipped ahead a bit, pulling Nico along behind her.
“Hold on, sweetheart. I’m wearing high heels,” Nico said, thinking that she sounded just like her mother. And so what if she did, she thought. There was no getting away from being somewhat like your mother when you became a mother yourself; fighting it was a waste of time. And besides, it was nice . . .
“You were born with high heels on,” Katrina laughed, pausing at the bottom of the steps for Nico to catch up. “You were born to rule.”
“Thank you, Kitty.”
“I’m convinced Tunie’s going to win, aren’t you, Mother?” Katrina said, swinging their hands between them. “Daddy says she’s the best miniature dachshund in the country, and if the judges don’t see it . . .”
She nattered on, the eager little girl again. Nico nodded her head, listening, thinking once more about how much she loved her daughter, and how very lucky she really was.
* * *
SHANE HAD BEEN WEARING white jeans and a red shirt. Cherry red, as opposed to a maroon or Christmassy red. With a little green alligator over the left chest. The shirt was tucked into the waistband of the white jeans, hitched around Shane’s hips with a brown leather belt with inlaid bands of pink, yellow, and blue ribbonlike material. But it was the shirt that really stuck out. She would never forget that shirt for as long as she lived.
“Back to the airport, please,” Wendy said.
The driver nodded. She was surprised at how calm and unemotional her voice sounded. Robotic, really. But perhaps this wasn’t surprising. She was now officially dead inside. She had no feelings left, no soul. She would never be affected by anything again. She was just a machine. Valued only for her ability to make money and to provide. To pay for things. Other than that, they had no use for her at all.
The car pulled up to the gate, and it hit her that once the car passed through and exited the Palm Beach Polo Club, she would have reached the point of no return. Stop! said a voice in her head. Go back—go back! But another voice said, No. You’ve been humiliated enough. You must draw the line, or you’ll lose their respect forever. Going back now won’t change anything; it will only make it worse. There was no going back. Only going forward, with the horrible truth.
The white metal gates swung open, and the car drove through.
She sank down into the seat, as if afraid to be seen. What could she have done differently? What could she have said? What was she supposed to say? What was the proper response to the statement, “Wendy, I don’t love you. And I don’t think I ever have”?
If only . . . if only she had her children to comfort her. But they didn’t want her either, she thought dully. Was that really true? Or was she looking at the situation with the simplistic immaturity of a child? They were only children, after all; they didn’t want their day spoiled. She could have stayed, but she couldn’t be around Shane, and his parents, their eyes sneaking glances at her, knowing the truth . . .
He doesn’t love her, you know. And he never did. We always knew. Why didn’t she?
And: What’s she going to do now? Careful. She’s dangerous. She’s a bad woman. She could make things difficult for Shane and the kids. We just hope she’ll be reasonable . . .
And that cherry red shirt and those white jeans. And the brown suede Gucci loafers. Shane had become . . . one of them.
A horse person.
And she was not. She didn’t belong there at all.
When the Citation landed at Palm Beach Airport, she had taken the car directly to the Breakers Hotel, expecting to find Shane and the kids in their suite. Instead, all she found were Shane’s parents wearing Bermuda shorts—from which emerged thickened, lumpy legs that resembled unkneaded bread dough. They were eating breakfast, and when Shane’s father, Harold, opened the door, he didn’t bother to disguise his shock.
Bet you didn’t expect to see me here, Wendy thought, sure of her triumph. “Hello, Harold,” she said. And Harold, who must have determined that it was best not to challenge her, turned quickly and said, “Marge, look who’s here. It’s Wendy.”
“Hello, Wendy,” Marge said, not bothering to get up from the table. There was an unmistakable coolness in her voice. “What a shame,” she said. “You just missed Shane and the kids. But I don’t think they knew you were coming.”
No kidding, Wendy thought. “Where did they go?” she asked.
Marge and Harold exchanged glances. Marge picked up her fork, and stuck it into her scrambled eggs. “They went to look for a pony,” Marge said.
“Coffee, Wendy?” Harold said, sitting dow
n across from his wife. “You look like you could use some.”
“Yes, I could. Thanks,” Wendy said.
“You can call room service for another cup,” Harold said. “They’re quick here. Great service.”
If I kill these two old people, will a jury understand? Wendy wondered.
“Don’t be silly, Harold. She can take my cup. Here, Wendy,” Marge said, pushing a cup and saucer toward her.