The Good Life Read online

  CHAPTER 2

  That Saturday was the annual Cancer Society Charity Ball. Ann got out of bed earlier than normal and slipped on black yoga pants and a tank top. She exercised in their home gym for ninety minutes, watching two recorded episodes of The Real Housewives of Orange County. After a hot shower and a low-fat protein shake, Ann told Mike, who was in his study, that she had a number of things to do and that he should be ready to go by seven o’clock. Keeping his eyes on the red numbers on his computer screen, he nodded his head. Fifteen minutes later, Robert, head massage therapist at The Serenity Spa, was easing the tension out of Ann’s back with his exquisite soft hands. His Brazilian rainforest soundtrack played quietly in the background. “You are tight today, Mrs. Barons,” he whispered.

  “I know, Robert,” said Ann into the donut-shaped pillow. “Don’t get me started.”

  “Hard week?”

  “My parents are coming to live with us.”

  “Oh my,” said Robert, rubbing oil into Ann’s bare shoulder.

  After her massage, Ann nibbled at the spa lunch: a chilled shrimp, peeled cucumber, and arugula salad drizzled with raspberry vinaigrette. When Ann left the salon, she drove immediately to the Coffee Station for a double espresso to go. She stopped at the new women’s boutique for French hosiery and a quick poke around before heading home. When she walked through the kitchen door at just after three o’clock, she washed her hands and then went to find Mike. As she suspected, he was still in his study. “Okay,” she said, walking behind him and wrapping her arms around his neck. “Time for a break.”

  “I did have some lunch,” Mike said, focused on the screen.

  “Good,” said Ann. “Now, go for a run and take a hot shower. You’ll feel better.”

  Mike rubbed his eyes. “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve been staring at these numbers all day and still can’t figure out a viable way to change them.”

  “More bad news?” asked Ann, examining her French manicure.

  “No,” said Mike, “the same bad news. I just want to make sure I’m looking at better numbers next quarter.”

  “Isn’t that what you pay Terry for?” asked Ann, referring to Dilloway’s chief financial officer.

  “Ultimately,” said Mike, standing and stretching his arms out in front of him, “that’s what they pay me for.”

  Ann smiled at her man. “And you’re worth every million. Now, get out of here and get some exercise.”

  Mike grabbed Ann by her hips and pulled her in to him like a fish on a reel. “I know another way I could get some exercise.”

  “Later,” said Ann, putting her hands on Mike’s chest.

  “When?”

  “Tonight,” said Ann, “after the ball.”

  Mike kissed Ann on the mouth, then let her go. “Okay,” he said. “But that means you have to watch what you drink. What time are we leaving?”

  “Seven sharp,” said Ann, though the cocktail hour started at six thirty. “So get going.”

  “I’ll be back in an hour.”

  Ann walked up the stairs to their living area. She walked into her closet, undressed, and then, naked, approached the gown she had purchased for the evening. She slipped her hand underneath the protective plastic covering and gently touched the seafoam-colored silk before running her fingers along the mink trim at the collar and sleeve cuffs. She moved to the bathroom, weighed herself, and ran the tub, pouring two generous capfuls of bubble bath under the faucet. She climbed in and lay back, closing her eyes and concentrating on the heat of the rising water. She ran her right hand over her stomach, wondering if her mother would insist on cooking Sunday dinners. If so, she would prepare meals out of Ann’s childhood—fatty chuck roasts with calorie-laden gravy and egg noodles and tuna casseroles topped by a generous half-pound of sharp cheddar cheese.

  Ann had not lived with her parents in rural Pennsylvania since she was twenty-two years old, eighteen really, when she first left home for college. As a young teenager, Ann was a chubby, awkward girl with few friends and a mother whose idea of a proper weeknight dinner was meat loaf, baked potatoes, buttered green beans, buttered rolls, and a homemade dessert. The rib-sticking meals at the end of the day made sense for Ann’s father, who worked alongside his day laborers six days a week to squeeze a living from their dairy farm, but not for a girl who wanted to blend in with her thinner, urban-minded contemporaries. But when Ann complained about the amount of food on the table to her mother, nothing changed. Eileen had grown up in another generation, when food was sometimes hard to come by, when an abundant table was a blessing.

  So, the kitchen was the center of Eileen’s life. She spent most of the day there. And when Ann was home, she was tacitly expected to join her mother. It didn’t occur to Eileen, patient and chatty as she worked, that Ann might want to be doing something else—going to the movies, shopping, or gathering with girls at one another’s houses. No, Eileen and her daughter, side by side, scrubbed their seven-room farmhouse on Saturday mornings and the rest of the time hovered over the stove, making homemade jellies, pies, hearty beef stews, and starchy side dishes, sampling whatever they made.

  Ann continued to put on weight. By her sophomore year in high school, she was thirty pounds more than what the county doctor called ideal. When he put her on a diet, when her mother finally began to understand, it was too late. She had already been ostracized by her trimmer female classmates, and the boys had simply stopped looking at her. Because she was invisible at school, Ann turned to her mother, not only for baking tips and comfort but also for social interaction. Ann even went with her parents to the potluck dinners at the Grange, where, when other mothers lamented about their teenagers’ recalcitrant behavior, Eileen happily boasted about the close relationship she had with her daughter.

  Ann managed to shed several pounds before heading off to college on the East Coast. After being away from home cooking for nine months, she lost even more weight, gaining a sense of independence in its place. Until now, she had never been away from home for more than a weekend. By the time her parents picked her up in May, she was weighing what the doctor called “very close to normal.” Taken aback by her daughter’s diminished body, Eileen served Ann farmhand portions and encouraged her to snack between meals. But achingly aware of how difficult it was to lose weight, Ann pushed her plate aside, rebelling against her mother’s efforts to fatten her up, newly suspicious and disdainful of her mother’s controlling behavior. Ann and Eileen fought that summer. Sam often supported Ann, telling Eileen that she had to let go. But it was a women’s battle that he at times didn’t understand. By early August, both Ann and Eileen couldn’t wait for school to start again in September.

  In the tub, Ann parted the bubbles to look at her stomach. With the exception of three small fuzzy lightning stretch marks, it looked like something out of a teen magazine: smooth, flat, and toned. It had looked, more or less, this way since Ann was twenty, and it was not going to change. If Eileen wanted to cook, Ann couldn’t stop her. But she couldn’t make Ann eat. No one could. Again closing her eyes, Ann relaxed for another ten minutes before running the razor over her hairless legs and the bare pits of her arms.

  As soon as she had dried and moisturized, Ann wrapped her body in her robe and her head in a towel, and then sat in one of two bedroom reading chairs and flipped through Architectural Digest. She checked her watch. Amanda, her hair stylist, was scheduled to arrive in fifteen minutes. On occasions like tonight, Ann wished she wore her hair longer; there wasn’t much Amanda could do with a bob. Yet, she got more volume out of Ann’s hair than anyone else in town. Plus, Ann trusted her. Amanda was young, but she was able to walk into the Baronses’ house, up the stairs, and into Ann’s private sanctum without making a big deal about it.

  An hour later, Ann’s hair was perfect. Even strand fell into place and was ever so subtly held with spray. It was soft and flexible, nothing like the helmet-headed styles of previous generations. Ann gave her head a quick shake as she looked in th
e bathroom mirror. Boom, back into place; it was flawless. Ann walked back into the bedroom and returned to her chair and magazine. When she finished reading an article about a sunroom she thought might be perfect for the back of the house, she pushed the house intercom button to call Mike. He was back from his run, no doubt with the towel he’d used to wipe his face hanging around his neck. “It’s almost six, honey,” she said. “You need to shower.”

  As Mike tied his bow tie in the mirror, Ann, facing him, ran her hands down the silk lapels of his Armani tuxedo. He quickly kissed her mouth, and then coaxed his thick black curls into place with his fingers. Even though he was beginning to gray at his temples, he was as arresting now as he was in college, more so, really, as the most powerful man in town. Plus, something about a man in formal wear made Ann’s breasts ache.

  “You look great,” Mike said, looking at Ann’s exposed back in the mirror.

  “Do I?” asked Ann, turning around so he could see her from every angle.

  “Do I want to know how much I spent on that dress?” he asked, kissing the tip of her nose.

  “You’ve spent more,” said Ann, standing on her toes to wrap her arms around his shoulders.

  “You know you’re worth it,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said, “I am.”

  Mike laughed and gently spanked her bottom. “Let’s go,” he said, “your public awaits your arrival.”

  When they walked into the Grand Ballroom of the Hilton, the men straightened their spines and their ties, and the women, hands at their throats and lips slightly parted, inhaled simultaneously. An instant later, the crowd moved toward them. Like children drawn to a school-yard fight, they pushed forward enough to almost touch Mike and Ann, but left adequate space for them to move. As the Baronses made their way to the bar, Ann winked, smiled, and waved, and Mike, one hand on Ann’s back, used his other to pump the outstretched hands of the few comfortable enough to approach him. A warm spotlight shining on them or a band playing a grand march would not have seemed inappropriate for their arrival.

  The $1,000-a-plate sturgeon was tender and delicious; Ann ate almost half of it before pushing her plate away. She took a sip of her third champagne, arching her eyebrows at Mike across the table. Mike dutifully rose from his seat, approached her, and asked her to dance. He led her around the floor in a seamless waltz, holding her close enough to feel her backbone with his fingers. She could feel everyone’s eyes upon them.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m bored,” said Ann, surveying the crowd as they danced. “All this business chatter gets tedious.”

  “Welcome to my world, honey.”

  “And I’m happy to keep it in your world.”

  Mike kissed her forehead. The women in the room who noticed whispered their approval and envy to one another. “Do you want to go home?”

  “No, no, no, it’s early,” said Ann. “I’m just ready to get up from the table and mingle a bit.”

  “So you can go find your higher society friends?” Ann laughed at Mike’s joke.

  They walked back to the Dilloway table, and Ann sat back down next to John Patterson, Mike’s head of human resources. He was a nice enough man, but his wife, Lisa, rankled Ann. Ann admired Lisa’s youthful chestnut-brown ringlets and her tiny runner’s body, but nothing interesting ever came out of her mouth, which was frozen in an omniscient grin. When Ann first met her, she thought she’d had a bad face-lift, but each and every time Ann had seen Lisa since, the smile was there. No matter what the occasion, from funeral to stockholders’ meeting to gala, she grinned like an amused toddler. John sat between them, but that didn’t stop Lisa from leaning forward every several minutes to share her perpetual amusement with Ann.

  When the key lime pie arrived at the table, Ann ordered another glass of champagne and then excused herself to go to the women’s room. She washed her hands to remove any trace of sturgeon scent and then fluffed her hair with her plum-colored fingertips. She reapplied her matching lipstick and checked her profile in the mirror. She was making her way toward the door when Joan Stanton, a Dilloway by marriage, breezed in. Joan was a former beauty pageant queen, having spent eight years on the state and national circuits and coming incredibly close to being crowned Miss America in the early nineties. She had a gorgeously thin but at the same time voluptuous body and thick, wavy blond hair that fell just past her shoulders. She was in an Oscar de la Renta gown that accented her sizable breasts, and Ann’s momentary jealousy heated her cheeks. It was gone in an instant, however, when Ann focused her attention on Joan’s prominent nose—her one flaw. A nose job, Ann thought every time she saw it, a plastic surgeon’s dream. “Ann,” said Joan, approaching her with a practiced smile on her face. “How are you?”

  “Wonderful,” said Ann, leaning forward to accept a shoulder touch and a midair kiss. “And you?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” said Joan. “We’ve just returned from the islands. The weather was spectacular.”

  It was always this way, whenever they chatted. It was always about money. Vacations, cars, clothes—money—and who had more. “Fabulous,” said Ann. “I hope we have the same for our cruise next spring.”

  Joan smiled at her reflection in the mirror. “Why wait until spring, darling? The best cruising weather is winter, when it’s so terribly terrible here.”

  “Too true,” said Ann.

  “Will I see you at the fund-raising meeting?” asked Joan, meeting Ann’s eyes in the mirror.

  “You know I wouldn’t miss it, dear.” Ann blew out the door and walked with a determined gait down the hallway and into the grand foyer of the hotel. She stopped in front of an immense arrangement of white lilies that sat on a central table in the most magnificent cut-crystal vase she had ever seen and took a deep breath. Intoxicated by the fragrance, she lingered a moment.

  “They are beautiful, aren’t they?”

  Ann whirled around and saw her friend, Jesse White, standing next to her. She smiled genuinely. “Where did you come from?”

  “A catfight in the lower level powder room,” said Jesse. “Two women just discovered they have the same dress.” Ann covered her smile with her hand. “It was ugly in there,” said Jesse. “I’m lucky to be alive.” Ann laughed. “And your dress,” said Jesse, reaching out to brush the back of her fingers against the fur trim at Ann’s shoulder, “is one of the prettiest I’ve ever seen. Good choice.”

  “Thank you,” said Ann. “And you look darling, too, my dear. Are you having fun?”

  “I am,” said Jesse. “Everyone at my table is drunk and uninhibitedly telling childhood stories. When Amy Claussen was seven, she caught her father and mother, pants and pantyhose around ankles, having sex in the laundry room one morning before breakfast.”

  Ann laughed again. “I want to be at your table. Mine’s boring.”

  “That’s because you’re with the boss,” said Jesse.

  “And I should be getting back,” said Ann. “Do you have time for lunch this week in your do-gooder schedule? I need your opinion on a few things.”

  “Yes,” said Jesse. “How about lunch on Thursday? My pick this time, though, which means real food.”

  Ann smiled at her friend. “My parents arrive on Friday, so that sounds like perfect timing,” she said, turning to walk back to the ballroom. When she reached her table, she sat down and picked up her champagne glass. Lisa leaned forward and grinned at her.

  When Eileen called the following Monday morning, she reported to Ann that she had packed their belongings into two suitcases and three duffel bags that a neighborhood boy agreed to load into their station wagon. She had cleaned the house and washed the curtains and bedspreads. And she and Sam had packed up the canned and dry goods in the cupboard to be taken to the soup kitchen at the Congregational church in town. They could start their journey on Wednesday afternoon, after the real estate agent did her final walk-through to make sure everything was in order. Apparently, Charlene had several potential tenan
ts lined up. Eileen and Sam would take their time, stopping along the way to enjoy scenic vistas and spending two nights in off-highway hotels. Charlene had even printed out a few suggestions from the Internet, Eileen told her daughter. That would make Friday their arrival date—just two-and-a-half weeks, Ann quickly calculated, from her mother’s original phone call. In seventeen days, Ann had done everything necessary to move her seventy-two-year-old parents into her backyard. She praised her mother and told her to drive carefully. And then she made herself a latte and walked out to the guesthouse for the final inspection.

  The one task remaining was telling Nate and Lauren. They had noticed the painters’ truck in the driveway, but that was nothing new; Ann routinely redecorated rooms in the main house. She had no idea what her children would say, but she was certain it would not be positive. Ann looked at her watch, shut her notebook, and grabbed her purse from the back of the kitchen chair. In ten minutes, she would be at the gym, where she would dazzle her friend, Sally Butterfield, with the final details of the project. She’d invite her back to the house afterward for a latte and a tour. Once Sally saw the guesthouse, she would know just how ready Ann was to welcome her parents into her life.

  Sally couldn’t believe it was done, even though Ann had been in contact with her almost daily about the progress. They had chatted about fabrics and wallpaper, but Ann, wanting complete credit, hadn’t shown Sally any of the samples.

  “They won’t be any trouble,” said Ann, walking with Sally down the path from the kitchen to the guesthouse. “The caregiver is moving in tomorrow. I think we’re all set.” Ann pushed open the door and stepped into the entranceway. “Keep in mind,” she said, gliding into the living area, “that this is a home for two old farmhouse dwellers. It’s simple, it’s country, and yet it’s everything they need.”