Shell Phillips had shiny, dark hair that she wore in a bob tucked behind her ears, and a strand of pearls and pearl earrings. Clearly she was trying to fit in; Ann had heard that most northern women went to the grocery store in their yoga clothes.
Shell Phillips asked if Ann and Jim might want to join a wine-tasting group that Shell was putting together. Just a fun thing, they’d done it in Haverford, five or six couples, once a month. A different couple would be responsible for hosting each month, choosing a varietal and getting a case of different labels so that they could compare and contrast. Hors d’oeuvres to complement the wine.
Just a little social thing, Shell Phillips said. Like a cocktail party, really. We had such fun with it back home. It would be wonderful if you and your husband would join us.
Of course, Ann said. We’d love to be part of it.
She had committed without asking Jim because despite her natural skepticism toward northerners, she thought a wine-tasting group might add some flair to their social life. She and Jim could stand to learn a little about wine; when Ann was at the Washington Duke or somewhere else for dinner, she normally defaulted and ordered a glass of white Zinfandel or the house Chablis. Shell Phillips might have assumed all southerners made their own wine. Any which way, Ann felt flattered that someone had sought her out for a reason that had nothing to do with local politics.
Yes, yes, yes, count them in.
There had been six couples. In addition to Ann and Jim, and Shell and her husband, Clayton Phillips, there were the Lewises, Olivia and Robert, whom Ann and Jim were already friends with, as well as three couples unfamiliar to them: the Greenes, the Fairlees, and Nathaniel and Helen Oppenheimer.
The wine-tasting group was a success from the start. They began with chardonnays at the Phillips’s house, a beautiful old stone home on West Club Boulevard. It had been one of the best parties Ann had ever attended. She had drunk no fewer than eight glasses of chardonnay, and she nibbled on wonderful cheeses, and smoked salmon dip, and pâtés. (Where had Shell Phillips gotten her hands on such provisions? Charlotte, she said.) The night had ended with everyone dancing to Patsy Cline in the Phillipses’ ballroom. Who knew such sophisticated fun could be had in their little town? Ann had babbled on and on in the car on the way home. It was nice to expand their circle; their social life had needed a boost. Ann had noticed the other women’s outfits: both Shell Phillips and Helen Oppenheimer had looked more glamorous than Ann, who had worn a linen skirt that nearly reached her ankles. She would go shopping in Charlotte before next month’s wine group.
Merlots at the Lewises’.
Sauvignon blancs at the Greenes’.
Ann was desperate to host, and she wanted to do champagnes. Expensive choice, Jim said. Yes, it was expensive, but that was part of the appeal. Ann bought two cases of champagne; most of it she had to special order from the bottle shop: Veuve Clicquot, Taittinger, Moët et Chandon, Perrier-Jouët, Schramsberg, Mumm, Pol Roger. Ann killed herself over the hors d’oeuvres. She toasted and seasoned macadamia nuts; she prepared phyllo triangles with three fillings. She bought five pounds of shrimp cocktail.
A thousand dollars spent, when all was said and done, though she’d never admitted that to Jim.
The night should have been a great success, but from the get-go, things were off-kilter. Helen Oppenheimer showed up alone; Nathaniel was sick, she said. Then Helen proceeded to get very drunk. But really, Ann thought, they all got very drunk. It was something about the nature of champagne, or about the tiny, delicate (insubstantial) hors d’oeuvres Ann had prepared. The evening reached a point where Helen collapsed onto Ann and Jim’s sofa and said, “I’ve been lying to all of you. I’m sorry. Nathaniel isn’t sick. We’ve separated.”
There were expressions of shock followed by sympathy, followed by a lot of confessional talk, all of it too intimate for the nature of their group. However, Ann had willingly participated in it. She found the news of Helen’s separation titillating. It turned out that Helen, who worked in the development office at Fuqua, was desperate for children. And Nathaniel, who was a curator at the North Carolina Museum of Art, refused to have any. Their sex life was a joke, Helen said. In fact, Helen suspected that Nathaniel was gay.
“It’s an irreconcilable difference,” Helen said. “It is THE irreconcilable difference. So I left.”
Ann and the other women agreed that Helen should have left. Helen was young, and so beautiful. She would find somebody else. She would have children.
When the night drew to a close, Helen was… well, if it hadn’t been for her tragic revelation, Ann might have called her a sloppy drunk. She couldn’t drive herself home. Ann volunteered Jim to drive her.