“It’s good for privacy,” Susan said.
Caroline shot her a look, but it was useless. Susan was looking at her hands. They had made a promise, when they first moved out here, that they would never even hint at any of the things that had made them decide to make the move, but Susan wasn’t good at it. Susan thought about it all the time. Caroline could tell.
She moved away from the windows and sat down at the other side of Susan’s table. “The Platte boy isn’t on duty, either,” she said. “He’s supposed to be over there at six, making sure nothing gets messed about, but there’s no sign of him. People have no sense of responsibility these days. Do you know that? They’ve got no sense of responsibility. Maybe these people never had. God only knows where they started out from.”
“I do think they mean well,” Susan said.
Caroline shrugged. There would be coffee in the kitchen. She could go out to find it and pour herself a cup. The dining room wasn’t open at this time of the morning on a Friday. They only opened it for breakfast on weekends. She was enormously tired, and she was absolutely sure that she had made a mistake. She shouldn’t have volunteered for this committee. She shouldn’t have volunteered for any committee. She didn’t belong here, and pretending to care if stockbrokers’ daughters made fake debuts in overdesigned ball gowns did not change a thing about her life.
“You know what’s really odd?” she said. “Even that awful woman didn’t show up. She always shows up.”
“Martha Heydreich,” Susan said.
“Oh, I remember the name,” Caroline said. “I could hardly forget the name, could I? She’s the absolute symbol of what’s wrong with this place and everything in it. That pink car. And that hair. And let’s don’t forget the makeup. You’d think she had stock in Max Factor.”
“Maybe she does,” Susan said, “except I think she wears Clinique. Something like that. She does have beautiful hands. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such delicate hands.”
“Well, yes, but she makes sure you notice them, doesn’t she? That ring of hers is ridiculous, and she’s always holding it out so that you see it. And the nails.”
“She gets them done,” Susan said. “But I wish I had hands like that. They’re so long—do you remember what our mothers used to say about hands? You could always tell a lady by her hands. She’s got a lady’s hands.”
“She’s got a stevedore’s backside.”
Susan sniffed. “She’s a very hard worker,” she said.
“Yes, and very reliable most of the time. Wouldn’t she be, though? I mean, the one person you don’t want to see show up, and there she is, looking like a circus clown and acting like—I don’t know what. Even the nitwits who live in this place know there’s something completely awful about her. That trilling voice. Those enormous bags. And the jewelry. Oh, never mind. I shouldn’t go on like this. But it’s indicative, don’t you see? It’s indicative of everything that goes on in this place.”
“Of course I see,” Susan said.
Caroline gave her a look. Susan did not see. Susan never could see. She sighed and got up. She might as well go get that coffee. At least that way the morning wouldn’t be completely wasted. She wasted far too many mornings these days.
“I miss it,” she said suddenly. “I know I’m breaking our rule, but I miss it.”
“I miss it, too,” Susan said.
“It’s funny how things work out. If you’d told me just three years ago that I’d be living at a place called Waldorf Pines and refusing to watch the evening news in case—well, in case. I wouldn’t have believed it. I really wouldn’t have believed it.”
“I know,” Susan said.
“And then there are the boys,” Caroline said.
She stood still where she was, contemplating her two sons. They were in New York now, she was pretty sure. She hadn’t talked to either one of them in three years, and when she had talked to them she’d still been living in the Bryn Mawr house. She’d loved the Bryn Mawr house. There had been a topiary maze in the back garden, and the kind of staff it took to keep it all up. There had been committees that knew how to run like committees, where everybody showed up on time.
“Never have children,” Caroline told Susan. “They’ll just turn on you.”
Susan looked at her hands again. She was fifty-nine years old, just two years younger than Caroline herself. Neither one of them was going to have any more children.