Читать книгу Cutting Loose - Susan Andersen - Страница 8

Dear Diary,

Families suck. Why can’t I have a regular mom and dad?

May 12, 1990

“J ANE , J ANE, WE’RE HERE !”

Twelve-year-old Jane Kaplinski leaned out her bedroom window. Below, her friend’s chauffeur-driven car was parked at the curb in front of her middle-class house, her friends Ava and Poppy spilling out the vehicle’s back door.

“I’ll be right down,” she called, watching Poppy’s cloud of blond curls swaying in the breeze, her filmy skirts plastered against her slender legs. She’d probably bought her outfit at Kmart, but as usual she looked stylish and pulled together, while Ava, who had developed a full year and a half ahead of everyone else in their grade level, looked sort of packed into her pale green dress, its expensive workmanship tugged akilter at bust and hips. But her sleek red hair, brighter than a four-alarm fire, blazed beneath the spring sunshine’s sudden peekaboo appearance through the clouds and her dimples flashed as she grinned up at Jane.

Smoothing a hand down her own navy skirt, Jane flicked off her radio, aborting Madonna’s “Vogue” midsong. The front door banged open downstairs as she picked up her backpack and carefully closed her bedroom door behind her. She smiled as she headed for the staircase, imagining Ava’s usual insistence that they knock while Poppy countered they didn’t need an engraved invitation.

But it was her mother’s voice calling her name that froze Jane in place on the bottom step a moment later.

The suitcase in the foyer should have been her tip-off, but she’d been so focused on her outing with her best friends that she hadn’t even noticed it. Now here came her mother, ice clinking a familiar Parent rhythm in the highball glass clutched in her hand as she bore down with frenetic joy on her only child.

Crapdanghell.

“You’re back,” she said flatly as her mother gathered her to her bosom, and choked when her nose sank into Obsession-scented cleavage. She stood rigid until Dorrie loosened her grip, then edged toward the door.

“Of course I am, darling. You know I could never stay away from you. Besides-” she gave her hair a pat “-your father simply begged me to return.” Dorrie slung an arm around Jane’s shoulders and looked down at her, the aroma of Johnnie Walker Black wafting from her breath to clash with her perfume. “Look at you, all pressed and shiny! Are you going somewhere?”

Jane twisted away and took a giant step backward. “I’ve been invited to tea at Miss Wolcott’s.”

“Agnes Bell Wolcott?”

She nodded.

“My little girl is so highfalutin.” Dorrie gave her a swift once-over. “You couldn’t find something a little more colorful to wear?”

Casting a glance at her mom’s neon-hued top, she merely said, “I like this.”

“I have some nice red beads we could use to jazz it up.” She lifted a shiny brown hank of Jane’s stick-straight hair and rubbed it between her fingers. “Maybe fix up your ’do a little? You know how important staging is-if you want to look the role, you need to pay attention to the costume!”

Jane managed not to shudder. “No, thanks. I’m going for tea, not starring in one of your and Dad’s productions. Besides, didn’t you hear Ava’s car pulling up out front?”

“Did I?” Dorrie dropped the tendril and took another sip of her Johnnie Walker. “Well, yes, I suppose I did, now that you mention it. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Big surprise. Mom was usually all about Mom. Well, that or focused on the drama du jour of the Dorrie and Mike Show.

The doorbell rang and with a sigh of relief, Jane eased around her mother. “Gotta go. Me and Ava are spending the night at Poppy’s, so I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And, boy, was she grateful to be spared tonight’s theatrics when her dad discovered Mom was back. It was guaranteed to be filled with passion and fireworks, and having lived through both too many times to count she was just as happy to miss the show.

Ava and Poppy let themselves in before she could reach the door. They immediately surrounded her and, calling, “Hello, Mrs. Kaplinski, goodbye, Mrs. Kaplinski,” hustled her to the car.

Daniel, the Spencers’ chauffeur, opened the Lincoln’s back door. As Poppy dove into the backseat he tipped his neatly capped head at Jane. “Miss Kaplinski.”

She always wanted to giggle at his formality, but she gave him a grave nod in return. “Mr. Daniel.” She climbed in sedately after Poppy.

Ava plopped down next to her and Daniel closed the door.

The three friends looked at each other as the chauffeur walked around to the driver’s door, and, clutching her hair, Poppy mimed a scream. “Can you believe this?” she stage-whispered. “Tea at the Wolcott mansion!” She looked past Jane at Ava and asked in her normal register, “Why did Miss Wolcott invite us again?”

“I told you, I’m not sure.” Ava tugged on the hem of her dress to cover her pudgy thighs. “Maybe because we all talked to her at that dumb musicale thing my parents had. They were, like, so psyched that she accepted their invitation. I guess she turns down more than she accepts these days and everyone wants to have the party she comes to. But at the same time my mom says Miss Wolcott’s a genuine eccentric and she was a little nervous that she might say or do something Not Done By Our Kind.” She shrugged. “Dunno-she seemed pretty regular to me. Except maybe for her voice. My dad says it’s like a foghorn.”

“I thought she was interesting,” Jane said.

“Well, yeah, ” Poppy said. “She’s been everywhere and done everything. Can you believe that she’s been to places like Paris and Africa and even flew her own plane until a couple of years ago? Plus, she’s got that great mansion.” She bounced in her seat. “It makes your place look like a shack, Ava, and I didn’t think there was any place prettier than your house. I’m dying to see Miss Wolcott’s on the inside.”

“Me, too,” Jane agreed. “It sounds like she collects all kinds of rad stuff.”

Ava pulled a candy bar from her backpack, ripped the wrapper from one end and offered Poppy and Jane a share. When they declined, she shrugged and chomped off a large bite. “I’m just glad to get out of Cotillion class. Any excuse to avoid Buttface Cade Gallari is a good one in my book.”

Upon arriving at the three-storied mansion on the crowded western slope of Queen Anne hill they were ushered into a large parlor by an elderly woman wearing a severely styled black dress. She murmured assurances that Miss Wolcott would join them shortly and backed out of the room, rolling closed a long, ornate pocket door.

The high-ceilinged parlor was dim and cool, the windows all mantled in velvet curtains. Eclectic groups of artifacts cluttered every surface, making a space that could easily contain the entire first floor of Jane’s house seem almost cozy.

“Wow.” She turned in a slow circle, trying to take in everything at once. “Lookit all this stuff.” She edged over to a glass-fronted case and peered at the crowded display of antique beaded bags. “These are awesome!”

“How can you tell?” Ava asked. “There’s no light in here.”

“Yeah,” Poppy agreed. “Look at the size of those windows-I’d keep the curtains open all day long if I lived here. Maybe paint the walls a nice yellow to brighten things up.”

“Ladies,” a deep, distinctive voice said from behind them, and they all turned. “Thank you for coming.” In tailored camel slacks and fluid jacket, with a high-necked blouse as snowy as her carefully arranged hair, Agnes Bell Wolcott stood framed in the now partially open pocket door. A beautiful antique-looking cameo nestled in the cascading ruffle at her throat. She glanced at Poppy. “You may open the curtains if you wish.”

Without so much as a blush at being overheard, Poppy ran to do so and the high-cloud pearlescent glow of an overcast Seattle afternoon immediately brightened the southerly facing room.

“Well, now. Would you girls care to explore some of my collections or would you rather enjoy a light repast first?”

Before Jane could vote for option number one, Ava said, “Eat, please.”

Their hostess led them to another room that held an exquisitely set table in front of a marble fireplace. A three-tiered pastry stand, set squarely in its middle, held an array of beautifully presented desserts and crustless sandwiches. They sat themselves according to the little name cards at each place setting and Miss Wolcott rang for tea.

She then focused her undivided attention on them. “I imagine you’re wondering why I invited you here today.”

“We were just talking about that on the way over,” Poppy said frankly as Jane gave a polite nod and Ava murmured, “Yes, ma’am.”

“This is my way of saying thank you for your company at the Spencer musicale the other night. It’s not often young ladies will take the time to keep an old woman company, and I very much enjoyed talking to you.” She regarded them with bright-eyed interest. “You girls are very different from each other,” she observed. “I wonder if I might ask how you met?”

“We all go to Country Day,” Poppy said. Intercepting Miss Wolcott’s discreet inspection of her inexpensive clothing, she grinned. “My folks are all love, peace and joy types, but my Grandma Ingles is an alumna. She pays my tuition.”

“And I get financial aid,” Jane volunteered. Not that her parents had bothered to arrange it. If her second-grade teacher hadn’t submitted the original scholarship application Jane would still be attending public school. Nowadays she filled in the annual paperwork herself, so all her folks had to do was sign it.

“I’m just a regular student,” Ava admitted. “I don’t do anything special for tuition and Jane and Poppy are better at school than I am.” She smiled, punching dimples deep in each cheek. “Especially Jane.”

Warmth flushed Jane’s cheeks, ran sweetly through her veins. “Ava’s special in other ways, though.”

“I find it lovely to see such a close friendship between girls,” Miss Wolcott said. “You’re quite a sisterhood.”

Jane savored the word as the black-clad woman entered the room, rolling a cart that bore an elegant tea service. Miss Wolcott indicated the rectangular packages lying across the girls’ plates as her servant settled the silver teapot in front of her. “I got you a small token of my appreciation. Please open them while I pour.”

Jane carefully untied silver ribbon and peeled gold-and-silver paper from her package while Poppy ripped hers off with abandon and Ava unwrapped hers with a just-right show of attention that she’d no doubt learned in one of the Miss Manners classes she was always attending.

Jane smiled to herself. Maybe it truly wasn’t easy being a rich girl. Heaven knew Av told them so often enough.

Nestled in the paper was a deep-green leather-bound book with her name engraved in gold on the front cover. Poppy’s, she saw, was red, while Ava’s was a rich blue. Wondering how the older woman had known green was her favorite color, she opened hers, but the gilt-edged pages within were blank. She glanced at Miss Wolcott.

“I’ve kept a diary since I was your age,” the white-haired woman said in her deep basso voice. “And finding you all such interesting young women, I thought you might enjoy keeping one, as well. I find it a great place to share my secrets.”

“Awesome,” said Poppy.

Ava’s face lit up. “What a great idea.”

Looking from Miss Wolcott to the friends she’d known since the fourth grade, Jane thought of all the impressions and feelings that were constantly crowding her mind. Things weren’t always great at home, but she didn’t really like to talk about it-not even to her two best friends. Sometimes especially not to them. Poppy had great parents, so while she could and did sympathize with the way Jane’s folks were constantly slamming in and out of her house, she didn’t truly understand how shaky that could make the ground feel under a girl’s feet. And although Ava’s own home life was far from ideal, at least her parents weren’t a couple of actors who lived for the drama of constant exits and entrances.

But the idea of writing down how she felt really appealed to her. She smiled.

“Maybe we could call them the Sisterhood Diaries.”