Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [42]
I ask her why, always intrigued to hear the details of their life in the city—so different from my own childless memories of Manhattan.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, pausing before moving on to a pink cashmere sweater with tiny pom-poms sewn along the neckline. All of Julia and Sarah’s things are exquisite and girly, which is incongruous with Rachel’s own wardrobe of denim; cozy earth-toned sweaters; and long, bohemian-chic scarves that she drapes twice around herneck even in the summer. “You just hear all the stereotypes of all the schools. . . Chapin is blond, precious, WASPy. . . Spence is full of wealthy, connected society girls. Or spoiled, materialistic sluts, according to the haters . . . and Dex when we got rejected.” She laughs and then imitates his low voice—“How dare they turn down our brown-eyed wonder!”
I laugh at my brother’s expense and then ask about Brearley’s reputation—which is the Upper East Side all-girls’ school that Sarah and Julia attend.
“Hmm . . . Let’s see ... I’d say bedraggled intellectuals,” Rachel says.
“You are a far cry from bedraggled,” I say, pointing to her perfect piles that she is now stowing in the girls’ monogrammed canvas L.L. Bean bags.
She laughs and says, “So is Longmere still your top choice for Ruby?” she asks.
I nod, impressed with her memory of Boston schools and even more so when she asks, “That’s where April’s daughter goes, right?”
“Yeah . . . Which at the moment isn’t a selling point for Nick,” I say, giving her the full story about Nick’s patient. “He wants to avoid the entire drama . . . Or at least avoid the types he perceives to be meddlesome, do-nothing drama queens.”
“Meddlesome, do-nothing drama queens are everywhere,” Rachel says. “Private schools, public schools. Manhattan, the Midwest. They’re unavoidable.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But tell that to Nick. He seems to have a chip on his shoulder these days.”
As soon as the words are out, I regret them, both because I feel disloyal uttering them to Rachel who never breathes a negative word about her husband—and because I feel as if I’ve solidified my brewing criticisms of my own husband.
She gives me a sympathetic look which only sharpens my guilt. “Chip on his shoulder about what?” she asks.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, trying to backtrack slightly. “I understand where he’s coming from. I totally see that April and Romy and everyone in their clique should back up and give this woman and her kid some space. And I told April as much—which wasn’t an easy thing to say to a friend.”
“I can imagine,” Rachel says, nodding.
“But Nick takes it to such an extreme. You know how he can be. Self-righteous isn’t really the word . . .”
“Blunt? No-nonsense?” she guesses.
“Well, yes, there is that. He’s always been on the serious side,” I say, realizing how difficult it is to describe the people closest to you, perhaps because you are aware of all their complexities. “But it’s more that he has zero tolerance for anything he deems frivolous, be it gossip, celebrity magazines, excessive drinking or consumption.”
She nods hesitantly, walking the fine line between supporting me and denigrating Nick.
“I know I’m making him out to be so humorless . . .”
“No, no. You’re not. Listen—I know Nick. I get him. He has a great sense of humor,” she says.
“Right,” I say. “He just seems more reclusive lately. He never wants to get together with friends . . . And as far as parenting goes, he’s either the laissez-faire dad or Mr. Devil’s Advocate . . . Or maybe I’m just noticing it more lately ...” I say pensively, thinking of the recent conversations with my mother and tentatively sharing some of the lowlights with Rachel.
“Well, Barbie’s a cynic. You have to take her with a grain of salt,” she says. “You know what she recently said to me? Right in front of the girls?”
“What?” I ask, shaking my head in anticipation.
“She said getting married is like going to a restaurant with friends. You order what you want, and when you see what the other person has, you wish you had ordered that instead.