Maine - J. Courtney Sullivan [36]
“You love the Brewers,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “You’re right. I’m only teasing.”
She hoped the guilt didn’t show on her face.
Ann Marie had been fantasizing about Steve Brewer since the spring fling charity ball at the club in early April. She imagined the two of them getting to know each other better over long candlelit dinners, holding hands across the table. It was more about romance than sex—that part, she really couldn’t imagine. But a courtship sounded perfect to her, something to transport her away from all her worries.
She could sense that he felt the same way. They had been together before that, at group dinners and block parties over the years. But they had never really talked one-on-one before. That night, he had asked her about herself: where she grew up, what she had done before having kids. (“I had a job in the restaurant business,” she said, like always. It sounded better than saying she was a waitress. In college, she had wanted to be a nurse or maybe a teacher someday, but her first baby came before she got the chance, and Pat didn’t think the mother of his children should have to work.)
His hand brushed hers as he refilled her water glass, and he left it there until the glass was full.
“What do you and Pat like to do for fun, other than come here to the club?” he asked.
She told him the usual—they drove out to Maine a lot, where they had a cottage. They took long walks and played tennis in the summertime. Then she told him about her dollhouse. Maybe she had had too much champagne, but she found herself getting as worked up as she might if she were talking to a fellow enthusiast.
“I’ve just ordered a tiny set of Hummels for the mantelpiece,” she said. “They’re very rare. Antiques.”
“Miniature miniatures,” he said with a smile.
“Exactly!”
“What got you interested in all of this?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.
“My grandchildren,” she said. “Or maybe it goes back further than that. Do you remember when Jackie Kennedy redecorated the White House, and then she led the camera crew through? This is the gold room, this is the green room …” She was using her best breathy Jackie voice.
He chuckled. “Yes! I remember that.”
“It made me want to design my own perfect house someday,” she said, only now realizing the connection. “Don’t get me wrong, our real house is lovely, but with a dollhouse, everything stays pristine; there’s no worrying about kids spilling grape juice or getting shoe scuffs on the floors.”
“Well, that’s really neat,” he said. “Linda likes those little light-up porcelain houses at Christmas—you know the ones I mean?”
She felt slightly distressed at the sound of his wife’s name, and she almost wanted to say that dopey porcelain Christmas figurines had nothing in common with dollhouse design. But she only smiled in response.
A few days later, a card arrived. It was a thank-you note addressed to both her and Pat. Inside, Steve had written: Thanks for vouching for us at the club, you two. We promise not to make you regret it! Next dinner is on us. P.S. For your research on the gold room, the green room …
Inside the envelope was a magazine, no bigger than a postage stamp. It was a miniature issue of Life from 1962, with a photograph of the young first lady smiling radiantly in a pillbox hat on the cover, over the caption “Mrs. Kennedy’s White House Makeover.”
Ann Marie held the magazine between her thumb and index finger, and felt herself tingle with excitement. She placed it on the side table in the dollhouse living room. She didn’t mention it to Pat when he got home.
Ever since, when they hugged hello, even in front of their spouses, Steve always held on a moment or two longer than seemed natural. He never failed to compliment her dress or to ask her about her charity work at the church, and he was genuinely interested, not just making conversation like everyone else. Sometimes in the afternoon, when she was cleaning the house or about to start dinner, Ann Marie would pour herself a glass of wine, go to the computer in the home office, and type