The Craigslist Murders - Brenda Cullerton [46]
Bored and impatient, Charlotte skimmed through the titles of Rita’s newest “must reads” stacked on a Hepple-white side table. The Angry Self, The Dance of Anger, Angry Kids, Anger Busting 101. The truth was, Rita probably spent three hours a week talking to her shrink about feeling angry. When she wasn’t talking about it or just plain feeling it, she was reading about feeling it. What a vicious circle, she chuckled.
Charlotte picked up a glossy brochure. The shiny retro blue and white plaid cover featured a cute vintage logo with the word “COOKBOOK” floating in the center. When she saw the words “Whiting School Annual Report” printed beneath it, Charlotte snorted a laugh.
Had they never heard the expression “cooking the books?” she thought.
“Pretty funny, huh? Charlotte?” The unexpected sound of Abe’s deep, throaty voice startled her. The brochure dropped to the floor. “It’s okay. I laughed, too,” said Abe, as he came around her to shake hands.
“I guess they have a great sense of humor,” Charlotte said.
“No, Charlotte. The problem is, they have no sense of humor,” Abe replied. “Why do you suppose the world has become so tediously earnest? And you don’t have to answer that.”
Charlotte liked Abe. Bald, chunky, and dressed in a pair of beat-up old jeans and running shoes, he was delightfully unpretentious. Charlotte’s relationships with the husbands of her clients played a pivotal part in her success. After years watching her mother manipulate rich, powerful men, she had learned how to please them. Accustomed to subservience, she knew that they also enjoyed the occasional challenge—a woman who, far from appearing to be intimidated, came in close enough to puncture their thick skins; to make them laugh at themselves. Charlotte felt there was nothing more seductive in a woman than this ability to make a man laugh at himself.
Today, she watched him as he struggled for something to say. It touched her that he chose to make that effort.
“Are you here to talk about moving the pool?” he asked with a small smile.
“I sincerely hope not,” Charlotte answered, honestly.
“Good! It’s the Johnsons, you know. My wife wants them to put us up for membership at the Ocean Club. She thinks that moving the pool will, somehow, increase our chances.”
“I see,” she replied, wondering what Abe thought of Birkin Bag Syndrome.
“Ah! Here she is,” Abe said, hurrying over to give his wife a kiss.
Rita was carrying a large manila envelope. “I hope the wrist feels a bit better, dear?”
“Don’t mention it, please, Abe,” Rita said. “I was just going to show Charlotte the paint chips for the new house on Dyer’s Lane.”
“What new house on Dyer’s Lane?” Charlotte felt as if she’d been ambushed.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Abe said, sensing the possibility of an unpleasant scene.
“We’ve bought another little place on the Vineyard, Charlotte,” Rita said, “on Lake Tashmoo.”
“What for, Rita? The place in Gay Head is so beautiful.”
“Yes, but it’s on the ocean. I like the idea of having a place on a lake, too. It’s so much more tranquil. I’m going to use it to meditate,” Rita added, opening the manila envelope and spilling a pile of paint chips onto a $100,000 Chinese rug that Charlotte had finally found at auction in London.
“Talk to me, Rita, please talk to me,” Charlotte said, trying to remain absolutely calm.
“Don’t get upset, Charlotte. I know how busy you’ve been. So I decided to just go ahead and hire a professional colorist.”
“Rita, this is nothing but white paint,” she said, forcing herself to smile while rifling through the pile.
“It’s thirty-two different shades of white paint, Charlotte. The colorist thinks that the shade has to be exactly right. Because of the light, you see? The light up there changes all the time.”
“You’re not Picasso or de Kooning, Rita. What do you care about the changes in light?”
Charlotte could see that Rita was annoyed. Her nose was twitching. “Just take these home with you, Charlotte.