Four of a Kind by Valerie Frankel Read Free Book Online

building in a great ’hood—and scaled back to a frugal, hermetic life. She got pregnant, and was instantly grateful for having spent only a portion of her inheritance. She’d lost a lot less than most since the market downturn, thanks to having put the bulk of her nest egg in insured, triple tax-free bonds. Their interest was enough to support her life completely and indefinitely.
    Nowadays, if people wondered how Robin, a single mom with a low-salary job, could afford private school tuition, expensive clothes (even Boho chic could be pricey), they didn’t ask or were satisfied by her claim to have purchased 10,000 shares of Microsoft in 1987. As for why Robin worked at all: she felt compelled to keep herself tethered to the world somehow, even if by only a thread.
    Carla greeted Bess and Robin at the front door of her house. The host wore a green caftan tonight, and seemed to be a bit on edge. Her lips were tight as she waved them into the parlor level great room with a vaulted ceiling. A mahogany banister gleamed along the stairs, which the women were not invited to climb. Robin bit her lip instead of asking for a tour of the house. She got the instant impression that the committee members were going to stay on the first floor all night long.
    Which was fine. Robin would happily admire the teardrop molding, the marble fireplace (filled with philodendron in pots), the wainscoting and striped wallpaper. The furniture wasn’t period friendly. Not by a long shot. In the dining room, where the women were brought, a chunky thickly lacquered black table loomed, along with chairs and tie-on cushions. The walls’ built-in shelving held glass and ceramic figurines, the kind of stuff one saw at a flea market or Grandma’s; dusty and precious, and not Robin’s taste.
    Carla said, “Have a seat.”
    Robin and Bess sat. They heard a rattling flush, and Alicia banged out of a powder room, having to force the door open. “Sorry,” Alicia said, a bit flustered.
    “Don’t apologize,” said Carla. “The person who should apologize for not fixing the door isn’t here to do it.”
    “Your husband is working late?” asked Bess with I-can-relate geniality.
    “The one night I asked him to be here,” complained Carla, and then, the moment of candor was gone. She willfully relaxed the tension in her face, said, “I have food. Be right back.”
    Carla’s marital boil had only sent up the one bubble. But the evening was young. Alicia looked rumpled and somewhat mousy—
the same
, thought Robin. Gray suit, straight from work at, what was it, an ad agency? Carla’s three guests waited at the heavy table, and awkwardly smiled at each other. Early signs of discomfort. Perhaps the fun of that night at Bess’s house had been a fluke. Thus far, the women had nothing to say to each other.
    Robin needed a drink. And a smoke. She assumed that was not going to happen indoors. When Carla returned with a supermarket-bought platter of Italian antipasti, Robin’s banded stomach lurched at the sight of the oily, spicy, and acidic food. No way could she eat that.
    “Any Chianti to wash it down?” she asked hopefully.
    “I’ve got soft drinks,” said Carla. “We don’t allow drinking alcohol in the house.”
    Bess said, “Don’t want your boys to dip into it?”
    “They wouldn’t dare,” said Carla in a tone that almost made Robin quake. “It’s family policy that the boys never see Claude and me drink. It sets a poor example.”
    Moment of silence from the white girls. Alicia said, “Tim and I hardly ever drink, so we don’t have alcohol in the house either.”
    But probably not as a house rule
, thought Robin.
    Bess, she of the fully stocked bar in the basement, said, “I think it’s an excellent policy. Good for you, Carla.”
    “Yes, goodie for all of us,” groused Robin, pining for a glass of something. “I applaud our diverse house rules.”
    Carla shook her head. Robin instantly regretted complaining, and felt a