Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Caroline

T he dining room is slowly clearing out with the end of the lunch rush but the five of us are still tackling our various designer salads. My sous vide tenderloin on baby arugula is a masterpiece.

Waiters in starched uniforms carry trays laden with dirty dishes into the kitchen, the hustle-bustle of setting up for the dinner crowd will soon begin. I'm intimately familiar with the routine at Le Marais. Thanks to the days when Roger was sweet on Evie, we have this table in the corner reserved each month.

The five of us have been coming here nearly every month for years. It's a Herculean achievement given all our varying and hectic schedules but each one of us prioritizes this girl time and I've never been more appreciative than right now.

The ladies go around the table sharing their updates. Mo is waxing poetic about her next trade show in Paris. She's a leading designer at a world-renowned interior design firm. Mo tends to her appearance with the same meticulous attention she devotes to the homes of her celebrity clients. At the moment, she's donning a cream pantsuit that hugs her figure perfectly, paired with a sleek silk tank top. Her hair is swept up in her signature style. I run my usual check for imperfections in her pristine veneer but sadly, I can't find any.

Mo must sense my scrutiny because she says, "Buy any BMWs or Jaguars this week?"

I hold in my exasperation. It's a running joke about how bad I am with money. I like to shop, so what? As far as the car goes, it only happened once that I bought a luxury car on a whim. And it was an Audi SQ8. If I'm not mistaken, it's parked at the beach house in the Hamptons.

Either way, Mo has made it her business to bring it up nearly every time we congregate. She is mocking me and I'm tired of it. Especially given that I frequently cover lunch, hers included.

I point to her mouth. "Is that a piece of spinach between your teeth?" I say, keeping a perfectly straight face.

She blinks rapidly and covers her mouth, sucking on her front teeth before turning to Barbie, whispering, "Did I get it?"

Barbie nods even though there was nothing there to begin with. I only hope Mo will drop a piece of her beet salad into her cream-suited lap.

When it's Samantha's turn, she spends it as always on her kids, two teenagers who are giving her a run for her money. That is, if she had any money.

No update is complete until Sam has uttered her ex-husband's name. She brushes away her limp bangs, offers a slight smile. The lipstick she was wearing when I joined them has rubbed off, leaving her face devoid of any makeup. I would sooner be caught dead.

"Alan stopped by yesterday to drop off a check, can you believe it?"

The rest of us respond in unison. "No."

The jerk has missed far more child support payments than he's made. We've told her to report the delinquency and request to have the funds garnished from his salary but she won't do it.

Things don't come easily to Sam. I'm sure if her kids weren't used to their lives in the city, she'd move back to Ohio in a New York minute.

While she fills in the, dare I say, boring details—in fairness, we've heard this routine before—we all nod, hoping she's getting the emotional support she desperately needs.

Barbie lifts her glass. "I'd like to make a toast to us. Fifty is the new thirty."

Barbie is the great equalizer. Ever the peacemaker, she cannot bear conflict of any sort. She and Sam have that in common. Only Barbie has no confidence issues at all.

Evie says, "You realize if we add our ages together, we have two and a half centuries at this table."

"I'll drink to that," Barbie says, and does.

I ask her, "What's happening with you?"

Barbie twirls the end of her sleek jet black ponytail. Her skin is flawless. Her Asian features are exotic. She turns heads wherever she goes. She's also the brainiest one of the bunch. Even smarter than Evie though I'll never say so.

"I'm opening a new office in Queens," she says.

We all cheer her on.

A graduate of Stanford's business school, Barbie is career driven to the max. Several years ago, she began her own home care service. She now has over two hundred employees providing therapy services to children around the city.

"I'm also setting a new annual gross revenue goal." She tells us a number that is impressive even to my ears.

I listen intently to each woman's life update, keeping my mine to myself. We're having a lovely time, chatting, imbibing. No one wants to hear about messy lawsuits.

Evie is next in line.

"I already went. And you were all at my wedding. Never been happier but won't rub it in too much."

We chuckle. If anyone's earned a happily ever after, it's Evie.

"Caroline's turn," she announces.

The ladies all focus their attention on me.

When I don't offer up any juicy bits, Sam asks, "Any word from Dr. Handsome?"

No one even bothers using his name anymore. It's actually Dr. Calvin Sinclair, MD. Doctor of Emergency Medicine. The physician who treated me when I broke my leg.

"Nope."

I hide my disappointment by perusing the dessert menu but these women know me too well. I order something gooey from a passing waiter.

"He's not good enough for you," Sam says. The irony isn't lost on me that she is the one to say so.

I have no answer for that. The episode with Calvin was confusing and not worth one more brain cell's worth of attention.

After my accident last October, Calvin was extremely attentive to my needs, even after my discharge. When he'd call, asking to stop by my apartment, it was with questions about my rehab. Once we shared a glass of wine and another time he stayed extra late, claiming he was about to start the late shift. Things were casual and easy but never romantic.

When I flew out for Evie and Adam's wedding, Calvin started texting me jokes and funny memes. When I returned, our time together expanded beyond the walls of my apartment. A film at the Tribeca festival, drinks at the pier, a walk in the park. Weeks, even months, went by between our get-togethers, timed mostly around his hectic schedule but we stayed in touch by messaging.

For a while, I bought into the club's unanimous opinion that Calvin's house calls were personal rather than professional, that he was looking for an excuse to spend more time with me. Well, that proved wrong.

Seems he just felt sorry for a sad, lonely widow.

And I foolishly became attached.

Dessert arrives—a singular chocolate mousse with five spoons which we all share, each taking a spoonful. Evie leans in asking if I'm okay.

I'm sure she doesn't buy my dispassionate, "Yep."

Exactly ninety minutes after we convened, the bill arrives. Roger knows our deal.

Barbie, Sam and Mo have to get back to work. We all stand, preparing to disperse as we always do into different directions, different lives.

We've talked about switching our club meetings to dinnertime to allow us to linger longer but Sam still has kids at home and she wants to be with them.

Evie's phone buzzes and she smiles at the screen.

"See you next month," she says to all, saving the cheek pecking for me alone.

I want more time with her but I can feel her itching to go.

"Can't wait," I say, meaning it profoundly. "Say hi to Adam."

We exchange kisses once more and I leave the restaurant, stepping back into the frozen tundra, deeply grateful for the amazing friends I have.

I walk to the corner of Forty-sixth and Sixth and lift my gloved hand high, regretting not wearing my fur. It's become increasingly unpopular to walk around town wrapped in beaver but even a PETA activist would be tempted in five below.

I'm not one for Ubering. Actually, I never downloaded the app. I'm also not much of a taxi rider but I can't bring myself to call Paul when he's on borrowed time. Thankfully, it's only a couple of minutes before a yellow cab with its roof light on pulls over. I enter the backseat, trying not to look at the grubby interior.

"The Dakota, please."

Thanks to snarled gridlock, the taxi inches toward my street. Still, it's worth it to have the hot air vent blowing on me. I pay the driver and step out onto the sidewalk, enter the lobby, and wave to Larry, the doorman.

"Good evening, Mrs. Page. How's your day going?"

I don't have it in me to fib.

"Eh," I reply, trying to recall if I have any good red wine left in the apartment. I've been going through it faster these days. Especially since Calvin stopped coming by.

Dr. Handsome, as the Fab Fifty ladies refer to him, hasn't been seen or heard from in a long while. It's called ghosting, apparently. An apropos word for vanishing into thin air.

It's been nearly three weeks and it still hurts. Serves me right for trusting a doctor. I mean, wasn't it a doctor who attested to Bernard's questionable lucidity?

Larry frowns slightly and nods sagely. "Bernard is very missed, Mrs. Page."

If he wasn't a Manhattan doorman, Larry would be an in-demand therapist. He's better than a hairdresser or bartender when it comes to listening and validating. I make a mental note to call my actual therapist. It occurs to me I have no idea if she accepts insurance. I've always paid her out-of-pocket.

For the past several years, I spent on what I needed and wanted without a second thought. If Bernard's kids get their way, that will change fast.

"Thank you, Larry. Happy holidays," I say, reminding myself to drop off a generous check for him.

I note the elevator is descending. 3 . . . 2 . . . lobby. It dings open and Mrs. Reinhold steps out with her teacup Shih Tzu. Today's doggie ribbon is bright pink. How such an adorable being can live with this woman is beyond me.

I hear the crotchety old bag grumble as she walks past Larry. Pretty sure she said, "bah humbug."

Despite living down the hall from me, Witch Reinhold never once responded to my greeting. I've long since stopped trying. I have never seen her smile. Maybe she has no teeth. Or has loose dentures. If Scrooge was an ancient woman in a butt-ugly hand-knit wool hat, it would be Mrs. Reinhold.

I have one boot on the elevator when a thought occurs to me. Why am I in such a rush to go home? There's nothing waiting for me upstairs. Except for maybe another drink.

Which is something I can get elsewhere, with company.

The cute bar around the corner attracts a well-heeled clientele of pleasant alcoholics. Works for me. I'll come back home when I'm tired or tipsy.

I hear quick footsteps behind me.

"Caroline? I'm so glad I caught you." The voice is out of breath but I'd recognize it anywhere.

I turn around.

Standing there, looking like a middle-aged, hippy Adonis, is none other than Dr. Stupid Handsome.