“No.”
With a shrug, she returned the tin to her purse. “I know nothing,” she repeated. “But maybe I feel that you do not always have his complete attention.”
My hands were shaking. “What else is he paying attention to?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But you are a free woman, mine daughter, and you have options. You bought the shoes, but maybe you wear them to the opera instead. They’d be great at the opera. This is the last I’ll say about it.” She smiled at me and patted my thigh. “The shoes are very pretty.”
I did wear those shoes to my wedding, and I ended up twisting my ankle on the way out of the synagogue. I limped through the entire reception. I couldn’t dance at all.
My mother’s advice had always been sound.
FOUR
I left a rambling message on Embeth Levin’s answering machine. “Embeth, it’s your old neighbor, Rachel Grossman”—I was still Rachel Grossman then—“Rachel Grossman from Forestgreen Country Club, from Princeton Drive, from Boca Raton, from Florida, from planet Earth, ha ha! Anyway, I was thinking of you, and the kids”—oh God, that was one way to put it—“and when the kids were young, and I was wondering if we might have lunch, just to catch up and talk about old times.”
A week passed, and she hadn’t called me back. But why would she? She’d eaten my brisket, she’d eaten my salmon, but we hadn’t been friends. I decided to call her at her work. Her assistant put me on hold. The hold music was the Three Tenors Christmas album, and I remember sitting through at least two versions of “Ave Maria” in the time it took the assistant to return. “Embeth’s in a meeting,” the assistant said.
“Is she really in a meeting?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said.
I started to wonder if the best thing to do wouldn’t be to send her an anonymous note about the affair. But how could I be certain that she alone saw it and that it wouldn’t be intercepted by the assistant or someone even more indiscreet?
I was considering driving down to her office, which was forty minutes away in Palm Beach, when Embeth called me back.
“Rachel, hello,” Embeth said. “I was surprised to get your call. How are you? How’s Dr. Mike? Alisha?”
Normally, such an error would have insulted me (We’d been neighbors! They’d been invited to Aviva’s bat mitzvah!), but at that moment, I felt relief that she didn’t remember Aviva’s name. It meant she couldn’t know about the affair. “Aviva’s good,” I said. “She’s interning in the congressman’s office.”
“I didn’t know that,” Embeth said. “That’s wonderful.”
“Yes,” I said.
I knew there would be no better moment.
But I couldn’t ruin a woman’s marriage over the phone.
“How about lunch?” I said.
“Oh, Rachel,” she said. “I wish I could! But I’m incredibly busy with work and with the congressman’s reelection campaign.”
“It could be short,” I said. “Drinks even.”
“The soonest I could think of doing it would be this summer,” Embeth said.
I needed to invent a reason for us to see each other, something she couldn’t put off. I remembered what Aviva had said about the campaign and money. Money, I thought.
“Well, I wasn’t only calling to catch up. I thought we might discuss the possibility of a fund-raiser,” I said. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’ve recently become the principal of BRJA, and I’m always on the lookout for opportunities for our students to meet with Jewish leaders. So, I thought, wouldn’t it be marvelous if the school hosted an evening ticketed lecture with the congressman? Our students get to meet with the congressman, and we could invite the parents, too, and we could make it a real thing. It would be win-win for us and for the congressman. The Boca Raton Jewish Academy presents a Night of Jewish Leaders. Is that something you and I could discuss?”
She laughed. “The only time the zookeepers let me out is for campaign business.” Her voice was bashful. “How about lunch next Thursday?” she said.
In honor of the occasion, I bought a new suit at Loehmann’s. St. John. Black, with gold buttons and white trim. It was deeply discounted — the fabric was heavy for South Florida—and my size-ish.
The dressing room at Loehmann’s was communal, which meant the other shoppers weighed in on what you tried on.
“You look great in that,” an older woman (younger than I am now) in her bra, underwear, and a chunky turquoise necklace said to me. “So svelte.”
“It’s not really my style,” I said. “I like your necklace.”
“I got it visiting my son in Taos, New Mexico,” she said.
“I’ve heard it’s nice there.”
“It’s a desert,” she said. “If you like the desert, it’s fine.”
I swung my arms. It felt like I was wearing armor.
“The suit looks made for you,” the older woman said.
I looked at myself in the mirror. The woman in the suit looked frumpy and severe, like a prison matron. She didn’t look like me, which was exactly the look I was going for.
When I arrived at the restaurant, Embeth was there as was Congressman Levin’s director of fund-raising, I don’t remember the exact title. His name was Jorge, and he seemed like a very nice man, but I wanted to stab him with my fork. How irritating that she had brought someone! I had to pretend to talk about a fund-raiser that I had no intention of throwing. An excruciating forty-five minutes into lunch, Embeth said she had to leave Jorge and me to continue planning the fund-raiser without her. “This was lovely, Rachel. Thanks for getting me out of the office.”
“So soon?” I said.
“We should do it again,” she said, in a tone that meant that we shouldn’t.
I watched her leave, and as she rounded the ma?tre d’s station, I stood and said, “Jorge.”
“Yes,” he said.
“Excuse me. I have to go to the ladies’ room!” I knew I was being oddly specific, but I didn’t want him to suspect my real purpose.
“Well, you don’t need my permission,” he said lightly.
I walked at a measured pace toward the bathroom, but as soon as I was past the ma?tre d’ and out of Jorge’s eye line, I sprinted toward the parking lot. She was still walking to her car. Thank God, I thought. I ran and I called her name like a madwoman: “Embeth! Embeth!”
The pavement was so hot it had almost turned back into tar, and my heel sank into it. I tripped and I skinned my knee.
Through my panty hose, I could see glistening flecks of pavement, embedded in my flesh like jewels.
“Rachel,” she said. “Oh my God, are you all right?”
I immediately stood up. “It’s nothing. It’s . . . the pavement is sticky,” I said. “What a klutz I am.”
“Are you sure you’re okay? I think you’re bleeding,” she said.
“Am I?” I laughed, as if my own blood was a great joke.