The Sky Beneath My Feet - By Lisa Samson Page 0,33

by some assigned reading in the Bible or a popular theological tome. After the Shaws left for Virginia, the location moved to Stacy Manderville’s cavernous, ever-expanding mansion, the group growing considerably in size but stretching much thinner when it comes to content.

Most of the ladies prefer it that way. The study group consists mostly of stay-at-home (or these days, work-at-home) moms, the only people free during the workday. By definition, we are over-committed. Several of the study group ladies are also members of one of my book clubs, so it’s not like they’re lacking for intellectual stimulation. What they lack is time.

I drive over to Stacy’s, bracing myself for questions. Why aren’t we in Florida? When are we leaving? How long will we stay? Part of me wants to skip out, pretend I’m already gone. But as long as I have that key, I’ll feel a sense of obligation.

The Manderville house, over toward Loch Raven, is a faux castle, turrets and all, perched on a hilltop approached via a long, winding drive. The family goes as far back as the 1700s, and I imagine there are a few ghostly patriarchs turning in their fancy crypts at the thought of the former Stacy Root having married into the line. She’s a loud, plump woman with wild hair and expensively bad clothes, who loves weaves, fake nails, rhinestones, and country western music. When she redecorated the stately home, she dedicated a whole bedroom to her favorite movie character, Scarlett O’Hara. Her husband, Lynn, raised no objection. In her presence, he goes kind of limp, contentedly overwhelmed.

I let myself in—the door’s always open on study group mornings—and Stacy greets me with unfeigned enthusiasm. “Hey, girrrrrrl! I thought you’d be down at the beach by now. Great to see you.”

“Stacy, about that . . .” I produce the beach house key and make to hand it over.

“What’s this?”

“I don’t think the vacation is going to work out.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say. “It’s just, getting the boys out of school, you know, and Rick was thinking we might stay closer to home, and . . .”

“I thought you wanted to go.”

“I do, but . . . you know.”

“Let me talk to him, girl. I’ll set the man straight. The problem with men is, they can’t take a hint. You have to draw a great big picture for them, then you have to stick their faces in it. I’ll bet you’re dropping hints, right? Hoping he’ll pick up on your little signals. But, Beth, they never do. Trust me, I haven’t dropped a hint in fifteen years. When I want something, I let Lynn know. It’s not that they don’t want to give us what we’re after, they just have no idea what that is. You have to give them a clue!”

“Oh, I gave him a clue. It’s just not going to work out, I’m afraid. Here, you take the key. I really appreciate the offer, and I wish I could take you up on it.”

“Beth, you do me a favor. Hold on to that key. If you go down there, great. If you don’t, so be it. Just know that you have the option.”

“Are you sure?”

“How long have we known each other? I’ll tell you this: I think you need some time away.”

“You’re probably right.”

As we’re talking, other ladies file through, saying their hellos, stepping down into the huge sunken living room. Although the house is old, back in the seventies, Lynn’s parents spent a fortune gutting the place and remodeling along contemporary lines. Then Stacy added her own touch, filling the wide-open rooms with dainty-looking but massively scaled furniture, big tufted sofas with floral print covers, glass-topped tables, and enough accent pillows to open an accent pillow boutique. She likes dolls too. Two-foot porcelain farm girls in ruffled calico stand in every corner, and if you bump into one, her jewel-tone eyes blink. It’s so bad that the overall impression is pretty wonderful. As long as you don’t have to live there.

I sit on a couch beside Nat Waterhouse, whose husband, Pete, has been battling cancer for the last two years. She’s a serene, calming woman in her late fifties who’s always pulling her sleeves down because she’s self-conscious about the age spots on her hands.

“How’s Pete doing?” I ask. “And the girls?”

“Oh, fine,” she says, “just fine. Our youngest is getting married, did you hear? It’s a relief, I’m telling you, such a burden lifted. Once the kids are settled in life, I’ll