the coffee. Of course I’d heard about you. Everybody has, if they live in New York and go to parties. Which I used to, all the time. Though not so much anymore.”
Charlotte feels she’s supposed to ask why Ruth doesn’t go to so many parties anymore, but the moment passes.
Ruth says, “Gosh, I hope you don’t think I’m your internet stalker.”
“Not at all,” Charlotte says. Charlotte looks up people, but sometimes she feels uneasy—violated—if people say they’ve looked her up, and at other times she’s insulted if they clearly haven’t. “And I don’t know about ‘hugely successful.’ Everybody’s working overtime and struggling.”
Ruth says, “This pasta is fantastic.”
“Thanks. It’s really an everyday meal. Anyhow, I didn’t work today. I make time for family. We don’t have a nanny. I try to get out of work in time to pick Daisy up from after-school.” Why is Charlotte trying to prove what a hands-on mom she is?
“Rocco tells me that Daisy’s in public school.”
“Yes, it’s—”
“Admirable,” says Ruth.
Charlotte’s promised herself not to become one of those parents who ramble on about where their kids go to school and why. She likes Daisy’s school; so does Daisy. It’s nearby, the kids live in the neighborhood, the principal and teachers seem kind and smart and committed. She adores the after-school teachers, who always come up with interesting projects. Charlotte loves the women in charge. They’re all memory prodigies who learn your name—and which child is yours—after meeting you only once.
She’s lost the thread of what Ruth’s saying.
“I wish this was my everyday meal. Though when I went to culinary school—”
“Culinary school?” Charlotte says.
“Those three Tuscan grandmas? Remember? They had quite a moment and then . . . Eli, Rocco tells me you made some genius business decisions.”
“What I said was that my brother-in-law never has to work another day in his life. Go to sleep. Justthefood. Happytrails. That’s mi hermano.”
Rocco’s fond of Eli, but around his girlfriends, he’s critical, even dismissive, as if he fears they might prefer the handsome brother-in-law with the wife, the daughter, the money, the beautiful loft.
“That’s awesome,” says Ruth. “So are you like . . . retired?”
Why has she Googled Charlotte and not Eli? Unless she’s pretending ignorance, the party trick some women learn to make men talk about themselves. Or maybe she’s just being polite. There is always that chance.
Eli says, “The fact is . . . now I can do what I want . . .”
“Which is . . . ?”
“Set design. I’m working on a production of Macbeth.”
“I love Macbeth. I played Lady Macbeth in high school. ‘Out, out, damned spot. All the perfumes in Arabia . . .’” Ruth stares in mock horror at her hands as if they’re covered with blood, then giggles. “I was good at it. I wanted to be an actress until my drama teacher told me that people would always be telling me to lose weight and fix my nose. And that was a total buzzkill.”
Eli says, “Maybe Lady Macbeth ruined it for you. The bad-luck part, as you probably know. The role that ends a career.”
“Maybe. Well . . . When does your play open? Where?”
“You’ve probably never heard of—”
“Try me,” says Ruth.
“New Lights.”
“That’s amazing. I’ve been there a million times.”
Charlotte thinks: Has she really?
“I love that you can bring cocktails from the lobby into the theater.”
Maybe she has. Or maybe she did Google Eli.
“So how’s it going?”
“Not great,” Eli says. “The director is a maniac. He wants the witches to fly through the air on harnesses, even though the theater isn’t insured. No one can talk him out of it—”
“Can I be excused?” Daisy has heard this before. “Look! I finished all my pasta.”
“Good girl!” says Ruth. Charlotte shoots her a look that she hopes isn’t as resentful as she feels. Who is this stranger to praise her daughter?
“Sure, sweetheart,” Charlotte says. “I’ll call you for dessert.”
“See you later, alligator,” Ruth says.
“In a while, crocodile,” says Daisy.
Eli and Charlotte look at each other. What did their daughter just say? If Daisy has so readily accepted Ruth, maybe she senses something positive. Sometimes Charlotte thinks that her daughter is better at reading people than she is. And maybe it’s not a bad thing that Daisy has taken to someone outside the family.
Suddenly they hear noises coming up through the floor: shouting, screaming. It’s impossible to make out the words, but a slamming door makes everyone jump.
“You crazy bitch!” a man yells.
Eli puts his hands over Daisy’s ears.
“Yikes,” says Ruth. “Unhappy couple?”
“The