She drained her glass. ‘‘That isn’t the worst of it, either. He brought her with him.’’
‘‘To your house? When the kids were home and you were out?’’ Katie said. ‘‘That’s really low.’’
‘‘The kids were good, though. They wouldn’t let him in, so he banged around in the garage and the mud-room, then left.’’ She drummed on the table with her fists. ‘‘I’d like to beat his head in.’’
Katie grinned in that manic way she does after a little wine. ‘‘What about her head? Why is she off the hook? She’s not some innocent seduced by the wicked wolf. She went after a man she knew was married. I mean, she’d met you, for heaven’s sake. Anyone with any values knows that’s wrong. Now she’s showing up at the house to rub all of your noses in it. Whatever happened to discretion? For that matter, whatever happened to shame?’’
‘‘It does take two to tango,’’ Sandy said.
‘‘Yeah,’’ I agreed. ‘‘All these weeks we’ve been going to class, learning how not to be a victim, how to assert ourselves in threatening situations. What’s more threatening than someone out to destroy your marriage? And who’s doing the threatening? She is.’’
Natalie brightened. ‘‘I know where she lives. What kind of car she drives. And she never stays all night at his hotel.’’
‘‘How’d you learn all that?’’ Katie asked. ‘‘You hire a detective?’’ Natalie nodded.
‘‘So what are we waiting for?’’ My voice cut through their wows. ‘‘Maybe we should have a talk with the young lady. Point out the error of her ways.’’ I try to speak like an educated woman, but I love clunky old clichés like ‘‘the error of her ways.’’ And, as we know, alcohol lowers inhibitions.
They responded to my modest suggestion like I’d yelled, ‘‘Charge!’’
We paid the check. Natalie called her kids. By the time we were in the parking lot, I was having second thoughts. I’m a facilitator, not an instigator, and despite the meal, company, and restorative wine, I was still jumbled. I wasn’t even sure why I’d made my crazy suggestion.
‘‘Maybe we should rethink this,’’ I said. ‘‘What do we do when we get there?’’
‘‘No way. It’s brilliant,’’ Katie said. ‘‘It’s not like Natalie’s going to beat this girl’s head in. Why shouldn’t she have a chance to say how she feels? That’s all we’re going for.’’
Put that way, it sounded absolutely reasonable.
‘‘I’ll drive,’’ Sandy said. ‘‘I’ve got a good head for wine.’’
If this were a movie, we’d have jumped into something big, shiny, and black. Probably been wearing leather, too. Or navy blue FBI-style jackets with NINJETTES in goldenrod letters. And stilettos. But this was a quiet suburban town and we were a clump of slightly tipsy matrons. We all piled into her Subaru wagon.
Natalie took the front to navigate. Katie and I dumped L.L. Bean canvas totes, an umbrella, rain boots, South Beach snack bars, and assorted audio-books into the back and fastened our seat belts. This was either going to be fun or a monumental disaster.
Tiffany lived on the first floor of a three-decker on a quiet Cambridge street. We found a parking space just one house away, and waited. Trees just leafing out overhead were a soft yellow green under the streetlights and the air coming in the open windows had the earthy scent of spring.
‘‘I don’t see her car,’’ Natalie whispered. ‘‘She’s got one of those Mini Cooper things. A yellow convertible.’’
‘‘That would be hard to miss,’’ Katie said.
‘‘Last time she came back around eleven,’’ Natalie said. ‘‘She’d better come soon. My oldest won’t go to bed until I’m back.’’
‘‘Last time?’’ Sandy said. ‘‘Natalie, have you done this before?’’
‘‘I came once, thinking I’d talk to her, but I lost my nerve.’’
‘‘I hope she didn’t see you,’’ Katie said.
‘‘Nope. There could have been sixteen muggers in the bushes and she just went tripping past in wobbly little heels, paying no attention to anything. I’ll tell you, I could have-’’
‘‘Everybody duck,’’ Sandy said. ‘‘There’s a car coming.’’
Katie and I nearly knocked heads as we squinched down in the small backseat. If it was Tiffany, she must have been driving about one mile an hour. I had a crick in my neck by the time Sandy whispered, ‘‘It’s her. Now what do we do?’’
‘‘Natalie talks to her,’’ I said.
‘‘Natalie stays in the car. She knows Natalie,’’ Katie said. ‘‘The three of us will do the talking.’’
‘‘I thought I was going to talk to her,’’ Natalie said. ‘‘Isn’t that why we came?’’
‘‘Mmm. But I’ve been thinking,’’ Katie said. ‘‘You’re in a divorce, you want to keep right on your side. You don’t want her getting a restraining order, claiming you’ve been stalking her, do you?’’
‘‘I never thought of that.’’
‘‘She’s getting out of the car,’’ Sandy hissed.
‘‘Then what are we waiting for?’’ I popped upright and grabbed my door handle. We were here and the facts hadn’t changed-this young woman was causing Natalie and her kids so much pain. We might as well do it.
Tiffany wore a short skirt, pink cashmere bolero over a lacy, low-cut camisole, and cute little pink high-heeled mules with black polka dots. The purse slung over her shoulder, big enough to house a small rhino, held a matching pink tennis racket. Her multicolored hair hung in an expensively nonchalant shag and her lips gleamed like pavement on a rainy night. She didn’t look much older than Cassie. It was tragic how when girls were young and naturally lovely, they slathered themselves with makeup.
‘‘Tiffany?’’ Sandy spoke in a ladylike, unthreatening voice.
The girl’s vaguely sullen ‘‘Yeah?’’ reminded me of my own teenagers. ‘‘Do I know you?’’
Sandy shook her head. ‘‘We wanted to speak with you about your affair, dear.’’
‘‘Affair?’’ Tiffany gave a little bark. ‘‘What affair?’’ She clutched the giant satchel closer to her side, dismissing us with a scornful look. ‘‘Not that it’s any of your business.’’
One of my mother’s clichés, ‘‘Don’t judge a book by its cover,’’ pressed to get out. We probably didn’t look like much, three middle-aged women in baggy workout clothes and clean white gym shoes. But Katie was president of the local bar association. Sandy had won awards for her work with traumatized children. And I spent my life teaching parents and teens to communicate about issues of trust and honesty and taking responsibility for your choices about risky things like drugs, sex, alcohol, and speed. What I did saved lives.
‘‘Your affair with Sterling Burke,’’ I said. ‘‘Family relationships matter, Tiffany. When you disrupt a marriage and come between a father and his children, that’s not only selfish, it’s immoral. Did you ever consider that?’’
She tilted her head in an I-can’t-believe-this-is-really-happening gesture. ‘‘You’re joking, right?’’ she said. ‘‘I mean, seriously, you didn’t tootle in from the suburbs to talk to me about morality.’’ She gave a disdainful sniff, a fanny about the size of two softballs twitching under her abbreviated skirt. ‘‘Look, if some pathetic woman can’t hold on to her husband, that’s not my problem.’’
This little lightweight had a lot of nerve calling Natalie pathetic. It was hard to raise kids, run a house, hold a job, and sustain a marriage. I held on to my temper and tried to explain.
‘‘But sleeping with a married man is a problem, Tiffany. It interferes with important, established relationships. Sterling’s relationship with his wife. His relationship with his four children,’’ I said. ‘‘In some states, you know, alienation of affection and adultery are still crimes.’’