The Groaning Board

said. “My boy
came through it, and while it wasn’t easy, I was able to bend with all the
changes. He came back to himself and now he’s finishing his first year at
Harvard.”
    Wetzon rolled her eyes. Who was Smith
kidding with all that bullshit? In her dreams was she able to bend with all the
changes. Smith’s son, Mark, had concluded his otherwise uneventful adolescence
by coming out, revealing he was gay. The resulting trauma had been Smith’s.
    “Ellen is a wonderful girl,” A.T.
said. “You might have s een her when you came in. She’s lovely,
smart, and quite mature for her age.”
    “Which is—?” Wetzon asked.
    “Sixteen.”
    “I would have liked to have a
daughter,” Smith said with a n ostentatious sigh.
    Sure, Wetzon thought. The competition
would have made semipro.
    “So would I,” A.T. said. “But Ellen’s
not Mickey’s daughter. She’s a relative of Mickey’s first husband. Mickey took
Ellen in two years ago after Ellen’s mother died in an accident.”
    A volcano of sound erupted above
them.
    A.T. raised her voice over the
commotion. “I’d suggest a hazelnut torte with a lemon cream filling. We’re
talking forty people?”
    “Yes.”
    “Four tortes will be more than
enough. And two big bowls of strawberries and a bowl of crème fraîche.”
    “What do you think, Wetzon?”
    “Personally, I prefer rice pudding.”
I
    “Oh, hush. You and your rice pudding.
We’ll go with the hazelnut tortes, A.T. And I’d like Eli Zabar’s skinny bread,
if you don’t mind. Um... have we left anything out?” Now they were all talking
louder to be heard over the shouting. j
    “I don’t think so, but we have plenty
of time in case there’s anything you want to add.” A.T. rose and took a large
white envelope from a drawer in one of the buffets. “Our ; press kit
includes a copy of our standard contract. I’ll have one drawn up with the menu
we discussed.”
    The noise above them stopped
abruptly. Footsteps thundered down the stairs; a door slammed. No one came
through-the kitchen, Wetzon observed regretfully.
    Envelope in hand, Smith contemplated
her tiny bag, as if willing the envelope smaller. Finally, seeing magic was not
forthcoming, she thrust the envelope at Wetzon. “Here,” she said, “you can put
this in your briefcase and give it to me tomorrow.”
    “Thanks a lot.” Wetzon stuffed the
envelope into her briefcase.
    “Do you want to stop somewhere for a
drink?” Smith asked halfheartedly.
    “No, I’ve had enough. I’m going to
walk it off through the park.”
    Minnie Wu was coming in with her crew
as Wetzon followed Smith through the shop—where end-of-the-day shoppers were
lined up out to the street. Outside the carriage house, a young girl with
straight blond hair, parted in the middle, was sitting on a fat, old-fashioned
leather valise. Her pretty face was stoic as tears streamed down her cheeks.
    “Oh, my,” Smith said. “You poor child.”
    “Do you need help?” Wetzon asked.
    The girl turned exquisite green eyes
from Smith to Wetzon, but before she could speak, A. T. Barron rushed out of
the shop and clutched the girl to her bosom. “Now don’t you worry about
anything,” she said. “You’ll always have a home with me.”
    “She hates me,” the girl said.
“She’ll make you suffer if you take me in to live with you.”
    “No one,” A.T. said in a voice that
gave Wetzon the creeps, “no one makes me suffer.”

Chapter Four

     
     
     
    IT HAD STARTED, INAUSPICIOUSLY
ENOUGH, WITH A VEAL ROAST. And most of the cast of characters had made their
appearance by the time Smith and Wetzon left The Groaning Board late that April
afternoon and parted on Second Avenue. But neither of them knew this.
    And neither had any inkling that
one—Micklynn, A.T., Minnie, or Ellen—would end up doing the dead man’s float in
the section of the Hudson River known as New York Bay.
     
    When they arrived at Smith’s
apartment building on Seventyseventh Street between Second and Third, Smith
said, “What route are you taking home, sweetie pie?”
    “Why do you want to know? Oh, my, be
still my heart. You’re thinking of putting on your running shoes and joining
me.” That’ll be the day, Wetzon thought. Smith didn’t believe in exercise, ate
whatever she liked, and still maintained her slim, svelte figure. It was
loathsome.
    “Are you mad?” Smith said.
    “Oh, totally.”
    “So how are you walking?”
    Wetzon sighed. “I don’t know.
Probably