“So about these—there's no point in three people moving them. Just point me toward the family room, and we'll eliminate one stage of the process.”
Fiona gave her directions, and Jane staggered out. The family room turned out to be the most interesting—and strange—room of the house. It wasn't really a family room in the usual sense. It was more of a shrine. The walls were adorned with all Richie Divine's gold and platinum records. Jane had never seen a real gold record in her life, and she walked around the room looking at them, awed. Completely apart from their meaning, they were beautiful things in a flashy way.
There was "Red Christmas," the sappy but moving ballad about two young lovers separated by the Berlin Wall. Jane remembered hearing once that three of the biggest selling Christmas records year in and year out were Elvis's "Blue Christmas," Bing Crosby's "White Christmas," and Richie Divine's "Red Christmas." The commentator liked the irony of the three dead artists with the patriotic color scheme outselling so many of the live ones.
Next to it was the platinum disk of "Goodbye, Philly," the heartbreakingly lilting little song that was released, with terrible irony, the same week Richie died. The song had stayed on the charts for months and months afterward. It had a sort of "You Can't Go Home Again" theme, adapted to the seventies.
Katie had been an infant when that came out, and Jane always associated the song with sitting in the kitchen, listening to the radio, and waiting for the bottle sterilizer to finish boiling. That had been such a happy, peaceful time for Jane. Life had been so simple then. And yet Fiona, at the same time, was enduring the heartbreak of losing her sexy, famous husband. It was hard to believe that anyone could have been unhappy at the same time Jane was so contented.
Jane didn't remember the words to the song, but she could still hum the whole thing, and she did so as she continued her tour of the room. There were platinum records for "Do I, Do I Ever,”
“Some of These Nights,”
“Everything I Am," and at least a dozen more. Jane stopped in front of "Loving Loving You," and came close to blushing. Steve had bought her that record the day they came back from their honeymoon.
On a shelf that ran along the north wall there were ranks of other awards and framed pictures. Richie with Bob Hope in fatigues entertaining troops someplace. Richie with President Nixon. Richie with a frumpy middle-aged couple who must have been his parents. Richie with a couple astronauts and another of him in a silly mock embrace with Elizabeth Taylor. There were three shots of Richie receiving awards and four stills from the one movie he'd made. A big color poster advertising the movie hung in the center.
At the end of the wall, almost lost in the shadows of the corner were two charming photos. One was a strip of four pictures taken in a drugstore booth. Richie and a very young, pretty Fiona. In the top shot, he was making a face, and she was looking at him with shy amusement. In the second, he was nuzzling her neck, and she was looking mortified. The third was a serious face-forward shot of both, and in the last they were kissing primly. How sad it must make her to see that now: Richie, his youth preserved by death, and Fiona growing steadily older. She already looked old enough to be the mother of the boy in that shot. Why did she keep that reminder of what she'd lost?
The other photo at the end of the shelf was a shot of what must have been a high school band lined up on the school steps. Someone had circled a boy at the end wearing an oversized hat and holding a big drum. His face shadowed, you'd never recognize him, but that must have been Richie. Jane studied the picture, feeling she'd seen it before—the cheerleaders with their pompoms kneeling in the front, the band director standing at the side, the kids squinting into the sun, the boy on the back row holding two fingers up behind the head of a girl in front of him. Every high school band picture in the world must look just like that.
Jane had lost all track of what she was supposed to be doing and was brought back to reality with a start when Phyllis's voice broke in on her thoughts. "Jane, where are you? Have you seen that house? It's darling. Just darling! I'm sure Bobby is going to love it.”
Jane hurried out of the room, afraid Phyllis would find her there and gush over the Richie Divine memorabilia. She wasn't sure why she didn't want Phyllis to see that room, but she didn't. She felt so sorry for Albert having to share his house with his extraordinary marital predecessor. Of course, Albert was presumably living on the spoils of his predecessor's talent, so apparently it didn't bother him.
The rest of them, including Albert, had gathered in the sunny breakfast room. Whatever had irked him must have passed, because he was sitting at the table, looking utterly relaxed.
“It has this sweet little porch off the main bedroom with a little railing. Wonderful for sunbathing," Phyllis gushed.
“She nearly toppled off, admiring the view," Albert added.
“Could I use your phone to call and make arrangements?" Phyllis asked.
“Certainly, but what kind of arrangements?" Fiona asked, setting a tea kettle on the stove.
“To buy it," Phyllis said. "Would you write down the address and the name and number of the man who's selling it?"
“Yes, of course. But don't you think you're acting just a little precipitously?" Fiona asked. "I probably am," Phyllis agreed cheerfully, taking the business card Fiona had handed to her. She went to the phone.
“Did Albert tell you about Mr. Finch?" Fiona asked, apparently overcome with an urge to be fair.
“He mentioned him, yes. But he just sounds like an unhappy old soul to me. I'm sure I'll get along with him just fine." Without another word, she dialed and said, "Mr. Whitman, please, George? Phyllis Wagner here. Yes, lovely trip. George? I've found the most adorable house I want to buy. Would you contact this man—" She gave the information and waited impatiently while he wrote it down.
“Now, it's vacant, and I'd like to get in immediately. Tonight? Why not? What's a closing? Oh, I see. Then ask him if I can just rent it until then. And George, it's quite empty now. Could you please send a decorator over this afternoon with a few things—beds, linens, kitchen things, towels, you know—so I can move in tonight? Yes, I know you will, George.”
Jane listened to this with fascination. Could you just buy a house and move in six hours later without even knowing what a closing was? She'd never heard of such a thing. And she heard it now with mixed feelings. On the one hand, it was wonderful to think she might not have to harbor Bobby under her roof for a single night. Too good to be true. On the other hand, it installed Bobby and Phyllis in her own neighborhood on a more or less permanent basis. Besides her own concerns with this possibility, she hated to do that to Fiona. She was a nice ladywho didn't really deserve to get stuck with Bobby as a next-door neighbor.
But Fiona had started it by mentioning the vacant house, Jane told herself. It was really her own fault, and who could tell—maybe they'd all get along great. She glanced at the Howards. Fiona was looking gracious and English and seemed to be drifting gently from slight worry to puzzlement and back. Albert, however, was gazing out at the frozen garden, stirring his tea and humming to himself. Phyllis, temporarily restored to her usual cheerfulness, had the phone receiver pressed to her ear and was gabbing away at her Mr. Whitman about the house.
Jane mentally shrugged. Whatever happens, it won't have anything to do with me, she thought.
She was seriously mistaken.
Nine
On the drive back home, Jane mentally pre pared herself for the ordeal of helping Phyllis get her new home ready. To her astonishment, Phyllis didn't seem inclined to do anything nor, as it turned out, did she need to. During the afternoon there were two calls from a man who politely introduced himself as Mr. Whitman of Wagner Enterprises asking for Mrs. Wagner. The first time, Jane slipped out of the room to throw in a load of wash. The conversation was over when she came back up, and Phyllis made no reference to it. The second time, Phyllis took down a couple of phone numbers, thanked Mr. Whitman, said yes, she usually did prefer yellow to blue, then hung up.