When the game nights ended, Roberta found herself lingering after the others left. She was drawn to something about Charlotte Combs’s house: perhaps it was the effortless glamor that Charlotte gave off, from her red flared pants to the gold cuff bracelets she favored—so different from Roberta’s sensible loafers and bland suits. Maybe it was the warmth of her home, a stately antique farmhouse that, upon closer inspection, defied subtlety: a purple velvet Victorian fainting couch in the corner, silver candlesticks on every table, heavy damask curtains the color of an August moon. Pops of Charlotte’s urban upbringing winked throughout the farmhouse like hidden treasures for the discerning eye. Even her husband, Alder, someone Roberta had thought of as just another politician, was intriguing. He rarely made an appearance at the all-female card game, but when he did, Roberta could feel the ardor he held for his wife. It filled the room as surely as the tall man himself.
Roberta didn’t get invited to many parties, but she knew enough not to be one of those who overstayed their welcome. So she made herself useful. Against Charlotte’s objections, she’d station herself at the kitchen sink, rinsing the diminutive crystal punch glasses that Charlotte told her had come from her parents in New York as a wedding gift. “They don’t come out much,” Charlotte confided. “Oh, they love the kids, of course. But they never really understood what drew me out of the city full-time.” Or Roberta would wrap the leftover food on platters and tuck them carefully into the fridge. “Bertie, really. You don’t need to do this.” But Roberta did. No one had ever called her Bertie before.
After, Charlotte would invite Roberta to the living room fora cup of tea; Charlotte would curl up on one corner of the sofa and tuck her knees under her chin, childlike. She was a waifish thing, and despite her tanned complexion and the strong arms that swept the boys up like they were weightless, Roberta noted a fragility to her.
“What did you think of Penny’s news?” Charlotte asked wearily one night. Penny Leary had stunned the group midway through the game with the sudden announcement of her impending divorce, a move that led to a heavy hush in the room before a flood of questions. Roberta remained silent, but she ached for Penny Leary. Divorce was not new, of course, but in a small Connecticut town in the eighties it wasn’t the norm. As for Roberta, divorce cases didn’t come through her courtroom, but often the fallout did, in the form of custody hearings and financial cases. She’d listened in silence as Penny poured out her heart and then stopped abruptly and turned to ask for a refill of punch. Despite the hugs and advice offered, the evening had turned solemn, and there was no repackaging it after that. The game had ended early, and as the headlights went on and cars backed down the driveway into the night, Roberta imagined the others rushing home to hug their husbands. To make promises. To seek assurances. In case Penny’s situation might be contagious.
“It’s very sad,” Roberta mused, staring at her own ringless left hand. “Unfortunately, I hear plenty of domestic cases in my courtroom. Though I’m sure it won’t come to that,” she added quickly.
Even Charlotte seemed down, her bright spark dimmer than Roberta had seen. She sipped her tea, then stood abruptly and crossed the room to the bar cart. “Want some in yours?” she asked. Roberta watched as she poured some brandy into her cup.
“Oh, no, thank you.” Roberta had to drive home. She also had to get up and work the next morning. She watched as Charlotte returned to the couch.
“You know something?” Charlotte asked.
“What’s that?”
Charlotte let her head rest against the back of the couch. “We’re a lot alike, you and I.”
Roberta clutched her mug. She didn’t know what to say to that. Oh, she longed for it to be true, but she hadn’t the faintest idea what Charlotte was getting at. They just weren’t.
“We are,” Charlotte said, lifting her head to meet her friend’s gaze. It was as if she could read Roberta’s mind.
Roberta cleared her throat, shaken. “How’s that?”
Charlotte hesitated, then smiled sadly. “We’re both outsiders here.”
Roberta stiffened. This was not what she’d expected to hear.No,she wanted to cry out.You are on the inside. You’ve brought me to the inside, too.A feat Roberta had, her whole unexciting life, thought impossible. “What do you mean?”
Charlotte lifted one shoulder. “This town. It’s a happy little town, for sure. But they stick together, they do. We didn’t grow up here. We’re not like them, and we never will be.”
It was the first time Roberta had heard Charlotte utter anything less than plucky. She, who invited everyone into her home, who insisted they stay and play awhile. Who turned up the music and kept the conversations going. Who made a complete stranger like Roberta feel like a part of an established gang. Roberta realized she had fallen in love with Charlotte in a way that she had always wished she could fall in love with herself. The person she wished she could see,could be,when she looked in the mirror as a fourteen-year-old girl and saw the freckled nose and the dark blunt bangs that framed a perfectly forgettable face. In Charlotte’s company, Roberta felt she belonged, like she was seen. Now, to hear her refer to the both of them as outsiders split something deep within that had only recently healed.
“But everyone here loves you,” Roberta began.
Charlotte laughed, softly at first, then gruffly as she sat up and loosened her ponytail. Her blond hair fell about her shoulders. She shook her head. “Love. What a curious thing to call it.”
She rose then, and Roberta, feeling unsure of herself, stood, too. Charlotte closed the space between them and Roberta held her breath. Maybe it was the brandy. Maybe something Penny Leary had stirred up. Charlotte stopped in front of her. “Good night, Bertie. Thanks for coming.” She relieved Roberta of her mug and brushed her cheek with her lips. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
Roberta drove home with her insides mixing. She’d never known anyone like Charlotte Combs. When she rested her head on her pillow that night, she felt as uneasy as she imagined all the wives at bridge had felt that night after Penny Leary’s confession. But Roberta feared losing Charlotte.
Charlotte did call in the morning. Her voice was bright and crisp on the line, like usual. “Bertie! How’d you like to come by next Saturday? It’s Wendell’s birthday.”
And just like that, Roberta’s equilibrium was restored.
Their friendship went that way from then on. A visceral necessary thing that Roberta treasured. Roberta grew to know and love the boys. She attended family gatherings and sometimes even holidays. Their lives, different as they were, became interwoven as much by their friendship as by the nature of being neighbors in a small town. Eventually, she began to catch the scent of what Charlotte had warned her about: they were not like everyone else. But it would be years before she really understood what that meant.
Now, as Charlotte’s oldest boy pulled up alongside her in his blue truck and rolled down his window, Roberta smiled. “Wendell. How are you?”
His blue eyes smiled back. “Doing fine, thanks, Bertie. How about you?”
“Oh, I’m hanging in there, as much as an old lady can.”
Wendell didn’t say anything, but his eyes crinkled kindly. He’d always been a quiet boy.
“How’s work at the Lancaster place?”
“Busy. The gala is tonight.” He leaned out the window. “Why aren’t you in your gown?”
