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On the other hand, Evita had always had a way with Beatrice. She’d been happily married to Richard for decades. And Rosemary had no one else to phone.
She tapped in the numbers.
Evita picked up on the third ring, her “Hello?” so familiar that Rosemary immediately started to cry.
“Evita? It’s Rosemary.”
“Rosemary! What an unexpected pleasure.”
She swiped at her cheekbone with the back of her hand. “Where are you answering?”
“Pardon?”
“What room are you in?” She sounded wobbly. Needy.
“I’m dressing for dinner.” Evita spoke with a hint of censure, as usual. “Why do you ask?”
“I wanted to be able to imagine you.” She could, now. She could see Evita at her vanity, the dressing gown she wore in the late afternoon, lifting her eyebrows so that she could apply her evening makeup perfectly.
“Are you in trouble? You don’t sound like yourself.”
“I’m having a difficult day.”
“Where are you phoning from?”
“Wisconsin.”
“You’re visiting Beatrice?”
“We had such an awful fight. And I’ve fallen in love with a man, only we’ve broken it off. Last night. I’m at my wit’s end, and I decided to phone you.”
“How’s Beatrice faring?”
“She seems happy here with her film project. You know about her film.”
“Richard and I are investors. Although I’m not sure ‘investment’ is the best way to describe our financial interest, since it’s difficult to believe we’ll ever see a return on our stake. Are you enjoying Wisconsin? We’ve been invited to visit, you know. Winston’s gir
lfriend, Allie, has suggested that Richard might enjoy seeing her collection of antiquities.”
Rosemary curled her body around the phone, her chin tucked. Tears dripped off her nose onto the seat of the picnic table. Evita’s blithe refusal to engage with her misery was somehow both frustrating and absolutely correct. “Wisconsin is horrible.”
“Perhaps that’s a hasty judgment,” Evita chided. “How long have you been visiting?”
“Can we…” Rosemary sucked in a breath. She’d forgotten about breathing. “Actually, I can’t do the polite chitchat thing. I think I really need you to get into the guts of something with me, because I’m so fucking confused, I’m going out of my mind.”
“Is the language necessary?”
“No. Yes, maybe. I think so. I just need to talk to somebody, and your number was the only one I knew by heart.”
“That’s flattering.”
“Sorry.”
“Never mind. Tell me what we’re getting into the guts of, darling. Transatlantic calls are expensive.”
“I’ve got bigger problems. I just figured out I wasted the last few years on a boneheaded plan because I was too afraid of what it might have felt like to actually live my life. I’ve ruined my relationship with Beatrice”—here, her voice broke—“driven away the man I love because I was selfish, and now I’m sitting on top of a picnic table on a hilltop in some unknown Wisconsin park, crying because I have no idea what’s next.”
“You’re sitting on top of a picnic table?”
