will not be a televised talk show.”
“What do you suppose it will be?” Charley asked, for that was the real dilemma. The network hadn’t offered her a position. She feared that at forty-four she was considered too old for television. There were other positions, of course—at the executive level, behind the camera, in the field. But she’d loved her show.
“Hey, look at this,” Charley said, holding up a purple envelope. “A letter from Hope! It’s opened. You didn’t mention... What did she have to say?”
“Same old Hope,” Megan said with a shrug.
“Can I have a look?” Charley asked.
“I guess you might as well,” Meg said.
“But if it’s private...”
“It’s not,” Meg said. “Really, go ahead.”
Charley opened it and read.
My darling Megan,
How wonderful that you’re opening up the lake house for summer! We’ll be there! I’ll have to get back to you on the exact dates. We usually spend a couple of months at the Cape but of course we’ll cut that short this year if there’s a chance to get together with the family. I won’t know whether Franklin will come for the duration until closer to the date—he’s so overwhelmed with his company. I know he’ll do his best! And Bobbi and Trude will be thrilled. They’ll have such a good time. Does the lodge still have a stable and horses to use? And is Grandma Berkey going to be able to come? I’ll dash off a note when we have a few more details about our summer.
Love, Hope
Charley fanned herself with the note card. “Oh, Meg, what have you done?”
Meg shrugged again. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“How many of them did you invite?” Charley asked.
Megan briefly bit her bottom lip. “All of them.”
“All of them?” And Megan nodded. “Oh, God,” Charley said.
“Don’t worry, they’ll never come. Hope surprises me...but I bet anything she’ll change her mind. The lodge is no longer like a country club the ladies can go to for bridge. It’s just a hotel now. I don’t mean ‘just.’ It sounds like a nice hotel. But I don’t think the guest services are available to the lake people, just the guests.”
Charley raised an eyebrow. “And you know this how?”
“I looked into it,” Megan said.
Charley eased down into a chair. Megan reclined on the sofa. The den was a small, cozy room. It contained only a sofa, one chair, a side table and coffee table, a bookcase and a small flat-screen TV in a niche in the bookcase. Charley looked at Megan, huddled in a knit wrap. She was perpetually chilly, having so little meat on her bones. Eyeing her now, thin and nearly bald, her cheekbones so prominent and her constitution weak, it was hard to remember what a force of nature she could be.
“I forget how stubborn you can be,” Charley said. “Have you heard from anyone else?”
“Everyone, I think.”
“Care to expound on that?” Charley pushed.
“Well, it shouldn’t surprise you, Hope was the first. Beverly called. She said she was very doubtful—she’s pretty sure she’s not in a good place with that yet. But she’ll keep it in mind. Aunt Jo said it sounded to her like just the thing this family needed—time to get beyond all the trouble and angst and move on. Of course, she also said she wouldn’t feel right about going unless Louise asked her. And I don’t see that happening.”
“And Mother?” Charley asked.
“Oh, she’s furious. But there’s not much she can do. I guess she could arrest us and post a guard.” Megan laughed rather brightly. “I wouldn’t put it past her, to tell the truth. But she’s mostly angry that I invited Grandma Berkey and now she expects to be carted down to the lake and Mother’s pitching a holy fit about it.”
“You didn’t...”
“Of course I did,” Megan said. “I wouldn’t leave Grandma out. The house belongs to her.”
“Oh, brother,” Charley said. “Well, I think you take after her. Did any of the others ask how you were feeling?”
“Oh, yes, they’re actually very lovely people, our family.”
Charley just shook her head. Hope hadn’t asked. Typical of Hope. She didn’t think about other people much. “You know the best part about your recovery? You’re not going to get away with this shit anymore!”
“Lighten up, Charley. It’ll be fun. Even if it’s just the two of us.”
“I have a feeling it’ll only be fun if it’s just the two of us,” she said.
When Hope Hempstead Griffin received the little note from Megan, something came alive in her that had been dormant for years. How long had the note been there? She hadn’t collected the mail in days! It was four in the afternoon when she opened the front door of her palatial home, stepped over the custom-hooked doormat that read Hope and FR Griffin and walked down her curved brick driveway in her terry-cloth robe and furry slippers. She pulled an armload of bills and catalogs out of the box and waddled back up the drive at a slow pace, leafing through the mail. Once every month or so she got a letter from her mother, sometimes a small package addressed to the girls, all of which she threw away unopened, but other than that there were only rare items personally addressed to her.
She dropped all the other stuff on the kitchen table and tore open the note. “The lake,” she whispered in a reverent breath. She read the few lines over and over. She held the note in her right hand and clutched her robe together over her pendulous breasts with her left hand. She absently ran a hand through her messy hair as though she were suddenly concerned with her appearance. Her lips began to move in nervous, meaningless, silent chatter. With a sweep of her hand she cleared a month’s worth of newspapers, magazines, catalogs and junk mail into the trash can. She put the note, alone and prominently displayed, in the middle of the table. She went to a cupboard in search of a coffee cup, but she found the cupboard empty. She rummaged through mounds of dirty dishes in the dishwasher and then the sink until she found one that wasn’t too nasty and slowly washed it out, her lips moving the whole time.
The coffeepot was permanently stained but she rinsed it out and loaded it with filter, grounds and water. While the coffee began to brew she went into the downstairs powder room and fussed a little with her hair. It was perfectly hopeless. Ha, ha, she thought. Hopeless Hope. Well, it would have to do for now. She hadn’t had a proper coiffure in months. She hadn’t washed her hair in days. Or showered, for that matter. “Coffee. Shower. Dress. Hair. Clean kitchen. Manicure. Take out trash. Run dishwasher. Unload. Reload. Vacuum. Sheets. Clothes...clothes...summer clothes...” Her lips moved over these words but the only sound was an occasional squeak.
When her coffee was brewed she sat down at the table with her address book. She
