Free Four of a Kind by Valerie Frankel Page B

Bess corrected. Amy rolled her eyes as only an obnoxious sixteen-year-old could.
    Simone usually discounted any of Bess’s pursuits as meaningless hobbies. A card game would be ridiculed as an excuse for a bunch of hens to swap casserole recipes, brag about the kids, and gossip. For Bess, it was an opportunity to immerse herself in other women’s lives. Something Simone, for all her wisdom and insight, rarely, if ever, did. Simone might speak to a crowd of thousands about the plight of millions.But how often did she sit down with three strangers—no, friends, fast friends—and reveal herself, uncheck her feelings, and allow herself to be vulnerable? When was the last time Simone expressed a weakness or doubt? The rest of the world took comfort in admitting to their insecurities, in allowing themselves a respite from maintaining a façade of strength.
    And the Diversity Committee didn’t swap recipes. Not yet anyway.
    Simone said simply, “Cards?”
    Bess said, “Along with planning our committee agenda.”
    “Poker?” asked Simone with a condescending lilt.
    “You better believe it,” said Bess with a rush of unexpected pride.
    Amy said, “Mom spends hours playing Texas Hold ’Em on her laptop.”
    “Really? Do you and the
ladies
,” said Simone, using that derisive word, “play for pennies or chocolate chips?”
    If she told Simone about sharing secrets and histories, it would taint the entire experience. “We play for fun,” said Bess, fearing that sounded frivolous and lame.
    “My parents had a card night,” said Simone. “Do you remember, Bess? Mom and Dad would set up the folding table. The Colberts from next door would come over.”
    Bess smiled. Yes, she remembered. When Simone left Bess at her grandparents’ for overnights, she watched some marathon gin or bridge games. She was the helper, emptying ashtrays, fetching bottles of wine, replenishing the snacks. “Grandma always let Grandpa win,” said Bess fondly.
    “That’s right,” said Simone. “She let him win. If he didn’t, he’d abuse her about everything, how she looked, what she said, her cooking and cleaning. Of course, that was a different time, when women had few options. Women nowadays don’t have to stay in loveless marriages to abusive men who deny them the smallest victories.”
    Simone remembered her mother as a victim; Bess remembered her grandmother as a saint. Obviously, Simone knew her parents’ marriage better than Bess did. Bess was nine when they passed away within a year of each other. How would Amy remember Bess and Borden’s marriage? Would she think of Bess as a needy sponge who lived off her husband and clung selfishly to her children? Or as a confident woman who played to win?
    “You know, Bess,” said Simone. “You remind me a lot of my mother. Around the eyes.”

    “I’m so sososo sorry again about Amy,” said Bess to Robin several nights later. “But this trip to London was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I had to let her go.”
    “No big deal,” said Robin. “But if you apologize again, I might start to think it is.”
    Bess wanted to tell her friend that it
was
a big deal—a very big deal—that Simone had snatched her daughter from her clutches, and spirited her off to a glamorous adventure in a foreign land. What did Bess have to offer Amy that could compare? Packing nutritious lunches for over a decade didn’t impress a teenager like giving a keynote speech at an international conference on women’s rights. Amy was at that age when changing the world seemed possible. And Bess? At forty, “the future” wasn’t what it used to be.
    Robin found someone else to babysit Stephanie, and hadn’t seemed to care that Amy bailed, which irritated Bess. The two of them climbed out of Bess’s BMW, parked at the Red Hook Fairway. Alicia’s apartment was in one of the lofts above the supermarket.
    Robin, whose red hair frizzled spectacularly tonight, said, “Can you imagine the mad