Jackpot Summer, page 29
“Ravi, this is so sweet. My brother was the mystery buyer.”
“Nice,” Ravi said absentmindedly. He was bent over his laptop with the same intense look he got when he fell into a bidding war for limited edition art on eBay.
“What are you doing?” Sophie took a seat next to him.
“Looking for new representation. Harriett is finished. At least for a while, anyway. I hitched my wagon to the wrong star, clearly. The sooner I extricate myself from this, the better.”
“What are you saying? Harriett believes in you. She got your water jug in Basel for crying out loud. You can’t just desert her.”
He snapped his laptop shut and looked at Sophie like she was a foolish child. “This is my career. I can’t remain loyal to her if she’s tainted.”
“Tainted.” What a word. Sophie felt her heart muscle tensing. “And what about me?” she asked.
“Well, it’s good we’re not married yet. At least we don’t have the same last name. I googled our names and there are only like three or four pictures of us together so I don’t think it’ll be an issue.”
“An issue,” she repeated.
“It’s funny,” Ravi said, wry half-smile on his face. “I was never a gold digger, you know that. When you won the lottery, it didn’t change my feelings. That’s why I wanted to bring up the prenup first. But I thought that the win would bring some benefit to both of us. The money would help us gain access to certain collectors. We could travel to the international art fairs and be at the right parties.” He guffawed. “I didn’t expect the money to do the exact opposite for my career. We probably need to keep our distance in public for a while.”
She rose in spite of her wobbly knees.
“Jasper, come,” she called to her dog, who had settled back onto his bed. She grabbed the leash from the coffee table.
“You’re taking him out now? Would you mind walking Iris around the block while you’re at it?”
Sophie looked at him in disbelief. “No, I’m not taking Jasper out. I’m leaving with Jasper.” She pulled off her engagement ring and let it drop to the floor. “Have a nice life, Ravi.”
“You’re joking, right? Sophie, you need to get a grip. You’re not thinking straight.” Ravi sounded far more shocked than upset.
“I’m not joking. I need a partner who thinks about me before himself when I’m in crisis.” She swung open the front door, tugging at Jasper to follow. Ducking her head back in, she said, “By the way, your water jug looks like a deformed penis.”
FANTASTIC FOURSOME
NOAH
Ravi Patel is dead to me
LAURA
Can I finally admit I hate his art
MATTHEW
Our housekeeper threw out the vase he made that u gave us for Hanukkah. She thought it was trash
SOPHIE
Awww, i love u guys. was his stuff really ugly?
LAURA
HE was ugly. on the inside anyway
SOPHIE
Sigh. He was so pretty on the outside
MATTHEW
Austin is working on something that may help you Soph
SOPHIE
Pot gummies?
MATTHEW
Ha, no.
LAURA
S—u r spilling popcorn in the couch cushions
NOAH
You guys r together?
LAURA
Same room
SOPHIE
R u going to cancel me too
LAURA
No. just make u vacuum
MATTHEW
Who’s excited for Austin’s BM?
It’s really soon
Alrighty then
14
Laura
Laura heard the blanket rustling and a glass clink against the coffee table, which meant her sister was up from her nap. She’d grown accustomed to deciphering these sounds since Sophie moved in “temporarily” after the art show debacle and her breakup. After leaving Ravi’s place, Sophie had taken an Uber to New Jersey, arriving on Laura’s doorstep at one a.m. with nothing but her purse and a forty-pound mixed-breed in tow. Doug answered the door wearily, hugged her, patted Jasper’s head and said they could take any bedroom in the house. Laura watched the scene unfold from the second-floor landing with deep appreciation for her husband.
Sophie took over one of the main-floor guest rooms. Her stuff arrived the next day in cardboard boxes shoddily taped up and left haphazardly at the end of their driveway. Doug hauled them into the house and left them outside Sophie’s room. For a full twenty-four hours after her arrival, they didn’t see her face. The only sounds from her room were Jasper’s intermittent barks. When Laura and Doug went to the kitchen on the second morning of her stay, they observed with relief that the milk carton was lighter and the Cheerios were in a different spot. Laura wondered if she should buy dog food. Did Ravi send Jasper’s food in the boxes? The guest room had a sliding door to the outside, which Sophie clearly utilized to let Jasper out. The energetic way he dug up their shrubs coupled with the evidence that his digestive tract was functioning (discovered by a barefoot Doug going out for the paper) confirmed Jasper was being fed.
“Everyone hates me.”
These were Sophie’s first words when she emerged on day two, tossing her phone at Laura as evidence. “I can never show my face in public again.”
She made Laura and Doug read through every vicious tweet and blog post. The haters had even come after Jasper. A lot of people were angry that Sophie hadn’t gotten a rescue. #poorlittlerichpup trended for a hot second.
The online vitriol was real, but the hashtag #poorlittlerichgirl (and #pup) all but died out within forty-eight hours. The world moved on. Since Sophie’s show, a Kardashian announced a pregnancy, a polarizing former president insulted a female world leader in Europe and Apple announced a new iPhone drop. Sophie’s show was ancient history, at least in the theater of the Internet. Whether she had a chance at redemption as a professional artist, Laura had no idea.
“And Ravi? I mean, what the hell? I wasted almost three years with that guy. I know you guys trash talked him after the show, but you liked him before.”
“But you had hesitations,” Laura said. “There was a reason you weren’t jumping to move in with him. You were just more intuitive than us. Must be your kind, artist soul.”
“Ravi is an artist too,” Sophie pointed out.
“Well, some artists can be dicks,” Doug said. He had a higher tolerance for reading the cruelty than Laura did. Each insult lobbed at her little sister brought Laura back to the day she overheard a group of girls gossiping about Sophie at the Custard Hut. Laura was sixteen at the time, Sophie eleven.
“Eww, I can’t believe the bathing suit Sophie wore to her birthday party,” one of the brats said.
“I know, she looked like a mermaid. Oh my God—do you think she was trying to be the Little Mermaid because she’s a redhead? That would be so lame,” another of the mean girls said.
They giggled that smug, high-pitched squeal of girls ganging up on the vulnerable, momentarily emboldened by group think to forget their own insecurities. Laura let them go on for a few moments longer before she pounced. When she was called up to place her order (Muddy Sneakers—Laura’s favorite ice cream flavor to this day), she turned around abruptly.
“I’m Sophie’s older sister. And I wouldn’t be caught dead going anywhere in what you girls are wearing. And you—” Laura pointed at the ringleader. “That tube top you’re wearing is held up by pure desperation alone.” She never told Sophie what happened, and she never would.
“We are passionate,” Sophie explained to Doug. “Artists, I mean. It’s normally a good thing.”
Doug waved his hand dismissively. “I prefer dentists.”
“Me too.” Laura kissed Doug.
Slowly but surely, a routine took hold. Sophie would sleep late, have breakfast that she did a poor job of cleaning up, then camp out in the den, where she alternated long naps with reality TV. Commercials for diamonds and life insurance made her cry, so Laura set up tissue boxes on each side table. Laura didn’t try to coax Sophie outside, even though developing bed sores (technically couch sores) was not an impossibility. She didn’t want to rush her sister when she was this fragile. Besides, Laura liked having her around.
The new house was too big and too quiet with just her and Doug. In their old place, the heat rattled like a chainsaw and the refrigerator hummed out of tune, but the noises were oddly comforting. In fancy Franklin Lakes, everything worked just a little too well. Back in Westfield, they had lived on a quarter-acre lot where Laura could hear the neighbors’ kids playing in the backyard and their phones ringing if the window was open. When she went to the mailbox, she inevitably got into a five-minute conversation with a neighbor or a friend driving by. She used to resent it—I just want to get the damn mail without seeing Liz DiMarco gardening in her bathrobe…Peter Dubinsky talked my ear off about the new shopping center in town—but what she wouldn’t give now for a little friendly banter. Their closest neighbor in Franklin Lakes was a long walk away, and there were so many trees and fences dividing their properties each place felt like a fortress. She missed book club and the PTA and the run-ins at ShopRite. She missed texting her mom crew about Old Navy sales.
Laura liked having someone to care for again. She checked with Sophie every morning about what she wanted to eat for lunch and dinner, adjusted her blanket when it shifted during a nap and listened to her ramble on about Ravi and her failed career, always quick to chime in with, “You poor thing.” Then there was Jasper, another handful to dote on. At first Laura worried the puppy would soil the Oriental rugs and destroy the furniture, but he was easy to train—far more pliable than her daughters. A few YouTube videos were all she needed to housebreak him and he became pure joy.
Doug, Laura assumed, felt the same way about their houseguests. Surely he realized that it diffused the tension between them, still palpable even though three months had passed since Laura had crashed Doug’s business dinner with the SMILE executive. The house would get even busier when the girls returned home for spring break in a matter of days. Laura was counting the minutes until she could hug them and grill them about school. It would be nice if Sophie could get her shit together a little bit before they arrived. There were no YouTube videos for that, and Laura worried the girls would be upset seeing their aunt in such a sorry state.
“How’s our houseplant?” Doug came up behind Laura at the kitchen desk. She had plunged down an Etsy rabbit hole, searching for monogrammed towels for the girls’ dorm rooms in a particular shade of ecru.
“Our what?” Laura looked up from the screen, surprised to see Doug dressed in scrubs. She hadn’t laid eyes on the teal uniform in ages. He’d turned over his practice to SMILE in February and signed on as an investor and consultant. Most of the work he did remotely.
Doug gestured in the direction of the den, where the bottom third of chartreuse sweatpants was visible. “Wears green, doesn’t move much.”
“Ahh, you mean Sophie. I think she needs watering,” Laura said. “But she’ll live.”
Doug smiled. “I should hope so. That room gets a lot of sunlight.”
“Yeah, I think her head is starting to grow in the direction of the window.”
“I heard that,” Sophie called out. “It’s my ass that’s growing and it’s in the direction of the couch. Francois drops off some seriously unhealthy food. We’re not French. We can’t eat that much butter.”
Doug reached for a notepad and pen and scribbled SHE HAS TO GO. Laura’s assumption that he appreciated the company as much as she did was obviously incorrect.
She nodded. He was still scribbling. AND HER LITTLE DOG TOO.
“Soph, honey,” Laura said cautiously. “Can you come to the kitchen?”
“Why? I just got comfortable.”
“Because you’re squatting in our house and we asked you to?” Laura responded. Doug gave her a thumbs-up.
“Fine. I’m coming.”
They heard her socks make the whooshing sound that announced her whereabouts as she moved about the house. She ambled into the kitchen, her hair piled to one side in a straggly bun. Jasper perked up when he saw his owner in an upright position and licked her ankles. “You rang?”
“Soph, you know we love you so much. And we feel terrible about what happened at your show and how Ravi acted afterward. There’s no question you’ve been going through a rough time. We just think that—” Laura paused and looked at Doug, half expecting him to leave the room. When she disciplined the girls, even at his behest, she couldn’t always count on him for backup. He liked being the nice guy. One tear from either daughter and he’d crumble like a cookie—the cookie he’d buy them to make up for upsetting his girls in the first place.
“We—mostly I—think you need to pull yourself together and move out,” Doug said. “Yes, your life has taken a turn and I’m sure it feels like rubbish and we will always be there for you. But we raised two girls and it was bloody exhausting. We’re done.”
Laura stared at her husband. Who was this man suddenly willing to play bad cop? And why was his alter ego British?
“Sheesh. Is it that bad?” Sophie tried to take down her hair, but the elastic was tangled in her bun. Laura went for the scissors.
“There’s room for improvement.” He gestured to the capless Tropicana on the counter. “Emma and Hannah never replaced the cap either. Must be genetic. Anyway, my point is that we love those girls to infinity and beyond, but we’ve put in our time. They needed to leave the nest. And so do you. Laura and I want time to be together, just the two of us.”
We do? Laura let the question swirl around in her head until it turned into a declarative statement. We do!
“Being splayed on the couch all day and seeing nobody but the two of us isn’t doing much for your mental health,” Laura said. “Besides, you don’t want those haters online to have been right about you.”
Sophie’s expression went from downtrodden to confused. “What do you mean?” She scratched at her scalp, releasing a flurry of dandruff, and Sophie wondered if perhaps hair washing wasn’t a part of her daily routine.
Laura felt her throat closing. She took the glass of water in Doug’s hand and chugged. “What I mean is that your critics—I don’t know what else to call them—thought you were unappreciative of the lottery win. And by sitting around all day watching TV and feeling sorry for yourself, you’re not doing much to prove them wrong.”
Sophie folded her arms across her chest defensively. “Oh, and you two are? Buying a monstrous house for just the two of you in some stuck-up town where you have no friends? Going on fancy vacations when you were both clearly miserable?”
“We have friends here,” Laura said. “There’s Karen, from Pilates. And Cynthia, who I always run into at the nail salon. And Debra—Doug really likes her husband—what’s his name again?” Doug looked at Laura blankly. It had been less than a year since they’d moved to Franklin Lakes, but she knew it was past the time when their newness was an excuse for their lack of social life. It was unquestionably harder to make friends without having kids in the local schools, but Laura had made an earnest effort. Shown up to town hall meetings. Volunteered at the library. Used a reformer in Pilates class that looked like a piece of medieval torture equipment. She’d even borrowed Jasper to take to the dog park, but it was all part-time dog walkers half her age. The women were cliquey and only showed her the most basic courtesy. Franklin Lakes families had money from real-estate holdings and high-powered finance jobs, or, the holy grail, generational wealth, and they looked down at the Cohens’ shortcut. As though their riches were ill-gotten.
“You’re right,” Doug said. “We don’t have friends around here. And you’re right about the dumb vacations. I just want to eat good food—three courses max—see some sights and sleep in a comfortable bed. I don’t need an amuse-bouche or a palate cleanser or a bathrobe made from Himalayan sheep’s wool. There’s a point of excess. We’re throwing the money away on gold-leafed food and sterile massages that don’t mean anything. The truth is, nobody in this family handled the lottery particularly well.”
“God, that’s really true,” Sophie said. “Do the Jackpot Jacobsons suck?”
Laura let out a wallop. “I think we might. To be honest, I feel kind of lost. I had friends where we used to live—good ones. And a purpose. Taking care of Emma and Hannah may not have been a lofty career, but I was a good mom. Am a good mom.”
“So what should we do?” Sophie asked. “Not another tell-all art show, that much I know.”
Doug pulled open the refigerator, where the evening’s delivery dinner was plated and awaiting warm-up later. Three lamb chops nestled on beds of sweet potato mash rested on bone china, asparagus stalks arranged in a crisscross pattern on the side. A mound of mint jelly glistened in a silver dish.
“We start by not eating this,” he said. “How about McDonald’s? I’ve got to see an old patient whose implant fell out, but we can hit the drive-thru first.”
Sophie smiled for the first time in weeks. Laura admired her dazzling teeth. Doug had made her whitening trays after she got engaged.
“I would absolutely kill for a Happy Meal,” Sophie said.
A happy meal. They needed it figuratively even more than literally.
* * *
—
“Can we keep him?” Hannah was crouched on the ground, practically French-kissing Jasper, her backpack and jacket still on.
“Yeah, can we?” Emma echoed, rubbing Jasper’s tummy.
“He’s not ours to keep,” Laura said, though the childlike purity the dog brought out in her girls was reason enough to consider getting a dog of their own. A rescue, perhaps one of the dogs that Sophie had signed up to foster through a volunteer agency a few days ago.
