Bread Alone by Judith Ryan Hendricks Page B

but I mean, it’s a psychological thing from being upset. It’s a control issue, and I know you must be feeling very out of control right now.”
“I’m not feeling out of control, I’m feeling fat. I’ve got a long way to go before anorexia sets in.”
She reaches over to push some hair off my face. “Don’t frown, Wynter. It wrinkles your forehead. You’re certainly not fat. You look wonderful. Tim was mentioning last night how pretty you are.”
I set down my fork. “Tim Graebel is a son of a bitch.”
“Wynter, what is the matter with you?”
“He was hitting on me out in the kitchen while his sweet little wife was sitting in there drinking coffee, totally unsuspecting.”
My mother laughs.
“He was,” I insist. “You should have heard him, telling me he knew how lonely I must be. What a difficult time this was for me. How I should call him if I needed a friend.”
She laughs again. “Ah, yes. The old I’ll-help-you-in-the-kitchen routine. What’s so funny is that they all think they’ve invented it.”
I stare at her. “You mean you know? You knew?”
“Wyn, I’ve been single for fifteen years. Quite an amazing number of friends’ husbands have tried that one on me. Including Tim. Make no mistake, Georgia’s not so unsuspecting.”
“What did you do?”
“I laughed at him. I laugh at all of them.” “What does she do?”
“She ignores it, of course.”
I shake my head. “Why do women put up with that bullshit?” “You know, your language has gotten quite vulgar.”
“I can’t believe this. You’re more upset about me using a four-letter word than you are about your friend’s husband making a pass at me. And you.” I wad up my napkin, toss it on the table.
She takes a sip of her coffee and sets the cup back in the saucer with a delicate clink. “Men can’t help themselves, dear. It’s up to women to maintain the standards.”
“Standards aren’t gender specific.”
She picks up my napkin, smoothes out the wrinkles, folds it into a neat triangle. “Wyn, I agree completely. But men really are the weaker sex; they need guidance. And women have either forgotten their moral authority or they’ve become afraid to use it.”
“Mother, please.”
“All right, I won’t bore you with facts. Your mind is obviously closed.” I get up and carry my plate to the sink, rinse it, and load it into the dishwasher while my mother sips her coffee and smiles into the sunlight.
After my mother has gone off to snatch order from the jaws of chaos at Prentiss Culver Wednesday morning, I call Elizabeth Gooden’s office and leave a message with her answering service. Then I sit down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, a cream-cheese-smeared bagel, a notebook, and a pen.
Now I begin to grasp the full scope of my ignorance. For starters, I have no idea what David’s compensation agreement with JMP is. Hey, I just spend it. I know last year he made over $400,000, but I don’t know whether that includes his bonus, stock options, the Mercedes lease, the club membership, or if all that’s on top of the $400,000.
I don’t know what kind of IRA or pension plan he has, although I’m sure there’s something. I know our joint bank account number and how much we usually have in it at any given time. And there’s my bank account for household stuff and walking-around money. But for all I know, he could have other accounts. I don’t know diddly about investments, although I do know our broker. We have a ski condo in Aspen, but that makes me wonder if he’s ever bought other property withoutmy knowledge. I know he has insurance, but I can’t remember who wrote the policy.
Elizabeth’s office is in a small, Spanish-style building on Ventura Boulevard, in Studio City. The sign on the door says “Gooden, Hedwick, Attorneys-at-Law,” and the office behind it is comfortable, not overly luxe. The Shaker-style couch and chairs are upholstered in blue and white, mid-price reproduction, probably Ethan