“It’s hideous,” Jenni says. “And what’s thatsmell? Did something die in the rafters?”
“It’s a new Chanel perfume,” I lie. “Like it?”
I wait for Jenni to get offended, but she trills over in laughter instead. “How I’ve missed you, EJ,” she says. “All of you ladies. Today is just what I’ve needed.”
She buckles up and loops her arm through Tara’s. “Turn the music up,” she orders. Hal happily obliges, and soon enough eighties rock, the Go-Go’s and Tom Petty, is blaring as we crawl down the West Side Highway. They’re all singing along. I’m only humming, determined not to enjoy myself too thoroughly. From the back seat, Tara reaches up and gives my shoulder a squeeze from behind my headrest, as if she knows the internal battle I’m waging. It’s enough for me to release my death grip on my grudge, but I can’t drop it altogether.
Finally we get to Prospect Park and circle around a couple times until we find a parking spot. We unload blankets and munchiesfrom the trunk and haul everything into the grassy acres until we find a sequestered spot to set up our picnic. The grass is long, drizzled with dandelions and clovers, just how I like it.
“This is the life,” Jenni says. She stretches out on the blanket and double-dips a Dorito in goopy cashew cheese sauce. “I haven’t had time to just relax in so long.”
“What do you do all day?” I ask, hoping the question comes across as the composite of curiosity and critique that it is.
“My photography business has been picking up,” Jenni says. “What with all the baby photo shoots from our friends and all. I do SoulCycle three times a week, weight training two days, and then Thursday lunches at the Colony Club.”
“The Colony Club?” Hal says. “As in celebrating colonialization?”
“Of course not,” Jenni says, with a serration that implies Hal’s ignorance. “Colonyisn’t a dirty word. New York was a colony before it was a state, that’s all.”
“A colony with slaves,” I add, looking at Tara, who’s sifting through clovers in the grass, looking for the four-leafers.
“New York never had slaves,” Jenni says. “It was more progressive right from the start.”
“They might not have had plantations,” I say, googling it on my phone right there to verify my intuition. “But household slaves were definitely a thing.”
“That’s true actually,” Tara says.
“Oh,” Jenni says, looking like this news is something of an imposition. “Sorry.”
“Not your fault,” Tara says. “I don’t find the wordcolonyoffensive, just for the record. But anyway, sounds like you’re pretty busy these days,” she continues, steering the conversation onto safer ground.
“I really am,” Jenni says. “Fridays and Saturdays we’re out in the Hamptons, at least while the weather’s still nice, and on Sundays I volunteer at the children’s liturgy at church. Peter’s an usher. It’s a lot.”
“Sounds it,” I say, but Jenni doesn’t seem to pick up on the sarcasm. “Since when do you go to church?” Her life has changed so much that I shouldn’t be surprised but still am.
“I always used to when I was a kid,” Jenni says. “Just fell out of it in college and the years after. It’s been really good to find it again, rejuvenating for the soul. Especially in a rat race like New York. Peter and I are considering moving to Greenwich soon. Get away from all the—” She makes a general sweeping motion, as if encompassing everything about the city, including us.
“Have some wine,” Hal says to Jenni. She, too, appears eager to avoid having the picnic become an evangelist assembly, an ambush to save our souls and stab us with white picket fences. Sloppily, she pours a bottle of red into a red Solo cup, hands it to Jenni.
“I’m actually going to stick to seltzer today,” Jenni says. She whips out a can of sparkling water, one of those trendy new brands that took the market by storm overnight and will fizzle out just as fast. She probably paid nine dollars for it.
“So you’re too good for Trader Joe’s wine now?” I ask Jenni.
“No, it’s not that.” Her face screws up. She bobs up and down as she sits on the picnic blanket. “I’m pregnant.”
We stare and stare. It’s almost like the moment when she told us she was married. Like then, Tara is the first to regain her composure. “Jenni!” she says. “Congrats, that’s huge.”
“Life-changing,” Hal says, catching my gaze, snagging on the prickers and adding her own.
“We only just found out, so don’t tell anyone yet,” Jenni says. “It only made sense to start trying, really,” she goes on, like she feels the need to explain herself. Like we asked any questions about it. “Fertility isn’t something you can take for granted, especially as we get older.” She says it like we’re approaching forty, not thirty. “I’m not trying to scare you girls,” she adds quickly. “Since I know you probably don’t want kids.”
“Right,” Tara says, but there’s a whiff of something wistful. It hits me squarely in the chest, like it’s trying to trick me into introspection. But I know better than to go there.
“So that’s why we might be moving to Connecticut,” Jenni goes on. “Get more space for the little one, be close to Peter’s parents.”
The image of Jenni sipping a detox smoothie, suntanning by the pool of a Connecticut country club, infiltrates my mind like a parody with none of the solace of comedy.
“But enough about me,” Jenni says, though she looks like she’d be delighted to keep gabbing on about her own charmed life, chained life, for hours more. “What about you ladies? I need all the love life updates.”
