Page 56 of Dirty Diana
I don’t think the day can get any worse, but then I’m forced to ride the elevator eleven floors down with Leonard. Although I shouldn’t care what he thinks of me, I can’t help myself. “I was conducting research.”
Chapter 17
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In front of the school, the snaking carpool line grinds to a halt and we all patiently wait for the school doors to open for morning dropoff. I turn up theStar Warssoundtrack for Emmy.
I peek at a text from Alicia, who wants to know more about yesterday’s adventures at the Rosevale, especially Sandra.
I think my dad brought home a call girl for Thanksgiving last year.
As I’m about to respond, the car door opens and Raleigh offers Emmy a hand. “Good morning!”
Raleigh is in a bright orange volunteer vest, her hair damp and cheeks flushed, helping direct kids safely across the parking lot and into school. A wave of guilt washes over me for everything L’Wren, Jenna, and I gossiped about on the drive to Roundtop—Raleigh’s affair, her lips, her divorce.
I should just smile and keep driving. But seeing her standing alone, holding a stop sign and directing traffic, I can’t just pull away. “Hi. Raleigh!” I say it a little too loudly. “Thanks for volunteering.”
“Of course, yeah. I signed up a while ago….” She looks exhausted.
“Raleigh, if you ever need anything—”
“Please don’t be nice.” She looks up at the bright blue sky. “If you’re nice to me, I’ll cry, and I still have six minutes until the bell rings and I can take off this vest.” She smiles and tears gather in the corners of her eyes.
“I’m so sorry, Raleigh. But really if you ever need anything, or the kids need anything…” The car behind me honks.
“You’re sweet, thank you.” She wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater.
Raleigh and I have been on dozens of school-mom text threads but have never actually spoken on the phone. At every school function or L’Wren-hosted party, she’s someone I’ve genuinely enjoyed making small talk with, but that’s been the extent of it. We’ve never had a solo playdate for our kids or gone out for lunch or drinks, just the two of us. She strikes me as someone who spends hours putting herself together. Her dirty blond hair curls gently to her shoulders, her teeth are dazzlingly white and perfectly straight. Today she’s wearing a pale pink tank dress with a thin cashmere cardigan over the top and turquoise-studded boots. And to Jenna’s point, she does have perfect lips.
“Call if you need anything,” I say, more just to say it. I know we’ll likely never talk about anything personal again. But just as I’m about to pull away, she leans down again, sniffling. “Diana. I could really use a place to stay,” she admits in a near whisper.
“Of course. Sure, sure. I’ll just wait for you in the faculty lot,” I respond, a little taken aback.
I sit in my car, parked under the shade of a willow tree, and wait for the first bell to ring. I watch Raleigh in my rearview window—shepulls off her volunteer vest, neatly folds it into a square and tucks it into the pocket of her cardigan. When she reaches my car, she asks, “Should I follow you?”
“Sure.” I think about what Oliver will say. Maybe that I’ve picked up a stray like one of L’Wren’s many cats.
At the house, I give her a quick tour before hurrying to the office.
—
When I get home that evening, Raleigh is organizing her things in my guest room. I’m still surprised she took me up on my offer. But here she is, soaking her delicates in my guest bathroom sink as I make room in the closet for her boxes of shoes and collection of cowboy hats. “Do you have anything to cover these windows? I’m a light sleeper and the light from these streetlamps is going to drive me insane. I just know it.” She has brought three wheeled suitcases and is actively sorting through them all. “I know what you’re thinking—I’m not staying till Christmas, promise. I see that look on your face.” She’s right. Oliver and I had exchanged nervous glances when we saw her SUV was packed to the brim. “I just can’t find anything so I had to bring everything inside. Divorce is so much fun!” she trills as she rinses out another lace thong in my sink. “You are so sweet to do this. Really. Where do you hang your lingerie?”
“I don’t,” I say. I don’t own any lingerie that’s “hang” worthy, I suppose. Or maybe I’m too lazy.
“I’ll find a place.” She dangles her damp, brightly colored underwear on the bedposts, on the knobs of the dresser, even from the corners of my bluebonnets painting above the bed, until my guest room looks like a fireworks display of undergarments.
I’m confused about what role to play with Raleigh. I hardly know her—does she want someone to talk to? Or maybe she just wants to be left alone, to make phone calls and piece her life back together? I’m about to ask if she wants some hot tea when she holds up a bright pink vibrator. “Do you have a charger for this? I think they’re all the same.Vibrator chargers, I mean. Sorry. Are we allowed to talk about vibrators? I forget what’s off-limits.”
“No, of course. But I don’t have a charger.”
“Hmm. Maybe I’ll get you one as a thank-you present. A vibrator, not a charger.” She winks. “They can do what no human can.”
“Yes to tea?”
“Or maybe some cocktails?”
—
