Volunteer

The security guard looked askance at Belinda’s aged Toyota Camry as she pulled up to the entrance booth of the exclusive golf community. Nettled, she announced the address she was visiting in imperial tones quite unlike her usual speech and saw the guard nod with grudging respect. As she drove past elegant homes with picture-perfect emerald lawns and manicured gardens, she wondered where everyone was. The scene was devoid of human life other than an occasional delivery van or group of dark-skinned landscaping crews. Belinda thought with resentment of the time she could have spent working on her latest painting instead of coming here for this Women’s Charitable Society meeting. Dave owed her big time for this.

Dave’s boss had casually mentioned that the group had been founded by the wife of one of the senior partners and Dave had pleaded with her to try at least one meeting. Fuming, Belinda reluctantly agreed.

“I shouldn’t have to schmooze with a bunch of women I don’t know and have nothing in common with in order to make you look good. Why can’t they just judge you on your work?”

“Babe, that’s not how it works in the real world. These are guys with Roman numerals after their names. I’m the first in my family to go to college. I need to make connections. You might find you have something in common besides your husbands working for the same law firm.”

“What happened to social justice work anyway? I didn’t think I was marrying a corporate lawyer.”

“I’ve got law school loans to pay and then I can follow my passion.”

“By then you’ll have been sucked into the system. Don’t sell out!”

They had finished by glaring at each other and stomping out of the room in different directions. Belinda could not remember them ever arguing like that before. She had not slept well and could still feel an indigestible lump of tension sitting in her stomach. Dave had left early for work, so there had been no opportunity to clear the air that morning.

She had understood the security guard’s expression as soon as she parked her car next to the Mercedes and BMWs in the driveway of Dave’s boss’s home. Pausing to gather her courage, Belinda suddenly remembered her grandmother’s voice from years ago and straightened her spine.

“Never show no fear. You’re as good as anyone and don’t you forget it.”

 Taking a deep breath, she marched up to the front door and rang the doorbell. Chimes echoed in the distance. The door opened and a poised, slim woman with stiff, frosted blonde hair peered enquiringly at her.

“Hello, I’m Belinda, Dave’s wife, Dave Bernstein, the new associate, his boss told me to come, or I mean, said I was invited,” Belinda said, inwardly cursing her incoherence.

“Ah, yes,” the woman said. “Do come in. I am Frances Deville. Norman mentioned that you might come.”

From a distance she could have been thirty-five, but up close, Belinda could see tiny lines in the taut skin around her eyes and lips. Light sparkled off the diamond tennis bracelet on her bony wrist as she extended her hand. Belinda followed her through an Italian tiled, cathedral ceilinged foyer and into a large sun room where several women were seated, heads together, whispering as they sipped their coffee. Silence fell as they looked up. Belinda felt her face flush.

“Girls, this is Belinda Bernstein, the wife of the newest addition to the firm. Belinda, meet Naomi, Christi, and Celia,” said Frances. “I’ll let them introduce themselves while I get more coffee.”

“It’s Belinda Rossi. I kept my own name,” said Belinda awkwardly.

Frances blinked and raised her eyebrows.

“Indeed. How modern.”

“Sit here. I’m Naomi,” said a plump lady with a shoulder length bob and an elegant silk scarf draped around her shoulders, indicating one of the deep-cushioned bamboo patio chairs. Belinda nodded her thanks and sat, sinking into the upholstery.

“I’m Christi,” said the rail-thin woman opposite, giving a little wave with perfectly manicured, crimson-tipped fingers.

“Celia here,” said the remaining woman, smiling slightly as she smoothed her linen dress around her knees. Her hair was auburn, her skin a leathery tan.

Frances returned and sat down, followed a moment later by a silent, copper-skinned maid pushing a hostess trolley.

“A little milk, no sugar, thanks,” Belinda said as the maid poured from a delicate porcelain coffee pot and offered plates of sandwiches and cakes. She ventured a glance around the room. The ‘girls’ seemed to be around the same age as Frances, although it was hard to tell from their immaculately made-up faces. They were all elegantly dressed in designer clothes. Belinda’s best Indian cotton dress stood out like a sore thumb.

“Welcome. I hope you and your husband will be very happy here,” said Frances. “What have you been told about our little group?”

Belinda carefully set down her cup and saucer on the coffee table. She was known for being clumsy, especially when under stress.

“My husband said you do charity work. I’d be glad to help if I can. I like volunteering.”

 “We are aware of how fortunate we are and thought we should give back,” said Frances. “We have various activities. We do an annual fashion show and a Belle of the Ball gala once a year with silent auction. In December we do open houses and display of Christmas decorations. The proceeds go to orphans in Africa and to various local worthy causes. We usually have photographs of our events on the ‘Our State’ magazine society page. Perhaps you’ve seen them?”

Belinda shook her head apologetically.

“I’m afraid not, sorry.”

“What volunteer experience do you have, Belinda?” asked Christi. 

“Where we lived before, I volunteered in a shelter for women who were victims of sex trafficking. Admin in the office, that kind of thing. I have a degree in fine art, so I also taught painting and drawing. Art can be very therapeutic for survivors of trauma,” said Belinda, smiling at the memory. “Those girls were dear to my heart. They had suffered unimaginable experiences.”

There was an awkward pause as the ladies glanced at each other.

“My goodness. That is interesting,” said Frances, patting her hair. “We will have to consider how we can put your talents to good use.”

“I’ve already applied to volunteer at the women’s shelter here, but I’d still be glad to help you. Probably not the Christmas open house,” said Belinda, grinning. “Dave and I have lived in shoe boxes since we got married, so we’ve never had room to do more than hang a Christmas stocking. Not that we really celebrate Christmas. He’s Jewish and I lean agnostic. I do love Christmas carols though, and I can do some mean Christmas cookies.”

She bit her lip as an even frostier silence fell.

“I could donate a painting to one of your silent auctions,” she said desperately.

“Where did you say your husband went to law school again?” said Naomi.

“I didn’t,” Belinda said under her breath before naming the state law school Dave had graduated from.

Christi frowned.

“Isn’t that a historically black school?” she said. “Is, er, your husband…”

“It’s an excellent law school with a history of civil rights engagement,” said Belinda. “Let me say the quiet part out loud. Dave is white. Very white. Fish belly white. But Jewish is probably all the diversity you can handle anyway.”

She tried to jump up from her chair, ending up with an undignified scramble to get out of the soft cushions. As she lurched to her feet, there was a crash as her coffee cup shattered on the tile floor.

“I’m sorry. Please deduct it from Dave’s pay. Thanks for the coffee,” she said to Frances as she fled for the front door.

She was still trembling when she reached home, though whether from anger or embarrassment she could not have said. Cooking had always been her refuge in times of turmoil; she threw on an apron, reached for her recipe book and began chopping vegetables as if her life depended on it. By the time Dave came home, the kitchen was full of the savory smell of risotto and fresh baked bread, the white wine was chilling, and the table was set. He inhaled deeply as he entered, sheepishly presented Belinda with a bouquet, and swept her into a bear hug.

“I’m sorry. I have to say…”

“It’s my fault. I didn’t mean…”

“I have to tell you something…”

They burst out laughing as they spoke over each other.

Belinda put a finger to her lips.

“Not now. We are going to eat first.”

After the meal, they sat, sipping wine, and looked at each other.

“Me first,” Belinda said, taking a deep breath. “I hope I haven’t derailed your career, but the charity thing was a fiasco. I put my foot in my mouth like you wouldn’t believe, even for me.”

She regaled Dave with the morning’s events. He grinned wryly.

“It’s a moot point. Deville, Throckmorton, and Throckmorton and I have agreed to part ways, even before your coffee morning debacle. It was a mutual decision. I’m just sorry I put you through that.”

“What happened?” Belinda said, incredulous.

Dave shrugged.

“You were right. It was never going to be a good fit. I’m back to the help wanted section. I’m going to reach out to some of my law school contacts.”

“We’ll figure something out,” Belinda said, hugging him. “I could never have kept up with those wives in a million years. At least we’re back on the same team.”

Dave came home a couple of weeks later, grinning and happily brandishing a letter.

“Got another job offer.”

“Jones and Perry? Civil rights?” she said, skimming the page.

He nodded proudly.

“Way to go,” she said. “And not to be outdone, I got a job at the local indie bookstore. Pays a pittance, but the hours will allow me to keep painting. Oh, and I’ll be volunteering at the women’s shelter.”

A few months later, Belinda was absorbed in arranging a display at the book shop when she heard a vaguely familiar voice behind her.

“Excuse me, but could I speak to you for a moment?”

She spun around, flustered, knocking over several books as she saw Frances standing there.

“Sorry about that,” Belinda said, mortified. “I am such a klutz. Can I help you find something?”

 “Do you have time for a coffee?” Frances said, retrieving books from the floor and handing them to her.

Belinda grinned mischievously.

“As long as it’s not served in a porcelain cup. My lunch break is at twelve. Would you like to meet at the café across the street?”

Frances was already sitting in a booth when Belinda entered. Belinda eyed her apprehensively as she sat down.

“This is a surprise. Is it about the coffee cup? Was it a family heirloom or something? I’ll be glad to pay for the damage.”

Just then the waitress appeared to take their order. After she had gone, Frances laughed.

“That cup was from my husband’s family. I’m only sorry you didn’t have the chance to break the whole set.”

Belinda gaped at her.

“But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to ask about volunteering at the women’s shelter.”

“You mean that your group wants to get involved? What do your friends think? We don’t tend to end up with our pictures on the society pages.”

Frances played with her napkin.

“Since we last met, I discovered that my husband had been having a long-term affair with a paralegal in the office who is the same age as our daughter. My so-called friends were aware of it, but kept quiet, pressured not to rock the boat by their husbands who didn’t want to upset the senior partner.”

“I’m sorry,” said Belinda. “That’s awful. What a stab in the back all around.”

A thought suddenly occurred to her.

“When I went to your house, I thought they were whispering about me, but maybe they were whispering about you.”

Frances nodded.

“It took a while to find a good divorce attorney who was willing to go up against my ex-husband, but I came out well in the end. Now I’m trying to change my life. No more society pages or balls, all that ridiculous posturing. The problem is that I don’t know people outside that world. When I was your age, it was assumed that when you got your Mrs. degree, everything would end happily ever after. By the time I became the senior partner’s wife, I’d forgotten who I am. I wish I had your independence and energy.”

“It took a lot of courage to walk away from that beautiful house and lifestyle,” said Belinda. “You’re stronger than you think. Look at all the possibilities ahead of you. I’ll introduce you to the volunteer coordinator at the shelter. Your organizing skills will be appreciated there. Just don’t expect your coffee to be served in dainty cups!”