Home, which Melissa had loved so much before, was now a place where her irritation bubbled. The sullen child was definitely putting a crimp in her life. She brought up a nanny. Dennis gave her an incredulous look.
“She already has abandonment issues, Mel!” God, she hated when he called her that. “She doesn’t need a nanny. She needs us.”
Great.
Melissa found a good tutor for the rest of the spring and summer, because Ophelia could barely read. Elocution lessons to fix that white trash accent （Melissa wished she’d had a voice coach instead of having to learn it on her own）。 Ophelia was a solid little thing, so Melissa enrolled her in ballet and got rid of every bag of potato chips in the house, which made Dennis grumble, too.
But Melissa was firm. It became kind of fun, being totally in charge of someone else, and it scored many points with Dennis, his colleagues and friends, even his children, who came to meet Ophelia and were, Melissa had to admit, very kind. Amanda hugged Melissa the first time they met, and Nick gave Ophelia a piggyback ride in Central Park, the five of them laughing like a perfect blended family. Suddenly, other mothers in their circle were approaching Melissa, offering playdates and advice about schools.
“We should adopt her legally,” Dennis whispered to Melissa in the kitchen one night. “We can provide a much better life.”
“That would be my dream, too,” she said. “Oh, Dennis. We’re so blessed.” Marriage troubles and talk about her lack of ambition or focus were a thing of the past.
At Dennis’s urging, she called Kaitlyn at the women’s prison and asked if they could adopt her. Katie wouldn’t agree to it, despite the fact that she was now serving a seven-to-twelve-year sentence, thanks to punching a guard in the throat.
“She’s my kid,” Kaitlyn snarled. “You got her for now, but she’s mine. And Jesus Christ, that name, Missy. Ophelia?” Her sister’s accent turned the name ugly . . . Oh-feel-yuh.
“It’s a Shakespearean name,” Melissa said. “Better than what she had.”
Kaitlyn hung up. Fine. Melissa was still in charge, no matter what Kaitlyn thought. She’d had her chance, and she was in prison, so sit on that, Katie! Melissa was the mother now, no matter what Ophelia called her （Melissa, not even Auntie, which would show affection, at least）。 And, because she was the epitome （word of the day, even though she’d mispronounced it as eppi-tome） of grace, Melissa even let Ophelia call Kaitlyn every few weeks.
After a few months, Melissa thought she might love Ophelia. Wasn’t love caring for someone else? Kaitlyn hadn’t cared. She’d shot up, snorted, smoked, drank, whored and gone on crime sprees to support her habits. That sure as heck wasn’t love. Poor Ophelia. Melissa would make everything better. She felt quite holy, in fact.
Melissa bought Ophelia pretty, expensive clothes, which was especially rewarding after Ophelia slimmed down. They took her out to dinner once a week, the three of them a happy little modern family. They hired an etiquette coach, and soon the ill-mannered child who only ordered chicken nuggets or pasta with butter knew how to use a fork and knife, European-style.
When fall came, they enrolled her in the Amory-West School, where tuition was $50,000 a year. It wasn’t Chapin or Spence, but it still smacked of privilege. The principal assured them that Ophelia would get the attention she needed for academic, social and spiritual excellence （whatever that meant）。 Ballet, elocution, etiquette and French lessons kept Ophelia busy after school, and that was fine with Melissa. The girl would have everything she and Kaitlyn never did. Also, it kept her out of Melissa’s hair.
Life fell into a pleasant routine. During the school day, Melissa’s life was much as it had been before—gym, yoga studio, salon, shopping, planning dinner. But now she had a child to care for, and she found that she had a little more prestige. More respect. It seemed that the women who had disapproved of her for being a trophy wife now admired her for taking in her niece. She had lunch dates and was invited to be on committees. A group of mothers from Amory-West invited her to join their book club.
“God, you’re too beautiful to be here with us crones,” said Mirabelle, the hostess, sitting in her massive living room with a killer view of Central Park. “Honestly, how is your stomach that flat?” These were the kinds of compliments that women volleyed back and forth as a test, and Melissa played the game well.
“Oh, please,” she said. “Look at you! I’d kill for your legs! I cannot believe you’re thirty-eight!” A lie. Her own legs were perfect, for one, and for two, Mirabelle looked fifty-eight. Melissa told Helen how daring and adorable her pixie cut was （Melissa would never cut her hair, ever . . . men loved long hair）。 She told them how delightful and smart their little ones were （not that she ever really talked to them）。