“I’d rather not discuss it.”
“Well, if you ever get lonely, you know where to find me. Don’t you remember how good I used to make you feel?”
Regrettably, I hadn’t forgotten. Matter of fact, I used to spend most of my nights at home trying to satisfy her raging libido. Whenever Monica was in her manic mood, she became insatiable in bed, always wanting more. I snuck a glance at her toned runner’s legs, recalling how it felt to have those smooth thighs wrapped around my neck.
In a brief moment of sheer lunacy, I found myself contemplating her offer. Who would ever know?
You would know, Ian.
This is exactly the type of behavior that ruined most of your other relationships. How could you think of sleeping with her after what she did to you, especially when you claim to be a changed man?
I shuddered at the thought of what Shelby might say if she could read my thoughts. She’d toss me out faster than a piece of overripe fruit.
Removing Monica’s hand again, I suggested, “Why don’t you go through the house and make sure there’s nothing else that belongs to you, so we can be done with this.”
“Sure.” Her smile had vanished, and she appeared deflated. The tender reunion scene she had in mind hadn’t quite played out like she planned.
“Give me your keys and I’ll take the shoes out to your car.” I was eager to end our little drama and drive away from the beach house for the last time.
“I’ll only be a few minutes,” she said, before disappearing into the master bedroom. There wasn’t much left to sort through; I’d moved out my personal belongings before I’d gone to work in Virginia.
Fourteen boxes of shoes were too many to carry all at once, so I moved them to the front porch, where I gathered up half and headed toward Monica’s little red Audi coupe, which was parked on the street. The car had been her birthday present from me last year, when we were still pretending to be a happy couple, before she determined that I was too old and stodgy to live with. I pressed a button on the key, but instead of opening the boot, I managed to set off the car alarm, disturbing the tranquility of my exclusive neighborhood.
“Fuck,” I heard myself say, a bit too loudly. “Bloody fucking hell.” I felt stupid, a bit buzzed by the wine, and angry at myself for what I’d almost allowed to happen.
After making a second trip, I got all the shoes safely stowed away and returned to the house. Monica met me inside the door with her garment bags in hand. I couldn’t quite read the expression on her face. Was it nervousness, or perhaps a touch of anxiety? At any rate, she seemed in a rush to get out, and I certainly didn’t want to stand in her way.
I handed over the car keys.
“Well, I guess that’s it, then,” she said, brushing by me. “I’ve got to go. I’m running late for an appointment. Call me sometime?”
You should’ve been more direct with her, I chastised myself all the way back to West Hollywood. Now you’ve left a door ajar that you should’ve closed permanently.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Shelby
I planned to fly to Los Angeles the following Friday, take advantage of the time zone changes, and arrive well before sunset. Seeing Ian in his natural environment, I rationalized, would give me an opportunity to reassess our fragile relationship on his turf, while the idea of meeting Madeline sent me spiraling out of my comfort zone. Was I ready for all of this? At least she and I would get to know each other under better circumstances than Danielle’s first encounter with Ian, although I had to admit that I’d set a low bar.
On Saturday afternoon, I returned home with a fresh pedicure and two bags of groceries. I intended to spend a couple of hours developing topics for my blog after I called Ian to discuss my flight schedule for the next weekend. Hearing his smooth, rich voice with its crisp accent would be the best phone sex I could ever imagine, and despite my lingering doubts, I was eager to make our plans.
Scrolling through my phone contacts, I called the mobile number. On the third ring, a woman answered.
What? I couldn’t have misdialed.
“Who’s this?” I asked, while my stomach twisted.
“This is Monica,” she replied in a cool, confident voice. “Monica James.”
My insides began to shrivel.
“I’m trying to reach Ian. Is he there?” It was all I could do to keep my voice from quivering.
“He’s in the shower,” she said, without a moment of hesitation. “We were out late last night so we slept in this morning. You know how that goes.” She punctuated her remark with a giggle. “Do you want to leave a message?”
No. I ended the call before sinking heavily into J-P’s chair. A pain worse than a kitchen knife cut sliced through my abdomen, while my face burned with a mixture of rage and embarrassment.
He was with Monica? The shock of hearing her voice on his phone made me physically ill. The thought of them together, reunited in their luxurious beach house, sent me retching into the toilet. There had to be some mistake, although the evidence was damning. How could he have done such a thing after the horrible way she treated him? This time last week he’d been at my house, where we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. My worst fear had become reality.
I’d been played for a fool.
In retrospect, I knew I had gotten exactly what I’d asked for—a no-strings-attached relationship that was never meant to last. Still, an ugly stab of jealousy pierced my insides. Monica was beautiful and much younger than me. I doubted that she had stretch marks and saggy breasts. Anyway, what right did I have to be envious of her, when Ian didn’t belong to me? Why would I want a man who would willingly return to a cruel, deceitful woman?
My stomach roiled with a bitter salad of disappointment, anger, and overwhelming sadness. After several minutes of wallowing in misery, I found my phone and ear buds, along with a broad-brimmed straw hat, and headed out into the garden.
“Fuck you, Ian,” I muttered to the new rabbit-proof fencing he had installed. He’d done a thorough, professional job of it too, which only made me feel worse now that he was gone. I shook out my kneeling pad, placed it on the soil, and squatted to begin the laborious process of weeding, which I hoped would keep me occupied for a few hours.
My initial musical selection was Coltrane’s Giant Steps album, but when I heard the first few haunting notes of Namia, the soulful ballad he wrote for his wife, I had to switch to something less heart-wrenching. I settled on Steely Dan’s Aja, which technically isn’t a jazz record, although it was heavily influenced by the genre. The lyrics’ cynicism and emotionally detached observations were a perfect fit with my rotten mood. Oblivious to the sweltering afternoon heat, I took out my frustration on the dandelions and other invasive plant species, ripping them from the ground with glee until a late afternoon rainstorm drove me back inside.
Twilight filled my house with deep blue shadows by the time I showered and padded downstairs to forage in the kitchen. While I had no appetite, I knew I shouldn’t go to bed hungry, so I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and took it into the sunroom, where I took over Jean-Pierre’s chair.
J-P used to tease me about my low-brow food choices, especially my mild obsession with burgers and sandwiches, two of my go-to comfort foods. Tonight, however, the bread tasted dry, the peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth, and the strawberry jam I’d bought at a nearby farm stand was cloyingly sweet.
Setting the sandwich aside, I sank deeper into the leather cushions and closed my eyes, waiting for the oncoming wave of sadness to take me under. A tsunami of emotion, offering its own twisted version of comfort, filled my chest and overflowed in tears.
Why did your heart have to give out so soon? Don’t you know that the best part of me died when you did?
I tortured myself with the crazy notion that if I’d been in the restaurant on the night he’d collapsed, things would’ve been different. Although the ER doctor had told me otherwise, I clung to the idea that I might’ve saved h
im if I’d recognized the early symptoms of a heart attack. Then I wouldn’t be sitting at home facing life alone, and I wouldn’t have let Ian get close enough to hurt me.
Warm, salty moisture spilled down my cheeks, leaving my vision impaired, as if I was driving in a summer downpour. Sometimes, when my loss hit me the hardest, I tried to capture one small detail about J-P, holding it close in my mind. Anxiety built in my throat when I realized I could no longer clearly visualize his large, powerful hands. Jean-Pierre’s features, his hearty laughter, and all the things I loved most were fading away in a cloud of distant memory.
I was losing my husband all over again. And I’d probably lost Ian too, now that Monica was back in the picture. I was not emotionally equipped to be in a casual relationship, especially with a man who’d had women at his beck and call for most of his adult life. He was too much of everything.
As I let myself drift deeper into despair, the sharp pain of loss sliced through me a second time. I consoled myself with the fact that at least I could still feel something. Maybe life was only meant to be a series of disappointments, brightened occasionally by glimmers of happiness.
My nagging inner voice was unrelenting. For God’s sake, Shelby, your outlook is disturbing. You’ll move on from this. You’ll meet someone else more suited to your lifestyle.
I didn’t want suitable. I wanted him, despite what he might’ve done, so what did that say about my state of mind?
Ian called three times before I had the courage to answer.
“I saw that you rang me, but you didn’t leave a message.” The sound of his voice, with its perfect tempo and devastatingly sexy accent, sent my heart thumping. Stand firm, I warned myself.
“I figured you were too busy entertaining Monica.”
A painfully long moment of silence followed before he asked, “Might I ask, what in the bloody hell are you talking about?”
“Your ex-wife. She answered your phone. She told me the two of you had slept late. You were in the shower and couldn’t take my call.”
“What?” he muttered. “I don’t…”
I cut him off in mid-sentence.
“I realize that what you and I had was only casual fucking, but you could’ve at least had the decency to tell me you two were back together. I deserve that much.”
“We’re not together.” Anger and bitterness swirled in his voice. “How could you think that, knowing what she did? Don’t you have the least bit of faith in me?”
I wasn’t convinced. I knew he was capable of giving a first-rate performance, so how could I be sure he was sincere?
“Why would she have your phone in the first place?”
“I’ve no idea. This morning I drove to Malibu to meet the home stager. He’d found some cartons of Monica’s things stashed in a guest room closet. I texted her and asked her to send someone to collect the boxes, and she showed up herself.”
I retreated into silence, waiting for his explanation.
“I’m still trying to sort out what you told me,” he said. “I did leave my phone in the house while I carried the shoes out to her car, but that was only for a few minutes. Long enough to take your call, I suppose.” He cursed quietly under his breath. “That vindictive, manipulative little…”
“How did she get your passcode?”
He exhaled deeply. “I never changed it. She was out of my life, so I didn’t bother.”
“She made it sound as though you slept with her.”
“I did nothing of the sort.” Although he tried to keep his voice even, I could sense his outrage. “Do you view me as some testosterone-fueled brute who’s ruled by his cock? A man who would go from your bed straight into the arms of my cheating ex?”
Something about the intensity of his denial raised my suspicions even more.
“But why would she lie to me?”
“Because I told her I’d moved on. She had this insane idea that if she apologized for what she’d done, I’d give her another chance.”
My stomach twisted as a surge of nausea filled my throat.
She wants him back.
“Shelby, she doesn’t care about me. It’s her old lifestyle that she misses. She was fired from her show, then she dumped the Boy Toy after he regained all the weight he lost. It’s tough being out of work and single, so returning to good old Ian presented a solution to her problem.”
None of this was what I bargained for. A predatory ex-wife, lurking around the edges of Ian’s life, willing to use any opportunity to have him again. Even if he claimed he didn’t want her, she was in Los Angeles, ready and willing, while I was on the opposite side of the country.
“I’m sorry you had to get caught up in her drama, but don’t I at least deserve the benefit of the doubt?” he pleaded.
“When I called you, I intended to fly out for the weekend, but now…” I gulped. “I need some time to think things over. I’ll talk to you in a few days.”
He was silent for so long that I thought I might have dropped the call.
“I will proclaim my innocence in this situation until my dying breath,” he countered in an overly dramatic manner. “Please don’t give up on us when we’ve barely begun.”
***
My awful day got progressively worse. I had dozed off in the leather chair when I got a call from one of the nursing home staff. Mom had been given medication for a urinary tract infection but wasn’t responding well to treatment. The nurse, who was concerned about the possibility of renal failure, promised to keep me updated. I made a mental note to pack a carry-on bag in case I needed to leave in a hurry, and afterward I called Danielle.
“Your grandma’s health is deteriorating,” I told her. “I might have to go to Vancouver on a moment’s notice.” I pushed aside a pang of guilt, the result of my unspoken thoughts. As much as I loved my mother, she had become a shell of her former self, unable to recognize family members or realize where she was. A peaceful death might be preferable to her current quality of life.
“Have you been crying?” my perceptive daughter inquired. “Your voice sounds funny.”
While I hadn’t intended to unload my troubles on her, I ended up telling her everything, including my brief phone conversation with Monica.
“Do you believe his explanation?” Dani persisted.
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, if you can’t trust him, what’s the point?”
Try as I might’ve, I couldn’t argue with her logic.
The call I’d been dreading came several hours later. Mom’s kidneys had failed, and she’d been transferred to hospice care. If I intended to see her alive one final time, I had to leave for the airport and hope I could get there soon enough.
Stumbling out of bed, I retrieved my carry-on bag, which was already packed to capacity, and pulled on a short, loose-fitting dress before slipping into a pair of soft flats. I yanked my hair into a ponytail and decided not to bother with makeup, Then, I grabbed my raincoat and phone before heading downstairs, where I experienced a moment of pure panic.
What was I going to do about the cats?
I didn’t think it was a good idea to phone someone at 2:35 a.m. with my non-emergency, so I cleaned the litter boxes and set out enough dry food and water to last for several days. Later, at a more respectable hour, I’d contact one of my neighbors and ask for help.
At that point there was little left to do except hide the house key inside a fake rock stashed among the daylilies, back my Subaru out of the garage, and head for Dulles International Airport. I planned to call Dani on the way.
***
My turbulent flight bounced to a slippery stop in rain-soaked Portland shortly before 11 a.m. Pacific Time. After crossing three time zones, I’d been in the air for several hours, developing a pounding headache somewhere over the Midwest. The unrelenting drizzle that greeted my arrival did nothing to lift my flagging spirits. Instead, it lent the landscape a depressing grayness, triggering a memory of that classic song about “raining al
l over the world.”
I had prepared myself for the possibility of staying in Vancouver for several days to plan a funeral and move Mom’s possessions out of the nursing home, although the thought of dealing with another family death filled me with dread. I was also worried about Henri and Francoise, which I knew was foolish. They would be fine for a couple of days until I lined up a pet sitting service, I reminded myself.
After securing a rental car, a silver hatchback that blended well with Oregon’s overcast skies, I rifled through my purse, searching for my phone so I could use the mapping app to find the hotel. A muffled curse escaped my lips when I discovered my battery was at seventeen percent. I let loose another f-bomb when I found out I had left my charger at home. I needed to stay in touch with Danielle, whose flight was scheduled to arrive in a few hours, so I switched to low power mode and hoped it would hold up until I could buy another charger.
I had two messages from Ian, which I didn’t read, and an email from the nursing home that was flagged as important. My throat tightened when I called the number that had been provided, knowing the news wasn’t likely to be positive.
It wasn’t. Mom had passed more than an hour ago, when I was still en route. I hadn’t made it in time. I slumped in the driver’s seat, numb from a combination of exhaustion and regret. What if she’d had a moment of clarity at the end, and I hadn’t been there for her?
Traffic along Interstate 205 was stop-and-go, but eventually I made my way across the massive Columbia River bridge, crossing the border into Washington, where I located our extended stay hotel. After checking into a fifth-floor mini-suite, I texted Danielle the directions.
Our temporary home included a blandly decorated living and dining area, tiny but well-equipped kitchen, bathroom, and separate bedroom. I dropped my bags and used the landline to call Mom’s nursing home. The efficient staff had already transported her body to the mortuary she’d chosen years ago. I called the funeral home and made an appointment for the following morning to pick out a casket and plan her service. At least I’d had the presence of mind to bring a folder containing my power of attorney, a variety of other legal documents I thought I might need, and information about her pre-paid funeral and cemetery plot.
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