South of Bixby Bridge

by Ryan Winfield

  Perseus, huh? I think I see my constellation.

  Tara sips her whiskey. She says,

  Do you get lonely staying out here?

  I’m used to it.

  Living on a boat?

  No, lonely.

  How was celebrating with Paul? she says.

  Celebrating? Ah . . . well, we just . . .

  Tara grins as I stutter over what to say. Don’t worry yourself, she says, I didn’t come to make war.

  Relieved, I take a swig from the bottle of Jack. Tara says,

  I remember when Paul got this boat. Won it in some macho bet over a CEO being fired by his board. We used to throw great parties out here on the water in the summers.

  I look over the railing at VALOMBROSA II painted on the yacht.

  Did you ever see his father’s yacht, I say, the Valombrosa?

  Tara chuckles. She says,

  He told you that did he? Paul’s father has been buried on the floor of the Bering Sea for 35 years—with his rusty-old fishing boat.

  Fishing boat?

  Paul’s father was a fisherman, she says. He died in Alaska when Paul was just a boy.

  But the painting in Paul’s office?

  Paul commissioned it with an old photo. Prinked the old-sea dog up pretty good too, didn’t he?

  Fisherman? Really. Paul earned all this on his own?

  Earned what? she says. I bought the house long before Paul came along. All he did is mark his territory by adding his initial to the gate. Then he used my money to remodel.

  But he owns Valombrosa Capital. He even owns the building.

  He leases that building from my family’s real-estate trust, she says. Of course, he put his name on that too. Valombrosa Capital never gets off the ground without my family.

  Then it clicks—her name. The announcer tonight introduced her as Bourdage. I know that name. I say,

  Your maiden name, Bourdage—the famous wine label? Paul’s first big investor.

  Tara smiles. She steps back, places one foot in front of the other and curtsies. She says,

  Oil money dahlin’. The wine’s an attempt to wash all that dirty black off our hands. Mother even married a poor French boy just for his name.

  Oil money?

  Tara nods. She says,

  Paul was nothing when I met him. He made his first real money off a tip he hustled from my grandfather.

  How’d you two meet?

  I met Paul at a fundraiser for pensioned thoroughbreds. An Evening under Californian Stars it was called. The idea is to save retired thoroughbreds from slaughter. I’m sure Paul was there to pick the pockets of the old-moneyed crowd.

  Tara drains her whiskey. She tips her glass at me and I refill it with Jack from the bottle. She says,

  I was young and rich and naïve when I met Paul. I was so bored. He was exciting. We danced that night and Paul invited himself to dinner the following week. But once I was away from him, his charm wore off. It was strange, but I knew then there was something mean in him. Something dark. An intuition maybe. I didn’t want to see him again. That Thursday I instructed my staff not to open the gates for anyone. I remember it was the worst rainstorm we’d ever had and the power was flickering so I lit the house with candles and settled in with a book. A pounding on the door startled me. I grabbed a fire poker and went to the door. I opened it and there was Paul, soaking wet wearing that damn smile. He climbed over the gate.

  Tara looks into the yacht where the portrait of Paul looks out at us. For the first time, I see lines of worry on her brow. She says,

  He just never left. Now I wish I had never opened that door. Paul changes people, you know. He really does. I was much more innocent when I met Paul.

  What do you mean innocent?

  I mean innocent like you, she says. I wasn’t into all this crazy sex stuff until Paul came along. He’s changing you already too.

  Tara takes another sip of her whiskey and then she looks at her glass, turning it in her delicate hand. She says,

  You know, I was about to leave Paul when he brought you home. I was fed up with the games. The drinking. The drugs. I told Paul either he gets sober or he leaves. And I said it knowing he could never get sober. I even poured out his precious wine collection. But then Paul brought you home as a peace offering. And when I saw you, I couldn’t say no.

  I never thought of it before, but now it hits me—I’m not the first guy Paul’s brought to bed with Tara. I say,

  How many other men were there before me, Tara?

  It doesn’t matter, Trevor, because you’re the last.

  I swig from the whiskey bottle and rewind Tara’s confession. It’s as if she’s given me the combination but minus one number and my mind won’t quite unlock and let something I’ve been thinking out. Tara touches my hand. She says,

  What was your mother like, Trevor?

  My mother? Lit up every room she walked into.

  Do you miss her?

  Every day.

  And your dad?

  A terrible taste fills my mouth. The whiskey bottle is heavy in my hand. I pitch the bottle off the yacht deck. It hits with a splash, bobs once, and then settles in the still water. I swore I’d never drink like him, I say.

  Was it bad when he drank?

  A cloud hung over the house when he was home. My mom worked graveyard sometimes and I’d lie in bed at night and cringe when I heard his emergency brake ratchet up in the drive. We made a run for it once, my mom and I fled. Her dad left her that Porsche I drive now but as soon as Dad had blown the rest of the inheritance, he insisted she sell it. That’s when he hit me. Next morning she packed us a suitcase and pointed that Porsche for San Diego.

  Tara reaches over and caresses my hair. She says,

  What did you do in San Diego?

  We never made it South of Bixby Bridge.

  I’m sorry, Trevor.

  I fight back the tears. I say,

  She locked the Porsche in the garage and never drove it again. She gave it to me when I left home for university. I guess she didn’t want him to get it when the cancer came back to get her. Should have been Dad who got the cancer.

  Tara takes a deep breath and holds it. Then she lets the breath out slow and at the bottom of it, she throws the whiskey glass in the water next to the bottle. I smile at her. I say,

  I never told anyone all that before.

  I’m glad you told me, Trevor.

  Then she smiles. She rises on her toes, spins around, and falls back against me. I wrap my arms around her. She giggles. She says,

  We should run away together.

  Where would we go if we ran away?

  We could sail this ship to Saint-Barth.

  I don’t speak French.

  I’ll teach you.

  Tara kisses me. She presses her body against mine and I forget everything else. I scoop her up in my arms and carry her into the yacht. We bump into walls kissing. I kick the door open to the stateroom and lay her on the bed. I pull off my shirt. Then I drop my pants and step out of them. Tara removes her blouse, then her bra. She unbuttons her riding pants. I peel them off her long legs. I look at her perfect naked body stretched out on the bed.

  I remember Paul telling me I could do anything except fuck her and as if she’s reading my mind, Tara looks up at me and says,

  Fuck me, Trevor!

  I guide myself inside her. She arches and moans. I lean down, kiss her long, and slow. She digs her nails into my back and wraps her legs around me.

  32 You Love Me?

  Tara wakes me with her head beneath the sheets. When the last of my dreamy sleep is aroused away, I reach down, pull her into me, and feel the sweet flood of release. A wave of relaxation ripples down my legs to my toes and up through my torso to the tips of my fingers. I sink into the sheets and imagine the mattress, the boat, and the marina water absorbing my insignificant weight. It feels good to be right-sized.

  Tara slides up next to me. She says,

  I guess last night
wasn’t a dream.

  I lean to the floor and fish through my piles of clothes for something to throw on. I grab a pair of slacks. Tara snatches them away. Oh, no you don’t, she says. Who said I was done with you?

  The photo of the boy that Evelyn gave me on the train falls out from the back pocket of my slacks. Tara picks it up. She looks from the photo to me. She says,

  You have a child?

  No, I don’t have a child.

  Is this you?

  No, it’s not me.

  Well, who is it?

  Just some photo an old woman gave me on a train.

  He looks just like you, she says.

  I kiss Tara on the forehead. I need a shower, I say, you can join me if you’re not done with me.

  When the shower works up a steam, I step in. Closing my eyes, I let the showerhead rain down on me. I know it was just the whiskey talking last night when Tara said we should run away together, but I imagine the shower water is tropical rain and that I’m in Saint-Barth with her anyway.

  Tara steps in the shower and wraps her arms around me from behind. The shower is small but her naked body fits me like a puzzle piece. She says,

  I’m divorcing Paul.

  I turn around. Tara smiles. She says,

  You’re surprised.

  A little.

  Tara picks at the wet hair on my chest. She says,

  I scheduled a meeting with our family attorney in Los Angeles tomorrow afternoon. I’m flying down there tonight. I want you to come with me.

  You want me to come with you?

  Tara lifts up on her toes and kisses me. She says,

  I have a Malibu beach house in the Colony. I want you to live there with me.

  I push Tara against the shower wall. I press my naked body against hers and kiss her neck. I say,

  What would we do in Malibu?

  Tara closes her eyes and rolls her head to the side exposing more neck. As I kiss my way around her throat, she says,

  Watch movie stars jog by on our beach. Swim—the ocean’s as warm as a bath. You’ll work on your tan and I’ll paint. Maybe you can plant us a little garden. I’ve always wanted a live-in gardener.

  I pull my mouth away and laugh. Wait a minute, I say, you want me to be a live-in gardener?

  Tara pulls me back to her neck. She says,

  How about a live-in lover?

  Mmm, that sounds better.

  Her offer sounds like a dream. But if there is one thing I can’t afford, it’s to dream. What if she’s screwing with me. I’m too close to making things happen for me. I pull away and search her face for the angle. I say,

  But why me?

  Because you’re innocent, she says.

  I’m innocent?

  She reaches her hands between my legs. She says,

  Okay, maybe you’re not that innocent. But you have so much more potential than Paul does. You’re a true prince, Trevor. Paul wants to be a king. I don’t want a king.

  What do you want?

  I want kids.

  With me?

  Paul’s sterile.

  Does Paul know you’re here?

  He’s sterile, not stupid.

  I feel myself pulsing in Tara’s hand and I remember Paul saying he’d castrate me if I fucked her. I did more than fuck her last night—I made love to her. And now Tara wants to leave Paul for me? What if Paul is on his way here now? A minute ago, the shower felt like a warm wet dream but now its walls are closing in on me. I wish I could slip down the drain, leak into the cold marina water outside, swim away and hide. I feel anesthetized, paralyzed, and powerless. Breathe, Trevor, breathe—God I need a drink.

  I grab Tara’s shoulders. I say,

  What do I tell Paul?

  She reaches up and touches my chin. She says,

  Don’t tell him anything, dear. Just come to Malibu with me.

  I step from the shower, grab a towel and wrap it around myself. Tara stands in the shower looking out at me through the water-streaked door. I say,

  Sorry, Tara. I’m late for our meeting with Benny Wilson.

  I walk into the stateroom and dry my hair. We slept in—quarter past one already. I try to think up a story to tell Paul. Can I lie to him? I toss the towel on the bed and pull on my Armani suit pants, a clean shirt. I look down and see Paul’s jeans lying on the floor where I peeled them off last night. I pick them up and dig my BlackBerry from the pocket—nine missed calls from Paul.

  I look up in the dresser mirror and see Tara standing naked and dripping in the doorway behind me. She says,

  I love you.

  I turn around. She looks small and fragile with her wet hair hanging over her naked shoulders. I say,

  You love me?

  Yes. I love you, Trevor.

  What do you love about me?

  I love everything about you.

  I want to tell her I love her too, that I’ve loved her since the moment my eyes landed on her photo in Paul’s office. I take a deep breath. Tara searches me for a response. The BlackBerry vibrates in my hand—Paul calling. I say,

  I need to think, Tara.

  She snaps her wet hair behind her head and storms to the bed. She grabs my damp towel and wraps it around herself. She says,

  Whatever, Trevor. You decide what you want and let me know.

  I hunt for my Ferragamos. I can’t find them. Then I remember they disappeared with my tuxedo when Paul sent the maid in with his boots. I dig in the closet for shoes and find a pair that will do. While I lace them, Tara says,

  There’s a restaurant at the Napa County Airport called Jonesy’s Supper Club. Meet me there tonight if you decide you want to come with me—when you’re done thinking, of course.

  I see the photo of the boy looking up at me from the bed. I scoop up the photo and tuck it in my pocket. I grab my suit jacket and a tie. I grab my BlackBerry. Tara sits on the bed and I stand in front of her. When’s your flight? I say.

  She lifts her chin and says,

  It’s my jet, so whenever I tell it to take off.

  Tara grips my wrist and pulls me down to her lips. She tastes sweet. Her hair smells like coconut. She moves her tongue up to my ear and I smell the wet, salty skin of her neck. I remember our sweat-dripping bodies wrapped around each other last night and I want to pick her up and slide her back in bed.

  The BlackBerry vibrates in my hand—Paul.

  I pull away from Tara’s kiss. She sighs. She grabs the BlackBerry from my hand. Should I answer? she says.

  I reach for the BlackBerry but she jerks it away. Relax, she says, I’m just putting my cell number in your phone. The airport Supper Club closes at 9 P.M. sharp. I’ll wait for you until then. Only until then. So don’t miss your flight.

  When she finishes programming her number in the BlackBerry, she hands it back to me. Then she zips up my fly. She says,

  Maybe when we’re safe and up in the air together, you can fuck a baby into me!

  33 Elevator Surfing

  I check my messages in the car. Paul left the first one at 5:22 A.M. and he said to tell Tara that Ava birthed Conan’s foal—he sounded drunk. He left another message at 11:53 A.M. reminding me to be at the office by one—he sounded sober but at least he didn’t sound angry.

  There’s a fog rolling in as I cross the Golden Gate Bridge. The fog hasn’t hit the city yet and I can see Fisherman’s Wharf where Stephanie and I ate clam chowder that sunny Saturday afternoon only three weeks ago.

  I rewind the last month. Images line up, hang in my mind like laundry on a clothesline, just as crisp and clear as the moment I first saw them. One after another, they roll across my mind and then fade into the fog—

  Barbara meeting the train, her arms wrapping her shoulders.

  Paul’s red boot stepping on my résumé.

  Blood-red wine dripping down Paul’s chin.

  The swollen vein snaking across Benny’s forehead.

  Stephanie tearing off the Tiffany necklace.

  It’s too late fo
r Stephanie but now I have an offer from Tara—an offer that sounds too good to be true, an offer to run away with her to Malibu.

  She said she loves me but can I trust her?

  I think I love her but can I trust myself?

  I grab the image of Tara and turn it over in my mind. I imagine myself in Malibu with her. I imagine long, drowsy days making love to the sound of ocean waves. I imagine more sharing, more kissing. But her image fades and I see myself sleeping in my car. Sneaking into the Y for showers. Doors slamming in my face. Pawning my mother’s Porsche. Then I see Paul—

  Paul gave me a job.

  Gave me the keys to his yacht.

  Gave me back my Porsche.

  Gave me an envelope of cash.

  Gave me a Rolex.

  Even gave me his wife.

  And Paul said when this CalTEARS money comes in,

  He’ll give me a million dollars.

  THE VALOMBROSA BUILDING looks daunting as it scrapes the gray sky. Then the fog sweeps in and hides it.

  I drive into the garage and park. I check my Rolex—1:55 P.M.—almost an hour late. I check my BlackBerry—no reception in the concrete bowels of the building.

  Paul is 30-plus floors above me meeting with Benny Wilson and the CalTEARS CIO. For some reason, the thought of another person being at the meeting worries me. It’s as if Paul, Benny, and I have been playing some kind of game, a game that we’re all in on and this new person, an outsider, will somehow make it real and I’m not sure I want it to be real. I’m worried about Paul too. He mentioned Tara in his message and he must know I was with her last night.

  I feel buried beneath 31 floors of concrete, glass, and steel. The crushing weight pushes against my chest. My heart races. What will I tell Paul? Maybe I’ll tell him about last night and apologize. Maybe he’ll forgive me. Maybe.

  I walk to the elevators. In the elevator, the weight gets worse. The doors slide closed and I’m certain that when they open again something terrible will happen. I swipe my key-card. Push 30. The elevator rises. I sweat.

  The doors open. Britney’s not at her desk. I walk down the hall. Paul’s doors are open and his office is empty. I check the conference room—it’s dark. My office is as bare and white as the day I started. Everyone is gone. I missed the meeting.