by Brea Brown
I took her at her word they were ordinary, uninteresting folks. I guess I’m starting to understand taking Frankie at her word—about anything—isn’t a bright thing to do… ever.
While she makes today’s stunning introductions, nobody seems to notice me staring at Sam Lipton, the man I know better as Samuel Pembroke. Or as Frankie so eloquently called him when I had no idea we were talking about her father, “Samuel Fucking Pembroke.”
Maybe they don’t notice my staring because they’ve been more focused on Lucy’s reaction to me. Upon seeing me for the first time, she gasps and covers her nose and mouth with both hands. She then clasps her hands to her chest and seems to be overcome with emotion when she gushes, “Sam, isn’t it remarkable how much he looks like Henry?” For my benefit, she explains, “Henry is the love interest in the first book I ever wrote and published,” as if it’s the most normal thing to say to someone you’ve just met.
“I look like Henry,” I try to clarify, while my brain screams at me about the man standing in front of me, one of the best-known pop culture icons of his generation.
Betty tilts her head and studies me. “Hmmm… that’s not how I pictured him. Why did I always think Henry was blond?”
“No, no, no! He’s tall, dark, and handsome! Nate, you have a bit more of a baby face than Henry, but otherwise… it’s uncanny!”
Swept up in the insanity of the surreal situation, I supply, “He must look like my older brother, then. Nick’s always been described as the manly one.”
“I’d like to meet this Nick character,” Lucy says with a growl and wink.
“Mom! He’s a person, not a character.”
Lucy waves away Frankie’s irritation. “Yeah, yeah. Fine. It’s nice to meet you, Nate.”
I stutter something socially acceptable while continuing to sneak glances at Frankie’s dad and willing myself not to say or do anything embarrassing.
Lucy motions for us to follow her. “Everyone, drop your bags there. We’ll deal with them later. I’m sure you’re worn out from traveling. Isn’t flying the worst nowadays? When we went to Russia last month for Sam’s book research, I swore I’d never get on a plane again. We’re going to cruise to destinations from now on. Make travel part of the trip.”
In the massive kitchen that looks more like something from a movie set, not a room that anyone actually uses, Betty sits at the table for ten and asks, “So, Sam, what’s your latest project?”
Riffling through cupboards, he answers, “It’s a spy thriller, set in Cold War Russia. Hence, the research trip. I’ve immersed myself in the culture. I dream in Russian, and I don’t even speak that language!” He opens the refrigerator, the top half of his body disappearing into the appliance’s bowels.
Not sure what to do with myself, I lean against a wall, intending to observe while getting my bearings.
Lucy has other plans, though. “Wow. It’s remarkable,” she says, coming closer to me and touching my face.
I freeze, and she laughs.
“Sorry. It’s like I conjured you up from my imagination. But it’s been more than thirty years since I wrote that book!”
“Well, that’s about when I was born, so maybe you did,” I say with a nervous, choked chuckle.
“Don’t encourage her!” Frankie moans.
Lucy backs away, so I feel able to breathe once more. She shoots a mock-wounded look in her daughter’s direction. “I’m just having a little fun,” she claims in a pouty voice that’s all-too-familiar.
Great. It’s hereditary.
I clear my throat. “I had no idea you… That is, Frankie forgot to mention that you and Mr…. Lipton… are writers, too.”
She tilts her head and blinks. “‘Too’?”
From near the fridge, Frankie quickly says, “Mom, Dad, I forgot to tell you… Nate’s an author. We, uh… While we’re here, he’s going to attend his very first public appearance, a book signing in Phoenix.”
My eyes nearly bug from my skull at this unexpected development. To my relief, Betty’s wearing an expression that looks how mine feels, so I can tell I wasn’t the only one who assumed incorrectly that Frankie’s parents were in on this whole thing.
Sam, still handing sandwich fixings to Frankie to place on the counter, says from inside the fridge, “You don’t say…”
“How exciting!” Lucy cries, then taking in my face, sobers. “Oh, my. Are you okay?”
“Uh…” I’m not sure how to play my part in this horrific lie.
“He’s shy!” Frankie blurts, drawing her mother’s attention away from my face. “You know, it’s all new to him, and he’s worried it’s not going to work out, and… not many people know about his writing.” As soon as Lucy looks to me again for confirmation of this, Frankie shoots me a wide-eyed, “Go with it. Or I’ll kill you” look.
I smile shakily at Lucy and dig deep for some of the Frankisms I’ve practiced with Betty, who mouths from behind Lucy’s back, “Hobby.” “Uh, yep. Until recently, it was just my silly little hobby. It’s… um… weird to know that strangers read what I’ve… written. It would be even crazier if friends and family read it.”
“Well, your secret’s safe with us,” Lucy says with a reassuring pat to my arm.
Sam comes out of the fridge for good and dumps an armload of condiments on the counter. “What genre do you write?” he asks after sniffing a suspect jar of mayonnaise and tossing it in the trash.
Frankie answers for me, again, “Chick lit. Under the pen name Frank Lipton, in honor of me.”
At the mention of that detail, I fear Lucy may swoon. “Oh, how romantic!”
“Isn’t it?” Frankie asks, blowing me a kiss that I let sail over my shoulder and splat against the wall.
Sam laughs as he peels open three plastic containers of deli meat. “I’m shocked Frankie would be romantically involved with a writer. I thought for sure we’d scared her away from that element for life.”
“So, you’re, um… Samuel Pembroke,” I finally acknowledge out loud.
He grins and nudges Frankie. “You really need to start telling people who we are before you bring them to meet us, Sweet Pea. It’s not nice to ambush people.”
Sullenly, Frankie replies, “You’re my parents. Period. There’s nothing else to tell.”
“I’m sure Spielberg’s kids say the same thing,” Betty drawls from the table, where she’s rubbing her temples.
“Anyway,” Frankie continues, “I wanted to make sure Nate was with me for the right reasons, not because of who you are or what your connections may be.”
Looking horrified, Lucy admonishes, “Frankie!” To me she says, “I’m sure there are no worries about that.” I have a feeling she’s picturing “Henry” when she makes those doe eyes at me and flutters her lashes.
“Huh-huh.” I move away before she touches me again. “I’m starving,” I lie as I go to work making a sandwich.
Lucy follows me but keeps a respectable distance.
While passing me the mustard, Sam levels a critical look at me that opens the taps on my sweat glands. “I guess I misunderstood something. I thought you were a nurse.”
“I am. I—”
“He is,” Frankie interjects. “Yes. He is. But he writes in his spare time.”
“Ah, I see. I remember all too well when writing didn’t come even close to paying the bills.”
“Whatever, Dad. You don’t remember any such thing.”
“Yes, I do!”
“We do!” Lucy insists. “We’re old, but we’re not that old.”
“You guys have had it so good for so long that any memories you have of the ‘bad old days’ are as much a figment of your imaginations as the stories you write.”
“Are not! I remember eating mac-n-cheese for a month straight. The powdered cheese kind, not that fancy stuff.”
“Whatever…”
This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening. I’m not making a sandwich in Samuel Pembroke’s kitchen, pretending to b
e a writer, because my girlfriend has told her bestselling author parent(s) I wrote the books she wrote. Not happening. Not happening.
“Slap together a ham and cheese for me, will ya, Nathaniel?” Betty requests. I glance up at her to acknowledge her request, and the calm in her eyes reduces my heartbeat by a few beats per minute. Her slow blinking conveys, “It’s going to be okay,” while she tacks on, “Extra mustard and pickles, please.”
“Sure,” I mumble.
When I deliver her custom-made sandwich on rye, she hisses in a stage whisper, so I can hear her above the three Liptons, still bickering a few feet away, “They’re just people. Freak not.”
I wish it were that easy.
Chapter Thirteen
I’ve spent most of the day in the pool, alternately floating around on a raft and dunking to cool off, so I should be plenty rested, but living a lie is predictably exhausting. Also, soul-searching and sunburn haven’t improved my mood.
I escaped to the pool to avoid Lucy’s repeated generous offers to use hers or Sam’s offices, if I needed some writing time.
The first time she said it, I blinked blankly at her. Then I remembered a “writer” like me would probably be going through withdrawals. And it was obvious she thought I was a weirdo when I responded, “Oh, I’m okay. No writing for me this weekend. I didn’t even bring my laptop.” I might as well have said I left my child at home in a dog crate, with plenty of granola bars and bottles of water.
Lucy must have thought I was simply being strong, because she extended the offer three more times. Finally, Frankie said proudly, “Nate understands the importance of work-life balance. He knows how to engage with real-life people.”
I could tell by Sam’s sigh and Lucy’s eye-roll that the compliment wasn’t for my benefit but was, rather, a backhanded criticism of them. I’m not sure what disturbs me most, Frankie’s scary acting (lying) abilities, her radiating resentment, or her propensity to turn every statement into a passive-aggressive dig at her parents.
Betty was the one who proposed we hang out at the pool when Sam and Lucy started shooting wistful looks toward their office doors, and I grabbed at her suggestion like a drowning man would one of those foam noodles. Of course, Betty and Frankie didn’t want to get in the pool. They preferred lazing under umbrellas on loungers, Frankie in a tiny red bikini, Betty in a surprisingly-modest one-piece black number. It was just as well they didn’t join me in the water. I liked having the kidney-shaped concrete hole-in-the-ground to myself, so I could better wallow in the current mess I find myself.
Wait. That makes it sound like I think I had no part in getting here, and I’m not claiming that at all. My own culpability may be the most depressing thing about this situation.
Now, Frankie and I are alone in the room we’re sharing, another element of the make-believe portion of our relationship. Frankie didn’t offer me a separate room, nor did Lucy blink when Frankie told me to follow her to “our” room. Apparently, Frankie’s parents don’t know about her abstinence pledge, either. It doesn’t matter, I guess. What’s one more fudged detail?
After she changes into a maxi dress I’ve never seen before (and which does nothing for her figure, I think uncharitably), Frankie flops onto the bed and turns her back to me, curling up for what appears to be a pre-dinner nap.
That should be my cue to walk my towel-wrapped self into the bathroom with a stack of clothes, get dressed, and go see if Sam and Lucy need help in the kitchen, but I’m worried I don’t have all the information I’ll need to hold my own in a conversation with them.
“Hey.”
She doesn’t move, but I know she can’t already be asleep, so I continue, “The best con artists know you have to get your story straight with your accomplices before you execute a swindle on a mark. Rookie mistake.”
Still, she doesn’t react.
“So, if I’m going to be your shill all weekend, maybe you should tell me everything you’ve told your parents. Or not told them. Or whatever.”
“I’m tired. I don’t feel like arguing.”
“Too bad. I’m tired, too. But if you don’t start talking, I’m going to drive my tired ass to the airport and go home.”
She rolls onto her back, rests her hands under her breasts, and bestows on me an unimpressed stare. “You know everything now.”
“I doubt it, so let’s recap. Your parents are authors, one a bestseller of epic proportions. Like, the bestseller to end all bestsellers—”
“I knew you’d be like this when you found out.”
My chest tightens at the implied criticism. “And I have a right to be! I’m sorry if it annoys you or pisses you off or resurrects childhood demons or makes you jealous—”
“I’m not jealous of either of them.”
I snort. “Right. Well, as convincing as that is, my point is, I wouldn’t be nearly as starstruck if you’d told me before I was face-to-face with a literary icon.”
“You said you didn’t even like his books.”
“Please, tell me you didn’t tell him I said that.”
“It’s good for him to hear it every once in a while.”
I rub my face and groan. “Unbelievable.”
She sits up and spins on her butt so she’s facing me, her knees pulled to her chest. “You have no idea what it’s like to have parents like that.”
“You’ve got me there; I don’t know what it’s like to have rich, famous parents. But nobody’s parents are perfect. You’ve met mine.”
“Yours are normal.”
I laugh bitterly. “On what planet? But at least I gave you a heads up before I introduced you.”
“You made them sound like lunatics. But they’re human. So are my parents. Flawed, annoying, self-centered humans. I love them, but… they’re not good parents.”
“That’s their biggest crime?”
“It’s a pretty big one to me, since I’m their daughter.”
I lean against the bathroom door frame. “Well, I’ve had a few hours to adjust to that bombshell, so I’m more pissed off that you lied to them about me than I am about your not telling me about them. Within seconds of meeting them, I was lying to them left and right about… everything! Do you realize how awkward that was for me?”
“So you had to tell a few fibs… big whoop. I’ve told you before, they don’t need to know I write.”
“I still don’t understand that.”
Wrapping her arms around her legs and resting her head against her knees, she whines, “Because that’s all we’ll ever talk about. It’s bad enough already, as it is. It’s like they don’t know how to talk about anything else. At least when they think I’m just a woman climbing the corporate ladder, they have something else to talk about—usually their disappointment in my not pursuing a more creative career. But still. It adds some variety to our conversations.”
I narrow my eyes at her as the true reason finally clicks into place for me. “Ah. You don’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing you inherited their talent.”
She lifts her head and rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”
“No, no. I’m right.” For the first time in weeks (maybe months), that persistent mental heaviness resulting from near-constant confusion lifts somewhat. “You don’t want them to approve of you. You get off on needling them with what they perceive as your boring career choice. It’s your backwards way of rebelling.”
“And you fancy yourself inheriting your parents’ abilities to read and psychoanalyze people.”
“Nope. You’re just that transparent.”
“You know nothing.”
As mad as I am at her, the sad way she says that last thing weakens my resolve to punish her for her part in my current predicament.
Now I move to the bed, sitting on the edge, my slumped back to her. “I feel like I don’t know anything. Even the sleeping arrangements here were a surprise. Your parents think we sleep together?”
She shrugs. “It’s none of their business. And it�
��s not like this will be the first time we’ve slept in the same bed.”
I run my hand through my damp hair. “I’m flying blind here, being strung along by you, expected to ‘just go with it.’ Everything. You know me better than that. If I’m going to continue doing this, I need you to keep me in the loop. Better yet, I need you to include me in the decision-making.”
“You never would have agreed to lie to my parents about being a writer.”
I think about it for a second, then reply, “Maybe not. But that should have been my choice.”
The mattress moves, and suddenly she’s pressed against my warm-from-the-shower bare back, her chin resting on my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I thought this was the best way. Isn’t it easier to stay in character if you’re never out of character?”
I bring my hand up to her cheek and press her head against mine. “They’re two different characters, though. There’s the writer who writes under a pen name and the literary persona of that writer.”
She turns her head and kisses my cheek next to my ear, then whispers, “I know who you really are, though. That’s all that matters.”
My eyes drift closed, and I shiver with pleasure. She rubs her hands across the gooseflesh on my shoulders. My towel twitches and peaks.
“Frankie…” I murmur.
“Shh…” She scoots sideways and pulls me backwards until I quit resisting and lie flat on my back, my eyes still closed, my legs dangling off the side of the bed. My lower back cracks, but I barely have time to register the hurts-so-good pop before I feel her tug my towel open and the room’s cool air hits my exposed flesh. The contrast of her hot, silky mouth around me makes me gasp. I twine one hand through her hair and hold on.
This is happening.
*****
I lie on the bed for a while, still out of breath, still seeing stars, still aroused, but feeling cheated, despite what I’ve just experienced. It was, technically, the most intimate thing Frankie’s ever done to me; yet, I’m so alone. I should be basking; I should feel satisfied; I should have perma-grin.