“Maybe I am. Death brings with it so many questions about life.” Davis, for instance. How many times I could have simply told him that I loved him. He sat across the room from me reading his paper and he’d smile up at me. I love you. How hard would it have been for me to say those three little words? Or I could have told him how I appreciated his always being there while I gallivanted all over the country, leading tours and teaching art in some forsaken land. I’d follow the path of my art someplace, and come home to a warm fire on a cool desert night. Or a glass of wine set out with a fresh salmon feast to celebrate my arrival. I took it all for granted, what he did for me every day. What is wrong with me?
“Someone else’s death always reminds us of the mess we have made of our own lives.” I tell Bette.
“It always reminds me that I’m glad this earth isn’t the end.”
I’m not sure how to process that. I mean, I’m all for spiritual fulfillment and believing in your truth, but how does one really have that kind of assurance? I mean, she doesn’t know where Cherry’s soul is anymore than I do. I know that her body looked pretty lifeless, and it’s hard to believe there’s more that went somewhere else.
“Don’t feel like you need to run over here every time my life goes awry, Bette. I’ve leaned on you enough, and you need to spend some time with that man of yours. You don’t want him running off.”
“He’s in Minneapolis on business, so you needn’t worry about him. The Trophy Wives who aren’t on the cruise are going out for dinner. You’ll come with us and get away from the macabre scene. It will do your heart good.”
“Why on earth do you call yourselves the Trophy Wives? It’s so demeaning. Especially since most of you aren’t married any longer.” Her silence lets me know I did indeed say that aloud. Finally, Bette speaks again.
“There’s a Bible verse about running for the eternal goal. ‘I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.’ We’re looking to eternity—the eternal prize—rather than dwelling on the mess we’ve made of things here.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, sorry I asked. I didn’t know I’d get a sermon.
I have a headache. “Thanks for the invitation, but I think I should be here. I’ll let you know tomorrow how the women are doing. Do you think I should call Lindsay? Or let her enjoy the cruise?”
“She’ll find out soon enough when she gets home. Let’s give her the rest she needs. But there’s no sense in you being there without Lindsay home. We’re going out for a little fun, and we’d love to have you, especially if you plan to leave soon.”
“I don’t want to intrude again.” And really, I don’t want any more Scripture verses thrown at me. I’ve done everything wrong according to Bette. I live in mortal sin, and I didn’t even do that right. “I think I’ll just take a nap on the couch and wake up late and paint.”
“Nonsense. There’s always room for one more with us. Lily worked today, even though it’s Saturday, so she’s ready to be out, and Penny gets a night away from her twins, so she’ll be turning out the lights at the restaurant. There’s life in us yet, wouldn’t you say? There’s nothing you can do there at the condo now, so I’ll be arriving soon.”
I feel guilty for all the people who have come to my rescue over the years. I’ve spent my entire life thinking of myself as independent, when in fact, that was never true. I used people probably to the point that I wrung them out like a sponge by simply not considering them. All the niceties and trinkets given to me, while I went about my business and acted like the innocent bystander about returning invitations. My patio was always open. My courtyard free to anyone who dared to venture onto it, but when did I ever make a point of inviting people to share a meal with me? That was all Davis, and he allowed me to take credit for having the casa fiesta, the party house that was all him, every time.
“Bette”—I swallow and force the words before I lose my nerve—“I need you to do me a favor.”
“You name it.”
“I need you to call Mexico for me. There’s a man who isn’t taking my calls, and I need to talk to him.” I don’t even try to keep the desperation out of my voice. Chances are, he will know it’s from me regardless with the area and country code. “I need to apologize before it’s too late.” Honestly, I think if Davis turned me down flat, I would understand, but I don’t want him to go like Ron did—without him realizing I did understand what he did for me. I did appreciate his efforts. “Maybe if I call from your cell number and ask for him—”
“Certainly. I’m right around the corner. In the meantime, you relax. Maybe paint a little to calm your nerves.” Bette clicks her cell phone shut, and I continue to walk back and forth, with Kuku at my feet.
I feel tight and anxious. Seriously? What broke him? I gave Davis his freedom. Don’t most men want that? To be left alone to change the channel as many times as they like, and eat deep-fried things without nagging? I never nagged him. I allowed him to be all the man he wanted to be. I didn’t babysit him or treat him with disrespect. We had an agreement. We were both free to go at any time. We were together because we wanted to be. Not because of some worthless piece of paper or empty promise. We were there by choice.
And he left by choice.
I fall back onto the sofa and repeat that to myself. Davis left by choice. He wanted more from me than I was willing to give. Just like Ron wanted from me, back in the day. Who am I to keep him against his will?
The doorbell rings, and I hesitate before answering. The somber mood of the outdoors is more than I can bear presently. I want to push the darkness back more than they can understand.
Life is bitter. Filled with rejection and remorse, and no one probably knows it better than these old women with their lonely existences and misery as they wait for their lives to end.
I open the door to face more rejection. It’s Mitch. My heart begins to thump and the dizziness returns. I grab at my heart and let out a weathered sigh. “What is it, Mitch?”
“I wanted to thank you. Thank you for raising a son any father would be proud of. You did good, Janey.”
I look around him, wondering what he is really here for, but he follows my eyes and then our gazes rest upon each other again. “He was good all by himself, Mitch. I simply fed him.”
“The best we had to offer, huh?” He smiles, shaking his head in disbelief. I know how he feels. Ronnie will do that to a parent—fill them with false pride.
“He’s certainly proof of good coming from horrible circumstances.”
“I’ve seen a lot of proof of God in my years, Janey, but he’s the best one of them. So I came to say thank you. We made our mistakes, but not everything turns out badly.” He thrust out his hand toward me.
“You’re welcome.” I try to keep the question mark off the end of my comment, but it’s hard for me to believe with all Mitch has been through, he doesn’t have more animosity toward me, the system, his brother. There’s so much more to say, and yet neither one of us seems to need to say another word.
“You have a good life, you hear?”
“You too, Mitch.”
Before he leaves, he turns back, with his finger in the air. Underneath the lines that cloud his face, the dark ruddy complexion that has overshadowed the pale tone of his youth and light green eyes…underneath, I see the man I loved as a young woman. He was a good man, and searching his eyes now, I can see my son in them, and it’s there I find my compassion.
He turns and brings his hand to my cheek, and I close my eyes against his touch. That touch takes me back thirty-odd years when I was a young girl filled with romantic dreams and pride in having the captain of the football team as my personal chauffeur. I’ve avoided the truth to protect myself, but I need to hear it now.
“Tell me what happened that night, Mitch. I want to hear it from you.”
“Ron ran, Janey. I didn’t. He always was the smart one. I was the jock who thought I could handle anything. I guess we found out for
certain who had brains and who had brawn.”
“I know who had compassion,” I tell him.
“Maybe I should have run, but I’ve thought about this for thirty-six years, and I know I’d make the same decision today that I did then. I wanted to save my little brother. He had such a hard life with my father.”
“You all did what you could, Mitch. Maybe it’s time you had some compassion for yourself.”
His eyes look up slowly and his gaze meets mine. He simply nods.
“Tommy was mentally ill.” I touch him on the shoulder.
“I believe so. Yes.”
“He needed help.”
“Yes.”
“Saving him wasn’t possible. He was committing suicide.”
His eyes flash. After all these years, he still doesn’t believe it.
“He didn’t mean to shoot the cop. I think he wanted the cop to shoot him.”
Mitch’s face twists in a knotted expression, and years of anguish are drawn on his forehead. He tries to hold back, but his emotion bursts out of him in angry, tormented tears. I reach for him, and he falls into my arms. I pat his back and feel his body shaking. It can’t be possible he never thought of it. I told him years ago that Tommy was sick. Abuse, drug use, his brothers rescuing him from every trial imaginable while his parents ignored them. It was apparent to everyone on the block what Tommy would become.
“I was so angry at you, Mitch. You sacrificed me. You sacrificed Ronnie for your brother.”
He pulls away, but he leans back into my shoulder nodding. “You’re right. You were right.”
“I married your brother to get back at you.” This is the first time I’ve ever admitted the treason I committed and it stuns me…but not Mitch.
“I know. He would have been good to you. He always did love you from afar.”
The fact that I wasn’t an innocent victim in all this resonates with me—like it did a few minutes ago as I realized Davis didn’t abandon me without reason. I am not the pillar of righteousness I pretended to be. Not then, and not now.
“You were willing to give me up for your brothers. Doesn’t that say anything to you?”
“No. You don’t understand, Janey. A man’s brothers. They’re his life.”
“And his son isn’t?” I hear the screech in my voice, and it’s foreign to me. This isn’t what I want to say to Mitch. I want him to admit he threw me to the lions, but he’s not ever going to do that. How else could he justify all those years in jail unless he’d been there for his brother?
“It’s over. Right? It’s over.”
I nod.
Mitch grabs my hand. “You live a beautiful life, Jane, you hear me?”
“I will. You too. You take care of yourself, Mitch.”
He nods as he saunters off past all the chaos in the hall. “It’s just you and me, Kuku. From here on out.”
“Not quite.”
I look up and cannot believe my eyes.
“Davis!” I rush into his arms and hug him so tightly, I feel I might squeeze the very life from him.
“Well, for a sickly old girl, you still got quite the grip. I think Ronnie’s been lying to me about you being sick.”
“Davis.” I kiss his entire face everywhere I can plant my lips. “Davis, oh, how I missed you. Davis, marry me! Marry me!”
“I do believe I have the wrong house.” He searches around me, his dark chocolate eyes creased in their familiar smile. “I’m looking for Jane. She looks like you, but she doesn’t act anything like you. She’s against public displays of affection, and I do believe she may be allergic to intimacy.”
I shake my head. “She does believe in PDA now. By George, she does now. We’re a family again, Kuku!” I allow Davis to hold me in his arms for a long time, relishing the warmth of his embrace and wondering how I ever missed the beauty of such moments before. They’re what made life matter.
Davis lowers himself to one knee, but not without extensive groaning. He clears his throat and pulls out a velvet box from his pocket. “Not quite a family yet.”
“Davis, what are you doing? Get up from there. You’re not going to be able to get back up and then we’re both going to be laid up. What good will that do us?”
“I’ll get back up. I’m from the old school. This is my job. Jane, you are a pure delight to my soul, but I’ll not be your kept man anymore. It’s time you made an honest man of me. Will you finally marry me?”
I slide down to my knees and face him on the floor. “These tiles hurt.”
“Answer the question.”
“Davis, nothing would make me happier than to be your bride.”
“And you’re going to marry me in the church. We’re going to do this right.”
“I don’t think the church will let us in.”
“We’ll go to confession. We’ll own up to what we did.”
“You sure God’s ready for that?”
“Hoy mismo. He’d better be.”
The door opens and Bette is standing on the porch. “Oh, heavens, I’m so sorry!” she says as she sees us in this ridiculous position.
“No, wait, Bette! I’m getting married!” I look at Davis. “Everyone’s trying to feed me because I passed out because of the diabetes.” I look up again to Bette. “Davis cooks for me normally. I get lost in my art and forget, and then I have to grab something fast so I don’t pass out. Well, Bette, don’t just stand there, come get us two old folks up from this painful position.”
With a mighty heave, the three of us fall over into a laughing mound, and Kuku takes the moment to climb to the top of the heap.
Ronnie has met his father. The world has not crumbled, and he does not hate me. Coming clean is exactly what my life needed.
I feel a warmth seize me, and my whole being feels drenched with love and compassion.
Chapter 24
Lindsay
Only ten days on dry land, and I have yet to start my color-coded life chart. Instead, I’m in a giant Pepto-Bismol ad. Thick, pink liquid flows freely and I clutch my stomach. I think I’m going to be sick. All of this overwhelming, goody-gumdrop romance and pixie-dust sparkle surrounds me. The idea that Hamilton Lowe is capable of this kind of response from a woman, much less my best friend, is cause for serious concern.
I mean, I flirt on a cruise ship, and everyone gets up in arms with all this deep concern; but Haley can have a wedding shower that resembles a Quinceañera, and everyone’s good with that. It’s nothing more than a quirk. What must one do to have a serious deficiency in taste known as a quirk? Lily, one of the most practical women I know, seems like the proper person for such a question.
I lift my arms to point out the putrid pink color surrounding us. “Why is it a quirk when Haley falls for her ex-husband’s lawyer, but it’s a crime of passion when I flirt on a cruise ship?”
Lily exhales, rolling her eyes. “Would you get on with it already? Your best friend has a fifteen-year-old’s taste. Is this a problem for you?”
“Clearly it is a problem for me, or I wouldn’t bring it up.”
“It’s not your shower. You have no choice but to get over it. And speaking of taste, you were flirting with a man in a Hawaiian shirt and khaki pants, so you’re clearly not the arbiter of taste.”
I purse my lips.
“Lindsay, I have to give you props,” Lily says. “I can’t believe you did this all by yourself. It’s gorgeous.” Looking over the patio, it is gorgeous, albeit extremely pink. From the powder-pink rosebuds to the Hello Kitty pink napkins, with pink crystals and sparkles sprinkled over the table. It screams Haley’s name. “You did a fabulous job all by yourself.”
“I wanted it to be right, and I knew a professional party planner would screw something up, trying to make it tasteful.” I look to Lily. “No offense to Haley, of course.”
“Naturally.”
“The perfect shower is the necessary precursor to the perfect wedding, which I want to be the highlight of L.A.’s marital season.”
“Naturally,” Lily says again. To a trophy wife, all of this is unnecessary information.
What I don’t mention is how this shower is a celebration for new beginnings all around. It’s my last party in this Pacific Palisades’s mansion, and my last technical duty in my role as Ron’s trophy wife. After today, this part of my history stays in the past where it, no doubt, belongs. “It’s my last party here.”
Lily puts an arm around me. “You won’t miss it, Lindsay. You threw some great parties here, but you’re capable of that no matter where you are. This was a phase of life; it’s over now. Open up your heart to something better from God.” She moves a place card on the table.
“Excuse me, what are you doing?”
“You had me next to Bette. I don’t want to hear about how much I work. I’m not in the mood. I’ve got too much work to do.”
“You do realize the hypocrisy in that statement. Maybe you do work too much. Did you ever think of that?” I move the card back. I don’t want to hear about how I should have come home after the cruise instead of spending my last few days here with my first love—my bathtub.
As if reading my mind, Lily asks me the question I dread from Bette. “Lindsay, why haven’t you gone home?”
“I just haven’t wanted to face Jane and her son. All right? That’s all I want to say about it.”
“It’s your house, Lindsay. You have to go home at some point.” I hear Haley’s voice and turn on my heel to see her dressed in a frothy pink halter dress with a sequined neckline.
“Obviously. The house goes on the market this week, so you needn’t worry about me staying.” I look at the house and specifically my bathroom window. It’s funny how an entire mansion could be scrunched into one fiberglass tub, and I’d be content. “You’re not supposed to be here, Haley. This is your shower. Bette was supposed to pick you up, and we were all going to greet you. You ruined the moment.”
Haley peers at every detail on the table, brushing her fingers over the place cards, and her eyes water against the sunlight. Haley turns and wraps me in a bear hug. “Oh my gosh, this is so perfect! I can’t believe you did all this by yourself! You really should do this for a living.”
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