Blood pounds in my ears.
“Yes, Mrs. Hennessey, hi. How are you today?”
Oh, if you only knew… “I’m very well, and you?”
“Fine, thanks. If you’ll hold for a minute I’ll get him. He’s with a patient.”
“Oh no, don’t bother him. It’s not important.”
“It’s not a problem. In fact, he told me to put you right through if you called. Just a moment.”
Put me right through? The song “Let It Be” drifts over the line, and satisfied with the knowledge Corbin is at his office, I hang up.
I decide not to call Rainey because I don’t want to uncork the dam I’ve so neatly constructed around my emotions. I need to be stable, normal when I pick up my daughter from school.
Caitlin will get a kick out of riding in a cab. She’ll think it’s fun. I’ll turn it into an adventure. Maybe we’ll have the driver take us all over town. Have him wait outside while we go to dinner. Oh, just let the meter run. I grab the Yellow Pages. I’ve hailed a taxi in Manhattan, but I’ve never had the need to call a cab in Orlando.
I flip to the C listings for cab— No, wait… I need the T section for taxicabs.
There’s a bunch—Emerald Taxi Service… Orlando Executive Taxis… Yellow Cab Company… But it’s the large display ad featuring a uniformed driver standing between black and white stretch limousines that catches my eye.
Alibi Luxury Cars.
Alibi? This is too good.
The ad says:
You don’t need an excuse to travel in style. We’ll be your Alibi. Chauffeured cars, vans and limousines available in the metro Orlando area within an hour’s notice.
My heart aches at the thought of Corbin coming up with excuses to explain away the photographs. As if that was possible. I don’t want his excuses or his alibis.
I imagine him looking me in the eye and saying, “Kate, that’s not me. Granted, the guy looks like me, but you can see his ears are completely different than mine—”
Scratch the taxicab.
I’m going for the limo. If I’m going to teach my daughter to demand men treat her right, then I need to teach her to treat herself right first.
I order a traditional black limo first, but then change my mind and ask for the white stretch model because I think Caitlin will like a white car better.
“No white ones today, lady. Only black.”
Oh.
“Well, I suppose black will do.”
“’Kay, it’s a hundred bucks an hour, tip not included, four-hour minimum. You down with that?”
Am I down with that? I picture a pockmark-faced punk with greasy hair and at least two-dozen heavy gold rope chains adorned with bling-encrusted license plates hanging around his skinny little neck. Bling—see, I’m not so out of it. In my mind, he’s sitting with his legs stretched out on top of a desk, the same obnoxious rap tune BMW Girl was listening to blaring in the background—even though the phone line is perfectly quiet.
Not exactly the kind of reception I expected from an organization that deals in luxury cars—but then again with a name like Alibi what can one expect? I got my limo—and on such short notice, too.
“That’s perfect.”
I imagine Hera doing a little dance and saying, You go, girl.
After the order is placed, I run upstairs to freshen my makeup and change clothes—and carefully avoid looking in the direction of Corbin’s office. Maybe I’ll renovate it into a playroom for Caitlin once he gets his belongings out.
Back downstairs, I sit in the chair by the window to watch for the driver. I glance at my watch. Fifteen minutes until the driver is supposed to arrive. That’s not so bad. It’ll give me a chance to collect myself.
Exactly three minutes later, I’m antsy. I start replaying the meeting with Hal Washington in my mind; the accident; Corbin arriving and saying, “What the hell happened?”
I pace the length of the beige living room four times before I grab my Architectural Digest off the coffee table and sit back down in my seat by the window to look at it.
The gorgeous colors and lavishly decorated homes featured in the issue make my beige room seem like a monochromatic padded cell.
I flip past a furniture ad to the section with the lushly decorated Moroccan living room I liked so much. It explodes off the page.
Wow. Now, that’s nice.
The tangerine walls handwashed with sheer gold to give it a distressed look set the room ablaze; the ceiling is tented with beautiful tapestry boasting colors like rust, azure, grape, ruby and aquamarine. Inviting pillows are scattered on the floor, beckoning revelers to sink down into them.
I can almost smell the incense and the curry.
Instead of a sofa there’s a raised platform covered in the same fabric that’s on the ceiling; it’s scattered with pillows and more pillows—large and small, in prints and solids of vivid jewel tones, with tassels and buttons and pieces of mirror that sparkle like diamonds.
The image takes me back to my more adventurous days of design school when I would have likely created something like this, when my ideas would have never been the boring, monochromatic shades of beige that I tried to pass off as understated and elegant.
Boring by any other name is still boring.
I glanced around the room mentally imposing the Moroccan room over the blank beige canvas.
“Corbin would hate it.”
Hera says, Corbin won’t be living here much longer.
The breath escapes my body, as if someone pulled the plug on a raft. The magazine slides from my lap as I bend over and rest my head in my hands and sob until the tears spill down my arms.
I remember when Corbin and I bought the beige-on-beige couch. We shopped for it together. Chose it together. Came home and made love on that beige-on-beige couch.
No, Corbin, Daniel could walk in any minute.
Come on, we’ll hear him before he hears us.
He wanted me then. And at that moment you couldn’t have convinced me distressed tangerine and gold-washed walls would’ve been more exciting than our beige-on-beige sofa.
But the kaleidoscope of my mind’s eye shifts, and it’s not me Corbin’s making love to on our couch—it’s Melody Wentworth. My eyes fly open and all I can see for a minute is the blurry imprint the heels of my hand left on my vision.
Then the dark streaks of mascara transferred by my tears to my hands and arms come into focus, and the beige-on-beige couch that is no longer our couch.
I get up and wipe the wet mascara streaks on the cushions.
“That’s for lying to me.”
Not quite satisfied by the dirty smudge, I grab the Baccarat decanter that holds Corbin’s 1936 Château de Castex d’Armagnac cognac and upend it over the couch. The heavy crystal top smashes on the beige marble cocktail table. I move the bottle over the cushions so that each of the three sections gets a good soaking.
“That’s for throwing away our family.”
I choke on a sob and am tempted to get a match so I can watch the whole ugly thing burn, but that would be arson. I’ve already caused one impulsive accident today. I don’t need another added to my conscience’s rap sheet.
Instead, I grab the potted philodendron and layer the potting soil over the cognac and walk on it, grinding in the dirt with my foot.
“That’s for sending the twenty years I’ve invested in this marriage down the shitter.”
The knock on the door startles me. For a second I’m afraid it’s Corbin catching me in the act. For a split second I feel like a naughty child.
Corbin wouldn’t knock.
And to hell with his disapproval. I drop the crystal decanter on the coffee table—it shatters—and I wipe my nose on my sleeve.
As I glance out the window at the black stretch limo in the driveway, I make a mental note to tell Caitlin to stay out of the living room until I can vacuum.
I wouldn’t want her to cut herself.
Hera says, Madame, your chariot has a
rrived.
I brush the dirt from my hands, wipe the lingering tears from my face, grab the Architectural Digest and my purse and set out to take Caitlin on the adventure of her life.
“Mommeeeeeeeee? I don’t want to ride in this big, ugly car. It looks like the ones they use to move dead people. Where’s our car? I want our car.”
Caitlin refuses to get in the limo, and we’re holding up the car line. “Sweetie, Daddy has our car. This is a limousine. Everyone wants to ride in a limousine.”
She crosses her arms over her navy-and-red-plaid uniform jumper and dons one of Corbin’s exasperated expressions.
“Not me! You’re embarrassing me. Your face is dirty and this is a scary car, and I can’t believe you brought it to my school.”
Jocelyn Morgan, PTA president and career volunteer, is helping the staff load the students into cars. “Wow, Caitlin, you are a lucky girl to get to ride in a limousine. Is it your birthday?”
Sullen, Caitlin stares at her shoes and doesn’t answer. I have the strangest sensation she knows what’s happened. She never acts like this—so outwardly defiant.
But how can she know what’s happened between Corbin and me? She’s just a little girl, and she’s been at school all day.
Jocelyn pokes her head in the car door and does a double take. “Kate? Are you okay? Have you been crying?”
I sink deeper into the cordovan colored leather seats and wave away her concern. “I’m fine. Just one of those days.”
“I suppose so.” Jocelyn brushes a wisp of short, jet-black hair out of her eyes and takes a good, long perusal of the inside of the car. “We don’t get many limousines through the car line.” She grits her teeth and shoots me a what-the-hell-am-I-going-to-do-to-top-this-for-my-daughter smile. “Is this a special occasion?”
I don’t know. Is divorce a special occasion?
I shake my head. “Car’s in the shop.”
She quirks a brow. “Oh. I see. Caitlin, dear, get in now. Your limousine is holding up my car line.”
CHAPTER 8
I finally discover that Caitlin didn’t want to get in the limo because the car reminded her of the hearse they used to take Grandpa Hennessey’s body to the grave last year.
I guess to a child all big black cars look alike. When it pulled up and they called her name to get in, she thought someone she loved had died. I’m sure it didn’t help seeing my tearstained, dirty face when she looked inside. I had no idea I looked like such a mess.
I’m mortified. In hindsight, perhaps the black limousine wasn’t appropriate after all.
But it doesn’t take long for her to cheer up. We take a quick detour to Home Depot to buy paint for the living room. Next, we run through the McDonald’s drive-through. We both order cheeseburger Happy Meal combos and strawberry shakes and have the driver take us to Millennia Mall while we eat and talk about her day.
After we shop ourselves to exhaustion, the limo picks us, and all our packages, up at the Nordstrom store entrance—just like I arranged. Despite the circumstance surrounding it, it’s fun.
Caitlin crawls into my lap and lays her head on my shoulder. I survey the bags and boxes acquired during my shopping therapy. Nothing like it when the credit card you’re using carries a very large limit and is billed to an unfaithful husband.
Hey, either I spend the money on my daughter and myself or he spends it on her.
So Caitlin got some new clothes and shoes; some fun and funky bedroom accessories from a shop called Dry Ice; a new duvet cover and curtains from Pottery Barn Kids. I bought a bouquet of exotic flowers from a cart in the center of the mall; a bottle of patchouli oil—Corbin hates patchouli oil; he thinks it smells like cat pee—and a diffuser to burn it in; new towels as big as twin sheets; new pajamas and cotton undies—no more pretty but sadistically uncomfortable lingerie for me, thank you—a four-pound gold ballotin of Godiva chocolate. I contemplated getting a pound for each year of our marriage, but I didn’t want twenty-plus pounds to show up on the scale. One hundred and forty pieces of chocolate is plenty.
From now on, I shall take care of me.
I shall eat my Godiva while lounging on my new three-hundred-and-thirty-thread-count Kate Spade sheets with coordinating comforter set.
You should see my new comforter—a gorgeous motif of red and antique gold. Exquisite. It’ll go perfectly with the Scarlett O’Hara paint.
Darn it! I was so fixated on tangerine and gold to go with the yards and yards of Moroccan tapestry I ordered via my cell phone and the handy number listed in the back of Architectural Digest magazine’s product information section that I completely forgot about Scarlett.
Oh well, there’s always tomorrow. If I don’t have my car back, I’ll call my Alibi.
Bloomingdale’s said they’ll deliver the new bed the day after tomorrow. So I’ll have to make sure I’m home.
There’s something to be said about spending a little more for quality. I really can tell the difference between the ten-thousand-dollar Shifman I purchased tonight and the old Stearns & Foster we’ve slept on for the past eight years.
No wonder my back’s been aching.
I heard somewhere that the first step a divorced woman should take in her new life is to buy a new bed. It symbolizes a fresh start. Shoos out the bad energy. You know, out with the old, in with the new.
The new bed is mine and mine alone.
No lingering essence of Melody Wentworth in my bedroom.
And I’m not even divorced yet. Let’s call it being proactive. I’m tired of sitting around having things happen to me. From this day on, I am taking charge of my life.
I just wish someone could tell me an easy way to explain divorce and all it means to a young and innocent child. I smooth Caitlin’s tangled curls off her forehead. Her eyes are closed. She’s had a big day.
I tighten my arms around her. If I’m so in charge, how on earth am I going to make it through shipping her back and forth between two households and how am I going to explain that from now on she won’t be able to spend holidays with both of her parents?
I can’t imagine Christmas Eve—or any other special occasion—without her. Corbin probably can’t, either, but he should have thought about that before he let his libido dictate his destiny.
I look out the window at the billboards lining Interstate Four advertising various local theme parks. The limo’s wheels hum a hypnotic tune that lulls me into a surreal place—somewhere between hypercalm and quiet hysteria. My mind is racing, but my body’s exhausted. I don’t even have the energy to move. Maybe it’s the way the car’s gently swaying, as if an invisible hand is rocking our giant cradle.
If Caitlin and I could stay like this forever, Corbin could have the house. Caitlin and I will live in this limo and have the chauffeur drive us around and around. Because in here we are far removed from the rest of the world. In here, we need not concern ourselves with the day or the time or place; as far as we’re concerned, out there there’s only the Magic Kingdom and Sea World and Islands of Adventure. Happy places where it won’t matter if it’s Caitlin’s weekend to be with me or her holiday to spend with Corbin…
Caitlin stirs.
“Mommy, when are we going home?” She rubs her eyes and lays her head back on my shoulder. My arms are still around her, but the tentacles of reality permeate my insulated little cocoon.
“Are you ready to go?”
She nods.
I glance at my watch. It’s nine-thirty. Way past her bedtime. It’s not fair to keep her out late just because I don’t want to go home and close this chapter of my life.
Hera says, How can you be so sure it’s over? You haven’t even given him a chance to explain.
Whose side are you on?
I’m disappointed that the mother of all goddesses would even give Corbin a voice. It’s not going to change anything. She of all people should know that once the vow is broken it can never be mended.
She pipes up, I suffered a great many times in the face
of Zeus’s infidelities. Love can heal a great many things. If you love him. Do you love him, Kate?
Do I love him?
I can’t answer that right now.
When the limousine pulls into the driveway, it’s like a spaceship reentering the earth’s atmosphere and splashing down in the tumultuous sea. A sleepy Caitlin and I step out of the warm car into the chilly night air.
Back to reality.
She staggers up the walk half asleep. I tip the driver $150 after he carries my paint and packages to the porch. I consider asking him to hide the booty around the side of the house, but by that time, he’s already getting in his car, and Caitlin is already banging the door knocker.
What am I going to say to Corbin?
What is there to say? Well, it’s been fun. Have a nice life?
I wonder what he thought when he got home and we weren’t there—that I’d gone to my mother’s house or Rainey’s or Alex’s? He probably thought we weren’t coming home tonight.
I’m still standing in the driveway when the sleek, black automobile pulls away like a panther prowling the night. A sickening thought creeps into my mind. What if he’s with her? What if he thought we weren’t coming home and went to her?
The front door opens and my little girl flings her arms around her Daddy’s legs. I’m flooded with a strange emotion I can’t quite identify—part bittersweet relief that he is home and not with Melody; part dread at having to face him. He kneels and pulls her into his arms, buries his face in her hair, then looks out at me. I’m rooted to the ground. I can’t make my feet move.
I know it’s inevitable that we’ll have to talk, but I don’t want to face him in front of Caitlin. I don’t want to go in and pretend everything is normal. I don’t want to know if he’s mad about the mess I made in the living room and all the things I bought at the mall.
I just don’t want to deal with it right now.
Jack barks and Caitlin disappears inside after him.
Corbin stands in the doorway in a white polo shirt and jeans, and I hate him for how good he looks. I hate myself for the pang that pierces me at the memory of how his body feels and how his cocky good looks and sophisticated charm swept me off my feet.
Out with the Old, In with the New Page 8