by Lutz, Lisa
“Your godlike perfection has infuriated me for years. I’ve watched your playboy antics with women for close to a decade and I found you to be offensive.”
“This is an apology?” David asked.
“I’m getting to it,” I said.
“Hurry.”
“I assumed that it was your fault because you had done it before.”
“I wasn’t married before.”
“I used to think I got a raw deal having you as a brother, but let’s face it, you were the one who got shortchanged.”
“You’re not that bad, Isabel.”
“True. I could be a whole lot worse.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“I really am sorry, David.”
“Okay.”
Apology #4: John Brown
Another thing I learned about apologies is that it’s important to consider the needs of the person who is on the receiving end of the apology. Personally, I would have preferred to provide John Brown with a lengthy explanation of my recent behavior, but Henry Stone, after retrieving the tracking device from Subject’s vehicle, suggested I keep it much simpler. I wrote him a very short letter and mailed it to a P.O. box address that Henry tracked down for me.
Dear John,
I’m sorry.
Best Wishes,
—Isabel.
And Now…the Wedding
Daniel Castillo (Ex-boyfriend #9) did indeed marry his ex-Olympian sweetheart in a surprisingly ostentatious ceremony held at Grace Cathedral. The three-hundred-person reception took place at the Mark Hopkins hotel. Henry Stone accompanied me as my date. This was arranged by Rae, who told him I had no other options and that if I went with a relative or alone it would simply be “pathetic.”
Henry and I shared a cab home, both having decided ahead of time that this was an event requiring large quantities of alcohol. By the end of the evening my date and I had introduced ourselves as a wide range of dignitaries and low-level royalty. (Henry was 167th in line for the throne and I was 169th1).
“I’ve never met so many Olympians in my entire life,” I said.
“We only met two: the Guatemalan wrestler and the bride.”
“Still, my previous statement is correct.”
“Did I ever tell you I was in the Olympics?” Henry said with a delightful slur in his voice.
“The Academic Olympics don’t count,” I replied.
As the noise and sparkle of the evening gave way to the quiet of the San Francisco streets early in the morning of a Saturday night, Henry and I sat in comfortable silence. A night that I was convinced would be unbearable had turned out perfect. The liquor loosened my tongue and I spoke.
“We don’t deserve you, Henry,” I said, echoing my mother’s common refrain.
But luck was shining on me that night. Henry was out cold. Certainly a thank-you was in order, but there was no need to give him any ideas. The Spellmans needed Henry far more than he needed the Spellmans.
THE PHILOSOPHER’S CLUB
I decided to take an indefinite break from the family business and went to work for Milo at the Philosopher’s Club. We thought a minor redecoration followed by a “grand opening” might put a spark back into the bar. I contacted every person I ever shared a beverage with and eventually drew in a crowd. Soon business picked up and I was working five nights a week, making more money than I ever had as an employee of Spellman Investigations. I wasn’t planning on remaining a bartender forever, but if I did decide to go back, at least I had some bargaining power.
My regular presence at the bar drew in a never-ending parade of familiar faces. About two weeks after I started, Rae dropped by the bar, ordered herself a celebratory ginger ale, and revealed to me that she had finally solved the Mucous Mystery. From the start, Rae had never accepted Henry’s hoarding theory and was constantly trying to come up with another plausible explanation. Eventually she decided to ask Mr. Peabody point-blank:
“Why do you keep used tissue in your desk drawer?”
Peabody, it turns out, had some disagreement with the janitorial staff about the recycling of used tissue. The janitors believed that it was trash. Mr. Peabody believed that since bodily waste is biodegradable there was no good reason not to recycle the used tissue. To avoid any further conflict, Peabody would collect the tissues and dispose of them in the recycling bin himself. Rae thoroughly enjoyed her brief victory of logic over Henry Stone.
Morty liked to swing by on Thursday afternoons, formerly our standing lunch date. He would bring a sandwich and order a coffee, which I would spike with a bit of whiskey. We discovered that the room-temperature warmth of Milo’s brew required no further adjustments on Morty’s part.
I was given six months to complete my twelve obligatory sessions of court-ordered therapy. At one session a week, doing the math, I still had at least three months until I absolutely had to schedule an appointment. Not looking forward to weekly explorations of my mental landscape, I continued to procrastinate. My mother, in turn, continued to drop by the bar to see whether my therapy had, in fact, begun. She would study me in a mock-scientific fashion and then say with an authoritative air, “Nope. You’re definitely not seeing a shrink.”
She stopped once I pointed to the sign on the door that said WE HAVE THE RIGHT TO REFUSE SERVICE TO ANYONE. In my mother’s defense, however, she had kept the secret I had told her to herself. The engagement ring was returned to her jewelry box. Child Protective Services would never make another house call.
As for other Spellman news: Dad had given me a deadline to figure out where I stood with the family business. That deadline was closing in. My father’s un-REAFO, now exposed to my mother as a serious health concern, at first drew conflict into the unit, but now it united them. Brisk morning walks and afternoon yoga classes became staples of their daily activities. My dad no longer grumbled about the absence of red flesh at the dinner table, even coming up with “interesting” ways to consume tofu. Of course, the new menu did curb my visits to the Spellman dinner table, but I don’t think anyone noticed. On my Dad’s follow-up visit to his doctor, his cholesterol had dropped eighty points and his physician agreed that surgery was no longer a necessity. My parents discovered that weekend getaways were just what they needed. Neither recognized or cared how they had been played by their youngest daughter. Within weeks Rae would get exactly what she wanted: an unsupervised weekend in the Spellman household.
David and Petra did indeed separate, although to date neither has filed for divorce. David began showering, exercising, and working eighty-hour weeks again. The last time Rae visited his office, he made it perfectly clear that the cash machine was closed once and for all.
Rae, after the disappointment of her first driver’s-test failure, devoted all her free time to manipulating family members into providing instruction. Henry continued his boycott of driving lessons, but the rest of the family (and Milo) could not escape her determination. Within two months of failing her first test, Rae retook the road test and scored 92 percent. My parents realized that a new era awaited them.
The last time Henry called me for a Rae extraction, I had to explain that now that she was driving, he would have to figure out other methods of facilitating her departure. It occurred to me that I might never see Henry now that my extractions were no longer required. But then Henry showed up at the bar on my dead Monday evening shift, and he showed up the following Monday and the Monday after that.
It seems that sometime between Arrest #1 and Arrest #4, Henry and I had become friends.1 It just took me longer to notice than most people.
As for non-Spellman news: Bernie sent me a postcard from Jamaica, where he and Daisy had traveled to reignite the spark in their marriage. I don’t care to provide any more details, although Bernie provided plenty.
Weeks after I had settled into my new job, Subject entered the establishment. He had received my apology in the mail and contacted my parents to find out where to reach me.
Apparently, after you’ve harassed a person for three straight months, a simple apology is not enough.
Subject sat down at the bar and ordered a drink. He reached into his pocket to pay, but I told him it was on the house.
“You owe me,” he said.
I couldn’t disagree with that.
“In the future, if I need your help, you’ll give it to me. Right?” he asked, although it wasn’t a question.
“Right,” I replied.
Subject finished his drink and disappeared.
On Friday, deadline day, at 3:00 P.M., Dad dropped by the Philosopher’s Club to find out if I saw my future with Spellman Investigations.
“Have you got anything to say to me?” he asked.
“You better take care of yourself, Dad, because I’m not ready to decide my future. I’m just not.”
Dad sipped his wine (the only alcoholic beverage Mom allowed me to serve him) and contemplated my response.
“Okay, Isabel. You’ve bought yourself more time. But you have to make a decision eventually. We all have to grow up sometime.”
“Fine, Dad. Just, you go first.”
“Very amusing. So what will you do in the meantime?” Dad asked.
“I think I need a disappearance,” I said.
“That sounds like a good idea. You could use the rest.”
APPENDIX
List of Ex-boyfriends
Ex-boyfriend #1
Ex-boyfriend #2:
Ex-boyfriend #3:
Ex-boyfriend #4:
Ex-boyfriend #5:
Ex-boyfriend #6:
Name: Ryan, Sean
Age: 29
Occupation: Bartender
Hobbies: Porn; aspiring novelist
Duration: 2 months
Last Words:1 “I don’t think we have enough in common.”
Ex-boyfriend #7:
Ex-boyfriend #8:
Ex-boyfriend #9:
Ex-boyfriend #10:
Mark Twain’s Reputed Quote: “The coldest winter I ever spent was my summer in San Francisco.”
First of all, Twain never said this. Second, while it is true that San Francisco summers are mild compared to the rest of the country, in this climate of global warming, it sometimes gets downright hot, and unless you live in the Sunset or Richmond districts, it does not feel like winter. This is the most overused quote regarding San Francisco. It is my great hope in life that I never hear it again. And while I’m on the topic of my city, do not, under any circumstances, call it “Frisco.” You will immediately tag yourself as a tourist and be taken advantage of by the locals.
Checklist for potential dates (Mom used this as a stocking-stuffer one Christmas)
Should be able to verify his existence (i.e., social security number, DOB).
He should have a complete set of teeth.
He should have an address and phone number.
He should speak at least one language fluently.
You should not be able to smell him from over three feet away.
All his vaccinations should be up-to-date.
He should have at least one friend and one family member to vouch for him.
He should have a job or a reasonable excuse why he does not. (The list was actually three pages long, but I think you get the point.)
Memorandum
To: All concerned
From: Isabel Spellman
Date: 5/17/1998
Re: MILFO renaming.
MILFOs are now called REAFOS
Please note that since Albert Spellman has reached the age of 50, we no longer think it is appropriate to use the term MILFO for his midlife-crisis-resembling events. The new name for this phenomenon will be REAFO, which stands for Retirement-age freak-out. We think this is a superior acronym and hope you agree.
The change will take place immediately.
List of Henry-approved Conversation Starters
How’s it going?
How’s work?
What’s new?
Seen any good movies lately?
If you need anything, I’m here.
Can I get you a beer?
Can I get you another beer?
How about one more beer?
Whiskey?
Nice shirt.
Nice shoes.
(Please note: Starters #6–11 I came up with on my own.)
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It goes without saying that I think my editor, Marysue Rucci, and my agent, Stephanie Kip Rostan, are brilliant, fantastic—insert any glowing adjective. In fact, if you are shopping around a manuscript, you must mail each of them a copy right away.1
I think I’ll begin with the more professional thank yous. At S&S: Where to begin? I love you all. Should I ever get any pets, I shall name them Simon and Schuster. Carolyn Reidy, your support of the Spellman books is invaluable. Thank you so much. David Rosenthal, you rock. I wish I had a recording of that wonderful toast you gave over dinner that night. I’m sure you don’t remember it because you were drinking heavily. Thanks again for dinner, Marysue.2 Virginia “Ginny” Smith, as an editorial assistant you are spectacular, as an actress,3 Oscar-worthy. Also, at S&S, Leah Wasielewski, Aileen Boyle, Deb Darrock, Michael Selleck; my seriously overworked production editor, Jonathan Evans; and a very special thank you to my extremely hard-working and dedicated publicists—Kelly Welsh, Tracey Guest, Deirdre Mueller, and Nicole de Jackmo.
And now I must thank all the wonderful people at the Levine Greenberg Literary Agency (this is a full service agency—restaurant /theatre recommendations, articles of interest forwarded, along with impeccable career advice): Daniel Greenberg, Jim Levine, Elizabeth Fisher, Melissa Rowland, Monika Verma, Miek Coccia (his first name is pronounced just like “Mike”—don’t ask), Sasha Raskin, and Lindsay Edgecombe. It is always a pleasure working with you all and I love my visits to your office, since they typically involve cake.
Now the slightly less professional thank yous:
I’d like to give a shout out to the Rucci clan. Debbie and Joe Rucci, thanks so much for showing up at my event. My actors—Ted and Josh—you guys were great. Ted, I’m hoping to book you for next year. Dave Rucci, sorry you couldn’t make it. Joe Rucci, thanks for coming up with the titles for the Spellman sequels. If I’m being honest, I’m pretty sure that I should credit Marysue, but if she’s willing to share the recognition, that’s between the two of you.
This is where I really think you (being someone not personally acquainted with me) should stop reading:
William Lorton, thank you for hiding the gun. I promise I’ll take it off your hands one of these days. Thanks Dan Fienberg, my cousin and financial advisor. (We had this deal that I’d mention him in the acks if he read my first book before I finished writing this one.) I actually won the race, but it was close and I’m nothing if not generous. Plus, he really is an excellent financial advisor.4 I must also thank Jay Fienberg, my cousin/Web site codesigner and, most importantly, my vandalism consultant. I knew I could count on you.5
Anastasia Fuller, thanks for always reading the first draft of everything, designing my Web site (with Jay), and taking care of some of my travel arrangements and helping me pack for my trip to New York. (Although I will never ask you to help me pack again because you were way too efficient. There was that embarrassing moment when I realized I couldn’t repack my luggage and had to have Nicole—aforementioned publicist—mail things back to me). Thanks Nicole.
Thanks to Ashleigh Mitchell and Jill Ableson for keeping me together or putting me back together. I can’t tell the difference sometimes.
The following acknowledgements are purely book-tour related.
My mom, Sharlene Lauretz, thanks for letting me crash or at least leave all my stuff at your house, lending me money (not because I ran out, but because there was no time for the bank), and not complaining as I made a giant pest of myself.
I think it’s important now to thank a
ll the people who let me do laundry at their home. Thanks Aunt Bev and Uncle Mark, Julie Ulmer and Steve Alves (I should thank you for a lot more than laundry, but you know), and Lori Fienberg. While I’m on the subject of laundry, I’d like to mention to the hotels out there that, when one is on a book tour (and I’m sure other business travel applies as well), laundry becomes a big deal and I shouldn’t have to pay close to $100 to have half a load of laundry done. And I should never have my socks returned to me on a hanger. That’s ridiculous. I totally get jacking up the price on the minibar. If you want to charge me six bucks for M&M’s, fine. But clean clothes shouldn’t be considered a luxury. I really think this part of the hotel business needs to be rethought.
And now for the miscellaneous thank yous:
Morgan Dox and Steve Kim, thanks for all sorts of things. I don’t know where to begin or end. Rae, I’m going to need to borrow your name for just a few more years. Then you can have it back. Peter Kim and Carol Young, thanks for driving me around for three hours or so hunting for my motel. I would like to note that it was precisely where I said it was and you refused to believe me. But under the circumstances, I don’t blame you. I also appreciate all your travel-related advice. And congratulations! Kate Golden, thanks for always being on the ready to proof things and help me unpack. David and Cyndi Klane, thanks again for all your support—as performers, proofreaders, and, most importantly, friends. My Aunt Eve and Uncle Jeff Golden, thank you again for all sorts of things, but Uncle Jeff, please don’t buy me rugula ever again. You’re like a drug dealer, just with pastries.
Once again, I’d like to thank all the folks from Desvernine Associates6 for showing up at as many events as possible and being incredibly supportive: Graham “Des” Desvernine, Pamela Desvernine, Pierre Merkl, Debra Crofoot Meisner, and Yvonne Prentiss. I have a qualified thank you for Gretchen—you read drafts, you help me perform—but every time I’ve hung out with you on the book tour, I’ve had a nasty hangover and then had to fly across the country the next day. I’m not blaming you, I’m just saying…
And I’d like to thank Google Translate for allowing me to communicate in French: Pour Charlie: Pue importe où je suis ni où vous êtes, je pense que vous êtes toujours moutarde.