My Three Husbands

by Swan Adamson

  Pine Mountain Lodge was even classier than I’d imagined. There was a huge gate with an intimidating security guard. Former Army. A buzz-cut and a tendency to salute or shout. Since I left the army I can spot them a mile off.

  “Whitman Whittlesley the Fourth,” Dad Two grandly announced.

  The security guard wasn’t impressed. “The fourth what?” he asked.

  “Travel magazine,” Whitman said.

  “Which?” The guard eyed the battered SUV doors suspiciously.

  “Travel. Highest circulation in the United States.”

  The guard scanned his clipboard. “How do you spell your name?”

  Whitman spelled it. “Look, we’re in kind of a hurry. One of my assistants was charged by an elk. She needs to lie down, maybe have a massage.”

  The guard peered into the window. “The two in back your assistants?”

  “Yes. Tremaynne Woods and Venus Gilroy.”

  “Venus Woods,” I corrected him. I looked at Tremaynne, expecting him to beam with pleasure because I was going to take his name. But he looked anything but thrilled. He’d slipped on his dark glasses and pulled a hat down to his eyes. He stared straight ahead, his breath shallow.

  “And this,” Whitman said, indicating Daddy, “is John Gilroy, the architect of Pine Mountain Lodge.”

  “Okay.” The guard stepped into a gatehouse and pressed a button. The high iron gates slowly began to fan open. “We’re just being super-cautious, Mr. Fourth. I’m sure you understand why.”

  Daddy leaned forward and said, “Earth Freedom?”

  The guard nodded. “Yes, sir. They’ve been spotted in the vicinity.”

  “What, exactly, is it that they do?” Whitman asked.

  “Set fires,” the guard said. “Destroy property.” He put up a hand and stopped us just as we were inching forward. “By the way, where was that elk you seen? Tomorrow’s my day off.”

  It was about a mile from the gates to the lodge. The freshly paved road wound smoothly through a grove of gigantic trees, skirted the side of a meadow brilliantly colored with wildflowers, and followed alongside the cleanest-looking river I’d ever seen. The water, clear as vodka, rippled in a wide, gurgling sheet across a bed of smooth greenish-brown stones.

  “We kept all the natural features of the landscape,” Daddy said.

  “Even for the golf course?” Tremaynne stuck his head out the window, gaping at everything.

  “The golf course required some terrain adjustment,” Daddy admitted.

  Whitman stopped when we came in view of the lodge. “Wow! John, it’s beautiful. The setting is perfect.”

  Daddy beamed. “Like it?”

  “Gorgeous. I want a photo of you here, in front.”

  Daddy didn’t need any prompting. He stood, proud and happy, as Whitman arranged the photo. A syrup of yellow-gold sunlight poured through the trees and struck the stone and wood of the lodge.

  “Northwest Vernacular,” Daddy said in response to a question from Whitman.

  I cuddled closer to Tremaynne. “They’re so cute,” I whispered.

  “I don’t want you to use my last name,” he said quietly.

  I drew back, confused. “What?”

  “It’s my name. Not yours, mine. I changed it for myself, not for anyone else.”

  “You mean your real name isn’t Tremaynne Woods?”

  He let out a dismissive snort. “It is now.”

  “What was it before?”

  “Phillip Klunk.”

  “Why did you change it?”

  He turned to me, his dark eyes narrowed. “Do I look like a Phillip Klunk to you?”

  There wasn’t time to answer because the dads got back in. Whitman rubbed his hands together. “This is really going to be fun.”

  Chapter

  10

  When we pulled up in front, a smiling uniformed attendant came out and greeted us with: “Welcome to Pine Mountain Lodge!”

  Three college-age guys and one cute woman, all of them wearing black khakis and white cotton-knit shirts with the collars turned up, were stationed by the lobby entrance. They swooped down in formation and opened the doors of the dirty, dented SUV as if it were a limousine. The young woman gave me a discreet but unmistakable once-over as she helped me out. Our eyes met. Mine moved nervously away.

  I’d never been in such a swanky place. It was completely off limits to someone with my credit rating. The pine trees seemed to whisper, “Big Money.” A couple of black Mercedes with tinted windows were parked nearby. The people milling around the lobby and grounds had obviously spent a fortune to look casual. One woman was wearing a pink golf shirt and three strands of pearls.

  As I struggled to pull out my junky old suitcase that didn’t close properly and had to be wrapped with a bungee cord, Daddy Two quietly said, “Just leave it, sweetheart.”

  I didn’t understand. “Why?”

  “I’ll take care of that, ma’am.” The young woman, skin tanned, hair bleached by the sun, eyes sparkling green, hauled out my suitcase and piled it on a trolley with the dads’ fancy leather bags. When she tried to take Tremaynne’s backpack, he grabbed it from her hands and slipped it on.

  Our greeter gestured toward the lobby. “If you’ll please follow me into reception?”

  “Mr. Whittlesley,” the red-haired desk clerk said, “we’re so pleased you could join us for the opening. And Mr. Gilroy, good to see you again, sir.”

  “Hi, Mike. Everything working all right?” Daddy asked.

  The desk clerk nodded. “A couple of short-term power outages, but we’ve got it covered with the backup generator.”

  Now a tall, tan, ruggedly handsome man of about forty, wearing a dark suit, came forward. “John.” He and Daddy shook hands. “So glad you could make it back for the opening. We’re already getting raves. Harrison loves it.”

  From the way he said it, I figured he meant Harrison Ford. I kept my eyes peeled for celebrities.

  “This is my partner, Whitman Whittlesley,” Daddy said.

  “Oh yes, from Travel magazine.” The man shook Whitman’s hand. “Geof Killingsworth, general manager. We’ve got a really full program planned for you.” His brilliant blue eyes flicked over to Tremaynne and me. “These are your assistants?”

  “Yes.” Whitman beckoned us over. “Venus Woods—”

  “Gilroy,” I muttered.

  “John’s daughter, and her husband, Tremaynne.”

  Geof Killingsworth smiled and clasped my hand. Tremaynne wouldn’t come near. He kept his back to us as he intently studied a scale model of the lodge, shipped from Daddy’s office, that sat in a Plexiglas display case on one side of the lobby. His rudeness embarrassed me. He’d been so sweet after the elk attack. Now he seemed to be turning hostile again. I had a sudden sinking feeling that I was seeing him as he really was, that I’d made up a more pleasant personality for him than he really had. Why couldn’t I ever fall in love with someone who fit into the dads’ preferred world of money and social grace?

  “Venus and Tremaynne will be helping me out with my research,” Whitman lied.

  “A real family business,” Geof Killingsworth said affably. “We like families at Pine Mountain Lodge. I hope you’ll mention that in your article.”

  Tremaynne’s voice carried across the vast lobby. “What kind of family could ever afford to stay here?”

  We all looked at him. I sensed trouble.

  “You’d have to be, like, a millionaire,” Tremaynne said.

  Geof Killingsworth didn’t know what to say. He smiled and rubbed his hands together. “Well, why don’t you all get settled and we’ll see you for cocktails in the Great Hall in about an hour. Prince Brunelli and all the other investors will be there with their special guests. There’s lots of star power here, so we’ll be taking lots of photos.” He turned to Daddy. “John, I wonder if you’d mind having a quick look at the backup generator building.”

  “E.S.S. four? Is there a problem?”

  �
�I’d like your opinion.” Before starting off, Daddy at his side, Geof Killingsworth gave a quick, admiring glance to his new domain: the beautiful sweep of flagstone floors, the giant stone columns holding up the wooden ceiling, the two-story glass entry wall.

  “I’ll see you in the room,” Whitman called after them. He and Daddy acted differently in public. More like straight men.

  When Daddy and Geof Killingsworth were gone, Whitman slowly walked over to Tremaynne. He stood there for a moment, regarding him. “Are you going to ruin this?”

  “Ruin what?” Tremaynne asked, feigning innocence.

  “Venus’s honeymoon. Your honeymoon. Our honeymoon.”

  “I just asked a simple question,” Tremaynne said. “Isn’t that what a writer’s supposed to do, ask questions?”

  “This place is not for everyone,” Whitman said. “It’s not supposed to be.”

  “No,” Tremaynne said, “it’s for rich people. Like you.”

  “For three days,” Whitman said, “it’s for you and Venus, too. You can enjoy it or you can hate it, Tremaynne. It’s up to you. But if you hate it, I don’t want to hear about it. And neither does anyone else.”

  I moved to Tremaynne’s side and took his arm. “He was just asking a question, Whitman.”

  Whitman sighed. “I’m a writer, Venus. I know a subtext when I hear one.”

  Yet another uniformed staff person joined us. “Mr. Whittlesley? We’ve put your party in adjoining suites. If you’ll follow me?”

  I didn’t dare smoke in the room, but I was excited and wanted a cigarette real bad.

  Our suite was fantastic.

  The outdoors was right there. There was a floor-to-ceiling glass wall that angled up so that part of the ceiling was glass, too. Everything was made of wood. Beyond the glass wall, there was a deck with a flagstone floor and a stone hot tub. Giant pine trees rose up just beyond the patio. The river sparkled through the trees.

  “Wow.” I kicked off my sandals and stretched out on the enormous bed in what I hoped was a provocative pose. “It’s like being in a movie.”

  Tremaynne shook his head and frowned as he examined everything. He ran his fingers along surfaces like a blind person reading Braille.

  “Don’t you think it’s beautiful?” I asked him.

  “Beautiful? What does that mean?” he said.

  “The materials. The way it looks. Everything.” And it was my daddy who did it. It came from his brain. It represented the way he thought. It made me feel proud, special somehow.

  Tremaynne cocked his head and shot me a squinty, disapproving glance. “Can you really feel comfortable in a place like this?”

  “Sure.” Anything was an improvement on my tiny, messy apartment in Portland. “It kind of reminds me of their house.”

  Tremaynne opened the minibar and scanned the contents. “Whose?”

  “The dads’.” I paused, wondering if this was the right time to bring it up. “Who won the swimming match?”

  “I did.”

  “It was nice of you to go swimming with them. Nude.”

  He pulled the bottle of wine from its bucket and examined the label.

  “You seemed to be having a good time.”

  He plunged the bottle back into the ice and started picking through the giant fruit basket.

  “Do you find them attractive?”

  He smiled but wouldn’t look at me.

  “Sexually, I mean?”

  “Got any aspirin?” He opened my purse and started pawing through it.

  I darted up to snatch it from his hands. But instead of handing it over, he turned away and began rifling through the contents. “Plenty of candy, I see. Cigarettes. All the consumer shit you can’t live without.”

  “Tremaynne, if you’re mad at me, let’s talk about it.”

  “I’m sick. I’ve got like the worst headache in the world.” He drew out a plastic case. “What’s this?”

  “My birth control.”

  He tossed the case at me and said, “Please don’t stop eating those.”

  I was burning up. Part of me wanted to fight this out. But I was too scared. I didn’t want to find out what was bothering him, because I was afraid it was me. And it was too soon after the wedding to start fighting. I wanted to live in ignorant bliss awhile longer.

  “Was it the bear?” I asked.

  He looked at me like I was crazy. “What are you talking about?”

  “You changed. After you saw that bear.”

  “Yeah. That really freaked me out.” He slowly walked over to the glass wall and stood there, looking out. “I just can’t stand it that people kill animals.”

  “It was horrible.”

  “I saw a lot worse than that when I worked at the animal research labs.”

  I covered my ears. But he told me again.

  How, in these labs, they sever the nerves in cats’ ears in order to study the effects of hearing on balance. They inject monkeys with cancer cells, expose their brains, blind them, chop off limbs, raise babies in isolation from their mothers, and subject males to electro-ejaculation so the facility can clone more monkeys for more research. The research labs did all kinds of things I tried not to think about.

  Just like I didn’t want to think about those phone calls he’d made.

  All I wanted was to lie with my lover in wedded bliss.

  “Tremaynne,” I pleaded, “we’re on our honeymoon. This isn’t an animal research lab. It’s our honeymoon suite.”

  “Oh, I get it.” He threw my purse aside, grabbed my wrists, and pushed me down on the bed. “You want a little penis-imo.”

  “I just want to know that you love me.”

  He pulled back and looked into my eyes.

  “If I’ve done something to piss you off, just tell me.”

  “No,” he whispered, stroking his cheek. “It’s not you. It’s not you, Venus.”

  I could feel him coming back to me. “Then what?”

  There was no answer. There was just this sudden surge of mutual lust. He ground his hips into mine. I ground back. He let out a sharp, sudden groan of desire and dove for my mouth. His tongue was everywhere. I raised my legs and grabbed his ass tight. He tore open my blouse and pulled my breasts free, hungrily sucking and licking my nipples.

  He unzipped my bell-bottoms and yanked them off. I was wearing some new French thong underpants that my mom bought me for the honeymoon. Tremaynne slipped his hands under the elastic sidebands, caressing my hips and belly, and peeled the thong away. He lifted and spread my legs, eyed my pussy, and dove in.

  I was torn between sex and sanitation. I wanted to go wash myself, but his tongue was already probing and licking. My clitoris hardened. My nipples grew stiffer. My back arched. I moaned in ecstasy.

  But then he stopped. Drew back his head. Looked at me.

  “There’s just one thing I want to know,” he said.

  “What?” I panted.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you have genital herpes?”

  I stared at him through my raised legs, desperately hoping it was a bad joke. “I don’t.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Then how did I get it?”

  I clamped my legs together and rolled onto my side. “You have genital herpes?”

  “It just appeared today. I saw it in that gas station. It freaked me out. I never had it before.”

  The accusation stung me. “I don’t have herpes.”

  “Well,” he said, “someone gave it to me.”

  I didn’t have to go out into the hallway to get into the dads’ room. Our suites were separated by a large, fully equipped conference room.

  Their door was unlocked.

  “John?” Whitman called from the shower. He has supersonic hearing. “Come in here and I’ll scrub your back.”

  A minute later the water shut off. A minute after that he stuck his wet head out the bathroom door. “Oh. I thought it was your dad.”

  “No, it’s me.”

  He slipped in
to a thick white guest bathrobe like the one I was wearing and began vigorously toweling his hair. “Like your room?”

  “It’s great.”

  “Your dad did a beautiful job. Everything’s so carefully thought out. Make sure you tell him that.” He strode admiringly through the room. “I’m so proud of him for pulling it off. This project was a nightmare. He almost quit, you know.”

  I didn’t know. Daddy never told me anything about his work. Or maybe he had and I hadn’t bothered to listen.

  Whitman opened the door to the deck. The sound of chattering birds wafted in. A big squirrel skittered up a tree. Whitman sucked in a deep Buddha breath. “How can you not love it?” he said.

  “What?”

  “Life! This!”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Life is a banquet and most poor assholes are starving to death.” I’d watched Auntie Mame with the dads every year since I was eight. I knew the whole thing practically by heart.

  “The voice can be a mellifluous instrument, Venus. It doesn’t have to be a flat, depressed monotone.”

  “Yes, Auntie Mame.”

  “And speaking of banquets, you’re expected to be at the big bash tonight.”

  “No,” I said firmly. “We’re not going. I came over to tell you.”

  “You can’t pretend to be my assistants for the duration of one cocktail party?”

  “It’s our honeymoon, Whitman. We want to be alone.”

  “Away from us, you mean.”

  I blurted out, “Do you have any condoms I can borrow?”

  Whitman shook his head. “We don’t use condoms. One of the perks of a long-term monogamous relationship.”

  “Okay.”

  “But I’m glad to know that you’re protecting yourself. There are so many awful love bugs out there. It takes just one—”

  It could be simple chafing, I thought. I had no clue what genital herpes looked like. Maybe it was just dry skin, or irritation from the hand job I’d given him earlier in the day.

  Or maybe he’d picked it up from that bitch he’d been calling. She’d given it to him, and maybe he’d passed it on to me.