by Dee Ernst
They nodded, but not very convincingly. Thank God for the emotionally recuperative powers of selfishness.
They didn’t go back to chatting, but they started smiling again as they ate. The waffles, when smothered with syrup, were delicious.
“Why don’t you ever make waffles?” Jessica asked.
“Well,” I explained, “you girls usually aren’t down here at the same time on school mornings, and on the weekends, you all sleep really late. When you were little, though, we used to have Pancake Saturday, remember?”
They all nodded. Brian had made the pancakes. I paused for a moment, expecting some fond sentimental memory to sweep over them.
Jessica snarled. “It was the only fucking thing Daddy ever cooked.”
Normally, that kind of language is not tolerated, at the breakfast table or anywhere else, but since I totally agreed with her, I let it slide.
“Well,” Aunt Lily suggested, “we could always do brunch. You know, eleven-ish. That way everyone can sleep in, but we can all have something really yummy together. What do you think?”
The girls nodded. Out with the old, in with the new. Aunt Lily was starting her own traditions under my very nose. I’d have to think how I felt about that. But not now.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I announced, “so everyone have a great day. No assaults, please, or any other digressions. I can’t handle any more drama.” I kissed each of them on the cheek and went back upstairs. Quick shower, no blow-dry, back into sweats and slippers. I grabbed Lana off the living room couch, yelled to Aunt Lily that I was going to work, and went out the back door, down the driveway, and climbed the stairs to my office over the garage.
All of the houses on my block have a huge, detached garage with a finished upper story where, I’m sure, the help once lived. My own personal help comes every week with a mini-van, so the upper story was converted to an office space when we first bought the house. I wanted a place to write that was away from the house, and that worked well for the first year, until I had my first kid, and then I couldn’t leave the house except for food shopping or other emergencies. As the girls got older, I hired a long succession of mothers’ helpers to watch my daughters while I crossed the driveway to go to work. It’s not at all like my long-planned attic oasis, it’s just a really good place to write in. It’s one long, narrow room, with bookshelves covering the one tall wall, and a bathroom and kitchenette against the opposite tall wall. The other walls are cut short by the roofline, and on one side is a long desk and work table, and across from it is a huge, shabby sofa covered in rose chintz that Brian said was too hideous to put in the house after I went out and bought it without asking him first. It’s the kind of perfectly pouffy, pillowy couch for curling up in on rainy afternoons. In front of it is an old trunk I use as a coffee table. It ‘s the same trunk I took with me when I went away to college, and back then I spent an entire summer cutting things out of my favorite magazines and decoupaging them to the trunk, so that even today I can look down and see Lauren Hutton smiling from the cover of an old Seventeen magazine. There are a couple of skylights and an ugly linoleum floor. I love it.
I went over to the kitchenette and made coffee. Lana settled into the couch. She loves “Take Your Cat To Work” days. I turned on my computer, but didn’t read anything. I took my coffee mug and snuggled into the couch and waited for Anthony.
Anthony Wood is my personal assistant. About ten years ago, my agent suggested I hire somebody to deal with book-signing schedules, conference appearances, and the like. I hired Anthony part-time, a high-school senior who wanted to be a painter. In the ten years he’s been working for me, he’s gone on to graduate from Parsons School of Design, where he received a Masters in Fine Arts. He is now a very successful painter of what he calls “interior landscapes”, which are really big murals on people’s living room walls. He also paints exquisite watercolors, but you can’t make nearly as much money doing that as you can, say, painting a replica of Monet’s Water Lilies for a really rich stockbroker.
He continues to work for me two days a week for several reasons. I pay him a lot of money. He can adjust his own schedule around his painting jobs. He loves telling people that he’s an artist who dabbles in publishing, and he loves to travel to all those conferences and conventions with me. In return, he is an invaluable deduction on my income tax return. He is an excellent assistant. He’s gone on to do proof-reading and editing, as well as making significant contributions to the actual writing process.
He also manages my website, filling readers in on my day-to-day life. He leaks clues about the next book, tells them where I’ll be putting in an appearance, or doing a signing. He coordinates all my on-line activities – blog conferences, discussion groups, on-line book clubs. I answer all my own e-mails, but he juggles MySpace and Facebook.
Anthony is gay. Not one of those obvious, flamboyant gay men, but he’s a real expert on male sexuality from both the giving and receiving end. Since he has also become a real friend and confidante, I have no problems asking him - if you do this to a penis, does it feel good? (FYI – according to Anthony, there is pretty much nothing you can do to a penis that doesn’t feel good).
Anthony is also my head cheerleader. He has a very high opinion of himself, and has told me on several occasions that even if he didn’t work for me, I’d be the only writer of flashy, trashy historical smut that he would ever read.
He is so sweet.
I sat, stroking Lana between the ears, until I heard Fred barking hysterically from the house. A car must have pulled into the driveway. Thank God, Anthony at last.
Anthony is a very beautiful man. He has those classic, golden-boy looks, think Redford in The Way We Were, but without the mole or crooked nose. Anthony’s nose, in fact, is perfectly straight. So are his teeth. His eyes are green, his jaw is firm and square, and his hair is dark honey blond and swept off his high, broad forehead. Since I know him so well and since he is so very gay, he has never been a character in any of my books.
I could hear the door downstairs slam shut, and Anthony came upstairs. Even though it was a cool, cloudy April morning, Anthony had dressed for a golden June afternoon. He was wearing white cotton pants that tied just at his hips with a drawstring and came to just above his ankles. His shirt was blue-and-white striped, sailorish, tight enough to show off his very nicely muscled arms and short enough to reveal his flat-as-a-board abs. He was also wearing blue canvas slip-ons with rope soles and a straw sunhat.
Okay.
So, remember what I said about him not being flamboyant or obvious? Forget all that. You could spot this man across a crowded room and know immediately what side his bread was buttered on.
“Hello, Mona,” he sing-songed. His look was swift and accurate. “Absolut-itis?”
I nodded. He put down a large straw tote bag and poured himself some coffee.
“Trish?” he asked.
Anthony has a nickname for everybody. He calls Patricia “Trish”. I have never heard anyone, not even her parents, whom I have met several times, call her anything but Patricia, but Anthony calls her Trish, she calls him Antoine, and they get along famously.
I nodded again while he shook his head. “And on a weekday? You should know better. How are my girls?”
Anthony loves my daughters. He thinks they are three of the brightest and most charming individuals of earth. They in turn, love him, but I can see where that comes from. He’s beautiful, non-threatening, will drive them to the mall anytime they want, buys them expensive coffee drinks that end in –io, and will talk for hours about clothes, cute boys and make-up.
Anthony is their designated guardian. If Brian and I should both tragically be killed in an airline crash, or if, for instance, I try to blow up his car and can’t get away fast enough and get blown up as well, he will be their guardian. Our first choice had been my parents, and after their deaths, Brian’s parents. After Brian’s father died, and Phyllis said she would not want the responsibility
of all three of them by herself, we looked around for an appropriate person, preferably someone who had an outside chance of outliving us. In the end, Anthony was the obvious choice. Some people, on hearing this, wonder why we didn’t choose some other close family member. But the only ones who ask that have never met any of our other close family members.
The girls don’t know. As certain as I am of their love and devotion, Brian and I both believe that Mommy’s money + Daddy’s money + Anthony telling them what to do might be too great a temptation.
“Miranda thinks that the lighting in dressing rooms is designed to make clothes look better than they really are,” I told him.
He settled into the other side of the couch and waved his hand. “Of course the lights are fixed. Everyone knows that. Something about the fluorescent. What else?”
“Jessica wants to go to a boy-girl sleepover.”
“Well, she can’t. I read all about those things. Parents think there will be no sex going on, but believe me, orgy city. Do you want me to talk to her?”
See, I told you he was sweet. I nodded. “A girl named Bernadette broke the DNA project on purpose, and Lauren hit her over the head with it.”
He looked shocked. Not because Lauren did the hitting, because he’s always said that Lauren has a very dark side, but because he had personally gone on several mini-marshmallow and plastic-straw searches at Kings.
“Somebody broke the DNA? Good for Lauren. That girl needs to shake it loose more often. Who was in the house, by the way? Is somebody home sick, or do you have a ghost washing dishes?”
“Aunt Lily has moved in. She sold her place because she’s afraid that once the Martians land in Prospect Park, property values will go down.”
“I bet she got a bundle. How long is she staying?”
I gawked at him. Did he not hear the word ‘Martians’?
Just then, Fred began to bark again. I closed my eyes tightly against the uproar. “What is that stupid dog barking about now?” I muttered, opening my eyes slightly to look at Anthony.
He cupped his hand behind his ear and tilted his head, listening. He frowned, then said, “Timmy and the well again. Should we call the sheriff?”
Patricia came sailing up the steps, carrying a plain white shopping bag that smelled like heaven. Anthony jumped off the couch.
“Bettingers, Trish?” he asked, taking the bag.
“Antoine,” she murmured, kissing his cheek. “Yes. Crumb cake. And strudel.” She looked at me sternly. “You didn’t tell him?”
Anthony looked up from inside the bag. “Tell me what?” he asked, his eyes narrowing, a large piece of crumb cake in his hand.
“Brian left me,” I told him, looking hopefully at the bag.
He looked puzzled. “Brian who?”
“My husband,” I said loudly. “Brian, my husband, left me.”
“Ohmygod. When? Why?”
I reached forward and snatched the crumb cake from his slender fingers. “Yesterday. For Dominique.”
“The Frenchwoman from Boston?” Anthony asked.
Patricia and I both stared. “How did you know that?” I finally asked.
He shrugged and rooted around in the bag again. “You told me you had met her. At the Christmas party, remember? I wanted to know what everyone was wearing, and you said that a Frenchwoman from Boston named Dominique was wearing the winter white suit we had seen at Nordstrom, you know, the one that you wouldn’t buy because of your body image issues, with red alligator pumps.”
I was impressed. His memory for fashion-related conversation was phenomenal. “Well, yes. That Dominique. He packed everything and is living at her place in Hoboken.”
“I hope her place in Hoboken is big enough for all the party guests,” he said, pulling out another piece of crumb cake.
I have a hard time following Anthony sometimes. “Party?”
“Yes. The surprise party for Glinda.” He refers to my sister-in-law Rebecca as Glinda, the Good Witch. Rebecca must not mind, because she hasn’t given him warts or anything. My other sister-in-law, MarshaTheBitch, is Miss Gulch. His nicknames can get a little silly.
I still wasn’t following. “I’m not following.”
Patricia was. “Brian can’t possibly expect you to still have a surprise party for his sister. He doesn’t live here anymore. It’s not unreasonable to assume that Dominique will take over the responsibility as hostess.”
“But I love Rebecca. I don’t care who the hostess is. I planned her party to be here.”
Anthony shook his head at Patricia. “She doesn’t get it,” he said.
Patricia sighed heavily. “I know.” She smiled patiently at me. “Mona, you need to tell Brian that the seventy-five people who were going to be spread over your spacious and elegant back yard will now have to be crammed into Dominique’s condominium. And that the caterer you have engaged doesn’t travel, so she, that is, Dominique, will have to arrange for another person to take care of the food. And the drinks. And the rented tables and chairs. Not to mention that someone will have to call all the guests and inform them of the change of address. And why.”
“Oh.” I smiled. “I’m starting to feel better now. Anthony, why don’t you just fax the guest list to Brian this morning?”
He licked crumbs off his fingers. “With pleasure. I’m very sorry, Mona. This is terrible. But you don’t seem, uh, too upset. Aren’t you angry and hurt and tortured?”
“I am angry.” I was. Maybe I’d be hurt and tortured later, but that morning I was still just really pissed off.
Patricia sat down next to me and had taken the half-eaten crumb cake from my hands and put it on the trunk. “I hope this isn’t too presumptuous, but I’ve made an appointment for you with David West. He’s an attorney. One week from today.”
“Already? I’m seeing a lawyer already?”
“The sooner the better,” she said calmly.
Anthony was looking at Patricia with frank admiration. “How,” he asked, “did you get her an appointment with the best divorce lawyer in the state?”
Patricia looked smug. “He’s handled three divorces for me in the past twenty-one years. I reminded him that I’m only forty-eight and could very easily manage another three.”
Patricia doesn’t mind telling people her age because she looks ten years younger than she is, and knows it, so whenever she mentions how old she is, somebody inevitably says, oh, but you look so much younger, and Patricia loves that. I, on the other hand, don’t look forty-five, but I look about forty-three and a half, so I never mention my age. To anyone. Ever.
I held out my coffee cup and Anthony dutifully reached for it to get me another. “I’m not sure I’m ready to talk to a lawyer.”
Patricia looked into my eyes. “Tell me.”
“It’s happening too fast. What if he lives with this woman and decides she’s a bitch and wants to come back?”
“He’s an asshole,” Patricia said indignantly. “Are you saying you’d take him back? After he cheated on you for months, left you, lied to your children about everything, and after you yourself admitted that he wasn’t much of a husband in the first place?”
“Well, God, Patricia, when you put it like that, I’d be stupid to take him back.”
“So, how would you put it?”
Anthony had sat on my other side and I reached for more caffeine. “I liked being married,” I said at last. “I won’t like being alone.”
Anthony was shaking his head. “You have three daughters, lots of good friends, a demented aunt who has apparently moved in, and me. When will you ever be alone?”
“It’s not quite the same, Anthony,” I said patiently. “I like having somebody to, you know, rely on. Pick up the slack. Help me out.”
“And when,” Patricia asked, “did Brian ever do that?”
“Okay, so maybe not that.” I was feeling a little frustrated. “What about sex? God, I might have to start dating again. One of the things I liked about being married was
that I never had to worry about shaving my legs or explaining about my appendix scar. Who would want to see me naked now? I’m forty-five and I droop.”
Patricia waved a casual hand. “Darling, there will always somebody out there who’ll want to see you naked, believe me. In fact, after his performance yesterday, I’d bet that Ben would stand in line.”
“Ben?” Anthony whispered, setting down his coffee cup so quickly that it spilled a little on the table. “Ben was here yesterday?”
Anthony has a little bit of a crush on Ben. Well, okay, a huge crush. It’s kind of funny, because he gets all tongue-tied and silly when Ben is around, which is very unlike the normal Anthony. I’ve told Anthony many times that when he’s around Ben, he’s fine, but that’s not true. Ben even asked me once if Anthony had ever seen a professional about his stutter. I’d never tell Anthony. He’d be very upset.
“Yes,” I told him, “Ben was here yesterday. The morning started with the girls’ tub puking up rust.”
Anthony leaned forward. “What was he wearing?” he whispered.
No matter how badly I’m feeling, I can’t help but string Anthony along. I puckered my brow, pretending to try hard to remember. “A leather g-string and his tool belt?” I said at last.
“No,” Anthony whispered in disbelief.
“No,” Patricia said firmly, giving me a hard look. “He was wearing the usual jeans and T- shirt.”
Anthony looked crushed. “Oh. Well, did he look good?”
Patricia rolled her eyes. “Antoine, really, is the Pope Catholic? Does a bear shit in the woods? Does Ben Cutler look good?”
Anthony grinned.
I grinned too. “He looked great. Lana sat on his lap during lunch.”
Lana had found a comfortable perch on the back of the couch. Anthony looked at her enviously. “How was he?” he asked her. Lana purred.
The door opened downstairs again, and MarshaMarsha came up, looking adorable and concerned.
“Mona, how are you? You look awful, like you haven’t slept at all,” she said, stooping to kiss me on the cheek. “I worried about you all last night. I still can’t believe it. Is that strudel from Bettingers?”