She looked at it. Aqua print gave the particulars:
Ramon Esposito
The Pool Boy
Licensed, Insured
805-790-2801
A logo of a diver springing from a board adorned the side of the card.
She wondered if Esposito was Spanish or Italian.
“I can’t imagine what I’d have a question about. I don’t think I ever had a question for Mario for all the years he worked for us. I’m content, as long as you do your job.”
“Some people are very particular about the amount of chlorine in a pool, or the water temperature. You might need the heater or filter repaired or replaced. Sometimes tiles fall off, or coping cracks. Whatever your needs, we do it all.”
“By we, I assume you mean you have a crew?”
For the first time, he looked a little embarrassed. He averted his eyes and cleared his throat. “Actually, no. There’s just me. But I do it all. Whatever you need.”
The more he spoke, the more curious she became, until she finally overcame her reluctance and said, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but I’m usually very good at placing accents, and I can’t quite place yours. Where are you from originally?”
“I grew up in Torrance.”
Now it was Evelyn’s turn to be embarrassed, and she blushed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
“No, you’re right. Spanish and Italian were my first languages. I was born in Argentina, of Italian descent.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone from Argentina.”
“I don’t remember it. My family came here when I was an infant.”
“What does your father do?” She asked the question, both to satisfy her curiosity and to engage in pleasant banter, while in the back of her mind she heard her mother scolding her for fraternizing with the help.
“My father was with the Argentine consulate for a number of years. He now consults for companies doing business with South America.”
“And your mother?”
“She was a housewife. She’s passed away.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. It was the polite thing to say, but it always left an awkward silence in its wake. One could never be truly sorry for another’s loss, unless one knew the people involved. She knew neither the mother nor the son, which, of course, Ramon was trying to remedy by introducing himself. She admired him for taking the initiative, for trying to make his business a little more personal. Her previous pool man, Mario, had come and gone so discreetly he might have been invisible. He’d been working for her for over a decade before she’d learned he had grown children.
“It was a long time ago. Cancer. And what do you and your husband do? No, wait! I can see you’re an artist,” he said, gesturing to the sketchbook.
“Yes, and my husband is an attorney.”
“Criminal law?”
“No, Real Estate.”
“Really?” he asked, perking up with genuine interest. “What firm is he with?”
“Hightower, Marsden & Katz. Have you heard of it?”
“No, I don’t think so.” He glanced away and hypnotically repeated, “Hightower, Marsden & Katz. Hightower, Marsden, & Katz,” committing it to memory. “I should talk to him. I have some ideas — something he might be interested in.”
Evelyn didn’t think so; the firm didn’t handle small clients, and she knew Howard wouldn’t appreciate a referral that wasn’t worth his time. So she tried to discourage him by saying, “I think he has his hands full. He deals mostly in vineyard and winery acquisitions.”
“Real estate is where the money is. In my business, I see all sorts of properties, all sorts of opportunities.”
She regretted the turn of conversation and tried to steer the conversation back to his pool business. “Do you have many clients?”
“If I had any more, I’d have to hire an assistant, and that would require buying another truck. The problem is you need money to make money.”
“Shall I show you the pool?”
“Let’s take a look.” He offered a hand to help her to her feet. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. He bowed slightly and swept an arm outward, palm upturned, in a graceful gesture that silently conveyed the phrase, “After you.” She caught the scent of coconut oil as she stood. He stuck his hands in his pockets and they strolled up the lawn toward the pool. She liked the spongy feel of the grass beneath her bare feet. “Hightower, Marsden & Katz,” he said. “I’ll give him a call. It’s all about connections. The thing is to dream big. You can’t get ahead if you don’t dream big.”
She said nothing. He was a handsome young man with that edge of urgency that often accompanies ambition. Howard had had that edge when he was young and hungry for success.
The lawn ran right up to the coping. He knelt at the shallow end and dipped a hand in. “Is your heater broken?”
“No, I just never turn it on until the summer. It saves on the gas bill.”
“Is your gas bill high?”
“I don’t think it’s higher than average. It is what it is. But I do know it doubles when we heat the pool.”
“You really should consider installing a solar heating system. It’s not expensive, and it would pay for itself within in two or three years.”
“I suppose you can recommend an installer?”
“I told you, we take care of all your needs.”
“We?” she teased, smiling.
“I mean I.” He flashed a slightly embarrassed smile back at her. It was a flirtatious look she hadn’t seen in many years.
“We probably won’t use the pool much this year.”
“Why is that?”
“Oh, my son got a job in LA, and my daughter is going to Europe with her roommate this summer.”
Ramon drew back with a look of incredulity. Then his expression softened as if he suddenly understood. “Your stepchildren?”
“No, my children.”
The look returned. “No, no,” he mocked, “you can’t possibly be old enough to have grown children.”
“I assure you I am,” she said, flushed with pleasure. She knew it was just empty flattery, but she was human, and who among us is immune to a compliment?
“I can’t believe it. You must have been a child bride.”
He smiled, letting his eyes rake her from her ankles to her eyes. He held her gaze a moment before resuming his inspection of the pool. Evelyn’s heart beat a little faster. He examined the coping, the heater, and the pump. “Have you ever considered a pool cover? It would help keep the heat in, and it would keep the jacaranda blossoms out.”
“That’s what Mario said — my last pool guy — but I don’t like the aesthetic. A pool cover looks so industrial. Besides, how are you going to earn your money, if you have nothing to do?” She wouldn’t admit it, but she actually liked the look of purple blossoms floating on the surface of the aqua pool.
They were looking at the water when Evelyn dropped down on her knees, her left hand gripping the edge of the coping and her right stretched out as far as she could manage without tumbling into the pool. “Help me.”
“What is it?”
“A bee. It’s still alive.” Bees must not be able to see water, she thought, for they often flew into the pool and drowned. They could be saved if you got them out fast enough. Once they became waterlogged, they could never recover. This one was not yet beyond hope. Its wings buzzed energetically propelling it forward, but it wasn’t strong enough to break the surface tension of the water that held it in place. “It’s too far to reach. Keep me from falling in.”
He knelt behind her and gently grasped her hips. She stretched out further, concentrating on the buzzing insect, yet suddenly aware of the feel of his hands on her body, the tips of his fingers wrapping around to the front of her thighs, his palms pressing in aga
inst the swell of her hips. She felt a tingling electric current surge through her center, and a low growl formed in the back of her throat. The bee climbed onto her finger. She pulled back. He loosened his hold. They stood. She didn’t dare look him in the eye. Instead, she concentrated on the bee, carrying it to her herb garden under the jacaranda at the far end of the pool. She held her finger against the edge of a basil leaf, grateful to the bee for taking its own sweet time to crawl off her finger.
“Do you do that often?” he asked.
She looked up and knew he must have felt something, too, for this time he could not hold her gaze and looked away. “Whenever I can.”
“You’re not afraid of being stung?”
“They never sting me; they know I’m here to help, poor things.”
“You’re a very kind lady.”
“I just can’t stand watching anything suffer.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
It was such an open-ended question, so fraught with possibilities that she didn’t know quite how to answer. Her heartbeat was still elevated and she began to feel foolish. She was nearly old enough to be his mother. “I can’t think of anything.”
A sudden gust of wind took her hat off. She grabbed for it and missed. Ramon’s hand shot out in a blur and caught it as a frog catches a fly. A rain of purple blossoms fell around them and into the pool, landed on her shoulders, and caught in her hair. He handed her hat back.
“I’ll be by next Tuesday to service the pool.”
She gave him a tentative smile and put the hat back on her head. “Thanks for saving my hat.”
“My pleasure. It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Marsh.”
“Evelyn, please.”
“Evelyn,” he said smoothly, “what a lovely name.”
He turned to go, then turned back, cocked his head and smiled. “Hightower, Marsden & Katz. What’s your husband’s name again?”
“Howard.”
“Howard. Hightower, Marsden & Katz. I should talk to him. I could make it worth his while.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The scene kept flitting through her mind during the quieter moments of the following days, and at night as she lay waiting for sleep. She realized she’d been readjusting her self-perception since menopause set in, had begun to see herself as an older woman. It was only natural. But for a few moments with Ramon she had felt young and vibrant again. She remembered his laughing eyes, and the way his hands had held her hips. It was unsettling. She wondered if she could recapture that feeling, and if she even wanted to.
When was the last time she’d felt like that with Howard? When had she last felt, if not desired, desirable? Not that she was looking for an affair, or would ever fall for a line, or anything so stupid. Nevertheless, eliciting a look of interest from the opposite sex had given the first thirty-five years of her life a certain zing and, she hated to admit it, contributed to her sense of self-worth. She’d always taken it for granted because that was the way it had been since puberty. It was as natural as the beating of her heart or the drawing of breath. Why being pretty should have any value, she didn’t know...but it did. It just did. Pretty babies were fussed over. Pretty girls had more friends and got more attention. Pretty young women had the pick of the best men. That was life, whether we intellectually thought it fair or not.
Physically, she thought she’d been at her prime in her midtwenties just before Robbie was born. Howard had been more attentive then, too. When had he begun to lose interest? Or was it disloyal to imagine he had? But of course he had. People didn’t stay young forever. Infatuation grew into love, love into commitment, commitment into marriage, which led inevitably (she felt) to children and adult responsibilities. Her wouldn’t trade that away to feel youthful again. Besides, longing for lost youth was a fruitless exercise.
She knew she should be satisfied. As Connie Katz had commented, she had a life to die for, and in spite of Connie’s relative youth and stunning good looks, she would not have traded places with her. In truth, Evelyn pitied her. Women who had never had children just didn’t get it, couldn’t understand the fierce bond that you had, the joy of watching your child discover life’s pleasures for the first time. If she were honest, she’d have to admit that her love for Howard paled in comparison. She’d met a few women like Connie who thought of children as a burden, expensive to feed, clothe, and educate, an impediment to pursuing their own desires and ambitions. They thought children got in the way, that you put your life on hold for them. But Evelyn knew from experience that there was no stronger bond than the bond between a mother and her children. She would lay down her life for them. Everything else was just window dressing.
So she found it troubling, now that her children had flown the coop, that she faced the rest of her life staring across the table at Howard. They were a couple again, after twenty-two years of often rowdy company, but they weren’t the same inseparable couple they’d been in their twenties. Somewhere along the way, without understanding how, they’d made that transition from youthful vitality to calm maturity. Marriage had become less about romance and more about the business of raising kids and running a household, of scheduling appointments and keeping budgets, her own desires subordinate to maintaining order. She’d almost forgotten how it was to feel carefree and relevant. Slowly, without realizing it was happening, they’d become quite different people. Each day, each new experience, each repetition, settled one atop the other in layers, like sediment, each impression subtly affecting the next. What would they do now? What would they talk about?
She’d always admired her husband, yet she wondered if she were single now and meeting him now for the first time, would she still be attracted to him? He was certainly good-looking — in some ways better looking than when they’d first met. It was one of life’s inequities that men acquired a certain attraction in middle-age, a fine patina of confidence and self-possession. Men seemed more comfortable in their own skins as they aged. Women were always worrying about how others viewed them as they lost their looks. She wasn’t yet old, and she was in reasonably good shape, though she was quite aware of the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes, and the hint of furrows across her brow. She saw her future in her mother’s face, the crepey neck, the jowls, and the droop at the corner of her mouth that gave her mother’s face the impression of continual disapproval. Sipping her morning coffee in the kitchen, Evelyn thought she would have to guard against giving up and slipping into old age prematurely. She hoped to age gracefully, without resorting to plastic surgery and makeup to create the illusion of youth.
And what of Howard? Did he still find her attractive? She had seen herself through Ramon’s eyes, and he had made her feel...not young, exactly, but desirable. She wondered if Howard were single now and meeting her for the first time, would he be attracted to her? Would he be attracted to any woman her age? Could he even tear himself away from work long enough to cultivate a relationship?
They’d had a decent sex life for the first fifteen years of marriage, comfortable if not lusty, lacking that breathless passion of their courtship perhaps, but providing simultaneous orgasms that left them satiated for the four or five days between couplings. If he was less attentive now, she couldn’t begrudge him his fading ardor. Sex had become routine, constrained by one’s narrow preferences, dulled by repetition, no longer novel, no longer spontaneous. Over the past five years, the frequency of their couplings had dwindled from twice a week, to once a week, and finally to once a week on Sunday between 8:30 and 10:30 a.m. He seemed too preoccupied with work to notice, and she had allowed herself to think of it as a natural result of menopause on her account and decreased testosterone on his. He was certainly harder to arouse, and she had almost given up ever having an orgasm again (save for an occasional date with her vibrator). Mentally and physically, it seemed clear that if she wanted to recapture some of her youthful exuberance, they would have to
reinvent their relationship.
CHAPTER NINE
“Have you made a decision about the menu?” Howard asked, over a morning coffee in the kitchen.
“The menu?”
“For the Naives.” — He pronounced it Naves. “My client?”
“The Knaves? How awful.”
“What?”
“What an awful name — Knave: Dishonest.”
“Huh? Oh! No, they spell it N-a-i-v-e.”
“As in naïve? Innocent, unsophisticated. It’s almost as bad.”
“The man can’t help the name he’s born with.”
“I’d change it. I’d take my wife’s name. Why would anyone go through life as the butt of a joke?”
“I’m sure he...”
“Like Butts, for instance, or Hooker.”
“Have you...”
“Or Dick.”
“...decided what you’re making?”
“Or Seaman.”
Howard crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. “Can we stay on topic for a change?”
“I thought you said you wanted crab.”
“I think that would be nice. What else?”
“What if they don’t like seafood?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Chicken is always safe. I’ll make crab cakes and chicken fettuccini in a béchamel sauce.”
After a minute more of haggling, the menu was decided and Howard said, “Where do you get crab?”
“The supermarket, of course. Where else?”
“I don’t want to take chances. I’m going into work Saturday morning. I’ll stop by the harbor on my way back and pick up fresh crab. That should give you plenty of time before they show up for dinner.”
“What time is that?”
“Their flight arrives at four thirty. They need time to get settled into their hotel. I’ll pick them up around six fifteen, be back here around six thirty. We’ll visit, have drinks. So what do you think? Seven? Seven fifteen?”
Evelyn Marsh Page 4