Four: Stories of Marriage

by Nia Forrester

  “Cool,” he said. “Found anything good?”

  “No, not really. But it was fun, getting out and doing something that wasn’t kid-related in the middle of the day. And not on a weekend. I even wore heels to glam it up.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. But I thought you should know. In case it comes up …” She pursed her lips and paused.

  Brendan paused too, putting down his fork, probably noticing that she was a little hesitant to share what came next.

  “… because it was with Thierry Wolfe.”

  It seemed to take him a moment to place the name, or maybe just to process the meaning of what she said. Then his brow wrinkled slightly, and he leaned in.

  “Simone’s husband?”

  Tracy nodded and reached for her own fork, wanting to make certain she wasn’t conveying that this should be anything even approaching a big deal. The truth of it was, that when Thierry had dropped her off at home that afternoon, it started to feel like a big deal. He had kissed her on both cheeks, which Tracy knew had no more significance than a handshake to him, but it felt weird, to have a man lean over, and to have his lips make contact with her face, in the confines of his chauffeured car. That was when she decided that full-disclosure was probably required. She didn’t keep secrets from Brendan and wasn’t about to start now, over something, and someone so insignificant.

  “How’d that happen?” Her husband’s voice was even.

  Brendan was not one to react without thinking, but Tracy knew him well enough to know that he would think about it later, and once he’d decided how he should feel, they may revisit this little matter.

  “He called. Said he was visiting an artist in the neighborhood, remembered from the party that we live in Brooklyn and asked whether I wanted to come along.” She shrugged.

  Brendan studied her for a moment. He picked up his fork and began eating again.

  “How’d he get our number?”

  Tracy shrugged again. “From his wife? I have no idea. I didn’t ask.”

  It was only then that she recalled another omission. She had planned to call Simone Wolfe, to make sure she knew of the invitation; and then she got caught up with Layla and it had completely slipped her mind. Still, it wasn’t as though this would happen again, so it didn’t matter now.

  “Hmm,” Brendan said.

  Tracy swallowed a mouthful of rice. It was a little difficult to get down.

  “It was nice of him to ask, but I didn’t even really like the artist,” she said, “so …” She let her sentence trail off to silence.

  When she looked up again, Brendan was looking at her, his expression inscrutable.

  “Are you angry?” she asked.

  “Should I be?”

  The question took her off guard.

  “No. Of course not. It was just …”

  “He’s new to the country,” Brendan said, shrugging. “Wanted someone local to show him around, right?”

  “Right,” Tracy said, swallowing. “I was trying to be hospitable. Anyway, I’m sure it won’t be like … It was just a one-time thing.”

  Brendan nodded, his eyes still difficult for her to read.

  “Okay,” he said finally.

  7

  Ihave an adult son. You believe that? Grown-ass.”

  Brendan turned his attention away from the other side of the pool where the women were congregated, looked at Chris and grinned.

  “Yeah. I believe it. Because you’re old as fuck.”

  “Shut up, man. I’m just sayin’ … Look at this shit.”

  Chris turned his phone toward Brendan, showing him a picture of his son, Deuce, on Instagram in a pose with a girl. Deuce was wearing swim trunks, and she was slender, pretty and had curly, dark hair cascading down to the small of her back. Dressed in a skimpy bikini, her tanned butt was presented to the camera while she looked over her shoulder with her tongue snaking out at the corner of her lips. Deuce had a hand cupped over her left butt-cheek, his mouth arranged in a comical O-shape, as though amazed.

  Brendan laughed. “Yeah, that’s definitely some grown-ass behavior right there. How’s Penn State treating him?”

  “I don’t know to tell you the truth. He decided he wasn’t into football, so I don’t know. If this shit is any indication, probably just chasin’ tail and half-assin’ it through all his classes. I worry about that kid.”

  “What you worried about? He’s just having fun. Same as we all did in college.”

  “I never went to college, remember?” Chris said. “By the time I was his age, I was on my grind. Damn near twenty-four-seven.”

  “Things are different for him. Will be for all our kids. You ever think about that? All the shit we had to crawl through glass to get …” He indicated Chris’ enormous house, backyard, and infinity pool. “We can just hand to them.”

  “That’s why I worry,” Chris said. “’Cause he’s lacking that … I don’t know, some of them hard-knocks we learned from. And look at these chicks …”

  Chris lifted the phone again and scrolled through some of the photos on Deuce’s feed. There were scores of girls, and they all looked so similar, Brendan couldn’t be sure the pictures weren’t of the same two or three. Deuce had a definite type, that was for sure. He shook his head and sighed.

  “Looks just like the chicks you used to mess wit’.”

  “Yeah. Exactly. That’s the problem. When he get here for Christmas, me and him gon’ need to have a talk.”

  “Give the man a break. Even you came correct in the end. And now look what you got.”

  Brendan gestured toward the other side of the pool where Chris’ wife, Robyn was in a blue bathing suit, each of her arms occupied with holding her and Chris’ two little ones, Caitlyn and the baby, Landyn, making her way toward the edge of the pool, taking the steps slowly down into the water.

  Chris’ eyes softened almost imperceptibly. Imperceptible because he was not one to show any part of himself that was ‘soft’. Not even to his best friends.

  “He better work it out soon, though. Get a little focus, a little purpose. Before he turns into one of those lazy-ass rich kids who don’t never amount to nothin’.”

  “Speaking of kids …” Brendan began, his eyes drifting to Tracy. “Me and the wife got into it a little bit ‘cause she thinks I’m not ‘committed’ to having another kid, and then come to find out, she went to some kind of … lunch date with Simone Wolfe’s husband …”

  He wasn’t even sure why he let that drop, except that it had been niggling him, stuck in the back of his mind, like a burr in his shoe.

  “Whoa. What?” Chris pulled back a little. “She did what?”

  Brendan shook his head. “I mean … I shouldn’t call it a date. It was just … I don’t know. He called her, told her he was in the neighborhood to look at some art, and …”

  “You better nip that shit in the bud, man. I’m tellin’ you. Those slippery Continental motherfuckers will move in on your woman with a quickness. Believe me when I tell you I have a little experience with this. Before she even know what’s up, he’ll have his tongue down her throat and his hand up her skirt.”

  Brendan laughed, though he did feel a sliver of uneasiness. “Nah. Tracy would never …”

  “You listenin’ to me? It’s not about what Tracy would do. It’s about him. And while she mad at you about that baby business too? Nah. That leaves too much room for dude to get out of pocket.”

  Saying nothing, Brendan looked over at his wife again. She was affixing water wings to their daughter, who was jumping up and down, excited to get wet. Her swimsuit was pink and frilly, with ruffles on the butt that made Layla look like she had tail-feathers.

  “And just quit messin’ around and get her pregnant already. What’s the big deal? If that’s what she wants …”

  “Easy for you to say,” Brendan laughed. “You sneeze in Robyn’s direction and you get her pregnant. Tracy’s got … challenges in that department.”

  �
�Challenges.” Chris scoffed. “You just ain’t applyin’ yo’self, Smokey.”

  “I’ma apply myself to shovin’ your ass in this pool in a minute,” Brendan laughed.

  Just then, there was the sound of a new cacophony of voices, and Chris and Brendan looked up to see Shawn, arrive with Riley and their two. The kids, all of them six and under were as close as siblings. As were the adults. They had a good thing going, as a group.

  But Brendan knew that his wife—as blessed as she felt to have Layla, as blessed as she felt to have everyone here as friends—wanted more. And what that ‘more’ looked like, he wasn’t sure he knew. But even worse than that, he wasn’t sure Tracy knew either.

  “Simone. You got a second?”

  Brendan called out to her as she walked by his open office door, and she stopped immediately, offering him a smile as she entered.

  Simone favored wide-legged pants, so long and billowy that they obscured all but the tips of the pointy-toed heels, or slides she liked to wear; and breezy tops in light fabrics, often with spaghetti-string straps. If there were meetings off-site, she added a jacket, but around the office her shoulders and arms were often bare. It was distracting to a lot of the men, because Simone was also small-chested enough to eschew a bra. And with the temperature hovering somewhere around seventy degrees … well, she sometimes caused quite the distraction.

  As she leaned into Brendan’s office now, even he couldn’t help but glance at her chest, though it was far smaller than he preferred.

  “Yes?” she said. “Did you need me for something?”

  “Yeah. Quick question. Did you know your husband and my wife went to lunch the other day?”

  Simone’s eyes drifted away for a moment as though she was searching her memory.

  “He may have mentioned it. Why?”

  Suddenly, Brendan was unsure why he brought it up. Tracy had told him the same day it happened, after all.

  “I see.” Simone fully entered the office now, as though Brendan had spoken. She took one of the seats opposite his desk. “I suppose it must have taken you off guard to hear of this.”

  “It did,” he admitted. “I don’t know your husband at all. And neither does Tracy for that matter. So …” He let that hang in the air.

  “Thierry is learning about the social mores here,” Simone said, shrugging. “He sometimes blunders.”

  “So, it’s customary then, in Switzerland or wherever for someone to call another man’s wife and ask her to lunch?”

  Simone gave one of her cool smiles. “He’s offended you,” she observed.

  “I’m not offended,” Brendan said. “But I think he has the right to know that he crossed a line. And that if he wants to interest my wife in an afternoon of looking at art, that it would be cool if he could also speak with me.”

  Simone looked amused. “I suppose he expected your wife to speak to you.” Then, probably hearing how that sounded, she rushed to add more. “But of course, your wife is very beautiful. I can imagine how it must have sounded when you heard that …”

  “Nah.” Brendan held up a hand, shaking his head. “Her beauty has nothing to do with it. It’s a respect thing.”

  Simone’s smile dissolved. “He has nothing but respect for you. And for your wife. I apologize. On his behalf.”

  For a moment they sat in silence. Finally, Simone stood.

  “If that’s …”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Simone turned to leave but Brendan, remembering one last thing, stopped her.

  “By the way. Did you give him our number? Or did he …?”

  Simone flushed. “It was me, yes.”

  “Okay.” Brendan nodded, dismissing her.

  Once alone, Brendan reached for his cell to call Tracy. The call went immediately to voicemail, and Brendan ended the connection without leaving a message, leaning back in his chair. He would try again later, but right now, he had to leave for a lunch meeting with Shawn.

  Calling it a “meeting” was a stretch. Basically, it was a run over to the Central Park West apartment where his best friend and business partner made his part-time home with Riley and their kids, and conducted most of his work, such as it was, these days. Even though he had retired from performing, Shawn was not—and never had been—one for the details and minutiae of running a company. Almost all of that he left to Brendan and was content to play the role of silent partner, taking direction about where to go and when, and who to meet with.

  Shawn was such a favorite of investors that often, his mere presence was all that was needed. His reputation for being notoriously difficult about glad-handing fans and the press only made him more sought-after, more of a commodity, even though his last CD had been released almost three years earlier. Brendan had a theory that people just wanted to breathe the same air as him.

  He opened the door wearing only grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt, his feet bare.

  Brendan made a scoffing sound and shook his head.

  “The life you lead, man …”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever. C’mon in.”

  Shawn stood aside to admit him, and Brendan took in the apartment. It had changed over the past few years. There were toys everywhere now, a kid’s scooter propped near the door, and a little mechanical car that Shawn and Riley’s four-year-old son sometimes rode up and down the wide hallways of the large space.

  “Where’s everybody?”

  “Everybody who?” Shawn asked. “Riley’s at work, the kids are at nursery, and school …” He shrugged. “Just you and me, man.”

  “And the household help?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Tony’s at the grocery store or something and Mrs. Kim doesn’t get here until she picks Cullen and Cassidy up.”

  There was also the chauffeur, and the security staff. As a family of four, Shawn and Riley had at first balked at having anything more than a driver. But after the babies came more security, and then a part-time nanny, and most recently, Tony, the personal chef.

  Brendan still remembered the days when Shawn rebelled against anyone following him around, and when Riley believed she could work full-time, attend all the events that she and Shawn had on their joint and separate calendars, and take care of two small children, a large apartment and a house all on her own.

  Now, they had succumbed, like many a celebrity couple who finally had to acknowledge that their lives had become complicated. Riley hardly ever cooked, neither of them regularly drove themselves anywhere, and they only looked after their kids without help before six a.m. and after seven p.m. But through it all, Brendan had to admit, they had otherwise remained basically the same.

  “So, what’s the emergency powwow about?” Brendan asked, looking for a place to sit.

  “Nah, c’mon through here,” Shawn said, indicating the way to his chill-spot. It was a loft, at the far east end of the condo where he’d built a mini-studio, and where all his music was housed.

  Inside, there were framed posters of CD art, a glass case with all his awards, and low-slung calfskin sofas lining the walls. The far end of the loft, overlooking Central Park housed a live room where Shawn or his guests could do some impromptu recording and mixing of marketable sound quality. Brendan took a seat on one of sofas and stretched his legs out in front of him while Shawn sat perpendicular.

  “What’s up?”

  Shawn took a breath and leaned forward, legs set apart. He pressed his palms together and rubbed them.

  “I’ve been thinkin’,” he said, pausing to purse his lips. “About putting out some new music.”

  Brendan’s eyes widened. “Word?”

  Shawn nodded, his habitual grimace on his face. He always looked like he was either pissed as hell or thinking really, really deep thoughts. Either way, it had worked for him during his performing career. Women found it sexy and smoldering, men thought it meant he was a bad-ass.

  When Brendan said nothing more, he began chewing on the corner of his lower lip.

  “You think it’s a bad id
ea,” he said.

  “Nah! Hell nah,” Brendan said. “I was just … thinking. I mean … it could be huge. Folks out there, they’re thirsty for a new K Smooth joint. But it would mean …” He looked around. “Things would … I mean …”

  “Yeah, I know. The life I have right now would change. My family’s life would change. I might be gone a lot, again.” Shawn exhaled. “I don’t know how Riley’s taking it.”

  “You ain’ tell her?”

  Shawn shrugged. “Yeah. Just recently though. We ain’t really talked about it yet though.”

  “So, it’s not a final decision yet.”

  Shawn shook his head. “Can’t be. Not without my wife onboard. And …”

  “And you don’t think she’ll be onboard.”

  “Don’t know. I mean, she’s gon’ tell me to do what feels right for me. But what I don’t know is whether she’ll think it feels right for us. For me, and her and the kids.”

  “Damn. Are you asking me for life advice?” Brendan said, only half-jokingly. “Because this is some shit that never happens. And when I do give you advice you ignore it with your hard-headed self, so …”

  “C’mon man, this ain’t no joke … I’m being dead-ass serious.”

  “First of all,” Brendan said. “Give Riley a minute to take it all in. And then …”

  “Lately, I think she feels like she’s had a lot to take in,” Shawn said cryptically. “So, yeah. Not sure what to do right now.”

  “What you do right now is get that ass back in the studio and make some music, bruh.”

  Shawn’s face opened into one of his rare smiles.

  Brendan shrugged. “Yeah, man. I mean, that’s who you are. So, that’s what I’d do. Get in the studio and make some music.”

  “You awake?”

  Brendan slipped into bed next to Tracy, and grappled in the dark, reaching for her.

  “Yes. You just getting in?”

  Normally the question would have been asked with a note of censure, because it was well after eight. He’d spent way too much time at Shawn’s and wound up having to make up for it when he returned to the office. By the time he looked up from his work, it was six-thirty, and when he finally made it back to Brooklyn, it was late, but not late enough for his wife to be in bed, with all the lights turned out.