“Paige? What’s wrong? You look like you’re about to cry,” Mom said, her voice sharp with worry.
I shook my head again and took a few deep breaths. This wasn’t like me at all. I’ve never been a crier. And I thought I’d put the miscarriage behind me, so to feel the loss and pain bubble back up after all this time was disconcerting. When I was sure I could speak safely, without melting down, I said, “I’m fine, just a little PMS-y.”
“God help me, I’m surrounded by hormonal daughters,” my mother muttered as she picked the crossword back up.
My father wandered into the living room. He was wearing a bleach-stained green polo shirt, khaki shorts that were grubby with potting soil, and garden clogs, and as he walked across the taupe Berber carpet, he left behind a trail of dirty footprints.
“For heaven’s sake, Stephen, look at what you’re doing. You’re tracking mud everywhere,” my mother said, laughing.
I just stared, first at my mother, who was giggling like a teenage girl (in complete contrast to how she surely would have responded to my father’s soiling the carpet when my parents were married, which would have been to point and screech, like Donald Sutherland at the end of Invasion of the Body Snatchers), and then at my father, who was standing in the living room of my childhood home as though he belonged there, as though he and my mother hadn’t bloodied the entire family with their messy divorce a decade earlier.
I wondered if I were going crazy, but then remembered the advice of my old therapist, Elise, who said that if you think you’re having a breakdown, you’re probably not. Her reasoning was that if you were alert and rational enough to question your own sanity, then chances were you were fine. Of course, this logic would also suggest that then when you feel perfectly fine, you might actually be falling apart without being aware of it, but I didn’t like to dwell on that possibility.
“Hi, sweetie,” he said to me. “How’s work going?”
“Um, fine. You know, the usual. So why are you here, Dad?” I asked.
“I’ve been helping your mother out with the garden. I just cleared the summer annuals out of the window boxes and replaced them with pansies. I told her she has to fire the lawn care company she uses, because they’re ripping her off. How hard is it for them to remember to water the flowers once a week? Forget about it,” he said, as if this were a reasonable explanation for his presence.
“You’re helping Mom,” I repeated.
He nodded, and my mother beamed at him. “Can I get you some coffee, Stephen?” she asked him.
“Are you having some? Then, yes, please,” he said.
My head swiveled back and forth, as though I were watching a tennis match. Would you like some coffee? Yes, please? What did they do with my real parents?
“Excuse me,” I finally said. “Are we in some kind of a time warp? You two are still divorced, aren’t you?”
“Paige,” my mom said reproachfully.
“What? This is weird,” I said, and suddenly remembered that I had forgotten to ask Sophie if she’d heard anything about Mom and Dad spending time together. Now I guess I didn’t have to.
“No, it’s not. Your mother and I can be friends. And especially now with Sophie’s baby coming, we thought we should make an effort to get along a little better. That’s all,” Dad said. “Speaking of whom, I thought Sophie was here. Didn’t I see her car in the driveway? She’s still driving that gas-guzzling SUV, right? I’ve told her a thousand times she needs to trade that thing in for something more energy efficient, but you know how stubborn your sister is.”
“Yes, I certainly do. Anyway, her head started to spin around Exorcist-style, so she went home to rest,” I said.
“Oh,” my father said. My mother shot me another look.
“She’s just a little tired. It’s hard carrying around all of that extra weight,” my mother said.
“Yeah, that must be it,” I said, heavy on the sarcasm. “Well, since we’re not going to go baby shopping, I think I’m going to run over to Saks.”
And then I hightailed it out of there, because frankly, the two of them were starting to creep me out, what with all of the smiling and agreeing and niceness. Could it really be true that my mother and father were becoming friends?
No. No fucking way.
Chapter Eight
“Are you starving? Because I thought we could take a drive out to my house—I just put the windows in—but if you’re too hungry, we could do it some other time,” Zack said as he pulled out of the visitor’s parking lot for my building and turned right on Congress.
“No, I’d love to see it,” I said. I’d been curious about his new house ever since he’d mentioned it the day we went sailing. Before then I’d have guessed that he lived in a typical Peter Pan bachelor pad, complete with an ugly yet comfortable secondhand couch, bed linens that hadn’t been changed in two months, and a light-up neon beer sign that had been filched from a bar on a drunken bet.
We took the same twisting, scenic route that leads to Lake Travis, but turned off the main road before we got to the marina, and then turned again so that we were climbing a steep and somewhat remote road, before turning yet again up a short driveway. In front of us was an extremely cool, modern two-story house, sitting on what I could only imagine was an incredibly expensive hillside lot. Dense trees surrounded the house on three sides, while I could just make out a glimpse of the blue waters of the lake behind it.
“Oh my God . . . I can’t believe your location. The view from inside must be incredible,” I breathed.
Zack grinned and looked up at the house proudly. It was still unfinished, but it was obvious that the house was well on its way to becoming a showplace. It had modern lines, a boxy shape, and huge windows all over to take advantage of the view.
“You want to see inside?” he asked.
“Absolutely,” I said.
Inside, it was still very rough. The bones of the walls were there, but Zack hadn’t put up the Sheetrock yet, and the kitchen was nothing but a shell. But the layout was open, and flowed well, and it was easy to see how gorgeous it was going to be.
“I’m doing a lot of it on my own, when I have the free time, so it’s not much to look at now,” Zack apologized.
I looked at him. “Are you serious? I love it. I went house hunting with Soph when she and Aidan were looking, and all of the builder houses looked so much alike, it was hard to tell one from another. And I hated how homogenous the neighborhoods are. This is so private and airy and pretty.”
Zack looked pleased. “I know what you mean. I used to work for one of those builders, and I got sick of repeating the same type of design over and over. I wanted to do something different here.”
“Well, you certainly succeeded,” I said.
“Do you want to see the upstairs?” Zack asked, holding out a hand to me. I hesitated for a moment and then took it.
The second floor was even more incredible than the first. Zack had roughed out three bedrooms and two bathrooms, including a generous-sized master bath, but it was the view from the master bedroom that was really spectacular.
“Wow. Oh wow,” I exclaimed, moving to the wall of windows that covered the back side of the room. “Your view of the lake is phenomenal! I know what this house reminds me of . . . it’s a tree house. A grown-up tree house.”
“That’s exactly the feel I was going for. I’m going to put a patio out here, right off the bedroom, so that I can sit out here in the evenings.”
“I don’t blame you. I’d have a hard time leaving this view, too,” I said.
We went to dinner at Fonda San Miguel, home of the city’s best Mexican food. When Zack had suggested it as we clambered back into his vintage pickup, I must have looked surprised.
“Did you think I was serious about getting barbecue?” Zack asked, grinning at me.
“No, I . . . well, sort of,” I admitted, and found myself grinning back at him.
“I was just teasing you. You don’t strike me as th
e barbecue type.”
I raised my eyebrows. “No? What type am I?”
“You know, I’m not sure if I know yet. I keep thinking I’ll figure you out, but I haven’t,” Zack said.
“I could say the same about you,” I replied.
“Yeah, well, I’m an enigma wrapped in a riddle,” he joked. “But really, I didn’t think you even liked me when we first met.”
“You winked at me,” I said. “And I’ve never liked winkers.”
“No way. I never wink at people,” Zack said.
“Be that as it may, you winked at me,” I said.
“No I didn’t. I’m sure I didn’t.”
“You did,” I insisted.
“Is that why you gave me such a dirty look? I thought that maybe you were worried that I was trying to hook up with your sister.”
“Actually, I was more worried that she was trying to seduce you,” I said.
The restaurant was located in central Austin, just off of Forty-fifth Street near North Loop. It was an elegant place decorated like a hacienda, with lovely pierced-metal chandeliers and dark rose colored walls. The food was special, too. This wasn’t the place to come for greasy nachos or other deep-fried, cheese-laden junk food that was the standard fare at most Tex-Mex joints.
“I haven’t been here in ages,” I remarked, after we sat down and were looking over the menus.
“I try to get here once a month or so. I’m addicted to their enchiladas,” Zack said.
“Mmmm, that sounds good,” I said, and my stomach growled at the thought. I thought back and realized I hadn’t eaten very much after having bagels at my mom’s house. I’d been so busy shopping for the short-sleeved camel cashmere sweater and black wool trousers that I’d bought for our date that I hadn’t remembered to consume anything other than a Diet Coke.
The waiter arrived. “I’ll have the crab enchiladas and a glass of the chardonnay,” I decided, and handed the menu to the waiter.
“Good choice. I think I’ll go for the Cochinita Pibil. And a Dos Equis,” Zack said.
The waiter returned with our drinks. Zack raised his glass, holding it toward me. I clinked my wineglass against it.
“To the future,” Zack said.
“To tonight,” I replied lightly. Zack looked at me quizzically, and I held his gaze, enjoying how everything around us seemed to fade away while the sexual tension leapt and flickered like a lit candle. And I knew—tonight was going to be The Night. He would be the wild fling I’d been craving, the relationship equivalent to attending Mardi Gras in New Orleans. I imagined how it would feel to have his hands running over my body, and felt a shock of excitement.
“Are you excited about the baby?” Zack asked.
“Baby?”
I’d been lost in my embarrassingly vivid fantasy, and so this question seemed to come from nowhere.
“Your sister. Sophie. She is having a baby, isn’t she? Because if not, I really put my foot in it when I congratulated her,” Zack said.
I laughed. “Oh yeah. And I’ll be even more excited when Sophie becomes a normal person again and recovers from the estrogen-induced psychosis she’s been in for the past few months,” I joked.
“How about you? Would you like to have children?” Zack asked.
I blinked. The question took me off guard, as did the sudden lurch in my stomach, and suddenly I was remembering everything. The baby. Scott. Having to clench my teeth and force a smile when Soph had announced her pregnancy this summer.
I’m over this, damn it, I reminded myself.
“I . . . uh . . . why do you want to know?”
Zack shrugged. “Isn’t that a normal, getting-to-know-you, second-date kind of a question?”
“It’s just a little personal.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing here? Getting personal?” Zack asked. He reached over and grasped my hand. “Did I say something to upset you?”
“Look, can we just talk about something else?” I asked. Anything else.
“Sure. What do you want to talk about?”
“Your house. I love your house. Did you design it yourself?”
“No. My college roommate is an architect here in town, and he helped me out. I made some sketches on a napkin, and he turned them into blueprints for me. Which is good, because in my enthusiasm, I’d left out stairs,” Zack said, and I laughed, and we were past the awkward moment. For now.
Norah Jones was playing on the radio as we pulled into the parking lot at my building. I was a little tired—wine always made me sleepy—but in a comfortable way, heightened by the pleasant conversation. Zack was an easy person to be with, and in his presence I was relaxing in a way I hadn’t in a long time. So much so that I was surprised when Zack reached over and took my hand in his, and a jolt of excitement shot through my body. And then I remembered: this was it.
“I had a great time tonight,” Zack said.
“I did, too. Do you want to come upstairs?”
“Yeah, I thought I’d walk you in.”
“Actually, what I meant was . . .” I hesitated and then took in a deep breath. I’d learned that the only way to get what you want in life is to go after it, but I certainly didn’t relish rejection. And while I could tell Zack was interested in me—his thumb was erotically stroking the back of my hand, and he was looking at me with obvious interest—there was always the chance that I was miscalculating things, like I had after our last date. “Would you like to come in for a while? We could have a glass of wine, or watch a video, or . . .”
Before I could complete my sentence, Zack had leaned over and caught my lips against his. His tongue flickered against mine, and I went warm and woozy. He pulled back and smiled.
“Or this?”
I nodded, my eyes large and my appetite whetted. “This would be good, too,” I said. Very, very good.
Chapter Nine
The sex was like digging into an incredibly rich, gooey brownie topped with Häagen-Dazs vanilla ice cream and smothered in hot fudge after six months on the Atkins diet. Zack was athletic and commanding, and for once I actually got carried away with things, rather than just waiting for him to finish while I stressed over whether my secretary had filed all of the requisite papers for a case I was working on. Which pretty much summed up my married sex life, surprise, surprise.
“Are you going to fall asleep?” Zack asked after.
I was lying on my side, resting my head on his shoulder, my hand on his stomach. In a way, this cuddling felt even more intimate than the sex, and I worried that I was over-indulging myself. I’d heard that the trick to a successful fling was no kissing on the mouth. Wait, no . . . that was Julia Roberts’s advice on being a prostitute in Pretty Woman. Still, I wondered if it was applicable to the present situation.
Zack nudged me. I looked up.
“You’re not asleep, are you?” he asked.
“How could I be? I’m looking right at you,” I said.
“Maybe you’re one of those freaky people who sleep with their eyes open. Although if you are, then I think we should just end things right now, because that would really creep me out,” he said, and then he leaned down and very sweetly kissed me.
I had been planning to clarify our relationship, specifically that there was no relationship, and that this was a one-off kind of a thing, but the kiss distracted me.
“Do you have Scrabble?” Zack asked.
“What?”
“Scrabble. The board game,” Zack said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I feel like playing. Are you up for a game?” he asked.
“Okay . . . sure. Although I should warn you, I’m the all-time, undefeated Scrabble champion,” I said.
“In the world?”
“No.” I laughed. “In my family.”
“As am I. So this should be quite the match-up,” Zack said.
I hopped out of bed, shrugged on my red silk kimono, and went to fetch the board game from the front hall closet. When I returne
d, Zack had pulled on his boxer shorts and was standing in front of my open closet, hands resting on his hips. He had a nice back, broad and smooth skinned, and there was a small mole on his left shoulder. I felt an urge to walk up behind him, wrap my arms around his waist, and press my cheek against the ridge of his shoulder blade. I took a step toward him before stopping myself. The movement caused Zack to glance back at me.
“What are all these boxes for?” he asked.
Uh-oh.
“Nothing,” I said, and hurried to the closet, stepping in front of Zack and closing the sliding door.
“What are you hiding?” Zack asked. He laughed and pulled me toward him, his hands strong on my waist.
“Nothing. Really. It’s private,” I said, trying to back up against the door, but Zack playfully swung me to the side and pulled the door back open. He reached up and pulled down one of the white shipping boxes.
“Home Shopping Network,” he read, peering at the label printed in green on the face of the box. He grabbed another box. “This one, too. And this one. Are these all from the Home Shopping Network?”
I covered my face with my hands and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“This is embarrassing,” I groaned.
“Why, what are these?” Zack asked as he sat down next to me.
I looked up, sliding my hands down until they were covering my mouth.
“Likshophesan,” I mumbled.
“I can’t hear you,” Zack said. He pulled my hands down and held them in his.
“I like watching the Home Shopping Network.”
“Just watching?”
“And sometimes . . . occasionally . . . I like to order things,” I admitted. “Please let’s not talk about it anymore.”
“But these don’t look like they’ve been opened.”
“I never open them.”
She, Myself & I Page 6