“Why don’t you wait over there?” Becca suggested, pointing to Mr. Goatee.
“With pleasure.” Cris smiled as he slid through the drunken humanity and over to the corner to do what he did best—flirt, eavesdrop, and speculate.
“Excuse me,” she repeated, while making her way to the bar. “Hi,” Becca said loudly over the crowd, giving Nico a big happy-to-see-you smile.
Nico returned her grin with a friendly head nod and sauntered over to her.
“Hey, gorgeous,” he said. “What’s your pleasure?”
“It’s Becca,” she informed him, totally recognizing his classic line.
“I know that. Where you been, gorgeous Becca?” Nico said.
“At work, mostly. Hey, did you get my messages? I’ve been calling for a couple of weeks.”
“No. It’s rough around here when it comes to getting messages.”
“Oh. Okay. So…what’s up?” she asked, trying to talk over the noise.
“Not much. Just chillin’.”
“I mean, what’s up with us? I thought maybe we could go out again this weekend. It’s been a while,” Becca said, loud enough for the woman rudely jostling her for position to hear.
“Can’t this weekend. Gotta work.”
“Maybe Monday or Tuesday then?” Becca continued, wondering if she sounded as desperate as she felt.
“I don’t know. I might be busy.”
“So that’s it?” Becca was confused. Where was the sweet, flirtatious man she’d watched the sunset with? And had sex with twice?
“Look, gorgeous—”
“Becca.”
“Hold on,” he said, stepping to the corner of the bar to refresh Mr. Goatee’s drink. Delivering a cognac and a broad smile, Nico chatted for an amicable minute before moving on with a fresh twenty-dollar tip in hand.
“Hey, gorgeous, what’s your pleasure?” Nico flashed his toothy grin at the tall redhead resting her bountiful bosom on the bar. “Long time no see—where you been?”
Becca listened, repulsed by Nico’s newly revealed “playa, play on” persona. Apparently everyone was gorgeous, and satisfying them—whether through libation or libido—was Nico’s self-appointed mission. It was apparent now that Pia had been right. Nico had taken advantage of her inexperience and crush. He’d talked the talk, fucked the fuck, but when it came down to walking the walk, he stumbled over Becca’s feelings like a drunk on moving stairs.
“Shots! Shots! Shots!” the chant went up again. Nico delivered the redhead’s apple martini and slid down to the other end of the bar to pour tequila for his rowdy patrons. It was clear that Becca was forgotten in the mayhem, though it was just as clear that she’d been forgotten long before she’d arrived.
Becca felt the sting of salty tears mixing with mascara. The last thing she wanted to do was break down sobbing in front of Nico and his adoring audience. Through a veil of tears, she spotted Cris conversing with Mr. Goatee and signaled it was time to leave. Cris finished chatting up his bar mate and joined Becca. He waited until they had cleared the crowd and were outside to speak.
“So what did he say?” he asked gently, sensing her mood.
“You were right—he’s just not into me. How did you do?” she asked, making it clear that she was done discussing Nico. “He was cute.”
“Too old. I couldn’t get into him. But you’ll never guess who he is.”
“Flo, you comin’ up?” Dan bellowed from the bedroom. “It’s eight-fifty-seven.”
“Yes, I’m on my way,” Flo called back. Since they discovered them three weeks before, the shows Mafioso and On Call had become must-see TV for the Chases. Every Thursday at nine they settled in to watch Dan’s favorite, a cable program detailing the personal and professional life of a New York crime boss. Mafioso was followed by a network hospital soap/drama set on the left coast. It followed the loves and lives of the staff of Mercy Hospital and was Florence’s absolute favorite program.
Flo climbed the stairs with a tray laden with their favorite snacks—tortilla chips and guacamole for him and, in keeping with her new diet, almonds with fresh sliced mango and strawberries.
“You brought the beer?”
“Yep,” she assured him as she waited for him to clear the space on the bed of the newspaper. Task completed, Dan took the tray from his wife so she could settle in beside him.
At nine on the dot, the credits came up and Mafioso began with an execution-style murder of a member of a competing family. As is common with cable shows, the scene was graphic and brutal, complete with blood and brains spraying the windshield. It made Flo squirm and look away. She didn’t much like the program—it was way too violent and crass for her tastes—but to be fair Dan didn’t really care for hers either, which was way too chick-friendly for his. But their watching each other’s favorite programs together was important to Flo. In her mind, Thursdays at nine had become a solid show of commitment and compromise and an encouraging sign for the survival of their union.
Forty-five minutes and three Heinekens later, after a barrage of murder, mayhem, and wanton sex, the credits rolled, shutting Mafioso down for another week. Florence happily commandeered the remote, flipping the channel to ABC. She’d been looking forward to this episode all week, waiting to see if the chief of surgery would learn that he was operating on his father’s love child.
Flo snuggled up on Dan’s shoulder, ignoring his beer and guacamole breath, and watched the drama unfold. Just as the paternity of Dr. Carvin’s patient was to be revealed, they went to commercial break, leaving Florence on the edge of her seat and giving Dan the opportunity to run downstairs for more chips and dip.
“Will you please bring me up a diet peach Snapple?” Flo requested.
“Sure. Be right back,” Dan assured her as he headed toward the door.
Commercial break over, Florence’s attention once again turned to the saga of Dr. Carvin and his sordid secrets and relationships. She sat engrossed in the stories of her beloved Mercy Hospital staff, not realizing until forty-seven minutes into the show that Dan had not returned with her drink. He had missed nearly the entire episode.
Ten minutes later, Florence read the credits in an effort to block her frustrated tears. She had tried redecorating. She’d tried sex and seduction. Tried surprise and shared interests. Nothing was working. How much longer was she to keep trying to reengage a man who seemed uninterested in reengaging with her?
She clicked off the television. Dr. Cavin’s saga was over for another seven days, but hers threatened to drag on. What was Dan thinking? She had to know.
Florence marched downstairs, prepared for confrontation but wanting clarification. Was he still bored and unhappy with their life together? Was he contemplating leaving her again? She knew they had three months to go before their agreed upon six-month reevaluation, but she needed some kind of interim report.
“Dan?” she called out, not finding him in the kitchen or the family room. “Dan?” she called again.
“In here,” he said from the library. There he was, sprawled out on the couch, Snapple on the table, watching championship boxing on HBO.
In another uncharacteristic move, Florence walked right into the library and headed straight for the remote. A surprised Dan watched as she clicked off the television and sat on the coffee table, facing him.
“Why didn’t you come back upstairs?” she demanded to know. “I thought we were watchin’ my show together just like we watched yours. Plus, I asked you to bring me a drink, which—after all the damn beers I’ve delivered to you—seems like somethin’ you could have managed to bring me.”
“I’m sorry, Floey. I had the Snapple and came in here to check out the fight, just for a second, just to see who was winnin’.”
“And?”
“And Bambino was beatin’ the crap out of the champ and I thought it would be over in that round and I didn’t want to miss it. Next thing I know, it’s round eight and you’re down here lookin’ for me. I’m really sorr
y.”
Flo was taken aback by his seemingly sincere apology. It deflated the hurt and anger, clearing the way for her questions.
“Dan, are you any happier now than when you left? I mean, what are you thinkin’? Do you still want out?”
“Woman, what gave you that idea?”
“I don’t know. You don’t seem like you’re really into us…into me,” she said, bracing herself for whatever was to come.
“Florence, first, let me apologize now for bailin’ on you like I did. I’m not sure what got into me, but I just needed some time. Seems like with the boys gone and it just bein’ the two of us, everythin’ was feelin’ different. But now I’m back and I’m here wantin’ to stay. Like I said, the bachelor life just isn’t meant for me.”
“Then you’re happy with me? With our life together?”
“I can’t lie. You aren’t the same gal I left and that’s takin’ some time to get used to, but far as I’m concerned, we’ll just chalk me leavin’ up to a midlife crisis and extended vacation. That okay with you?”
“Yes, darlin’, it certainly is,” Flo said, joining him on the couch for a big hug and kiss.
Florence left Dan downstairs to finish watching the fight and went upstairs to dress for bed. She sat at her vanity, going through the rote motions of removing her makeup while sorting out her thoughts, a jumble of divergent ideas. On one hand, she was relieved to find out that her fears about Dan were unfounded. Dan was simply trying to adjust to the new, sensually improved Florence. She would simply have to be patient and keep taking those baby steps.
On the other hand, if she was so pleased by her husband’s emotional state, why didn’t she feel satisfied? While Dan was adjusting to her being a different woman, she was trying to make peace with the realization that he was the same man. The new Flo seemed to want something more. Perhaps that was the reason she found herself constantly thinking about Dr. Clay Bickford.
Chapter Thirty-two
“No, absolutely not. Tell them my schedule is committed,” Valen replied while going over his schedule for the upcoming week with his staff.
“Done. One other thing. Let’s not worry, but this is definitely something to put on our radar,” Ed told his boss, handing him an article titled, “Whites Take Flight on Election Day.”
“Can you bottom-line it for me?” Valen asked, trying to concentrate on the speech he was preparing for his upcoming appearance at New York University.
“Analysis by a Yale economist shows nationally that white Republicans as well as independents are twenty-five percentage points more likely to vote for a Democrat when the GOP candidate is black. The bottom line is, this could mean an additional one or two percent of the vote going to the other side.”
“That’s sobering,” Valen said, shaking his head at the absurdity of it all. “So much for party loyalty.”
“But the Dems are just as fickle. White Democrats are thirty-eight percent less likely to vote along party lines if their candidate is black.”
“Okay, so what do we do about this?”
“Well, we’ve spent a lot of time reaching out to the African American and Hispanic voters who are disappointed with the Democrats, and to moderate Republicans tired of the inefficiency of partisan politics. It’s October fifth. We’ve got one month until the election; maybe we need to concentrate more on the GOP’s base and let our final push be to the conservatives,” Ed suggested. “Talk more about some of the basics such as abortion, gay marriage, and faith-based initiatives. Let them know we haven’t forgotten their needs.”
“But those have never been my issues. I mean, that’s out-and-out pandering.”
I find it difficult to see you as anything more than an opportunist. Again Pia’s words, this time from their initial meeting at the Marriott Marquis, came back to him. In their short time together, with her sincerity and penchant for telling it like it is, she’d become a major sounding board and source of comfort and inspiration. Valen still didn’t understand how they’d gotten to this empty place. She’d been so honest about everything else. Why had she chosen to lie about her pregnancy?
“Valen, we’re talking twenty-five percent GOP flight,” Ed said, bringing him back to the present.
“We’re also talking about my integrity and character. I have campaigned this far on what I believe, not what I thought people wanted to hear. I’m not about to start now. I’ve got to get this speech finished,” Valen said, dismissing his staff.
Once they’d departed, Valen put his head in his hands and tried to exhale the feeling of being alone and overwhelmed. It seemed no matter how much progress he made in trying to open closed minds and alter negative opinions, it remained a one step forward, two steps back proposition. Feeling the gurgling in his stomach, he opened his desk drawer to retrieve his antacids and instead grabbed a handful of blue fuzz.
Valen pulled the Cookie Monster puppet from the drawer and ran his hand across the soft fur. As always, his face betrayed him with a childish smile. The day it arrived, its juvenile quality had hit way too close to home, mocking him about Pia and her pregnancy. But with the passing time, the toy had become a sentimental reminder of a woman he still loved and desired.
So often these past four months, when the craziness of his day had finally quieted and he was alone, the ache for Pia’s touch or the sound of her voice became overwhelming. Many times he wanted to call and ask her opinion about something that had popped up on the campaign trail, or just slip into her calming embrace and put the day behind him.
Having the benefit of hindsight, Valen realized now what a treasure he’d lost. Pia was not only insightful and intelligent but amusing and entertaining as well. She had a charmed quality about her that had rejuvenated his zest for living life in all its fullness and had brought a sanity to his hurry-up-and-work existence. Pia Jamison was the only woman he’d been involved with—including his ex-wife—who made experiencing joy as important as pursuing his ambitions. She had made him stop and smell the roses, but now he was standing in the garden all alone.
But she lied. Told you she was celibate when her pregnancy proved otherwise, his mind argued.
She had been wrong for not telling him about the baby, but he so regretted not giving her the opportunity to explain herself. He should have been more accommodating and fair. Instead, he’d let his sense of betrayal consume him. Looking back, he was sure she was neither part of some dastardly plot to ruin him nor some unwed mother out to trap a husband and father for her child. Pia was an intelligent, sensible woman of a certain age. It was not uncommon these days to run across successful professional women who had opted for single motherhood. She must have had a good reason, but, after so decisively and unkindly cutting her out of his life, he would never know the truth behind her decision.
But what about the baby?
Good question. Even if she had the best possible reason for not telling the truth, Pia still came with baggage—living, breathing baggage that would in many ways dictate his life for the foreseeable future. He was fifty-two years old. Valen was not interested in raising any more children, his or otherwise. That stage of his life was over.
So the truth that he loved Pia remained, but so did the question: Was having the woman he adored and who made him feel alive again worth eighteen more years of child rearing?
Pia woke up early on the morning of her shower and, as she did every new day, spent a few minutes talking in bed to her unborn child. She was due in less than a month, and her body had now taken on a highly uncomfortable beached-whale quality.
“So, Pom, Valen is going to be a grandfather soon,” she said, discussing with the baby things she refused to utter to anyone else. “And the election is coming up. It’s going to be close, but I hope he pulls it off. Between you and me, for the first time in my life I’m voting Republican. It’s the least I can do to make up for everything.
“I miss my pal, Pom, but he and I just weren’t meant to be. I was meant to have you instead.”
> Though Pia had given up a lot in order to have this baby, she’d come to terms with the enormous reality of maternal commitment and sacrifice. No matter what regrets or disappointment she might have in her own life, the comfort and happiness of her baby were now paramount. Still, it seemed cruel that her timing had been so off. If she’d waited a few more months to be with Grand, she would have met Valen first and maybe things would have been very different.
“Pom, you’ve been awfully quiet these past few days. Getting kind of tight in there, huh?” she said, pushing away her guilty thoughts and stroking her tummy. “Well, not much longer, sweet pea. In just a few weeks from now we’ll be spending our mornings face-to-face.”
She rolled her cumbersome body out of bed, took her first of the day’s many bathroom breaks, and headed into the kitchen to fix her now standard pregnancy breakfast of toast and deviled eggs.
Pia ate her breakfast and climbed back into bed to watch her favorite weekend program, Sunday Morning. She was enjoying a story on the creative designers behind functional art when the phone rang.
“Good morning, sweetie. How are you feeling?” Maizelle’s voice rang through the receiver.
“Big, bloated, and exhausted, but okay. I think the baby is worn out from all the work I’ve been doing trying to get things tied up at the office. Pom’s been very quiet.”
“How quiet?” her mother asked.
“I don’t know, I haven’t felt a kick or anything for the past day or two.”
“I’m sure everything’s fine, but pay attention to it.”
“I will,” Pia responded, feeling the flush of concern. “It’s normal though, right? I mean, the baby is getting bigger and there’s not that much room to move around.”
Weapons of Mass Seduction Page 24