by Jean Stone
“I’ve seen Susan,” Jess said.
“Susan?” It took a moment before P.J. recalled the tall, severe figure of Susan Levin, her broad nose buried in a book, her brusque attitude not exactly endearing the others to her. “God,” she said. “How is Susan?”
“She seems fine. She’s teaching college. She’s divorced and has a son.”
P.J. ran a finger around the rim of the Baccarat. “She had a son, too, didn’t she?” she asked quietly. “At Larchwood?”
Jess nodded.
P.J. leaned back on the sofa. “He’ll be twenty-five this year. My son.”
“And my daughter,” Jess added, but P.J. barely heard her. She was thinking of her son, the baby she’d given up. Over the years she’d allowed the memory to fade. It came infrequently now, usually when she least expected it, always when she thought of her father. She’d had to make that memory fade, too, in order to survive, in order to be strong.
“I’m planning a reunion,” Jess said.
P.J. picked up her head and looked at Jess. “With Susan? God, she wasn’t exactly one of our favorite people, Jess.” She laughed. “I mean, we got through it, somehow. But I think we all knew that when it was over … well, it was over.”
Jess set down her glass and twisted her ring. “A reunion with Susan, yes,” she continued. “And you and me. And Ginny, if she’ll come.”
“Ginny?”
“And our children.”
The lion inside her screeched. “What?” P.J. asked.
“Saturday, October sixteenth. At Larchwood Hall.”
P.J. laughed. “You can’t be serious, Jess.” But something about the look on Jess’s face told P.J. she was. “Why would we want to do that?” Her voice sounded louder than she’d intended.
“Because I think it’s time,” the soft voice answered.
The room became eerily quiet. P.J. looked at the Monet print, at the wash of colors, at the picture—unclear, unreal, like a memory.
“He’s not my son,” she said. “He’s someone else’s son. I came to terms with that years ago.”
Jess looked at P.J. in a long, pondering way. “Did you, P.J.? Did you really?”
P.J. thought about the nights she’d spent alone, lying in bed, wondering about the purpose of her life. She loved her career, she loved the fulfillment it gave her. But when she was alone, when her room was dark and sleep eluded her, P.J. was one with her emptiness. It was then that she thought about her son, then that she knew she had given up more than a baby; she had sacrificed happiness. And she’d done it because she knew she didn’t deserve it.
“No,” she answered honestly now. “No. I guess I never have.”
“Will you come?” Jess’s voice quivered in anticipation. “Will you come, and maybe meet your son?”
The reality of Monday slapped P.J. in the face. “It’s not that easy,” she said. “There are complications in my life now.”
“Complications? What complications? You’re not married. You have no other kids.”
“No.”
“It can’t be your mother. P.J., she lives two hundred miles away. She’d never have to know.”
God, P.J. thought. She hadn’t even thought about her. “No,” she said again. “It’s not my mother.”
“What then? What could possibly stop you?”
It was the right time to tell Jess about the biopsy, about the possibility that in less than seventy-two hours, she might be without one of her breasts. It was the right time to say it out loud, and Jess was the right person to say it to. Someone who had cared about her, even though it had been years ago. Someone she could trust, as she had then. As they had, if nothing else, all grown to trust each other. Yes, it was the right time.
“Wouldn’t you like to see him?” Jess asked, and the moment passed. Jess didn’t know her, not really. She saw P.J. only as a twenty-year-old unwed mother, not as a top advertising executive faced with the prospect of the end of her life. Alone.
But if she met her son, she wouldn’t be alone.
Her son. A part of her. A living, breathing part of her.
Maybe it was time to fill the emptiness inside her—the emptiness she’d put on hold for so many, many years. And her son was almost twenty-five years old now, a man. It wouldn’t be as though she’d have to be a mother or anything. Not a real mother. It wouldn’t be as though she’d have to love him, if she didn’t want to. It wouldn’t be as though he’d have to love her.
“Yes,” P.J. heard herself answer. “I would like to see him.”
Jess stood up. “Saturday, October sixteenth,” she repeated. “We women will meet at two o’clock. Our children will come at three. If they want to meet their mothers.”
P.J. rose. Her legs tottered a little; she steadied herself on the arm of the sofa. Did she dare let herself get excited about this? Yes, dammit, she thought. Yes. And the dread of the biopsy settled into a comfortable, I-can-get-through-it place, for now there was a new goal to reach, a new accomplishment to achieve.
“I think the children will want to meet us,” she said. “All of them.”
“We’ll see,” Jess replied, then walked to the door and let herself out.
P.J. smiled as she watched the door close. She was about to get the biggest promotion of her life. She was going to meet her son. She would have the biopsy on Monday, and everything would be fine.
Medical advancements be damned.
CHAPTER 4
Friday, September 17
Ginny
She leaned against the white grand piano, kicked one foot out of her four-inch-heeled silver sandal, and rested it against the calf of her other leg: a gesture that, Ginny knew, wormed the hem of her strapless hot-pink body dress closer to her crotch. But Ginny Stevens-Rosen-Smith-Levesque-Edwards wasn’t performing for the middle-aged, platinum-haired woman who stood before her, rambling with the same old shit cocktail-party small talk: She was doing it for the tight-assed bartender who stood, halfway across the massive living room, checking her out. She slowly rubbed her calf with her foot and ran her tongue around the rim of her martini glass. Her eyes locked with the bartender’s.
“How many children do you have?” the woman was asking.
Ginny flicked her gaze to the woman. “Two. Stepchildren.” Christ. How much longer did she have to stay here?
“Well, then, you know what I mean.”
Know what you mean? Lady, I don’t even know what you said, Ginny thought.
“How old are they?”
“Brad. He’s thirty. Jodi’s twenty-eight.”
“Oh my,” the woman exclaimed and pressed her hand to the paste diamonds at her throat. “They’re not that much younger than you.”
Ginny smiled. “Nope. Not much.” Stupid bitch, she thought.
“What do they do?” the woman asked.
Ginny sighed. “Brad’s ‘between jobs.’ Jodi works at a rehab center.” It was the standard answer that Ginny and Jake used when asked about his children. As far as they knew, Bad’s last job had been as a studio page when he was seventeen, and though he was vague about where his money came from now, he drove a flashy sports car and occasionally lived with wealthy, older women; Jodi was working at a rehab center mopping floors and cleaning shit—a job she was forced to do, like all the other “recovering” junkies who had been sentenced by the court to stay there. It was Jodi’s fourth time in the place.
Suddenly a hand was on Ginny’s elbow. It was her husband. Beside him was a huge man with a few strands of graying hair swept toward his forehead in a ridiculous effort to make people think he wasn’t going bald.
“Darling, I’d like you to meet Mr. Jorgenson,” said Jake.
Ginny straightened up and slipped her foot back into her shoe. Jake might be a Hollywood producer, but deep down he was, Ginny knew, pretty much a square. And Jorgenson was the reason they were here tonight, so she might as well be nice and keep the old man happy. Jake wasn’t such a bad guy, as husbands went, and he was good enough. F
or now.
“Hello,” Ginny said pleasantly, and extended her hand. From the corner of her eye she saw the platinum-haired woman disappearing into the crowd, in true L.A. cocktail-party tradition.
His enormous paw grasped Ginny’s hand and pumped. Shit, Ginny thought, I wonder if his dick is as big as his fingers.
“Mrs. Edwards,” Jorgenson said. “How delightful to meet you.”
“And you,” she said. “Jake has told me a lot about you.”
He finally let go of her hand and put an arm around Jake’s shoulder. “He’s my boy! And his film is going to make Jorgenson Vineyards bigger than Gallo.”
His boy? Christ, Jake would be sixty next year. “We enjoy your wine, Mr. Jorgenson.”
“Please.” He showed a hearty smile. “Call me Eric.”
“Eric,” Ginny corrected, and smiled back. She palmed the side of her glass, trying to disguise the gin. “Especially the Zinfandel,” she continued. “My personal favorite.” She chanced a glance at Jake, hoping she’d said the right thing. He smiled. “What are you planning to do with the documentary?” she asked, referring to the film Jake was about to do.
“Europe,” Jorgenson boasted, his jowls jiggling over his collar. “We’re buying half-hour segments on cable. Starting with France.”
Ginny giggled her you-are-the-most-clever-man-I’ve-ever-met giggle. “California wine in France? How bold!” Her eyes moved back to the bartender. He held her gaze. She puffed out her lower lip and arched her back, then looked back to Jorgenson. He was staring at her boobs. Ginny was glad for the air-conditioning. A chill in the air always made her nipples stiff.
“You have a charming wife,” Jorgenson was saying to Jake, as he removed his arm from Jake’s shoulder and his eyes from her chest. “Will she be coming up to Napa?”
“I’m afraid not, Eric,” Jake said.
“But it’s such a lovely time of year.” His disappointment showed. He turned back to Ginny. “Can’t you reconsider?”
Ginny took a sip of her martini. Enough of this bullshit, she wanted to say. I’ve been as nice as I can stand for one night. “Sorry,” she said. “I have my charity work.”
His thick eyebrows raised. “What charities are you involved with?”
Ginny felt Jake shoot her a warning look. She knew that look: It said, “Better make this good.”
“Children,” she said quickly. “Mostly with children.”
“How rewarding that must be,” Jorgenson said.
“Eric,” Jake interrupted. “I see Raymond Flynt over by the sofa. Raymond will be doing our editing. Come. I’d like you to meet him.” He turned to Ginny. “Excuse us, won’t you darling?” He took Jorgenson’s elbow.
“Nice meeting you,” she said coolly. “Eric,” she added.
“If you change your mind, I’d be honored to show you the Valley,” Jorgenson said.
Jake led Jorgenson away.
Ginny watched them go, then looked back to the bartender. He was mixing a drink for a short man with a bad toupee. She sauntered over to the hors d’oeuvres table. Unbelievably, the people who were throwing this asshole party had been too cheap to hire waitresses. They must be new to L.A., she thought, as she scanned the table. She glanced at her watch. It would be another hour before Jake would say they could leave.
She adjusted the silver chain of the Judith Leiber bag onto her shoulder, picked up a strawberry, dipped it in whipped yogurt, then threaded her way through the mannequin crowd toward the bar. Standing behind the man with the bad toupee, Ginny watched the bartender until their eyes met.
He stared at her, even as he handed two drinks to the man. She raised the strawberry to her lips and slowly licked at the white cream, from the point on the bottom, around, and up to the stem. The bartender smiled.
“What can I get you?” he asked.
She put her full lips around the end of the strawberry and sucked at the moisture, never taking her eyes from his, though she wanted to look at his pants, to check for a rock-hard bulge. She pulled out the strawberry and moved her tongue to the corner of her mouth, pushing it forward, ever so slowly. She fluffed her dark hair. She didn’t smile. Then she slowly turned and went to look for a bathroom. These little games always made Ginny have to pee.
She found the bathroom. It was done in neo-something-or-other: bold reds, yellows, and oranges. Ginny closed the door behind her and leaned against the wall-length vanity, aware that a trickle of perspiration had formed on her brow. She touched her crotch through the spandex of her dress and felt her swollen bulb. A smile came to her lips. She moved her hands across her hips, then up to her breasts. She threw her head back and laughed.
The door opened quietly. The bartender stepped inside. He closed the door and reached for the bolt.
“Don’t lock it,” Ginny said breathlessly. “And don’t talk.”
He smiled and took his hand from the bolt. He hoisted his pants at the waist. Ginny looked at his fly. Yes, there was a bulge. He walked toward her. She tossed back her hair, puffed her lower lip again, then slowly raised her skirt. He stood in front of her and lifted her to the vanity. In response, Ginny parted her legs.
He started to undo his zipper. Ginny put a hand over his and pulled it toward her. She lowered it to her panties, and pushed the silk to one side. He knew what to do.
His fingers were large and firm and quickly moist. He moved them vigorously. Ginny stared into his eyes, watching him watch her. He pinched her. Gently. She muffled a cry. He pulled his finger out and drew it to her mouth. She sucked the wetness. He smiled. He bent his head and put his tongue where his fingers had been. He licked. He prodded. He lapped. Ginny’s hips thrust forward. Backward. Forward. Her breath became short, quick. His teeth came down on her. Softly. Then hard. Suddenly she felt a surge through her body. Her insides burst.
“Jesus Christ!” the bartender screamed.
Ginny looked down. She had pissed all over his face.
She put a hand to her mouth and started to laugh. His face contorted, yellow liquid streaming down his chin.
“Fucking cunt!” he yelled and pushed her aside.
Ginny slid off the vanity. She could not stop laughing. “I’m sorry,” she said.
He pushed on the red porcelain faucets and scooped water to his face.
“Fucking bitch,” he mumbled. He grabbed an orange towel and mopped his chin, then threw the towel onto the vanity and stormed out the door. “Asshole,” was his parting word.
Still laughing, Ginny looked at herself in the mirror. Well, she thought, that was a first. Too bad too. He would’ve been good.
A hollowness pitted her gut. Ginny squeezed her eyes shut, sighed, and pushed the feeling away. Fuck it, she said to herself. Just forget it. She opened her eyes, applied lipstick and checked her makeup. Then she raised her chin, slung the chain of the rhinestone frog over her shoulder, and returned to the party.
She walked through the living room, carefully avoiding the area of the makeshift bar. Jake was still in the corner, talking with Jorgenson and the film editor. Looking around the room, Ginny checked out the plastic smiles on thousand-dollar-makeup faces, the noxious leers of soft old men, the overeager bodies of the young. This is where the deals are made, Ginny thought, at these boring have-to-go-to parties that have nothing to do with what anyone was, but everything to do with whom one knew. A high-pitched laugh came from a Julia Roberts look-alike in the corner, followed by a deep snort from the lecher beside her. Ginny saw the man touch the girl’s chin, then draw a straight line with his finger down to the crack between her tits. His gesture was followed by more high-pitched laughter. She stared at the scene and came to a familiar conclusion: Life sucks.
She breezed by the hor d’oeuvres table, piled a plate with cracked crab and avocado wedges, and headed for the sliding glass doors, thinking that for as long as she had lived in L.A., she still couldn’t believe nobody out here ate real food.
She stepped out onto the deck and nearly bumped into two young lo
vers with their tongues down each other’s throats. They were both guys—hunks too. It figures, she thought. She kicked off her shoes and, plate in hand, made her way down the wooden stairs to the beach.
Ginny knew she was getting restless again. She’d be forty-three years old in January and was still trying to figure out what the fuck it was all about. She dropped down on the sand and munched at the crab, as she stared into the moonless sea. Jake was the best husband she’d had, and Ginny had been with him five years—longer than she had with any of the other three. But though his demands were fewer, like the others, Jake wanted her to be his, and she’d yet to decide if it was worth the price she had to pay for financial security.
She polished off the avocado slices, tossed the plate into the sea, then drew her knees up to her chest. Sand ground into her ass like tiny shards of glass. In the distance Ginny could hear the muted sounds of the senseless bullshit.
“I thought I saw you sneak out here.” It was Jake’s voice, behind her.
Ginny looked up to see his silhouette against the lights from the beach house. “I was bored,” she said.
He squatted beside her. “I know you hate these parties. I only ask you to come when they’re really important to me.”
“Yeah. I know.”
He put his arm around her naked shoulders. She pulled away.
“Aren’t you cold?” he asked.
“No.”
He removed his arm and sat down. “Jorgenson likes you.”
Ginny stared at the ocean. “I don’t know why you have to go through this. You already have the job.”
Jake shook his head. “It’s not because of this job. It’s for the one that might come after. Jorgenson has interests all over the world. And contacts.”
“You’re almost sixty years old, Jake. And you don’t need any more fucking money.”
Jake winced as though he’d been stung. “How do you think I manage to keep you in hundred-dollar haircuts and fifteen-hundred-dollar dresses that you feel free to lounge around on a beach in?”
Ginny looked down at her dress. It hadn’t cost fifteen hundred. More like twenty-three hundred.