My mother smiles. “Oh, Ed, this is lovely. It’s like fairyland.”
Ed beams and orders a bottle of Taittinger Brut Rosé, which he pronounces “Tatenjer.” I don’t bother to correct him.
The plates I can see on other tables look more like works of art than food, but that’s L.A. for you. Bread appears, rustic and flecked with herbs. I nibble a piece while I read the menu. Warm rabbit ravioli with tarragon butter. Charred rare ahi. Angel-hair pasta with three caviars. Salmon sashimi with cucumber spaghetti. Baby vegetables. Precious little duck taquitos with mango salsa. It’s probably all wonderful, but not what I want right now. Maybe what I want isn’t on any menu.
After the waiter brings the wine and announces the specials like they were handed down on stone tablets, Ed holds up his glass and says, “To the two prettiest ladies in the room.”
My mother smiles graciously and I take a large gulp of champagne. Then she pushes back her chair and stands up. “Excuse me for just a moment.” And disappears in the direction that looks most promising for the ladies’ room. I can’t believe she’s left me alone with him. I drink some more champagne and study the menu and pretend an interest in the few other tables I can see.
“Johanna told me about your husband.” This must be his interrogation voice, calm, quiet. In the good cop/bad cop scenario, he’d be the one to lay his hand on the prisoner’s shoulder and say, “How ‘bout a cup of coffee, son?”
I continue to read the menu, but he won’t give up. “I just want to say I’m sorry. I know how hard it is.”
I look up sharply. “I thought your wife died.”
“My second wife. The first one left me.” His expression of neutrality never falters. Jesus Christ, how much did she tell him?
I make my mouth curve up. “I’d really like to talk about something else.”
“Sure. I understand.” He smears a whole pat of butter on a piece of bread. “It’s hard, though, when that’s all that’s on your mind. So if you want, I’ll do the talking. I’m pretty good at it. You can just relax.”
“Fine.” I lean back in my chair. “Tell me about some of your exciting adventures with the Encino PD.”
When he laughs, it sounds like a roar in the jungle. Heads turn. He doesn’t notice. “Not too many with the Encino PD. But before that, I was with the Orange County Sheriff’s Department. Now there were some interesting times. Like the Sunday morning we got a call to the Bartholomae place on Balboa. You should’ve seen this place. Imagine six hundred feet of waterfront property on that peninsula. Moored out front is this ninety-eight-foot ketch called the Sea Diamond.” Shake of the head. “What a beauty.” In spite of myself, I lean forward.
What happens next is very quick. It’s not one big thing, but a series of small actions like a scene in a play. The waiter materializes to take our order. My mother returns from the powder room and Ed stands up to pull out her chair. The maître d’ sweeps by with two couples in his wake. One of which is David and Kelley. It’s almost comic, the way everybody sees everybody at the same instant and the action stops.
Fortunately, I can’t see my own face, but I feel the way I felt one time when I was pitching for a coed softball team and I got hit in the stomach by a line drive. My mother assumes the stance of a momma grizzly whose cub is endangered, glaring at Kelley. The waiter has his bored hauteur look on, probably expecting us to start doing air kisses and chitchat. Kelley’s benign smile sharpens into a feral grin. David has the grace to look a teensy bit flustered. Then his glance falls on Ed and the plaid jacket, and he actually looks at me with the suggestion of a smile and raises one eyebrow. It’s a look we’ve shared countless times, laughing at something or someone we considered beyond the pale.
As if on cue, the maître d’ turns around to look for his lost ducklings. Their friends look impatient. David and Kelley resume their flight plan. My mother sits down. I start breathing. It took all of ten seconds and no words were exchanged, but everything is suddenly, unmistakably clear.
The waiter says, “Have we made some decisions here?”
Somehow I order. When he’s gone, Ed looks at my mother, then at me, and smiles wolfishly. “Should I have his car impounded?”
I excuse myself to the ladies’ room, walking as if the floor were carpeted with ball bearings. I lock the door behind me and sink down onto the rose-print slipper chair in one corner. I just sit, as still as you can sit when you’re shaking. I pull a tissue out of my purse and blot the sweat off my forehead and upper lip. When I stand up to wash my hands, I feel nauseous, dizzy, so I inhale, exhale, deeply, slowly. I put on lipstick even though I don’t need to, and I unlock the door and step out. On my way back to the table, I hand the maître d’ a ten-dollar bill and ask him to call me a cab.
It’s a very long taxi ride back to Encino. For once, I’m thankful the driver doesn’t speak English. I sit wedged into the corner of the seat and think about Kelley. It’s funny that David would choose someone who looks the way I always wanted to look—almost as if he’d consulted me on his selection. She’s the kind of woman who stops traffic wherever she goes. Tall and lithe, perpetually tan, but not too dark. Just enough to set off her mane of straight, gleaming blonde hair and perfect smile. Kelley Hamlin is what everybody thinks of when you say “California girl.” Actually, she’s from Wisconsin or Minnesota or one of those other whole-milk states. Watching her blaze through Le Jardin in her body-hugging blue dress and three-inch heels, I could understand how David would be smitten. What man wouldn’t be? And I sat there, squirming inside my chalky-white skin, brown hair curling like old Easter basket grass, dark hollows under my eyes. With Ed and his carnival coat, my mother in her Encino-matron silk finery.
Nothing left to do but slink home to my clean sheets and my books. Maybe I’ll get wild and crazy and have a glass of wine.
While David and Kelley enjoy a leisurely dinner with friends. Or knowing them, probably clients. And then they go to her house? Our house? How silly of me. I mean, his house. Maybe they’ll have a fire in the fireplace, a little cognac. Laugh about the clownish trio at the restaurant. While the laughter is winding down, their eyes meet. His hand brushes her bare shoulder. He kisses her neck lightly. He’s good at those little teasing moves. I really don’t want to think about this, but once I’ve started imagining …
I’m her. Kelley. I feel the tip of his tongue dip into the hollow at my neck and shoulder. He unzips my dress, easing down the top. Am I wearing a bra? Maybe a blue lace demi. It fastens in the front, but he knows all about those. One little click. My breasts tumble out and his mouth chases them, teasing the nipples, making me crazy. We’re on the floor now. Well, only if we’re at my house. If we’re at his house, he won’t want to get stuff on the sheepskin rug. My beautiful golden hair billows around my face like backlit clouds in a movie. His hand skates up my thigh to that place he knows will make me scream if he touches it just right and he’s so close. Oh god oh god oh god. I bite my lower lip. I lurch forward, banging my shins on the back of the seat.
“Dis de house?” says the driver.
About ten-thirty, my mother comes in and sits on my bed. Wasting no time on pleasantries, she says, “Wynter, don’t let that Barbie doll run you off. Fight for what you want.”
I drink some water from the glass on my night table. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”
She takes the glass from my hand and finishes the water. “You’re too quick to let go. David’s acting like a jerk, but most men do at some point. He’s also gorgeous and smart and talented. He’s taken good care of you for a long time. I think he’ll come around if you don’t abandon him.”
“Mother, I believe he’s made his choice.” I pick up my book. She takes it out of my hands and lays it on the bed, just out of my reach.
“I saw him look at you, Wyn.”
“Yeah, and don’t I look terrific.”
“You look wonderful.”
“I look like the undertaker’s daughter.”
“Yo
u just look sad. It didn’t hurt for him to see that.” She sighs, closes her eyes in the expression of frustration I know so well. “I realize you think I don’t know anything about anything, but I’m telling you, wait it out. Don’t make any sudden moves. The odds are in your favor. And if he persists in being an idiot, you’ll still end up a very wealthy young woman.”
I put an index finger at each temple and massage in a circle. It’s quiet for a minute and then she says, “I told Ed I couldn’t see him anymore.”
I raise my head and look at her. “I guess it was the humane thing to do. Was he destroyed?”
“Of course not. He took it like a gentleman. Kissed my cheek and wished me well.”
“Heartbreaker.” I have to smile a little. “Too bad. I was kind of getting to like him. Now I’ll never find out what happened at the Bartholomae house in Newport Beach.”
“A very rich man got murdered.”
“Well, it’s something to consider.”
She yawns. “And on that note, I’m going to bed.” At the door, she turns around. “Think about what I said, Wyn. You’ve got nothing to lose.”
I wake up at ten till seven, and I know from the stillness of the house that my mother’s already left for work. I snuggle down, savoring the familiar smells of my room, the dry scent of the wool blanket, the sachet from the linen closet clinging to the sheets, lemon-oil furniture polish, and, still, even after all the years, a trace of Bluegrass cologne. It was my teenage favorite, and the gallons of it that I sprayed into the air, the small explosions of body powder and splattered drops of lotion must have eventually seeped into the walls and rugs and furniture.
Mr. Moon, the night-light my oma gave me when I was five years old and plagued with nightmares about the dark, sits on the dresser, his glow all but invisible in the pale gray light. Next to the dresser is my bulletin board, covered with limp football schedules and brittle newspaper clippings of CM in recitals, photos of us—the best is the one CM’s dad took at Burroughs High School graduation. L.A. is in the grip of a killer heat wave. It’s 102 degrees at 5 P.M. The senior class is assembled outside the football field, preparing for “Pomp and Circumstance.” CM’s dad snaps us, gowns flapping open to reveal shorts and halter tops, mortarboards tilted jauntily over huge dark glasses. We’re grinning broadly, holding a banner that reads “Too Cool for School.”
On top of the bookcase, in a silver frame, is my favorite picture of my father. He’s wearing Lacoste tennis whites and holding the new racket I gave him for his birthday. I hated baby-sitting for the brats in the neighborhood, some of whom weren’t much younger than I was, but I did it for a whole year at least once a weekend and hoarded my earnings to buy him this new titanium racket that he wanted. I don’t even remember what kind it was.
I pull the covers up under my chin and hold them tight. My bed, my desk, my books, my pictures, my room, everything just as it was, and me, safe in the middle. Suspended, like some prehistoric insect in a drop of amber.
Tim, the scumbag, was right about one thing. My father was a risk taker. I wanted to be like him, but I was always torn between wanting to please him and following my own, more cautious instincts.
A summer day at the beach with my parents. I’m seven or eight years old. My father is treading water out beyond the breakers. I want to go out there with him, but I’m afraid of the waves. He calls me, motions me to come, while my mother sits on her towel, pretending to read, chewing her lip. I start wading out.
“Swim!” my father yells. “Dive into the wave!” But I’m too scared and I keep trying to walk through the heaving swells. Suddenly, what appears to be a tower of water looms over me, crashes on me, knocking me off my feet and tumbling me like clothes in a washer. I try to swim, but I’m disoriented and I smack into the sandy bottom. When I scream, brine burns my mouth and nose, up into my sinuses, down into my lungs.
Then I’m in my father’s arms, coughing and crying, and I hear his soft chuckle as he carries me up out of the water. My mother runs out to meet us, but she doesn’t say anything. They hold me till I stop choking. She’s pressing the water out of my hair and he’s blotting my face with a towel. He kisses my cheek.
“Now you know how it works, J. W.,” he says. “When you’re ready to go out to the deep water, you have to dive into the wave. If you wait for it to come to you, it’s going to knock you on your keister.”
I reach over and pick up the phone. Within an hour, I’ve talked to Ellen at the Queen Street Bakery, Elizabeth Gooden, CM, Alaska Airlines. Then I lie back in bed and indulge myself in a moment of smugness. I’ve daringly changed the whole direction of my life before 8:30 a.m. Without even getting out of bed.
There’s just one more thing I have to do.
I’m sitting on the porch when David’s car pulls into the drive. He digs his briefcase out of the backseat and walks toward the front door. He can’t see me because it’s dark and he’s neglected to leave the porch light on, but I can see him in the yellow glow of the streetlight, and my heart breaks. He walks slowly, for him, head down, shoulders rounded. He looks exhausted.
“David.”
At the sound of my voice, his head jerks up. Caught off guard, he can’t hide his surprise, and the tiny beginnings of a smile.
“Wyn. What are you doing here?”
“I used to live here,” I say softly.
He looks away, fumbles for his key, inserts it into the lock but doesn’t open the door.
“Can I come in?”
Reflexively, he looks over his shoulder, like maybe my lawyer put me up to this and it’s being captured on film.
“You never called me.” I keep my voice low, try not to let it tremble. “We never got to talk.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I—This isn’t a good time, Wyn. I’m tired—”
“I’m tired, too, and there’s never going to be a good time. Is there?”
He turns abruptly, pushes the door open, stands aside while I go in. He flips the switches, flooding the front of the house with light. I look around—the living room, back to the dining room, down the hall toward the kitchen, up the open staircase to the gallery. The rooms seem only vaguely familiar, like a hotel you’ve seen in a brochure, but never visited before.
I follow him into the living room. Dead ashes from an old fire give off their stale odor.
“Could I have a brandy, please?”
He takes off his coat, folds it carefully, drapes it over the back of the couch. “Of course.” His footsteps clack on the slate floor and I hear him rummaging through the liquor cabinet in the kitchen. He’s hardly been gone a minute when there’s a sharp rap on the door. I can’t decide whether he didn’t hear it, or he figured he’d never beat me there so he’s decided to let the chips fall where they may.
I must be the last person Kelley expected to see here. Certainly the last one she wanted to see.
She recovers quickly. “Hello, Wyn. What a surprise.”
“I imagine so.” I try to smile, but it’s difficult to do when all I can think of is how her skin would feel under my fingernails. I look at my watch. “Nine-forty’s a bit late for dropping off files.”
“Where’s David?” Her voice exudes perfect control. She must be dynamite in those high-stakes, high-stress pitch meetings.
“He’s getting me a brandy. We have some things to discuss tonight. Feel free to wait on the porch.”
Two spots of color bloom on her smooth, tan face, but before she can say anything, David appears with two crystal snifters of brandy.
“Well …” he says.
The three of us stand looking at each other like an exhibit at Madame Tussaud’s until he says stiffly, “Wyn and I have some things we need to talk about, Kelley. I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.”
She turns without a word and disappears, shutting the door gently behind her. He hands me one of the snifters and we adjourn to the living room.
“Thank you.” That’s all I trust myself to say until the brandy is bu
rning the back of my throat. I promised myself that I’d be dignified, not lose my cool, and absolutely no tears, but there’s a huge knot in my throat that I can’t talk around. A few yoga breaths, a few more sips of brandy, and finally it begins to melt away.
“What would you like to talk about?” He sets his drink on the glass-topped table.
What would I like to talk about? I want to scream at him, throw my glass at his perfect face, but I manage not to do either.
“I thought we could talk about us, David.” I like the way it comes out. Very low-key.
“Okay.” He loosens his tie. The fact that he’s wearing one means they must have had a client meeting today. He leans back in the chair, gazing expectantly at me.
“I’m going back to Seattle for a while.” Is it my imagination or does he look relieved? “And I was wondering if you’ve given any more thought to … the situation.”
Based on what’s just happened, that’s probably a stupid question, but he shakes his head gravely. “No, I haven’t. I’ve been so busy—”
“If something’s important enough, you make time to think about it.”
He leans forward, elbows on knees. “Wyn, I’m sorry. I can only do what I can do. Maybe the problem is, you expect too much of me. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed.”
“Is it expecting too much after everything that’s happened, that we might sit down and talk about our marriage? Or do you just not care? Can’t you just tell me how you feel?”
He looks straight at me for the first time since he stumbled over me on the porch. His face is drawn and there are dark circles under his eyes. “I can’t tell you because I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I know you want more than that. You deserve more … but I just don’t know. Things are crazy at work. We lost Hathaway today and some heads are going to roll. One of them might be mine. I—I’m sorry.”
Bread Alone: A Novel Page 11