Dee Dee’s paramour keeled forward and collapsed onto the boardwalk. Bicyclists and Rollerbladers gathered around him. Someone shouted for a lifeguard.
“Let me take care of this—we’ll talk later. Remember, don’t say a word,” Dee Dee said, then turned to the crowd. “Move over! If he’s alive, he’s mine!”
I was stunned. “Tom is buying my house? What am I supposed to think?”
“How do you feel?” Jay asked.
“Weird,” I said.
“Look,” Jay said, “maybe Tom’s helping out, in his own awkward heterosexual way. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“Ask him, Hannah,” Chloe said. “Maybe there’s an explanation. It is Valentine’s Day.”
I rushed into the bank still wearing my biker’s helmet, making a beeline for Tom’s office. He was in a suit at his desk, a pile of papers in front of him. A middle-aged woman (my age minus self-absorption) was seated to the side, taking notes.
“Hannah?” Tom said. “What’s up?” He looked happy, although surprised, to see me.
“Why did you make an offer on my house?” I asked.
“Hi … Elsie, can you leave me and Mrs. Bernal alone for a moment?” Tom asked.
Elsie sized me up, probably to see how dangerous I was.
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “I’m not packing heat, just self-righteous indignation.”
Elsie took her notepad and left. Tom turned to me. “It’s not what you think,” he said.
“What am I thinking?” I asked. I wanted to believe him. After all, he did cut a dashing figure in his suit. I suppressed the urge to pull him closer by his tie.
“I was going to tell you tonight, at dinner,” Tom said. “It was supposed to be a surprise. I did make an offer on your house. I outbid the Turk—now you have me saying ‘the Turk’—Mr. Mansour, so that you could keep your house. I know how much you love it, Hannah. You tied yourself to a tree, for God’s sake.”
“You made an offer so I could stay at Casa Sugar?”
“Yes,” Tom said, sitting back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head.
“How exactly does this work?” I asked. “You’re not just … giving me my house. I mean, I would never expect that … I didn’t expect any of this, anything that’s happened in the last six months—”
“I buy your house, and you pay me rent.”
“I pay you rent,” I said, repeating. “Oh. So you’re my landlord?”
“You can stay as long as you like,” Tom said. “I get the tax benefits of ownership, and you don’t have to move. I see it as a win-win for both of us.”
“I don’t know what to say,” I said.
“I really wanted to do you this favor,” Tom said.
“Thanks for the favor,” I said. “Now, can you take the favor knife out of my back? I’m sorry, but this just feels so weird to me, Tom. What if you decide one day that you don’t like me?”
“Wait. You’re not … turning me down? You want to lose your house?” Tom said, bristling. “Because that’s what’s going to happen.”
“I know what’s going to happen. The cardboard boxes scattered around my house remind me every minute of every hour of every day,” I said. “What I needed was to refinance.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “you’re too much of a risk.”
I felt like I’d been slapped.
“You are, too,” I said. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
I walked out, my dignity and bike helmet still intact.
Well, my dignity not so much.
When apartment-hunting in SaMo, there’s only one place to go: Westside Rentals. This business has the scariest mascot since the San Diego Chicken. Rental Man is an oiled-up, shirtless muscle-head who dances and preens on the sidewalk outside their Wilshire offices. He gives Rip Torn’s mug shot a run for its peanuttiness.
In my former life, when I had a job, a husband with a job, and dropped a mint at Whole Foods for veggie sushi, I’d drive past Rental Man and thank God I’d never have to use Westside Rentals; Dancing Bluto scared the bejesus out of me.
Hi, hubris! Here I was, with Aimee, as Dancing Bluto crazily grinned at me and reached out … opening the door to the offices.
“Thank you, spray-tanned, Axe-wearing gentleman,” I said. He nodded and grinned maniacally as I scooted past.
I stood in line with the rest of rent-paying humanity, and paid for my list of rentals. Basically, I was searching for the same apartment I had when I was just out of college.
“You’re an idiot,” Aimee said, back in the kitchen at Casa Sugar, as I went over the rental list. She was drinking chamomile tea, with not a splash of vodka. This was news, among my friends. “Did you even find out what the Biking Banker was going to charge you?”
“No.”
“You should have found out before you turned him down,” Aimee said.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. “What about a shared studio with a nightclub entertainer?”
“Stripper.”
“ ‘Must have compatible work hours,’ it says,” I said. “And must be open to visitors.”
“Hooker.”
“Yes, indeedy,” I said. “How much do you think she makes?”
“No, Hannah,” Aimee said, “you cannot ‘hook.’ ”
“Does it say ‘she’?” Jay walked in, carrying a bag of groceries from Trader Joe’s. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.” My BlackBerry buzzed. I looked at the tiny screen: Dee Dee Pickler. It could only be bad news—so, why not? I answered.
“Hannah?” Dee Dee said. “I have bad news and good news.”
“I’ll take the good news,” I said.
“The good news is, you still have a buyer. Thank God, because I already spent my commission. Hey, ever have plastic surgery in Uruguay?”
“Not lately. Don’t you go to Brazil for that kind of thing?”
“Not since Tameka almost died, girrrrrrl …”
“What are you calling about, Dee Dee?”
“The Turk is back on, and he’s not even mad,” Dee Dee said. “Of course, I had to work my magic. Hey, what’d you say to the Widower? He was pretty shaken up.”
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s not important.”
“He’s cute and has a job—I wouldn’t look that gift WWB in the mouth, if I were you.”
“WWB?”
“Widower With Benefits. Or, you know, FLF. Father I’d like to Fu—”
“Bye, Dee Dee—”
“Escrow’s moving fast. Do you need help packing?”
“No, thanks.”
“Thank God. I don’t even help my kid pack for camp. I have no interest, sorry. That’s Dee Dee Time.”
I hung up on her. This was Hannah Time.
22
Saving Manny’s Privates
“Why are there so many boxes, Mommy?” Ellie asked one night. I’d unfortunately missed my “bad news window” before we bought out Box Brothers.
“You know what, honey? We’re going to be moving soon. Isn’t that exciting?”
“No.”
“Mommy has to sell the house. We’re going to find someplace really cozy.”
“But we’re not going to live here?”
“No, we’re not.”
“Who’s going to live here?”
“That’s hard to say, honey. There might not even be a Casa Sugar after we move out.”
“Where’s she going?”
Casa Sugar was a she. A living being that held all of my happiest memories. Can I cry Uncle now, God?
“We’re moving to a very nice place.”
“Uncle Jay’s house?”
“No, not Uncle Jay’s house.”
“Aunt Chloe’s house?”
“No, not Aunt Chloe’s house.” If my life were a Lifetime movie, right now, at rock bottom, a miracle would occur. This is assuming I’m being played by the incomparable Heather Locklear. But, assuming I’m not Heather Locklear, I won’t be swept off my feet by a Doct
ors Without Borders surgeon/fighter pilot/media heir. It’s unlikely I’ll discover a dear departed aunt owned Walmart. I don’t anticipate a tax break. Or even coupons I can use.
I put a distressed Ellie to bed. I ached with exhaustion.
“Hannah.”
The sight of Brandon, dressed in a suit jacket and jeans, made me jump.
“You’re going out?” I asked. “You look nice.” I wondered about his girlfriend and his sudden desire to become an adult. He was so young, yet so serious.
“I’m heading to the Huntley,” he said, “for that real estate networking conference.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, “I understand. Have a good time … networking.”
“Hannah?” Brandon said. “You need me tonight?”
“Forgive me, I’m tired,” I said. “Go, have fun.”
I waved him off. I had a full night of packing boxes and pinot ahead of me.
Jay called a few minutes after Brandon left. “What are you doing?”
“Packing.”
“Move in with me.”
“I keep telling you no.”
“And I keep asking you why not.”
“You’d lose your mind in approximately eight minutes.”
“Not if you didn’t touch anything, ever. What about moving in with Chloe?”
“Too busy with stray dogs and stray kids, a crazy husband, and hot paramedics.”
“Right,” Jay said. “I won’t even suggest—”
“Not Aimee, please,” I said. “You know better. I’m going, baby. I’m tired.”
“Love you,” Jay said.
“Love you, more,” I said. Twenty minutes later, Jay and Chloe appeared at my front door, holding a bottle of wine and a grocery bag from Bay Cities.
“What are you doing? What’s this?” I asked, as they invaded my living room.
“Packing-slash-Pity Party!” Jay said. “You really think we’d leave you alone to pack?”
“Bay Cities,” I said. “You shouldn’t have. I don’t mean that. Of course you should.”
I used to worry about eating their Italian loaves. Overdoing the carbs; once, long ago, I had considered that a problem. Oh, Pre-Widowhood Hannah! You’re so naïve! I loves ya!
“The bread, the cheese, the butter, the wine,” Jay said. “The gay. What more could you possibly need?”
“And me, the packing nazi,” Chloe said.
“I love you guys,” I said, hugging and kissing them with wet, wine-soaked kisses.
“Mother’s been at the spigot,” Jay said, as we walked into the kitchen. “Where’s Manny?”
“Brandon’s at a real estate networking thingie,” I said, as I tore into the warm bread, “at the Huntley.”
“At the where?” Jay asked, looking greatly alarmed.
“The Huntley.”
“And who do you think is running a real estate conference,” Jay asked, “at nine o’clock on a Thursday night at the Huntley?”
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling stupid. “I didn’t think about it.”
“You know what they call the Huntley on a Thursday night, do you not?” Jay asked.
“The Cuntley,” I said, realizing. “Oh my God.”
“It’s the SMCA,” Jay said. “It’s a Coyote Den!”
“What should we do?” Chloe asked. “Should I get my shotgun? It’s out in the car.”
“Wait. Get your what?” I froze.
“Billy gave me the shotgun before he left. For protection.”
“Against what?” I asked. “Fog? Yoga mats? Pressed juice?”
“After Bakasana disappeared, I got paranoid about coyotes,” Chloe said. “I’m so scared that one of them is going to come after my other dogs. I would just shoot it in the air, of course, to scare them off.”
Jay and I exchanged a look. I had never told her about my Bakasana vision. And my feeling about who I believed was responsible for his demise. But now was not the time.
“Chloe, whatever you do,” I said, “do not even think of using that gun. You’re the NoMoMama—it’s the number one rule of parenting—no guns. We’ll get rid of it tomorrow.”
“We’re wasting precious time, people,” Jay said.
“Right,” I said. “We have to go. Chloe, will you stay here? Ellie’s asleep.”
“I’ll be locked and loaded,” Chloe said with a wink.
Jay and I jumped in his MINI Cooper and careened down Montana Avenue. When I say “careen,” I mean, we stood in traffic behind NoMoMorons who couldn’t decide whether they should park, walk, whine, or go home.
“The SMCA knows every inch of the Huntley,” Jay said, as he honked. “Those bitches know every corridor, suite, back room, bed post, bathroom floor tile. God, they’re glorious.”
“I can’t believe I just let him go,” I said. “He’s like my son, and I watched him march straight into the lions’ den.”
“Be prepared,” Jay said. “There may be nothing left of him, except maybe a dimple. We must stay strong. If we do save him, he may be a shadow of the Brandon we know and love and want to sleep with.”
Jay slammed on the gas pedal and we sped around a BMW.
“Go, boy,” I said, holding on to the dashboard.
“We’ve got to save our child,” Jay said. “And this may be my only chance to see Luke Wilson naked, while it’s still worth it.”
We parked in front of the Huntley, sneaked past valet, and took the elevators up to the penthouse. We exited into a large, white, brightly lit nightclub with a long Plexiglas bar in the middle. The place was crammed full of people, but all I saw were teeth, hair, and boobs—and that was just the men. Loud, electronic music smuggled in from the Eastern Bloc in the early eighties assaulted our tender ears.
“I thought this music went down with the Berlin Wall,” I said. I hadn’t changed my daytime depression outfit, which hardly went unnoticed by the bust-by-Monsanto hostess.
“We’re looking for a boy,” Jay said breathlessly to the bosomy hostess. “He was here for a real estate conference.”
“At this hour? Who does real estate conferences?” she said, making me feel old and unhip. I think that covers the insecurity bases. Wait, wait—I forgot poor. I felt poor, too.
“He’s very tall, very handsome,” I said. “Like a son to me, I feel terrible.”
“Straight as six o’clock. Sadly,” Jay added.
“That guy—the giant blonde?” she said. “He left.”
“Did he leave with anyone?” Jay asked.
“I’m not supposed to tell you that but since she’s such a bitch—he was with Dee Dee Pickler.”
“Where’d they go?” Jay said.
“That’s none of my business,” she said, suddenly prim.
Jay snapped his fingers. “It just came to me. Who you look like,” he said to the hostess. “Did anyone ever tell you you’re the spitting image of a Kardashian sister?”
“Seriously?” she asked, her face lighting up.
“The pretty one,” I added, “not the manly one, the Mandashian.”
“Do you have a card?” Jay asked. “You know, you could make big money being a Fauxdashian.”
“Take my number,” she said. “I’d die to do that!”
Jay whipped out his iPhone, and the girl gave him her number … then added on three more.
“That’s too many,” he said.
“That’s the room,” the Fauxdashian said with a wink.
“Fabulous,” Jay said. “Who does your cheeks, by the way?”
* * *
We came off the elevators and hit the fifth floor running—in the wrong direction.
“Turn it around,” Jay yelled.
Finally, we found 526.
“Times are tough,” Jay said. “I expected a higher floor.”
“What do we do now?” I said. “We can’t just knock.”
Jay pressed his ear to the door.
“Do you hear anything?” I asked. “Don’t answer that.”
“Muffle
d sound, murmuring. Now a humming sound. A click. More murmuring.” Jay knocked on the door. “Room service,” he announced.
“I feel like we’re in a Martin Lawrence movie,” I said.
“Room service,” Jay repeated, then whispered, “I’m Martin and you’re the lame white guy.”
The door opened. Dee Dee was standing there, in lingerie. “You’ve got the limes and the ice cubes?” she said, and then, “You can’t have him.”
“Step aside, Dee Dee,” I said.
“He’s mine. He’s mine and I want to keep him.”
Jay pushed the door open and we slipped in. Brandon was tied to the bed wearing boxer shorts. He giggled.
“Brandon,” I said, bending over him. “Are you okay?”
He snorted.
“Oh, snap,” Jay said. “Why’s he still in his shorts?”
“I like to use my teeth,” Dee Dee said. “It’s why humans have incisors.”
“I never thought of that,” Jay said. “Talk about taking care of all your real estate needs.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Dee Dee,” I said. “I think he’s drugged or something. How could you do this to this sweet, innocent boy?”
“Oh, please.” Dee Dee rolled her eyes. “You’re such a Girl Scout.” She looked at Jay. “Don’t you ever get bored of this one?”
“Hannah?” Jay asked. “Do you mean Hannah?” I felt like he was stalling for time.
“You should roll with my girls,” Dee Dee told him. “We know how to have a good time. Tijuana Cipro is so cheap nowadays. Plus, we have our own bail bondsman.”
“Tempting,” Jay said, “but I’ll stick with the Girl Scout.”
“Jay,” I said, “undo him, please.”
“Girl, you know your way around a slipknot,” Jay said to Dee Dee, staring at Brandon.
“Jay! Get going! What are you doing?” I said.
“Debating,” Jay said, before he finally started in on the knots. “Is this the same room you took Luke Wilson’s manhood in?”
“Well.” Dee Dee tilted her head. “Maybe it was the Unknown Wilson … It was a Wilson, for sure. He wore Birkenstocks and had breath like damp tree bark.”
“That’s a Wilson,” Jay said.
“You know what?” Dee Dee said, as she went for the hotel phone. “Wait just a hairy minute. You can’t just barge in here and take my party favor. Hello, security?”
The After Wife Page 26