by Greta Boris
Art. In an alley. With a waitress.
Was Art was having an affair after all? She put a hand to her chest and covered her heart. She might have imagined Art running around with the school counselor, but this was so in her face. For some reason a fling with a complete stranger seemed an even greater betrayal.
A waitress did make a weird kind of sense, however. Art liked to be the hero. He loved to champion the cause of the underdog. If he were to be tempted into adultery, it would most likely be disguised by a virtuous cause—a damsel in distress. Based on the emotions echoing through the alley, this damsel qualified.
Even though the idea he was cheating had teased around in her brain, Gwen hadn't believed it. Not really. Seeing her husband with another woman didn't compute. It was surreal.
Think, Gwen. Think. Her hand moved from her chest to her forehead and massaged her temples. She'd spent the ten minutes it had taken her to drive here berating herself for jumping to hasty conclusions, for being self-centered, for taking five hundred dollars out of their savings without telling Art. It had been a very uncomfortable ten minutes. She didn't want to repeat them.
Gwen had no idea why Art was in deep conversation with the waitress. Maybe she was the parent of a St. Barnabas student who wasn't doing well. Probably not. Private school generally wasn't an option for someone at the bottom rung of the service industry. Besides, your kid's poor grades didn't usually make you sob in an alley.
Maybe the woman had applied for a teaching position at the school, and Art had told her she wouldn't be getting the job. That was a possibility. It was pretty unprofessional of her to get so emotional, but who knew what her financial situation was? The point was, there were any number of scenarios that would cover the scene before her. Why assume the worst?
Gwen's hand dropped to her side, and she straightened her spine. She would step out from behind the Dumpster and greet them as if nothing was wrong. Because as far as she knew, nothing was. Think the best. Believe the best. Wasn't that Biblical? She'd step out and...
Wait. How would she explain why she was hiding behind a Dumpster?
She slumped against the wall of the florist shop and stared at her feet. The sound of Art's voice rose and fell. She caught a word here and there: "sorry", "my fault", "important to me", "anything for you". It was that last phrase, "anything for you", that revived her fears.
She and Art used to perform a little stand-up routine, a private vaudeville shtick, when they were feeling romantic. Art would say, "I was so stuck on you, baby, I'd have done anything for you. Anything in the world to make you mine."
Gwen would respond, "Too bad I didn't know that when you asked me to marry you. I'd have held out for more than a half carat and a honeymoon in Arrowhead."
They hadn't had that conversation in years.
The odor of rotting flower stems permeated the air. Gwen knew, in the future, whenever she dumped a vase of old blooms, she'd be transported to this horrible moment. Smell, strong emotion, and memory occupied close territory in the brain. The scent of decaying vegetation was right now linking arms with regret, fear, indecision, and embarrassment and trotting into her neural pathways. She had to get out of there.
The alley had grown quiet. Gwen realized she hadn't heard Art's voice or the woman's sobs for several minutes. Maybe they had gone inside the restaurant, and she could escape unnoticed. She longed for time alone in her bedroom to figure all this out before she had to pick up the kids. She pushed herself off the wall and crept to the edge of the Dumpster. The noise of her heels on concrete sounded like drumbeats in the dead air.
She peered into the alleyway where she'd first seen Art and the woman, expecting it to be vacant. But they were there, spotlighted by a patch of sunlight. Art's arms enveloped her. Her face was buried in his chest. They stood in a silent embrace.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Gwen slammed her car door. She wanted to scream. Instead, she inhaled deeply. Rage rode on the oxygen from her lungs into her bloodstream and was carried to every inch of her body. Her muscles vibrated with it. How could he?
She started the car and swung onto Ortega Highway, tires squealing. Was it only two weeks ago she'd tried to stage a romantic evening for the two of them? The wine, the food, the red negligee, each was now a dart to her pride. Humiliation scorched her face. He'd probably been dreaming about the skinny waitress when he fell asleep on the couch.
She'd been an idiot. How had she not seen it? The distance he'd put between them, the disinterest in sex, the moodiness, the brooding silences. He'd been acting like a lovesick teenager. And the money he'd sneaked out of their bank account. She didn't want to think about what he'd spent it on.
To think she'd been on the fence about becoming Lance's partner because she was afraid it might bother Art. He wasn't worried about bothering her. Decision made. She'd let Lance know tomorrow.
Art had crossed the line. She could tell by the way he was stroking that woman's back, by the disgusting way the tramp was burrowing into his chest. They had a thing going. A real thing, not just a friendship like she had with Lance. There was nothing casual about what she'd seen in the alley.
A car horn startled her out of her thoughts. She'd cut off an SUV. An angry finger appeared through the driver's window as the car jerked around her. She returned the blessing. She drove five miles and exited the freeway on autopilot, lost in misery. She came to herself when she parked in the Humboldt Realty lot not remembering how she'd gotten there.
She thought about driving right back to the school and confronting Art, but she didn't want to give him the upper hand. She needed to get her emotions under control first. When she saw him, she wanted to be cool. No, cold. She wanted to blow into his world like an Arctic wind.
Maybe she should go into the office and find Maricela. She sniffled at the thought of being comforted by her best friend, then rejected the idea. Maricela would defend Art like she always did, come up with some reason for him to hug a blonde in an alley. Then Gwen would let her have it. She couldn't handle the end of two pivotal relationships in one day.
Her eyes traveled the length of the business park and came to rest on The Leaky Barrel. Wine. A bottle of wine and a bath, that's what she needed. First, she dialed Art's office. If he had time to run around with other women, he had time to get his kids.
The phone rang three times before Millie answered. "St. Barnabas. Principal Bishop's office."
"Hi Millie, it's Gwen."
"He just got in from lunch. I can connect you."
"No, no. Just give him a message for me, would you?" Gwen said. "I have a migraine. It came on suddenly. I'm going home. To bed. Could you ask him to get the kids for me?"
"Oh, you poor dear. My cousin Marilyn gets terrible migraines. They're so debilitating."
Gwen half-listened to several minutes of Marilyn's medical history, her thoughts wandering to her own problems. The familiarity of Millie's voice and the confidential way she spoke would be gone if Gwen and Art were no longer Gwen and Art. The thought of this loss, so small in comparison to the totality of losses that were sure to come, was still painful.
By the time Gwen hung up, her anger was spent. Exhausted and numb, she dragged herself across the parking lot to The Leaky Barrel. The terrible bell clanged when she opened the door, but this time she didn't jump. She entered, her movements mechanical, deliberate footsteps echoing on the weathered-wood floor.
"Hello there," a voice called. Gwen looked up to see the shop owner grinning behind his graying beard. "What can I get for you today?" he said.
"Nothing, Mo. I've got it." Gwen didn't want him following her from wine to wine, prattling on about noses and bouquets. She was looking for something to dull her pain, not pair with pot roast.
"If you need me, I'm right here." He winked.
Gwen turned and walked behind a wall of Malbec’s. His cheeriness was an affront. She found the shelf with her favorite blend. The last time she'd splurged on a bottle of Ravish was the night
Art fell asleep while she was slipping into something a little more comfortable. She might as well have gotten a bottle of Boone's Farm at the grocery store.
She gazed at the other varietals, but nothing sounded appealing. She reached out and picked up a bottle of Ravish. She'd be damned if she'd let Art steal this pleasure from her too. Tonight she was buying the wine for herself, not to impress, not for romance. Tonight it was for comfort. She wondered if one would be enough.
"Gwen. I thought that was you." Lance walked around the stack of wine. His hair was disheveled from the breeze outside, his eyes and his handsome face all smiles. "I saw you park, but you didn't come into the office. We're meeting at 10:00 am tomorrow to sign papers."
Gwen couldn't find her voice. She was so touched to see someone who cared about her, someone who was genuinely glad to see her, she burst into tears.
Fifteen minutes later, she was seated at a high table in the corner of the tasting room with the remnants of a glass of Cabernet in front of her. Lance's hand rested lightly on hers. His eyebrows were knit in concern.
He had held her while she cried and listened while she ranted, but he hadn't yet spoken. After several minutes of silence, he said, "I think you're misinterpreting the facts, Gwen. Based on what you described, it sounds like Art was breaking it off with the woman. That's probably why she was crying. I'm sure he still loves you."
"Loves me? Then why would he have a fling in the first place?"
Lance shrugged one shoulder and gave her half a smile. "He's a guy."
"I'm so sick of hearing about how guys can't control themselves. Like they have some corner on the lust market. Women lust. Women have desires."
"This could be a blessing in disguise," Lance said.
"A blessing?" Her voice rose. Mo, who was unpacking a case of white wine, looked across the room at them. Gwen dialed down her volume. "Maybe you can look at it that way. You don't have children. You haven't been married for fifteen years. I don't see this as a blessing."
"Sometimes you don't appreciate what you've got until you try something else." His voice was soft.
Gwen looked at him horrified. "That's not comforting."
"Hear me out." Lance stroked her hand. "You may disagree with me, but I don't believe people are naturally monogamous. Just look at the culture. People get married. They have children. Then within ten years, they're getting divorced. Why? Because they're restless. The honeymoon is over. They start looking for another mate."
"So marriage is a farce? That's what you're saying? We're all destined to cheat and break up?" The words spit from Gwen's lips.
"No, that's not what I'm saying. I'm saying the institution of marriage should be more flexible. If people would bend with their biology, relationships might not break so often."
Gwen pulled her hand out from under his and sat up straighter on her stool. "Bend with their biology? Like my father bent with his biology? He screwed around on my mother then left her for a younger woman."
"You're putting words in my mouth again." Lance's voice was soothing. "If you're going to have an external relationship you have to pick the right person. It has to be someone who has the same goals for the relationship. Someone who's okay with not being first in your life. Someone who respects the institution of marriage."
"That makes no sense. If I respect marriage, the last thing I'm going to do is have an affair with a married man—or an unmarried one for that matter." Gwen gulped her wine. It was beginning to take effect. She felt calmer despite the disturbing conversation.
"What if marriages were better off, lasted longer, and were happier when they had... outside help?"
"I don't buy—"
"I've seen it, Gwen. A woman I dated in L.A. was on the verge of divorce. She credited me with saving her marriage."
"Ha," exploded from her lips.
"It's true. She said she was refreshed by what we had together, and she brought that refreshment into her relationship with her husband."
"Yeah, well, I think Art's had a little too much refreshing," Gwen said. "Call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure the waitress isn't trying to help our marriage."
"Maybe you can help your marriage, Gwen."
Lance's eyes searched her own. They were so soft, so brown. She could lose herself in those eyes. She shivered.
"How are you suggesting I do that?" she asked.
Lance trailed a finger across the back of her hand. "You're upset. You don't feel appreciated or loved. If you had your tank filled, you might be able to look at this situation more objectively."
Gwen needed objectivity, she'd give him that. She felt like a sailboat tossed in a tempest.
"Art made a mistake, but obviously he still wants you, even though he could have her." He dropped his hand beneath the table. A second later, she felt its heat on her thigh.
"Another round?" Mo appeared at their table with an open bottle like a servile apparition. Lance snatched his hand from Gwen's leg. She jumped and spilled the last drops of her wine.
"Now you definitely need a bit more," the proprietor said wiping the table, his white rag turning blood red.
"No, I—" Gwen said.
"Just a little. On the house." He poured a few ounces into each of their glasses. "This cab is lovely, don't you think?"
"It's great," Lance said without expression in his voice.
"I picked it up on my last trip to Napa. That's cab country you know. Wonderful vineyards." Mo shifted his weight to one leg, as if digging in for a long conversation. "However, I have to say the Zinfandels coming out of Paso Robles are superior to Napa Zins. The Central Coast has come a long way in recent years."
Lance turned his gaze on Gwen and gave a small shake of his head. He mouthed, "Drink up." Gwen took a deep draft from her glass. Lance pulled his wallet from his pocket. The shopkeeper continued to regale them with wine wisdom as they finished and paid.
"The man can talk," Lance said when they stood in the sunlight again.
"He can," Gwen agreed, and for once she was glad he could. His chatter had dissipated the confusion she'd been feeling like an open window sucks the smoke from a room. She had come very close to jumping from the frying pan into the fire, as her grandmother used to say.
Lance walked her to her car, took both her hands in his and leaned forward for a kiss. Gwen gave him her cheek.
"Call me if you need me," he said and squeezed her hands.
"I will," she said, but she had no intention of calling him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Enzo placed a comforting hand on Olivia's shoulder as he passed the table where she sat with Art. After the worst of her sobs had subsided, Olivia insisted she had to get work. But as soon as they got inside the restaurant, Enzo took one look at her face, led them to a back booth, set mugs of coffee before them, and bustled off to manage her tables.
"The crazy thing is, I had a sitter all lined up. She got food poisoning at the last minute," Olivia said in a shaky voice.
"If he hadn't been suspended—" Art began.
"You have to stop blaming yourself." Olivia's voice was weary. "Only one of the hours Brian was home alone was a school hour. The rest were after school. It was my decision. I never work nights, but I switched shifts with another server. It was her birthday."
"No good deed goes unpunished," Art said.
"I left him with a pizza, video games, and told him not to open the door to anybody until his grandpa got there. Mike couldn't make it until five."
Mike did arrive at five as planned, but Brian wasn't there. He didn't panic. The family was used to Brian wandering. First, he called neighbors and other family members. When that didn't turn up any leads, he called a buddy in the Orange County Sheriff's Department.
The officer got back to him within the hour. He'd found a child in intensive care who matched Brian's description. Mike raced to Mission Hospital. After he identified his grandson, two officers were sent to inform Olivia and bring her to wait with Mike while the surgeons did what t
hey could.
"It was horrible." Olivia wrapped thin arms around herself.
"He woke up, and it looks good. Right? Looks like he's going to be okay. Think about that."
She wiped her eyes and nodded. "It sounds terrible, but now I don't want him to get better too quickly."
She had received a phone call on her way to work that morning. There are no latchkey kid laws in California that specify what age a child must be to be left home alone, but national safety organizations recommend twelve as the youngest. Because she had left a nine-year-old unattended, Olivia was now under investigation for child neglect. Child Protective Services was threatening to take Brian from her when he was ready to leave the hospital.
She dropped her arms to the tabletop and clutched her coffee cup like a child does a teddy bear after a nightmare. Blue veins stood out on her small hands. The fingernails were bitten to stumps. Art reached out and touched her.
"The charges won't stick. You're a terrific mother," he said.
"I'm not. I wouldn't have left him alone if I was, but I'm better than foster care. I may deserve whatever the court decides, but Brian shouldn't be punished." Olivia's eyes filled with tears again.
"Listen, the reason Brian has a scholarship to St. Barnabas is because you impressed the board of directors. They could tell you loved your son and were willing to do whatever it took to get him a good education," Art said.
"I wonder how they feel about me now. Pretty sorry they wasted their money. Not on Brian, he really tries. He's a good student. But on me." Tears spilled down her cheeks again. She was drowning in a whirlpool of pain, and his heart ached for her.
"We're going to fight this. I'll be there as a character witness, so will half the school staff."
She stared into the murk of her mug as if she hadn't heard. She'd been through one emotionally wrenching situation after another for weeks. This seemed like the final straw. She looked exhausted.
Art would call Mike as soon as he returned from the Big Bear camping trip and see if together they could come up with a plan to clear Olivia. Mike probably still had some sway with local law enforcement. Art would marshal whatever forces he could at St. Barnabas. He'd raise money for a lawyer. He'd do whatever he had to do.