Which is why he asked Gracie out to dinner. Normally she wasn’t his type, even as he slid into, let’s call it, older age. She was attractive but not beautiful; she was older than he preferred by a decade. But she had a sharp wit, she was unbowed by the dullards in this town, and most important, she understood him. Gracie saw through his ladies’ man reputation, his press clippings, his successes and failures and saw what he really was—just a pretty good guy who got lucky, damned lucky. And made the most of it.
Lou walked back inside to the bar, having finished his scotch. He poured himself another, enjoying the crackle of the ice, as he always did, when the scotch filled the glass halfway. Were it not for that sound, he doubted he would ever take a drink.
He looked at himself in the mirror over the bar.
“How’d you get so old?” he wondered. It was a question he’d been asking himself a lot lately.
GOOD START: Lou had arrived exactly on time at Gracie’s house. Gracie had forgotten that there are occasions when a man is on time. Bumpy start: Gracie’s date with the boss faltered when the Italian place was packed; Lou’s assistant had forgotten to make a reservation, and the maître d’ was not interested in appearing interested in the movie business or those successful in the movie business, so Gracie suggested they skip it altogether and try their luck at Nobu, where she had seen many a recognizable face. She convinced Lou they had cooked items on the menu, but Lou wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t a fan of fish in the first place,much less a fan of fish in the raw.
Gracie heard Will’s voice in her head, saying this was a sign she should definitely date a younger man. Younger men aren’t afraid of sushi.
She made a note to date a younger man, should any become available, say, before she died.
Ah, what bounty! The pretty Asian hostess at Nobu gave Lou a table just because he was Lou, which he seemed to appreciate. Gracie could tell he was relaxing. Didn’t everyone like being recognized?
“Watch. Pretty soon,” Gracie told him as they were led to their patio table, “you’ll be making this your very own Cheers.”
“Not unless they change the menu,” Lou growled.
Gracie liked a growl on a man. She just didn’t realize it until now. Kenny never growled, she thought. Mostly he whined.
They sat across from each other and Gracie assessed Lou while he ordered their drinks—a Cosmo for her, an Asahi beer for him. She liked that he was a beer kind of guy; she felt it was a more manly choice than sake. She watched his face move, his tan, the slight gray stubble, the full head of hair. Ready smile. Lou looked like a candidate for a Viagra ad.
Gracie was disturbed that she’d had this thought; she wondered if he was taking Viagra. She wondered if he needed to take Viagra. She’d heard that Viagra sometimes gave men hard-ons that would last for hours. She glanced toward the space between his legs, veering sideways at an odd angle. She’d also heard, through the Hollywood cock-vine, that Lou was the proud owner of a penis the size of a bowling pin. She didn’t know whether to be enticed or frightened, but Gracie couldn’t get rid of this thought throughout a string of questions he threw at her.
Finally he said, “You seem distracted.”
Strrriiike, Gracie thought.
“And,” Lou added, “you seem to be looking at my zipper. Even more than I’m accustomed to. If you’re not planning on tailoring my pants, would you like to ask me something?”
“Are those khakis?” Gracie asked.
“Yes, they’re what we on Earth call khakis,” Lou said, leaning in. “I’ll take them off and you can hold them if you like.”
“I’m sorry,” Gracie said. “It’s just a little odd, dating my husband’s boss. My husband’s boss who usually dates … younger, famous, underfed, overpaid girls.”
“Not in the last six months,” Lou said.
“Four!” Gracie replied. “Or have you forgotten Demi?”
“Demi’s not younger than you,” he said. “She doesn’t count.”
“Anyone who can bounce a coin off her ass is younger,” said Gracie. “Those thighs alone lop five years off her age. The abs are another decade. In fact, if you work your way through her face and body, her age will be somewhere in the negative numbers.”
“Gracie,” he said. Gracie liked hearing her name come out of his mouth. Or was it just that she hadn’t heard a man, besides Will, a card-carrying homosexual, say her name lately? “This is just dinner between friends, a friendly dinner,” Lou said, not meaning it at all, but sounding as though he did. “It doesn’t have to be a date.” He had practiced sounding sincere for so long that sometimes he surprised himself by actually seeming sincere.
“I know, you’re right, I know.” Gracie exhaled, grateful for Lou’s sincere response. She found herself wishing her husband had been more like him. “And besides, Kenny the Pig’s not really my husband anymore.”
“Let’s drink to that,” Lou said, just as their drinks arrived.
“Did you know he’s dating Britney Spears?” Gracie asked.
Lou raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure whether to laugh or weep,” he said dryly, then took a mouthful of beer. “He’ll be making the newsstand any day now.”
“Bless his heart. Let’s check out the Malibu newsstand,” Gracie said, suddenly excited. “After our friendly dinner.”
GRACIE FELT somewhere near the region of relaxation about halfway through the dinner. She had gulped down her first drink (something she did when she was nervous and out of control and thinking bad thoughts about Lou’s Viagrated penis) and sipped her way through her second and had eaten little and was convinced that she had expended five pounds through a combination of nerves and liquid diet.
And then she saw them come into the restaurant.
Gracie’s hand shot out toward Lou’s forearm to steady herself, although she was already seated. She’d grabbed him in the middle of a funny story about his third (fourth?) wife and her obsession with remodeling houses and coming home to find her giving the contractor a very personal bit of instruction about her own infrastructure—
“Gracie?” Lou asked. “Are you all right? You just ruined the punch line. But I’ve been telling that story since 1985, don’t worry—”
“It’s them!” Gracie squeaked.
Lou looked at Gracie, and for a moment Gracie saw something in his eyes that made her forget who was now walking toward them—one of them loping like an eager, oversized dog, the other taking mincing, pigeon-toed steps, her hair covering half of her famous face.
The light in Lou’s eyes had expired. Where had his life gone? What was wrong with him?
Suddenly Gracie felt a need to take care of Lou. Enough of the small talk, Gracie thought, what is going on in your life, Lou Manahan? What’s the problem? Talk to me.
But by that time, Kenny and Britney had already made it to the table.
“Lou!” Kenny said, giving Lou a heavy pat on the shoulder. “Look at this! Gracie! Lou! It’s like old home week!”
Gracie leaned over so far to escape his friendly pat, she was practically hugging the floor.
“This is great, how you guys doin’?” Kenny asked. He sounded more like a frat buddy than an ex-husband. Not only was he not worthy husband material, Gracie thought, he was not worthy ex-husband material.
“We guys are good, Kenny,” Gracie said.
“Hey, you’re not talking about me, are you?” Kenny asked. “Nah—I’m not worthy!” he concluded, smiling. Gracie was amused at his assessment and wished for the day it would be accurate.
“Are you going to introduce us?” Lou asked. Britney had been standing behind Kenny during this exchange, hiding her surprisingly small frame behind his surprisingly large one. The move reminded Gracie of Jaden, the way she was when she walked into a room and didn’t know anyone.
“Oh, yeah, hey,” Kenny said, “this is Britney. Britney Spears.”
She peeked out from behind Kenny, holding onto a corner of his shirt.
“Thanks for specifying,
” Gracie said as she shook Britney’s soft, childlike hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” she said.
Lou shook her hand as well, smiled. Gracie concluded he wasn’t all that interested. At that moment, she thought she might marry Lou Manahan.
“Thanks for being so nice to Jaden,”Gracie said.
“Oh, I love Jaden!” Britney replied, suddenly animated.
“Britney loves Jaden!” Kenny parroted. “You should see those two together.”
“We have so much fun,” Britney said, now holding Kenny’s hand (Look, Ma, no wedding ring!) and looking up—way up—at him with her Bambi eyes.
Gracie just smiled. She kept smiling until they walked off and sat down half a restaurant away.
“You can drop it now,” Lou said. “It’s safe, they’ll never see the scowl.”
Gracie dropped the smile, almost audibly. “Oh, I love Jaden!” she mimicked Britney with a high-pitched nasal voice.
Lou started laughing. And didn’t stop. Tears were coming from his eyes, his stomach heaved up and down.
“What’s so funny?” Gracie slurred/demanded.
“Your ex-husband is dating Britney Spears,” he said. “She could be your daughter’s stepmother!”
“That’s funny?” Gracie asked. “That’s so not funny!”
“Of course it is!” Lou said, choking. “It’s just one fucked-up crazy life!”
Gracie started to laugh along with him. They were still laughing when they left the restaurant.
LOU AND GRACIE were rounding the corner into the Malibu Colony, past the guard gate and toward Joan’s house, when they collided with the bicyclist. Lou had been looking at Gracie for a split second, watching her for a reaction to one of the stories he kept handy for dates with attractive women of above-average intelligence when he hit something—or, more accurately, felt something hit the front end of his new Jaguar. Whoever or whatever it was seemed to appear out of nowhere to fling themselves at his car. Gracie had screamed, and Lou joked that another punch line had been ruined.
Secretly his heart was beating through his chest. He was thankful that even though he’d had a few beers, he couldn’t have been driving over ten, fifteen miles an hour. He was hoping against hope that he hadn’t hit a kid.
But as soon as it had happened, the person he’d hit—a man in his late forties or early fifties? wearing orange shorts and a beat-up T-shirt, looking like Harrison Ford—popped up, and without even glancing at the man who ran into him, rode off toward the guard gate and into the night.
Lou, breathing hard, looked at Gracie. “The nerve of some people,” he joked. “I ran into the guy, and he won’t even say hello.”
Gracie, her eyes wide, her hands glued to the dash, just shook her head.
“You have any idea who that was?” he asked.
“I don’t have a name,” Gracie said, “but he saved my life.”
“Geez,” Lou said. “That’s kind of a tough act to follow.”
He rolled down the Colony toward her house, as slow as his car would allow, barely making it over the speed bumps. When he stopped in front of #250, he looked at Gracie. “Look at me. Do you think I could save your life?” he asked.
“Not a chance,” Gracie said, looking at him. “But if you’re lucky I could save yours.”
Lou shook his head as he got back into his car after walking her to her front door. “How,” he asked himself, “could a woman be that smart?”
16
NERVES
THE QUEEN OF BAD TIMING, Gracie thought to herself as she paced the kitchen, bent on wearing a groove into the bleached wood floor. Lou had almost killed the man she was going to marry—or at least meet, in the next few months. On the other hand, maybe it was kismet, running into him like that, his hands windmilling toward the sky as Lou’s Jaguar knocked him from his bike. Maybe it was good that he had seen her with another man, another successful man, maybe he would think she was … desirable!
Was Gracie Pollock desirable? she asked herself. Lou seemed to find her desirable. Although he’d chastely kissed her cheek when he dropped her off, she distinctly felt the possibility of a diversionary tactic. He was kissing her cheek to keep her off-guard in the event his lips would someday land on hers in the not-too-distant future. She knew Lou had been in the Marines—didn’t everyone know Lou had been in the Marines? He was the only Hollywood player ever to wear a uniform that didn’t have any connection to a religious school; he was the only Hollywood player who had good old-fashioned guts.
Which brought Gracie back to the idea of age. Lou had close to twenty years on Gracie. Yes, as Will had so helpfully pointed out, he could be her father—if her father was sexy and drove a Jaguar and dated movie stars and was just past his teens when she’d been born. Gracie couldn’t imagine her own father being so cool. Besides, there were benefits to Lou’s age, Gracie thought. Didn’t everyone say that age brought wisdom, security, experience—attributes which Kenny seemed to be doing swimmingly without. On the other hand, Gracie could see age as being a detriment. What if she tired of Tony Bennett? Would she run screaming at the first sight of Old Butt? And what about death? Of course a younger man would generally be around longer than an older man, but was this necessarily a good thing? Could Death, in addition to diamonds, be a girl’s best friend? And besides, Gracie thought, beggars can’t be choosers. And although she wasn’t exactly begging for it, she was asking more than she’d been asked.
Or was she? Hadn’t Lou asked her out? And didn’t she lock eyes with Clint, the man who saved her life, just as he tumbled out of sight, swallowed up by the front end of Lou’s new Jaguar?
If she was desirable, when did that happen? And what could she do to preserve her newfound desirability? Or should she just accept that she was man-nip in a beach cover-up?
Gracie looked out her kitchen window and watched the moon reflected in the night’s black waters and wished she had a man’s arms wrapped around her waist, the two of them looking in the same direction, surrendered to the moment. She closed her eyes and imagined who that man would be.
CRAZY FUCKING RICH people, Sam thought to himself, as he shook off his encounter with the front end of a Jaguar. He could’ve been killed, minding his own business, biking to Sav-on for a bottle of that antidiarrhea medicine Mrs. Kennicot needed. The Jag had come out of nowhere. The driver, some older guy, wasn’t even looking at him when Sam rolled over the front of the car. Just before impact, before he went flying, Sam could see that he was talking to the woman at his side. But she, she was looking at Sam; their eyes had met as he flew forward. It’s funny, Sam thought, the images people remember right before a traumatic event. He remembered bits and pieces—laughter, cigarette smoke, a friendly blow on the back. Then boom. One rocket (apparently), the jeep flies up in the air (apparently), three weeks in army hospital in a coma (apparently), and all you can remember are the seconds before impact. The life-changing event is not worth remembering, according to the human brain. It’s what came before that matters.
Sam locked his bike outside Sav-on, limped past the guys sleeping on benches, past the empties—generic vodka bottles—decorating the ground. His ribs hurt, his legs were on shaky ground, his bike was screwed up—the chain, which was never perfect (the bike was old when he “got” it), was now totally bent out of shape—but nothing was going to keep him from getting that bottle of medicine to Mrs. Kennicot. He was late as it was.
HOW MANY TIMES, Gracie thought, do I have to walk back and forth on this stretch of beach? She’d been up at six that morning, quite the feat considering she’d had two drinks more than her usual (which was no drinks) the night before. She’d awakened with a feeling of determination—she would find her mystery man once and for all, and put an end to the cycle of anticipation, self-flagellation, and eating boatloads of processed sugar.
Jaden had spent a good forty-five minutes with her, digging holes in the sand while Mom meandered back and forth in front of the opening leading onto th
e beach,which the tenants on the land-side houses used. But then Ana, who was driving Jaden back to Kenny’s place, had arrived and flagged them down; she spent a good amount of time chastising Gracie for providing only dry cereal and a juice box for Jaden while she went on her wild-goose chase searching for a good-looking phantom.
Finally Gracie sat down in the sand and let the water, which was moving toward high tide (she’d taken to reading the tide charts in the newspaper) tickle her feet. She closed her eyes and let the sun seep into her skin, pretending to be unafraid of wrinkles, sunspots, sunburn, and sagging. Was there nothing she feared?
“Trying to drown yourself again?” she heard a man ask as she felt a shadow edge across the upper half of her body.
“No,” she said without opening her eyes. She realized she was afraid of something: actual intimacy. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “But if I have to in order to track you down, I’m willing to do it.”
He was looking down at her, his expression opaque. Was there any way of reaching this man? What did a girl have to do? Gracie was never a big fan of the strong, silent type. Kenny was more like the weak, loud type. Maybe that’s what she liked.
“Did you run into my friend’s car last night on purpose?” she asked.
“No,” he said, looking up at the water, then down again at her. “I prefer to fling myself at a Mercedes or a BMW—Jaguar drivers seldom go fast enough for my liking.”
Humor! Gracie thought, Eureka! We have progress!
“See, they tend to be a little older,” he continued.
Not just humor, Gracie thought. Biting Humor!
Why did I say that? Sam thought.
“Are you going in?” Gracie asked. His Labrador came up to Gracie and sat beside her. She reached over and scratched the dog’s ear while trying to keep from hitting herself on the head for asking such a stupid question.
The Starter Wife Page 18