Nothing could move him. And so she’d left. She hadn’t touched him, she hadn’t kissed his cheek. She’d left not only his physical being but also the promise of more with him. She was done.
This guy was cooked. And Gracie’s track record with men was now officially 0-2.
A strange thought entered Gracie’s mind as she passed the party at the Boners’ and walked up the beach toward the Mexican wedding which had been at Joan’s house. Are firefighters this wacko? What about those guys working construction? Where are the real men?
Another thought entered her mind. The number of men she knew presently and would sleep with had now officially been whittled down to one. And she was determined to sleep with him—before she found out that he, too, was just another wack job.
Otherwise she just might be forced to close up shop for the rest of her life.
JADEN SKIPPED HER NAP THAT DAY. Who could blame her? Who could sleep seated front row center at the largest outdoor concert in town? Gracie, Jaden, and Cricket’s kids stayed inside for the rest of the day, avoiding the heat and listening to Raffi songs (when they could hear him) and watching Finding Nemo so many times that even the youngest children had memorized Bruce the Shark’s lines. Cricket, who sounded increasingly “relaxed” as the day went on, interrupted every twenty minutes or so to make sure that all three of her children were still breathing.
Finally, just as the sun went down, the fireworks started. The kids screamed and ran out on the deck and Gracie wrapped Jaden in a blanket and sat on a chaise, her daughter cradled in her arms, watching color after color explode above her head, then disappear into the black water.
Gracie forgot about her marriage; she forgot about her ex-husband. She forgot about her future, about her past. All that existed was this moment. She and the warmth of her drowsy child and the delighted squeals of toddlers and the rhythm of the waves and the people huddled underneath her house and scattered out on the sand. And the explosions, each one more beautiful than the last.
“Okay, God,” Gracie said out loud (though who could hear her over the fireworks?). “I think I’ve found it. This is happiness.”
GRACIE WAITED until she had seen the last of the fireworks, the ultimate display of patriotism, red lights bleeding into white bleeding into blue. People clapped and cheered, the loudest being the ones probably newest to this country, the families huddled under her house. And then, just like that, the festivities were over. As people gathered up their blankets and boom boxes, the last of their orange sodas, and their sleeping children and headed for the Surfrider exit, Gracie held her own sleeping child, opened the sliding glass door into the kitchen, bid farewell to Cricket’s nanny and her children and Ana, who had decided to call it a night, and walked upstairs to Jaden’s room.
Gracie was out of breath by the time she made it upstairs. Jaden was not a small child with featherweight bones. The fact was, she was deceptively heavy. She was made of sturdy stock—descendant as she was of people who worked fields long before they worked computers.
Gracie rolled Jaden onto her bed, took off her shoes, and draped her comforter over her body.
She had almost forgotten that by this time Lou would have killed himself.
SAM KNEW BETTER. He knew it was a fool’s errand. It must have been the fireworks or the smell of the day—hot dogs, the ocean, sunscreen, bonfires.
Something about this particular Fourth of July brought out a sentiment he usually commandeered with little or no effort—nostalgia.
He was overcome by nostalgia. As he made his way through the July Fourth crowds negotiating their way back to their Toyotas, Hondas, and Saturns, he wondered why.
Why was he feeling this way now, today?
Normally he could pass a mother holding on to a sleeping child, or guiding a toddler by the hand from the beach, without so much as a glance. Their lives had no bearing on his. He had so little in common with the common folk he did not recognize the usual parameters of everyday life. This is my son. This is my daughter. This is my mother. My father. My sister.
He had a sister. She was his first love. His eyes would track her, his mother had told him, from the time he was born. He would only smile for her. His first laugh was at the sight of her face. He loved no one else as much and never would.
His mother told him that she told his sister, his only sibling, to remember his love—because it was the greatest love she had ever witnessed. To remember the love of her little brother—because no one would ever love her as much in her lifetime.
His mother.
As it turns out, it wasn’t much true. His sister had found a husband, had two daughters of her own-or were they sons? Sam couldn’t remember. There were none of the standard markers that normal people used to define their relationshipsno cards, no phone calls. No “I’ll see you soon.” No “I’ll come up during Christmas.” Nothing.
AND IT WAS his fault. All of it.
He had started doing drugs in high school. His parents had sent him to boarding school in a desperate attempt to separate him from the booming drug scene in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury. But it was a tactic as tardy as it was ill conceived. There were more drugs in boarding school than even on the streets of the Castro. And they were within spitting distance—here was an ounce of coke he could score off his roommate, there was the new thrill—heroin—introduced to him by his TA.
Then his father died. But big deal, Sam thought at the time—he hardly knew his father. It’s that “old family” shiteveryone getting by on traditions and gestures and not dealing with reality. Your son is on drugs, deal with it. Your daughter is about to enter an abusive marriage to get out of the house, deal with it.
The war. Did he sign up for it out of spite, or was it reverence for his father’s military background? Sam couldn’t decide, still.
He hadn’t figured it all out. He didn’t know what he was doing. Sam had gotten his ass fried a million ways to Sunday, and he still didn’t know what he was doing.
He was fifty-three years old, and he didn’t have a clue.
His mother must be close to eighty, Sam thought. If she was still alive.
And then, as he walked through the entryway, opening the chain-link fence with his key, he was seized by a thought: Surely his mother would have forgiven him by now.
He walked onto the Colony, bustling with Mercedeses and SUVs, filling up with men, women, and children heading home to Bel Air, to Brentwood, to Beverly Hills. He avoided eye contact. He walked swiftly and quietly. He knew this feeling, he found comfort in its familiarity. He felt like a man about to commit a crime.
I have to kiss that woman, Sam thought. He was thinking of nothing but her mouth.
GRACIE HAD PUt Jaden to bed and was downstairs in her kitchen when she heard the doorbell ring. How she heard it was a mystery, even to her—but it showed her how quickly a crowd could dissipate, how swift the ending could be to a chaotic day.
She figured it must be Will—parties were winding down and surely he had either found his Prince Charming or given up.
Gracie padded down the stairs in her bare feet, anxious for the day’s postmortem, in which Will would dissect each party, from the partyers to the libations to the homes themselves.
Gracie opened the door, a smile already alighting on her face. She was ready to laugh.
The porch light fell upon the person standing in front of her in such a way that it formed a halo effect. All she could make out was the outline of a tall, imposing figure with thick, wavy hair—her eyes focused, separating light from dark, and within moments colors formed: the orange shorts, a white shirt.
This was not her homo friend with his blondish hair and linen.
Images dashed through Gracie’s head—most of them developed from too many afternoons walking on the treadmill and watching Oprah.Would he drag her by the hair and rape her in the living room? Would he chop her body up and toss her fingers into the blender?
How could she have been so stupid as to flirt with a co
mplete stranger? Even if he had, for argument’s sake, saved her wretched life. Just so he could murder her in her best friend’s living room while her child slept upstairs!
“Hello,” he said.
Gracie’s hand had been frozen to the side of the door; she’d been standing just as she had when she opened it. Right then, she decided she was no good in an ominous situation. She should really move to a neighborhood where nothing bad could ever befall her, where no one masturbated on the beach under her window, where seals did not turn up dead on the sand, where shaved—head gang members didn’t gather at four o’clock in the morning.
She would plan to move to the cheap streets.
“Are you all right?” he asked. He rocked back on his heels.
“I’m fine,” Gracie croaked.“I’m just … can I help you?”
She straightened her spine. She didn’t want her posture to scream “victim.” Crime victims had bad posture—this much she’d learned from afternoon television.
“My friend should be here any second,” Gracie continued in a blur of words.“He’s a black belt in … oh, God, what’s the name of that thing where you …”
She made a stance with her knees bent and her hands, fingers together, angled up.
He reached forward with his hands, wrapping his fingers around hers in a move that was both gentle and charged.
Gracie stopped breathing. She was still standing with her knees bent, one leg forward, as though she were about to pounce. But he had his hands around hers. Her mind had stopped computing.
She was really, really not good in ominous situations.
And then, still holding her hands, he took one step forward. And let go of her hands and wrapped his around her face. And kissed her.
Her hands went limp at her sides. Her knees buckled like a schoolgirl in a melodramatic 1930s movie. He was literally holding her up by her jaw.
The kiss lasted almost as long as the last presidential address to the country, Gracie thought, but with more substance.
And Gracie hadn’t stopped thinking the whole time.
This was what was going on in her mind:
“Oh, my GOD! He’s going to strangle me! No, he’s kissing me! We’re … kissing? Oh, my GODGODGODGOD, what a kiss, holy shit, this is some kiss, oh, JESUS, it’s like unbelievable, who kisses like this? This mouth—it’s so warm and soft and it’s like the best pashmina, but not the illegal kind from whatever that country is with all the mountains—ooh, I love that beard—I love that beard—why have I never had a man with a beard?—oh, no, I’m going to have that beard-face thing—that red face—my face will be all burned up by the beard, but damn, this is good—this is an epic moment in my life—there’s barely any tongue, I love that—I don’t like a lot of tongue, frankly—there’s no sloppiness whatsoever, I mean Kenny was always kind of sloppy, who cares about Kenny— oh, God, I hope he doesn’t want to sleep with me—I have to lose weight—maybe with the lights off that’s okay. But my inner thighs…. What if he has AIDS? He doesn’t have AIDS, of course, he doesn’t have AIDS. Does he have AIDS? No! But still, should I use a condom? Of course I should use a condom—don’t you watch Oprah—I don’t have any condoms—God, I hope he has a condom—oh God, I hope he doesn’t have a condom, if he has a condom that means he’s EXPECTING me to sleep with him—and screw him, I’m not easy—”
The kiss ended in a draw. His hands were still on her face, and whether he knew it or not, his hands were the only thing between Gracie’s body and the floor. They were warm and strong and calloused and they could have held her up forever, as far as Gracie was concerned.
His face was on hers, her cheek to his. She could feel his breath. She assumed he could feel hers, but she wasn’t entirely sure she was breathing again.
She found her voice in a triumphant return to earth.
“I’ve had a C-section,” she said.
He didn’t respond. He had her up now, against the door. His face to hers.
“So there’s this scar. And my belly.” She tried to look down, grimacing toward her stomach as though it were an old friend who had recently let her down.
She sighed. “I didn’t shave today. I can’t get into that whole waxing thing, it’s just not me.”
SHUT UP, Gracie thought to herself. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WOMAN, SHUT THE HELL UP!
“I’m getting gray hair, and if you want to know the truth, I haven’t slept with anyone in—”
Oh, Jesus, Gracie thought, he’s doing that thing, that thing he did when he carried her out of the water, and lifted her up like she was Cleopatra and he was her slave—no, better yet, like that Lina Wertmüller film that Madonna and her cute husband completely screwed up but where her biceps looked amazing. But somehow scary, and yet she’s still fabulous, which is, of course, the mark of a great star. He picked her up like that Italian guy, like Marcello Mastroianni, and brought her inside the house, and somehow, Gracie was able to lift one limp, lifeless hand up to indicate “stairs” and “up”—and then he was holding her in his arms as he walked up the stairs, taking two at a time, not one, and Gracie became afraid, suddenly, for his health—after all, she was not Jaden’s size. We’re talking some weight here. I mean, I’m not a candidate for that new stomach surgery that the singer did—and she looks so great, but she always did have a beautiful face, let’s be real, Gracie thought, but I could lose, like, fifteen, twelve, seven pounds.
Gracie wondered why she always seemed to be revising everything, even life.Was this the burden of a frustrated writer?
He kicked open a door lightly (Gracie slightly worried about the scuff he would leave and how she would explain it to Joan) and carried her to the bed and set her down and looked at her. Gracie watched him looking at her and defined that look: He was looking at Gracie like she was a juicy piece of rib eye and he hadn’t eaten in weeks. But he was taking his time, enjoying that moment before you actually stick your fork in. That scintilla of anticipation—breathing in the aroma of the meat, appreciating its thickness, the cut, the color, he was appreciating the whole package. All the senses are alive in the penultimate, keyed up for the climactic moment. In other words, it was not a good time to hear the words “Gracie? Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
Followed by footsteps.
“Gracie?” Will was saying. “Are you playing hide-and-go-seek? Who sleeps at this hour?”
And then she heard him trip on the stairs.
“Blast!” she heard him say. “What a stupid place for stairs!”
Gracie looked at Clint (still her pet name for him) and he looked at her. She had no idea what to say, no idea what to do. She couldn’t stay there, and she couldn’t leave.
And then he smiled. His teeth were white but not that scary, bonded white, and the corners of his eyes were accented by a fan of wrinkles—
“Wow,” she said, “what a smile you have.”
He kissed her just as Will knocked on the door and peered in—
“Gracie?” he asked.
Gracie sat up on her elbows and looked over her shoulder while Clint stood by the bed.
She couldn’t help but notice all systems were go in his orange shorts.
Neither could Will as his eyes adjusted to the dark.
“Oh, madre mia!” Will said cheerily. “Did I interrupt something?”
“Not yet,” Gracie said, “but you could wait five minutes and come back. It could be even more interesting.”
“Hi, there,” Will said, looking Clint up and down and resting his eyes momentarily on the orange shorts. “I’m Will, and I’ll be your annoying intruder for the night.”
Clint shook his hand. Gracie could tell that Will was impressed by the whole package. He had to be—even Clint’s handshake belonged to that species of man who belonged on those old Marlboro billboards she’d loved as a child.
“And you are?” Will asked, flashing his most ingratiating, space-between-his-front-teeth smile, the one most often reserved for potential clients.
&nb
sp; “Sam,” the man said.“Sam Knight.”
“Like the Round Table or the hours between seven and midnight?” Will asked. “Actually ‘seven’ would be more like ‘evening’—but then ‘Sam Evening’ wouldn’t be a good name, now, would it?”
Gracie could tell Will’s excitement meter was off the charts; he could hardly keep his voice within a normal octave.
“Will,” Gracie admonished.
“I know, I know, but don’t you understand? It’s just too good, the whole thing, I have to know,” Will said.
“He’s drunk,” Gracie said, turning to the man whose name was to be deciphered. “You don’t have to answer him. Sam. Sam Knight.”
“Or, Sam Night?” Will asked. “And yes, I am drunk.”
“It’s like the Round Table,” Sam said, crossing his arms over his waist, but not because he felt defensive. He was trying not to reach out for Gracie. He knotted himself up to keep from grabbing her.
“Sam Knight,” Gracie said. “I like it.”
“It’s like a fairy tale,” Will said, “except the princess is going through a nasty divorce with a big fat loser who’s dating Britney Spears and living in the Colony.”
“It’s a Malibu fairy tale,” Gracie said.
Sam stood there, and Will stood there, and Gracie remained lying back on her elbows. For a moment the pause in the room became pregnant.
And then suddenly Will said, “Well, it was nice meeting you, Mr. Knight.”
“Sam’s fine. Or just Knight,” Sam said, shaking Will’s outstretched hand again.
“A thought just popped into my head,” Will said, looking Sam up and down. “A knight requires a sizable lance—”
“I don’t want you driving,” Gracie said.
“I have no intention of getting behind the wheel,” Will said. “I know what all these people have been doing in Malibu. You couldn’t force me to be out on PCH. Even though I know you’d like it …”
The Starter Wife Page 21