EQMM, May 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Still, I want to see her, even if we have to keep our clothes on. “Why don't you throw a dinner party this weekend?” I suggest. “A casual affair, a couple dozen of our regular crowd. It's better than nothing,” I blunder on, desperate to persuade her; I've gone off the deep end for her more than I'd realized. “The way things are now, I'll take half a loaf. One slice will be better than starving to death."

  "I don't know if that's such a good idea,” she says dubiously. “The lion and the lambs in one pen?” But in the next moment, she changes her mind. “Then again, maybe it will throw suspicion off us. Okay,” she decides. “Saturday night for dinner and whatever follows. Consider yourself invited."

  * * * *

  I've arrived at the Blue Dolphin before Sutpen. I plop down on my customary stool, the one that has the contours of my ass imprinted on it, and shred a cocktail napkin while Emily mixes my Manhattan. I order a draft Sierra Nevada along with the hard drink, to slow me down. I need to have my wits about me. Loose lips sink ships.

  In a few minutes the door swings open and Sutpen enters, a shadowy figure backlit by the afternoon sun. His drink arrives as his butt hits Naugahyde. “Hey,” he says in greeting, then immediately, tending to what's really important, he takes his first swallow of the day with a sensuality that's nakedly lascivious. I know the feeling.

  "This is what I live for,” he sighs contentedly. “This, and screwing over the less fortunate.” He turns on his stool to face me. “You're invited for dinner Saturday night. You and the rest of the usual suspects."

  I don't like that double entendre, even if it's innocuous. Maybe it isn't. Either way, I have to play it straight. “Clara called in my invitation this afternoon,” I confirm. “Is this a special occasion?"

  He rolls his eyes. “Just Clara being social. Rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic, is how I see it.” He smiles wickedly. “Who knows? Maybe lover-boy will show up."

  "If he did, how would you know?” I ask. “Or do you have an actual candidate now?” I add, blowing more air into an already overinflated balloon. I'm scared to hear his answer, but I have to.

  He shakes his head. “Not yet, but I'm getting closer. I can taste it, Kevin,” he says with bloodthirsty glee, as if he's about to bite into a rare porterhouse. “And screw that adage about revenge tasting better when it's cold. I want this to be sizzling, burning.” He raises his glass in toast. “To vindication, and completion,” he proclaims.

  "Hear, hear,” I reply.

  We knock off our drinks, and line up the glasses for the next round.

  * * * *

  At times like this, work keeps me sane. I'm a partner in a small architectural firm. We do the occasional institutional or commercial building, but new homes, condo developments, and remodels are our bread and butter. Money has been pouring into this area over the past ten years, and everyone connected with construction has been living off the fat of the land.

  It's Saturday afternoon. Today is one of those days when it would have been really useful if I could clone myself. I've been at the office since seven-thirty this morning. Saturday's my time for catching up on the paperwork that piles up on my desk during the week. It's a Sisyphean effort. Then, while I'm still burping up the residual effects of the Taco Bell lunch I ate at my desk, one of my clients calls in a panic. She has to see me, on site, now.

  I drive over to see the site, which is in Montecito, the small, ultra-exclusive enclave east of the city of Santa Barbara that is home to the ten-million-dollar teardown. Hattie Winestock, my distressed client, is an attractive, rich widow in her mid fifties. If I was a bit older or she a tad younger I'd hit on her. She sold the house in Hope Ranch that she and her husband had lived in for twenty-five years and is renting at Miramar Beach while building her new one. I don't know that building a house from scratch, with all the angst you have to go through, was a wise choice for a woman her age, but it wasn't my decision. She wanted a new house that was free of emotional encumbrances, and so she shall have one.

  Her parcel is a little under two acres. The front section is wooded, tall firs and eucalyptus. We're building the house in the back of the property so we can save most of the trees, which have the elevated value around here that cows have in India. In this case, saving the trees is practical; they'll provide privacy and separation from her neighbors, and act as a buffer against traffic. Even though it's going to be a pretty big house, 4,700 square feet, no one will be able to see it. It'll be like living in a cottage in the forest, except that the shops and restaurants of the Upper Village are less than five minutes away.

  "What's up, pussycat?” she greets me as I get out of my car. She's smiling, but I see worry lines around her eyes. Her dog, an exuberant chocolate Lab bitch named Maxie, runs circles around me, barking her own greeting.

  "Same old,” I answer noncommittally, as I scratch Maxie behind the ears. Rule number one: Don't let clients into your personal life. They don't really care, and you leave yourself vulnerable to their needs, which are usually more imaginary than real. When you're rich like these people, you have a lot of time on your hands to worry about what can go wrong. Although in all honesty, Hattie isn't one of those people. Which is why I came right over.

  "So what's wrong?” I ask her. She wouldn't have intruded on my Saturday afternoon if she didn't have a legitimate problem.

  "Come on,” she answers. “I'll show you.” She bites her lip. “Maybe you should bring your camera."

  That doesn't sound good. I grab my digital Canon out of the glove box and follow her. We walk along the driveway her contractor has bulldozed through the property to provide access to the homesite. Actual construction hasn't started yet, the job's still in the grading stage. Next month, if all goes well (knock wood), they'll begin setting the foundation, tons of concrete and rebar to satisfy the earthquake standards. The plan is to have the foundation completed and signed off on before the start of the rainy season, so that work can continue during the winter months. If the builder falls behind schedule, everything may have to be put on hold until spring. No one wants that. Time is money, you don't want a job sitting around idle. And it's psychologically hard on the owner to stop. Contractors do everything under the sun they can to avoid that.

  With Maxie leading the way, we emerge from the trees into the cleared area. “There,” Hattie says, pointed a manicured finger. “What's that?"

  On the southwest corner, right under what someday will be the master bedroom, there's a massive hole in the ground, a good fifteen feet in diameter. It wasn't there last week.

  "Damn it to hell,” I mutter under my breath.

  "What did you say, Kevin?” Hattie asks fretfully.

  "Nothing, Hattie. Wait here."

  I walk over to the hole and look down into it. It's at least twenty feet deep. The dirt at the bottom is wet. Squatting down, I take some pictures. They're dark, but after I leave here I'll go back to the office and download them into my computer, where I can tweak them to get a better look. Then on Monday, I'll send a photographer out to take professional ones, for the record. But I can see the damage well enough to know what the problem is.

  I walk back to my client. She's already shaking her head in anticipation. “That can't be good,” she proclaims. “So what is it?"

  "It's a sinkhole."

  Her brow furrows. “What caused it?"

  "I don't know,” I tell her. “I'll call a geologist Monday morning who specializes in underground water problems, get him to come out here. Didn't you do a geological survey before you bought it?” I'm worried that there's an underground stream running through the property that no one ever knew about. If there is, it's back to the drawing board.

  "I think so,” she says, uncertain. “I'll call the broker. She was supposed to handle all that.” She shakes her head in frustration. “So this sinkhole. What does it mean?"

  "I don't know. I can't tell, until the geologist looks at it."

  "Is it going to hold us up?"

  I can't bullshit
her about this. She's a tough bird, thankfully. “Yes,” I answer. “Hopefully not for very long. But the county's going to get involved."

  She groans. That's the worst news a home-builder can hear. Even a small, easily fixable problem like a ruptured water line can be stalled for months by the county bureaucracy. And I don't think this is a small problem.

  We walk back to our cars. “I'm sorry,” I tell her. I really am. She's a nice woman, who's suffered more than enough recently.

  "It's only a house,” she says philosophically. “I've been through worse."

  "I'll call you Monday,” I sign off. “We'll get this straightened out."

  She thanks me. I hope I haven't made a hollow promise.

  * * * *

  I download the pictures of the trouble at Hattie's project into my PowerBook. We won't know how dire this is until the geologist looks at it, but I have to be prepared for the worst, which could mean having to move the building site to another part of the property, redesigning the project altogether, or, worst-case scenario, abandoning it and suing the previous owner. I pray none of those is the case, but I'm not fooling myself; it's going to be bad.

  I've cracked a bottle of Lafond Pinot Noir, the Santa Rita Hills designation, and I sip the wine from a Riedel burgundy glass as I try various riffs on the theme that is the Winestock house. I'm a snob when it comes to stemware. The proper wineglass enhances the specific characteristics of the varietal, and allows one to feel as if one is engaged in an ancient and noble enterprise, instead of merely getting besotted. Drinking wine with others, critiquing and comparing, is being sociable. Drinking wine by yourself is getting drunk.

  My cell phone rings. Without checking to see who's on Caller ID, I answer it: “This is Kevin."

  "I know who this is,” Sutpen barks over the line. “The question is, where is Kevin?"

  I'm about to say, “At my office, idiot, and what does it matter?” when I look up at the clock on the wall. Quarter after seven? How did it get so late all of a sudden?

  "I had an emergency. With a client,” I add, as if that legitimizes my faux pas. “What time is dinner, anyway? Not till eight, right?"

  "Dinner is at eight, jerkoff, but have you never heard the expression ‘cocktail hour,’ which started at seven? There's twenty people here. You're the only one who hasn't shown. Which is not making my wife happy, since you're one of my few friends she can tolerate. When the little lady invites someone over for dinner and cocktails, and he doesn't show, she gets her dander up. You know how she can be, man."

  I do. I also know this party was my idea, a chance for me to share an evening with Clara, even if all we can do is look longingly at each other from across a crowded room. Well, I've blown that. Whatever looks I get from her when I show up won't be lovey-dovey, I don't think.

  "I was just heading out the door. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops. Should I bring anything?"

  "Just get over here."

  He hangs up before I can say anything else in my defense, which is a good thing, because I don't have one.

  I'm wearing volleyball shorts, a ragged T-shirt, and I haven't shaved or showered since yesterday morning. I lock up the office, jump into my car, and drive like a bandit to my house, where I clean up quicker than Speedy Gonzales. Grabbing a peace offering of ‘94 Caymus Special Selection Cabernet out of my wine cellar, I haul ass to Sutpen's house on the Riviera.

  At ten minutes to eight, I'm at their door, which I enter without knocking. Sutpen and I don't bother with such formalities. He has the same carte blanche at my house. If you can't trust your best friend, who can you trust?

  The party is rocking along nicely. About two dozen guests, mostly couples, a few stray singles like me. I know almost everybody here, so I meet and greet as I make my way to the kitchen to see my inamorata, who will be putting the final touches on her culinary masterpieces. On top of everything else, the woman can cook up a storm. Sutpen's a lucky man. Most of the time, I envy him.

  The host waylays me in the pantry, where he's mixing up a pitcher of his famous martinis. “Finally!” he announces dramatically. His face is flushed. He's his own best customer. “The Iceman Cometh."

  "What can I say? I'm sorry. Here.” I thrust the bottle of wine at him. “A peace offering."

  He looks at the bottle and smiles broadly. “This is Parker-rated ninety-five!” He makes an approximation of the sign of the cross in front of my face. “All is forgiven, my son.” He opens a cabinet over his head and tucks the bottle away. “This is too good to share with the heathens,” he whispers conspiratorially. “I'll save it for when it's just the three of us, or four, if you ever find a lady to your liking,” he says. He thumbs towards the kitchen. “Go make your amends."

  Clara's at the stove, her back to me. I come up behind her and tickle her ribs. She jumps. Turning around, she scowls when she sees it's me.

  "Thanks for coming,” she says acidly.

  "Mea culpa." I take a step back. “You look wonderful. As always, but even better."

  I'm practically drooling, staring at her. She's dressed to kill, fancier than the other women here, who are wearing summer-casual dresses and slacks. Her dress, protected from splatters by a chef's apron, is a slinky black sheath with a leg slit almost up to her hip. She's in high heels, her best pair of Manolo's, which she wears when she really wants to showcase those terrific legs. She's even wearing stockings, real ones, with seams. Her hair is up in a French twist, and she's dabbed some exotic perfume behind her ears I've never smelled on her before. It takes considerable will-power not to lean over and bite her neck.

  "You're totally gorgeous,” I babble. I feel like a nerdy high-school senior who lucked out and got the homecoming queen to be his prom date. “I'll make it up to you, Clara. Whatever you want."

  She cocks her head, as if thinking. Then she says, “Take me away from all this."

  "Take you away...” My brain's a few beats behind the action. “Clara.” I look behind me nervously, to see if anyone's overheard this. But no one has; we're alone. “This isn't..."

  "Kevin. Lighten up. Do you think I'd say that seriously? Here? Now?"

  "I don't know what to think.” The first completely honest sentence I've said today. “This has been a tough time for me."

  Her face softens. “For me, too.” She brandishes the ladle in her hand. “Go out and be charming,” she orders me. “I need to finish up in here."

  She blows me a kiss and goes back to her cooking. I stand there for a moment, staring at her back, her ass, those incredible legs. Then I turn away and join the party.

  * * * *

  Sutpen, his spirits fueled by multiple martinis, steers me over to a man about our age who's standing by himself, apart from the others. He's one of the few guests I don't know. Tall, thin, looks like he'd rather be somewhere else but will make the best of a tolerable situation. He's kind of a Sam Shepard type, if you had to categorize him. The middle of the summer, he's wearing jeans and cowboy boots; expensive ones, hand-tooled. A half-drunk bottle of Corona dangles loosely from his fingers.

  "Kevin, say hello to Tom Parks,” Sutpen introduces us. “Tom, this is my comrade-in-arms, Kevin Lomax.” He smiles too broadly; the gin's working. “Clara and I met Tom and his wife a couple of years ago, at Telluride,” he explains to me. “You're the only two unattached guys here tonight, so watch out,” he warns us with a malicious grin. “There are predatory married women afoot who would love to use you to take out their marital frustrations with their husbands. You are thus forewarned.” He claps me on the arm and laughs, a real belly guffaw. “Catch you on the rebound."

  He drifts away, stranding me with this man no one else here knows. The two of us stand next to each other with a certain awkwardness. I can't think of anything to say to him, and I don't know if there's any significance to his wife's not being here. Beyond that, there's something about him that's off-putting. It's the packaging, I guess. The jeans and boots in the middle of summer, in a city where nobod
y wears them—you have to go forty miles into north country to find cowboys, not that he is one. And the way he holds his bottle of beer feels phony, like it's a prop.

  Fortunately, I'm rescued by Tony Matheson's wife, Becky, who's on the board of every do-gooder organization in town.

  "I've been meaning to catch up with you, Kevin,” she trills above the din, linking her arm in mine. “I'm starting up a new project, and you're exactly the man to help me. Excuse us,” she tosses at Parks as she leads me away.

  Bottles of whiskey and wine are lined up on a chiffonier in the living room. I pour myself a shot of fifteen-year-old Macallan. Becky hovers at my elbow. “Who is he?” she whispers hoarsely.

  "Who?"

  "The man you were talking with."

  I glance over my shoulder. Parks is standing where we left him. But he isn't alone now. Clara is next to him, engaging him in conversation. He's listening attentively.

  "I don't know,” I answer. “Some friend of Sutpen and Clara's. Why?"

  "Just curious,” she says. She's staring at him over my shoulder. “He's cute. He isn't wearing a wedding ring,” she observes from afar.

  "Your point being?” I'm looking at Clara, hoping to catch her eye, but she's engrossed with this new guy. As she talks to him, she reaches out and touches his forearm with the tips of her fingers. He smiles at whatever she's told him, and leans in closer to her.

  I can feel my body flushing with jealousy. Who the hell is this guy, what's he doing here, and what's his relationship to my hosts?

  I drink some scotch to calm myself. The man is here by himself, he doesn't know anyone, Clara is being kind. What other explanation could there be?

  I turn away from watching them, to Becky. “So what's this new scheme you want to inveigle me in?” I tease her.

  "We can talk about it later.” She drifts away.

  She was dishing for dirt about the mysterious stranger and I couldn't provide it, so I'm of no use to her. Which is fine with me. I don't like gossip. It's a petty form of communication. And it's usually hurtful, full of schadenfreude and gamesmanship.