by Gail Mencini
25
Fort Collins, Colorado
Hope wondered when she first knew she had a lousy marriage. I’m forty-five now, she thought, so it’s been fifteen, or maybe twenty years? It had been after Erica, her daughter, was born. That’s all Hope remembered, because she had buried most of those early memories of Charlie’s meanness.
“You’re the hostess tonight,” Charlie said. Her husband stood inside their bedroom; his hands rested on his hips and he spread his legs wide in a fortress of opposition. “You should be downstairs, mingling.”
Hope turned away from the mirror and dropped her comb to the counter. “I came upstairs because I had something in my eye. I took the chance to pee while I was up here.” Her stomach burned. She ducked around him to the hallway and scurried down the stairs as if she were a child caught snitching cookies an hour before dinner.
“Try to restrain yourself at dinner,” Charlie said to her retreating back. “I don’t want you making a pig of yourself. Grant’s mother won’t stuff her face. And take it easy on the wine, too. You don’t want anyone to think you’re a lush.”
Hope cringed. A sharp stab of pain hit her gut. She bit back the words that soured her tongue. At the base of the stairs, Hope stopped. She composed her lips into her best smile and walked outside to join the party.
Grant stood in a pack with his groomsmen under the oak tree. The men’s voices were low, but their leers at the bridesmaids were as obvious as if they were shouting. Hope’s face tingled with heat. Grant, the ringleader, dangled a cigar from his hand. Hope watched him bring it to the corner of his mouth, gangster-like. She shuddered.
Erica, sweet and glowing in her pink summer sundress, skipped past her mother to join her fiancé. Hope stared at her daughter, who cuddled next to Grant. Erica kissed him on the cheek and linked her arm in his.
Grant turned to look down at her, the girl a head shorter and not much more than half his width. “Not now,” he said, loud enough for Hope to hear. “Can’t you see I’m with my buddies? Christ, I’m going to have my whole life with you.”
Erica backed away. One step, then two.
Grant returned the cigar to his mouth and dismissed his bride-to-be with a flick of his fingers. He nodded at the most voluptuous bridesmaid. Gesturing for his friends, Grant raised his hands in tandem and twisted imaginary breasts; he cackled loud enough to make the bridesmaid turn around. The girl flushed crimson and scampered in retreat to the bar.
Hope’s mouth gaped open. Her daughter had seen everything. Erica turned and stumbled away from Grant.
Hope intercepted her and wrapped one stout arm around her daughter. “Hey, pumpkin,” Hope said. “Want to go inside and talk?”
Erica brushed her mother’s arm aside. She turned around with slow deliberation. “Mom, this is my rehearsal dinner.” Erica gulped. “I ... I’ve got people to see. You know, socialize.” Her shoulders straightened. “Thank them for coming.”
Good Lord, she’s just like me. Hope nodded. She lowered her voice. “What about Grant?”
Hope saw calm acceptance take command of the young face. Erica’s hand flicked away the accusation as if it were a fly. “He’s only being a guy.” Her chin rose. “You ought to know. He’s just like Dad.” Without waiting for a reply, she waltzed to the table of seated guests. Erica draped her arms over the shoulders of her future in-laws and bent to kiss them each on the cheek.
Another fiery bullet shot through Hope. She forced her eyes wide to halt the tears. Hope picked at her food during the dinner. Her first catered dinner party in years. Charlie liked it when Hope cooked for their parties; somehow, her culinary skills became his accomplishment.
Since they lived out of town, Grant’s parents had asked Hope to work with the caterer. But now, she couldn’t even enjoy the meal she had taken such care in selecting. She pushed aside the green beans, “crunchy haricots verts with fresh dill,” as the caterer called them. The “herb-crusted sea bass resting on a swirl of beurre blanc”—delicious at her tasting—sat cold before her.
The bridal couple sat across the table from Hope and Charlie. A line of empty glasses stood in front of Grant’s plate. Hope had watched his beer consumption increase throughout the night.
Grant stood up and rapped his fork against an empty beer bottle. “Thank you all for coming.” Leering at Erica, Grant hauled her to her feet by slinging one arm behind her back and under her armpit. Grant grinned at his buddies. His eyes bugged out; a sloppy half-sneer crossed his face. “I’m happy you came, and I’m happy to now be able to do this,” he grabbed Erica’s breast with the hand lodged under her arm, “in public.”
Hope heard the horrified gasp from Erica’s godmother. She elbowed Charlie for assistance.
Charlie rose in slow motion. He clapped one hand to Hope’s shoulder. His vise-like grip ratcheted down on her, making her flinch. “Grant, we know you’re excited to be marrying my beautiful, intelligent daughter. A toast to the happy couple.” Charlie lifted his glass of wine in Grant’s direction, which prompted the young man to release Erica’s breast and reach for his beer.
Erica slumped back on her chair. A glare from her future hubby sent her scrambling for her wineglass. Erica stood up. She kissed Grant’s cheek and clinked his glass. She brought her glass to her mouth. Hope watched her daughter return the glass to the table without the wine even touching her lips.
A foul lump lodged in the back of Hope’s mouth. She forced it down. Her hand reached for her wineglass but stopped short, remembering Charlie’s admonitions. Her fingers curled into a fist and dropped to her side. Erica had learned her lessons well.
26
Fort Collins, Colorado
The invitation to the reunion sat open on the kitchen table between Charlie and Hope.
Charlie pushed his large, hairy hands against the thick maple table. “I can’t believe you’d even consider this. You can’t go without me. It’d be ludicrous. And then there’s the matter of the company picnic. We always host it the fourth weekend in September. Always.”
Hope lowered her head and her voice. “Maybe we could have an Oktoberfest this year.”
Charlie’s palms pressed harder against the table, his fingers turning a splotchy red. Tension rippled up his arms. “You can’t go.” He sneered at her over the table. “You traveling alone? You’d get lost.”
She felt like she was facing her father rather than her husband. “You forget. I made this trip alone before.”
“The world is different now. I can’t believe you’d even want to go if I wasn’t along. It’s ridiculous.”
Hope studied his balding head, the only place on his body where the thick mat of hair had disappeared. She spoke in an even, quiet tone. “It was a remarkable time for all of us. A key part of our college evolution. We were the best of friends.”
“Right. And how many of these great friends have you kept in touch with?”
Hope’s stomach flopped over on itself. After their marriage, Charlie’s friends had become her friends.
“It’s settled, then.” He reached for the trip itinerary and invitation to Italy. “Maybe we can cash this in for my Canadian fishing trip or something.”
Hope’s hand darted to the papers for Italy. “No.” She flipped them into her lap. “Let’s wait a little. Sit on the decision.”
Charlie pushed up from the table. “You’re not going. Now give me that.” He motioned to the invitation.
Hope clutched the papers in her hand. She ran upstairs to the bathroom and locked herself in. She sat on the closed toilet lid and dropped her head to her hands.
The brass door lever jiggled.
“God damn it. Open the door.” Charlie wiggled the lever again. His voice grew louder. “You should know by now. You can’t solve problems by running away. That’s why your business failed. Why you don’t have any friends.”
Hope studied the wrought-iron shelf in the corner. It held a scented candle, a faded silk flower arrangement purchased at the school’s auction when Erica w
as a senior, and one spare roll of toilet paper, the ends of the tissue folded into a point. Seashells from the previous summer’s reward trip to the Caribbean leaned against each other at jaunty angles, yet even they couldn’t disguise the lack of personal touches in the room.
Everything in this house was a prop—an orchestrated prop in the life she had designed for Charlie.
“What? Are you so worthless you can’t even talk?” Charlie thwacked his hand against the door. “What is it? You think one of those old farts is going to think you’re beautiful and charming? It’ll take five minutes for everyone to see you for what you are—a fat, do-nothing housewife who’s lived on the gravy train of her husband’s hard work.”
Hope bit the inside of her lip. She closed her eyes to force back the sting of his words. You’re worthless. You’re fat. You’re hopeless. She steeled herself against the pain. Pain—that’s what he wants. To hurt her. Hurt her where no one else can see it.
“You want to go to Italy? I’ll tell you what’ll happen.”
Hope visualized him leaning in closer to the door. She suspected that a sneer marked his face.
“You’ll go with your unrealistic hopes and wild ideas of a charmed reunion. But some won’t show up. Why? Because they have a life. They’re successful. Happy. So who makes the schlep to Italy? A couple of fat, balding old farts, either losers looking for an easy lay or con men after a quick financial score with a rich widow or a divorcee who earned her dough the old-fashioned way—on her back.”
Hope slumped off the toilet onto the floor, her back to the door as if she could turn off his litany.
“Enter Hope—fat, hopeless, a dame with no skills and only the money her hard-working husband gives her.”
Hope’s hand stifled a sob. He was right.
“Here you have a home. A purpose. You’re my wife. We have a life that works. If you go, you’ll be ignored by the men and jealous of the women who are skinny, the ones focused on catching a new victim.”
Her eyes bore into the itinerary in her hand. “A Firenze Reunion” in beautiful cream script danced across the top. Delicate, graceful and screaming with confidence. Everything she wasn’t. Maybe Charlie was right. Maybe she shouldn’t go.
“Hope.” Charlie’s voice had softened to a coaxing tone. “Open the door. Let’s put this foolishness behind us. If you don’t want me to use the money from the ticket, fine. I won’t. We could fly Grant, Erica, and the kids here with that money.”
Hope studied the itinerary. First class to Florence. Not just the overseas segment, but the entire flight, starting in Denver. Someone wanted her presence enough to spend a small fortune on this ticket.
“We’ll talk about how best to use the money. I’ll let you have input. OK? Now I have to go. My tee time with Bob is at ten, and I don’t want to be late. I’m going to tell him we’re on for hosting the company picnic again in September as usual.”
She heard him start down the stairs, then retrace his steps; he stood again outside her fortress door. “I’ll be home at eight tonight. We’re going to have a couple beers after our round, but you can plan dinner for me then.”
Hope studied the pale beige tones of the seashells she had brought to add life to this room. White, tan, beige. She thought of the clay-colored dome of the Duomo in Florence and the colors in the market. Three or four shades of green—artichoke, arugula, and fava beans. Ruby Roma tomatoes lined up in perfect formation. Purple eggplants the color of royalty. Pale yellow beans nestled next to golden squash. Hope remembered the tiny wine grapes kissed with dew.
Her thumb rubbed the glossy brochure that came with the itinerary. She looked down at her hand. The words printed on the slick paper seemed to swim before her eyes, never quite legible.
The girl inside her, long forgotten, screamed in protest. The girl from Colorado who had journeyed alone all the way to Italy for a summer. The very same girl who had made great friends because she had brimmed with confidence and embraced adventure.
That girl wanted to go. That girl needed to go.
27
Los Angeles, California
Rune stood underneath the marquee, two blocks off Hollywood and a world away from success. He waited for Steven. Rune wished the management had fixed the sign. The dinner theater’s marquee advertising his current production read “Pha–t–m of the –p–ra.” God knew where the missing letters had gone. He was grateful to Steven for agreeing to meet him at all.
Rune watched a red-and-yellow, jumbo-sized fast-food cup roll along the sidewalk, pushed by the wind. His latest script must have some merit, or Steven wouldn’t have agreed to meet him, right?
A yellow Lamborghini swerved to the curb beside him. The rumbling engine cut, leaving a sudden sound void in the early morning air. Rune’s ears focused on the scraping roll of the empty cup and the click of the Lamborghini’s door releasing.
Steven, dressed in blue jeans, T-shirt, and sandals, slid out of the car as if he owned the city, not just a fine driving machine. He tossed a crisp script at Rune.
Rune caught the script. It looked as if it hadn’t even been opened. No crease marked the edge to indicate someone had read it. He jutted his chin forward. “Great, huh?”
“It sucks. Just like the last twenty you insisted I look at.” Steven gazed up at the marquee. “Phat?” He chuckled at his own joke, and then brought his eyes to meet Rune’s. “What the hell happened to you, man?” He shook his head. “I read your crap because of Mick. The three of us were friends. But you know what? Those days are gone. I saw Mick yesterday. He’s in the hospital. First it was hepatitis, now he’s got liver cancer. Poor sucker.”
With one foot inside the car, Steven narrowed his eyes. “I won’t walk across the street for you, let alone read or, God forbid, finance your projects. I lost a fortune the last time I invested in your films. Not anymore. Stick to rundown dinner theater and call yourself lucky anybody still wants you.” He slid into the car and roared away.
Only the scrape of the cup against the sidewalk remained.
An hour later, Rune sat at the laminate-topped table in his furnished studio apartment. Grime-filled knife cuts from previous tenants marred the table’s surface, where unpaid bills fanned out in front of him. Directing dinner theater was hardly lucrative.
Rent. Car payment. Medical bills. He could cover only one, even if he reverted to college days and ate nothing more than a cup of noodles for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, with an occasional fast-food burger. He shoved the bills away from him. He shifted on the metal-framed chair and stared out the dirty window at the building across the alley.
His cellphone rang. Rune answered it without looking at the number. The woman who jabbered at him on the phone made no sense. He asked her to repeat her request.
“When would you like to come in for more tests?”
Tests? Bits of her words punched him.
“Several of the biopsy sites were suspicious for malignancy.”
It was as if a kid with a toy gun had fired plastic darts at him. Rune could only focus on bits and pieces of what the woman said. Pop. As if a toy dart had hit him, he registered a phrase.
“An operation will be necessary.”
Pop.
“Possible issues with impotence.”
Rune dropped the cellphone to his lap. This was it. The Big “C.” He had cancer.
His hand rubbed over his chest. Hearing this kind of shit could give a person a heart attack, he thought. Papers in his breast pocket crinkled under his fingers. He pulled out the folded card. The reunion invitation.
His knuckles smacked the table. The invitation slipped from his fingers. Rune’s eyes bounced between the invitation and the mocking, unpaid bills.
He straightened in his chair, flipped open his temperamental old laptop, logged into his bank website, and studied the numbers once more. Rune’s eyes swept the studio apartment, imprinting the faded colors in his mind.
No money. No insurance. And now, since paying rent was only
a pipe dream, no place to live.
28
Newport Beach, California
Sweaty and flushed from three sets of outdoor tennis, Phillip eased the Porsche convertible onto his Newport Beach driveway. After besting last year’s senior club champion, he planned a few laps in the pool before showering and dressing for the biggest night of his life.
Half a dozen pickups and one flatbed trailer jammed the drive, all labeled with the name of the area’s premier construction company. An enormous blue Dumpster camped in the extra parking spots. The pounding of jackhammers and buzzing of saws filled the normally serene air.
Plastic draped the foyer of the sprawling ranch home; cardboard covered the white marble floor. Phillip followed the sound of the jackhammers to the rear of the house. Plastic drapes hung everywhere.
He exited the house through the bank of sliding glass doors and found the source of the noise, or most of it, at least. No swim today. Fractured slabs of the pool’s concrete littered the backyard. Phillip stomped over to the apparent supervisor, a man who wore a golf shirt and carried a clipboard. Designer sunglasses covered the man’s eyes.
“What’s going on here?” Phillip had to shout over the noise.
The man extended a tanned hand to Phillip. “Are you Mr. Krueger? Nice to meet you. Harvey Casson.”
Phillip looked around. Dust flew everywhere. “What the hell’s going on?”
One cool eyebrow lifted on Harvey’s face. “I guess Angel wanted to surprise you.”
Phillip spoke with precise words. “Where is my wife?”
Harvey lifted one hand and gestured to the house.
Phillip stormed back inside. He found her in the exercise room, decked out in skintight white shorts and a sports bra. The music video channel played on a television. It entertained her while she pumped the elliptical machine. The vertical blinds that covered the plate glass windows facing the pool stood open.