Adventures with Max and Louise (35 page)

Chas tugs the covers over his shorts and laughs, because we’re both thinking the same thing. “Well, there goes that.” He chuckles and takes my hand. “Listen, Molly, I’m glad you told me. Really I am. It sounds like a great epiphany, and I’m honored that you wanted to tell me. And I’d love to hear more . . .” He checks his watch as if he’s read my mind. “After that Food Fest thing. Maybe we can come back here for a nightcap and talk, huh? God, I’m starved.” He hops off the bed, waiting for me to stand, which I do, reluctantly. He makes the bed, smoothing the edges, putting three silk dupioni pillows just so. Something about him making the bed sets me off.

What’s the rush to Food Fest?
“We’re late, but you have time to make the bed?”

He tucks his shirt in. “Yeah, I’m kind of anal that way. If you want to wash up, the bathroom’s right there.”
He can’t wait to get rid of me.

“I can see that. I’ve been here before, remember?”

He sits down, pats the bed. I won’t sit. “Yes, I remember. You made us a great meal. Please sit.” He pats again. “This thing’s way too new for you to be that irritated with me. Wait till you really know me. Come on,” he pats the bed in a friendly way, but his voice has an edge to match mine.

“This thing? You mean, this thing called my spilling my guts to you when you want to have sex? Is that what this is about?” My voice quivers.

“Slow down, slow down, luvey,” Max urges.

“Shut up,” I snap, too upset to remember not to talk to Max. I clap my hand over my mouth.

Chas stands up with deliberate slowness, his hands raised in defeat. “Whoa, lady, I know you got a heavy load, and I also know that was a lot of heavy shit to deal with, but there is no reason to tell me to shut up.”

“I know, I know . . .” How can I get this over with dignity? “I’m sorry!” I squeak before darting into the bathroom in my jeans, still clutching the pillow. I slam the door and turn on the water so he won’t hear me cry. “I’m sorry!” I holler. There’s a knock at the door. “What is it?”

“Your clothes.” To his credit, he doesn’t sound angry.

“Thank you.” Opening the door, I hold out my hand. He places my T-shirt and bra in my hands. I hand him the pillow. At least I didn’t get the bright idea for a heart to heart while I was completely naked. While I’m getting dressed, I fight the urge to ignore my watch and professional obligations in lieu of locking myself in Chas’s bathroom for a while. It’s as nice as his bedroom, and I could really use a shower.

Max blabs on. “Awrighty then, this is a bust. I never loiked the guy. I could tell from the get-go ’e was just lookin’ for a quickie.”

“Hush, parasite number 1,” Louise advises.

“If I’m number 1, then that makes you number 2, and in this country that means you’re—”

I interrupt as I press a wet washcloth to my puffy eyes. “I’m sorry I called you names. I didn’t mean it.”

“Yes, you did, sweetie. It’s all right. It’s just all right,” Louise soothes.

I wipe the mascara from beneath my eyes. I just want to get Food Fest over with and go to bed.

“I ’ave a bloody good prank to play on this -bloke,” Max chimes in. “You soap ’is shower, slippery as the devil but thin enough so’s ’e can’t see it, then when ’e comes in for a nice scrub up, boom, next thing you know, ’e’s on his arse!” He chuckles merrily.

“Very sophisticated,” Louise observes dryly.

“Thanks, Max.” I open the bathroom door. “I’m just not in the mood for pranks.”

Chas nearly collapses on me because his big fat ear is pressed to the door. “Oh, I, uh, was just making sure you were okay,” he stutters, grabbing the door frame.

“Right.” I scoop up my belt from the bed.

“Grab some Kleenex from the bathroom,” Louise advises. I take the whole box.

He trails me as I stride through the oversized living room.
Goodbye cool galley kitchen with the city view. I’ll never get to use you again. He’ll pick up another non-cooking bimbo soon, I’m sure.

“Look, I know I didn’t act very well back there. I would blame it on hormones but I don’t know . . . in my family, we just don’t talk about stuff like that. We bury things. I mean, my first reaction is to freeze right up,” he says. “I’m sorry. I really am. Do you still want me to go to Food Fest? I get it if you don’t.”

I spin on my heels, knowing this is the place to have a Rhett Butler moment.
Frankly, Chas, I don’t give a damn.
But it isn’t in me. “Thank you. I know. We’re like that too,” my polite Catholic self utters.
But you rise above it, dude. Or at least try.
“I’m really tired, and I have to focus, so maybe not . . .”

He takes my hand and pulls me in for a forced, stiff hug. “Okay, well, I know the third time is supposed to be a charm, but how about a fourth?” He rubs circles on my back.

Emotionally, I’m shot.
Is it really supposed to be this hard?
“Good night, Chas. Thank you for understanding.” Suddenly, I know I’ll have my moment because I’ve thought of the perfect thing to say. I lean toward him and pat him on the arm. “I’ll call you,” I say with my phoniest smile.

His face flushes red, as if he’s been slapped. I bet he’s never heard those three little words from any woman. I squeeze his arm and turn quickly away. “Wait!” he says as I press the elevator button. I turn back, thinking he’s going to plead, and it will be deliciously sweet.

“I just have to know,” he asks as the elevator door opens. “Who were you talking to in the bathroom?” He cocks his head like a curious puppy.

I open my mouth to answer him, but instead I just wave the box of Kleenex as the elevator doors slide shut. I make no attempt to stop them because I have no idea what to say.

Chapter Thirty-One

I
AM SHIVERING
on the sidewalk outside Chas’s condo waiting for a cab. All I can think about is a long, steamy shower, wrapping myself in thick towels, and feeling clean. I need my dress. Shit, my beautiful new, sexy dress. It’s hanging in Chas’s coat closet, collateral damage. Nothing will make me go back into that condo with its potted palms and staggering view. Maybe he does have a messed up family but don’t we all? Part of me feels that this is Chas, and I should give him another shot. The rewards could be enormous. Another part of me just feels relief. There is one undisputable fact: so far this night has been a disaster.

Once I am in the cab, safely headed home, I notice darkness spreading over the city, the ominous clouds rolling in thick and heavy over Elliott Bay. Trying to concentrate on the details of the dinner ahead of me, I wish I had my cell phone. I can’t focus.
Carolyn Augusten, the tennis team girl, I remember!
The night my mother died, and all he remembers is his hot date. I can see the look on his face as he visibly recoiled. I trusted him. That’s what hurts the most. Maybe if I’d been through this before or not talked to Wolf, I’d be more resilient. As things stand, I’m overwhelmed.

“You were right, Louise,” I whisper. “He is a dumb ass.” I start to cry.

“He’s not, honey,” Louise says. “He’s human.”

Sobbing, I sputter, “He was more interested in you two than he was in me!” The cabbie eyes me. Grabbing a wad of Kleenex, I do my best to clean up my tear-stained, puffy face.

“Stop crying. Your face is gonna look like a banana cream pie with lipstick,” Louise warns. “I know this didn’t work out the way you planned, first time outta the gate and all, but, honey, you have to look forward. You have your work; you have your cookbook . . .”

“What an idiot. I should have known he didn’t like me for my cooking,” I inhale deeply, willing myself to stop crying. It doesn’t work.

“Yes, he did. He still likes you, honey,” Louise says. “Who knows, maybe it’ll work out still. You just give it time.”

“I never liked the bloke,” Max says.

“Shush now,” Louise says. “Leave her space to think.”

I
STEP FROM
the cab, frail as straw, relieved to be home. I am fumbling with the keys to the front door when Dad surprises me by opening the door. “There’s my girl!”

“Holy shit!” I scream. I can’t take one more surprise today, good or bad.

“Holy shit to you too, sweetie.” He kisses me on the cheek. “What happened to you?” Pulling me inside the house, he sits me down in the living room. His shirttails dangle from his slacks, a tie slung loosely around his neck. He smells of the Fendi cologne Trina gave him for Christmas. I miss Old Spice.

“You look nice,” I say.

He cocks his head, parental radar flashing. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, Dad, it’s Chas.” Tears gush down my cheeks. I press my fingers against my puffy eyes and shake my head sadly.

Dad sits down beside me and drapes an arm around my shaking shoulders. “Ah, hon, I’m sorry. I know you thought he was somethin’ special. To tell ya the truth, I always thought he was a sniveling little rich kid; an Eddie Haskell type.”

“How come you never told me?” I left Chas’s Kleenex in the cab. Dad runs down the hall to the bathroom and returns with a length of toilet paper.

“Oh, you know, your mom had all these ideas about kids learning through their own mistakes. She stopped me a couple of times from beaning a couple of those jerks Trina brought home.”

Remember that guy right before Hami? Who left her in the speed boat in the middle of the night when he went for a swim, then got mad when she called the Coast Guard?” I blow my nose in the toilet paper. We’ve never told him that the boy was drunk, naked, and threatening to drown himself if Trina wouldn’t take off her clothes and join him.

“What a pissant. I should have beaned him too.”

“I was a little hard on him. He was trying to do the right thing. I just . . . I don’t know if he’s right for me.” I snuffle.

“If he is, he’ll let you know.” He gives me a quick squeeze before disappearing into the kitchen, then returning with a glass of water. “I’m old enough to admit when I’m wrong. The kid could be all right. But either way, it still hurts, don’t it?”

“Yeah, it does.” I take a long drink of water.

Someone coughs. Gwen is at the open door, a bunch of roses in her hand. “I’m sorry, I just, um, well . . . I’m interrupting, aren’t I?”

Pausing on the threshold, she eyes me with such tenderness that I know, even though she has a long-standing date with Dad for Food Fest, she’ll leave without a fuss if I need him.

I jump up. “No, no. We’re just talking about my . . . What is he? A half hour ago I would have called him my boyfriend; now I guess he’s just . . .”

Louise speaks up. “Oh, honey, go on. It’s okay. Get mad. He’s a liver-lilied, white-handed, hunch-backed, marshmallow-spined, fish-gut-brained SPECK OF HORSE SHIT!”

Repeating her tirade word for word, I have Gwen and Dad howl with laughter. “Ah, that felt good,” I say, and I laugh, which feels even better.

“Ah, yes, men,” Gwen sniffs. “Such gosh darned schmucks.”

She winks at Dad, which I’m not supposed to see. Pretending to fix my hair in the hall mirror, I watch them intently. She might not be my mother but she loves my dad. And even though he’s put on a great show pretending he’s needed me these last few years, I was the one who needed someone to look after, to eat my cooking. He needs Gwen.

I’ve been so awful to Gwen in the past, I decide to lie. “Oh, crud, I forgot I was getting a ride with you, Dad. I called Trina from the car; she’s on her way here. Do you mind going on ahead and telling Sasha I’ll be right there? She’s probably freaking out right about now.”

Gwen pats me on the shoulder. “Oh, honey, your dad can wait and go with you girls. I’ll go on ahead.”

“No.” I stand and push her lightly on the arm toward my father. “You’d be doing me a favor. I need some time with my sister.”

She gives me a puzzled look of gratitude before she tenderly knots my father’s tie. What a complicated puzzle, my family. What led me to slide into the missing piece left vacant by my mother? Another stone falls out of my backpack as I watch Gwen and my dad walk out the door into the growing dusk. Their shoulders bump slightly as he places his hand on her lower back, helping her navigate the slick walkway in her heels.

Dad turns back toward me and says, “Food Fest is going to be great, honey; see you there.”

I smile fondly, trying not to focus on how bizarre it is seeing my father on a formal date. “See you there.”

Sprinting upstairs, I claw through the dresses and skirts in my closet while dialing Trina’s cell. Naturally, the dress Martin helped me pick out is at the cleaners. Every other dress is either a sundress, too casual, or just plain what-was-I-thinking hideous. I rule out my one pencil skirt because it’s deep purple and always makes me feel like a grape. When I hear the noise of Trina’s kids in the background, I blurt, “Oh my God, Trina, it’s me. I have nothing to wear, and I need a ride.”

It’s Hami. “This must be Denise.”

“No, it’s Molly.”

“Hi, Molly. We are on the way to Food Fest, both starving for your good cooking and in need of some wine. Where are you?”

“At home; I need a dress and a ride.”

Over the din of the kids fighting I hear him patiently explain the situation to Trina in his husky accented voice. She shrieks, “No way. The kids are starving and we’re already late. Tell her to take a cab.”

Hami gets back on. “No problem Molly, we’ll be happy to help you. Give us fifteen minutes. Trina sends her love.”

I immediately make an urgent call to Sasha, a hostess with 175 guests arriving shortly with her fancy consultant AWOL. She answers on the first ring, her voice tight with worry. “Sasha, it’s me. Someday I’ll tell you the whole story of why I’m so late but for right now, all you need to know is that I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

“Oh dear, I was so worried.” Relief floods her voice. “I called your cell phone . . .”

“Are the tables set up?” I counter, hoping to show her that we’ve planned this down the last wine glass.

“Yes. We were a little short on fuel for the warmers, so I sent Mike to get some more.”

“Good. Is the red wine breathing on the tables?” I ask.

“Yes, but we decided not to use the pitchers. I’m simplifying things a little.”