Crushing Crystal (8 page)

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Authors: Evan Marshall

BOOK: Crushing Crystal
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It always perplexed me how Reilly could be such a drip in most areas of life, but he still managed to find this great loft for us. To get into our home, we have to enter through a main entrance that also leads to Daniel and Chad's gallery on the street level. If you turn to the right, you see the gallery door. To the left is the door that leads to the staircase up to our loft. Though I love the natural brick walls, the real attraction to the loft is the huge warehouse windows, and a ceiling that reaches at least thirty feet above the hardwood floors. In the main living area, there's a large glass window on the roof that we can open with a squeaky warehouse crank. We went for a minimalist look with one red leather sofa and a few quirky-looking wood chairs that local artists carved. Reilly didn't give me a word of protest when I bought three giant canvases of Chad's work and a sculpture made of twisted metal that Daniel made. In our bedroom, we have a king-size mattress on the floor and an overstuffed white down comforter. To help with my insomnia, Chad cut several hundred tiny silver stars and hung vertical rows of them from fishing wire over the bed. Then he installed a few 10-watt blue bulbs on the ceiling. At night, we turn the main lights off and let the soft blue light reflect off the stars. It doesn't help me sleep any better, but it does look lovely.
Meeting Reilly, you'd think he lived in a house that looks like it was furnished by a factory outlet that advertises in the Sunday paper inserts. The kind with couches that look like you could spill whole meals on them and it would blend with the fabric. Lamps that have the panache of a ham sandwich. Coffee tables that make the statement “I was made on an assembly line!” That's kind of what Reilly's family home looks like. To his credit, Reilly completely surrendered to the team of queens I brought in to help decorate when we moved in. When Daniel made a chandelier for us by assembling upside-down aluminum paint buckets, Reilly said nothing. When Chad found an old parking meter at a junkyard and insisted that we install it next to the toilet, Reilly didn't put up a fight. And when their friend Rodrigo made us a 120-square-foot mounted mural of cereal boxes for the kitchen, Reilly just said it sure was colorful. He didn't even fuss when Chad gave us one of his self-portraits. It was right after George W. Bush won the presidency and the country had chad-fever. Chad made his own chads by cutting out small rectangles from white card stock. He then dyed his homemade chads different colors, and pasted them onto Lucite mosaic-style. We got a portrait of him suspending himself from a ledge by one hand. He called it “Hanging Chad.” “Dimpled Chad” and “Pregnant Chad” were clever too, and sold quite well at the gallery.
That night after Reilly went to sleep, I checked my e-mail.
One from Father reminding me that we promised to spend Christmas at his home. “It's still October, Father,” I shot back, and hit the reply button.
Eve wrote to tell me what a great time she had in Ann Arbor. She hopes I'm well. Translation, she hopes I've snapped back to my senses and am keeping my underwear intact.
And one from an unfamiliar address I suspected was Matt's. [email protected].
Did you like the flowers? When are you going to visit me in Los Angeles? Send your resume to a few places out here, and plan a trip just as soon as you set up some interviews.
Where exactly did Matt get the idea that I would move to Los Angeles? I just said I'd marry him, not relocate my whole life. I would have paid ungodly sums of money for the freedom to pick up the phone right then, thank him for the beautiful flowers, and tell him everything I learned that week about New York's independent film industry. I was dying to hear Matt's sexy, evening voice, but instead the last words I heard before going to bed was Reilly having a one-way shouting session with Barbara Boxer.
Chapter 8
A
s soon as I heard the running water of Reilly's morning shower, I ran to my cell phone and dialed my voice mail. As I suspected, the late-night call was Matt, aka “Me,” asking if I received the flowers he sent. Knowing that Reilly's bathroom routine takes exactly twelve minutes, I decided to wait until he left for work before I'd return the call.
I pulled the curtains back and watched the neighborhood early birds walking toward the subway or stopping across the street for coffee. A man in a long wool coat cupped a hot drink carefully in his hands before lifting it to his lips. Rushing past him was a woman with pale skin and long tangled red hair running so fast that her bright silk scarf began to catch air. She looked like an ad for motion. A black Scottish terrier led an older woman wearing a lavender knit hat. In a few hours, hand-holding couples, tourists and clusters of friends would begin walking this same street, taking their time to browse in Chad and Daniel's gallery, the boutique next door or the Italian pastry shop at the corner. I'd be long gone by then, encased in my glass office. In less than an hour, it would be me trotting down the street in my high-heeled shoes, hurrying toward the subway I really hoped I'd miss.
Before I left, though, I had to call Matt and hear his voice. I tried to remember what his morning voice sounded like as I watched Reilly butter his English muffin and put on his glasses to read the paper. “Coffee?” he offered. Reilly pushed my sunflowers out of the way to make room to unfold his
Investors Business Daily.
“No thanks.”
“I can't believe it,” Reilly shouted over something he read in an article. “What a load of crap.” I knew he didn't expect a response from me. Reilly had developed the concept of interactive media long before the software folks came up with the idea. “Do these idiots have any idea what that's going to do to—” he stopped. “Do these people feel any sense of responsibility toward their shareholders? This is reckless, plain reckless,” Reilly said, placing his mug down hard on the table.
I wondered what Matt's morning routine was. I smiled realizing that he probably didn't have one. And if he did, I could rest assured that it wouldn't be shouting at
Variety
magazine, or whatever indie filmmakers read. I wondered what mornings would be like in the Malone-Reynolds house? Would Reilly let me keep the apartment in the divorce settlement? Would it feel weird to keep the same loft, and change husbands? I wished I'd thought of this last night when we were writing the ad. Then I could have been on the lookout for a woman with her own apartment. Maybe I should just bite the bullet and divorce Reilly the old-fashioned way, I thought. I should just sit down at the table with him right now and tell him it's over.
“Reilly, you're a wonderful person, but I want a divorce,”
I rehearsed silently.
“Damn it! These people are morons,” Reilly shouted.
“Reilly, honey, it's not you, it's me.”
“We've grown apart.”
“We've had some great times together.”
“This marriage has been lovely, but it's run its course.”
“They should be taken out to the woods and shot for this kind of stupidity,” Reilly exclaimed. He turned to me and laughed the way he does when he's annoyed. “You know what the goddamn Congress wants to do now?”
I shook my head. Reilly was in Washington. I was in California.
“Reilly we need to talk,” I said.
“Okay,” he said, putting down his newspaper. “What's on your mind?” The phone rang. “Let the machine pick up,” Reilly suggested. I was panic-struck by the thought that the call was Matt who called the directory for my home phone after I didn't return his call last night.
“It could be an emergency,” I said as I answered. It was Reilly's partner who told me he needed to talk to Reilly right away. It was an emergency after all, but not the one I feared. Just a limited window of opportunity to complete a transaction they'd been working on for months.
“Prudence,” Reilly rushed. “I want to finish this conversation, but I've got to go take care of something right now. Can it wait till tonight?”
“Yes, yes of course.”
Reilly kissed me and thanked me repeatedly for understanding. “You're the best,” he said as the door shut behind him.
“I am definitely
not
the best, Reilly,” I said softly.
You're the best bitch,
Guilt chirped.
Best liar, cheater and adulterer. You're a real favorite for the Sinolympics.
There was nothing I could do about falling in love with Matt. It just happened, and I couldn't undo it if I was hypnotized by a team of cult-deprogramming experts. I could forgive myself for falling in love with another man. I could even get past the cheating. And hey, we all stretch the truth a bit to suit our needs. True, my lie was a bit more extreme, but in time I could still let myself off the hook for it. What I couldn't bear was the thought of Reilly alone, rejected and hurt while Matt and I got the happily ever after ending.
I forgot about the time difference in California and woke Matt up with my call. “Good morning, love of my life,” I whispered, even though Reilly had left a good ten minutes earlier.
“Malone?” Matt said groggily. “It's the middle of the night, is something wrong?”
“Nothing. I just wanted to hear your voice and thank you for the flowers. Should I call you back later?”
I could hear Matt stretching as he spoke. “Nah, I'm up now. I was having a dream about you, you know?”
“How would I?”
“Huh?”
“How would I know what you were dreaming about, Matt?”
He laughed a short, “Hmm.”
I walked into the kitchen and turned off Reilly's coffeepot, and tossed his paper into the recycling bin. “Was it a good dream?”
“You were in it, Malone. Of course it was a good dream.”
My eyes led me to Reilly's closet where half of his clothes were still wrapped in plastic from the dry cleaners. His belt was tossed on the floor in front of his shoes. I found a patch of Reilly-free space and focused my sights on it.
Compartmentalize, Prudence.
How I missed my Inner Male's rare appearances.
Don't be a wuss. Toughen up and do what you need to do. No one gets hurt if no one gets wise, got it?
Forget about Reilly for now.
“So I got your e-mail about me setting up interviews out there,” I switched gears. “I'm not crazy about the idea of living in L.A.”
“No one is,” Matt said. “Give it a chance.”
“Maybe you should give New York a chance,” I said. “You know, more independent films are made in New York than L.A.”
“I know, but more Hollywood films are made in Hollywood,” he returned.
“You want to make major studio films?” I asked.
“Hell, yeah,” he said. “That's where the money is, babe. You can say a lot of important shit and still make a buck, Malone. Nothing wrong with that, is there Miss Deloitte and Touche?” I silently giggled, biting my lip.
Matt and I decided that he would spend a week in New York in December, and I'd come out for Valentine's Day weekend. After we each had a chance to see how the other half lived, we would decide where to make our home together.
“We'll work it out,” he assured me.
And then it hit me. Did he say he was coming to spend a week with me in New York next month?
What am I going to do with Reilly?
I panicked.
 
 
When I arrived at my office, I heard my assistant, Lara, telling someone on the phone that he had perfect timing. “Prudence, your father is holding on line four,” she said.
I let him wait for another few seconds, then picked up. “Father,” I said blandly. “What can I do for you?”
“Good morning, Prudence. How are you?”
“I'm fine, Father. Yourself?”
“I'm well, very well, thanks for asking.”
“What's up?”
“I was hoping we could have lunch this afternoon. I'm going to be uptown for a meeting and I have some important news to share with you,” he said.
“I've got back-to-back meetings today. Sorry. Another time.”
“Prudence, your secretary told me you were free for lunch. I really do need to speak with you.”
“Fine. What's your big news? Carla pregnant again?”
“Don't be absurd, Prudence. You know Carla is forty-seven. We are past that stage in our lives.”
Well, good God Father, it's time to trade her in then! Good-looking guy like you with a few bucks in his pocket should be able to land someone in her thirties.
“I'll have lunch with you if you tell me what your big news is now,” I negotiated. “I don't like surprises.”
“Okay,” he sighed. “Carla and I are retiring at the end of the year.”
Carla is retiring? Carla is retiring?! That's a laugh. Exactly what is Carla retiring from? Oh, the stress of shopping and Junior League must be overwhelming for the poor dear. How does she hold up under all the pressure?
“Paige will be off to college in September and we'd like to spend a few months with her before we start traveling,” he explained. “Why don't I pick you up at your office at noon and we'll—”
“No,” I interrupted. “Don't come to my office. I'll meet you somewhere.”
“How 'bout that little outdoor café we had lunch at a few years ago?” he suggested.
“Father, it's practically November and it's freezing. No place is serving lunch outdoors. There's a coffee shop in my lobby. Meet me there.”
My mother has long since forgiven Father for leaving us. She even danced with him at my wedding to Reilly. But I had vowed long ago to make him suffer a life sentence in exile with me. He did the crime, and I would make sure he did the time.
Father left us at the absolute worst time in my life. I was twelve years old, had an oily face and one budding breast under my
Charlie's Angels
T-shirt. He moved straight from our home into a love shack in the city with his girlfriend, Carla. As soon as my parents' divorce was final, Carla put on a maternity wedding gown and the two married. Not that I was there or anything. Carla and Father decided it would be “awkward” to have the child from his first marriage at the second. The bride's full belly was not embarrassing to them, but evidence of Father's first marriage was. I remember the night of their wedding laying awake in my bed crying for hours, imagining the guests dancing and toasting the happy couple. I wondered what songs the band was playing, and what kind of dress my grandmother wore. She lobbied for my inclusion, but was nearly booted from the guest list herself after she and Carla had a fight. I had never cried so much before in my entire life, and I haven't since. At about one that morning, I decided I could accept the fact that my father didn't love me. I had no choice. I didn't see him for three full years after he left my mother and me.
You'd think that when I finally let him participate in my life again, Father would be eager to repair the damage he had done. By that time, Ashley was nearly three years old and Whitney just arrived.
Father even missed my college graduation because he and Ashley had some Indian Princess camping trip scheduled. Ashley was eleven years old at the time, and as he explained, “This is a very important age in a girl's life.” The irony of that statement bounced right off his thick skull. When I graduated from Wharton, there was some other father–daughter thing for one of the girls. His youngest daughter, Paige, was toddling around, and Father was booked solid until the day he died.

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