Days Like This (21 page)

She let out another soft breath
of laughter.  He always had a way of making her feel better.  “Babe?” he said.

“What?”

And he said softly, “Hi.”

Impossible as it might seem, her
sticky liquid insides went even softer.  “Hi,” she said.

“So Momma misses Poppa, does she?”

“Momma misses Poppa something
awful.  This bed feels so empty without you in it.”

“So does this one.  The time will
fly by.  I promise.”

“I know it will.  It’s not as
though I’m all alone in the house.  I just didn’t have any idea how much I’d
miss you.  I’m being silly, I know.  I’ve slept alone before.  I just need to
pull on my big girl panties and buck up.”

“The minute I’m done, I’ll rush
home to you, and we’ll party.  Just you and me.  Alone.  In the dark.  Clothing
optional.  Maybe, if you beg, I’ll put Smokey on the stereo.  If you’re really,
really nice to me, I might even make it Marvin and Tammi.”

“Are you still trying to get me
all hot and bothered?”

“You can’t blame a guy for
trying.”

“No, I can’t.  Especially when it’s
working so well.”

“Yeah?” he said with interest. “So,
we could still try that phone sex thing—”

“Not in this lifetime, my friend.”

“That was a pretty emphatic no.”

“I’m not that kind of girl,
MacKenzie.”

“I suppose that probably means
you also don’t want me to bring you home any sex toys from the big, bad city.”

“You’re all the sex toy I need.”

“Wow.  That was good, Fiore. 
Nice save.”

And she laughed and said, “All
right, my lunatic guitar man, we both need to get some sleep.  Call me
tomorrow?”

“What a shame.  The minute I
start talking about sex toys, I scare her right off.  What’s that all about?”

“I’m too sweet and innocent to
know about things like that.”

“And I’m the King of Siam.  So,
babydoll, since you’re not interested in any phone sex tonight—”

“Or ever.”

“—I’ll call tomorrow.  You sure
you’re okay, kiddo?  You sounded pretty shaky there at first.”

“I’m fine now.  Thanks for
putting up with my late-night insanity.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s written
into the marriage contract somewhere.  G’night, babe.”

She hung up the phone, set it on
the bedside table, and was asleep within seconds.

***

It was late afternoon the next
day when the knock came on her door.  She answered it to find a delivery man
standing on the steps holding a florist’s box.  “Casey MacKenzie?” he said. 

“Yes.”

“These are for you.”

She thanked him, gave him a five-dollar
tip, and carried the box inside.  Paige had come out of her room to see what
was going on.  “Flowers,” the kid said.  “Wow.”

Wow was right.  She must have
really sounded like she was unraveling last night.  Casey untied the ribbon and
lifted the cover of the box, and she and Paige both gasped when they saw what
was inside.  A half-dozen of them.  Perfect.  Exquisite.  Delicate.  Stunning.

“I’ve never seen anything like them
before,” Paige said.  “What are they?” 

“Orchids,” she breathed, staring
at them in disbelief.  “He sent me orchids.”

Other men, ordinary men, sent
their wives roses.  Only her man sent orchids.  Always, he had to be a little
different.  It was the way he was wired.  And he always knew somehow what would
please her the most.  She’d never been able to figure out how he did it.  She
picked up the card, thumbed the envelope open, and read the message, neatly
printed in the florist’s handwriting: 
Miss you, baby.  Home ASAP.  Be
ready.

Behind her, Paige was reading
over her shoulder.  “What does
Be ready
mean?”

Casey knew precisely what it
meant.  It was MacKenzie shorthand for the two of them, partying.  Alone.  In
the dark.  With Smokey on the stereo and clothing optional.

“Never mind,” the kid said.  “I
figured it out.  You just turned as red as the side of that barn out back.  Too
much information.  Way too much information.”

“I didn’t give you any
information.”

“Oh, yeah, you did.  You know, you
guys are way old for that kind of thing.  I just—ew.”

“What kind of thing?”

“All that lovey-dovey stuff. 
Kissing in the kitchen.  Making googly eyes at each other.”  Indicating the
florist’s card, she added, “Now this.”

“Too old?  I’m thirty-five.  He’s
thirty-seven.”

“Like I said.  Old.”

That night, she was still awake,
reading by the light of her bedside lamp, when he called.  It was still early,
eleven-thirty her time, and when he said, “Hey, gorgeous,” those three
syllables turned her inside out.

“The orchids are exquisite,” she
said.  “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.  I just thought
you seemed to need cheering up, and since you said no to any, um—toys—I thought
orchids would be the next best thing.”

“You always know what I need.”

“I’m a wizard.  You know that.”

“And I remain perpetually amazed
by your wizardry.  So how are the rehearsals going?”

“Very smooth.  I think we just might
be able to pull this thing off.”

“And how’s the city of angels?”

“No different than it was when I
left.  I can’t believe I lived here as long as I did.  The smartest thing you
ever did was to pack your car and drive away from this place.”

“I agree.  But the memories aren’t
all bad, are they?”

“No, but the lifestyle…it’s
plastic and pretentious and utterly meaningless.  It’s not who I am.  It’s not
who you are.  Never has been, for either of us.  Speaking of plastic and
pretentious, guess who I ran into this morning.”

“Who?”

“My ex-wife.”

“Oh.”  No need to ask which one. 
“The Queen of plastic and pretentious.”

“I was headed into the studio,
and this big limo pulled up to the curb, and just as I walked by, she stepped
out of it.  And there we were, face to face on the sidewalk.”

“That must have
been…interesting.  Did she actually speak to you?”

“She really didn’t have much of a
choice.  People were watching.  Couldn’t let the world see Monique Lapierre
being anything less than civil to her ex-husband.  The press would tear her to
shreds.”

“So?”

“We exchanged pleasantries.  The
old European kiss on both cheeks kind of thing. 
How are you?  So nice to
see you.  Have a nice life, and don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the
way out.”

“Was it weird?  Strange?  Did you
still have, ah—”

 “Feelings for her?  Be serious,
Fiore.  That was a million years ago.  I was just a kid, and it was not my
finest hour.  I’ll admit it was a little weird.  All that fake civility, just
for the sake of appearances.  Especially when you consider that the last time I
saw her—outside of divorce court, that is—was the night I walked away from that
mausoleum she called a house, and half the dishes in the kitchen cupboard came
flying out the door behind me.”

“You never told me that.”

“There are a multitude of things
about my marriage to Monique that I’ve never told you.”

“Probably better if we keep it
that way.”

“Unquestionably better if we keep
it that way.”

“So…it was not an amicable
parting.”

“Definitely not.  It was a very
crazy time in my life.  The only emotion I felt today was bafflement. 
Wondering what the hell I was thinking, taking up with her in the first place.”

“I can answer that question for
you.  Danny summed it up quite nicely when he said you were thinking with what
was between your legs, instead of what was between your ears.”

“Danny said that?”

“He did.  We were both so worried
about you.  The way she treated you was appalling.  She was such a horrible
woman.  Beautiful, for sure, but her beauty was only skin deep.  Underneath it
all, she was very, very ugly.”

“I don’t know if this will make
you feel any better, but the outer shell isn’t looking so hot these days,
either.  Underneath all the layers of war paint, she hasn’t aged well.”

“What a tragedy.”

“She hated you so much.”

“Believe me, the feeling was
mutual.  I’d never been deliberately rude to anybody, until Monique decided she
was going to keep us away from each other.  What I said to her that day—let’s
just say it wasn’t my finest hour, either, and leave it at that.  But she had
it coming.  She was a witch.  And I’m being extremely generous, because there
are far worse things I could be saying about her.  Far worse things, if you
must know, that I actually said to her face.”

“She told me what you said.  The
funny thing is, as furious as she made us at the time, she was right all along.”

“About what?”

“About you and me.  She tried to
keep us apart because she thought there was something going on between us—”

“There wasn’t anything going on
between us!  I was married, for God’s sake.  And pregnant!”

“Yet here we are, a decade later,
together.  And, quite frankly, very hot for each other.  The way we feel about
each other now?  It was already there between us, buried so deep we didn’t know
it existed until another half-dozen years went by.  But somehow, Monique saw
it, and she had this primal recognition of you as her competition.”

“I’d prefer to believe she was
just psychotic and paranoid.”

“Well, yeah.  In addition to
that.  Psychotic and paranoid goes without saying.”

“Speaking of hot for each other,”
she said, “your darling daughter loved the orchids, but she said we’re too old
to act the way we do.”

“What way?”

“I’m thirty-five.  You’re
thirty-seven.  We’re way too old to be having sex.  It’s disgusting. 
Ew
.”

“Who said anything about sex?”

“She asked me what
be ready
meant.  Apparently I blushed a brilliant red, which to her delicate
sensibilities was far too much information.  It painted a picture she really
didn’t want to imagine.”

At the other end of the phone, he
let out a soft laugh.  “I suppose that at fifteen, thirty-five does seem
ancient.”

“Positively geriatric.”

“In that case, be forewarned, old
woman:  The minute I’m done with the tour, I’m blowing this Popsicle stand, and
when I get home, we’re having some of that tepid, geriatric sex that we’re
really too old for.”

“You’re such a perv.  Be
forewarned, old man:  I’ll be waiting.”

The first postcard arrived three
days after he left.  On the front was a photo of the famous Hollywood sign, an
unwelcome reminder that in her entire fifteen years, she’d never been farther
west than Connecticut.  On the back was a note written in quirky handwriting
that looked like chicken tracks on the page. 
I looked for the cheesiest postcard
I could find, and this was it.  L.A. is a zoo.  Smog hovers over the city like
a dirty, wet blanket.  Thankfully, by the time you read this, I’ll be somewhere
else.  ~ Dad

Paige snorted.  Right.  It would
be a cold day in hell before she’d think of him as her dad.  But it was a
novelty, getting mail.  She couldn’t remember ever receiving mail that was
actually addressed to her.  So instead of tossing it, she tucked the card
inside her algebra book.  That was an appropriate place to keep it, since they
both—algebra, and the man who’d slept with her mother nine months before she
was born—belonged in the same category, the category titled Things of Which
Paige is Not Particularly Fond.

The second postcard arrived the
next day.  Venice Beach.  A surfer on a bright yellow board.  She’d heard of
the place, but didn’t know anything about it.  Paige flipped the card over.  In
that same scratchy handwriting, it read:
Casey had an apartment just a
couple blocks from here.  We used to hang out on the boardwalk.  Wish I was there
now.  Instead, headed for the Great Southwest.  Such is the life of a traveling
musician.  ~ Dad

She turned the card over, studied
the guy on the yellow surfboard, then re-read the message before tucking it
into the algebra book along with the first one.

After that, they arrived daily. 
She wasn’t sure how he managed it, traveling on a bus, but for every nowhere
place he stopped on the tour, he found a postcard to chronicle his journey, and
wrote a personal message to her before he mailed it.  At first, it seemed a
little intense.  A little sketchy, even.  Until one day, she realized she was
looking forward to getting home after school to see what he’d sent and where
he’d been: 
Arizona, New Mexico, Texas
.  That didn’t mean she accepted
any part of him, but he wasn’t one of those “how are you, I am fine, wish you
were here” writers.  His little snippets of life and wisdom were entertaining,
so she allowed herself to enjoy them without ceding an inch on the issue of
their non-relationship.

With school now well underway,
life fell into a routine.  The pain of her mom’s death was still raw, but she
was surviving.  Sandy had often told her she was tough as nails, and it was
true.  Nothing could stop Paige MacKenzie.  Besides, as it turned out, her
father’s wife was quiet and non-offensive and, strange as it seemed, with him
out of the house, life almost felt…normal.  Just two girls rattling around in
all that space, the way it had always been with her mom.  Casey wasn’t one to
push the relationship issue.  Instead, she took each day as it came, made
lemonade out of lemons, and Paige was determined to emulate her quiet
strength. 

It probably wasn’t easy for the
woman, having her husband gone like this, especially considering that they were
usually joined at the hip.  Paige had detected some tension in her stepmother
that hadn’t been there before, and she was pretty sure it was directly related
to being temporarily husbandless.  Casey tried to hide it, but she could see it
anyway.  She knew he called pretty much nightly; she heard the phone ringing at
ridiculously late hours, with Casey almost always picking up by the second
ring.  It was possible that she was a night owl.  More likely, she was waiting
by the phone for his call.