Getting to Happy (44 page)

“Je vous aime à mort mais vous montez vraiment dans mon dernier nerf baisant.”

“What did you just say?”

“I said ‘I’m coming home for Christmas.’ ”

“I don’t believe that’s what you said. And I’ll believe it when you get here.”

“Bye, Sheila. I’ll talk to you when I get back.”

“Would you please bring me back a bottle of French perfume but not the kind with that real Frenchy smell?”

Family.

During the rest of my trip, I did everything I said I was going to do. I walked every day, except the two I spent reading in bed. I finished three of the six books sitting at outside cafés and brasseries. Men flirted with me. I flirted with them, too. I felt my power. I saw more black people on the streets of Paris in two weeks than I saw in a whole year in Phoenix. French isn’t a color. I was fascinated watching how these folks used their hands and eyes to tell each other how they felt. They like to touch. I saw so many people of all ages kissing in public places it made me hopeful. Romance isn’t out of the question. And I haven’t given up on men. I’m just not going to act like a hitchhiker on a two-lane highway waiting to get picked up. I’ve decided to take a more pro-active approach. I’m going to start asking men out. All they can do is say no. One monkey doesn’t stop the whole show.

Because I always wanted to see some of the French countryside, I took a two-hour train ride outside of Paris. I saw herds of fat sheep. Farm after farm. Rolling dark green hills. I got off in a small village. I saw a castle. A real castle. I took pictures of it for the girls. I’m going to lie and tell them I went inside, ran up and down the stairs and stuck my head out the window like Rapunzel. On the ride back, I was thinking that there’s a lot worth seeing in this world. In fact, I was trying to decide where I might go next. Venice. Bora Bora. Or Kenya. I’ve always wanted to go on a safari.

I shopped. Ate what I could. And ate late at night. I skipped the Louvre and Moulin Rouge and most of the museums. I wanted to do things I hadn’t done before. So I went to two swanky spas. Had many treatments. There is no better feeling than being pampered. I was glowing inside and out. I always wanted to see the Hotel de Ville. Almost broke my neck looking up at the ceiling. Those breathtaking blues. I sat for hours in the Jardin des Tuileries and didn’t read anything except people. I took a taxi to the Palace of Versailles. Even did the tour. Then I sat on a bench and watched tourists walk through that giant garden.

On my last night, I put on a pair of high heels and what could pass for a sexy dress and went downstairs to the Zebra Lounge. The place was packed. People were sitting on sofas, deep in conversation. Some were whispering into each other’s ears. Laughing. Others were dancing to the mellow music the band was playing. I thought about Jasper after I walked out onto the dance floor, found my rhythm for three or four songs in a row, had a glass of wine, then chased it with a double espresso.

Velvet Handcuffs

“I know you’ll never wear this again, Mom,” Sparrow says, holding up a skirt I don’t remember.

“I don’t care if I do or not. Put it in the bag.”

We’re in my closet. It’s a walk-in. We’ve been in here so long we’ve filled up six black trash bags with my clothes and now have two laundry baskets of empty hangers. I’ve got a fan on in the doorway, even though it’s not helping all that much. It’s too bad. Ever since those levees broke in New Orleans, it’s been hard trying to grasp what’s happening. It doesn’t seem real, but it is. We’ve been glued to the television, gasping as we watched the devastation continue to multiply. We’ve stamped our feet on the floor, hoping and praying help would come a lot faster. So far, it hasn’t. What’s taking so damn long?

We couldn’t imagine waking up to this. Sparrow and I had to do something. I started with towels and sheets and blankets we could live without. We emptied out our dresser drawers and put every piece of clothing, pajamas and even socks we don’t need in boxes. I did the same with shoes and purses; some I’ve never even worn or carried. Too much is sometimes just too much. It has made me sick standing in this closet, looking at how much I have knowing so many people don’t have anything. I’ve been a slave to the good life. Which is precisely why I’m taking off these velvet handcuffs.

“Wasn’t that the doorbell?” I ask Sparrow. She’s blasting one of my favorite country songs of the moment, “Redneck Woman.” Romeo and Juliet dash downstairs. I look around my closet one more time. I don’t think I have anything left to give. I take a sip of water. It’s now lukewarm. I wonder who it could be. I go out and peek over the banister.

Sparrow’s looking through the peephole. “It’s the mailperson.” She opens the door, signs something, runs up two steps at a time and hands me a manila envelope.

There’s no name on it, just a return address. I open it and out fall four tickets to the dance. There’s a note card from Lucille paper-clipped to them:

Hello Robin! It’s me, Lucille! I hope you’re faring well. I’ve decided to retire although I now do floral arrangements. I enjoy it. I should also let you know I’m dating! Yes, me! My high school sweetheart! Because of the damage Katrina has caused, all of the proceeds from this event will go to the victims. It’s being announced on the black radio station. Since you’ve always been so nice to me over the years, and so supportive of our causes, I thought I’d treat you to these four tickets with the hope that you’ll bring your funny girlfriends—or anyone else you might like. Let me know if you need additional tickets. They’ve increased the price to one hundred dollars. Hope to see you in a few weeks. Very best, Lucille.

I almost can’t believe it. This was so nice of her. And to think I used to dog her. I’m sorry, Lucille. I can’t wait to tell the girls. I wonder if Michael might want to go?

When the phone rings, I almost knock Sparrow over to get it. “Hello,” I say calmly.

“And how are you this afternoon?”

“I’m fine, Michael. And you?”

“Are you still in the closet?”

“Nope. We finally finished.”

“I’ve got quite a few boxes I was going to drop off. I can pick yours up, too, if you want.”

“That would be great. This whole thing is just so draining and nothing has even happened to us.”

“Well, I’ve got a few friends who’ve got relatives down there. They need our prayers and all the support they can get.”

“This feels a lot like nine-eleven. Doesn’t it?”

“It does. Which brings me to the other reason I called. If you don’t want to go, I’ll understand. But I could sure use a short break.”

“Go where, Michael?”

“I don’t want to bore you, but about a year ago, I did a favor for a college buddy. He inherited a share of a vineyard in Napa. I helped him with the corporate tax restructuring. The long and short of it, things worked out, and to show his gratitude he’s given me a nice long weekend at a resort over there. I was wondering if you’d like to come with me.”

“Napa, huh? I’ve never been to that part of California. I need to check my schedule. Hold on a second. Sparrow, am I free this weekend?”

“I believe you are!” she yells from upstairs. “But I’m not.”

“I think I could squeeze you in.”

“I hoped you would.”

“Tell me what to do.”

“Start packing,” he says. “My travel agent’s just waiting for me to give her the go-ahead. What about Sparrow? Do you need to make some kind of arrangements for her?”

“She’s sixteen. She’ll be fine. Plus, I’ve got friends who’ll keep an eye on her.”

“Good. Tell her I said hello. And I hope to hear her play that violin one of these days—if I’m still around.”

“No comment, Michael. I’m hanging up now. E-mail me the particulars, dude.”

I run up the stairs three at a time. “Sparrow! Michael’s invited me to go to the wine country in California this weekend. What’re your plans?”

She almost runs into me. “Forget about my plans. Just go, Mom, please.”

“I need to make sure you’re covered.”

“At first, a few of the group members wanted to come over to practice a really cool song, but we’re all so bummed out by Katrina, we volunteered to make calls to help raise money instead. Is it okay if they come over, Mom? You know we’re all responsible.”

I think about this for a few minutes.

“I’ll call you if there’s an emergency. Please?”

“Just don’t forget the rules.”

Michael rents a convertible. We drive from Oakland to Napa in a little over an hour. The Bay Area is so pretty. In my opinion, much prettier than L.A. It’s lush. And green. No rush hour traffic when it’s not rush hour. Michael and I talked about me. Him. Me and him. How good we feel. How good this is. How lucky we are to have this second chance. We decide to milk it, play it all the way out. Neither of us was specific, although I have a pretty good idea what he meant. “I’m not playing,” he said as we passed over some bridge that wasn’t the Bay Bridge or the Golden Gate.

“I’m not either,” I said. “I like you, Michael.”

“Not half as much as I like you,” he said.

And we left it at that.

“How much farther?”

“About ten or fifteen minutes. You need me to stop? Do you have to go to the restroom?”

“Nope. I’m good.”

A few minutes later, we pass a designer outlet and I almost have a stroke. “Oh my God! There’s a Barney’s! Coach! BCBG and Cole Haan! Are they serious?”

“I can turn around if you want to check it out.”

“No!” I say, pressing both hands against the dashboard.

“I don’t mind, Robin.”

“There’s nothing in those shops I need. So keep driving, dude.”

The hotel is unassuming. After we check in, they put our bags on a golf cart and drive us to our room. When the bellman opens the door, I almost have a heart attack. It feels like we’re in the Mediterranean. There are two huge rooms. A fireplace. A sofa. A table with settings for two. The bed is up high and stuffed with pillows. Everything is white and gold. “Is this their honeymoon suite, or what?” I ask Michael.

“I have no idea. But it’s ours for two nights.”

He takes me by the hand and walks me out to a terrace that overlooks what appears to be the entire Napa Valley. I have never seen anything quite like this except in movies. We lean over the wooden railing and look down at a grove of olive trees. “This is unbelievable.” It’s about all I can say.

“Okay,” Michael says, “this is the plan. We can change any part of it if you want. Tonight: we have dinner upstairs in the hotel’s restaurant. They have a tasting menu that’s supposed to be out of this world, and then tomorrow morning we have reservations for a four-handed massage.”

“How many hands?”

“Four. Two people massage you at the same time. We’ll be in separate rooms. After that, we go on a wine-tasting tour. Later, dinner on the wine train. It travels through the vineyards. And Sunday, we sleep in until they kick us out, then head back to the real world.”

“This is real, isn’t it, Michael?”

“Very much so,” he says. “Very much so.”

We miss dinner.