Good in Bed (41 page)

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty!” I said. “You're awake! I was getting worried …”

Adrian appeared not to hear me. “I bet you'll be a terrific mother,” he said, and closed his eyes again.

I smiled, settling myself back in my seat. A terrific mother. It was the first time I'd really thought about it—the actual act of mothering. I'd thought about giving birth, sure, about the logistics of caring for a newborn, too. But I'd never given much consideration to what kind of mother I, Cannie Shapiro, age almost twenty-nine, would be.

I cupped my hands around my belly as Adrian snored softly beside me. A good mother, I thought, bemused. But what kind? Would I be one of those cool mothers that all the kids in the neighborhood liked, the ones who served sweetened fruit punch and cookies instead of skim milk and fruit, who wore jeans and funky shoes and could actually talk to her kids, instead of just lecture them? Would I be funny? Would I be the kind of mom they'd want to be the room mother, or show up on Career Day? Or would I be one of those worried mothers, always hovering by the door, waiting for my child to come home, always running after it, clutching a sweater, a raincoat, a handful of tissues?

You'll be you
, said a voice in my head. My own mother's voice. I recognized it instantly. I would be me. I had no other choice. And that wouldn't be so bad. I'd done all right by Nifkin, I reasoned. That was something.

I leaned my head against Adrian's shoulder, figuring that he wouldn't mind. And that was when I thought of something else.

I plucked his phone out of my purse, then dug out the napkin with Maxi's number, and held my breath until I heard her bright, British “Hello.”

“Hey, Maxi,” I whispered.

“Cannie!” she cried. “Where are you?”

“On the beach,” I said. “I'm not sure exactly where, but …”

“You're with Adrian?” she asked.

“Yes,” I whispered. “And he's kind of passed out.”

Maxi started laughing … and in spite of myself, I started laughing, too. “So help me out. What's the etiquette here? Do I stay? Do I go? Do I, like, leave him a note?”

“Where are you, exactly?” asked Maxi.

I looked around for a sign, for a light, for something. “I remember the last street we were on was Del Rio Way,” I said. “And we're right on a bluff, maybe twenty-five yards over the water. …”

“I know where that is,” Maxi said. “At least, I think I do. It's where he shot the love scene for
Estella's Eyes
.”

“Great,” I said, trying to remember whether anyone had passed out during that particular scene. “So what should I do?”

“I'm going to give you directions to my house,” she told me. “I'll be waiting.”

Maxi's directions were perfect, and in twenty minutes' time we were pulling into the driveway of a small, gray-shingled house on the beach. It was the kind of place I might have picked out, given my druthers, and probably several million dollars.

Maxi herself was waiting in the kitchen. She'd swapped her dress and updo for a pair of black leggings, a T-shirt, and pigtails, which would have looked ridiculous on 99.9 percent of the female population, but looked adorable on her. “Is he still passed out?”

“Come see,” I whispered. We walked back to the car where Adrian still lay in the passenger's seat, his mouth gaping open, his eyes sealed shut, and my panty liner still perched on his forehead.

Maxi burst out laughing. “What is that?”

“It was the best I could do,” I said defensively.

Still giggling, Maxi grabbed a copy of
Variety
from what I took to be her recycling bin, rolled it up, and poked Adrian in the arm. Nothing. She moved the magazine lower and poked him in the belly. No response.

“Huh,” said Maxi. “Well, I don't think he's dying, but maybe we should bring him inside.”

Slowly and carefully, with much grunting and giggling, we maneuvered Adrian out of the car and onto Maxi's living room couch—a gorgeous white leather construction that I very much hoped Adrian would not defile.

“We should turn him on his side, in case he throws up …” I suggested, and stared at Adrian. “Do you really think he's okay?” I asked. “He was taking Ecstasy …”

“He'll probably be fine,” she said dismissively. “But maybe we should stay with him.” She peered at me. “You must be exhausted.”

“You, too,” I said. “I'm sorry about this …”

“Cannie, don't worry! You're doing a good deed!”

She looked at Adrian, then at me. “Slumber party?” she asked.

“Sounds like a plan,” I said.

While Maxi went off, presumably to gather bedding material, I took off Adrian's shoes, then socks. I slid his belt out of its loops, unbuttoned his shirt, pulled off the panty liner, and replaced it with a dish towel I'd found in the kitchen.

Then while Maxi piled blankets and pillows on the floor, I washed the makeup off my face, struggled into a Maxi-provided T-shirt, and thought of what I could do to make myself useful.

There was a fireplace in the center of the living room—a perfect-looking, pristine fireplace with a stack of birch logs in the grate in its center. And I knew how to make fires. This was good.

I couldn't find newspaper, so I tore pages of
Variety
, twisted them into pretzels, put them underneath the wood, checked to make sure the flue was open, checked to make sure that the wood was actual wood and not some decorator's ceramic critique of wood, then lit a match from the matchbook I'd grabbed at the Star Bar, in hopes of proving to Samantha and Andy and Lucy that I'd actually been there. The paper flared, then the logs started burning, and I rocked back on my heels, satisfied.

“Wow,” said Maxi, snuggling into her pile of blankets, turning her face toward the fire's glow. “How'd you learn to do that?”

“My mother taught me,” I said. She looked at me expectantly, so I told the story … to Maxi, and, I thought, to my baby, too, of how we'd all go fishing on Cape Cod, and how my mother would build a fire to keep us warm … how we'd sit in a circle—my father, my sister, my brother, and me—roasting marshmallows and watching my mother standing in the water, tossing the silvery filament of line out into the gray-black water, with her shorts rolled up and her legs strong and tanned and solid.

“Good times,” Maxi repeated, rolling over and falling asleep. I lay there for a while, my eyes wide open in the darkness, listening to her deep, quiet breaths and Adrian's snoring.

Well, here you are, I told myself. The fire was dying down to embers. I could smell the smoke on my hands and in my hair, and I could hear the waves moving on the shore, and see the sky lightening
from black to gray. Here you are, I thought. You Are Here. I cupped my hands around my belly. The baby turned, swimming in her sleep, executing what felt like a backflip. Her, I thought. A girl, for sure.

I sent out a good-night prayer to Nifkin, who I figured would be fine for one night on his own in a luxury hotel. Then I closed my eyes and conjured my mother's face over those Cape Cod fires, so happy and at peace. And, feeling happy and at peace myself, I finally fell asleep.

When I woke up, it was 10:30 in the morning. The fire was out. So were Adrian and Maxi.

As quietly as I could, I made my way to the second floor. Polished hardwood floors, modern maple shelves and dressers, mostly empty. I wondered how Maxi felt, inhabiting and abandoning a series of houses, like a caterpillar casting aside its cocoon. I wondered if it bothered her at all. I knew it would bother me.

The bathroom brimmed with all manner of plush towels and fancy soaps and shampoos in sample-sized bottles. I took a long, hot shower, brushed my teeth with one of the brand-new, still-wrapped toothbrushes I found in the medicine cabinet, then got dressed in the T-shirt and clean pajama bottoms I'd found in one of the dresser drawers. I was sure I'd need a blow dryer and possibly an assistant to even attempt to replicate what Garth had done to my hair the night before, but I didn't see either one nearby. So I pulled back sections of my hair, pinning them with the bobby pins, cementing the whole thing with a dime-sized dollop of some rich and delicious-smelling French styling potion. At least that's what I hoped it was. At my father's insistence, I'd taken Latin in high school. Useful for acing the SATs, not any good for those mornings after when you found yourself unexpectedly having to translate the names of movie stars' toiletries.

When I came back downstairs, Maxi was still asleep, curled like an adorable kitten on top of a pile of blankets. But where Adrian had slumbered, there was only a single sheet of notepaper.

I picked it up. “Dear Cassie,” it began, and I snorted laughter. Well, I thought, at least he was close. And I'd certainly been called worse. “Thank you very much for taking care of me last night. I know that we don't know each other well …”

And here I snorted again. Don't know each other well! We'd barely exchanged five sentences before he'd passed out!

“… but I know that you're a kind person. I know you'll be a wonderful mother. I'm sorry I had to leave in such a hurry, and that I won't get to see you again anytime soon. I'm off to location, in Toronto, this morning. So I hope you'll enjoy this while you're in California.”

This? What was this? I unfolded the note completely, and a silver key fell into what remained of my lap. A car key. “The lease is up next month,” Adrian had written on the back of the piece of paper, along with the name and address of a Santa Monica car dealership. “Drop it off when you're ready to go home. And enjoy!”

I got slowly to my feet, walked to the window, and held my breath as I raised the blinds. Sure enough, there was the little red car. I looked from the key in my hand to the car in the driveway, and pinched myself, waiting to wake up and find that this was all a dream … that I was still asleep in my bed in Philadelphia, with a pile of pregnancy planning books on my bedside table and Nifkin curled on the pillow next to my head.

Maxi yawned, rose gracefully off the floor, and came to stand at the window beside me. “What's going on?” she asked.

I showed her the car, and the key, and the note. “I feel like I'm dreaming,” I said.

“Least he could do,” said Maxi. “He's just lucky you didn't go through his pockets and take pictures of him naked.”

I gave her a wide-eyed innocent look. “Was I not supposed to do that?”

Maxi grinned at me. “Sit tight,” she said. “I'm going to fetch your dog, and then we'll plan your conquest of Hollywood.”

* * *

I'd expected Maxi's cupboards to be bare, except maybe for the foods I thought that starlets subsisted on—Altoids, fizzy water, perhaps some spelt or brewer's yeast or whatever the diet gurus had decreed they should be eating.

But Maxi's shelves were stocked with all the basics, from chicken broth to flour and sugar and spices, and the refrigerator had fresh-looking apples and oranges, milk and juice, butter and cream cheese.

Quiche, I decided, and fruit salad. I was slicing kiwis and strawberries when Maxi returned. She'd changed into a pair of black pedal-pushers and a cherry-red cap-sleeved T-shirt, with big black sunglasses and what I took to be fake ruby barrettes in her hair, and Nifkin was sporting a patent-leather red collar studded with the same jewels, and a matching red leash. They both looked very grand. I served Maxi and then, in the absence of kibble, gave Nifkin a small portion of quiche.

“This is so beautiful,” I said, admiring the sun glinting on the water, the fresh breeze stirring the air.

“You should stay for a while,” Maxi suggested.

I shook my head. “I need to wrap things up and head back …” I began, and then stopped. Really, why did I have to hurry back? Work could wait—I still had vacation time stored up. Missing a few prebaby classes wouldn't be the end of the world. A room with a view of the ocean was enticing, especially given Philadelphia's fitful, slushy spring. And Maxi was reading my mind.

“It'll be great! You can write, I'll go to work, we can have dinner parties, and fires. Nifkin can hang out …I'll set up a stock portfolio for you …”

I wanted to jump up and down with the joy of it, but I wasn't sure the baby would approve. It would be incredible out here. I could wade in the surf. Nifkin could chase seagulls. Maxi and I could cook. There had to be strings attached. I just couldn't figure out which ones, or where. And on that morning, with the sun shining and the waves rolling in, it seemed easier to let this wonderful adventure unfold than to spend much more time trying.

* * *

Things happened very quickly after that.

Maxi drove me to a skyscraper with bluish-silver glass walls and a trendy eatery on the bottom level. “I'm taking you to meet my agent,” she explained, punching the button for the seventh floor.

I racked my brain for appropriate questions. “Is she … does she handle writers?” I asked. “Is she good?”

“Yes, and very,” said Maxi, marching me down the hall. She rapped sharply on an open door and stuck her head inside.

“That's bullshit!” said a woman's voice, floating out into the hallway. “Terence, that's absolute crap. This is the project you're looking for, and he's absolutely going to have it done by next week …”

I peered over Maxi's shoulder, expecting the voice to belong to a chain-smoking dame with platinum hair and possibly shoulder pads, with an unfiltered cigarette in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other … a female version of the reptilian sunglassed guy who'd told me there were no fat actresses in Hollywood. Instead, perched behind the giant slab of a desk was a strawberry-blond pixie with creamy skin and freckles. She wore a pale green jumper and a lace-scalloped lilac-colored T-shirt and a pair of Keds on her child-sized feet. Her hair was gathered into a haphazard bun with a pale blue scrunchie. She looked as if she were maybe twelve years old.