Happily Ever After: A Novel (4 page)

“Same time next week?” he asked.

“Yup.”

“And I’ll bring a wrench.”

I stepped back. “A what? I thought we said . . .”

He smiled. The smile lit up his face.

“Your bathroom faucet leaks,” he said. “I could hear it. I’ll tighten it up for you.”

I nodded. Great. A screw and a tighten.

“And I promise the sex will be better,” he added. “I won’t be nervous.”

I nodded again. I was confident he could fix my plumbing, but as far as making me scream in ecstasy? We would have to wait and see on that one.

But it did get better. Quite a bit better. By week five, Jason had figured out that if he wanted to coax an orgasm out of me, he had to do some work with his tongue. He told me he was amenable to instruction when it came to performing oral sex. So I took him up on it and provided step-by-step directions on what to do, when to do it, and where.

I wanted my ice cream sundae.

Chapter 6

Stolen Secrets

Chapter Three

Aidan Hathaway’s fingers moved in slow circles on her back.

“The bartender,” Aidan whispered in her ear. His hand returned to the back of her neck. Having it there made her feel weak and out of control. It was not something she savored, but she felt powerless to object. “Do you like him?”

What? Why was he asking her about the bartender?

“He seems fine,” she whispered. His grip on her neck tightened.

“Do you want him?”

“I don’t understand,” Lily said. A cold bead of sweat trickled down her back. He pulled her closer.

“Do you want to fuck him?” His whisper was now more of a growl. Lily’s heart raced. What was this all about?

“No,” she stammered. “I don’t even know him.”

“And?”

She had no idea what Aidan was after.

“I want you,” she said finally, hoping it was the right answer. His grip on her neck relaxed.

“I want to see you naked,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Let’s go.”

Normal people didn’t do this. Normal people paid for their drinks and exchanged pleasantries with the maître d’ on the way out. But not Hathaway. He did not come from the world of normal people. Did he know she was a girl who grew up in a house where the heat only worked when it wanted to? Did he know her dress was a knockoff and that half her paycheck went to support her mother? Lily imagined he did not. He would never be here with her if he did.

Aidan wrapped her in his arms, shielding her from everyone else in the bar as they made their way toward the door. Lily felt off balance from the exchange about the bartender. Could Aidan Hathaway be a jealous man? She didn’t think it was possible for the person who had everything. What was there to be jealous of? But now her excitement at his proximity, at his touch, was laced with fear. Aidan was a man of grand appetites. She was not at all sure she could satisfy them and survive intact.

Her instinct told her to run, to make some excuse and get free of him. She could get another job. She could move to another state, another country if necessary. As they walked, Aidan’s hand slid deeper into the open back of her dress. Outside, the cool air hit her like a freight train. The sidewalk bustled with busy New Yorkers, coming and going, meeting each other, hugging, laughing, talking on the phone. Not one of them could possibly understand how she was burning up with lust for this strange, beautiful man. She pushed in closer to him, keenly aware of his hand inside her dress and against her skin. He smiled and kissed her, working his way under her bra just as he had done in the elevator Her body remembered. She wanted to cry out.

“Be patient,” he said, pulling back. “Can you do that?”

She would do anything if it promised some release from the perfect painful pressure that was steadily building inside.

Aidan waved a hand, and a black Bentley with tinted windows pulled curbside. Would he wait until they got to his place, or would he rip her clothes off in his limo? The anticipation was a tight knot in her throat.

Just as Aidan was about to open the car door for her, an elegant older woman sprang from the backseat. She wore a skintight black dress, knee-high leather boots, and a gauzy black cape. Her inky, dark hair was pulled back from her face, highlighting her round, dark eyes.

“What the hell?” Aidan said. “Thomas!”

A liveried driver jumped out of the car.

“I don’t know where she came from, sir,” Thomas stammered, staring in shock at the woman. “One minute the backseat was empty and the next this . . . this person was sitting there. As if she appeared out of thin air! I’ll call your private security.”

The woman stood on the sidewalk, looking rather unconcerned as Thomas pulled out his cell phone and dialed. She smacked her cherry-red lips as if she were preparing to eat someone. She looked Lily up and down, lingering on the very spot where Aidan’s hand was flush against her skin.

“They’re four minutes out, sir,” Thomas said.

“It’s going to be a very long four minutes,” the woman said, taking a step toward Aidan. She drank him in as if she’d been thirsty for a long time.

“You don’t remember me,” she said. It didn’t sound like a question.

“I have no idea who you are,” Aidan said gruffly, “or what you were doing in my car.”

“You know my name,” the woman said. “Clarissa.”

“I don’t know anyone named Clarissa.”

“Oh but you do,” she said. “You must!”

Clarissa did not believe for a moment that Aidan didn’t remember her. They had shared too much to forget. Time and distance could not break them. They had love, and that was the only thing that mattered.

But then who was this tart with her dress half off standing beside her man, looking scared? As Aidan drew the girl protectively to his side and the chauffeur tried in vain to dial for help, Clarissa walked in a small circle around them. She did not know what Aidan could possibly be thinking. Couldn’t he see this redheaded girl was not for him? He deserved so much more. He deserved Clarissa.

Aidan went quiet as she circled. He looked like a man under a spell. Quickly, the girl untangled herself from him.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I should probably go.”

“Lily, wait!” Snapping out of it, Aidan reached to grab her. His fingers locked around her upper arm. Clarissa had envisioned her reunion with Aidan many, many times, but none of the scenarios included a tall girl named Lily. Things were not going exactly as she had planned, and that made her angry.

Before anyone realized what was happening, Clarissa had pulled Lily into an embrace. She held her tight and muttered a chant. It was one she hadn’t used in quite some time, but she knew it still had power. The air turned earthy, smelling slightly of char. In her arms, Lily labored to breath. She twisted, but Clarissa was too strong and Lily’s will was too weak.

The night grew cold. Clarissa chanted faster. She could feel a climax coming, the moment of release. It was one of her most favorite experiences, and she relished it each and every time. But just when she saw success on the horizon, Aidan wrenched Lily from her arms.

“I don’t know who you are or what you think you’re doing,” he growled, “but you’re fucking with the woman I love, and I don’t appreciate it.”

Even as shock at his words threatened to break her, Clarissa still managed to register Lily’s surprise at Aidan’s proclamation. Perhaps “love” was news to the ginger-headed girl as well? Not that it mattered. None of it was okay. It could not stand.

Clarissa took a step toward them, close enough so she could run her long fingers through Lily’s luscious curls. She gave a quick jerk. Lily gasped in pain. Aidan shoved Clarissa back, but a handful of red strands caught between her fingers.

“You need to go now,” he said, “before I hurt you.” His voice was low and fierce, but Clarissa just laughed.

“You belong to me, Aidan,” she said.

“You’re crazy,” Aidan said.

“Sir, security is on the way,” Thomas said. “Five minutes out.”

“In five minutes, a few men won’t be enough to save you,” she whispered, holding Lily’s strands of hair between her palms.

“A dark New York City,” she said, her eyes fixed on Lily. “A place where you’ll be alone.” She hadn’t done this particular spell in a long time, but it felt good.

“What are you doing?” Aidan demanded. How like the Aidan she remembered! Always standing up for the little guy, the downtrodden. But she had to show him what he had forgotten. There was no alternative.

Clarissa did not answer. She spoke faster, the words flowing from her lips like a waterfall in the spring. Suddenly, an invisible hand seized Lily and began to shake her violently. Her body quaked and shuddered. She screamed in agony, falling into Aidan’s arms.

“Aidan, help me!” Lily screamed. Clarissa kept chanting.

“What are you doing?” Aidan shouted. “Stop!” He tried to lunge at Clarissa, but with Lily still convulsing in his arms, it was impossible.

And then there was silence. Lily had vanished.

Aidan staggered, the force of her disappearance practically knocking him off his feet. Clarissa stood in a pool of light cast by the overhead streetlamp, her diamond hoop earrings sparkling like stars, wearing a look of absolute rapture.

Aidan grabbed her shoulders and shook her hard. It did nothing to wipe the bliss from her face.

“Tell me what you did with Lily or I’ll kill you,” he said. “Right here. Right now. And I don’t care who sees me do it.” Clarissa was short on time. She’d delayed Aidan’s private security detail as long as possible, but in a minute they would show up and complicate things.

“Oh, Aidan,” she sighed. “You’re really slow sometimes.”

“I love Lily,” he said. “I don’t know who you are or what you’ve done, but it doesn’t matter. You can’t change what I know to be true.”

Clarissa sneered at him. “Pathetic,” she said.

“It’s my destiny, you crazy bitch,” he said. “And you cannot stand in the way of destiny.”

“What does that even mean?” Clarissa said.

“Everything,” Aidan said. “And I will do anything to get Lily back. I’ll never stop.”

Yes, she had planned there to be talk of love and destiny, but hers and Aidan’s, not that of some girl named Lily. Clarissa decided to help her man see that Lily did not love him. She would help him see that his true destiny was to be by her side, doing her bidding. Because in her book, possession and control were the very definition of true love. Otherwise you were in for nothing but heartbreak.

“So you would risk your own life to save this woman?” Clarissa asked.

“Yes,” Aidan said, without hesitation.

“And you’re sure she wants something more than just your pretty face and hard cock for a few hours in the dark?”

The fleeting look of doubt on Aidan’s face pleased her. He had no idea how Lily felt about him. Until the words were spoken, until “I love you” was answered with “I love you too,” it was all conjecture.

“Yes,” Aidan said.

“Well then,” Clarissa said, “why don’t we find out if it’s true?”

Right there in the middle of the sidewalk, she began to move her hands as if she were about to break into an exotic belly dance. Her black cape swirled around her. She looked terrifying. As her eyes rolled back in her head, a silent chant cascaded from her lips. A crowd gathered. Was this a street performance? Some sort of magic show? When her trance ended she leveled a triumphant glare at Aidan.

“I offer you this deal,” she said. “I’ll give you forty-eight hours to find your Lily and figure out the magic that will get you two back here. If you succeed, you get your Lily and my life. But if you fail, I own you forever. Will you accept my terms?”

The sirens grew louder, but at least her boy had the sense to understand his security could offer him no help on this matter.

“Yes,” Aidan shouted as if on cue. “I accept!”

Clarissa stepped forward and laid a cold hand on Aidan’s cheek.

“Somewhere foreign for you, my dear,” she whispered, “somewhere beyond recognition. I only hope I can hit the target.”

Aidan gulped for air, clutching his throat. He fell to his knees on the sidewalk. He tried to cry out, but it was too late. He vanished.

Clarissa stood for a moment, watching the spot Aidan had just occupied. And then she smiled.

Why should I miss out on all the fun? she thought.

Why, indeed. With a simple wave of her hand, Clarissa, too, disappeared into the night.

When security arrived on the scene moments later, they found Thomas on his knees, blubbering like a baby.

Chapter 7

N
ot five minutes after dropping Allison at school, I’m back in the minivan, heading across town to Target. I once considered starting a blog just so I could post an entry called “When Minivans Happen to Good People.”

I live in Billsford, New York, a charming hamlet located about forty miles from midtown Manhattan. Our proximity to the only island that matters make real estate prices unreasonable and taxes so high the suicide rate climbs a few percentage points every April 15.

I forced the move from city to supposed country because one day, shortly after Allison was born, I tripped over a dead man in the entryway to our building, a great prewar place near the corner of Broadway and Great Jones. The police assured me the man had not died at the hands of another but rather from neglect and an unwillingness to take his meds. While this was marginally better than murder, I could not get the man out of my head. His dirty clothes and yellow, rotted teeth. His bare feet. His overall deadness.

“I donate to Pathways to Housing,” I shrieked at the nice policeman. “I give bags of groceries to City Harvest. Why is this happening to me?”

“Well, ma’am, it’s not exactly happening to you,” the officer said. “He’s the dead one.”

The cop had a point. But still the dead man haunted me until my sleep-addled, hormone-bathed brain demanded action, the more illogical and dramatic, the better.

Bundling up an infant Allison, I hopped a Metro-North train and headed out of the city. I got off in Billsford because the train station was cute and behind it appeared to be a matching cute town. I wanted cuteness. I wanted green grass. I did not want homeless, forgotten dead people on my doorstep.

The real estate agent, sensing a live one, showed me five houses. They ranged from a ridiculous Tara-size mansion to a recently updated four-bedroom center-hall colonial. The lots were all multiacre, with gardens and trees and butterflies. I felt like I’d dropped into an early Disney film.

“You might occasionally see a wisp of smoke from a neighbor’s hearth,” the agent said to me. I had not heard the word
hearth
used in a sentence since we studied the Pilgrims in grade school. I liked it. I bought the house we were standing in at that moment, hearth, butterflies, and all.

Roger wasn’t pleased. He wondered what sort of marriage we had if I didn’t consult him about something as huge as moving out of New York City. I blamed my irrational behavior on hormones. Roger reminded me I was using that excuse for everything, which, I pointed out, did not make it any less true. I said he could buy a train pass and be at his SoHo yoga studio in under an hour. I told him he could expand and open another studio in chic Westchester County. The place had a whiff of rich, bored, well-maintained women. A gold mine. This made him a little happier, though not happy enough to remain heterosexual, I guess.

As I pull into a parking space roughly twenty yards from the doors of Target, I try to appreciate the upside of my suburban existence. There is always good parking to be found at the big-box stores on a weekday morning.

When I cross the threshold into the store, a blast of air-conditioned, artificial-smelling air escapes around me. The chill is welcome after the uncomfortable heat and humidity outside. On the short ride over, the radio overflowed with apoplectic weather reporters.

“Global warming!”

“Record-crushing heat!”

“Locusts!”

“Zombies!”

“Vampires!”

“The end of time!”

But to their credit, it
is
damn hot. I fumble around in my purse for today’s shopping list, now amended with detergent and nail polish.

Hanging a left in front of the scarves and cheap handbags, I push an empty red cart in front of me. I miss the weight of my daughter in the small, flip-down seat, the way she would kick me relentlessly in the thighs as we traveled up and down the store aisles. After years of the constant presence of a small child, a solo trip to Target can feel downright bittersweet.

I turn in at the toilet paper and spend a full minute I will never get back considering which product to heave into my cart. Am I willing to wipe my ass with the equivalent of sandpaper and save the rain forests, or should I go with something that doesn’t remove the outer layer of my epidermis upon application but will surely cause the downfall of human civilization? This is exactly how a trip to Target can end up taking all morning. I grab the two-ply store brand and push on toward the laundry detergent.

Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse a man in Baby Products. He stands between a pink Pack ’n Play and a deluxe model ExerSaucer, decorated with a lot of sparkling stuffed fish. His arms flap at his sides like the wings of a baby albatross ready to take that first step off the cliff. With wild eyes, a flushed face, and bits of sweaty black hair stuck to his forehead, he looks insane. Which means I have no choice but to stop and stare. My cartwheels screech on the recently waxed floor. A loud voice interrupts the benign music to announce a special on beach towels.

“It’s so hot outside,” the voice says. “Stock up on these beautiful towels now!”

The man wears a dark custom-made suit over a starched white shirt and a red tie. The tie is too bright, the crimson unnatural looking. About halfway down his right leg, his pants are torn, revealing a wound encrusted with dark, dried blood. Mud cakes the bottoms of his Italian leather shoes, but somehow the mud is the wrong color, not quite earthy enough. Did he crawl through dried-out Play-Doh on his way here?

As I gawk, his arms slow down and finally come to rest at his sides. He spins in a slow circle, frowning, clearly confused to find himself surrounded by portable cribs and baby swings. He grabs one of the shiny fish from the ExerSaucer and rubs it against his grubby face. Pedophile? Lunatic? It doesn’t matter, because I have actually stopped breathing. This man with the torn suit and the dirty shoes and the really weird relationship with toy fish might be the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. My jaw hangs open like I left my IQ back there with the toilet paper.

Before any drool can actually escape, I close my mouth. Beautiful or not, this man is not having fun. He’s in a bad way. Confused. He returns the fish to the ExerSaucer and runs his fingers roughly through his thick hair, twisting a longer front bit around and around until it seems he will pull the hair right out of his head. He winces and releases the hair, burying his face in his hands. He inhales deeply and repeatedly. When he finally looks up again, his eyes are calmer. He doesn’t smile, but he no longer looks on the verge of an adult-size meltdown. He shakes out his shoulders, his arms, his wrists. He circles his neck a few times and bends down to touch his toes.

The suburbs are home to many weird people, believe me, but most of them are smart enough to practice their weirdness behind closed doors. It’s safer that way. No one wants to play for Team Deviant.

I push my cart toward the man, who is now jogging in place. The fluorescent lights overhead pop and crackle with static. The tightness in my chest from this morning returns, mild enough that I don’t fall to the floor gasping, but still, I’m aware of it. I rest my hand on my purse. The Xanax is in there if it gets any worse. This makes me feel much better.

“Excuse me,” I say. The stranger is even better up close. His dark green eyes are framed by long lashes, the kind every mascara commercial promises to provide. His skin is clear and pale, like my marble countertops, but it radiates heat from within, giving him a rosy glow. He’s young, twenty-five, thirty at the most.

“You’re not planning on running a marathon in those shoes, are you?” I ask. The man startles like I just poked him with a cattle prod.

While he gives me the once-over, I have a moment to reflect on this morning’s choice of clothing. My white T-shirt has moved across the color spectrum to dull gray, and my size 14 khaki skort, charming and carefree on the skinny catalog model, in reality resembles a potato sack. An unwashed ponytail, complete with aggressively split ends, does not help. I am the opposite of sexy. I am invisible.

“I don’t run,” the man says, looking down at his muddy shoes. His luscious red lips turn up in an automatic smile not reflected in his eyes.

“Are you . . . okay?” I ask, taking a step closer. “It’s just that you look . . . well, not so okay.”

The man smells dusty, like mothballs, as if he was just taken out of storage. Up close, a faint white residue stands out against the dark fabric of his suit. He looks beyond me, off toward the dental hygiene aisle, as if trying to orient himself in space and time.

“Yes,” he says. He goes for confident but misses the mark by a hair. “I’m fine. A rough start to the day, that’s all.”

On a typical weekday morning, the only shoppers in Target are moms or nannies. The suits, men and women alike, all got on the commuter train to the city hours ago. By now those suits have probably held two or three insanely productive meetings, made dozens of important decisions, had several cups of free-trade coffee, and squeezed in a quick game of squash at the New York Athletic Club. They are most certainly not standing around bewildered in Baby Products. A rough start, indeed.

“Is there anything I can
do
for you?” I ask. I have no idea what I will do if he says yes.

“Thank you, but I’m fine,” the man says, straightening his tie. He glances at a Patek Philippe watch that, from the looks of it, is better suited for an expedition to the South Pole than one to suburbia. “Really. I’m okay. I appreciate your concern.” His smile, now bright but still shy of genuine, indicates he’d like me to shove off. I can take a hint.

“Okay,” I say. “Great. You have a nice day.”

I begin to roll my cart away.

“Wait!” the man yells after me. His voice is just this side of frantic. “Would you please tell me what time it is? My watch appears to have stopped.”

“Nine thirty-seven.”

“And, well, I’m not sure quite how to ask this, but where exactly am I?”

What? I leave my cart and walk back. Standing directly in front of him, I gauge he is about six feet, two inches tall, with zero percent body fat. He probably comes by it naturally, too, which makes me like him a little less.

“Do you mean, where in the store or, you know, where in the universe?”

It’s a question I don’t think I’ve ever asked before. I wait while he considers his answer.

“I’d say more the latter.”

“Oh.”

“Yes.”

“Did you have an accident?” I gesture to the hole in his pants. He glances down, surprised, and probes the wound with his fingers, wincing at the pain.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe I fell?”

“Are you asking me?”

“I might be.”

I should call 911 and tell them to pack a straitjacket. The man studies my face.

“Do we know each other?” he asks.

I’m experiencing the same sensation. He’s familiar, but there is no way I’d forget meeting this guy.

“No,” I say. “I don’t think we do.”

“Curious,” he says.

“You’re in Billsford, New York,” I say. “Outside of New York City. Do you know what day it is?”

Again, he runs his fingers nervously through his hair. It stands up like porcupine quills. I can tell he’d hate knowing that.

“Billsford?”

“What’s the last thing you
do
remember?” I ask.

He holds his hands out in front of him. He wants to tell me, to explain, but he comes up with nothing.

“I think I should call for some help. I’m concerned you may have injured yourself when you fell. Do you feel light-headed?”

“No,” he says, looking around again. “But I do feel . . . strange.”

Yes. That seems to be going around this morning. Perhaps he suffered a concussion? Or he’s recovering from anesthesia?

“You haven’t had surgery or played hockey recently, have you?” I ask.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“What is this place? What’s all this stuff?” he asks.

“Target,” I say.

“A target for what?”

That’s the last bit of evidence I need.

“Can I please get you some help?” I ask. “Call someone?”

“No!” He grabs my wrist. A shot of heat races through my body from the point of contact. It’s not lust but something different, some connection for which I cannot find the proper word.

“Oh my,” I say.

He keeps a tight grip on my wrist.

“I want to go home,” he whispers. His eyes search my face, and suddenly he reminds me of Allison, jolted awake by a nightmare, lost in the blurry place between reality and dreams.

“Of course you do,” I say, peeling his fingers off my wrist. “Do you remember your name? Do you have a wallet?”

He obediently checks his back pocket and the inner jacket as well. Nothing.

“And I don’t remember my name,” he says as if this fact surprises him. What must it be like to forget that most basic fact about yourself? Who are you if you don’t have a name? You’re a blank slate. You’re nobody. For some reason, this idea leaves me cold.

I walk the man toward the store manager’s office. He comes willingly, shuffling his muddy thousand-dollar shoes along the floor. As I go, I dial 911.