Love Deluxe (2 page)

But it went downhill from the start, too much drama, too much embarrassment; the happy moments were few and far between. I’d finally had enough of his juvenile bullshit, so I rolled up the window, drove away and left lying him in the grass. He started calling my cell phone at once so I turned it off, but I knew he wouldn’t stop. As soon as I stepped in the door of my house the land-line was ringing. I answered and simply said “no” repeatedly until he got tired and hung up.

Jackson was always a mystery to me. At twenty-seven, he was educated, from a good family, too smart for his own good and a raging alcoholic. I wanted to love him in the beginning; he was the only man to capture my attention since my husband, Henry, died. The hook being that he smelled like Henry and that was indescribably alluring. No cologne needed, just a clean, solid, masculine smell.

But my affair with Jackson was a go nowhere situation and our sex life was nonexistent since he was either too drunk to recognize his own zipper or reeling from a massive hangover. When we first met he said I would fall in love with him, that it was inevitable and I wouldn’t be able to live without him. I just smiled and told him I lived without people I loved every day and I’d gotten extraordinarily good at it. He shouldn’t expect to own a piece of my heart, I said, it lay in broken pieces inside my chest, battered beyond all recognition and it could never be repaired.

At home in the big empty house I could feel my thoughts taking a bad turn, memories of my lovely once-upon-a-time life threatened to stop my heart cold. I had Xanax for those episodes, given to me on the day I lost my son by one of a pair of women I owned an antiques shop with. She came to my house with what I would come to know far too well as
funeral food
and flowers
— and drugs.

“One prescription is Ambien, that’s so you can sleep, and the other is Xanax, they’re for anxiety. Now Cate,” she cautioned, “these pills are to be taken only as prescribed. I’m responsible; I promised my doctor that you wouldn’t… take too many.”

I didn’t understand why she was responsible for anything or how she could speak to me calmly when my soul burned inside me like the fires of hell. What I understood was the word “dead” screaming in my head, and the thought of my son cold and ruined and unreachable, the end of the world at hand. Those thoughts, those realities, were like a sledgehammer to my heart and even now they remain relentless in their need to destroy me. They play over and over until my mind becomes so sick of them that I cast them out, like the demons they are.

But always, they return, the ultimate form of torture flashing the death scene in my head. The blood there must have been, the thoughts that were his last, were any of them for me, his Mother, were they kind? Did my only child know that he was the reason the world turned and the sun rose and the stars sparkled in the night sky? Did he know that he was my whole world?

Then the scenes change to the innocence of Brooks at one or two or three years old, laughing and playing, his bright corn silk hair framing his precious face. The games he never tired of— “Where is Brooksy? There he is!” He would squeal with delight and wrap his baby arms around my neck, snuggling into me as I held onto him for dear life. Such unspeakable sorrow that there’s nowhere on this planet where you can hide a child from danger, no, none I’ve ever found.

I kept those prescription bottles with me all the time in case of a meltdown. Especially the blue pills, the magical Xanax with their blessed dose of emotional anesthesia, they were so very good at keeping the memories from catching me.

***

I ran into John Foster again a couple of weeks later, the night before Emily and I were flying to Florida for our annual ‘girls only’ trip. I’d promised to meet Myles and his club-hopping singles group for a quick drink at a local nightclub but when I arrived he was nowhere in sight. The bar was crowded and noisy, as it always was on Thursday night, what everyone referred to as ‘the meat market’. Frantic singles packed tightly together, their voices too loud and too bright. The grating cackle of women’s laughter rising above the din made me want to be anywhere but there. I ordered a drink and turned and my gaze met the bluest eyes I’d ever known.

“I better snag you before someone else does. We could be twins,” John Foster said, leaning boyishly against the bar with his long legs stretched out in front of him. “Faded jeans and white shirts, are you copying me?”

“No. What?” I asked, as a wave of heat washed through me.

He smiled his killer smile. “So the Ice Princess blushes? I like it. ‘Course there’s no way that we could be twins, we’re like… negatives of each other. Your hair is so dark and glossy and you have eyes like a cat. If I don’t get enough sun on my face I practically fade away, it’s because of my mom, her family is Swedish or German or some shit.” He took my hand and examined it almost reverently, “You’re skin is like porcelain, that’s so cool. I guess every man you’ve ever met says you have the most incredible eyes, but it’s true. They’re huge and emerald green and they flame like fire.”

The fever rising to my cheeks was such a shock that I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

He noticed and grinned as if he’d accomplished some impossible mission.

God, he was insanely gorgeous as he towered over me gazing down with his long fingers stroking mine. His hair was white-blond and his eyes were like the eyes of a great bird, wild and free and penetrating.

I drew in my breath, jerked my hands out of sight and jammed them into my jeans pockets.

“You can’t drink your drink like that,” he said, then picked up the glass and held it to my lips.

With my hands stuck in my pockets I had to lean toward him to take a drink.

His arm was incredibly long and covered with pale golden hair; his hand was huge and looked as if it had never seen a day’s work. His scent floated toward me, hot and strange, unknown. I felt a fountain erupt deep in my belly that I swear I hadn’t felt since I was a teenager. I pulled my hands free and stepped back from him.

He reached out with that large, perfect hand and brushed away a trickle of liquid that had spilled onto my chin
.

I don’t need to know this man
, a voice in my head whispered and as I turned to go he poked a finger through a hole near the back pocket of my jeans.

Later on, when we became inseparable, he would tell me that was the exact instant he knew I was the one for him. The one who made him give up his long and dearly held bachelor status. He swore that when his finger touched my skin it was burning hot and my eyes blazed as I turned to face him. That was the sign, that’s when his heart began to beat only for me, and for the first time in his life he wanted nothing more than to lose himself to love.

There in the bar with the usual crowd of singles, John Foster followed me back to my booth and settled in on the other side. With a self-assured smirk he leaned back against the leather seat with his long arms resting on the table.

“Those jeans are hot, you, Cate Stuart, are seriously hot,” he said. “We should get together, maybe you have kids, I don’t. I have a bird.”

I wanted to stand up and walk away right then, surely I couldn’t be the least bit interested in a man with a bird— if that’s what he actually meant.

“Yeah, he’s an African Grey, a parrot. Man, he talks more than I do! I raised him from a chick; he was practically an egg when I got him, just a few sad little feathers. You’ll love him, he’s brilliant.”

A brilliant bird, huh? Well that makes one of you
, I thought, my mind casting about wildly for a reason not to like John Foster.

Suddenly I didn’t care for his voice; there was an inflection to his words, vaguely northern, not at all what I was used to. In fact, the more I thought about it he was far beyond my comfort zone. He was so different from the men I knew, Southern men who were stable and grounded in their lives, men like my late husband.

John Foster talked and I half listened, focusing instead on my trip to Florida the next day. He said he was from Los Angeles, that he’d lived in Texas for a year, just him and the bird whose name was Turkey with the unlikely nickname of Chicken.

I stood up to leave, he was dangerously sexy and beautiful to look at but who knew what this strange Californian would say next or where the situation might lead?

Too much beauty and no substance, just as I thought, what a shame.

He grabbed my hand before I could walk away and said, “Hey, I can’t wait ‘til our third date!” 

I removed my hand from his, determined to make a quick exit. “We haven’t even been on a first date, and I doubt that we’re going on one. You’re really weird John Foster, you know that don’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess I am,” he said, standing and brushing the hair off my blazing cheeks. “Fuck, you’re gorgeous. Let’s go on our first date soon. When should I pick you up?”

My heart was thumping like crazy and my body needed him, there was no denying that. Maybe I could just use him as a one night stand; would that be so bad, would I burn in hell, would it matter?

“I have to go, I’m leaving town in the morning,” I said and picked up my purse.

“Oh… Well, as soon as you get back let’s get the first two dates out of the way and work on that third date.”

I was out the door fast but he caught up to me before I reached my car.

“I’m serious, Cate, I want to see you again. I was just kidding before, you looked so shocked and it was kind of funny. I know I’m a dick but I swear to God I don’t know how to act around you. It probably wasn’t a good move telling you about Turkey, I couldn’t think of any other way to get your attention. I wanted to impress you, to stand out from the rich cocksuckers who are always hanging around hoping you’ll throw them a crumb, but I guess that wasn’t the right way. I’ve watched you with Myles, not like a stalker but because you’re beautiful like an untouchable goddess in a painting. And I don’t think you really care about any of these snobby, bullshit people or parties.”

I relaxed a little, his eyes were hypnotic and he’d dropped the ‘ladies’ man’ stance. He seemed more real and rather vulnerable, likeable even.

“So, I hope you’ll think about going out with me and the third date. I don’t mean like just sex, but, yeah, absolutely sex… eventually. Wait, don’t leave, Cate. Go out on a limb, take a chance for once and get to know me. I already feel like I know you somehow.”

I got into my car and looked up at him, the moonlight burnished his handsome face and reflected in the crystalline blue of his eyes. “But, you don’t know me,” I said.

He leaned down and I was both aroused and disquieted by his closeness, “Cate Stuart, maybe you don’t know yourself.”

I drove away and left him standing in the parking lot.

Chapter Two

Emily and I met in the sixth grade, we were eleven years old, tall and gawky and two years away from being pretty and popular. We knew each other’s deepest darkest secrets and like sisters, we held them safely in ‘
the vault’
. We looked forward to our girl trip every year. Her son Jonah had graduated with Brooks and had gone off to college at Sewanee. Her two younger boys, twins, had just finished high school and were backpacking through Europe before college. When our kids were little we took them to Disney World most summers and snow skiing at Christmas, sometimes with, sometimes without our husbands.

We were good at traveling together, we enjoyed the same things. Eating, shopping and loitering in museums. Going to plays and the ballet, (we both hated opera), reading books, analyzing movies. We could talk nonstop for days and gossip was our favorite pastime. That summer we were going to the Golden Door Spa for their ‘
Restore Your Youth’
week. The spa was part of the Waldorf Astoria in Naples, Florida. There would be moderate exercise, some Pilates and yoga, and plenty of shopping on the quaint town square whenever the mood struck. Long walks on the beach were a must followed by delectably healthy meals and soothing spa treatments. We would swim and lie in the sun (with plenty of sunscreen, of course) and simply raise the little flags on our chaise lounges to summon waiters bearing pretty, too sweet, heavenly drinks.

Two days into our trip we were sitting on the balcony of our room drinking some kind of funky juice concoction that was supposed to detoxify our systems. I was smoking just to be sure I didn’t get too young and beautiful. It was a terrible habit I’d started after losing Brooks, although I didn’t smoke every day I figured, what did it matter? The sooner I got it over with the better and it was some sort of comfort, I guess.

Emily finished her wheat grass and kale sludge and sighed, “Okay, easy on the chain smoking, something’s on your mind, let’s hear it.”

I hesitated, “Well, I’m invited to a wedding next weekend, and it’s really nice you know— ceremony at Trinity Chapel and reception at the San Antonio Country Club. Everyone will be there and I don’t want to go alone.”

“So, take a date, that cell phone of yours never stops ringing. What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know who to take. I can’t take Jackson into that old school Alamo Heights crowd, you know how he gets.”

She gave me a look and said, “Correct sweetie, Jackson does not belong at the Country Club or in any other part of polite society and he sure as hell doesn’t belong with you anymore. Come on, there’s got to be someone, you have to give those snobs something to talk about, take the hottest man you know.”

“Well, there is one guy, I told you about him, remember, really tall and blond?”

“I thought you said he was
really
blond, like empty-headed, as in,
the light is on but no one is home
.”

“You know, sometimes you’re just mean! Besides, I might have misjudged him,” I admitted, sipping the ghastly drink and stubbing out the even more disgusting cigarette.

“So call him, it’s just one date,” she said, pouring herself another glass of that horrible juice-potion. “Take a chance.”

Take a chance, that’s what John Foster had said
.

I called and got his voice mail. “Hi John, this is Cate Stuart, we met through Myles. I’m invited to a wedding next weekend and I wondered if you’d like to go… with me. It might be fun… well, probably not it’s most likely going to be a huge bore, but if you want to go give me a call, and… it could be fun, maybe, well, let me know, bye.”
Good Lord, was I rambling or what
?

He returned my call right away, Emily and I were at the pool and my cell phone was in the hotel room so he left a message.

“Hey Cate, alright! Sounds cool and I can’t think of a classier or more beautiful gal to hang with. Count me in.”

Ugh
. I let Emily listen to the message; she knew very well how I hated being referred to as a “gal” by anyone who wasn’t my father. When my dad called me “gal” it was a term of endearment, but from anyone else it sounded derogatory.

Emily’s eyes twinkled and I could see how much she was enjoying my irritation.

“Okay, you’re right, he’s not too bright, but hey, at least he looks good!” She said and cracked herself up to no end.

So that was that, it was a done deal, although I wasn’t sure how I felt about it or why I’d sounded like a school girl asking a boy to the prom.

Emily and I had a blast for the rest of our trip, we exercised and exfoliated and shopped. We ate ‘too good to be good for you’ meals and drank more bizarre drinks, some with alcohol and some with roots and bark or some shit. We had a great time as usual and I bought an amazing dress for the wedding. All in all, a perfect trip.

Rob met us at the airport, “
Los Barrios
or
Soluna
?” he asked as he loaded our luggage in the car.

We both said in unison, “
Los Barrios
.”

“God, I can use some greasy Tex-Mex after all that healthy food.” Emily said.

“Excuse me, Miss Tree Hugger USA! That healthy mess was your idea and you certainly cleaned your plate at every meal like somebody was going to take it away from you. I don’t care where we go next year, but everything better be cooked in lard.” I said, rolling my eyes since she’d been the one to insist on the spa as opposed to a gastronomic tour of the California wine country.

“Amen, sister!” She said as the three of us settled around a table at the restaurant and didn’t bother opening the menus.

We ordered our favorite food and a pitcher of Margaritas and dove into the chips and salsa with absolute gusto.

“Well now, I hear you’ve dumped little boy blue and have a date with some big, blond hunk.” Rob said, in his normal, obnoxious, brotherly fashion, ready to give me the third degree.

I looked at Emily and she shrugged and said, “Sorry, Catey-bug! He makes me tell him everything.”

“Yes, Rob,” I said, giving in to the inevitable barrage of questions I knew were coming. “I’m done with babysitting Jackson and I’m going on a one-time date with a tall, blond man.”

“How tall?” He asked and his eyes were already alight with mischief.

“I don’t know, I haven’t measured him, six four, I would imagine,” I said, warily.

“So, pretty big?” he asked, nonchalantly.

“I guess so, but not like a hulk or anything, his hands are huge.”

Rob began to laugh and Emily gave him a pleading look and told him to stop it.

“What the hell have I walked into now?” I asked, taking a long swallow of my Margarita.

“Don’t mind anything he has to say on the subject of sex,” Emily said. “Our very first time he took me to that derelict Hacienda Motel on the south side of town and called all his buddies from a pay phone ten minutes later while I reapplied my frosted lipstick.”

“Ten minutes, my ass! You know I’m your sixty minute man, Em,” Rob said. “So, sweet little Catey-bug, all this time you’ve been dreaming of a pretty boy with a big dick?”

“No!” Emily and I squealed at the same time.

“Why does every man think that?” I asked.

“Because that’s
all
they think about, who has the biggest one! You’re a pervert, Rob, go to hell,” Emily said and we finished our margaritas and refilled them from the pitcher.

“Ugh, is that true? Are men just obsessed with the size of their penises?”

“That’s so gross, you don’t hear women talking about their vaginas all the time!”

“True, but boob size does works its way into way too many lunch conversations if you ask me.”

“Oh God, I know! Come to think of it, women do kind of obsess over the size of their… nether regions. I overheard this middle-aged woman at the country club say that after having three kids sex with her husband felt like he was throwing a banana down a hallway!”

“Well fuck! Maybe her husband’s dick was just too damn small!”

Emily and I were both talking at once and then laughing hysterically as the margaritas loosened our tongues and Rob was kicked back, sipping his drink and enjoying what he’d started.

“Hey,” he said with a wicked grin, “I’m wishing you the best, Catey-bug. I know you probably get tired of having sex without anyone else in the room.”

“Talk about a big dick, you are one Rob!” I said and shot him the bird and Emily popped him on the forehead with her knuckles and said, “Smart ass, you can let me know in the morning how you like sex all by yourself because it’s the couch for you tonight.”

When we left the restaurant Rob walked between us with his arms draped over our shoulders and said, “Awe, come on, girls. I was just trying to get a rise out of Cate. Where’s your sense of humor, do I really have to sleep alone tonight, Em?”

They dropped me off at home and I hauled my luggage upstairs to my bedroom, threw everything on the floor and decided to unpack later. My cell phone was off during the flight, so I had a dozen messages. They were from my mother, miscellaneous friends, Jackson, Myles and two from John Foster. Like all the others, John hoped I made it home safely. He wanted to assure me he would pick me up for the wedding the next evening at seven sharp and he needed directions to my house. I called and got his voicemail
yet again
, left directions and said I was looking forward to seeing him, although I wasn’t sure if I believed that part.

***

On Saturday the doorbell rang just before seven while I was still getting dressed. I peeked outside through the upstairs window and although I couldn’t see John Foster, I could see his car in the driveway. It was a vintage gold Mercedes convertible with a tan top which was up, thank God. It was a car that screamed “look at me” and I wouldn’t have wanted it if someone gave it to me, but it suited him perfectly. I was putting the finishing touches on my hair and makeup when the doorbell rang again.

To hell with it
, I thought. I didn’t care if he was impressed or not. It was just one date, after all, so
I zipped my dress, slipped into a pair of Louboutin heels and walked downstairs.

John looked more handsome than ever, but his shirt tail was hanging out and he didn’t have on a jacket.

Great!
Should I have mentioned to a grown man that attending a wedding required wearing a suit? He walked to a wall of French doors overlooking the pool and with his back to me he began tucking in his shirt right there in the living room like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Now this is a house,” he said, turning around as he zipped his pants and surveyed what suddenly seemed like ridiculously oversized rooms.

“Thanks, I guess,” I said and I wasn’t sure if I was more embarrassed by his casual attire or the size and grandeur of my house.

“No, really. I do a lot of remodeling on these old places, what year was it built?”

“Nineteen thirty-six. The house was practically falling down when we bought it… my husband and I spent years rebuilding....  You know I’d offer you a drink but I think we’d better get going,” I said, forcing my thoughts away from the house and the husband and the life I once had.

“Great dress,” he said, running a hand through impossibly blond hair. “Didn’t buy it just for me did you?”

How annoying
, I almost said.

“It is new but I bought it just for the wedding, sorry.”

He flashed an impish grin, “Well, I’ll pretend it’s only for me then, you look incredible.”

“Hang on a sec, I’ll just get my purse,” I ran back upstairs to grab my blue pills and we were off.

At the chapel John slipped into a sport coat. I knew it was too casual but he didn’t. To hell with it, I decided, let the snobs deal with it or not.

The Country Club reception was quietly elegant and one particularly snooty “friend” told me she shouldn’t have worried if she was dressed appropriately, my date certainly hadn’t.

Bitch.

Another, better friend winked and said, “Wow, Cate, you brought eye candy!”

That was true; he was gorgeous and charming and sexy as sin. And my brain and body were at war as to what I should do about him.

The reception went nicely, great food, good band and a beautiful bride, lucky girl, all was well in her little world.

On the way home John was ecstatic, “I had a drink with a billionaire!” 

“Yes I know, and he’s a really nice man at that.”

“But a billionaire, he’s the E-Z Vite guy for the love of God!” He said, swerving in and out of traffic and making several wrong turns before he finally parked in the circular drive in front of my house.

“That’s right he is, and he took that company from a kitchen sink operation to world class, an amazing feat, but he’s still just a man.”

“We talked for a long time and he really likes you— admires you. He said you’re the most courageous woman he’s ever known, and he knows everyone, famous people and the president, that’s so cool. He’s right, you have everything, beauty, brains, personality— a golden girl, the complete package,” He said.