Love Deluxe (4 page)

“I’ve only met you a couple of times. I’ve seen you a lot of times.”

“Really now? And all those times you noticed my shoes?”

“Not your shoes,” he said matter-of-factly, “your feet, they’re perfect.”

I was speechless, I just stood there with my mouth hanging open.

“Hey, don’t get freaked out, I don’t have a thing for feet. Yours just look so pretty, so white and smooth with that bright pink polish.”

“It’s Flamingo Pink,” I muttered, still a little stunned. “My summer color.”

“So you wear different colors to go with the seasons?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” I asked, with a mischievous smile as we walked to the car.

We took my Volvo SUV but I asked John to drive. It seemed that my driving had begun to scare people. I tended to swerve into the wrong lane, run over debris in the road and back into solid objects. I owned a Jaguar and an Escalade when Henry died and I managed to do major damage to both of them after my life changed. On my parent’s advice I bought the Volvo which was smaller and easy to handle so it worked out well. I didn’t mind if I banged it up a little and to be truthful, I was glad to get rid of my former cars. They were part of a life that didn’t exist any longer.

It turned out that John wasn’t very good behind the wheel either. He wasn’t reckless or negligent, he just had no sense of direction— I mean none! 

I’d tell him to turn left and he would turn right and I’d have to yell, “Left, left, for God’s sake, left!”

I’d never seen anyone as lost in my life; I could drive from Canada to Peru with nothing more than the north-south-east-west gadget in my car. How the hell could someone be so lost in the town where they lived? I asked him and his face turned bright red, then I felt terrible. It was just driving, I told myself. It wasn’t like I had anything more pressing to do, on that day or any other. It took longer than usual to get to the lake, with wrong turns and plenty of back tracking. When we got to the realtor’s office my agent, Lee Starnes, had given up and gone to lunch.

“There’s a catfish restaurant down the road, you wanna go?” I asked John.

“Man, I’m so hungry I could eat concrete!” he said, and I took that as a yes.

After lunch we met Lee at his office. He seemed surprised that I’d brought an unknown man along; I imagine he was expecting Jackson. Lee collected himself and we rode with him to look at the property.

John was shocked that I would even consider buying a lot on a gravel road with a rotting trailer house sitting on it. He was even more blown away when he heard the astronomical price.

“That’s how it works on this lake; it’s small and private, affordable to only the chosen few. That makes property here a good investment.” I explained.

The property hadn’t been mowed in months so we had to tramp through tall weeds to get to the lake. That was what had attracted me, one hundred feet of pristine waterfront lined with mature cypress trees, and it was above the flood plain. The little lake was created by damning the Guadalupe River and it was notorious for flooding every few years. The lot had never flooded so it was perfect. John pointed out that the retaining wall along the water needed repair, I was glad he had, I wouldn’t have noticed. My legs had begun to itch from the weeds and my feet were hot in the tennis shoes.

“I’ve seen enough,” I said, “I’m ready to make an offer, let’s go back to your office, Lee.”

“Wow that was fast!” John said, looking at me like I was crazy. “Are you really gonna make an offer just like that?”

“Just like that,” I said. “It’s a great piece of property. It just needs to be cleared, then I’ll build the perfect lake house.”

“Will you live out here and leave your life in San Antonio behind?” he asked and his bluer-than-blue eyes went from clear to cloudy as he considered the possibility.

“No, it’s an investment; I’ll probably sell it before the house is finished.”

“I want to sell it,” Lee said quickly.

“I want to build it.” John Foster added.

***

On the ride home, I explained to John Foster that my husband had been an architect and that I had worked with on some of his projects. Building and restoring houses was a passion we’d shared. The house at that lake would be the first time I would create something on my own. We talked about the property and he said he would like to help me build the house. I could act as general contractor and he would manage the work crews, deal with suppliers and the day to day operations. With a sideways glance he said, of course, I should feel free to boss him around. We laughed and made plans to have lunch the next day. After that we would look at a house he was remodeling and I could see the quality and scope of his work. I’d mentioned stopping at the Ski Lodge before we drove back into the city but we were hot and sweaty and it had been a long day. The rest of the drive back we exchanged stories and small pieces of our histories, but I didn’t want to get too deep into the minefield of my past.

John and Lee must have talked about Jackson and he asked a few questions as to where that relationship stood, then jumped right in with, “Are you over him, Cate?”

“Yes, I am,” I said. I wasn’t sure if that was true, but just his asking caused a small eruption deep in my stomach and it wasn’t because of Jackson. I felt my body craving John Foster, which I hadn’t expected, so I turned my face to the window, thoroughly confused.

At home, I let him off in the driveway, next to his car. He got out, walked around the SUV and tapped on my window. I rolled it down and he leaned in a little and brushed the hair off my face.

“Your hair is the color of mink,” he said, and it was almost a whisper.

I looked up at him as he stood there smiling, he
was
incredible looking, his eyes were a pure, shining sky blue. He had to be at least six feet four or five. His hair was white-blond and his face was chiseled perfection and lightly tanned, he could easily have been the star of an action movie or on the cover of
GQ
.

“You’re so different,” he said, “you build houses and you see what a cow pasture covered in weeds could be. You’re not like any woman I’ve ever met, you’re sure as hell not like the average rich, privileged ‘Oh-niner’.”

“No, I guess not, but I used to be, and I was really proud of what that zip code stood for. 78209 means money, success, the good life, all the privileges of belonging in Alamo Heights. At least that’s what I thought it meant, a safe place in the world. But honestly— I never actually believed the world was a dangerous place.”

He left and I went inside to get ready for bed. I checked messages and there were far too many from Jackson— the man was certainly persistent. Of course as the messages progressed his voice became more and more slurred. I felt a squeeze of the heart, hearing his voice, but I don’t think it had anything to do with love. I undressed and filled the big tub in my bathroom and as I slipped into the soothing water I realized that I was anxious to spend another day with John Foster. I imagined his eyes seeing me, his hands touching me and my hand moved deftly between my legs, the thought of him there making it so very quick. Afterword, in my wonderful island-like four poster bed, I scrolled through the movie channels and fell asleep happy and excited at last.

***

John picked me up for lunch and introduced me to his favorite Mexican food restaurant,
Panchito’s
. He apologized that it was a bit of a dive but the food was great. We drove a few blocks to his current construction site, a massive house in Olmos Park. 

“Talk about a house,” I marveled, “this one is twice the size of mine!”

“No, it just looks that way from the outside,” he said, “but it’s been a cool project. We gutted the original structure and added on. We’ve doubled the living space and now we’re adding all the final touches. I can’t wait for you to check out the inside, come on in, I think you’re gonna love it.”

He was right, I did love it. The owners had chosen wonderful materials and finishes and the skill of the craftsmen was obvious. John introduced me to his crew chief, a man named Berto, and I complimented him on the extraordinary work. I was certain I wanted John Foster and his crew to build my lake house. We took our time wandering through the house and discussing the fine points of design and craftsmanship. When the construction crew packed up and called it a day, so did we.

John drove me home and on a whim I invited him in for a drink and a sandwich. He accepted, but said he should run home and take a shower first. I told him not to bother, we’d sit out by the pool and it wouldn’t matter if we we’re sweaty, it was nearly 100 degrees even with the sun going down.

“Good call,” he said and we went inside to whip up a blender of frozen margaritas.

We had our drinks and sandwiches outside, then sat on the edge of the pool with our feet in the water. It felt heavenly; the water was warm and satiny, swirling around our legs. We struck a deal for John to oversee the construction of the lake house and I’d pay him a cut of the profit after it sold. It was such a beautiful night; we didn’t linger on business talk. The sun had almost set and it left a million shades of orange behind. We were quiet for a long time, enjoying the feel of the water and the thick summer air on our skin, hearing the sounds of night creatures come to life as the world darkened.

“So,” he said, hesitantly breaking the silence, “you lost your husband awhile back?”

“About two years ago,” I said.

“That’s tough I’ll bet, and your son, how old is he?”

I felt the familiar buzz begin in my brain signaling ‘danger, don’t go there’. I needed to just spit the words out quickly, tell him the truth and have it behind me.

“John,” I looked away from him and stared at the stars shining light years away, my voice was shaky. “I lost my son six months before my husband, I don’t talk about it, I don’t mean to be rude, but please don’t ask any questions. When I can tell you about it I will, if we continue to know each other.”

Even looking away from him I could feel how shocked he was, who wouldn’t be? It wasn’t the kind of thing that happened in real life.

“Man, I’m sorry, I had no idea. I didn’t mean to upset you or cause you to think about it. I wish I hadn’t asked, are you okay?”

How could I tell him what was in my heart and mind? That I could only talk about my son when I could. Losing a husband is terrible, losing a child is unthinkable, nearly unbearable. Not in line with the natural order of things. And yet, here I was, bearing the awful weight of it, going forward, trying to find my way.

Now I wanted to live again and feel earthly pleasures, to know this man. I turned to John and he looked so alarmed, so unsure of what to say or do. How well I knew that look, had come to know and expect it over the last two and a half years. People don’t know how to deal with death up close, not Americans anyway. All those screaming women in Israel and Africa rubbing dirt on their faces and railing at God on CNN, needing for mankind to witness their pain, that’s the truth of it.  But in the English speaking world we have Jackie Kennedy as a role model for grief, stoically wiping away a single tear, dignified at all cost. Bullshit.

I needed a blue pill desperately, I told him I’d be right back and asked him to open a bottle of wine. I went upstairs to my bathroom, swallowed a pill and splashed water on my face, studied myself in the mirror. I looked normal, not like a woman who’d wrestled demons every day for the last couple of years.

Outside he’d poured the wine and we touched our glasses together. The stars were out in full force and the air felt lighter, we gathered empty plates and glasses and carried them to the kitchen. The wine had relaxed us and we were both yawning. We laughed at what party animals we were and said goodnight.

I watched as he drove away and felt my heart fill up with loneliness, then he stopped his car and walked back to where I stood. His eyes had changed, they were dark and shouldering and looking into them I felt such an urge to let myself lie down with him in the grass and do things I’d never dared before. I opened my mouth to speak and he covered my lips with his and it was like the first kiss that ever existed. Long minutes later, we both caught our breath and he held me against him, I could feel his heart beating hard in his chest. When he finally let me go and climbed into his car to drive away I was relieved because I couldn’t have done it.

After he left I sat on the balcony outside my bedroom, I’d wanted Henry, I’d wanted a baby and now I wanted this. I wanted John Foster with the same deep, solid longing. I looked down on the pool and pictured myself with John, laughing, talking, sharing a pleasant evening. I wished I had jumped in and taken him with me, wrapped myself around him and whispered, “I want to feel you inside me, please.” But that wasn’t my nature, I was never wild, I’d slept with only one man before I married Henry, just a boy, really.

We were seventeen, I was a nice Baptist girl and it had been exciting but not fulfilling. With Henry making love was, well, lovely. We fit together perfectly, he knew my body and I was comfortable with him, I could let go and was satisfied. After nine months and three weeks of marriage Brooks was born, I threw myself into motherhood and Henry became obsessed with providing the ideal life. We loved each other but our schedules overflowed and sex became an afterthought. It became something we had to remember to make time for, something we would get back to when our child was grown.