Secret Lives Of Husbands And Wives (34 page)

“Lys, I told you before that I don’t think it’s a good idea.” He wraps the towel around his waist and sits down in the chair next to mine. “It would just complicate things.”

“How so? Because DeeDee will be there too?”

He pauses as if searching for the right words. Finally he settles on a shrug. “Yes, quite honestly. I don’t think it would be fair to the kids.”

“Children like to see both their parents in the same place at the same time, even when they’re not happy together. Believe me, I know from experience.” I’m being stubborn, but suddenly I don’t care.

“Lyssa,
it wouldn’t be fair to me.
”

There, he’s said it.

“How can you say that? Of course it’s fair to be with those who love you, no matter what others think!”

His laughter comes out with no joy, just pain. “Oh, that’s rich! No matter whom it hurts, right?”

Our children.

Ted.

Stalemate.

“Lyssa, you have to trust that I know what’s right for all of us.”

Suddenly I’m very tired. It’s time for me to go. I get to my feet unsteadily. With a wave, I turn and walk back toward the house. As I pass the cabana, I see the painting I left by the door.

It’s my Christmas, too, and I want to give myself the one gift that will make me happy.

I pick it up and take it over to him. “From me. Merry Christmas.”

He’s taken aback at first. Slowly he unwraps the paper taped around it. What he finds underneath brings tears to his eyes. “This is incredible. It’s beautiful! You did this—for me?”

I nod. “It’s how I see you: always at your happiest. And Jake and Temple too.”

He thanks me with a kiss, but when our lips meet, neither of us can stop there.

He is hungry for me. His mouth lingers on mine, gently at first, then with abandon as he sets it loose over my neck, my face, my hair. When he gets to my shoulders, his hands fumble with the buttons on my shirt before he can tear it away from my body.

He admires my breasts. Yes, I have to admit, they do look nice. Even to my eyes, they look much fuller than I remember. Must be the chilly air, which has stiffened my nipples. They seem darker and larger. When he takes one in his mouth, my heart beats harder in my chest. . . .

One hand cradles the back of my neck as he guides me down onto the chaise, while his other hand slips below the waistline of my pants, exploring, probing, inciting me to desire him all the more, if that’s even possible. He wants me just as badly, I know, because his cock swells in his swim trunks to the point where it lifts them up. I can see it clearly defined—

The buzz of my cell stops us cold. Harry sits up with a groan. “Well . . . maybe it’s for the best.”

I stare down at my purse, but I don’t make a move.

So he does. He stands up and wraps the towel around his waist again. The effect is silly:

Tent trunks.

I’d laugh if I weren’t crying so hard.

He sits beside me and cradles my head to his chest, but the tears don’t stop, can’t stop. He takes my hand and examines each finger before stroking them lightly, kissing them from tips to palm.

We sit together like that for at least an hour, not saying a word. Finally he rises, pulling me up with him. He picks up the painting and studies it carefully. “Someday we’ll be this happy again.”

“I know.”

I mean it.

2:40 p.m.

I am already in my house when I remember the cell call. I don’t immediately recognize the number on the caller ID, so I hit the message button to hear Patti’s voice, choked with heartbreak, informing me that Dad passed away early this morning, and that the funeral will take place on Monday. She also says she will leave it to me to inform Mother, and would welcome her at the funeral if that is my wish.

I take a deep breath and walk upstairs so that the children can’t hear me sob.

An hour later, when I’m all cried out, I ring Mother’s number.

Her telephone has caller ID, so when she barks, “What is it?” I know she knows who she’s talking to.

“He’s dead.” Really, that’s all I need to say.

Her response is to blow smoke into the receiver. Then: “Yeah, okay, so what? What am I supposed to do?”

“Forgive,” I murmur. Then I hang up.

“It isn’t tying himself to one woman that a man dreads when he thinks of marrying; it’s separating
himself from all the others.”

—Helen Rowland

Monday, 30 Dec., 11:30 p.m.

No kid looks great all in black, including my own. It isn’t a happy color.

But they do look appropriate, and that is what the occasion of my father’s funeral calls for. It is a simple event. Apparently, toward the end he had only a handful of friends. Fueled by my mother’s venom, most had abandoned him when he left her.

Worn down by her bitterness, eventually they abandoned her too. People prefer pleasantness. I don’t blame them. If I hadn’t felt so guilty, I would have left too.

Most of the mourners here don’t know me. In fact, most don’t even know
of
me. My father gave little in the way of history, because it hurt too much. If they knew about me, it’s because he’d already determined that they would not pass judgment on events they had not lived through, but would trust that he’d done the best he could.

That is, in the best respect, true friendship.

Ted stands beside me, smiling and congenial and supportive. I think he expected me to be a lot worse off than I am: I smile wanly, with glassy eyes. I know he’s happy for me that I made my peace with my father before this day. But even if I hadn’t, I now know that
I could have counted on him to hold it together for me. For our children.

One of my hands is tucked inside Olivia’s. The other grasps Patti’s. Or I should say, she holds on to me, tightly.

My mother would hate seeing that.

But since I don’t care what my mother thinks or feels, I let this woman who loved my father lean on me in her time of need. I don’t know if, after all is said and done, she will take me up on my offer to stay in touch, to let her come by and watch her husband’s grandchildren grow into the kinds of human beings who, I hope, would make him proud.

My guess, though, is yes. I’m glad of that. My children need to hear about their grandfather from someone who actually knew him and loved him passionately, as opposed to someone who hated him unconditionally.

As he is lowered into the ground, I throw a handful of sod onto his coffin and say a prayer for his soul.

I pray for my mother’s soul as well.

Tuesday, 31 Dec., 9:00 p.m.

Ted and I have gone into the city for New Year’s Eve. I’m calling this a new tradition. We live too close to San Francisco to become those people who never go beyond the cloistered claustrophobic borders of their own little towns.

Unfortunately, our advance reservations mean nothing to the hostess at Il Fornaio on Battery. By the time we’re seated for our nine o’clock dinner reservation, it’s going on eleven. It’s already a forgone conclusion that we’ll miss the fireworks taking place just a couple of blocks down along the Embarcadero. We are both starving, and Ted refuses to rush out the door: “Hey, we’re paying through the nose for this meal. Besides, who wants to be jostled by a couple of
thousand drunk, horny party animals?”

We make it home after midnight, but without seeing one flash of a rocket’s red glare.

In fact, we didn’t realize it was midnight until it was too late.

I wonder if Ted would have suggested that we kiss, had we known.

My guess is no.

Happy New Year.

Wednesday, 1 Jan., 9:15 a.m.

“Ah! So today’s the big day! Three o’clock, am I right? Olivia must be excited.” DeeDee, a vision in white wool, is standing at the bakery case perusing the cupcakes when I come in to pick up Olivia’s birthday cake.

“Yes, she’s very excited. I’m sure she was a pain with Tanner last night while we were in the city.” I hand the salesclerk my confirmation ticket so that she can find the cake in the pickup locker.

DeeDee’s plasticine smile wavers. “You went in to see the fireworks?”

I nod. I wonder if she had her kids for New Year’s Eve, or if Harry was allowed visitation last night. I think of how many New Year’s Eve celebrations he and DeeDee have spent together, and suddenly I’m jealous.

My only consolation is the knowledge that, last night, she wasn’t with him either.

To cover up my joy at that thought, I shrug. “For us, it was a bust. We got out too late from dinner to see the fireworks.”

“Your husband works downtown, doesn’t he?”

“Yes. When he’s not on the road. He travels for business too.”

“I liked that. When I was married, I mean. It gave me time by myself.” She looks at her reflection in the mirror behind the counter and smooths a line by her mouth that no one else can see.

With what I know about her now—about her liaisons with Max Karloff—I find it hard to smother my smile over such a smug statement.

The smirk dissolves from DeeDee’s face. “What are you laughing about?”

“Nothing! Really. . . . I guess it just struck me as funny. I mean, when we fall in love and get married, we can’t get enough of each other. Then over time, for whatever reason . . . well, you know.”

“Yes, I know.” DeeDee glares at a lemon cupcake. “Obviously, you do too.”

Are my feelings for Harry so obvious? It’s my turn to be wary. “What are you saying?”

“Just that no marriage is perfect.” She turns to look me straight in the eye.

I don’t know what she wants to hear from me. “All of life is a compromise. Even marriage. Especially marriage.”

“But how much do you compromise away before it isn’t the life you want to lead? Is it selfish to want something different altogether, even if it doesn’t include him?”

I glance down at a tray of pink coconut snowballs and realize that just looking at them nauseates me. She doesn’t have to justify her actions to me, but to Harry. “I . . . I really don’t know the answer to that.”

“Oh no? I’m guessing you know what it’s like when one of the partners in a marriage falls out of love. Or maybe I’m being presumptuous.” DeeDee hands the clerk a twenty-dollar bill and takes her cupcakes, then turns to leave.

But no. If she is to be judged by me, she will never have a better chance to make her case than now and here, surrounded by so many sweet temptations. “When you’re in an unhappy marriage, it’s hard to walk out the door. No one likes the unknown. No one wants to take the chance that what they’re walking toward is worse than what they’re running away from. But it’s more fair. I love Harry, Lyssa.
Enough to leave him.”

As a parting gesture, she reaches into the bag and hands me one of her cupcakes. “Happy New Year. I really mean that. Here’s to having your cake and eating it too.”

“When a man steals your wife, there is no better
revenge than to let him keep her.”

—Sacha Guitry

1:20 p.m.

Olivia’s party is rocking. We always get a full house, but this year it seems to be bursting at the seams.

I love it.

Dressed in her favorite princess gown, Olivia flows from room to room, blushing and smiling at the happy-birthday shout-outs she gets from well-wishers of all ages. Following close on the heels of my little princess’s Mary Janes is her very own court: six other soon-to-be six-year-olds in rich dark velvets and stiff iridescent satins, all flittering behind her, laughing, giggling, and hugging one another.

Temple is one of these. At this point in her life, she doesn’t seem to miss being the center of attention. What goes around comes around again eventually. I’m sure that, when she’s ready to retake the spotlight, it will welcome her back.

Take your time, baby.

She arrived late, mother and brother in tow. DeeDee hasn’t walked over yet to acknowledge me, and I’ve been rushing around too much to greet her. I hope Ted did, because that takes me off the hook, at least for now. I was not surprised when Max Karloff showed up a few minutes later and immediately cornered DeeDee. He’s treating
her like his prized possession, whereas she nods stiffly and seems distracted. I don’t think she’s ready to be seen in public with him. Who can blame her?

Jake has disappeared into the bowels of the basement playroom with Tanner and the other tweens. I’ve no doubt that soon one of the empty bottles will be snatched from the recycling bin for a game of spin the bottle. Besides tending bar, Ted is charged with periodic check-ins down there, to make sure things don’t get out of hand.

“Do you think Tanner is scoring already?” His eyes open wide at the thought. “You know, going all the way?”

I slap him on the chest. “Get real. Were you ‘going all the way’ at his age?”

He ponders that for a moment. “Well, I’d like to think I was.”

“Exactly.
Think
is the operative word here. Let’s have no regrets today.”

Even as I say it, I think,
Famous last words . . . 

“Well, aren’t you quite the little hostess with the mostest!” Brooke skips her usual air kiss, opting instead for a real peck on the cheek. The clear gloss on her lips is appreciated, the kiss more so. “My God, woman, this place is packed to the rafters!”

“You’re telling me.” I fan myself with the mitt I’m using to pull yet another tray of stuffed mushrooms out of the oven. It’s so hot in here that I can barely breathe. It doesn’t help that I’m feeling a bit tipsy too. Too much wine, I guess. I lean on the counter and take a big gulp of air. “Thanks for coming, Brooke.”

“What, are you kidding? I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.” She takes the tray from me and leads me out into the dining room by my elbow. “Besides,” she whispers with a wink, “you’re no longer in exile.”

“What does that mean?”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard! Boy, have
you
been put on ice!
Well, okay, but remember, you didn’t hear it from me. . . .”

I take a seat. I can tell this is going to be long and juicy, which makes me think of bloody red steaks—

Which makes me want to barf. I grab Brooke’s frozen-mojito glass and put it up against my cheek, just to cool off.