She wondered if he knew how much his words hurt. She had always done their decorating. People had always said she had a knack for it. Friends had asked her advice, and one even offered to pay her to decorate her house. She liked reupholstering old couches and chairs, tole painting, and making wreaths. She liked country!
Alex jotted some notes on her grocery list. “I’m giving you a couple of names of interior decorators. The one in Beverly Hills is the best. Call him first. If he’s not available, call the second one.” He tore the slip off the pad and handed it to her. Stepping past her, he picked up his briefcase. “Get it done today,” he said, like he was giving a subordinate a command. It was all she could do to not salute him as he headed for the door.
It wasn’t the first morning of late that he had neglected to kiss her good-bye. Sierra followed him, slip of paper in hand, and stood in the doorway to the three-car garage. Maybe he’d remember.
“I want it done as soon as possible,” he said, opening the door of his new silver Mercedes. Tossing the briefcase onto the passenger seat, he slid in and slammed the door. Tapping the garage door opener, he turned away, slinging his arm over the passenger seat as he started backing out.
She looked at the white BMW sitting in the garage. Alex had bought it for her birthday last month. He’d been so proud when he drove it home.
“Where’s my Honda?” she’d said weakly.
“I traded it in,” he said, grinning and handing her the keys.
He’d fully expected her to weep with joy over having a new car. She’d wanted to weep, all right. The Honda was the car her mother and father had given them as a wedding present. Clanton and Carolyn had ridden around in it from the time they were babies. It was like an old family friend. The BMW was an unwelcome houseguest.
Alex had never spent much time keeping up the Honda. She’d vacuumed and washed it every few weeks. Now Alex spent every Saturday vacuuming, washing, and hand-drying both cars: first the Mercedes, then the BMW. He even rubbed the already-shiny dashboards with Armor All. He used a toothbrush to scrub the spoked hubcaps, for heaven’s sake!
Three days ago, Alex had told her he didn’t have time to make Clanton’s Little League game—but he had two hours to spare for the cars. And she couldn’t even remember the last time she’d received an eighth of that much time and attention from him.
A stab of pain ripped through her as she remembered the days, less than a year ago, when Alex couldn’t wait to come home to her, to talk with her, to share and laugh and love. She remembered how it felt to sit together, sharing dreams and ideas. And the wonder of melting into each other’s arms after a day apart. How could life change so dramatically in the space of six months? How could a man change so much?
She had always known Alex was ambitious and determined. What she hadn’t realized was that his work could become the driving force and focus of his life. He was consumed with his career, impassioned by it, obsessed with it. It was as though the success of his first game, Vigilantes, merely whetted his appetite to do better on the next. Apparently success gave him an adrenaline rush she and the children couldn’t.
Sierra readily acknowledged that Alex was making more than four times what he had made in his job in Santa Rosa. Two magazines had done articles on him in the past two months giving glowing forecasts of the future of Vigilantes. She had seen ads on television.
“Sick of what’s happening in the world?” the announcer’s smooth voice would ask. “Become the law!”
Industry columnists were predicting Vigilantes would be the most popular video game of the decade. In the interview for the second article, Alex said Beyond Tomorrow would be releasing a new gaming system called The Monolith by the new year. The system would come complete with a code breaker that would allow owners to play any game on the market. The Monolith was aimed at the older teens and adults and would come packaged with Vigilantes. Stores were already calling Beyond Tomorrow and placing orders before the system had even hit the market. And Alex was working day and night on a second game, The Chameleon, a role-playing game.
No doubt about it. Beyond Tomorrow was booming. “Changing the future of gaming!” their company motto, was becoming a catchphrase; Alex was determined to make it come true.
But Sierra felt little pleasure at what was happening. It was too much. Too fast.
Granted, Steve had proven himself a man of his word. He’d kept every promise he made to Alex. Bonuses, salary increases, benefits . . . He even hired a personal secretary for Alex and added several new employees to the marketing and distribution departments. Alex’s place and position were guaranteed; he was a key in Beyond Tomorrow’s incredible success. He was on top of the professional world.
And Sierra had never felt less secure in her life.
She and Alex barely talked anymore. He was constantly overworked and preoccupied. She tried to talk to him about it one night, but he wanted to know what she needed to talk about. The minute she said there wasn’t anything specific, he returned his attention to his computer screen and immersed himself in work for the rest of the evening.
The next morning, she tried to bring it up again.
“So, go ahead,” he said, sounding impatient. “What’s on your mind?” He hadn’t even bothered to lower his Wall Street Journal.
“Nothing in particular,” she said. How did you start a good talk when you needed to talk about not talking?
“Pour me another cup of coffee, would you?” he said from behind the paper.
She wanted to pour the entire pot over him. “We used to talk about all kinds of things from the minute you walked in the door until we went to bed.”
“We still talk.”
“About business. About the games you’re working on. About the kids.”
At last he lowered the paper and looked at her. She could see him putting on his armor, getting his weapons ready. He had always been better equipped for fighting than she was. “What are you getting at, Sierra?”
God, what do I say? What do I do? she screamed inside her head. When Alex presented his cold front, she felt incapable of reaching him—and that seemed to be the case almost all the time now. Tears of frustration pricked at her eyes. He used to sense when she needed him. Now, he didn’t seem to care what she was feeling or thinking. She wanted to say she missed him. She wanted to say she was lonely. She wanted to tell him she was afraid they were drifting apart, and that Audra was right: she was boring, uneducated . . . and losing him.
The very thought filled her with a bleak terror. But she was even more terrified to say those things aloud and find that he was indifferent.
Her eyes pleaded with him. Just tell me you still love me, Alex. Don’t make me ask you if you do.
He just sat looking at her, eyes narrowed, posture defensive.
And so she leaned back in her chair, overwhelmed with a sense of defeat. “I’m not getting at anything,” she finally responded, aching inside for the connection she had always felt with him.
How could you be with someone you loved so desperately and feel so alone?
He stared at her, as though he were studying a particularly curious insect on the window screen. He shrugged. “I guess we haven’t been out for a while,” he conceded, folding his newspaper and tossing it onto the coffee table. His gaze drifted from hers. Restless, he glanced at his wristwatch and got up. “I wanted to get into the office early this morning. I’ve got a lot to do.” He downed his coffee and headed for the kitchen. “Why don’t you figure out where you’d like to go and make the reservations?”
He sounded so offhand, so uninterested. . . . She closed her eyes against the pain swelling inside her. Alex had always been the one to suggest places they could go and things they could do. Several times, he’d surprised her with tickets to a show at the Luther Burbank Center. He used to take her and the children to pizza and a movie. Once, he’d even made arrangements for her mother to take care of the children so he could whisk her off for a romantic weekend at a bed-
and-breakfast in Mendocino.
Now, he sounded as though the whole idea of taking her out was just one more responsibility he needed to handle.
She suggested a rib place.
“Too much fat and cholesterol.”
Since when had he worried about fat and cholesterol?
They agreed on a movie, but that night Alex called and said he had some work to do. She asked him to reserve Friday night for dinner out with the children, but he called from the office at the last minute Friday and said he had an important meeting he couldn’t miss.
She gave up making plans.
Now, it seemed, he didn’t think she had the ability to decorate their home properly.
The whine of the garage door closing and the roar of Alex’s Mercedes as he floored it toward work brought Sierra back from her dismal reverie. She needed to awaken the children soon so they’d have plenty of time to get ready for school.
Carolyn was invited to a birthday party this weekend. Her little friend, Pamela, lived somewhere in Studio City. Sierra went back into the kitchen and jotted down a note to buy a birthday present.
She glanced at the slip of paper Alex had given her: Bruce Davies Interiors. She tacked it to her noteboard beside the phone. She didn’t make the call until later that afternoon, after Alex called and asked if she had done it yet.
The designer’s receptionist had a rich, velvety voice with a heavy New England accent.
“I’m under orders from my husband to hire a decorator,” Sierra said.
The woman was polite and efficient, making no promises and hinting that Bruce was in high demand and terribly busy. Too busy, Sierra hoped.
“Please hold.” Yanni played softly in Sierra’s ear. The receptionist came back on the line. “Is your husband employed by Beyond Tomorrow?”
“Yes, he is.” Had Alex called ahead?
“One moment, please,” the receptionist said, and Sierra heard Yanni playing again. Plucking a pencil from the kitchen drawer, she doodled flower and leaf patterns along the top edge of her grocery list. But she’d barely gotten started when the receptionist was back.
“I apologize for the wait, Mrs. Madrid. Mr. Davies will be pleased to speak to you.”
Before she could protest, Bruce Davies was greeting her with the familiarity of a long-lost friend.
“Sierra, I’m so glad you finally called. I knew anyone with such a charming name wouldn’t let me down. Of course, I expected your call several days ago, but this works out just as well. I’ve just finished a stunning home only a few blocks away from you, and I’m ready for something new and exciting! And believe me, the ideas I have for your home are definitely that!”
After a two-minute conversation with Bruce, Sierra felt she had been run over by a steamroller. He made the appointment for late Thursday afternoon and informed her he would bring an assistant with him. He knew who Alex was because Audra Silverman had faxed him an article from a well-known computer game magazine.
“Decorating for a game designer will be a challenge,” he said, clearly eager.
“I’m not sure Alex will want to have much involvement, Mr. Davies.”
“Oh, but he must. I insist.”
Surprisingly, Alex didn’t quibble and assured her he would be home early Thursday.
Bruce Davies turned out to be an attractive man in his late forties, trim and elegantly dressed, who absolutely exuded energy. His assistant attended him in silence, writing notes as they walked through the house, Alex at Bruce’s side.
It became apparent very quickly that Sierra was going to have little say in what was done to the house. Country, Bruce informed her, was a definite “no-no,” and anything even remotely Victorian “just wouldn’t do, darling.” Bruce was interested in the architecture, made suggestions for some changes, and poured forth with decorating ideas. Alex had his own, and Bruce listened as though every word was genius.
“A man who is going to change the future of gaming must have a house that reflects his creativity,” Bruce said, his eyes sparkling as he surveyed the entryway.
By the time Bruce and his assistant left, Sierra was convinced the house would bear the stamp of Bruce Davies Interiors, a slight mark of Alejandro Madrid, and absolutely nothing of her.
“It’s going to be expensive,” Alex said, not noticeably worried about it, “but it’ll be worth it. Bruce said he’ll have sketches within a week, and decisions can be made.”
She knew who would be making the decisions.
The next morning, after dropping the children off at private school, Sierra drove to the closest mall to look for a suitable present for Carolyn’s new friend. Nothing looked right to her: The selection was too wide and the prices too high.
Depressed, she purchased a cappuccino and sat watching the hustle of people in the mall. Most were women. Some strolled at a leisurely pace, looking lonely and bored as they paused at window displays. Others moved with quick efficiency, looking for all the world as though they knew exactly where they were going and what they were doing.
Sierra longed for home. She wished her mother were sitting across from her so she could pour out her heart and ask her advice. But she’d done enough of that lately over the telephone. Her mother’s parting words after their last conversation still echoed in her ears: “Remember, honey, God is in control.”
If that was true, why did she feel so desperate?
Shaking her head, she turned her thoughts back to the matter at hand. What was she going to do about that blasted birthday present? When she was Carolyn’s age, she had liked nothing better than taking her friends up into the attic so they could spend hours dressing up in her mother’s and grandmother’s old clothes, high-heeled shoes, hats, and jewelry—all perfect props for pretending to be Cinderella or Snow White or some other fairy-tale character.
Did children do that sort of thing anymore? All the dress-up Carolyn had ever done was back in preschool. The Windsor School had provided plenty of clothes to choose from: surgical gowns, nurses’ uniforms, suit jackets and briefcases, a fireman’s hat, a policeman’s uniform. Nothing frivolous or fanciful. Everything geared to answer that all-important question: What are you going to be when you grow up? Sierra could still remember her frustration when she’d discovered the teacher was asking Carolyn and her classmates this. Was it really necessary to know at the age of four or five what one was going to do for the rest of one’s life? It seemed so long ago. Now she wondered.
Wasn’t being a wife and mother enough anymore?
Feeling defiant, Sierra finished her coffee and drove to Cost Plus, the area warehouse store. Wandering through, she found an intricately carved box imported from India. It was pretty and inexpensive. She bought it and drove to Kmart, where she purchased three beaded necklaces, a gold-tone charm bracelet with African animals on it, and two bright rhinestone pins, as well as a long, thin multicolored scarf. Pleased with her choices, she headed home.
While watching her soap opera, she used the scarf to wrap the gift. Twisting the tied ends, she curled them around until they looked like a plump flower on top of the box. During a commercial, she rummaged through her wrapping-paper box in the hall closet and found some gold ribbon. Cutting a long strip, she tucked it around the fabric flower and wrote on the ends: “Happy Birthday, Pamela. From Carolyn.” She sat back and smiled, perfectly satisfied with the gift.
Then she drove Carolyn to the birthday party on Saturday.
Pamela’s house was near the top of the hills with an iron gate in front. The gate was open, but a uniformed guard was on duty. He asked their names and checked his list before nodding them through. Other cars were already parked: two Cadillacs, three Mercedes, and a little red sports car the likes of which Sierra had never seen before. Everything reeked of money.
Sierra walked Carolyn to the front door, where a maid answered their ring. She was Spanish and dressed in a crisp black uniform with white collar and apron.
Carolyn’s hand tightened. “Don’t leave, Mommy. Ple
ase.” Sierra forced a reassuring smile, but her daughter didn’t loosen her grip until they entered a huge room with cathedral windows at the back and she spotted Pamela with several other little girls. Sierra spotted the mothers.
They were all standing near windows that provided a panoramic view of San Fernando Valley. Every one of the ladies looked as though she had just stepped out of a fashion magazine. Sierra cringed inwardly, wondering what they thought of her in her faded sweatshirt, black leggings, and scuffed tennis shoes. Oh, God, she thought, please don’t let Carolyn be embarrassed by me. One of the women glanced toward Sierra and Carolyn. Smiling, she said a word to the others and left them.
“You must be Sierra and Carolyn Madrid,” she said, her tone warm and welcoming. “I’m so glad you could come.” She touched Carolyn’s hair lightly. “Pamela has talked of little else since you came to school, Carolyn. She insists you’re kindred spirits just like the girls in Anne of Green Gables.”
Marcia Burton had class and grace and dissolved every bit of Carolyn’s shyness. Smiling, the little girl held the present out to Marcia. “Why, it’s perfectly lovely,” she said.
“My mother wrapped it,” Carolyn told her proudly, and Sierra’s face went hot. She could see the other gifts on the polished mahogany coffee table nearby, all obviously from expensive stores and professionally wrapped. She thought of the wooden box and cheap, gawdy jewelry inside it. She wished she could snatch it back and run.
As Carolyn joined the other children, Sierra thanked Marcia for inviting her and made her excuses to leave.
“Oh, please stay,” Marcia said, sounding as though she actually meant it. “Pamela said your son plays on the school’s baseball team, and I know they’re practicing today.”
She was right. Sierra had dropped Clanton off before bringing Carolyn to the party. The coach had invited all the boys back to his house for a barbecue and a movie.
Marcia smiled, her blue eyes amused as she confided her belief that Pamela had developed a crush on Clanton. “She says he’s the most handsome boy in school.”
The Scarlet Thread Page 7
