There ensued a long, agonized pause behind me. Finally, he could keep it in no longer:
“See? I told you those heels were too high.”
I’d always considered Kevin too rational and efficient to sulk, but he proved me wrong on the drive back to my parents’ house. He nursed a wordless but palpable pout for nearly half an hour, which was just as well, really, because what did we have left to say to each other?
“You don’t have to pull over,” I said as we approached our destination. “Just come to a rolling stop and I’ll leap out.”
“Don’t be absurd.” He checked the rearview mirror before smoothly braking exactly six inches parallel to the curb. “You’d break your neck in those shoes.”
“I’d let that issue go, if I were you,” I advised, reaching for the door handle.
“I already put down thousands of dollars in earnest money on the storefront, you know.”
I sighed. “Well, I’m sorry about that. I am.”
“And…?”
“And nothing. It’s not my fault you decided to railroad me back into the relationship with no warning.”
“It’s a gesture of love,” he insisted.
“It’s a gesture of control and manipulation.”
“You’ll change your mind when you calm down,” he decreed, but he sounded a bit panicked. “And about the ring—”
“Good night.” I opened the passenger side door, vaulted from the car, and—yes!—struck the landing, high heels and all. Perfect tens all around! Applause! Applause!
“Becca, wait—”
I closed the door on his justifications and demands and headed back to the comforting chaos of my family. Because he hadn’t changed, but I had.
“So? What happened with Kevin?” My mom flung the door open the nanosecond my toe hit the welcome mat. “Uh-oh. You look unhappy. Did you break his heart again?” Her face filled with worry as she glanced over at the Civic. “Do you think he’s all right to drive?”
Despite all the Sturm und Drang, Kevin refused to squeal away from the curb in a dramatic, James Dean departure. He waited for passing traffic and signaled before pulling out at a reasonable speed.
“He’s fine. He’s always fine, Mom. You know that.”
She reached out to brush the hair off my face. “And how are you?”
“I’m fine, too.” I gave her a condensed version of the real-estate bushwhack and kept-woman offer. To my surprise, she listened sympathetically and patted my shoulder.
“Well, you can’t blame him for trying. The women in this family have always inspired grand gestures.”
“But…even me?”
“Oh, honey. Especially you.”
“So you don’t think I’m making a huge mistake?”
“You’re finally taking a risk. Big difference.”
We smiled at each other for a moment before Claire appeared at the end of the hallway. “Back so soon? Have you heard anything from Andrew and Connor?”
“Not a word,” I said. “I’ve had a few other, more pressing issues to deal with. Besides, shouldn’t you be the one to talk to Andrew?”
She leaned against the doorframe and went back to skimming the issue of People in her right hand. “I’m busy.” She pointed to a glossy photo layout labeled, “Stars Celebrate Motherhood in Style!” “I’m doing research on single parenthood. If Angelina Jolie can do it, so can I.”
“Oh my goodness.” My mother paled. “You don’t really think Andrew’s left for good? He has to forgive you. He has to!” She wrung her hands. “You’re pregnant! Pregnancy is nine-tenths of the law in a marriage!”
“Mom. You don’t even know why we’re fighting,” Claire said.
“It doesn’t matter!”
“Um, in this case, it might,” I said.
But Mom begged to differ. “This is unacceptable! I will not have it. Did you cheat on him?”
“No.”
“Did you beat him up?”
“No.”
“Did you threaten to keep him from his children?” Mom took the liberty of answering her own question here. “No. So I don’t see what could be so bad that…” She trailed off as Claire and I exchanged a flurry of pointed looks. “What?”
Claire adjusted the collar of Andrew’s golf shirt. “Nothing.”
“Claire Louisa Davis King, what did you do?”
“I’m going to bed.” I scooted for the staircase.
“Call Connor!” my sister yelled after me, right before our mother broke out the master interrogation techniques I remembered from high school. Miss a curfew, come home with a whiff of wine cooler on your breath, and she made the KGB look like the PTA.
When I dialed Connor’s number, it went straight to voice mail; there weren’t many cell phone towers in the middle of the desert. Claire would just have to wait until tomorrow to plead her case.
I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and crawled into bed, where I fell asleep in record time. I dreamed about white, slim-legged pants with delicate crisscrosses of satin ribbon across the knees, almost as if the wearer had fallen during a snit with a crazy ex and then patched herself up with red and blue silk. Parking lot pants, I would call them.
Connor called me back early the next morning. I wriggled across the bed, tangled in sheets and blankets, and tried to sound alert when I answered the phone.
“Mph?” I managed.
“Morning, sunshine.” He sounded disgustingly energetic.
I rolled over and snuggled back into the blankets. “You’re awfully chipper. Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, sleeping at this ungodly hour?”
“Just finished up on the golf course. Andrew and I thought we’d get in nine holes before breakfast.”
“Are you back in L.A.?”
“We’re on your front steps, actually, but we don’t want to ring the doorbell and wake everyone up. Want to go get some pancakes?”
I smiled. “Does this mean you officially forgive me for the wine list meltdown?”
“Yes. And I’ve learned my lesson; you can order any pancake syrup you want—maple, blueberry, heck, even boysenberry—and I won’t say a word.”
“What a man.”
He laughed. “I hope you still feel that way when you hear the rest of the day’s agenda.”
“Why?” I teased. “You going skydiving or something?”
Dead silence.
“You are?” I pressed.
“No, we are.”
24
No! No! No, no, no, no!” I flung open the front door, clad in a pink chenille bathrobe, and tried to clarify my position on skydiving. “A thousand times no!”
Andrew and Connor stood grinning on the stoop, both of them suntanned and slightly sweaty.
“So…you’re saying no?” Connor deadpanned.
“Yes! I’m saying no! And how can you think, after what happened last time, that I would ever—”
“Relax.” He drew me in for a kiss. “When I said ‘we,’ I meant me and Andrew.”
“Oh.” My arm-flailing vehemence sputtered out. “Well, why didn’t you just say that before?”
“Because I wanted to see you all cute and disheveled in your pj’s?”
“You’re sick, you know that? Sick.”
“I’ll drink to that.” Andrew took a swig from the bottle of Gatorade he held in his right hand.
“How was your big date last night?” Connor wanted to know.
“Let’s just say I’d rather be skydiving.”
“What’d he do?” Andrew wanted to know.
“He tried to buy me a building.”
My brother-in-law feigned outrage. “That bastard! How dare he? What’s next? Giving you your own island?”
“No, it was a passive-aggressive control thing. So I’d owe him. So he could decide the who, what, and where about my career.” I paused. “And my shoes. Which is really where I draw the line. It didn’t end well.”
“Well, I like your shoes,” Connor said.
I had s
hoved my feet into a pair of red flip-flops, which clashed horribly with the robe. “You’re just trying to butter me up.”
“Is it working?”
“It’ll work better after I’ve had some coffee. So what happened to you guys? Where did you end up last night?” I pulled the robe tighter around me as our next-door neighbor emerged to collect her newspaper.
“All shall be revealed on the way to the IHOP. They do have IHOPs around here, right?”
I squinted into the harsh morning sun. “Yeah, there’s one about fifteen minutes away. But I didn’t figure you for an IHOP kind of guy. Aren’t you supposed to be an upper-crust restaurateur?”
“He’s a total food pleb,” Andrew confided. “Greasy pizza, In-N-Out…he’s the only person I know who will actually eat the nachos from 7-Eleven.”
“In-N-Out?” I gasped. “What would Wolfgang Puck say?”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him in line behind me at the drive-thru,” Connor claimed.
“Hey,” I said as if the idea had just now occurred to me. “You know who loves pancakes? Claire.”
By the time Claire had completed her sacrosanct skin care ritual and we arrived at the restaurant, the breakfast rush was in full swing so we had to wait for a table.
But the potent combination of boredom and hunger had spurred a passionate reconciliation between the feuding newlyweds. Love at the IHOP is a beautiful thing.
“Well,” Andrew announced, finally meeting Claire’s eyes, “I forgive you.”
“You do?” She choked up. “Oh sweetheart, I forgive you, too.”
He frowned. “What do you mean, you forgive me, too? I didn’t do anything.”
“Excuse me? You humiliated me in front of my family and threatened to abandon me.”
“You humiliated me in front of your family,” Andrew countered. “And I wasn’t going to abandon you; I was just going back to pack up the rest of our stuff and get the apartment rented out so we wouldn’t be penalized for breaking the lease.”
At this point, Claire took a deep breath and did something very out of character. She swallowed her pride and capitulated. “You know what? Let’s not fight anymore. I made a big mistake, and I’m sorry.”
But the competition wasn’t over yet. “No, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have made you worry I was going to leave you forever.”
“And I shouldn’t have made you worry I was going to give up the babies.” She hung her head. “Believe it or not, I was trying to make our relationship better. Honesty and communication and all that.”
“I can see that now. And I know you’re not yourself these days. In your delicate condition and all…”
“Sometimes it’s just hard to think straight,” she agreed. “All the hormones rampaging through me, and the constant headaches, the cravings…”
As predicted, playing the pregnancy trump card elicited the desired effect: scrunchy-faced noises of male sympathy and general mollycoddling. Score one for Mom.
“I know it’s hard on you, darling. Let’s get you off your feet.” He led her over to a single empty chair by the front window. “Things are tough right now, but we’re going to make it. You’ll see. It’s like Connor was telling me last night…”
“Jeez.” I turned to Connor. “What did you say to spur this total turnaround?”
“When?”
“Last night. Andrew mentioned some pearl of wisdom you rolled his way when you guys did whatever it was you did instead of driving back to Los Angeles.”
“Oh, that.” He looked slightly embarrassed. “We just went out for pizza and watched the Dodgers game.”
“And you solved all his marriage problems over nine innings and a couple of brewskis?”
“In man world, we call that ‘multitasking.’ ”
“Well, apparently your multitasking saved their marriage.” I tilted my head toward the sun-drenched lovebirds nestled by the door. “They’ll live happily ever after, poor but happy.”
“Oh, I don’t know if they’ll be so poor.” He grinned. “You never know what Andrew might pull out of his bag of tricks.”
I lunged into his personal space. “Really? Tell me everything!”
“Not so fast there, Hyper.” He started rubbing my neck (a very effective distraction). “He and I just tossed around a few ideas. But it’s all speculation at this point.”
“Come on. Give me a hint!”
“It’s not my news to tell.”
I rummaged through my purse until I found my emery board, which I brandished like a samurai sword. “It is if you want to escape with your life.”
“What, are you going to sand me until I talk?”
“Oh sure, you laugh now, but wait until I start in on your cuticles. And if that doesn’t break you, I’ll have no choice but to use the hot paraffin wax.”
“Let’s not get crazy here. I’m an American citizen, you know. I have rights.”
“What are you guys doing?” Claire and Andrew stood two feet away, staring at the emery board with what could only be described as parental expressions of disapproval.
And the hostess was right behind them. “Your table is ready.”
Connor grabbed my hand, disarmed me with a flick of his wrist, and led me to the corner booth the hostess indicated.
“You are so immature,” Claire informed me as she slid into the vinyl seat.
“Better watch what you say,” Connor advised her. “She shows no mercy with the hot paraffin wax.”
“So.” I turned to Andrew. “I hear you’ve come up with an ingenious new career plan.”
“You have?” my sister squealed.
“Well, I was going to talk this over with my wife first…” he shot Connor a look “…but, yes, I might have a few contacts out here.”
“What kind of contacts?” My sister bounced up and down in the booth.
“Industry contacts, actually.”
“By which you mean show business?” I clarified.
“Of course,” the three Angelenos chorused in unison.
“Did you know that they do a ton of location work out here? TV and film?” Andrew said.
My sister looked doubtful. “Are you sure? I spent most of my life here and I never heard that.”
“With the new labor laws and the cost of doing business in Southern California, more and more projects are filming out of state.”
“Which is why places like Toronto and Vancouver are suddenly so star-studded.” I nodded. “But Phoenix?”
“Are you kidding me? Phoenix is perfect. It’s a fifty-minute flight from L.A. and you’ve got golf courses, spas, and luxury shopping. So the talent agencies and production companies out here are growing exponentially, and they all need agents with connections.”
“But, um…” Claire faltered. “Aren’t you having a little trouble with your industry connections right now?”
“I may not be mogul material anymore, but I still know a few key people in casting and development. Some of whom still owe me a favor or two. We’ll start fresh, without the L.A. politics, and I really think I can make a go of it.” He paused. “There’s only one problem.”
“Uh-oh.”
“We’ll have to relocate to the Scottsdale area. We can’t stay at your parents’ indefinitely. The commute from here to Scottsdale would be too long to—”
“Thank God!” She threw her arms around him. “I love you!”
“So you’re okay with not having your mom right down the street when we have the twins?”
“I love you, I love you, I love you!” She nearly suffocated him in her public display of affection.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Claire nodded. “And you know, maybe after I have the babies, I can try teaching an acting class. Not Shakespearean monologues or anything, but improv and tips on how to hack it in the business. Like how to flirt with casting directors or how to sound weak-kneed and breathless over the prospect of trying a new brand of deodorant.”
“That’s a gre
at idea!” Andrew gushed. “Most people would kill for a national beer commercial, never mind two. You have the working actor’s equivalent of a Ph.D.”
Our waitress waited for the gratuitous smooching to taper off before asking, “Are you folks ready to order?”
“You should have eggs and bacon,” Andrew suggested to Claire. “All that protein. That’s good for the kids, right?”
“I’ll have blueberry pancakes and a huge vat of maple syrup. Like a wading pool.” She shrugged off our stares. “Maple syrup comes from trees, and trees grow in the ground. It’s totally Zodiac approved.”
“I don’t think that the maple syrup they serve here is exactly fresh from a Vermont forest,” Connor said.
“This from the guy who eats the 7-Eleven nachos?” I started to heckle him, then realized I was in no position to judge. “I’ll have the chocolate chip pancakes, please. Extra butter.”
“Well done.” Claire nodded her approval. “That’ll be one of my acting class lessons—when you’re doing a media interview at a restaurant, always order something substantial. That way, no one can accuse you of having an eating disorder. And you can hand them a load of crap about how you’re blessed with a naturally fast metabolism.”
“Well, I’m loading up on protein,” Andrew said. “I’ll need it this afternoon.”
“What’s going on this afternoon?” Claire asked.
“Skydiving.” I turned to Connor. “Listen, about that—”
“I know it freaks you out, but this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.” His hand found mine under the table. “Snake told me about this guy who has a plane way out in the desert and the views at the drop zone are incredible.”
“But we should go look for apartments in Scottsdale today,” Claire reminded her husband.
“It’ll only take a few hours,” Andrew said. “We can look at apartments tomorrow.”
“Let me get this straight. You have two children on the way and you’d rather spend the day jumping out of an airplane instead of finding a place for your family to live?”
“No, but…” He fell back on Connor’s catchphrase. “Once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!”
Fashionably Late Page 19
