It was, she thought despairingly, the conversation of a man and his secretary. That wasn’t unusual, she knew. After all, most conversations were of the mundane sort; this wasn’t a fairy tale. But today she found it depressing.
Howard was already gone before she awoke on Saturday. She ate, showered, and dressed, then drank her coffee in Howard’s study while she checked Facebook for updates from Samantha and Robert, read the headlines, perused a couple of articles, put in an order for art supplies, and searched for information on companies that print calendars and postcards.
When she could procrastinate no longer, she set about getting ready to entertain. It was a measure of how empty the house had become that it took no time at all to tidy up, which served as a reminder of how she’d been barely able to keep ahead of the mess when her children were young. She was prepping for dinner when Howard came home and placed a package wrapped in butcher’s paper in the kitchen sink.
“The crab,” he said. “I’m going to take a shower and lie down before I pick up the Naives.”
He was halfway up the stairs when Evelyn exclaimed, “They’re live!”
“Of course they’re live!” he shouted back. “I said I was picking up fresh crab.”
“I thought you meant fresh cooked.”
He didn’t answer. She looked at the two scuttling things in her sink, their pincers held closed by large blue rubber bands. They held their arms wide in a defensive posture. She ran water over them and they shrunk back. Then she filled a large pot with water and placed it on the stove. She’d never cooked live crab before, and she seemed to remember reading that the humane way to kill them was to put them in cool water and slowly bring the temperature up to a boil. It was supposed to lull them to sleep. Or was that frogs? She wasn’t sure.
She was used to seeing red crabs, which is to say “cooked” crabs. The carapace of these ten-legged ocean-going bugs was purple with tiny white spots. She eyed the creatures warily. They might not be able to use their pincers, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t scratch. With rubber gloves to protect her hands, she reached for the biggest one with the intention of grasping it from the back, which she reasoned would make it difficult for the thing to grab her. She took hold of it with her right hand and lifted it out, its arms and legs flailing like an out-of-control gyroscope, and plopped it into the water. She did the same with the smaller one and peered into the pot. They sat on the bottom blowing tiny bubbles. She put a lid on the pot and turned the burner to low.
Then she set about making the béchamel sauce. She’d melted half a stick of butter and was sweating the onions when the lid on the pot clattered to the floor. She jumped in fright. The larger of the two crabs was trying to crawl out, and it was making high mewling sounds as bubbles issued from its mouth. She snatched a wooden spoon and tried to push the crab back, but it held firmly onto the rim of the pot. She had to pry the front arms and legs loose. As it slid back into the water, she quickly stooped for the lid, slammed it back on top, and turned the heat up a notch. She held her hand on the lid for a minute while her heart raced. They were supposed to go to sleep peacefully.
The onions demanded her attention. She stirred them, added a tablespoon of flour, half a cup of cream and a teaspoon of sage. The lid to the pot wobbled, then fell with a crash to the floor. Both crabs now clung to the edge, mewling hideously. Evelyn turned the heat off her sauce, then picked the pot up and poured its contents into the sink. The crabs were very active now. She poured cool water on them until they quieted some. Then she put on her rubber gloves and transferred them to a plastic trash bag.
She went upstairs to tell Howard that she had an errand to run, but he was still in the shower, so she left a short note on the bed: “Gone to the market, back soon.”
She carried the trash bag to the car and drove down the winding streets toward the sea. At the end of Luneta Drive, she walked out onto the sand and, at the edge of the water, opened the bag and spilled the crabs onto the wet sand. The smaller one landed on its back, and as it flailed she noticed the blue rubber bands still holding its claws shut, without which, she knew, it would be helpless to defend itself, unable to hunt, unable to eat. She took a moment to consider how to remove the bands without risking being pinched. She used the only tool at hand, the tip of her house key, to snag the rubber band, then lifted the crab off the sand and shook it until the rubber band popped off. She repeated the procedure, and when all the rubber bands were off, she retreated and watched until both crabs were swallowed by the incoming tide. Then she drove to the supermarket and bought a dozen crab cakes from the deli counter.
Howard was in his study when she returned. She went back to her work in the kitchen and finished her béchamel sauce. She was cutting the ends off asparagus spears when Howard came in.
“Where are my crabs?” he asked.
She smiled and gestured toward the crab cakes that lay arranged on a baking sheet ready for heating.
“They weren’t here when you went out,” he said with raised eyebrows. “Did you take them for a walk?”
She looked sheepishly away. “I couldn’t do it,” she said softly. “They kept knocking the top off the pot. They wanted to live.”
“Don’t we all? What did you do with them?”
“I put them back.”
“Put them back where?”
“The ocean.”
Howard sighed heavily and shook his head. “Oh, Evy, Evy, Evy. It’s a wonder we don’t starve. You know what your problem is? You’re too kindhearted.”
“I can’t help it.”
“What’s the difference if you kill it, or you let someone else do it for you?”
She shrugged. “Don’t make me feel any guiltier than I already do.”
“You’re a piece of work,” he said, turning away. There was a time he might have uttered those same words with a hint of amusement or at least tolerance in his tone. Now, watching him return to his study, she sensed exasperation, if not outright disdain.
Lying in bed staring at the ceiling the next morning, she asked a forthright question. “Do you still love me?”
“Of course. Why would you even ask?”
“You didn’t have to tell them about the crabs.”
“Well, it got a good laugh.”
“At my expense.”
“You have to admit, it was funny.”
She remembered tears of laughter streaming down Tammy Naive’s cheeks. She’d stopped laughing just long enough to pat Evelyn patronizingly on the arm and say, “You’d get used to it if you lived in Texas, honey. We shoot anything that moves, and eat it before sundown.”
Then Tucker Naive had praised his wife’s prowess with a gun. “And she’s a wiz at skinnin’ animals.”
The whole conversation had made her feel small.
CHAPTER TEN
By sunset the following Monday, Evelyn had given up waiting for Howard to come home for dinner and was sitting alone at the kitchen table with a plate of reheated enchiladas, when her phone chimed. She checked the screen. Robert had made a move in their ongoing chess game. She studied the board and made a countermove, then left him a note: “Missing you as always. Hope work is going well. Love, Mom :)” Robert was a good chess player and won most of their games, which was just fine with Evelyn. She only played because it made her feel more connected. He’d been a loving little boy, but from adolescence on he’d distanced himself from his parents. She had hoped he would grow out of it in time, though as a newly minted adult he remained aloof and tacitly critical.
Then she checked Facebook. Samantha had posted new photos of her roommate, as well as a few of Robert and his latest girlfriend taken at a restaurant in LA. She was happy that her children had a close relationship, even if she was sometimes jealous. As small children they’d been best buddies. It wasn’t until Robert went away to college that Evelyn had finally been allowed into
her daughter’s confidence, a role she now savored.
Howard came home after dark.
“I’m in here,” she called out on hearing the front door open. “There are cheese enchiladas and salad.”
“I had Mexican for lunch.”
“I would have made something else, if I’d known. You didn’t answer my texts.”
“I don’t answer personal emails or texts when I’m working.”
“You were at lunch.”
“They’re working lunches.”
She wished there was a way to check where he was lunching. It would make planning so much simpler.
He poured himself a Scotch and water and rummaged through the refrigerator for leftovers.
Taking note of his brusque manner and lack of eye contact, she asked, “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah. No. I’m annoyed. Your father called this afternoon.”
“What did he want?”
“You didn’t ask him to call?”
“No, why?”
“He wanted to discuss your new business. I already told you what I thought of that. It’s ridiculous, and I know when it doesn’t work out it’ll cost me time and money to put straight.”
“Can we talk about it?”
“I’ve already had my say.” Then he turned and walked out of the kitchen. “I’ll be in the study,” he called back over his shoulder.
They may as well have been living in separate houses, she thought.
In the morning, Evelyn knelt in her herb garden, pulling weeds. A trickle of sweat rolled down her back. It was going to be a warm day. The air was torpid. She thought of Howard and the emotional distance between them, of her children both an hour or more away, of Mary Kay Hubbard, a neighbor with whom she’d once been friendly but who had moved away, of her art, of the proposed gift shop, and finally of Ramon. It was this last thought that gave her pause. The day before, the gardeners had come to trim the hedges and mow the lawn. That meant this was the day for The Pool Boy. He could show up at any moment. She imagined him coming up behind her in her sweat-stained blouse. Not that he would be interested. Not that he would care one way or the other. She was old enough to be....
She remembered the way he’d looked at her, and the thought of appearing old in his eyes left her feeling almost desperate for his approval. It was silly, she knew, but she didn’t want to be ignored, with the image of Howard still fresh in her mind as he turned his back and walked away as though her opinions, wishes, dreams weren’t worth discussing.
She left her gardening and went inside. She took a tepid shower, and because it was a hot day, she put on a swimming suit. It would be good to swim in cool water today. She considered her options — a bikini might accentuate her middle-aged hips. She opted for a blue-green, one-piece bathing suit with a deeply scooped back, as flattering a suit as she could manage. She looked at herself approvingly in the full-length mirror and, almost as an afterthought, applied subtle blush and lipstick. Then she put on a straw sun hat and large sunglasses, and took a book out to the pool. She reclined on a chaise lounge at the far end of the pool under the jacaranda, where she read for half an hour before falling asleep.
“What are you reading?” Ramon asked.
She snapped awake, disoriented for a moment, and looked up. Today he wore a straw hat, the sort lifeguards sometimes wore, and sandals. “Hello,” she said with a welcoming smile.
He returned her smile and put down a small, blue, zippered case with several webbed pockets on the outside. There was a half-pocket for his phone, for various tools, sunscreen, and a spray can. He unzipped the case, withdrew a chemical kit, and knelt at the edge of the pool. With a nod of his head and a flick of his eyes he reminded her — “The book?”
“Oh, it’s an Agatha Christie.”
“Which one?”
“The Mysterious Affair at Styles. It’s...”
“The first Hercule Poirot.”
“Yes, you’ve read it?”
“A long time ago. It always struck me unlikely that the little Belgian could deduce so much from so little.”
“Well, if no one could figure it out, it wouldn’t be much of a story, now would it?”
“I don’t remember the details, but I do remember he makes outlandish assumptions that somehow turn out to be correct. You couldn’t write a book like that today — not with forensics and DNA. They don’t have to assume anymore. The physical evidence doesn’t lie.”
“No, I suppose not.”
Ramon took a dropper and squeezed three drops of chemicals into a plastic beaker full of pool water, capped it, shook it, and held it up to assess the color.
“Do you read much?” she asked.
“Not much fiction anymore. Stephen King, Michael Connelly. Mostly I read books on macroeconomics and business. I have ideas.”
Evelyn laid her book aside, took off her hat and sunglasses, and rolled onto her stomach. She closed her eyes and listened to Ramon moving about the pool, skimming jacaranda blossoms from the surface, testing the pump and the heater, cleaning the filter. He returned to the little blue case, she knew, because she heard him pull the zipper. She opened an eye and saw him looking at the screen on his phone. He smiled, and put it back in its half-pocket on the outside of the blue case, where it stuck up like a pack of cigarettes from a shirt pocket. She closed her eye.
“You’re going to get burned,” he said. “Would you like me to rub sunscreen on your back?”
“Would you?”
Evelyn kept her eyes closed and tried to relax in anticipation of his touch. She heard him pop the top of a tube, and squeeze lotion into the palm of his hand, and rub his hands together. Then he was rubbing oil up her spine. He had strong, but gentle hands, kneading her muscles just enough as he worked from the small of her back to the nape of her neck. She let out an involuntary groan. “You should change professions,” she said.
“I was a massage therapist in the summers between school terms.”
“Really? Where did you go to school?”
“San Diego State.”
Evelyn rolled onto her side and looked into his warm brown eyes framed by those beautiful long lashes. “You went to college? I never...I mean, I guess I assumed...I always thought pool boys were laid-back surfers, or....” She caught herself before saying anything insulting. Instead, she said, “I mean, it’s not an intellectually demanding job.”
“It’s a good business.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Lie back down.”
She complied, rolling back onto her front as he squirted more lotion onto his hands and began massaging it down her calves to her ankles.
“Oh, god,” she groaned happily, “that’s heavenly.” He moved on to her feet. She’d heard about acupressure points on the soles of feet, and now she believed it; she was flooded with a sense of contentment. “What did you study?”
“I have a degree in business administration with a minor in economics. That’s why I started this business.”
“You are an amazing young man.”
“Thank you.”
“I mean it. You’re an entrepreneur.” She rolled onto her back so she could look at him while they talked. “I’m thinking of going into business myself.”
“But you’re an artist.”
He moistened his hands with more sunscreen and continued massaging her feet as she told him of Brooke’s idea.
He worked the lotion between her toes, then moved up her shin to the back of her knee, then to the muscle a few inches above her knee. She felt a tingle shoot up her inner thighs, which made her stop in midsentence. She hadn’t felt anything so...so intimate with Howard in...what was it? — A year or two surely. Ramon didn’t seem to notice in the least.
He said, “I think that’s a fabulous idea. Nobody else is doing that downtown; you’ll be the f
irst. You’ll be ahead of the crowd.”
He stopped massaging her feet then and put the cap back on the tube of sunscreen. “Oh, hold on,” he said, scooting forward on his knees. “Close your eyes.” He squeezed another dollop onto his fingertips and touched it to the tip of her nose, smoothing it up the bridge. She felt his fingertips lightly touching her temples, then his thumbs fanning out like wings across her forehead and under her eyes as though he were sculpting her from clay. She had to consciously stop herself from trembling. “I don’t plan on cleaning pools forever. I have a dream of investing in rental properties in tropical resorts. With interest rates so low, it would be easy to get a loan now, and the rental receipts would pay for the loan. It’s like free money. Once it’s paid off, it’ll be like owning a private bank that keeps paying dividends. That’s why I want to talk to your husband — Howard. Hightower, Marsden & Katz. See, I remember.”
“You should do it. Go for your dreams.”
“The problem is you need money to make money. You can’t get a loan unless you have money for the down payment, and if you have money for a down payment, you probably don’t need the loan. It’s a Catch 22.”
“I’m sure you’ll find a way.”
Ramon sighed and his lips turned up in a slight smile. “You’re a very nice lady, Evelyn Marsh.” He got to his feet and picked up his pool kit.
“I feel like I owe you a tip.”
“For what?”
“The massage.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“I enjoyed our conversation,” she said.
“I did, too. Until next week,” he said with a wink, then turned and walked away. She admired his lean, supple body, his narrow hips and broad shoulders, his easy grace as he strolled down the lawn, and felt a pang of regret at his leaving.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A pang of regret and perhaps just a little thrill of desire. Howard hadn’t touched her like that in years. Ramon had this magical way of making her feel young again. She tried to push the thought out of her mind. He was only a few years older than her son, for heaven’s sake. But he had the poise of an older man, a calm demeanor and an ease of manner that came with confidence. She thought of Robert who, like most young men, was often impatient, particularly around older women who seemed to inspire extremes of agitation or indifference. Ramon, by contrast, seemed possessed of an old soul, comfortable in her company, self-assured, polite without being obsequious.
Evelyn Marsh Page 5
