Steve had lived across the hall in the coed dorm at UCSC, and had begun hanging out in her dorm room after class and in the evenings. He was a good conversationalist. He also knew a lot more about some subjects than she, which had proved useful on more than one occasion. It was nice to have someone to talk to. But from the start, Steve was more physically demonstrative than Howard, always rubbing the small of her back, stroking her arm, and on occasion playfully copping a feel. It was all pretty innocent on her part. She never let him go too far.
It was after they’d gone to the movies (When Harry Met Sally, Evelyn seemed to remember) that they stopped for an ice cream, and she noticed he was looking at her with a new sparkle in his eyes.
“What?” she asked.
“You are so incredibly beautiful, I could look at you all day,” he said.
They held hands on the way back to the car. It seemed natural. Then, there in the parking garage, before he opened the car door, he’d swung her around and kissed her. Lost in the moment, she’d kissed him back.
He was an exceptional kisser. In retrospect, she had to admit that was probably the moment that had sealed her fate. But that was a long time ago and she had been physically, if not mentally, loyal to Howard ever since their marriage.
The thought of Ramon looking dejected made her writhe with self-loathing. If she was once flattered by his attentions, the thought of it now made her feel tawdry. It wasn’t his fault. She was culpable and would have to own up to it. But how could she face him again? She couldn’t fire him. That would be too unfair.
That evening Howard came home at half past seven. “I made a special dinner for you,” she said hopefully, fearful that he would see right through her. “How was your day?”
“Oh, the city has been driving me crazy. The Redevelopment Agency keeps insisting my client give in to all kinds of concessions, and I keep telling them we’re not obligated to do any of it, but they just won’t listen. I’m beat and I still have work to do.”
“Come sit down.” The dining room table was set for two, the lights turned low, and two candles shed a warm glow that reflected in the half-full wineglasses. “You sit down and have some wine and I’ll bring your plate.” She returned two minutes later with two plates of steak, twice-baked potatoes au gratin, and spring peas.
“What’s the occasion?” Howard asked.
“No occasion. We don’t talk much anymore. I thought it would be nice.”
“I don’t have much to say. You don’t want to hear about my clients. They bore even me.”
“Sam’s coming home this weekend. Her last final is Friday.”
“That’s good; you’ll have company.”
“Not for long, she’s off to Europe in two weeks.”
“Is that what I’m working for?”
“It’s not going to cost much. The Overstreets have an apartment in Paris.”
“Who are the Overstreets?”
“Gail’s parents.”
“Who’s Gail?”
“Her roommate. How could you forget her roommate?”
“I don’t know; I’ve never met her. Whatever happened to Catherine what’s-her-name?”
“Phelps. She moved out last quarter.”
“Well, I can’t keep track of everything.”
They chatted amiably over dinner and another glass of wine. He smiled. “This was nice. Thanks. Now I have to get back to work.”
As she cleaned up the dishes she marveled at how easy it was to hide her guilt. He hadn’t suspected a thing.
Howard went to the office Saturday. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” he explained over Evelyn’s objections.
Samantha arrived after noon. Evelyn helped her bring in boxes from the Ford Expedition that Howard had insisted on buying her (“It’s a tank in an accident,” he’d explained). There were boxes of books and clothes; shoes and towels; a laptop; a pillow; sheets and a bedspread. Samantha elected to leave the rest in the car — a printer; one of Evelyn’s paintings; flatware and kitchen utensils; pots, pans, plates, bowls, glassware; and a mug emblazoned with the UCLA Bruins logo. “There’s no sense in unpacking,” she said. “When we get back from Paris, we’ll be moving into our new apartment.”
“Park your car in the garage when you’re finished,” Evelyn said; “you’re blocking the drive.”
Samantha stacked the boxes of books in the closet, while Evelyn carried dirty sheets and clothes to the laundry.
The washing machine was just filling with water when Evelyn heard Samantha scream. There was nothing to be alarmed about; it was only Sam’s phobic squeal at the sight of a spider. Evelyn found her pressed into a corner, trembling with fear, looking disturbingly like the gopher she’d murdered.
“Kill it!” Samantha shouted, pointing. “Kill it!”
“I’m not going to kill it. It’s just a poor, little house spider. Open your window.” Evelyn liked spiders. They had a will to live, and a natural wariness of people that she understood. She coaxed the spider onto her hand, carried it carefully to the window, and dropped it out. “I wish you’d go to a phobia specialist. It can’t be good going through life afraid of the smallest things.”
“It’s just spiders. I hate spiders. Eww! They give me the creeps!”
“People are far more dangerous than spiders.”
After dinner, while Howard watched a baseball game, Evelyn gathered together Michelin maps of France and Switzerland, and a map of the Paris Metro.
“Maps are so old school,” Samantha said. “I don’t need paper maps; I have my phone.”
“Humor me,” Evelyn said. “You might forget to charge your phone.”
They made up a list of things to take on the trip. The girls planned to use the Paris apartment as their base, and make side trips to Alsace, Zurich, and the Côte d’Azur.
“Post updates and photos on your Facebook page,” Evelyn requested, “so I can follow along vicariously. I want to know where you are and what you’re seeing.”
“Wait a minute; let me have your phone,” Samantha said. She tapped the screen. Her own phone beeped.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s Friend Finder. It’s one of the apps that comes with your phone.” She handed it back. “Now I’ll just press Yes. There, now we’re ‘friends.’ You can follow me on your phone. Now I’ll ask you.”
Evelyn’s phone beeped. The app asked if she would like to share her location with Samantha Marsh. Evelyn tapped Yes. “Ah! Look at that!” she exclaimed, as a map appeared showing their precise location. “I had no idea this was on my phone.” A snippet of conversation came back to Evelyn then: ‘Big Brother is watching...Your phone tracks your every move.’
“Hit this button and it turns the map into a satellite image,” Samantha said.
“Amazing! Are there any other apps I should have?”
“You have Google Earth, right?” Evelyn looked blank. Samantha rolled her eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. “Parents are so computer illiterate.”
“I am not.”
Samantha giggled. “You don’t even know what apps you have on your phone.”
Evelyn had to concede that point, but she wasn’t intimidated by technology. She wondered why people assumed a housewife (for that’s how they saw her, not as an artist, or even as an independent adult) would be computer illiterate. She paid the bills online, bought clothes and presents online, checked the weather, monitored their investments, mapped her walks, took photos, sent messages, followed her children on social media, video chatted, and played remote chess with her son. She may not have been entirely up-to-date, and she certainly had no interest in sharing her every movement and thought on Twitter, but she was hardly computer illiterate.
That evening Samantha installed Google Earth on the desktop computer in her father’s study and showed her mother how to call up a
street view of Gail’s apartment in Paris.
Later Evelyn would reflect on this day and what a double-edged sword technology could be.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
To avoid Ramon, Evelyn stayed indoors on Tuesday. She just wanted him to come, do his job, and leave. Still, she worried he might come to the French doors, either to apologize or to make certain he hadn’t lost the account. She worried that Sam might overhear, and dreaded having to explain herself to her daughter. It would be too embarrassing.
She set up her easel on the far side of the living room and began sketching on a large canvas. Samantha practiced standards from the 1930s on the baby grand piano. She played “The Way You Look Tonight” three times, then “These Foolish Things.”
“I’ve always loved that song,” Evelyn said. “The images are so evocative of loss, and of the time period.”
“Each verse is like a haiku,” Samantha said. Then she sang two verses as she played. She had a beautiful singing voice. “I missed this when I was at school. The pianos in the music lab suck.”
The front doorbell rang. Evelyn put down her pencil. “I’ll get it. You keep playing.” She was prepared to meet Ramon at the door. Instead, it was Connie, who held one of Evelyn’s sixteen-by-twenty-inch watercolors.
“You changed the frame,” Evelyn said.
“Do you like it?”
“It looks nice. Less formal.”
“Take a closer look. Do you really like it?”
Evelyn examined it and nodded. “Yes, it looks good.”
“It’s a giclée print.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
“I know, right?”
Evelyn peered more closely and shook her head. “I can’t tell it from the original.”
“It works best with watercolors. Oil paintings are more problematic — a giclée can’t quite capture the texture of oil, but you have to be up close to notice. I was hoping to pick up some others to have them scanned. I brought the van.” She had a panel truck with racks specifically built for transporting paintings. Ramon’s truck was just pulling up behind it. Evelyn stepped aside to let Connie in and closed the door.
“I get a professional discount with the printing company,” Connie said, “so whenever you’re ready to scan something, bring it to me. It’s cheaper than going direct.” She seemed to notice the music then for the first time. “Who’s playing?”
“My daughter.”
“She’s good.”
“She’s always enjoyed it.”
Evelyn led the way to the kitchen and poured them each a glass of white wine. Ramon passed by the window with his chemical kit and a long skimming pole with a sieve attached to one end. “I see you got The Pool Boy,” Connie said, salaciously licking her upper lip. “Didn’t I say he was gorgeous? Has he…? Have you…?”
“What?” Evelyn asked, thinking that her recent dalliance (if she could even call it that) showed in her expression.
“You know,” Connie said suggestively. “I wouldn’t mind, really. He’s been very good to me, but I never figured he was exclusive.”
“I’m married!”
“That never stopped me, and I have to say — he is good. I look forward to Fridays.”
Evelyn wondered if Connie was pimping for him, or just bragging. “Well, why shouldn’t you? You’re both young and single. Anyway, I’m old enough to be his mother.”
“He’s a very interesting young man. Ambitious.”
And poised, and handsome, and he has wonderful hands, Evelyn thought. And I’m still married. I shouldn’t have led him on.
They hadn’t noticed the piano had gone silent, and Samantha walked in on their conversation. “Old enough to be whose mother?”
Connie made a gesture with her head and Samantha glanced out the Dutch door.
“What happened to Mario?” she asked.
“He retired,” Evelyn said.
“Don’t be getting any ideas,” Connie teased Samantha.
“Oh please, doing the pool boy? That’s such a cliché. I’m Sam, by the way.”
“I think you’ve met before,” Evelyn said.
“No, I don’t think so,” Connie said, proffering a hand. “I’m Connie Whitfield, or Katz — take your pick. I was married to your father’s partner for a while.”
“Oh,” Samantha said, her lack of interest all too apparent. She looked at the wineglass in her mother’s hand. “I wonder what Daddy would say about drinking in the middle of the day.”
“Considering his boozie lunches, not much,” Connie answered.
Evelyn looked quizzically at Connie.
“Well,” Connie said, “that’s what Albert used to say. You know — three martini lunches?”
Samantha looked at the small painting on the dining room table. “I remember this. Didn’t you paint this when I was nine or ten?”
“It’s a giclée print,” Connie said. “I have the original at my gallery. You know, I represent your mother’s work now.”
“Since when?” Samantha asked her mother.
Connie answered instead. “We sold her first painting last November. Now she’s going to go into business selling prints and gifts with her artwork on it.”
“Really?”
“It’s not definite,” Evelyn said.
“Nonsense,” Connie countered, “you’ll be a big success.”
“Good for you, Mom,” Samantha said, pouring herself an iced tea.
The front door opened and closed and Howard came in. “You’re home early,” Evelyn said.
“I have to pick up some papers and rest. I have a dinner meeting tonight. What the hell is that truck and van doing in our driveway? I had to schlep my briefcase from the street.”
“Mea culpa,” Connie said.
Howard glowered at her, but his attention was pulled toward the backyard where Ramon was skimming blossoms from the pool. “Who the hell is that?”
“The new pool boy. Connie recommended him.”
“What happened to the old one?”
“He retired.”
Howard scowled. “I liked the old one.” He filled a glass of water and left the room with Samantha at his heels.
“I can’t believe you never met Sam before,” Evelyn said.
“The only parties you ever hosted were during the holidays, and I think she stayed upstairs. Kids don’t seem much entertained by drunken adults.”
“I was never drunk.”
“Maybe not, but the rest of us were tipsy. Is she home for the summer?”
“She leaves next week for Paris.”
“Lucky her.”
“It’ll be fun,” Evelyn said, and told Connie all about the girls’ plans. “I can follow her on this app, so I know where she’s at. And if I want to see what she’s seeing, I can just go on Google for a satellite image or street view.”
“God, I wouldn’t want my mother knowing where I am.”
“Sam doesn’t care; she doesn’t have anything to hide.”
“You have no sense of privacy, do you.” This was offered not as a question but as a statement.
“I’ve never done anything I was ashamed of,” Evelyn answered, knowing as she said it that it was a lie. She was ashamed of murdering a poor gopher, whose only crime had been to try to survive, and she was ashamed for almost seducing the pool boy. But she wasn’t about to admit that to Connie.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was a large, somewhat unwieldy canvas. She didn’t often do paintings of this size, but on Monday she set her biggest easel before the herb garden and began painting. That morning the gardeners arrived, two men who spoke no English but went about their tasks, blowing off the patio around the fountain, mowing grass, trimming hedges, pruning bushes, and watering. Samantha came out in a bikini
and lay back on the chaise lounge with a paperback. Evelyn was so engrossed in her work, she didn’t notice her daughter for almost half an hour.
“Oh, what are you doing here?”
“Do I have to have permission?”
“No, of course not. I mean, when did you come out? You surprised me.”
“Awhile ago.”
Evelyn noticed the book. “What are you reading?”
“The Splendour Falls — Susanna Kearsley. It’s really good.”
“Romance?”
“Not really, at least not yet. There’re hints of that, but it’s mostly a mystery.”
The blower began blasting. Evelyn tuned it out and continued to paint. Samantha tuned it out and continued to read.
“Mom?” No response. “Mom!”
“What?”
“Company.”
Evelyn looked over her shoulder and saw Ramon striding up the lawn. He was hatless and carried a folder. He smiled tentatively, nodded to Samantha, and stopped before Evelyn, hanging his head. “I wanted to talk to you,” he said, glancing quickly at Samantha to judge if she was close enough to hear. “Maybe this is a bad time.”
“About what?”
He looked everywhere but in her eyes. He whispered, “I wanted to apologize.”
“It’s not important; forget it.”
They heard a splash as Samantha dove into the pool.
He looked into her eyes then with a look of such contrite gratitude that Evelyn was almost compelled to take him in her arms to comfort him. He was a sweet boy, really, she thought. He’d just been carried away, and he was now truly remorseful. She put a hand on his forearm and smiled. “Don’t worry about it.” He looked relieved and she felt the tension between them melt a little. “You didn’t have to make a special trip.”
Evelyn Marsh Page 7
