“That’s a bunch of crap, and you—”
Nope. Sorry. Didn’t want to hear the end of his stupid sentence. That’s what the “end” button on the cell was for. And what bullshit to suggest that they were the innocent victims here, while the Fabrikants were monsters.
On the other hand, their level of concern convinced me that this was no case of mistaken identity. The Miami Fabrikants had to be the same people my parents feared they were, otherwise they wouldn’t be this freaked out.
“More coffee, miss?” The owner stood at the table with a hot pot.
“Definitely.” I pushed my cup closer.
“A bad day for the pretty lady?” He filled it without spilling a drop.
“Uh-huh.”
“Every family fights. It’s normal. We love them, we hate them. Believe me, I could tell you stories.” He laughed. “It could always be worse.”
“Well, thanks for the Greek philosophy, but not in this case.”
He smiled. “Things will work out okay.”
“Really? How do you know?”
“Because you give good aura.”
Is that like giving good head? “Thanks for noticing. I sure hope you’re right.”
“Can I ask you question?”
Only if you don’t sit down. “Okay.”
“Do you believe in love at first sight?”
Oh God. Of all days to be hit on. Check, please. “No. No, I don’t.”
“Because I think the problem is you fell in love, but you don’t want to admit it.”
“And you know this because…how?”
“Let’s just say I have a good sense about these things. Customers come from miles. They say to me, ‘Costa, the food is so-so, but the predictions? The best!’”
“Is that right? Well, then, here’s a question, since you’re so psychic. If you were on a plane, and the old man next to you suddenly dropped dead on your lap, and afterwards you found out from your grandmother that, surprise, surprise, this man was actually your grandfather, and that your parents weren’t really your parents, they sort of inherited you, and that your real father was dead, and your real mother was now this big, famous Hollywood star who abandoned you because you were too much trouble to raise, and that after figuring this all out, you fell in the shower and almost cracked your head open, and had to be rushed to the emergency room…would you be thinking about love?”
“Can I get you anything else, miss?” The man blinked. “Or just the check?”
I dug for Viktor’s card in my pocketbook and dialed his cell. Never was I so glad to hear a crazy man’s voice. And bless his little soul, he had been waiting to hear from me. Was I feeling better? Was my grandmother feeling better? Did I get the packages he left?
Yes, yes, yes, I told him. But was it possible for him to pick me up at the House of Athens Coffee Shop on Northeast 188th, and then take me someplace where I could shower and change before going over to the Fabrikants’ for dinner?
“Miss Claire,” Viktor said, “wat is going wrong with you today? Why ken’t you shower at your grendmotherz place?”
“Viktor, there are so many problems over there, you wouldn’t believe.”
“Uch. Thet’s the bed thing about rentals…thi landlords. They fix nothin’ until the lawyer calls. Em I right?”
“As always.”
“So I hev idea. How ebout I take you to Drew’s place? He’s not using thi shower now.”
“Oh no, no, no. I couldn’t do that. It would be such an imposition. I was thinking…Oh, jeez. I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess you can’t very well rent a hotel room for half an hour.”
“Oh, believe me. In Miami you ken.”
“Yes, but I don’t have the money. What about a JCC or…I know—a country club with lax security?”
“I could take you to my house, but we only hev tub. Believe me, you’ll be very heppy at Drew’s.”
“But I don’t want to bother him. He’s got enough on his head without worrying that he left the place a mess, or that Marly will get mad.”
“He won’t be beck until tonight. He iz busy with heez father all day. I hev keys to all their places. It’s no beeg deal. I’ve done it.”
“Are you serious? You’ve stopped there to shower? He doesn’t mind?”
“He doesn’t know. He hez a maid. If something iz dirty, she cleans.”
“But don’t you think he’ll be mad if he finds out we snuck in?”
“Em I crazy? He only wants to make you heppy, Miss Claire.”
Well, I only want to make me heppy, too. “If you say so…and I won’t be long. In and out.”
“I like eh woman who thinks like eh man.” Viktor laughed. “I’m on my way.”
I have seen some fairly amazing bachelor pads in my day, and regardless of whether the place was a hotel room, a condo, or a sixteen-room estate, I could count on the same basic three things: great views, a huge bed, and enough high-tech toys to rival the local Best Buy (because size does matter, especially when it comes to plasma TVs).
And yet, when Viktor took me south of Fifth, then led me from the underground garage in Drew’s condominium complex to the private elevator which shot us up to the penthouse floor, I was blown away. His apartment, if you could even call it that, was a spectacularly designed, three-thousand-square-foot mecca of delight.
Between the ocean views, which the floor-to-ceiling windows made hard to miss, the rich, tasteful furnishings, the vast, open rooms, the assortment of Brookstone gadgets, and the ultimate indulgence, a wall of vending machines in his playroom, he would be crazy to share it with anyone.
“Oh my God,” I must have repeated a dozen times. “This is all for one person?”
“Not bed for a kid who was born to a dencer and a plumber, em I right?”
A dancer and a plumber? Oh right. Drew wasn’t born into money. His widowed mother had played Chutes and Ladders for Husbands, and with one roll of the dice, shot all the way to the top.
“This kitchen is absolutely amazing.” I rubbed the Italian marble countertops. “So Drew likes to cook?”
“He no hev time. But Marly, she ken potchke in here all day—an excellent cook.”
“Oh,” I blurted. “She lives here, too?”
“Not officially, no. Of course, efter they get married…”
“Lucky girl,” I sighed. “So where should I shower, and how much time do I have?”
Viktor looked at his watch. “How about I ken pick you up in forty-five minutes?”
“Perfect.” I nodded.
“End take my advice, Mr. Drew’s bathroom has excellent shower. Thi water, it spleshes from all around. Top, bottom, everywhere. Thi other showers…not so special.”
“Ah-hah. And what about towels? Maybe I’ll take them with me so they’re not lying around.”
“Believe me, Drew iz too busy to notice who used this towel, who used thet towel.”
“Okay. Anything else I should know? Alarm codes, light switches…how should I lock up?”
“I’ll do it when I come beck up. And don’t forget. He hez peppermint soap…try it. You’ll smell like kendy store.”
Oooh. Good thinking. Then he’ll never suspect I was here.
Of course, I snooped around. Oh, come on. You would have done the exact same thing, and you know it. What girl wouldn’t want the unofficial tour? Besides, I might never get another chance to open Drew’s closets, medicine chests, and the all-important refrigerator. The true indication of whether he was still allowed to think for himself.
And the verdict? According to the contents of his mammoth Sub Zero, his life was over. The shelves were lined with fruit, yogurt, and salad makings, and one entire door panel stocked Diet Coke and bottled Evian. Yes, there was beer, but it all screamed light. And the freezer test didn’t bode well, either. Unless his midnight cravings included lemon sorbet and Healthy Choice chicken enchiladas.
There were other signs that Marly was calling the shots. Exquisitely framed photos of
the happy couple were perched on every available surface. And here was a big surprise: Those famous needlework pillows of hers were casually adorned on all the couches and chairs.
My favorites designs were stitched in splashes of peach, turquoise, and yellow. Miami-flavored ice cream on cozy little canvases. It was the inscriptions that made me want to puke.
Duty makes you do things well, but loves makes you do them beautifully (translated: Why screw your secretary when you can have me?). Thy friendship be forever true (translated: You cheat on me again, you’re dead meat). Which was lovingly situated next to Marly and Drew together forever (translated: Or this time my lawyer will eat your prenup for breakfast).
But the most revealing of all was the heart-shaped pillow on the couch by Drew’s computer. It read, And they lived happily ever after. And in a tiny heart, their little initials were stitched. MF. DF.
Wait, wait, wait. She wasn’t an F yet. She was still a B for Becker. How presumptuous of Marly to be advertising her new last initial before the wedding. Still, I had to hand it to her. They’d hit a big bump in the relationship road, and somehow she’d managed to get Drew to drive back to her. (Maybe that’s why he said she was so much smarter than him.)
I could only hope that one day I would be this sure of a relationship. Or at least confident enough to go through every room of my boyfriend’s bachelor pad, girl it all up, and not panic that maybe I’d jeopardized his testosterone level.
Viktor was right. Drew’s bathroom was so heavenly and unique, I felt like an awestruck tourist. Too bad I couldn’t buy postcards at the gift shop, or at least have snapped a few souvenir shots of my own. Sydney would have gotten such a kick out of seeing the gold-leaf basins, the domed skylights, and the private bidet for the ladies.
And that was before discovering the doors leading to the sauna, the his-and-her toilets, the dressing areas, and my favorite find, a special room for spa treatments and massages.
But what we both would have drooled over was the cylindrical shower stall situated right in the center of the bathroom. I swear it looked like it could sleep six, and fly to the moon.
I had never been this excited to bathe. I just hoped that (1) I could manage to take an entire shower without fainting, and (2) I could figure out how to turn the damn faucets on without the powerful showerheads blowing me right out the door.
To my surprise, it was child’s play. And I couldn’t help but giggle like a child. This was heaven. A vichy shower, hot steam, and three choices of body washes, including the peppermint scent that Viktor liked so much. I never wanted to come out. In fact, the only thing that was missing was an attendant to hand me a warm, plush towel….
…Or maybe not. The glass doors were now so moist with vapor, funny shadows appeared, and I swear to God I saw an attendant waiting for me…a male attendant.
A MALE ATTENDANT? Please God. Let it be another hallucination, like in the ambulance. But from what I could make out through the billowing steam, I was not imagining this. And then it hit me. Viktor! Who else knew I would be here alone…and naked? The psycho driver had set me up: Kept the keys. Told me not to bother with a hotel. It was fine to shower at Drew’s. And told me to be sure to use this bathroom, the others weren’t as special. Oh God…and to try the peppermint soap, so I smelled nice when the kinky bastard raped me…or worse.
As the figure move closer, I started to scream. I couldn’t believe it. My young life was going to end bloody, just like the shower scene in Psycho. The very movie that had tormented me since childhood. Yet Janet Leigh’s cries sounded like a whimper compared to mine.
Then the shower door opened, and even in my unclad and vulnerable state, my instinct was to try to strangle the man with my bare hands. But he was too strong to overtake. In a second, my left arm was behind my back and I felt the man’s hot breath on me. I was just about to aim for his groin when I heard my name…with no trace of a Russian accent.
“Drew?” I pushed the steam away. “Oh my God. You scared the crap out of me!”
“I scared you?” He laughed, obviously relieved.
“What are you doing here?” I was practically panting.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” He let go. “I live here. Remember?”
He tried to be a gentleman, but a wet, naked blonde is pretty much at the top of the male fantasy chain, and the guy was only human. “What are you doing here?” His voice was softer now.
“I’m sorry. I am so sorry. You have to let me explain. I’m in the middle of a huge mess with my family, and I needed a place to shower. Viktor didn’t think you’d mind—”
“It’s okay. It’s fine.” He reached for a towel. “Here. Put this on. You’re shivering. I’m just glad you weren’t…I thought it was somebody else.”
An old girlfriend, perhaps? “Thank you.” I wrapped myself in the soft bath sheet. “We thought you weren’t coming back until later.”
“I wasn’t supposed to. But Marly and her mom thought I should put on something nicer for tonight.”
Poor guy was screwed! For the rest of his married life, he would be double-teamed. But why rub it in?
“It’s so funny.” I switched gears. “I was just thinking, the only possible thing this bathroom was missing was an attendant.”
“Anytime.” He blushed. “You have an amazing—”
“Ah, ah, ah.” I shook my finger. “That’s no way to talk to your first cousin.”
“My first cousin?” He laughed. “Oh, right. Last night at Pops’ place…. But that was just a story I made up.”
“So we thought,” I sighed. “But what would you say if I told you it might be true?”
Chapter 15
TALK ABOUT COMPROMISING POSITIONS. GREAT BOOK, BUT I DON’T remember Susan Isaacs putting her main character in the humiliating situation in which I found myself.
While standing in nothing but a towel in Drew’s bathroom, and just after dropping that little announcement to him about the possibility that we were related, guess who walked in? Marly and her mother, Sharon the Shadow. “Oh shit,” was right.
Oddly, instead of my focusing on the fact that this was a very embarrassing, hard-to-explain situation, all I did was stare. The two looked so much alike, with their tiny birdlike frames and features. Small hands, small feet (how I envied anyone who didn’t walk around with short skis at the ends of their ankles), great green eyes the color of dill, and silky auburn hair that had that did-they-or-didn’t-they-just-spend-sixty-bucks-on-a-blowout-look. Even their little Louie pocketbooks matched.
It’s not that I didn’t know girls who were knockoffs of their mothers. It’s that I was suddenly blue. I had never experienced that sort of connectedness, the biological billboard that flashed: We belong to each other. I would have loved for my mother and I to look like we played on the same team.
Meanwhile, this mother-daughter team had locked arms and was demanding an explanation. I did my best to keep my story simple, that Viktor made the suggestion I shower here, but a nervous Drew was more anxious to get his point across, which was that he had no idea I would be here. In fact, he thought I was an intruder.
A hysterical Marly didn’t buy it. She’d been here before and automatically assumed the worst. Sharon, too, was beside herself: How many second chances did Drew think he was going to get, and didn’t he realize the wedding invitations were going to be mailed in six weeks, and why the hell did he have to be what her late mother called “such a hard dog to keep on the porch”?
As I looked on, I was so overcome with anguish, so fatigued, I just wanted to curl up in a big fluffy spa robe and time-travel back to L.A.
Back to the days when I’d complain to Sydney that nothing exciting ever happened to me.
Back to when I’d watch Dr. Phil and throw Nerf balls at the TV every time he reduced a New Jersey housewife to tears.
Back to driving on the 405 in my trusty Honda Accord, coffee-stained carpets and all, but with my cherished CD collection, and the box of Coffee Nip
s hidden in the storage bin.
Back to Santa Monica, eating at a hot new restaurant with friends, while secretly sending daggers to the girls who were lucky enough to have even ugly dates paying those eye-popping checks.
Back to those fancy red-carpet movie premieres that took all day to get ready for, and that offered the hope of being spotted by a producer who happened to be on the lookout for an actress for her next film who looked just like me.
I did not want to be in deep distress thinking that my real mother had abandoned me, or that my new home address would be an assisted living center, where I’d be required to play bingo and never eat dinner after six again.
I wanted to pretend that these past few days in hell were an aberration. A little blip on life’s radar that would one day be fodder for a short story I’d call, “If Only I’d Sat in 9B.”
If only, indeed.
“I can explain everything,” I finally cried over the din in the bathroom. “Please. Just let me tell you what happened. But first, is there a bathrobe I can put on?”
Marly sniffed and ran to Drew’s dressing room. “Here.” She handed me a white terry robe. “Take Drew’s. Mine wouldn’t fit you.”
“Thank you.” I smiled graciously, though I felt like bitch-slapping her for that unkind cut. Instead, I did something out of Sydney’s un-inhibited playbook. I casually dropped my towel. Treated them all to an R-rated full-frontal nudity scene before putting on the robe.
“Oh my God,” Sharon cried.
“I can’t believe this is happening.” Marly gawked longer than anyone, then ran out.
“Marly, wait.” Drew followed. “She thinks we’re cousins.”
“You are one piece of work,” Sharon, the mother bear, growled before joining her at-risk cub.
“First, let me apologize for all the chaos.” I had somehow managed to get everyone to assemble around the kitchen table. “Believe me. The last thing I wanted was to create more stress for you at this very difficult time.”
Claire Voyant Page 15
