by Mary Carter
“Me? Yeah. I have two brothers. One older, one younger.”
“Stuck in the middle with you,” Tina sang. When no one commented or joined in, she stopped. Then her tongue darted out and slowly licked the rim of her glass.
“Okay. Two parents. No sister.” Mike looked at Monica before reading the next question. He cleared his throat again.
“I saw on your Web site that you have a dog,” he said.
“Snookie,” Monica said. “My puggle.” The pained look was back on Mike’s face.
“Do you have—uh—proof?” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“I mean—uh—do you have pictures of Snookie?”
“I’m sorry,” Monica said. “Did you say ‘proof’?”
“I might have,” Mike said. “I’m not a writer. I just—thought maybe you could show me a picture of your dog”—he glanced at the paper again—“or, uh, maybe call someone that has the dog—so I can—uh—hear him bark.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Monica looked around. “I’m being pranked, right?” She threw her head back and laughed. Tina kicked her under the table. Monica tried to get it together. “Call Snookie so you can hear him bark. That’s funny.” Mike laughed too. He held up the paper with a shrug.
“You’re right,” he said. “That’s ridiculous. Never mind. Um—are your parents both alive?”
“Yes,” Monica said.
“Are they, um—you know—healthy and—in their right minds?”
“Tina,” Monica said. “You’re setting me up.” Tina shook her head no. Monica slowly turned back to Mike and stared at him. “Are my parents in their right mind?” she said as if she were pondering the question. “I’m not sure. Should I call them up? Would you like to hear them bark?”
“Ha!” Tina said. “Ha-ha.”
“How do you feel about bats?” Mike said. His ears were turning red as he started reading the questions rapid-fire. “How old were you when you—oh God, I can’t ask that one—um—are you any good at Photoshop, have you ever stolen someone’s identity—”
“Enough,” Monica said, holding her hand up. “Just stop.” The laughter rolled out of her, he was keeping such a straight face. If Tina wasn’t behind this, then who was? Joe? No, Joe would never be that spontaneous.
“Do you have a birthmark on your, uh—well, it’s the hip area—uh—a half-moon—just a little to the left—” Monica’s laughter slammed shut. She flew out of her chair. It took everything she had not to touch the little birthmark, a half-moon, just above her pelvic bone. How did he know?
“Who are you?” she asked.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, throwing the questions down and standing. “These aren’t my questions.”
“Have you been watching me?”
“Watching you? No. God no.”
“I should call the police.”
“Monica,” Tina said. “Calm down.”
“It’s not like that,” Mike said. “I swear to God it’s nothing like that. I would never. I’m not—these questions aren’t mine.”
“Whose are they?” He didn’t answer. “Answer me,” Monica said. “Were they written by a pervert or a fourth grader?”
“Neither. But believe me. If it were me, I’d be asking you about your writing process and—your visions as an artist—and I’d sure as hell want to know if it was your idea to play ‘Celebrate Good Times’—”
“You were there?” Monica asked. “You were at the workshop?”
“Just the tail end of it. And—I’d ask you if you had a boyfriend. I’d definitely ask you that.” Tina slunk in her chair, finished off her martini in one gulp.
“What did you think of it?” Monica demanded.
“What?” Mike said.
“My workshop.”
“Oh. Like I said—I just caught the tail end—”
“So what did you think of that?”
“I think you—you are very engaging—I just didn’t get all the disco stuff.”
“That’s not mine. The disco stuff is not mine.”
“I didn’t think so. See? It didn’t fit. You seem so genuine, even when you’re spouting—” Mike stopped himself.
“Spouting? Now I’m spouting?”
“Not—all the time—sometimes you were right on the mark—incredibly genuine, you know. You had me on the edge of my seat. Really.” Monica couldn’t believe this guy. He was backpedaling. Spouting. He said she was spouting. He saw through her! He knew she was full of shit, he saw right through her. Even worse, he was trying to spare her feelings. She hated that. She suddenly hated him. A lot. She hated him a lot. Go, she wanted to shout at Tina, leave us alone. Tina didn’t budge.
“How did you know about my birthmark?” Monica said.
“It’s not my question. You must have mentioned it—on your Web site, in another article, in the book—I don’t know.”
“How did you get that black eye?” Monica asked. It was faint, but he definitely had a black eye; there was enough of a hint of it.
“Monica,” Tina said.
“Did you startle someone else with your invasive questions and someone clocked you?” Monica asked.
“Actually,” Mike said, “it was a total misunderstanding. Unprovoked.”
“I doubt that,” Monica said.
“I don’t care,” Mike said. “Still the truth. Don’t you talk a lot about truth?” They stared at each other. God, he was gorgeous. Who hit him? She wanted to touch it, kiss it, lick it. She wanted to make him feel better. She wanted him to make her feel better. She wanted to push him in the pool, jump in after him, and plaster her wet body to his. What was she doing? What was she thinking? Oh God, could he tell what she was thinking? He was looking at her like he could tell what she was thinking. Was he smiling? He wasn’t smiling, was he?
“I’m sorry,” Monica said. “I have to go.” She glanced at Tina. “I’m sure my assistant would be happy to answer any more of your questions.” Tina sat up straight.
“Love to,” Tina said.
“Monica,” Mike said. “I’m so sorry.” There it was again, the squeezing of her heart. Who was this guy? Why did part of her want to kick Tina to the curb and stay up all night drinking wine and answering his bizarre questions? Then again, what if he was a sick pervert and she was siccing him on Tina?
“Don’t be too late,” Monica said. “We have an early start tomorrow.”
“No problem, boss,” Tina said.
“Don’t forget,” Monica said, pointing behind her. “I’m right up there.” Now, why did she say that? If he was a sick pervert, he now knew where she was staying.
“I wish you wouldn’t go,” Mike said. “I wish I could start over.”
“It’s fine,” Monica said. “I’m just tired.”
“Off to bed, then, boss,” Tina said. “I’ve got it from here.”
Back in her hotel room, Monica slipped into a tub of hot water and submerged herself until her lips were barely above the water. Oh, if they could see her now, great advisor, architect of her soul, wishing she could slip under the bubbles and drown. They would definitely want their money back. Baths were supposed to be calming. She was supposed to feel better. Instead, her fists were clenched, her heart was racing, and she was using every ounce of energy she had not to run to the curtains and see if Mike and Tina were still out there. Her hand trailed down to the tiny birthmark. Had she mentioned it in an interview?
Definitely not. And it wasn’t on her Web site or in the book, she was sure of it. Did he actually say he wanted her to call someone so he could hear Snookie bark? He was off his head. Totally off his head. He was probably Ted Bundy. A charming sculptor / serial killer. He probably encased his corpses in steel. And she’d left Tina alone with him! She had to call her, warn her. Yet Tina had been there to hear the whole thing, and she was still hanging on. Desperate, the woman was so desperate—
Monica slumped farther down into the tub. He wasn’t a serial killer. And he wasn’t comfortable l
ying. Which is why he got all squirmy when she asked what he thought of her workshop. He hated it. She could tell.
She was so absorbed with her thoughts, it took her a while to realize the phone was ringing. She climbed out of the tub, swiped a towel from the rack, and wrapped it around her wet body. She padded out of the bathroom and headed for the bedside phone, leaving wet footprints in her wake. She stubbed her toe on the bed and fell forward. She grasped for the handle and banged her knee into the end table. Her hands slipped again on the receiver, and she whacked her chin with the phone before she finally brought it up to her mouth. She was laughing when she said, “Hello.” She wouldn’t have to take pills or drown herself after all; at this rate, her own clumsiness would do her in.
There was no answer. “Hello?” she said again. Suddenly, she wanted someone to be there, someone to talk to. No one spoke, but they were still on the line, she could hear them. She lay down on the bed, holding the phone, oddly comforted by the strange silence. “Talk to me,” she said. “Are you there?” Was it him? What was she doing? There was another moment of breath-filled silence, then a distinct click, followed by the hollow rejection of a dial tone. Disappointment engulfed Monica. She felt like a child playing a game of telephone with cans connected by a string. The other can had been dropped in the dirt, abandoning Monica as she held up her end, straining to hear something, anything, in the silence.
Chapter 10
“I can’t believe her,” Monica said. “I just can’t believe her.” Joe didn’t answer right away. He was pushing eighty miles an hour in an attempt to get them there. Monica clutched the door handle, something she did that Joe absolutely hated, and prayed he wouldn’t retaliate by kicking the Toyota up to ninety.
“He seems nice,” Joe said. “Tina seems crazy about him.”
“She just met him,” Monica said. “She’s desperate.” Monica tried the radio again, but the closer they got to Moosehead Lake, the worse the reception. She clicked it off in disgust.
“They can go to the cabin without us,” Monica said. “Let’s go somewhere else. Anywhere else.”
“I don’t get you,” Joe said without slowing down. “It’s paradise. The woods, the shooting range, a fully stocked kitchen—how many fireplaces?” Monica took a deep breath. She didn’t want to be a bad sport but she certainly didn’t want to listen to Joe wax poetic about the hunting cabin. There were three fireplaces, but she didn’t offer this.
“And you love hiking,” Joe said. “What is it with you and that cabin?”
Monica looked out the window, tried to lose herself in the trees hugging the highway, the oblivious blur of green. What was it about the hunting cabin that filled her with dread? She had good memories of target shooting with the Colonel, or berry picking with her mother, even a few family Scrabble games around the fireplace, yet she still dreaded going there. And as Joe implied, “cabin” was a misnomer; it was indeed a fully equipped hunting lodge, twice the size of the Victorian home where Monica grew up. There were woods to lose yourself in, vines lying in wait across creeks, fields of grass to play hide-and-seek, and furtive deer (those lucky enough not to be shot, stuffed, and mounted in the Colonel’s study) skirting through tall pines.
“I don’t know,” Monica said. “I guess it makes me feel like a little kid again, under my mother’s shadow and my father’s thumb.” And then there were the nightmares. As far back as Monica could remember, every bad dream she ever had revolved around the cabin. She’d be lost in the woods, staggering through overgrown bushes, screaming for help. Often she was barefoot and bloody, dressed in torn and dirty rags, as if she’d been plucked out of “Hansel and Gretel,” having just escaped the witch’s oven, wandering, searching for someone to save her.
“I love it there, ” Joe said. “Maybe it’s a guy thing.”
“You just like the moose head in the guest room,” Monica teased, trying to lighten the mood. Joe put his hand up to his heart.
“His big, glassy eyes follow me wherever I go.” Monica laughed. Joe gave her a quick glance and boyish smile before adjusting his glasses and focusing on the road. He was a good guy. Hard worker, very intelligent, he had the whole sexy-professor look going on. Sandy hair, wire-rim glasses, navy blue eyes. Tall and trim. Predictable. He liked golf, hunting, and planning. Oh, how he liked planning. Without Joe, there never would have been a book. And he truly liked people, went out of his way to be friendly. He absolutely adored her dad, and treated her mom like gold. Even Aunt Grace—
“Oh shit,” Monica said. She slapped her hand on her knee.
“What?”
“I left Aunt Grace’s present at home.”
“That’s it? You shouldn’t startle me like that.”
“We’re only what? Forty minutes?”
“No.”
“Joe.”
“Honey, I’m not going back now. You can mail it.”
“It’s not the same.”
“We have copies of the book in the back; you can give her one of those.” Monica glanced in the backseat, where umpteen copies of The Architect of Your Soul were stacked up. Next to them, Snookie snored in his crate. Monica was dying to wake Snookie and cuddle him, but it would start a fight with Joe. He said taking Snookie out of the crate was like plucking a kid from its car seat. At least he was sleeping peacefully; he’d whined the first twenty minutes. Here’s your proof, Mike, Monica thought. Maybe I should wave Snookie out the window like a courtroom exhibit. Why is he here?
To see you, to see you, to see you—
“Aunt Grace doesn’t need the book,” Monica snapped. She immediately felt guilty; it wasn’t Joe’s fault Mike was following them. But did he ever think about anything other than the book? Did he ever think it just might be total crap anyway? And why did Aunt Grace let the Colonel talk her into having her party at the hunting cabin anyway? They could have rented the Dew Drop Inn in Portland. Monica knew her aunt loved the quaint inn with views of the ocean, and the restaurant down the way with the best lobster and champagne for miles. This was all her father’s idea. Grace always let the Colonel bully her. What a pair. Where the Colonel was hard, Aunt Grace was soft. She was like a hummingbird: precious, nervous, and fragile. Aunt Grace you loved, whereas the Colonel you feared. She had a smile line etched into her face, whereas he had a permanent crease across his forehead, deep as a trench behind enemy lines on the battlefield of his face. Maybe it was the age gap; Grace was fifteen years younger than her father. She was obviously a “whoops” baby. Maybe her grandparents had been easier on her.
“What’s wrong?” Joe asked. “Did the workshop not go well this weekend?”
“Since you ask,” Monica said, “several participants say they thought the disco lights and music were totally cheesy—not at all in line with my style.”
“Talk to Josh Paris,” Joe said. That was Joe. Practical. She’d only met Mike and he’d been completely passionate about her—well, maybe not her—but the stupid music and confetti—it was as if he were invested in her and her vision, cared about her as an artist. What the hell was she doing? She just met this guy. He didn’t know her, he didn’t care about her. Joe knew her. Joe cared about her. Thank God he couldn’t read her mind. Monica put her hand on Joe’s thigh.
“Let’s pull over and have sex,” she said. Joe swerved. The tires squealed and when they lurched back into their lane, Tina beeped at them. Joe tapped the horn and waved back.
“Jesus, Monica,” he said. “Don’t do that.” Monica didn’t dare look back. What was Mike thinking? What on earth were they finding to talk about? Was he grilling Tina about her? How did he know about her birthmark? It was still bugging her. His explanation was total BS. If there was one good thing about his coming, it was that she was going to force him to tell her how he knew. “Are you going to tell me what that was all about?” Joe asked.
“I was trying to be spontaneous,” Monica said. “It’s in my blueprint. Remember blueprints, Joe? Your idea, right out of ‘our’ book.”
> Make a map or blueprint of the life you want to live.
Goals became “rooms” with specific measurements; the book even included several drafts of architectural drawings so the reader could sketch in various blueprints. Later they’d be allowed to decorate it, and even switch out the decorations, showing that goals were permanent, but the routes by which you get there could be switched around, like adding a new throw pillow to a couch—
That had been Monica’s contribution. There were a lot of fun and practical things in the book. She shouldn’t be so cynical. But if it really worked, why wasn’t Joe ravishing her by the roadside right now?
Because you can’t blueprint other people. Exactly what Monica tried to tell Tina about Mike—
“Making love under a dead moose is spontaneous,” Joe said, gently removing her hand. “Dying in a fiery crash is not.”
Yes, you couldn’t blueprint other people. So why should that stop her? Why couldn’t she follow her plan anyway, without Joe? Monica was going to do just that. She unbuttoned her jeans and stuck her hands down her pants. It took Joe a lifetime to notice, and when he did he was anything but turned on.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to arouse you.”
“On the interstate? Really?”
“I’m in the mood.”
“Tina and her boyfriend are behind us.” Monica yanked her hands out of her pants.
“He’s hardly her boyfriend,” she said. “She just met the guy.”
“What is with you today?”
“I want sex, okay?” Monica said. There, she’d said it. “I want passionate, exciting sex.” Joe shook his head.
“We’re going to your aunt’s birthday party where your father—the Colonel—keeps a hundred and twenty-two polished rifles.”
“Air rifles,” Monica said.
“Honey, you can play with yourself all you want, but it’s not happening.” Joe was right. Between the moose, the rifles, and the endless target activities, there wouldn’t be any spontaneous sex this weekend. They’d be lucky if they got through the weekend without the Colonel making Aunt Grace cry. That was the fragile part about her; she’d be smiling up to a point, but Richard eventually got under her skin, and family functions often dissolved into fights, which for Aunt Grace meant lots of tears. There wouldn’t be any spontaneous sex this weekend—unless it was Tina and Mike.
