“Your wedding ring?” Leah said.
“Doesn’t that just stink! You can tell Bernie he accidentally paid his Lolita, in addition to the hundred and fifty grand the car cost, probably another thirty or forty grand--that ring was a flawless three carats. The inside aura was a high, blue-white iridescence without a trace of yellow.”
“Where will it end?” Leah cried.
“My whole life has turned into the unthinkable,” Beckie said, “What I find most unthinkable of all is that Bernie could break his vows the way he did. How could that man just up and abandon me?”
“You want to know something?” Leah said. “Bernie told me why he abandoned you. I guess it wasn’t such a sudden decision for him--it took him months to actually work up his courage. I’m not sure if now is the time to bring up why he did it, though--how’s your stomach holding up?”
“My stomach feels fine,” Beckie said. “Better. But remind me never to eat here again when I’m emotionally upset--Mexican food isn’t the kind of stuff you want to taste twice, believe me. So tell me--what reason did the little horned toad give for abandoning his wife of twenty-nine years?”
“It’s the thing about no children,” Leah said. “As you’ve suspected all along. The man’s going through some kind of identity crisis--he complains constantly that he’s built this tool empire, but he has no one to leave it to but the IRS. And now, with the merger almost in place, he feels even worse, because his little empire’s going to be just that much more valuable. Apparently, the more valuable the tool business is, the more it hurts Bernie that he can’t leave it to the son he never had.”
“He blames me for him not having a kid,” Beckie said.
“He does,” Leah said. “I’m sorry.”
Beckie spun and grabbed Leah. “Do you see what a crock that is! Don’t you see what they’re doing to us? I had two miscarriages with Bernie and who gets the blame? Me! Did it ever occur to him that perhaps my body miscarried because something was wrong with his half of the contribution? Did it ever occur to him that I, too, have no offspring to carry on my name? That I, Beckie, am the last of my line to breath this air and walk on this earth? Did it ever occur to that fat little worm that to blame me for those miscarriages is the greatest deceit of all time?”
“Beckie, you need to calm down,” Leah said.
“Oh no,” Beckie said. “Bernie is the one who’s wrong here. He’s the one who broke the agreement to love, honor and obey--he’s the one who keeps coming up with the reasons, excuses, and self-justifications to assign me to a living death--don’t you see? His abandonment is no different in intent than if he just walked up to me and shot me dead! For the rest of my life, the people who know me will know me as the woman who was abandoned by her husband for failure to reproduce more like him! Well, as far as I’m concerned, I’m glad I miscarried! You go home tonight and tell him I’m glad I didn’t make any little Bernie’s! You tell him that!”
“Beckie!” Leah cried.
“Get out, Leah--take Ira and go home. I can’t be with either of you now.”
When Leah left Beckie and entered the cool, tile corridor outside the Banos Damas, the refreshing evening breezes washed over her from the open back door of the restaurant, reminding her that Spring had arrived, and with it the reminders to every woman that the season of new life was bursting from the sleep of winter. She retrieved her husband from the table and together they bid their good-byes to Huntington who, like the former investor he was, patiently waited to see the results of what he’d put into the deal thus far and who, like every investor, hoped for an increase in his fortunes and prayed, not disrespectfully--like all men to whom the outcomes of casting their bread upon the waters was unknown to them--to his personal God for a little luck with the outcome.
Chapter 19
“Where to?” Huntington said.
“Anyplace,” Beckie said. “Just lets get out of here, please.”
Having come to grips for the moment with the anguish of her rejection by her husband, not, as she’d previously thought, because of an actual child on the way, but because of its opposite, to wit--the absence of any child on the way, and having overcome the feeling of being unfairly judged by her husband enough to leave the Banos Damas off the breezeway of Taxco Mexican Restaurant, and rejoin the waiting Huntington, and after having accepted his invitation to ditch her limo in favor of his personal vehicle, a huge Chevy Suburban, which sat high in the air on big mud tires, and the interior of which was long enough to accommodate a couple of surfboards in the back, and a lot of miscellaneous restaurant boxes, Beckie, sitting in the jump seat in her white, silver-sequined tube dress, her hair cut short, and shining with a platinum glow, she herself looking fabulous, a shimmering dream in gray-suede spiked heels, watched the world around her go by as her date for the evening guided the mammoth SUV with a light touch through the evening Spring traffic, heading west on Vanowen, a six-lane cross-Valley arterial which cut through the endless sprawl of uncontrolled strip malls, apartments, and shopping centers gone to seed as they approached Haskell Avenue and the connection to the 405 freeway from which they could quickly, traffic permitting, access any point in the five-thousand square mile sprawl containing the eleven million estimated denizens of the City of Angels.
“I want you to see my place,” he said, indicating his first choice among all the billions of possible places available, piloting the Suburban up the onramp and stepping on it, the humongous power plant surging them forward impressively and competitively into the 10-lane engineering nightmare known, for some reason unknown to anyone, as the San Diego Freeway.
“No,” she said. “I know we kissed last night, and I know from the dress I’m wearing, you probably think something’s going to happen, but I should warn you, I’m not in the same place I was last night. I think maybe it would be best, in fact, if we simply called it a night. Besides, don’t you have to go wait tables at your restaurant, or something?”
“I have a manager who handles that,” Huntington said. “Nobody there knows I own the place. Twice a month, I wait tables so I can check up on how things are being run. Last month, I had to fire the bartender after I observed him skimming the receipts. The permanent staff just thinks I’m an actor with a part-time waiter gig.”
“My husband isn’t having a child with another woman,” Beckie said. “Leah just told me.”
“I’d really like you to see my place,” Huntington said. “It’s right on the strand--the section of condos just north of the channel at the Marina.”
“You live there?” Beckie said.
“I’ve got a tri-level that overlooks the strand and the beach,” Huntington said. “I surf every morning right out my front door. Of course, it’s a shallow shore break and if the waves are bigger than three feet they snap you in half, but most mornings I can grab a few rides.”
“I envy you,” Beckie said. “I used to surf, back before you were born, of course.”
“I’m thirty-seven,” he protested. “You’re only forty-nine--twelve years is nothing.”
“I’ll tell you what I will do,” Beckie said. “The truth is, I don’t dislike you--you’re very good-looking, in fact. But I’m not interested in any kind of look-before-we-leap relationship. We’ll go over to your place and you can show me your view of the strand. We can have some hot chocolate, or whatever, and we’ll lay out some ground rules for our being together that we both can live with.”
“Fair enough,” Huntington said. “I can respect that--we can decide what’s important to each of us, and if we have a conflict, we can try to find some alternatives--it’s a way we can make the transition into something more solid.”
“You must have been a banker,” Beckie said. “That was a very graceful analysis.”
“Being on Wall Street isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Huntington said. “My first year everyone referred to me as “Peckerhead”. After that first year, I did okay with my portfolio, so they stopped calling me “Peckerhead” and
elevated me to “Butthead”. It wasn’t until my fourth year of continued success that the managing partner actually used my first name.”
“What drew you to Wall Street in the first place,” Beckie said.
“In a word--money,” he said. “I wanted to make barrels and barrels of it.”
“Did you succeed?”
“You’d be amazed,” he said. “But I finally had enough and I got out--I was one of the lucky ones--some guys never do.”
“Oh no,” Beckie said.
“Oh no?” Huntington said.
“You’ll never believe this,” Beckie said, “but in all the confusion, when I dismissed the limo, I forgot to take my big straw carryall out of the backseat.”
“What’s in the bag?” he said.
“Not much,” she said. “Just my bathrobe, my gun and my dog--not to mention that I left the trunk filled with about fifteen-thousand-dollars’ worth of designer labels.”
“You sure you’re not just wiggling out of our evening?” he said.
“No,” she said. “But may I borrow your cell phone? I’m going to call my driver and have him meet me over at my house--that way, I can set Mr. Boopers free and get him fed and bedded down for the night before we head over to your place--do you mind?”
“Not a bit,” Huntington said. He was a banker, and used to the changing variables inherent in any investment of time and energy.
Chapter 20
“What do you mean I’m not allowed on the property?” Beckie said.
“I mean just that,” the man in the guard uniform said.
They’d arrived to find the limo waiting curbside at Beckie’s off-Wilshire Santa Monica residence, the driver standing by the trunk. But they’d found something more--a uniformed, armed security guard, his cruiser blocking the driveway, his presence there to prevent her from entering the premises.
“But this is my home!”
“I’m sorry, lady,” the guard said, handing her a card. “Here’s a number you can call to discuss the details.”
“I’m calling the police and have you arrested for trespassing!” Beckie said. “That’s my home--everything I own is in there--my food, my clothes, my bed--everything! You have no right to prevent me from entering!”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I truly am--but it’s my job to secure the residence--as to calling the police, they’ll just tell you what I’m telling you--it’s all legal. The paperwork has already been filed with the Santa Monica PD. However, you’re certainly welcome to call them if it will help put your mind at ease.”
“It looks like the fight is escalating,” Huntington said. “Your husband just upped the stakes--he’s just putting the division of property into the legal arena. Beckie, there’s nothing you can do about it tonight--I know it’s hard, but we can get you through this. I know a good lawyer we can call in the morning.”
“What am I going to do?” Beckie said. “Where am I going to go? What about Mr. Boopers? It’s past his bedtime. He’s accustomed to sleeping at the foot of my bed.”
“We’ll go to my place,” Huntington said. “I can put you up in my bed--you’ll be safe and comfortable there.”
“Oh no,” Beckie said. “I’m not sleeping over at your place--we don’t even know each other. I’ll get a room at the Westwood Marquis.”
“You don’t want to go to a hotel,” Huntington said. “Look, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll sleep in the Suburban tonight so you can have the place to yourself--you can lock all the doors and put the perimeter alarm on so you’ll feel safe against any untoward advances you fear I might make. In the morning, we’ll go out to breakfast and take a look at this whole situation. Now c’mon, have you got any better ideas?”
Beckie was exhausted. The day from Hades had taken its toll. She was simply too tired to wrestle with it anymore.
“Have you got any brandy?” she said. “If you do, some brandy in a glass of warm milk would be nice about now--I’m just too tired to react to any more of this.”
“Driver,” Huntington said. “Give the lady her straw bag and load everything else into the back of my Suburban and that’ll be it for tonight.”
The driver opened the rear door and Mr. Boopers sprang out, running to Beckie and whimpering excitedly.
“Awww,” the driver said. “I didn’t know the dog was in there! Oh man, it stinks in this backseat! What’d he eat, a rat taco or something?”
“For your information, he doesn’t like Mexican food,” Beckie said, scooping up the tiny, quivering bundle. “Oh, Mr. Boopers, I’m so sorry I forgot you--I’m so sorry I let the bad man drive off without you.”
“Hey,” the driver said, after he finished loading the Suburban, handing Beckie her straw purse. “I’m sorry about your dog--but I can’t hear a thing back there when the glass is closed and I’m blasting the Bose. I had no idea your little dog was trapped back there--you’ve got to admit, he doesn’t make much of a profile, him being not much larger than a rat and all.”
“No harm, no foul,” Beckie said. “C’mon Huntington, let’s go before this thing gets any further out of control.”
“I’m sorry about your troubles, lady,” the security guard said.
“It’s not your fault,” Beckie said. “Just be a prince and keep the house secure for me while I’m gone.”
“You got it, lady,” he said. “By the way, your boyfriend’s a lucky man.”
Beckie found herself flushing--in all the excitement, she’d forgotten how she must appear to the guard, with her new geometric platinum cut, gray-suede high heels and white, silver-sequined tube dress. Embarrassed, she fished her bathrobe out of her straw carryall and slipped it on.
The Suburban idled slowly down the street, crossing Wilshire completely and heading south before turning west on Colorado. Huntington took his time, working his way over to the Marina, cruising slowly down a long condo canyon, whereupon he hit the remote and pulled the Suburban into a clean, unobstructed garage.
“I had to have the garage lengthened to hold my car,” he said. “They trimmed about three feet off my kitchen to make it work--the contractor called it a man’s compromise.”
“He was right,” Beckie said. “No woman would give up kitchen space for a car.”
“I mostly eat out anyway,” he said.
“You’ve got the neatest garage I’ve ever seen,” Beckie said. “Are you sure you really live here?”
“I’ve got another place across town,” he said, “where I keep all the usual kinds of junk that most people have in their garage, you know, the rear-bagger, the blower, the bicycle with the flat tire--but how much stuff do you really need at the beach? All you need is your board, your wet suit, your bicycle for cruising the strand, your in-line skates for doing the same, your telescope for checking out the action on the sand, and your hibachi for whenever you feel hungry. Besides, if you let your life get all cluttered up with stuff, it’s just a built-in excuse not to do what’s important to you. Too much stuff creates chaos.”
“You said you’ve got another place across town?” Beckie said. “Where?”
“I’ve got a little place in San Marino,” he said. “But I don’t spend much time there.”
Beckie did the math. A little place in San Marino, which happened to be the most expensive little neighborhood on the planet, plus a tri-level at the edge of the Marina waterway? She could only conclude that Huntington, if he was for real, must have a net worth of a size somewhat roughly equal to about half the U.S. monetary supply.
“You have a wife and kids somewhere else, don’t you?” she said. “That’s why you keep this beach house--so you can have your fun, too. I’m calling a cab and going back to Westwood.”
“Beckie I swear to you,” he said. “I have no one else--and I can prove it. Tomorrow night, I want you to come with me to a charity dinner downtown--it’s a place where a lot of people know me--you can ask them all if I’m single or not.”
“How convenient,” she said. “That’s t
omorrow--but meanwhile, you’ve succeeded in attracting me to your lair tonight. How do I know anything about you is for real? How do I know you’re not just the hired help for the real owner of this place?”
Huntington did an odd thing--he got down on his knees. “I’m begging you to believe me,” he said. “Don’t desert me tonight. Please.”
She’d never had a man down on his knees before her. Certainly not Bernie--when he’d proposed, it had simply been tossed out to her as part of a general discussion on where he was going with his life in the tool business. She remembered it clearly. She’d tagged along with Bernie while he scouted for a decent commercial rental in Van Nuys, and it was during an inspection of one particular run-down building on Sherman Way and Valjean near the Van Nuys airport, that Bernie had casually said something to her about needing “a good life’s partner” or some such, and he thought it was probably best that they put the paperwork together on a marriage before he launched his business and got too busy for a honeymoon. Now here she was, twenty-nine years later on a moonlit night at the beach with a younger man down on his knees, begging her to believe he was who he said he was--it was more than Bernie had offered. The ugly fact was closing in--she’d just spent over half her life in a marriage devoid of romance.
“You don’t have to sleep in the Suburban tonight,” Beckie said. “Being rich myself, I understand how important personal space is to us wealthy. The amount of personal space we need is inversely proportional to the size of our bank accounts.”
“Thanks for being so kind,” Huntington said, rising up easily on his springy, surf-tuned legs. “If you’re still unsure about me, you can lock me in the loft and keep my cell phone under your pillow.”
“You can sleep in your own bed and I’ll sleep in the loft,” Beckie said. “Like I said--I wouldn’t want to be responsible for the death-by-squeezing-into-too-small-a-space of a multi-millionaire.”
Chapter 21
All That Was Happy Page 8
