All That Was Happy

by M. M. Wilshire

  “You may be glad to hear that Huntington is absolutely in the clear,” Lauren said. “Of course, I knew that all along, but the agency has given him a clean bill of health.”

  “That’s a relief,” Beckie said.

  “And may I say something else,” Lauren said, “woman to woman?”

  “Of course,” Beckie said.

  “I’ve known Huntington for many years, so when I say this, I hope you’ll appreciate it’s value--I’ve never seen him so happy in the entire time I’ve known him. Beckie, I think you’re the cause of that happiness.”

  “Wow,” Beckie said. “It’s a big jump from brandishing a weapon at someone you dislike to hearing news like that.”

  “Sometimes it takes a crisis to provide an opportunity for growth,” Lauren said. “Good-bye, Beckie.”

  Beckie came out of cyberspace to find she’d negotiated the traffic-crammed route from the Valley to Century City unconsciously, as though somebody else had been driving while she explored the slippery slopes and low crevasses of her inner realms, a terrain with which she was becoming increasingly familiar and a place she wasn’t sure she liked all that much. It was with relief that she headed for her hotel suite and her rendezvous with a long hot bath and careful preparations which, if not interrupted by determined police intent on taking her to jail, would prepare her for the upcoming evening soiree ala charity upon the arm of one Huntington whom, the experts said, was real--at least on paper, which was more than she could say of herself, or anyone else she knew at that point, excepting the aforementioned Mr. Boopers, who was by the very fashion of him, a creature of perfection and not given to sweating out the small stuff of feelings of abandonment or urges to kill.

  Chapter 31

  “I’m having a Beefeater martini, a drink which I mixed myself with ingredients from my wet bar,” Beckie said, “while I finish soaking in this incredibly huge marble tub, into which I’ve put a lot of bath fizzies, and from which I can see the sparkling pre-sunset lights of downtown. By the time you pick me up, I may be too relaxed to move--you may have to simply sling me over your shoulder.”

  “L.A. is a playful place,” Huntington said. “I doubt if anybody would say a thing if a man in smart evening wear traipsed through their hotel lobby with his woman in tow as you suggest.”

  Beckie, on the phone to Huntington, arranging the details of her pickup by him prior to the charity dinner, was winding down from a hard day of emotional clashing with her present, eclectically unstable world of uncertain relationships and even more uncertain places and things. The rich appointments of the three-room suite--trapped out as it was by a recent remodeling coup by the new owners--in designer fabrics and warm fruit woods, invited one, if one chose--and could afford the tariff--to take a complete break from the rigors of divorcing, asset stripping, hunting and gathering and just being a dues-paying member of the pain-in-the-tail It Takes A Village life in general.

  Huntington arrived at her door on schedule, just as she was putting the finishing touches on her makeup, going with a light application of Chanel Pure Frost shimmer powder across her bare shoulders to offset the subdued Creme Soda lipstick combined with a Pink Ice eye color on the left eye, it having not bruised after all, and, after much self-discussion, having elected to leave the blackened right eye unretouched rather than attempt to somehow disguise a thing that would only wind up looking even more ludicrous.

  When she opened the door, she was struck immediately, as she always was, by how good-looking he was. His gaze at this, their first meeting since earlier that morning, was intense, and stayed that way until she responded, not with a further invitation to enter her suite, but with an embrace of such vigor that the two staggered into the hall and stood for a moment locked in a kiss of such force it seemed nothing could break it.

  “Whew,” she finally said, when out of sheer physical necessity each had been forced to either stand back or collapse in a heap. “I wasn’t quite prepared for the shock of that. I’m sure my blushing face looks hideous with the swelling around my eye.”

  Huntington laughed softly. “With all due respect,” he said, “I find you irresistible in that little black dress.” His gaze continued its direct and frank appraisal of her, to the point where she backed away and busied herself by gathering up her new mink wrap and purse--a tiny bag which matched perfectly the stiletto-heeled silver mules located earlier by her and purchased for her by the shopping service.

  “I’m leaving Mr. Boopers here,” she said. “He’s just had a big plate of broiled salmon, with the skin on, and now he’s going to spend the rest of the night locked in the guest bathroom on one of the Plaza’s thick luxurious white robes. I just hope he doesn’t bark his tiny head off after we leave.”

  “He’ll probably sleep off the salmon until dawn,” Huntington laughed.

  The shiny black stretch Mercedes limo which Huntington had arranged for in lieu of self-driving, fitted perfectly into the prestigious scheme of things at both ends of their event, pulling away from the Plaza in regal elegance and transporting them, per Huntington’s directions, via the long slow route along Wilshire Boulevard through the heart of the Miracle Mile and beyond, during which time they each enjoyed several glasses of excellent champagne, until, at last entering the stony, polished heights of the downtown canyons of the rich and ultra rich, they next found themselves inside the massive Washington Mutual high-rise, speeding skyward on a succession of high speed elevators to the reception on the 60th floor of the building, a building once the tallest in the area, which occupied a sight where once a stream wandered over a path and dogs lay on the path without moving for hours, a sight where Indians hoed vegetable gardens and well-horsed Californios discussed land grants over shots of fine Spanish port, a sight where all that was gone now and where, courtesy of the mighty structure erected by the conquerors of all these people, the spectacular views of the city through the floor-to-ceiling plate glass gave the beholder a sense of being high up in the central core, if such a thing existed, of the Heavenly Jerusalem itself, whereby your lofty place in said holy core conferred upon you the benefit of eternal protection from the strivings and dangers which routinely awaited the mere mortals of the lower realms upon which you gazed.

  The room hosting the dinner was set with the usual overdone and elaborately plated starched linen rounds, the personally engraved place holder with Beckie’s name on it pushing back any sense of non-inclusion she might normally have felt in the presence of such a group, to wit, the top donors of a major metropolitan charity, donors who channeled millions annually to the variety of worthy causees which clamored at their gates, donors who--unlike the vast majority of the financially unwashed who worked on the concrete plantation of the mighty city--could rightfully consider themselves to be the owners of the plantation, with the privileges attendant to such a position--these modern day rich, the heads of the piled-up storehouses of communications energies, oil reserves, food supplies, and government bureaucracies, and who were alarmingly similar in their style of dress and their casual elegance, their practiced humility, and the frank gleam in their eyes which psychiatrists might, in persons of lesser degree, perhaps classify as slightly manic--these individuals gathered here in this modern super storehouse of the world’s money, these mighty people whose one unspoken rule was to never discuss the stuff publicly--either how much they had of it, or how much they controlled of it--these individuals all, to the last man and woman, universally recognized Huntington as a fellow and equal, the lot of them unflinching and pleased at the introduction of her, Beckie, his date.

  As Huntington and Beckie, taking a breather after the many introductions, stood before the massive window, listening to the string quartet and feeling the gentle rocking of the powerful high rise on its earthquake rollers, the sensation leaving them with a childish sense of giddiness, Beckie raised her flute of champagne to Huntington and together they toasted the moment.

  “Pick me up,” she said.

  He looked puzzled.r />
  “Pick me up,” she repeated. “Take me in your arms in front of all these people.”

  He did so, and as he swept her off her feet and lifted her to him, the room broke out in good natured applause as the focus of the group shifted their way. Their peerage surrounded them and the city revolved below them, as though all were suitably pressed into reverence in the presence of something divinely sublime.

  “Propose to me, if you will,” she said.

  Again, his face registered the puzzled look of a man hopelessly out of his depths.

  “Huntington,” she said. “This morning you wrote me a check for five million dollars, at which I was impressed, albeit somewhat suspicious--but tonight I’ve gone beyond that. Tonight I want to show the world that you’ve swept me off my feet. Now that you’ve done that, the least you can do is propose.”

  “Marry me,” he said, a little too loudly, perhaps because of too much champagne or nervousness, or both, in any event catching the ear of the assemblage at which point the entire floor fell into a hushed silence.

  “Yes,” she said. The word echoed off the glass.

  “Yes?” he said. “As in, Yes, You’ll Marry Me--or as in Yes, You’ll Think About It?”

  “I’ll marry you,” she said. “I don’t need to think about it. Whoever said emotions had to make sense. We’ll never have another moment like this--not in this life. So I’m saying yes--I, Beckie, give you, Huntington, the power to enter my life forever--the power to love me, to wound me, to heal me, to be faithful to me or to abandon me. I just want you to remember one thing about me before you take me to the altar.”

  The room became a hushed space into which all eternity could have easily been stuffed, with room left over, a space waiting to hear the one thing about her.

  “Tell me,” he said hoarsely. “Tell me what to remember about you.”

  “If you ever decide to leave me, just remember,” she said. “--I’m not good at good-byes.”

  Chapter 32

  “We have to find a way to stay in total control of our emotions,” he said.

  “Interesting,” she said.

  Beckie and Huntington, having returned to the Plaza after a long and celebratory evening during which a great deal of wine had been offered in good-natured toasting on their behalf, the result of which both were more than a little toasted themselves, and as a precaution against further excesses of a different nature, had agreed not to part company at the door of her suite, but instead in the lobby of the great hotel, where they were even now seated comfortably together upon the new and fine furniture placed there by the recent and thoughtful new management, enjoying as a nightcap a small thimble of Drambuie before saying their good-byes.

  “It’s complicated,” Huntington said. “I’m Catholic, and I’m not sure the Church would approve of my proposing tonight to a woman who’s already married, albeit you are in the throes of a divorce.”

  “It’s not complicated,” Beckie said. “Tomorrow--or should I say later today--it’s already tomorrow, isn’t it? Anyway, later today, you can call your priest and get a rundown on the technical aspects of putting together an officially sanctioned Church marriage--but you’re right--we have to keep our emotions from getting the better of us--it’s been a long time since I’ve been to Catechism, but I’m fairly certain nothing’s changed--we’re still required to have a “look but don’t touch” policy until we’re married.”

  “Nothing’s changed,” he said.

  “And why should it?” Beckie said. “Look what happened to me--I married outside the church, and against my parents’ wishes--and here I am, under siege by my husband even as we speak.”

  “I know we’ve got a long road to the altar,” Huntington said. “But I’m sure we can speed up your divorce proceedings if we instruct Lauren to put the pedal to the metal.”

  “I’ll tell her to give Bernie whatever he wants,” Beckie said, “just as long as he agrees not to delay the process. But I’m not sure how the Church is going to look at me getting married again so soon after my divorce.”

  “You’ll have to get your marriage to Bernie annulled,” he said. “And then they’ll make us go through a six-month marriage prep course. It’s no big deal.”

  “There’s something else I haven’t told you,” Beckie said. “Yesterday I went to the warehouse and pulled a gun on Bernie’s girlfriend. I won’t go into details.”

  “I’m a virgin,” Huntington said.

  Her admission and his admission collided mid-rink, leaving the two of them flattened in the middle of the conversation.

  “You’re thirty-seven years old, an extremely handsome, but wealthy bachelor who has a pad at the beach,” Beckie said. “Yet you claim to be still in possession of your virginity. I’m trying to do the math, but I can’t made it add up.”

  “Did you kill his girlfriend?” he said.

  “I chickened out,” Beckie said. “I thought I had the guts, but something deep down inside me made me freeze. Once a Catholic always a Catholic. Now you’re going to explain what you just said, because when you said it, my dream bubble popped--my first thought was, Oh No, There’s Something Wrong With Him.”

  “Right,” he said. “Look, before I explain, could I ask that you not tell anyone of this conversation?”

  “Who would I tell?” Beckie said.

  “Okay,” he said. “When I was a kid, I had a dream of growing up to be a priest. When I was doing my Young Fogy thing in High School and in College, my friends and I made a vow to remain chaste and celibate until marriage. I myself had decided to remain chaste and celibate for life, what with my desire to enter the priesthood. There was just one problem--my Father--he was very much against me, his only son, becoming a priest. Father finally gave in to my wishes, but he made me promise to finish B-school first. I had to honor his wishes, and somewhere during my stay at Harvard, my dream of the priesthood somehow faded away from my heart, and I went to work on the Street instead. But after I got there, and I saw the wholesale immorality being played out around me, I surrounded myself with my religion. I kept myself apart from the indulgent life of your average trader.”

  “Oh,” Beckie said. “I think I’m starting to get the picture--you were a big player on Wall Street, but your conscience could never square it, and suddenly you left it all behind to hang out at the beach. You’ve been doing some soul-searching, haven’t you? You were thinking about your calling again?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ve been searching my heart for my true vocation in life.”

  “Then one moonlit night, a slightly drunk older married lady walked up to you in a bar and propositioned you and your vocation went out the window.”

  “Beckie, it isn’t like that,” he said.

  Beckie stood up, the tears welling up in her eyes.

  “We could go round and round about this,” she said. “But I believe there are certain mysteries in life that nobody should interfere with. I’m a Catholic. I can’t say I’m a very strong one, having married outside the faith and lived a life apart from the church for the past twenty-nine years. But I’m still a Catholic and one thing I know better than to do is interfere with someone who’s being called by God.”

  “Beckie, wait,” he said. “The moment I saw you, I knew God didn’t want me to be a priest. Beckie, please wait!”

  “No, Huntington,” she said. “I can’t wait.”

  She walked away from him, not trusting herself to look back.

  “Good-bye, Huntington,” she whispered softly.

  Chapter 33

  “Dr. Black’s exchange,” the voice said.

  “It’s Beckie,” she said. “I realize that no man is ever exactly Mr. Right--but this guy was rich, and handsome--he was even a virgin. But it’s never enough, is it? I’ll never be allowed to feel good about myself, will I?”

  “Hold please,” the voice said.

  “Beckie?” Black’s voice, thick with sleep.

  “Huntington is going to be a priest,” Bec
kie said. “Last night, when I accepted his proposal, I had no idea--now I’ve lost him forever. All I’m left with is his crummy five million.”

  “Where are you?” Black said.

  “In my room at the Century Plaza,” she said. “I’m here alone--except for Mr. Boopers, of course.”

  “It’s 4 o’clock,” Black said. “I don’t normally do this, but do you jog?”

  “Sorry,” Beckie said.

  “Then put on something you can ride a bike in while I jog,” Black said. “I’ll be by in forty-five minutes. I’ll want coffee when I get there. Tell them to make it fresh ground.”

  Beckie hung up the phone and rummaged through the piles of shopping bags piled on the couch in her sitting room--yes, the workout clothes she’d requested were there--a nice pair of Reeboks and some sweats. She ordered coffee from room service, changed into her sweats and sat before the window, watching the pre-dawn show begin along Santa Monica Boulevard with the first gleamings of the ever-increasing headlights which would transform the lanes into a ribbon of light in another couple of hours.

  There was a knock on the door. The room service waitperson arrived and artfully arranged the silver carafe and coffee service on her table by the window, accepted a generous tip, and left smartly. A moment later, another knock on the door. Believing it to be room service returning, or perhaps Dr. Black arriving early, her heart skipped a beat when she saw who it was--Bernie, his big square face hanging a bit slack, albeit his upper brow furrowed with tension, looking exhausted, and a bit drunk, his dark blue suit rumpled, as though it had been slept in.

  “That’s some shiner,” he said. “Your boyfriend give that to you?”

  Not waiting to be invited in, he simply pushed past her, walked to the guest bathroom door and twisted the handle.

  “The door’s locked,” he said. “Somebody in there? Your new boyfriend, maybe?”

  “My dog’s in there,” she said. “The door’s locked to keep the cleaning people from annoying him.”