Gracie looked sideways toward Sam, who was following the story. She couldn’t read his face. Was he enjoying it? Did she want him to enjoy it?
Emboldened first by rum, and now by the Argentinian red, she slid her hand over to his knee, praying that he would take it.
He did.
“And she goes, ‘Excuse me!’ and jumps out the door—”
Jorge nodded. “I think she jumped.”
“That’s fascinating, Cricket, really—” Joan said.
“I’d like a bit more detail,” Will said. “But delete the bare breast. This is a mixed crowd.”
“I’m not finished,” Cricket said. “So, later on she says to him, ‘Is Cricket a good wife? Is she taking care of you?’”
Everyone laughed. Partially because it proved to be a funny story, but mostly because Cricket so needed them to.
“You know what, Cricket?” Joan said when the laughter died down. “I think I liked it better when you were miserable. Right now, your successful love life is more than I can handle.”
“You’re a true friend,” Cricket said, a bit slurred. “True friends are those to whom you can freely express your jealousy and hatred.”
“Here, here,” Joan said, and she raised her glass. She threw back the rest of her wine. “Anyone need anything?” she asked, as she stood. “I’m going to get my cigarettes.”
Sam stood up as Joan left the table, and stayed standing until she disappeared up the stairs. He had stood for practically half the dinner—when Cricket went to the bathroom, when Gracie had to grab the salt and pepper, when Joan had forgotten the bread, which had been burning in the oven.
Will looked over at him. “You’re like Sean Connery meets Emily Post. Love that standing thing.”
Sam shrugged and smiled. “It’s been beaten into me, I guess.”
“Some people are civilized,” Gracie said to Will as she stood to take her plate to the kitchen, Sam jumping up to help her with her chair.
“Not in the wilds of Malibu,” Will retorted.
Gracie slipped into the kitchen and scraped her plate into the wastebasket below the sink. The steak had been delicious, but she hadn’t eaten more than three bites. The drinks had made her giddy, and Sam’s presence had rendered her completely satiated. She remembered this feeling from long ago and savored it—the feeling that she was falling in … if not love, then infatuation. And she would happily settle for infatuation. Infatuation, she thought, gave you a glow, put energy in your step, made you forget that you were dumped by your husband the minute your upper lip disappeared …
Gracie pressed her thinning upper lip toward her nose, catching her reflection in the kitchen window. Then she saw, outside in the twilight, the familiar green blanket, the remarkable rhythm.
“Is there no escape?” Gracie said. “Our entertainment has arrived!” she shouted, turning her head toward the living room.
Joan and Will, followed by Sam (Cricket and Jorge were busy making out at the table), encircled Gracie as she pointed to the beach.
“Oh, dear,” Will said, his hand sliding to the side of his cheek like a queer interpretation of Jack Benny. “He’s going to hurt somebody.”
“Disgusting!” Joan said. “Right outside my window! Doesn’t he realize people live here?”
“He’s been performing every morning,” Gracie said. “I’ve talked to the lifeguards, I’ve called the sheriff. Apparently, it’s impossible to arrest someone for covert masturbation.”
She sighed, watching him. “I guess he’s extending his hours.”
“He’s the 7-Eleven of self-stimulators,” Will said.
“He’s ruining breakfast and dinner!” Joan said, leaning farther out for a closer look.
Sam watched intently for a moment, as though committing the act to memory, then looked away. Gracie saw something flash across his eyes, and then just as quickly extinguish.
Joan tried to open the German window, to no avail. Then she banged her fist on it. But the windows were soundproof—and her fists were no competition for the crashing of the waves.
“I think I just hurt myself,” she said, cradling her hand. Sam took Joan’s hand and turned it over in his and rubbed it gently between his thumb and forefinger.
Joan stared at him, and then looked over at Gracie, her eyebrows dancing.
“Is that better?” he said as he handed Joan her limp hand back. She just nodded, looking up at him with her mouth ajar, as though she’d had a stroke. Gracie moved closer to Sam and put her arm around his waist, marking her territory. Just in case.
“Oh, honey, he does massage?” Will asked Gracie. “I have this knot in my shoulder,” he said, turning his back to Sam and pointing.
Sam placed both his hands on Will’s shoulder. Gracie could see his large hands squeezing, tightening, holding, releasing, as Will groaned and sighed. “You have no idea how stressful it is, taking care of all the Hollywood wives. I’m actually twelve years old, but look at me. I look twenty-seven.”
Soon, Jorge and Cricket were lined up, eager to experience Sam’s “magic hands.”
Gracie was the last one in line, just as the sky was darkening outside. The others were dispersing to different areas throughout the house. Cricket and Jorge had made themselves cozy on the living room couch. Joan was sitting across from them. Will made himself comfortable on the armrest, his head resting on Joan’s shoulder.
“Come with me,” Sam whispered in Gracie’s ear. Gracie literally shuddered in anticipation as he took her hand and led her outside.
The moon, so big and white, could not help but cast its spell over anyone who looked its way. Gracie had never understood the pull of a full moon until just that instant.
Sam sat down on a chaise longue and motioned for her to sit directly in front of him, with her back to him. She slipped her dress up and put one leg over the chair, and sat down. The chaise fabric was damp, but her desire overrode discomfort.
“What do you think of my friends?” she asked.
Sam didn’t answer. He knew Gracie didn’t need him to, that she was still a little nervous, making conversation. Instead, he took his finger and drew a line slowly along the side of her neck, down to her shoulder, then up again toward her earlobe. And then he did the same on the other side of her neck, pressing lightly and then increasingly hard. Her mind told her he was just sizing up the knots in her muscles. Her body told her something else. Those two would have to get their stories straight at some point.
Sam put one hand on the side of her head and tilted her face toward the sky and gently worked on the side of her neck with his free hand as he held her head in the other. She sighed as she slipped into the moment, one that moved as slowly as she wanted. One that approached with patience.
One that she hoped wouldn’t last too damn long, as she really wanted to kiss him again.
She put her hand on his and turned to face him, pushing her lips onto his mouth. She felt like a martial artist in the sport of love, a black belt in kissing.
“Dessert!” Joan cried.
Gracie looked up to see Will, Cricket, Jorge, and Joan staring at them.
“You like apple tart à la mode or plain?” Joan asked, holding up a dessert plate.
“Come on,” Will said. “It smells heavenly, come on, come on, come on.” He walked out onto the deck and grabbed Gracie by the arm, hauling her up from the chaise.
“What has gotten into you?” Gracie asked.
“You love dessert,” Will said. “I know you. Especially anything with apples.”
“You love apples,” Cricket said, her eyes wide. Jorge stood next to her, nodding frantically.
Gracie narrowed her eyes at them. “I don’t know what you guys are up to—”
“Up to?” Joan asked. “We just want to eat!”
Sam stood up and followed Gracie into the kitchen.
“Gracie,” Sam said, “I’m tired. Maybe we can continue this another time.”
Gracie looked at Sam. It was the first
time she’d heard him saying her name. Or maybe she just hadn’t been paying attention. His body had been too heavy a distraction.
Joan nodded and smiled, too sweetly for the Joan that Gracie knew. “Oh, that’s a shame. You sure you don’t want any dessert?” she asked.
“Joan,” Sam said, “I’m afraid I couldn’t eat another bite if I tried. Thank you for your hospitality.”
He nodded to Will, who gave him a little wave, and to Cricket and Jorge, and then walked out of the kitchen. Gracie followed him, but not before turning back to glare at her friends.
She grabbed Sam at the door. “I’m sorry,” Gracie said. “They’re being overprotective, I think. You know, I’m going through a divorce.”
Sam took that moment because he thought it might be all that they’d have. And he kissed her again, running his hands through her hair, as though memorizing every curl with his fingertips.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Gracie said, breathlessly. What was it about this man that turned her into mush?
Sam stepped outside and into the cool night air and Gracie watched him go, then closed the door. She stood there, her back pressed against the door, locked in Sam’s imaginary embrace. Gracie closed her eyes.
When she opened them, Joan was standing in front of her, a look of concern shading her face.
“How well do you know Sam?” Joan asked.
“Joan,” Gracie said, putting her hands on her friend’s shoulders, “I know him well enough to fall in love.”
Gracie stared into Joan’s eyes and knew that her friend was making a decision. She was silent for a moment.
“Great,” Joan finally said, and hugged Gracie. “I’m happy for you.”
Will had joined them in the foyer. “I think I’m going to skip dessert,” Gracie said. “I swear, I’m floating on air. How did this happen to me?”
She kissed Joan and Will good night, and they watched her as she ascended the stairs. Joan looked over at Will. “Goddamn,” she said. “She is floating.”
WIFE NUMBER ELEVEN
Was somewhat uncontrollable. Husband is a powerful entertainment lawyer. She had three young children, she was a brunette, she had big (new) boobs, and she was a drunk who would throw herself at other men. Lots of other men. Her husband, an amateur photographer, was at his wit’s end. Finally he snapped pictures of Mrs. Lush after a party, as she administered a blow job on a valet parker in her driveway. The husband put the film in a safe-deposit box. He threatened to show the kids, when they were old enough to understand.
She stopped drinking. They recently had a fourth child.
24
THE MORNING AFTER
GRACIE BARELY SLEPT. How could she sleep when her entire nervous system was on high alert? She was giddy, overflowing with carnal expectation. She was fully awake and dressed by six o’clock in the morning. She set about trying to fill her time until the moment when she would see Sam again. She watched the news without focusing. She took an extra-long time to make the pot of coffee she didn’t need. She meandered onto the deck and watched pelicans swoop down into the water. She observed a trio of dolphins arcing up over the waves.
And then it was six-fifteen.
Finally, she decided to go for a power walk up the beach. Gracie thought of waking Joan, who hadn’t seen a sunrise since the 1980s. But she couldn’t wait to get started on the day, so she walked down to the beach alone.
AN HOUR LATER, Gracie found herself standing in front of #191, restlessly shifting her weight from foot to foot. She was wondering if it was too early. Would she wake Sam? It wasn’t time for his morning swim quite yet. But Gracie could not wait any longer. She decided to surprise him. Finally she knocked. Then tousled her hair, shook the sand off her feet. And knocked again.
No one answered. Gracie knocked once more.
She thought she heard a voice calling out, the warbly sound of someone who is old and weak.
The door opened slowly. A very old woman in a housedress and slippers was standing there. The hairs on her head stood up like dandelion seeds; they looked as though they could be blown away by a soft wind.
“Sorry, sweetie,” the old woman said, squinting in the sun. “I’m not too quick on my feet anymore.” She coughed.
Gracie shook her head to reassure the woman and also because she could not suppress her confusion. What was this old woman doing in Sam’s house? Was she his mother? He hadn’t mentioned a mother …
“I’m sorry, I’m just looking for Sam,” Gracie said, peeking her head inside. The furnishings looked old and threadbare and chic at the same time, as though trends had circled around through time and caught up again.
“Sam … Knight lives here, right?” Gracie found herself asking. The old lady looked as though she was having a flashback. Her eyes faded from the present and then returned.
“Oh, I’ve wanted him to move in, many times,” the lady smiled. “But you know, he just refuses. He doesn’t want favors. Such a nice boy.”
Gracie’s mouth felt as though it were stuffed with sawdust. “Where … does he live?” she asked, the words feeling dry and stiff, like tiny pieces of wood.
“Over there,” the lady said. “Just beyond the tennis court.”
Gracie looked over to where the old lady was pointing. She saw … shrubs. Behind the shrubs was a thicket of overgrown trees.
“There?”
“Yes,” the old lady said, looking slightly perplexed. “You can come through my kitchen, if you like. I’ll open the back door. Sam usually just hops the fence. I don’t recommend it. My boys had to get tetanus shots years ago because of that fence. I should probably have replaced it …” Her words trailed off.
Gracie stared at the shrubbery.
“Come with me,” the old lady said, as she shuffled into the house. Gracie followed, her feet suddenly leaden.
“Do you have a problem with your plumbing?” the lady turned and asked her when they entered the kitchen, which faced the back of the Colony. Gracie could see through a dusty window the lineup of bushes and trees and not much else. Not anything else. Gracie looked at her.
“I don’t mean to pry,” the lady said, looking at the expression on Gracie’s face. “Sam’s wonderful with his hands, he’s blessed. He can fix anything, that boy.”
Gracie nodded. He almost fixed me, she thought.
The old lady opened the ancient latch on the door. The door wheezed open. Gracie stepped outside.
“He’s just down the trail,” the old lady said. “But I doubt he’s there right now. He takes his swim every morning, you know. He and Baxter.”
She waved to Gracie, and Gracie turned and put one foot forward, and then the other, and willed herself onward.
GRACE WALKED slowly along the back edge of the land-side Malibu Colony homes, which cost half as much as their more tony beachside companions.
The trail was thin; two people would have trouble walking side by side. The Colony side was protected by a chicken-wire fence topped with rusty barbed wire. On the other side, there was overhanging brush, pockets of trash—soda cans, beer bottles, slashes of paper.
Gracie suddenly spied the glint of something that felt familiar to her, although she’d never seen it before.
She had to get on her hands and knees and crawl in like Jaden at ten months, unaware of dirt and insects and skinned knees and discomfort, thinking only of … discovery.
There was a clearing in the brush. A neat six-by-six patch, covered by cardboard sheets. In the corner was a blanket, folded neatly over a rolled-up sleeping bag. There was a stack of books piled in the opposite corner, along with several T-shirts. A pair of orange shorts. And one pair of Dockers. Gracie stepped inside, under the brush, and reached for the Dockers, smoothing the material beneath her fingers. She pushed them into her face and smelled Sam. Sadder still, she could even smell her own perfume from the night before.
Her heart didn’t stop beating like she thought it should. Her breathing, ragged though it was, still struggl
ed on.
She sat on that cardboard buried in the thicket, like a lost storybook character, and waited as tears began to roll down her cheeks. She had been made a fool of not once, not twice, but three times by men in the last few months. It had to be some kind of record.
At the very least, Gracie thought, I should get a medal. What was the saying? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
“Fool me three times,” Gracie said out loud. “I give up.”
She stood up, clutching at her stomach, and suddenly threw up what she hadn’t eaten the night before, right onto the trail.
As she wobbled toward the public beach, it occurred to her that Joan had tried to tell her the truth last night. But Gracie hadn’t wanted to hear it.
She was rounding the trail as it collided with Surfrider Beach when she turned and saw, inside the Colony fence, the red light on top of the black-and-white casting an intermittent glow on the Millionaire Row of beach houses.
“MR. RIGHT is Mr. Homeless,” Joan said. “I’m sorry.”
Gracie looked at her, eyes swollen and moist, then took another Kleenex from the box Joan was holding and blew her nose for the hundredth time. “I knew something was up last night,” Gracie stuttered, “but I thought you might just be jealous because I had a boyfriend who still uses a normal toilet.”
“I wish it weren’t true, Gracie,” Joan said, putting her arm around her. “Believe me. I would love to see you with the right man.”
Gracie burrowed into her friend’s shoulder.
“That’s not the only thing,” Joan said. Gracie looked up at her. Her face was so serious, Gracie drew in her stomach, physically girding herself against incoming.
“The rumor is,” Joan continued, “he killed a man.”
A cry emitted from Gracie’s lips. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth.
“With his bare hands,” Joan said.
THERE WASN’t enough soap on the planet to clean out Gracie’s mouth.
“I can’t believe I kissed him!” Gracie screamed as soap foamed up in her mouth. “Did it have to be with his bare hands?!”
The Starter Wife Page 26
