Читать книгу The View From Alameda Island - Robyn Carr, Robyn Carr - Страница 11

The Delaney family home was in a posh, gated neighborhood in Mill Valley. Guests had to be cleared by the guard at the gate to enter. It was much more house than Lauren wanted or needed, especially with the girls being gone, but Brad found it and contracted the purchase without her involvement six years ago. It was an eight-thousand-square-foot showplace. She had been stunned but helpless. What was she to say? We don’t need all this since I’m not planning to be married to you that much longer? She had two choices—she could sign the purchase agreement and at least be a co-owner of the massive property. Or she could refuse and he’d just buy it himself.

“Be sure to put your things away,” he instructed before their guests arrived. “I don’t want people thinking we have separate bedrooms.”

“Even though we do,” she muttered.

“You sometimes sleep in the guest room down the hall because of your hot flashes,” he said, creating her lie for her.

“No one is going to be wandering around the bedrooms,” she said. “And I don’t have hot flashes.”

He touched her cheek. He laughed. “Any second now, Lauren. You’re not as young as you used to be.”

Feeling a little ancient and emotional with her baby a college graduate on her way to law school, she lashed out. “What do you suppose they’d all think if they knew the truth?”

“Just what I think,” he said easily. “You’re a half lunatic who imagines ridiculous things all the time.”

She gritted her teeth and remained silent, picturing that quaint Victorian in Alameda, how quiet and sweet it was. The girls had gone out to pick up a few last-minute items for the party and would be walking in the house any second. Guests would start to arrive in an hour. The caterers were busy; their van was parked in the garage so they had a clear path from the van to the party site, the kitchen, butler’s pantry, dining room and patio. They were expecting about 100 people. Obviously she couldn’t get into an argument with him now. Actually she couldn’t get into an argument with him ever. Disagreeing with Brad was disastrous.

The last straw should have been when he had given her chlamydia. He denied it, insisted it wasn’t him and his argument was so unflinching and convincing even she began to wonder where she might’ve gotten it. She hadn’t had a lover, not ever. She began to worry about a contaminated tampon or used underwear someone had returned to a store with their germs on them. She knew better, yet her doubts, as ridiculous as they were for a woman who had studied chemistry, persisted. Finally, her gynecologist calmly and firmly said, “You could only get it from a person you had sex with. You can’t even get it from a blood transfusion. Period.”

Of course it had been Brad. He’d been unfaithful before, hadn’t he? Of course it was him. That’s when she stopped having sex with her husband. Three years later she’d been emptying his pockets for the dry cleaner and there it was—a condom. Of course. Because he didn’t want to get chlamydia again.

She’d left the condom on the pillow in his room. He told her she was an idiot—he’d picked up the condom in the nurse’s supply station, they sometimes used them for external catheters and he thought he might need it for a patient but didn’t and hadn’t put it back. Why would he leave a condom in his pants pocket if he was screwing around? But she knew it was a lie and she stayed in the guest room. She told the girls she liked to stay up late reading and their father needed his sleep to be alert for early morning surgeries. They neither noticed nor cared—they were both in college and only home for visits. In fact, the girls liked it. On their visits overnight, the girls often gathered in her room, sitting on her bed, gossiping and laughing with her and at those times she was doubly glad she wasn’t in his room.

She thought maybe they could get through this, weather his anger, but it could be rough and all she wanted was for her daughters to have a positive college experience.

Yes, they were spoiled and she had been complicit. She hoped it wouldn’t lead to their ruin. Above all, she wanted them to be good people.

So what would he come up with to threaten her this time? What threat to keep her? Why the hell did he even want her?

She shook her head and forced her thoughts back to the daughter for whom this over-the-top celebration was planned. Cassidy had made good. She was going to Harvard Law. Tears came to her eyes. Not sentimental tears because of her pride, but sad tears because Cassie’s gramma, her mother, Honey, would not be here. And she missed her so. The last time they were together, they had dinner—just Honey, Lauren and Beth. Lauren and Beth talked about their marriages. Beth’s was usually crazy and dysfunctional in adorable ways and Lauren’s was growing more awful every year. As they embraced to say good-night Honey had touched Lauren’s cheek and said, “You don’t have to give him your entire life, sweetheart. You don’t have to sacrifice your entire life for your daughters, either, for that matter. Maybe you’ve gone as far as you should. And it’s all right.” Three days later Honey was dead and aside from missing her every day, she prayed Honey had not lost all respect for her as she grappled with a bad marriage and indulged two daughters who had already been indulged enough.

But now, Cassie would study law. Lauren was happy for her, even though Boston was so far away. Lauren would go with her to Boston to look around for a place to live. Cassie was going to get ahead of her class, hopefully get a job, get to know the campus and the area, settle in, try not to die of loneliness. She was leaving behind a boyfriend of over a year, her family and many friends.

Eighty-five-year-old Adele, Brad’s mother, arrived in her town car, leased for the day complete with driver. She looked...rich. Rich and pinched and miserable. Beth, Chip and the boys arrived and it was all Beth could do to keep them from falling on the hors d’oeuvres like locusts. Ruby arrived and Lauren fell into her arms. “How are you holding up, girl?” Ruby asked.

“I’m fine,” she said. “How’s Ted?”

“The same,” Ruby said. “I’m not going to stay long, I’m sure you and Cassie understand.”

“Absolutely. Let me know if there’s any way I can help.”

“Thank you, but we’re getting by just fine.”

Ruby’s husband had had a stroke and he was coming along fairly well, home from rehab now. But there was no getting around the facts—he’d taken a life-threatening blow and at seventy-five, progress came slowly and Ruby felt the need to stay close.

She could not visit her troubles or plans on Ruby.

This was Ruby’s third marriage. The first took up nine years and brought her two sons. The second was very brief and painful, Like a woman who had learned nothing on her first terrible match, she had said. A few years later she married Ted, with whom she shared a warm and compatible relationship. It was Ruby who had said to her, Do what you can to try to make your marriage work. If you don’t try, you’ll have regrets. But listen to me—don’t wait too long or you’ll find yourself a trapped old woman with no options and a beastly old man who has perfected abuse. Someday one of you will be sick, dependent on the other. That’s hard enough when there’s love.

She hoped she hadn’t waited too long.

“I’ll stop by and see Ted soon,” Lauren said.

“He’d like that,” she said. “Everything looks so beautiful, as usual. You really know how to throw a party.”

“There sure have been enough of them, haven’t there?”

“A good many,” Ruby said.

The Delaneys were known for their wonderful parties—with delicious food and good company—if you liked a lot of medical people and a few others. There was always an extraordinary atmosphere. There were plastic water lilies holding votive candle holders floating around in the pool, classical music, a complete uniformed wait staff circulating with champagne and hors d’oeuvres. The great room doors were open to the patio and the party flowed through the house. A plentiful buffet was set up in the dining room complete with a waiter slicing prime rib. The caterer had set up a series of round tables and chairs on the massive patio.

Over the years Brad and Lauren had hosted brunches, dinners, cocktail parties, summer pool parties, retirement parties, even a couple of wedding receptions.

For a moment she felt a touch of melancholy. She’d done a good job under difficult circumstances. Only once had she invited the people she worked with to a party exclusively for them and Brad had charmed them. Afterward, when they’d all left, he complained for at least a day. He didn’t like a one of them.

Their entertaining was mostly Brad’s suggestion. “I think we should have a Christmas party this year—we’ll invite the office staff, a few friends, family. Let’s say sixty people. Can you get it done?”

She never said no. She’d hire a piano player for the grand piano that occupied the foyer, sit down with the caterer, have Brad’s secretary work up some nice invitations, put together a guest list for him to review. He’d look it over and invariably add names or say, “Adults only, all right,” upon seeing her nephews on the list.

“But it’s Christmas!”

“They can come to Christmas but children don’t come to fancy cocktail parties and pour punch on the carpet!”

Just then she saw Sylvie Emerson walking toward her, Andy trailing behind her. Brad always invited the Emersons.

“Sylvie! How thoughtful of you to come!”

“How could I miss a chance to congratulate our future lawyer,” she said, pulling a card from her large purse. “And to say this—I realize you’ve been very busy with all this going on, but when things settle a bit, I’ll be waiting for the phone call about lunch.”

“Absolutely,” Lauren said. “I’m going to help Cassie get settled back east, then I would love to get together.”

“Perfect. Take me to the graduate,” Sylvie said. “We’re not staying long. We have somewhere to be a bit later.”

“Of course. And I’d like you to meet my sister and brother-in-law. He’s an Oakland police officer and the daughter of his late friend was a recipient of one of your scholarships.”

“Oh yes, please! It’s funny that Brad never mentioned that connection,” she said.

And Lauren wondered if Brad even knew.

The second Brad noticed Sylvie and Andy, he rushed to them and usurped Lauren’s place as escort. She let them go, confident that Sylvie would insist on meeting Beth and Chip and congratulating Cassie. She knew she’d have a chance to thank Sylvie again before she left.

Lauren had become a master entertainer. And she’d be more than happy to give it up. She looked forward to things that Brad would mock. Maybe a book club that met one evening a month, sometimes at her less auspicious home. Or hosting a baby shower for a young co-worker, somewhere a little less intimidating than the Delaney manse. She just wanted to be calm and comfortable; she wanted a grandbaby to take care of sometimes. Would her daughters invite her into the delivery room?

That was years away, she thought. But then when the party was ending, when all the toasts had been made to Cassie, when the brandy and cigars had been indulged by Brad and a few of his cronies, Cassie asked to speak to her alone. She was holding her boyfriend Jeremy’s hand. Oh no! Lauren thought. What’s this?

“Mom, I have some wonderful news,” Cassidy said. “Jeremy has decided to come to Boston.”

“Huh?” she said oh so eloquently.

Cassie laughed. “He’s decided to transfer to Boston University for his master’s program.”

“What? But haven’t you started already? At Berkeley?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I won’t get in until after the first of the year but that’s good. I’ll work and get a leg up on my research. We’ll settle in before we’re both deep in our programs.”

“Settle...in...?” she echoed.

Cassie laughed. “We’re going to live together. I can’t tell you how happy this makes me.” She grabbed Jeremy’s hand. “I honestly didn’t know how I was going to stand the distance—each of us on a different coast.”

“Are you...? No, you’re not getting married.”

“Not yet, no,” Cassie said. “The subject has come up and we’re talking about marriage. But we agree that law school and his master’s is the first thing to consider. But at least we’ll be together.”

Lauren suddenly choked on a sob and covered her mouth. She loved Jeremy. He was a sensitive, wonderful young man. He was researching autism and he was by far the most decent and committed boy either of her girls had brought home. Cassie had been seeing him for over a year and Lauren knew they were serious.

“Mom...” Cassie said.

But Jeremy pulled her into a hug. “We’ll be okay,” he said. “We’re not rushing. As it turns out, Boston will be better for my research in some areas. And you’d think I was stupid if I let Cassie get away.”

“I would,” she said. “But, oh God, it’s another one of those big transitions.”

Cassie laughed at her. “But you’re happy for us, right?”

“Does this mean you don’t need me to help you get settled?”

“Oh Mama, I really want to do this with you! You’re so good at this sort of thing.”

She wiped her cheeks. “True,” she said. “I am the best.” This was silly. She knew they were intimate. They were hardly children. She’d married at twenty-three. She laughed a little nervously.

Cassie asked Jeremy to go get them a couple of glasses of wine. When he was out of earshot, Cassie said, “Will you tell Daddy?”

Lauren frowned. “Shouldn’t you?” she asked.

Cassie shook her head. “I shouldn’t. He never likes my choices. Lacey could announce she’s moving in with Charles Manson and Daddy would applaud her good taste, but I never please him. And he doesn’t like Jeremy.”

“Oh, I’m sure he likes Jeremy. They just don’t have that much in common,” Lauren said. And then she asked herself why she lied for him? Brad didn’t like Jeremy because Jeremy was a sensitive intellectual who would never be rich. Jeremy was gentle and kind. Brad was not drawn to people like that.

“Will you please?” Cassie asked.

Lauren smiled at her youngest. She admired the choices Cassie was making. She admired that she’d chosen a good man who made her happy, a man who wanted her to be happy. “Is Jeremy coming with us to Boston to look at housing options?”

“No. He said that’s entirely up to me. And he insists he’ll get a job and pay half the rent.”

That made her smile again. “Will he be coming right away?”

“A few weeks after me,” she said. “He has stuff to wrap up and an apartment to clean out.”

“Then maybe I’ll wait a little while to tell your dad your plans.”

“I know it’s not going to be smooth with him,” she said. “That’s why I asked you...”

“And what makes you think I have any influence?” Lauren said. “He argues with me constantly!”

“But somehow you always get through it!”

“No, somehow I always survive it,” she said. “I figured out how to live with him.”

Damn, it was true! She managed her husband. He didn’t love her, she didn’t love him and they’d done this dance for years! She had no idea what Brad’s stake was in the relationship—was it all to have a good housekeeper and hostess? Because they weren’t lovers. They weren’t confidants. They weren’t friends.

“You know, Cassidy, no matter what your father’s opinion is, who you live with or marry is up to you,” Lauren said.

“But he can make things pretty difficult when his opinion doesn’t match mine,” Cassie said.

“I know,” Lauren said, giving Cassie’s light brown hair a fond stroke. “I’m not looking forward to you moving so far away but I am looking forward to our time together.”

“Me, too,” Cassie said.

And I hope you choose more wisely than I did, she wanted to add.

But was every day a tragedy? Of course not. They’d had some good times together without being lovers, friends or confidants. They went to Italy last year and met some lovely couples they still kept in touch with. They went to St. Tropez every winter, sometimes taking the girls, and ran into the same people there, socializing like normal couples. Daily life was tolerable because they really didn’t see too much of each other unless the girls were around. Brad was very social and when he made plans, she went along and was very agreeable.

Then once or twice a week it went south and crushed her spirit. He’d remind her she came from nothing. He’d tell her she was delusional or that she fabricated stories to make herself look like a victim of his cruelty. He’d shout at her, demean her.

Pinch her.

Those pinches were possibly the most demeaning thing he did. Weighing everything about their relationship, she wanted to leave him just because of that. He’d zap out a hand and find a tender piece of flesh, her forearm or the back of her upper arm, grab with his long, strong fingers and twist. Sometimes she’d bruise.

The worst part was feeling she had to build a case. She suspected men could leave because they’d lost that loving feeling, but women? Women had to be abused, assaulted, held prisoner or otherwise severely victimized before it was all right for them to walk.

Lauren turned her thoughts back to Cassie. “Be patient, all right? If I sense a good time, I’ll tell him, but there’s no hurry. I can promise you he won’t be in Boston for moving day.”

* * *

Beau met Pamela in the waiting room of the marriage counselor’s office. She stood and gave him an affectionate little hug. He pulled away before she could embrace him, hold on to him.

“Well, I guess I got the message,” she said.

He just smiled at her. She was beautiful and looked sophisticated in her work suit. Only Pamela could make a work suit look so sexy. It didn’t exactly cross the line but it rushed right up to it—conservative jacket, low-cut silky blouse, straight skirt, slit up the thigh, heels that were at least three inches. The color was right for her and right for spring—pale coral. It set off her blond hair and blue eyes. The blond was not authentic and she wore colored contacts. That had never mattered to Beau. Women wanted to be pretty. He understood that. He didn’t even mind that she liked being sexy and pretty for men. Depending on your self-confidence, that could make a husband feel a little puffed up and proud.

Sometimes Pam took it over the edge.

She barely resembled the young jeans-clad single mother, struggling with two rambunctious little boys, living in a one-bedroom apartment and keeping an old car running on meager support from their fathers and food stamps. Sometimes he missed that girl. She was holding it together somehow.

“We’ve talked about this, Pam,” he said. “I will be happy to explain my feelings to the therapist. He seems like a nice enough guy.”

She sniffed in a breath through her nose and stiffened. “I’m hoping he can help put us back together. Aren’t you?”

Beau didn’t answer. He gave a small, melancholy smile and stuck his hands in his pockets. Then he looked at his watch. “You have to be somewhere?” she asked tartly.

“I have appointments this afternoon, but I have some time now,” Beau said.

“Why are you so distant?” she asked. “We had such a successful weekend, Drew’s party, the whole family together for once... I really felt we were making great progress!”

“It was a nice weekend, wasn’t it? Drew really appreciated it. He’s also glad it’s over so he can get on with his life. He’s ready for the next chapter.”

“I can feel you pulling away...”

Only Pamela. How many times did she have to call a time-out before it was truly over? She moved into a sublet flat in the city, took a ten-day vacation to Maui, did a little traveling for work, plastered pictures of her fun times all over her Facebook page, but now she was done and wanted a smooth return to her base. There seemed to be one man’s face in many of the photos, including what looked like a partial profile of him in Maui. He must have left.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. And then thankfully the door opened.

“Come on in folks,” George said. “I hope everyone had a good week.”

“A very good week,” Beau said.

“Before we get started, anything I should know?” George asked.

“Yes,” Beau said. “I’m afraid I’m not going to continue with this counseling,” he said.

“He has someone,” Pamela said.

“I don’t,” Beau said. “I wouldn’t mind, though. I thought it would be decent of me to give this a chance, but I just can’t work up the enthusiasm. This is the fourth separation and you’re our seventh counselor. Just by the numbers, we’re probably done. No criticism of you, George. I’m sure you’re one of the best.”

Pam put her hands over her face and began to cry.

“Pam, you should stay,” Beau said. “Really. I think you want to end this phase in your life, this marriage, and find some new direction. But I’m not it. If we got back together now it would be nice for a few months and then tense, then difficult for a long time until you decided it was too difficult, then we’d have another time-out. It’s your pattern and I’m done.”

She broke into loud wails.

“Aw, Jesus,” Beau said.

“What brought this on right now, if you don’t mind me asking,” George said.

“I don’t mind at all,” Beau said. “I have a good friend who is also a counselor. I was talking with him about going to counseling for a marriage I don’t want anymore and he suggested I be more honest about my feelings. Look, no offense intended, but Pamela doesn’t want to be married. At least not to me. It’s usually more about another man...”

“It is not!” she spat.

“Yeah, it usually is,” Beau said. “And I don’t even care. Just let us end it.”

“Then you’ll have to move out of my house!” she said emphatically.

“Folks, these are not the kind of things negotiated in therapy, but if you want to dissolve the marriage, I can help with the emotional part,” George said.

“Then help Pam with the emotional part,” Beau said, standing up. “I’d say Pam has some doubt about us staying married—we’ve done this too many times. I’m going to call it.”

“The counselor he talked to is a priest!” she shouted.

Beau just shrugged. “He didn’t quote me scriptures,” Beau said. “He’s just a friend. But he does a lot of counseling. Look, I should stop wasting your time and Pam’s. I’m not going to have a fifth separation. The boys are adults now. They still need parents. They’ll always need parents—”

“You’re not their father!” she said.

“I’m not their biological father,” he said. “I’ve supported them for a dozen years and we’re very close. I’ll be their parent as long as they’ll let me.”

“I can’t believe you’re giving up on us so soon!”

“Beau,” George said. “Why don’t you sit down and let’s just talk about this issue.”

He thought about it for a second. He even began to take a seat; he’d always been so accommodating. Being cooperative and helpful had worked for him. He firmly believed it had made him successful. Then he remembered that Peacekeepers were also bombs and he stood again. “Sorry, George, this is the end of the line for me. Thanks for trying to help. Look, see if you can convince Pamela to get a little personal counseling. She’s angry and unhappy.”

“How dare you say that about me!”

“I’ll tell the boys I just didn’t have one more try in me.”

He turned and left the small office. He was surprised by how terrible he felt. He had expected to feel free and nothing could be further from what he felt. He felt disappointment and heartache and sheer dread. And there was guilt because he had plotted out this day carefully and while Pamela shouldn’t have been surprised, clearly she was broadsided. She had expected him to go on like this forever.

He had two appointments. First the lawyer and then the locksmith. Sonja Lawrence, the attorney, was a woman in her sixties who had been doing this for a long time. They had met for the first time two months ago and after a brief interview, she gave him a list of things to do and to decide. She pulled the list right out of her top drawer—so clinical. It was like the list the dentist gave you after he’d pulled a tooth. He tried to explain to Ms. Lawrence about the separations, the other men who Pamela referred to as a little casual dating during a separation, the counseling, the toxic environment—

“Really, Mr. Magellan, it’s irrelevant. This is a no-fault state. No one has to be right or wrong. The lawyers have to work on negotiating the division of property.”

“She’s going to take half my business, isn’t she?”

“I imagine she will try,” Ms. Lawrence said.

He gave a huff of forlorn laughter.

“I know it’s not funny,” she said.

“No, it wasn’t that. It’s just that... I like you, I really do. I don’t want anyone else. I didn’t set out to find the meanest lawyer in the Bay Area. But you remind me of my grandmother... When I was younger, of course. But will you be able to get me a fair deal out of this?”

She smiled patiently. “Don’t let looks deceive you, Mr. Magellan. Most of the time they never even see me coming.”