All You Could Ask For: A Novel (2 page)

That’s why I married him. Because he says things that grown men say.

It was
me
that got angry with my father, who has never approved of my lifestyle, my love of sports, of being outside, camping, hiking. He’s never understood why I don’t care about the only thing that matters to him in the world, which is his money.

“One time, when I was eleven years old,” he told me, “I lost my baseball glove. I left it in the park and when I went back to look for it, it was gone. I was afraid to go home, I was afraid to tell my father I lost my glove. Because I had an appreciation for the value of the glove, but my actions seemed to demonstrate that I did not, and I knew how disappointed my father would be in me.”

I couldn’t resist. “It’s hard going through life with your father disappointed in you, isn’t it?” I said.

“Don’t be fresh.”

“So what happened?” I asked.

“What happened with what?”

“With the baseball glove,” I said. “What happened when you eventually told your father?”

My dad waved his hand in the dismissive way that only he can. “Nothing, really.”

“Nothing happened?” I asked.

“Not really, no.”

I shook my head. “Then what is the point of the story?”

“Every story does not have to have a point, young lady,” my father said. “I only want for you to be happy. But as your father it’s my job to keep you from making the biggest mistake of your life.”

Just what every girl dreams of hearing on her wedding day.

The thing is, it wasn’t a mistake. Robert is different from any boy I’ve ever known, beginning with the fact that he isn’t a boy. He’s a man. He’s the district attorney of Los Angeles County, California. He puts bad guys in jail; how could you have more of a man’s job than that?

We met in Sacramento, when I was in town for a friend’s wedding. I was stepping toward the elevator in my hotel when I noticed an attractive older man staring at me. He was wearing a blue, pinstriped suit and a navy tie, something a leading man would have worn in a movie in the forties. But there was something soft about his eyes, no matter how hard his clothes were. I let the elevator go and just stood there, without pressing the button for another.

It didn’t take him long. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

I waited. I think I smiled.

“Listen,” he said, moving slowly toward me, “I don’t mean to bother you, but I have had a great day. I mean a
really
great day. And I just can’t fathom going up to my room right now by myself and sitting there and watching television. I know you don’t know me, but I’m a nice person and you look like a nice person too. I would love to buy you a drink and just sit and talk. We can talk about anything you want, anything in the world you’re interested in. You have my word of honor as a gentleman, which I am, and a Boy Scout, which I never was but that’s only because I couldn’t rub two sticks together and make a fire, that I won’t try anything. We can go anywhere you want and talk about anything you want.”

He paused a moment to catch his breath, then finished: “I suppose this is a very long way of saying: Hello, my name is Robert, can I buy you a drink?”

Three months later I had left my job, given up my apartment in New York, moved into his house in the Valley, and we were engaged.
And
we were preparing for an election.

The reason he had had a
really
great day that night by the elevator was that the state leaders of his party wanted him to run for lieutenant governor. (I have to admit, I didn’t even know that was something you ran for, I just thought the governor chose a running mate, like a vice president. You learn something new every day.) The next two months were a blur, an endless whirl of cocktail parties and handshakes and conversations behind closed doors. When it was over and we’d won, neither of us had the energy to plan a wedding.

“Let’s just do it this weekend,” Robert said, in a giant, empty hotel ballroom, hours after the cheering and the music had faded and the only sound was the industrial brooms sweeping away the confetti. “We’ll do it quietly, at the house. We’ll throw a party in a few weeks if you want but let’s just do it now. I want so badly to be married to you.”

He has an amazing ability to be sensible and romantic in the same conversation. I’d never met a man who could be either one of those, much less both. How could I not marry him?

So I did.

My father insisted on flying out, so he did.

And his girlfriend insisted on serving lunch, so a caterer did.

And Robert’s office sent flowers and the governor sent champagne and two local television stations sent reporters and cameras. I guess it was not the way most girls envision their wedding day, but to tell the truth I never really envisioned mine at all. In fact, this was probably the best way for me to get married. I think if there were three hundred people in a church and I was wearing a colossal white dress with a veil and a train and flowers and attendants and trumpets and all the other things, I would just burst out hysterically laughing. It’s just
so
not me.

Anyway,
that
is what Robert meant when he said, “It’s finally just us,” over dinner last night. Then he carried me over the threshold into this sumptuous suite, and he took my clothes off slowly in the pitch blackness with the sound of waves breaking on the beach just outside, and we made love standing up and then again lying down, and when it was done we snuggled in the soft carpeting and I could feel his heart beating against my chest, and as it slowed and his breathing steadied I thought to myself:
For the first time in my life, everything seems as though it is the way it is supposed to be.

Then it was eight o’clock this morning and Robert was wide-awake. He wakes up filled with energy; this morning I felt his energy pressing against my thigh, so we made love again, quickly this time, and then he was off to a massage while I lounged for a while before calling room service and asking for coffee and granola and yogurt. I had my own spa appointment to look forward to, and then we were taking our first scuba lesson in the afternoon. I wasn’t even thinking about my little game when I sat down at the desk and opened Robert’s laptop; it was just by force of habit that I typed those three words.

You see, Robert’s laptop has two separate means of entry. The first offers access to only the standard functions: Internet Explorer, Microsoft Outlook, a variety of games. Then there is a portal that requires special clearance, and Robert has told me for as long as I’ve known him that among the documents he signed upon being appointed to his office was one affirming that he will never, under any circumstances, allow unauthorized access to persons without clearance, regardless of his relationship to them. I laughed when he first told me about it, and said, “Reminds me of Al Pacino telling Diane Keaton not to ask about his business.” But Robert didn’t laugh. I left it alone.

So, every morning since I moved to L.A., the first thing I do is take one shot at accessing the portal. I’ve seen him do it, from across a room, and I’m almost certain I’ve counted thirteen keystrokes. It’s hard to be certain because he flies through so quickly, but I’m pretty sure it’s thirteen. So, every morning, before breakfast, I take that one try at cracking the code. (I need to explain that I really, truly was not suspicious, nor did I doubt Robert’s character in any way. This was just a game I began as a lark and then became accustomed to playing every morning. Once I typed in the wrong password, the computer blocked access to the portal for thirty minutes and automatically opened the screen saver, which was a picture of Magic Johnson shooting a hook shot against the Celtics. Robert loves the Lakers. He was born and raised in Los Angeles and doesn’t care much about football or baseball or any sport except basketball and, specifically, the subset of basketball that is the Lakers. So, every morning I pour myself coffee and toss a handful of granola into a bowl, cover it with yogurt and some berries, and then I sit at the desk and say good morning to Magic. It’s fun. And it’s harmless. Or it was, until this morning in Hawaii.)

I long ago decided his password
had
to be related to the Lakers, so every morning I try some combination of Lakers names that require thirteen letters:
KobeMagicWest; MagicJohnson1; Worthy&Jabaar; PhilIsAGenius; LakersForever.
None of them worked and I never expected them to. That’s the thing: I really never cared what might be behind that locked door. Until this morning in my bridal suite in Kauai, with the palm trees swaying and the parrots chatting, and the surf and sea and a masseuse awaiting, when in the midst of all my bliss a funny thought entered my mind. I counted the letters in my head; four, then five, then four. It added up to thirteen, and it was just too funny not to try. So, with the innocence only possible in the soul of a newlywed, I took a sip of my coffee and entered the password that unlocked my husband’s secrets.

FuckLarryBird.

And there I was, behind the locked electronic door, inside a passageway leading to god knows where. It was probably completely illegal, what I had done. Like
seriously
illegal. My husband might actually have to arrest me, prosecute me, and send me to jail. A little smile crossed my lips at that thought and I knew I had to figure out how best to leave no evidence I had been in the portal.

Then I started to laugh. Fuck Larry Bird? Seriously? I don’t even know where I came up with that. Robert’s stock joke is that he doesn’t hate criminals; he merely seeks justice, so the only people he hates are the Boston Celtics. But I’ve never heard him specifically say, “Fuck Larry Bird.” In fact, he rarely swears at all.

Then I noticed the Microsoft Outlook icon. It was blinking, in an unusual way. If such a thing is possible, the icon was blinking at me
suggestively
. I had to click on it. I
had
to. So I did. And that’s where I found the photo that seemed so out of place. And that’s when the thought went through my mind:
Who the hell is this naked woman? And what is she doing in my husband’s inbox?

KATHERINE

FUCK HIM.

Those were the first words out of my mouth this morning. Which should come as no surprise since they’re the first words out of my mouth every morning. They have been for nineteen years, since the last time I saw Phillip alive.

I love saying it that way. Phillip is still very much alive, and he’s better-looking than ever and insanely wealthy, too. Not that I’m bitter, much. But when I say “the last time I saw Phillip alive,” what I mean is the last time I saw him before he became dead to me.

Anyway, still in bed, and after I say “fuck him”—with the emphasis on
him
—I think of Dr. Gray and Thich Nhat Hanh, and I take three long, deep, cleansing breaths. I count to five on the first inhale, and curl my lips into a half-smile. Then I count to five on the exhale. Then I inhale for six, and exhale for six. Then in for seven, out for seven. And the half-smile on my lips puts my head in a peaceful place. Then I sit up tall and let my feet slide off the bed and rest firmly on the hardwood floor, and I place my palms together firmly in front of my chest. Then I take four more deep breaths, and on each exhalation I repeat The Meditation.

Only then do I open my eyes. My breathing is long and deliberate as I cross my bedroom and sit gently before the mirror in my vanity. The breathing is my connection to the now, to the present. Dr. Gray says I worry too much about my past. Thich Nhat Hanh says I shouldn’t worry so much about my future. The one thing they seem to agree upon is that I need to spend more time in the moment, and it seems to me that since one of them is an Upper East Side shrink and the other is a Buddhist monk, if there is anything about my life that they fully agree upon it is probably worthy of consideration.

I force myself to move slowly through the apartment. Moving slowly does not come naturally for me, neither does the meditation or the breathing or the yoga, but it helps.