Bread Alone (15 page)

I raise my head and look at her. “I guess it was the humane thing to do. Was he destroyed?”

“Of course not. He took it like a gentleman. Kissed my cheek and wished me well.”

“Heartbreaker.” I have to smile a little. “Too bad. I was kind of getting to like him. Now I’ll never find out what happened at the Bartholomae house in Newport Beach.”

“A very rich man got murdered.”

“Well, it’s something to consider.”

She yawns. “And on that note, I’m going to bed.” At the door, she turns around. “Think about what I said, Wyn. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

I wake up at ten till seven, and I know from the stillness of the house that my mother’s already left for work. I snuggle down, savoring the familiar smells of my room, the dry scent of the wool blanket, the sachet from the linen closet clinging to the sheets, lemon-oil furniture polish, and, still, even after all the years, a trace of Bluegrass cologne. It was my teenage favorite, and the gallons of it that I sprayed into the air, the small explosions of body powder and splattered drops of lotion must have eventually seeped into the walls and rugs and furniture.

Mr. Moon, the night-light my oma gave me when I was five years old and plagued with nightmares about the dark, sits on the dresser, his glow all but invisible in the pale gray light. Next to the dresser is my bulletin board, covered with limp football schedules and brittle newspaper clippings of CM in recitals, photos of us—the best is the one CM’s dad took at Burroughs High School graduation. L.A. is in the grip of a killer heat wave. It’s 102 degrees at 5
P.M.
The senior class is assembled outside the football field, preparing for “Pomp and Circumstance.” CM’s dad snaps us, gowns flapping open to reveal shorts and halter tops, mortarboards tilted jauntily over huge dark glasses. We’re grinning broadly, holding a banner that reads “Too Cool for School.”

On top of the bookcase, in a silver frame, is my favorite picture of my father. He’s wearing Lacoste tennis whites and holding the new racket I gave him for his birthday. I hated baby-sitting for the brats in the neighborhood, some of whom weren’t much younger than I was, but I did it for a whole year at least once a weekend and hoarded my earnings to buy him this new titanium racket that he wanted. I don’t even remember what kind it was.

I pull the covers up under my chin and hold them tight. My bed, my desk, my books, my pictures, my room, everything just as it was, and me, safe in the middle. Suspended, like some prehistoric insect in a drop of amber.

Tim, the scumbag, was right about one thing. My father was a risk taker. I wanted to be like him, but I was always torn between wanting to please him and following my own, more cautious instincts.

A summer day at the beach with my parents. I’m seven or eight years old. My father is treading water out beyond the breakers. I want to go out there with him, but I’m afraid of the waves. He calls me, motions me to come, while my mother sits on her towel, pretending to read, chewing her lip. I start wading out.

“Swim!” my father yells. “Dive into the wave!” But I’m too scared and I keep trying to walk through the heaving swells. Suddenly, what appears to be a tower of water looms over me, crashes on me, knocking me off my feet and tumbling me like clothes in a washer. I try to swim, but I’m disoriented and I smack into the sandy bottom. When I scream, brine burns my mouth and nose, up into my sinuses, down into my lungs.

Then I’m in my father’s arms, coughing and crying, and I hear his soft chuckle as he carries me up out of the water. My mother runs out to meet us, but she doesn’t say anything. They hold me till I stop choking. She’s pressing the water out of my hair and he’s blotting my face with a towel. He kisses my cheek.

“Now you know how it works, J. W.,” he says. “When you’re ready to go out to the deep water, you have to dive into the wave. If you wait for it to come to you, it’s going to knock you on your keister.”

I reach over and pick up the phone. Within an hour, I’ve talked to Ellen at the Queen Street Bakery, Elizabeth Gooden, CM, Alaska Airlines. Then I lie back in bed and indulge myself in a moment of smugness. I’ve daringly changed the whole direction of my life before 8:30
a.m.
Without even getting out of bed.

There’s just one more thing I have to do.

I’m sitting on the porch when David’s car pulls into the drive. He digs his briefcase out of the backseat and walks toward the front door. He can’t see me because it’s dark and he’s neglected to leave the porch light on, but I can see him in the yellow glow of the streetlight, and my heart breaks. He walks slowly, for him, head down, shoulders rounded. He looks exhausted.

“David.”

At the sound of my voice, his head jerks up. Caught off guard, he can’t hide his surprise, and the tiny beginnings of a smile.

“Wyn. What are you doing here?”

“I used to live here,” I say softly.

He looks away, fumbles for his key, inserts it into the lock but doesn’t open the door.

“Can I come in?”

Reflexively, he looks over his shoulder, like maybe my lawyer put me up to this and it’s being captured on film.

“You never called me.” I keep my voice low, try not to let it tremble. “We never got to talk.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I—This isn’t a good time, Wyn. I’m tired—”

“I’m tired, too, and there’s never going to be a good time. Is there?”

He turns abruptly, pushes the door open, stands aside while I go in. He flips the switches, flooding the front of the house with light. I look around—the living room, back to the dining room, down the hall toward the kitchen, up the open staircase to the gallery. The rooms
seem only vaguely familiar, like a hotel you’ve seen in a brochure, but never visited before.

I follow him into the living room. Dead ashes from an old fire give off their stale odor.

“Could I have a brandy, please?”

He takes off his coat, folds it carefully, drapes it over the back of the couch. “Of course.” His footsteps clack on the slate floor and I hear him rummaging through the liquor cabinet in the kitchen. He’s hardly been gone a minute when there’s a sharp rap on the door. I can’t decide whether he didn’t hear it, or he figured he’d never beat me there so he’s decided to let the chips fall where they may.

I must be the last person Kelley expected to see here. Certainly the last one she wanted to see.

She recovers quickly. “Hello, Wyn. What a surprise.”

“I imagine so.” I try to smile, but it’s difficult to do when all I can think of is how her skin would feel under my fingernails. I look at my watch. “Nine-forty’s a bit late for dropping off files.”

“Where’s David?” Her voice exudes perfect control. She must be dynamite in those high-stakes, high-stress pitch meetings.

“He’s getting me a brandy. We have some things to discuss tonight. Feel free to wait on the porch.”

Two spots of color bloom on her smooth, tan face, but before she can say anything, David appears with two crystal snifters of brandy.

“Well …” he says.

The three of us stand looking at each other like an exhibit at Madame Tussaud’s until he says stiffly, “Wyn and I have some things we need to talk about, Kelley. I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.”

She turns without a word and disappears, shutting the door gently behind her. He hands me one of the snifters and we adjourn to the living room.

“Thank you.” That’s all I trust myself to say until the brandy is burning the back of my throat. I promised myself that I’d be dignified, not lose my cool, and absolutely no tears, but there’s a huge knot in my
throat that I can’t talk around. A few yoga breaths, a few more sips of brandy, and finally it begins to melt away.

“What would you like to talk about?” He sets his drink on the glass-topped table.

What would I like to talk about?
I want to scream at him, throw my glass at his perfect face, but I manage not to do either.

“I thought we could talk about us, David.” I like the way it comes out. Very low-key.

“Okay.” He loosens his tie. The fact that he’s wearing one means they must have had a client meeting today. He leans back in the chair, gazing expectantly at me.

“I’m going back to Seattle for a while.” Is it my imagination or does he look relieved? “And I was wondering if you’ve given any more thought to … the situation.”

Based on what’s just happened, that’s probably a stupid question, but he shakes his head gravely. “No, I haven’t. I’ve been so busy—”

“If something’s important enough, you make time to think about it.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees. “Wyn, I’m sorry. I can only do what I can do. Maybe the problem is, you expect too much of me. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed.”

“Is it expecting too much after everything that’s happened, that we might sit down and talk about our marriage? Or do you just not care? Can’t you just tell me how you feel?”

He looks straight at me for the first time since he stumbled over me on the porch. His face is drawn and there are dark circles under his eyes. “I can’t tell you because I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I know you want more than that. You deserve more … but I just don’t know. Things are crazy at work. We lost Hathaway today and some heads are going to roll. One of them might be mine. I—I’m sorry.”

“You lost Hathaway?” It’s almost a gasp.

He nods. “They went with Foote Cone.”

“But Tom was—”

“It was a business decision, Wyn. Nothing personal.” His voice is dull. It’s suddenly clear that this was the wrong night to force the issue. I stand up, hugging my jacket to me, and walk over to him.

He looks up at me.

“I love you, David.”

He takes my hand and holds it briefly against his cheek, but he doesn’t say anything.

“I’m leaving Sunday. If you get a chance before then, call me.”

“I will,” he says, but we both know better.

“You’re doing this because I told you not to.” My mother leans in the doorway, watching me French-braid my hair. She’s wearing her five-year-old sweatpants that still look brand new, and a long-sleeved T-shirt with a hand-painted bouquet of flowers on the front. She bought it at one of the Christmas bazaars she always goes to in November.

I try to keep it light. “You didn’t tell me not to go to Seattle.”

“I said you shouldn’t make any sudden moves.” Her gray eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Wyn, you’re cutting off your nose to spite your face.”

I drop my carefully subdued hair and it escapes from the braid. “Mother, you may find it hard to believe, but this is not about you.”

“You’re letting this creature just walk in and take over your husband. You’re running away. Giving up without a fight. That’s not the Wynter I know.”

“What should I do? Invest in a Kelley voodoo doll? Should I start stalking her? Let the air out of her tires? Punch her lights out in the lobby of the JMP building?”

She walks over to stand beside me. “Of course not. Just don’t let go. Stay here. Be present. Talk to him. Fight the divorce. Make it difficult. Look nice. Flirt with him. Seduce him.”

I throw my comb up in the air and it bounces off the dresser and onto the floor. “Why should I make a fool of myself?”

“Because you love him, that’s why. And I think, deep down, he loves you.” I roll my eyes, but she ignores me. “Young women of your generation like to pretend that there’s no fundamental difference between the male and the female of the species, but there is.” Her voice is rising, the Aimee Semple McPherson of marital relations. “It’s biological, behavioral, genetic, ingrained over thousands of years …”

“Mother, you were born too late. You would’ve made a great Victorian.”

Now she’s pacing back and forth in front of the window. “Wynter, men get what they want by taking it. Women get what they want by persistence, by holding on till everyone else gives up and goes home.”

I turn and stare at her. “Great image, Mom. Woman as Gila Monster.”

Her eyes close in exasperation. We’ve been playing this scene for years. “Wyn, please listen to me for once in your life. If you’re determined to throw your marriage away, at least get your share of the money. I know too many women who’ve lost what’s rightfully theirs because they didn’t have the backbone to stay and fight for it. There are ways of hiding assets, circumventing laws, devaluing the—”

“We live in a community-property state.”

“If it were that cut-and-dried, Los Angeles wouldn’t be home to thousands of divorce attorneys.”

I get up and seize her hands. “Mother, please, please, try to understand this. I can’t stay here.”

“So get your own place.”

“Not
here,
here. I can’t stay in L.A. I don’t want to be afraid to go places because I might see them. I don’t want to have to answer everybody’s questions. I don’t even want to hear the goddamn questions. I don’t want to see the looks on people’s faces. Oh, poor Wyn. Her husband left her for this gorgeous blonde. She’ll probably be opening a needlepoint shop—”