Bread Alone (28 page)

“That color is gorgeous with your hair.”

“Where did you find it?”

She smiles. “The same store where I found mine, this little boutique in Santa Monica called The Whole Nine Yards. Richard took
me there.” I try not to let my stomach tighten. As I’m wiggling back into my jeans, she says, “Oh, before I forget, there are two boxes of your things in the den and one in your closet. If you want them, you should take them with you. I’m running out of storage space around here.”

“I thought you sent me all my stuff.”

“The one up here came out of the cedar chest. The two downstairs are … David brought them by a couple of weeks ago. He said they were more books and some photographs and cards he thought you might want.”

I’ve been fooling myself, how thinking of him wasn’t so bad, just a glancing blow. But now, hearing her say his name out loud is like walking into a wall of glass.

“Right.” My breath jumps raggedly. “Just some trash he forgot to dump out on the porch.”

“You know,” she says slowly, “he could have thrown it all away. But he went to the trouble of boxing it up and bringing it over here.”

I jerk open the zipper on my bag, pull out my cosmetics kit, set it on the dresser. “What a prince.”

“I think he wants to see you.”

“Mother, don’t.” My voice sounds like a knife being sharpened, that metallic scrape that always makes me shiver. “Has he filed for divorce yet?”

“No. At least I haven’t seen any papers. Who knows what’ll be waiting for me when I get back.”

“I don’t think he’s happy,” she says. She rests one hip on the edge of my bed, not quite sitting, as if she might jump up suddenly.

I turn around too fast, losing my balance. “Is this based on empirical evidence or is it strictly conjecture?”

“He just seemed sad. Or—”

“His shorts were probably twisted from their afternoon quickie.”

“Honey, bitterness doesn’t serve any purpose.”

“Sure it does. It gives the hurt less room to maneuver.” From the
look on her face, I see that I’m raining on her parade. I take a big breath and paste on a smile. “Let me see your dress.”

In her bedroom, she pretends not to notice that I notice Richard’s shaving kit, a pair of slacks, some folded underwear. She’s already ironing his boxers.

“What do you think?” Her wedding dress is a simple, elegant, long sheath of silk in an old-fashioned color that she calls “ashes of roses.” “Richard picked it out. I know he’s not supposed to see me in it till the wedding, but, Wyn, he’s so artistic and he has such great taste … I knew he’d choose something wonderful.”

“It’s beautiful, Mom. It’s your color.” I wish I sounded more wholeheartedly engaged.

She looks at the clock. “There’s so much I want to tell you, but I was thinking maybe you’d like to lie down for a while. We’re going out to dinner about seven-thirty.”

“We?”

Her smile dazzles me. “You and me and Richard. We thought it would be good for the three of us to spend a little time together. So you can get to know him before the wedding.”

A golf ball—size lump is lodged in the middle of my chest. “How well do you think I can get to know him by tomorrow?”

She acts like she didn’t hear me. “He’s taking us to Rex,” she says. As if the choice of restaurant would somehow make me more receptive to his charms.

I move to the window, hold the curtain aside with one hand. “I’m really pretty tired. I worked last night and I didn’t sleep on the plane.”

“Wyn, why are you acting like this?”

I turn around. “Like what? Like I’m tired? Probably because I am. I haven’t slept in twenty-four hours.”

She chews on the inside of her lip, always a bad sign. “Okay, Wynter, do it your way. I was hoping you could forgive me for being happy when you’re going through a miserable divorce, but apparently—”

“This has nothing to do with my—with David.” I still can’t say the word.

“Then would you please tell me what it does have to do with? You’re acting like a spoiled … oh, schist! I don’t care!” Her idea of profanity. She yanks open the top drawer of her dresser and starts rifling through her underwear, pulling out panty hose, a black lace bra—which I didn’t even know she owned—a half-slip. “Richard and I are going to dinner at Rex,” she says, looking me full in the face. “If you’d like to go, we’d love your company, but the choice is yours.”

The bathroom door closes behind her.

I go down to the kitchen, open a can of chicken broth and a package of dried pasta. While the broth heats, I chop some carrots and zucchini and pour myself a glass of red wine. Tiny bubbles bead the surface of the broth. I turn the flame down low and take my wine out to the den. There are boxes everywhere—stacked by the door, stuck under tables, piled on the desk. I sit down in my mother’s sewing chair and put my feet up on her footstool, take a sip of wine.

So what
does
it have to do with?

It’s only been five months since I’ve been here, and it feels like a stranger’s house. It’s not just the moving cartons full of Richard’s things. There are other, more subtle changes—the sofa moved back farther from the fireplace and set at an angle. The wing-back chairs grouped with a new table. A collection of small wooden boxes sits on the mantel next to the old school clock. A lithograph in the hall that looks like a buffalo in a sandstorm.

It’s stupid. What difference does it make? My father’s gone. Been gone for a long time. He’s not coming back. I can’t get another father, but she can get another husband. And why shouldn’t she? Who wants to be a career widow? She looks great; she’s obviously happy. And I’ll never live in this house again. So let him make all the changes he wants. He could bulldoze it for all I care.

The sound of a key in the front door makes me jump. Footsteps. Then, “Wynter, great to see you.” Richard Travers is standing in front
of me, filling the room with his presence, a whiff of expensive aftershave, the dampness of his wool jacket. “Fog’s coming in,” he says.

Jesus Christ, no wonder my mother grabbed him. He’s gorgeous. The prototype for tall, dark, etc. With just a suggestion of silver at the temples. His face is modern sculpture, all planes and angles, Howard Roark, the steely hero of
The Fountainhead.

He takes off his coat, lays it carefully over the back of the couch, and turns his dark eyes back to me. “How’s Seattle? Johanna says you’re working in a bakery?”

I gather my composure, hold out my hand, and he grips it. His silver-and-turquoise ring cuts into my hand. “Fine. Yes. I’m … it’s nice to finally meet you.”

He smiles. “I hope you’re planning to join us for dinner.”

My eyes go automatically toward the kitchen. “Actually, I’m taking a rain check. I’m a little tired.”

“I thought you might be. Did you come straight from work?”

I nod dumbly.

“That’s rough.”

My mother chooses that moment to appear in the doorway. Howard—I mean Richard—walks over and kisses her. In my adult memory, no man has ever kissed my mother like that. Like a lover. I can’t watch. I slink off to the kitchen. I’m standing at the stove giving my soup a stir when she appears beside me straightening her lipstick.

“What do you think?” She’s fizzing like a candle rocket.

“He’s amazing.” I give her the best smile I can muster. “Totally gorgeous. You’ll have a better time without me anyway.”

“Probably,” she says. “But I wanted you to get to know him.”

“I will, Mom. I promise. I’m just exhausted.”

She kisses my cheek, a little coolly, I think. “Well, get a good night’s sleep. We’ve got to be up by seven in the morning at the latest.”

“Why so early?”

“To get the house ready before the caterer and the florist and the wedding coordinator get here.”

“I thought we were … aren’t we going to be at the Biltmore?”

She adjusts her clip-on earrings. “We decided to keep things simple and have it here.”

From the hallway, Jo?” At the sound of his voice, her face looks like she swallowed a lightbulb.

Saturday morning at six forty-five, I’m sipping coffee in the kitchen and watching the rain hammer on the glass of the greenhouse window. My mother is scrambling eggs and humming to herself when the back door swings open in a gust of wind to admit Howard/Richard, dashing in a black trench coat covered with fine droplets. He smiles at me, then turns to the object of his affection.

“I hear rain on your wedding day is good luck.” He kisses her neck and she nestles back against him.

“We don’t need luck,” she stage-whispers. “Ooh, you’re all wet.”

I guess I’m going to have to get used to this. I can’t leave the room every time they’re together.

After a quick breakfast, the serious furniture moving starts. All the boxes that have been in the den and the living room end up in my bedroom, leaving only one narrow alley for entrance and another between the dresser and the bed. The wedding coordinator shows up. Her name is Amanda Brewer and she is definitely Beverly Hills. Blue-black hair, enough eyeliner and mascara for a raccoon, red silk dress—presumably in honor of Valentine’s Day—matching pumps and huge Coach black leather bag. She’s so sorry to be late. Traffic was a bitch. And the rain … She closes her eyes briefly, as if giving thanks for having survived the trip.

The three of them huddle, and then the furniture gets completely rearranged. I stand around feeling useless, pushing and pulling when told to and not talking much. My mother asks me if I’m feeling okay.

“I’m fine.”

“Well, you could try contributing a little more to the proceedings,” she says.

“What would you like me to do? I’m at your service.”

She sighs, turns her back so Richard won’t hear her. “Could you just try being a little more animated? Or something?” “Mother—”

“Oh, the caterer’s here. Wyn, can you let them in and get them set up in the kitchen, show them where things are?”

“The caterer” consists of a tall guy with slick black hair who seems to be the boss man, two short guys who don’t speak much English and probably crossed the Rio Grande this morning, and two nubile blondes. They clump together in the foyer, rain dripping off their black wind-breakers.

“I’m Ron,” says the boss man. “This is Tony and Raul, Heather and Frankie.”

“I guess you need to see the kitchen.”

“The bartender’s name is Gary. He’ll be along later. I want to wait awhile before trying to bring everything in, just to see if the weather breaks.”

He talks nonstop while I show them around the kitchen and dining room, and just as I’m getting rid of him, Stuart, my mother’s hairdresser from forever, shows up with his partner, Jason, who’s doing the flowers.

“Wynter, darling! So good to see you.” Air kisses. “Still wearing the big hair, I see.”

“Don’t start on me, Stuart.”

He makes wide eyes. “Uh-oh. A little preceremony tension, for sure.” Jason proceeds to get into a fight with Ron about whether or not some of the flowers can go in the fridge. While they’re going at it, my mother wanders in.

“Here comes the bride,” Stuart sings. “Jo, darling!” More air kisses.

My mother looks at her watch. “Oh, my Lord, Wyn, we’ve got to get dressed.”

“Mom, it’s only ten-thirty.”

“Lupe’s coming at noon to clean, and we have to be through in the bathrooms by then.”

I look at Stuart. “You heard her. Nobody pees after twelve o’clock high.”

Everyone laughs except my mother.

“I think the ladies should have a glass of champagne to take to their boudoirs,” Ron says smoothly.

The popping cork is a cheering sound. Ron hands us each a champagne flute and we clink and sip.

“Honey, you’ll probably need to dress in my room, since yours is so crowded with stuff.” Suddenly, I’m “honey” again.

As soon as she disappears, Jason pouts. “Can I put these orchids in the fridge or not?”

Ron glares at him. “I told you I have salmon mousse and artichoke dip and chicken …”

I sigh. “Oh, come on, you guys. It’s forty degrees outside, why can’t something just go on the patio table? It’s under cover.”

Stuart turns me toward the door. “Wyn, you run along and help Jo. We’ll take care of things.”

I’m almost to the stairs when the doorbell rings. I open the door and find myself looking into golden-brown eyes under a shock of thick, brown hair. He’s holding a suit bag and he says, “Hi. I’m Gary.”

“They’re all out in the kitchen.” I close the door after him and point over my shoulder. “Just go on back.” I turn and run up the stairs.

My mother’s already brought my dress and cosmetics bag in, and we take turns showering in her bathroom. I spend an inordinate amount of time getting ready, using more makeup in one day than I have in the last four months. My feet rebel at being stuffed into pointy-toed, high-heeled shoes after weeks of nothing but cross-trainers, and the strapless bra constricts my rib cage till I feel like Scarlett O’Hara in her whalebone corset. We help each other with zippers and buttons and jewelry clasps. She’s totally focused now, past caring whether I’m animated or
comatose. As soon as we’re decent, Stuart and Jason are admitted to the inner sanctum.