Mine Are Spectacular! (22 page)

“You're not up to date on your suburban stereotypes,” I say, laughing. I don't mention that around here, sex toys are the big topic of conversation because I can't bring myself to say the word “sex” in front of James.

But Priscilla has no such inhibition.

“Hello, sexy guy,” she says, opening the door for us and giving James a bold once-over. “Who are you?”

“I'm the extra man,” James says, with a big grin.

“How thoughtful of you to bring him, Sara,” Priscilla says, leaning in to throw an air-kiss to my cheek. “Most people just brought a bottle of wine.”

Priscilla's husband comes up to introduce himself. He's a head shorter than Priscilla, slightly round, completely bald, but wearing a very expensive suit. I'm guessing she didn't marry him for his dashing appearance. And glancing around the room, I realize that the Hadley Farms husbands must have all wooed their wives with the only assets they had available—their bank accounts. In this community, you've got to hope that the kids get their mother's looks and their father's money. Another reason to support DNA research.

A waiter comes by with a tray of mixed hors d'oeuvres and carefully describes each one.

“I'll take the crabmeat and Sara will have the mushroom quiche,” James says without thinking. Then we catch each other's eyes in surprise. “I mean, you can have whatever you want,” he hastily amends.

“Actually, that's still my favorite,” I say, reaching for the minitart. Have my tastes really not changed in all these years? I'm oddly uncomfortable realizing how well James still knows me, and I walk away from him and sit down on the sofa. I spot Berni and Aidan outside on the deck, but I don't have the energy to rouse myself and go join them. Berni waves and in another minute rushes inside.

“Did you hear what our not-prissy Priscilla has planned for tonight?” she asks me excitedly.

“A refresher course on handcuffs and whips?” I ask nonchalantly.

“No, but I'll suggest that for next time,” Berni says. She's momentarily stopped in her enthusiasm when she sees that instead of paying attention, my eyes are wandering across the room to James.

“Who's the hunk?” she asks, following my gaze.

“James. My ex.”

“James?” she repeats, turning to me in amazement. She seems more shocked than if I'd told her I'd just given up shopping at Target.

“He's cute but what the hell is he doing here?” she whispers to me as James saunters over toward us.

“I invited him,” I say trying to keep my tone casual. What other explanation can I offer? Let's see, my fiancé is in Hong Kong and I'm terrified that he'll never come back, so why shouldn't I hang around with my ex-husband who I
knew
would never come back but now somehow has? More comings and going in my life than on the cast of
Law and Order.

When James joins us, I make introductions, and it doesn't take long for Berni to warm to James's easygoing style and comfortable banter.

“He's delightful,” Berni whispers when James goes to the bar to get all of us fresh drinks. “I don't know how you ever let him get away.”

“I seem to have a knack,” I say, shrugging my shoulders.

Priscilla comes over, her arm tucked around James, who's somehow managing to balance three glasses in his one available hand.

“So you've all heard the theme of tonight's party, right? Everybody ready?” asks Priscilla.

“I can't believe you're doing this, Priscilla,” says Berni, the only one in our group who knows what our hostess has planned.

“Hard to keep topping myself, but I always do,” says Priscilla proudly. “And I expect everyone to join in. Remember, dears, it's not every day you get invited to a key party.”

“What's a key party?” James asks.

“My question exactly,” I echo.

“You two are such innocents,” Priscilla says, putting her arm around each of us. “I used to read about key parties in the eighties. I think Warren Beatty started them.”

“So what is it?” I ask impatiently.

“A sexy little game,” Priscilla says with a laugh. “Every man tosses his key into a big container, and each woman closes her eyes and fishes one out.”

She flits away and the three of us stare at one another.

“What happens after you get your key?” I ask innocently.

Berni looks at me, surprised that I don't know. But she's a lot more sophisticated than I am. She spent her time in L.A. hanging out at Le Dome and lunching with Sharon Stone. I haven't learned as much as I thought I would at the Olive Garden.

“It's simple,” she explains. “You have a man's key, and then you know who you're going home with.”

James tosses back his head and roars with laughter. But sure enough, Berni's not making this up. Priscilla is now strolling around the terrace collecting keys in a heavy cut-glass bowl that's probably been passed down in her family since the
Mayflower.
If her great-great-great-grandmother had known what kind of feast her precious bowl was going to be used for, she probably would have smashed it on Plymouth Rock.

The less than
GQ
-quality Hadley Farms husbands are gamely tossing in their keys. Priscilla is heading in our direction and I'm wondering what to do. Talk about peer pressure. I'm new to this community and I want to make friends. But not such close friends. On the other hand, I've always been a good sport. I'm not a party-pooper. I even play charades if I have to.

James reaches into his pocket and takes out his keys. “Now I see why you moved to the suburbs. This is a lot more interesting than anything that goes on at Lincoln Center.”

“You're not really planning on playing, are you?” I ask in horror.

James makes a show of studying various women around the room. He shakes his head a couple of times as if considering and then rejecting the possibilities. “Nobody here I'd like to have come home with me,” he says thoughtfully. “Except one person.” He unhooks his house key from his lanyard chain and holds it out for me.

He can't be serious. And even if he is, I can't take his key. I don't even know where he lives. Besides, I'm engaged—or at least I think I am. Bradford says we're on a “break,” but just how broken are we? I look at the silvery key and shake my head. This isn't the way to find out.

“I'm going to pretend you're joking,” I say, pushing away his hand.

James pockets the key and gives me a hug. “Of course I am,” he says lightly.

But was he? I don't even want to think about it. “I'm going home alone,” I say stalwartly. Though I'm hoping that won't be the case for the rest of my life.

I start to leave, but then I see that Priscilla has finished her rounds and the game is about to begin. I'm not going to play, but at least I can watch. More fun than reading a John Cheever novel.

“Who's first?” calls Priscilla brightly, holding out her bowl and waiting for the first woman to step forward. “Time to grab a key from one of these handsome men.”

Either Priscilla's good at compliments, or she collected the keys at a different party.

A bubbly redhead bounces up to the bowl.

“I'm ready!” she says. “I'll pick while the picking's good.”

Priscilla pulls out a purple eye mask and places it over the redhead's eyes. I wonder if the rules say she has to stay this way for the whole night. Might be a plus—at least she won't have to look at the guy.

“No cheating,” Priscilla says.

No? Then what's this whole game about?

With a well-manicured hand, the woman digs around to select her party favor. So much more creative than the potpourri guests usually go home with.

“Let me see what I got,” she says, pulling off her blindfold. She studies the key in her hand then squeals with delight. “Ooh, I hit the jackpot! Look, the key to the Maserati!”

She waves the key around triumphantly and Priscilla looks equally excited.

“The Maserati!” Priscilla exclaims. “Who's the lucky guy who threw in this key? Don't be shy.”

But the Maserati owner isn't just shy—he looks downright worried when he hesitantly steps forward. Given that the redhead's gorgeous and he's as round and bald as Priscilla's husband, I'm not sure why she's jumping up and down and he's shuffling his feet.

“Do I really have to go through with this?” he asks.

“Yes!” says Priscilla, who's never taken no for an answer.

“She really gets to drive my car?” he asks.

It takes a moment for that to sink in, and then Berni bursts out laughing. So does James. And so do I. Maybe Hollywood is still kinkier than Hadley Farms. At this key party, you don't go home and sleep with your neighbor. You just drive his car.

The Maserati owner offers to come along with the redhead. Not in the hopes of having a wild night, but in the interest of avoiding scratches on his high gloss paint job. Poor Warren Beatty. How was he to know that his sexy key parties would turn into a game where you switch cars instead of partners? Though maybe he'd understand. After all, the guy's married now and has four kids. He probably doesn't even get to drive a convertible anymore.

One by one, the women go up to the bowl to find out what motor—not whose—they're going to rev for the night. James comes over and squeezes my hand. “See, in the end there was nothing to worry about. Sometimes you just have to go with the flow.”

I look at James's twinkling blue eyes and the confident set of his jaw. “Still want to give me your key?” I ask him.

James's mouth drops open.

“Because I'm ready to play. It sounds like fun. You stay here and I'll take the Prius for a spin.”

 

A few nights later, Dylan and I are working on his incredibly tedious homework. I'm trying to be upbeat about my second grader copying the entire alphabet in Palmer method script twenty times. But I don't understand why a school that has a computer keyboard for every kid still makes such a fuss about handwriting. It must be so the children can sign checks when they grow up. Although if the school doesn't get around to teaching them some more practical skills, they'll never have bank accounts.

We're finally up to the M's when Skylar appears in the room and we both jump.

“You scared me,” I say, my hand flying up and hitting my chest in surprise.

“Why?” Skylar asks, popping the top on her bottle of Snapple and flopping down on an overstuffed chair behind us. “This is my house. And it's my week to be here.”

It never occurred to me that Skylar might show up when Bradford was gone. He had taken her out to dinner to tell her he was leaving, and I just assumed she'd stay with Mimi during his three-month business trip. Or however long he's away.

“I'm glad you're here,” I say, recovering quickly. Though I'm wondering what's up. I never got the feeling that Skylar craved my company.

Skylar gets up from the chair and wanders over to us. “You have to do that dumb homework, huh?” she asks Dylan, standing over his shoulder and looking down at his white-lined paper. “Want me to show you how to get the computer to do it for you? I have a program that prints script and I bet your teacher won't be able to tell the difference.”

“Cool!” says Dylan, jumping up, ready to follow Skylar into her room.

Another day, another moral dilemma. Skylar's plan sounds pretty reasonable to me, but I know I can't agree to it. It's my job to preach honesty and integrity über alles. No shortcuts, no flimflams, no deceptions. Unless of course Skylar's absolutely sure that the teacher won't be able to tell.

I go to see what they're doing on the computer. But instead of loading a script program, Sklyar is busy showing Dylan how she downloads music onto her iPod. From a legal site, of course.

“Skylar's really smart,” Dylan tells me with an innocent grin as I come in.

“I know she is,” I say. “But you're probably keeping her from her homework.”

Instead of giving me a hard time, Skylar for once agrees.

“Yeah, I got a bunch of English to do,” she says. And listening to her, I'm hoping the homework isn't grammar. Or maybe I should be hoping that it is.

After Dylan's gone to bed, I check on Skylar a couple of times and she's actually studying
Romeo and Juliet.
Which she tells me is almost as good as
Shakespeare in Love.
Given that I have a good excuse for calling, I dial Bradford in Hong Kong to let him know that his daughter is here—and turning into an Elizabethan scholar under my tutelage. But as usual, I only get the voice mail on Bradford's cell phone and when I leave him a message I don't mention Skylar. I just tell him how much I love him.

The evening passes calmly and I realize that this is the first time Skylar's been around when she hasn't tried to push my buttons. Maybe we're making some headway. At close to midnight I see the light still on in her room and I go in to tell her it's time to get to sleep. She won't be missing anything.
Romeo and Juliet
ends badly, anyway.

But Skylar's already abandoned Shakespeare for
Teen People,
and she doesn't budge when I come in.

“I'll go to sleep when I want to,” she says snottily.

“You have to get up early so I can drive you to school,” I tell her, trying to be reasonable. Though fourteen isn't necessarily the age of reason.

“I don't want you to drive me to school. I don't want you to do anything for me,” she says, not deigning to look up from the magazine.

“You need to get to sleep anyway,” I say, getting irritated and wanting to go to bed myself.

“You can't tell me what to do. You're not my mother.” Skylar glares at me, ready for a confrontation. Well, then, dammit, I'll give her one.

“When you're in this house you follow the house rules,” I say.