Monarch Beach (6 page)

I didn’t mind Andre’s long hours at the restaurant. Having only one child to follow around, I had plenty of energy to make his meals, rub his feet when he came home late, and to listen to his stories about La Petite Maison. As my mother had predicted, he was talented, charismatic, and charming, and the restaurant established a loyal following.

What my mother had not predicted was that he would screw the chef, and that kind of put a damper on my happiness. As I jogged down the path to Stephanie’s, I wondered if he had screwed the waitress, the hostess, the wine stewardess, and all the other women he employed in the last ten years. Was it the constant parade of young flesh that kept him singing at the restaurant every day? I was so angry I broke into a sprint and arrived at Stephanie’s flushed and furious.

I rang the doorbell and waited. Stephanie’s house was so big it always took a full three minutes for Gisella, her au pair, to answer the door. I had come to realize Stephanie had gone to Penn and married reliable, wealthy Glenn because she was actually very intelligent. She didn’t employ a Swedish au pair with legs longer than a racehorse and white-blond hair that touched her bottom. She hired a short Portuguese woman with a mustache and ankles like boulders.

“Gisella, is Mrs. Chambers at home?” Stephanie liked to keep things formal in her house: to keep the separation between the help and the family evident. I had a lot to learn. When I thought of the welcome dinner I had given Ursula—I had baked bread and tossed a Caesar salad for her—I wanted to throw up.

“Mrs. Chambers is in the garden with the children,” Gisella replied. When she talked she displayed a row of gold teeth.

“Thank you, Gisella.”

Stephanie had two gorgeous children: Zoe was a few months younger than Max and had a head of blond curls and big blue eyes. She looked and acted like an angel. Graham was a stout two-year-old with permanently red cheeks. He followed his mother and sister around as if they were deities. Stephanie was a very good mother. When she was with her children she shined her light on them as if no one else existed. She didn’t boast about their accomplishments like so many other mothers, she just made them feel tremendously loved.

Stephanie was sitting in the sandbox with Graham. Pregnancy and child-rearing had blurred her perfect features. Her breasts were still big, but now they pointed slightly downward. Her thighs were a little wider than when we were teenagers—she complained she couldn’t resist finishing the kids’ peanut butter sandwiches and chicken tenders.

She wore her hair short, barely touching her shoulders. She did keep it very blond and she still wore bright red lipstick, even at home in the garden, but she didn’t scream “sex siren” when you saw her. Today she wore denim shorts, a lace top, and white Keds.

“I thought you did yoga on Tuesdays,” Stephanie said.

“I did yoga this morning.”

“You don’t look very zen.”

I glanced down at my clothes. My tights had a rip down the side and my shoes were caked in dirt.

“I went for a run after yoga.”

“You gave up running four years ago when you pulled your Achilles tendon.”

“I knew I forgot something,” I said. I sank into the sandbox next to Graham.

“I’m making Mommy lunch. Want some?” Zoe was in the playhouse making sand pizza.

“How come Zoe isn’t at school?” I asked Stephanie.

“Orthodontist appointment.”

“A first grader doesn’t need braces,” I said, shaking my head.

“I agree. But tell that to Zoe. Four girls in her class already have them. She feels left out.” Stephanie poured sand into Graham’s bucket.

I thought of Andre and his slightly crooked smile. I burst into tears.

“Zoe, take your brother and ask Gisella to make lunch,” Stephanie instructed her daughter.

“But I’m making sand pizza,” Zoe complained. “You asked for sand pizza.”

“I’ll have my lunch when you come back. I need to talk to Mrs. Blick for a few minutes.”

We waited till Zoe and Graham disappeared into the kitchen. I tried to stop my shoulders heaving until I heard the kitchen door bang shut. Then I collapsed into Stephanie’s arms.

“I’m glad I don’t take your yoga class,” Stephanie said.

“I stopped by the restaurant after class and I found Andre doing Ursula.”

“What do you mean, ‘doing Ursula’?” Stephanie asked.

“The same thing we meant when we said it in high school: fucking, screwing, giving it to her. Sticking his big long prick inside her Scandinavian thong.”

“I get the picture,” Stephanie said with a shudder.

“What am I going to do?” I cried.

“What did he say?”

“I didn’t give him time to say anything. I slammed the door and backed out of there. I think I broke your beautiful cut-glass door, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Amanda,” Stephanie said. Then we were both silent.

“I thought we were happy,” I said finally. “We have our beautiful little house. The restaurant is doing really well. Max is an easy child.” I added up the things we had to be grateful for, all erased by the picture of Andre and Ursula wrapped around each other like Saran Wrap.

“You need a drink,” Stephanie said.

“A drink won’t help. Yet…” I replied bleakly. A shot of tequila sounded tempting, but it was only noon. I couldn’t start down that road.

“Why did he do it? I know he’s really handsome, and women fall all over him. But we have a great sex life. We had sex last night!” I threw a plastic shovel at the playhouse. First I was tossing stones at ducks, now I was hurling shovels.

“He’s a man,” Stephanie said simply.

“I’ve never seen Glenn look at another woman. I know I’m not a bombshell like you, but I keep myself together.” Over the years I found a style that suited me. I wore my hair in thick waves that were perfectly highlighted by my mother’s Union Square stylist. I visited her salon to keep my brows shaped, and I learned to apply makeup so I had a natural glow. I still loved fashion, and my mother and I had regular lunch dates at Neiman Marcus, where I scooped up designer sweaters and my favorite Tod’s loafers.

“I’m more shelled-out bomb than bombshell,” Stephanie laughed. “And you are a young sophisticate. I’ve always envied how you wear clothes.”

“Thanks,” I blubbered, and burst into tears again.

“Glenn’s different from most men. He’s in his head, so he doesn’t notice normal things, like women.”

“Are you saying most husbands screw their employees in broad daylight at their workplace?”

“Maybe most men don’t give in to their urges,” Stephanie said hesitantly.

“I just married a world-class jerk,” I said. We were both silent again.

“Maybe,” I said, wiping my eyes, “maybe it was just a moment of madness. I can confront him and tell him if it ever happens again we’re finished.” I sat up straight, filled with a ray of hope.

Stephanie kicked the sand with her Keds. “I don’t think it was a momentary madness.”

“What do you mean?” I looked at her suspiciously.

“Andre has done it before,” she replied, not looking at me.

“With you?”

“Of course not with me! I would never cheat on Glenn.”

“I remember when the restaurant opened, you were drooling over Andre,” I huffed.

“That’s the point, Amanda. It’s okay to drool, just not to touch. I know I used to be a big talker, but I never did anything about it. I know how great my husband is.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“Ummm.” Stephanie examined a spot on her shirt.

“Ummm what?” I demanded.

“Remember Bella?” She still didn’t look at me.

“The summer waitress from Michigan?”

“I fired her because I found her and Andre in the restaurant garden.”

“Picking tomatoes?” I asked hopefully.

“Having sex in the shed.”

“I thought she went back to Michigan to take care of her grandmother.” My body crumpled like a deflated balloon.

“No,” Stephanie said simply.

“Remember Angie the wine sommelier?” she continued after a minute.

“The one with the great credentials and really tight ass?”

“The credentials were real, the ass was surgically enhanced,” Stephanie said.

“What about her? She was only there for a few months. Andre said the clientele wasn’t responding to a female sommelier.”

“I caught him responding to her in the wine cellar.”

“The restaurant doesn’t have a wine cellar.”

“Okay then, in the coat closet where we keep the wine bottles. They were doing it on a customer’s fur coat.”

“Nobody wears real fur in Ross,” I said.

“That’s probably not my point, Amanda.” She looked at me for the first time. Her eyes were watery.

“I know,” I said. My eyes filled with tears that spilled over onto my cheeks and down my shirt.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked, suddenly angry at her years of duplicity. Bella had been a waitress the summer after Max was born.

“The first time I thought it was a one-off. I didn’t want to rock the boat. I thought Andre was just young, sowing his wild oats. He’d calm down and realize how great he had it. You are great, Amanda, and you have a fantastic son. And you don’t hold over his head that you’re a millionaire heiress. You live on his income just like you promised. You could buy the biggest house in Ross and you’re still living in a two-bedroom bungalow.”

Stephanie was right. Two years ago when I turned thirty I gained access to my inheritance. I spent many delicious mornings strolling the shady lanes of Ross, picking out which house I might like to buy. When I broached the subject of moving to Andre, he put on a stony face.

“I am not living in a house my wife bought,” he said in his proud, don’t-argue-with-me tone.

I should have replied, “We’re living in a house my mother bought, just a small one.” But I didn’t.

“Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a pool and a big garden and a real dining room?”

“Everyone would know you bought the house. I couldn’t afford it on my income from the restaurant,” he insisted. We had the discussion in our kitchen. He was standing under the skylight, his green eyes glinting in the sun. Even after ten years of marriage I grew weak when I looked at him. His stomach was still completely flat; his muscles were those of a teenager’s.

“Oh,” I said, deflated. I adored our bungalow, its proximity to the restaurant, the short walk to school. But I loved big houses and beautiful furniture. I had promised Max we would get a big dog when we bought a house.

“You are so sexy when you pout.” Andre put his arm around my waist. “I have an idea,” he said, nuzzling my neck. “Why don’t we buy a piece of land in Napa and build a weekend house. You can have your pool and a big garden.”

“That’s a fantastic idea!” I said, and it was a great idea. We could have friends up for the weekend and even spend summers there. Lots of our friends had houses in Napa, some even made their own wine.

“Good. Call a Realtor and look at some land.” Andre kissed the back of my neck.

I contacted a Realtor, but it was hard to look at property when Max had school every day. Two years later I still hadn’t found the perfect lot. Now I wondered if Andre had suggested it so he could get rid of me for whole summers. He could keep La Petite Maison his own personal brothel.

“I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me.” I was desperate to transfer some of the blame.

“When I found him with Angie he said he was going to change. I believed him.”

“And you didn’t think I’d want to know? I might want the opportunity to see if he was full of crap?” My voice shook.

“I didn’t want to hurt you.” Stephanie was close to tears. Her face was pale; she looked as wretched as I felt. “And Andre seemed so sincere. I knew he didn’t want to lose you. I believed he wouldn’t do it again.”

Stephanie and I stared at each other. We both had believed Andre. We were both fools.

“Were there others? After Angie?” I asked in a whisper.

Stephanie nodded slowly. “I didn’t know what to do, so I just kept firing the women.”

I laughed. “A full-time job, apparently.”

“What are you going to do?” Stephanie asked.

“What am I going to do about my wonderful husband who has been screwing around for eight years and coming home every night with a smile on his face? What am I going to say to my son who is the light of my life and loves his daddy like I loved mine?” At the thought of my father, who had a backbone like a ruler and had treated my mother like a queen, I fell apart.

“When I was ten, my father had a really good friend named Charlie Ambrose.” I blinked away the tears. “They played golf every Sunday and he came over for poker once a month. Charlie was a lot younger than my father and really handsome, with blue eyes and white-blond hair that flopped across his forehead. He let me sit next to him while they played poker, and I’d point to the card I thought he should put down.” I closed my eyes, remembering a time when all men seemed safe. “One month he didn’t show up for the poker game, and I sat at the top of the stairs waiting for him to ring the doorbell. The next Sunday, I waited for my father to return from golf, because he usually brought Charlie over for a drink after eighteen holes. But he brought a new friend home, Stewart Pratt, who was bald and had a nose like a beak.”

“What happened to Charlie Ambrose?” Stephanie asked.

“I got up the courage to ask my mother and she just said my father and Charlie had a falling-out.” I remembered how nervous I had been asking my mother, and how she answered my question curtly, and then turned away and went back to writing place cards.

“A couple of years later, I was at dance school and I was paired up with Charlie’s son. I was taller than he was and he had to stand on his tiptoes to dance with me. I mentioned his father hadn’t been at our house for a long time, and he looked at me as if someone had died and I forgot to come to the funeral.”

“Did Charlie die?” Stephanie leaned forward in the sandbox.

“No.” I shook my head. “Charlie had a dalliance with his son’s German tutor and was living in a penthouse on Nob Hill. My father was so moral he wouldn’t be friends with a guy who screwed around. He never spoke Charlie’s name, and Charlie never came to our house again. My father’s favorite line was: ‘It’s not how much money a man has that makes him a success, it’s the strength of his character.’” I sighed. “How could I marry a weasel?”