Monarch Beach (8 page)

“Now you’re crazy.”

“I am trying to keep our family together. Your mother bought this house in Max’s name. He owns the house, so I am not leaving, and I hope you don’t either. I love you, Amanda. Nothing has changed.”

“Everything has changed!” I yelled and I took off my shoe and threw it across the room. It didn’t hit him, but it made an indentation in the wood floor where it landed, and it made Andre get up. I stopped with the one shoe—I didn’t want to be escorted to the police station and charged with assault.

“I’m going to the restaurant to get the bread for dinner. Give you some time to calm down.” He slipped his shoes on and walked out the door.

I sank down on the sofa. It smelled of Andre: cologne and fresh bread. I closed my eyes and cried.

*   *   *

I let myself cry for half an hour and then I walked over to the cabinet that constituted our bar and poured myself a brandy. I didn’t know how the brandy would react when it met the tequila still in my stomach, but I figured it would be hard to feel worse than I did. I gulped the brandy down quickly. It burned my throat but cleared my head. The first thing I had to do, I told myself sternly, was to stop crying. I had given Andre ten years of my life; I wasn’t going to waste another minute on him. Then I had to make a plan. Andre was right about the house; it was in Max’s name. I didn’t want to spend another night under the same roof as Andre, but for Max’s sake I would have to. I poured myself one more brandy for courage. Then I sat down and waited for Stephanie to bring Max home.

*   *   *

Stephanie and Max pulled up just as the two shots of brandy were beginning to make me feel a little fuzzy. Max ran up the steps and hugged me.

“You smell funny again.” He wrinkled his nose. I had to stop drinking or they’d cart me away to Betty Ford.

“Daddy and I were making a new dish,” I improvised again.

“Is Daddy here?” Max’s face lit up.

“He went to get the bread, he’ll be right back.”

“Can we go to the restaurant? I want to see him and tell him about the turtle we found in Zoe’s yard.”

“He’ll be home any minute. Go inside and change. I want to talk to Mrs. Chambers for a minute.”

Stephanie was standing at the bottom of the steps, probably wondering if I was waiting for Andre with a shotgun or a carving knife.

“You look good, but you do smell a little funny,” she said, walking up the steps and sitting down next to me.

“Couple of shots of brandy for Dutch courage. Andre says he’s not leaving.”

“Told you,” Stephanie replied.

“That’s helpful.”

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

“I’m going to stop drinking tomorrow. I promise. He’s not worth it.”

“Now you’re talking,” Stephanie replied.

“Poor Max.” My lips quivered. I felt the tears start.

“And you’re going to stop crying,” Stephanie said.

“That, too,” I said, though my eyes were wet. “Max doesn’t deserve such a shit for a dad.”

“He doesn’t, but life isn’t fair, even for the privileged classes.” Stephanie grinned. “So, tell me again what you’re going to do besides not drink and not cry?”

“I’ll go see my mother tomorrow and make an appointment with her attorney,” I said with a sigh.

“Good girl.”

“And I will not throw anything at Andre tonight.”

“Did you throw anything at him today?” Stephanie asked.

“Just your Manolo. But I missed him.”

“After you see the attorney we’ll get you some target practice.”

“No, I don’t want to impart bodily harm. Well, I do, but I don’t want to go to jail. That wouldn’t help Max.”

“See, you are still thinking clearly, you’re stronger than you think.”

“Oh, Stephanie.” I turned to her.

“No more crying. I have to go home. Gisella gets off at six and Glenn doesn’t know how to use a microwave. He’ll put the baked potatoes in for ten minutes and burn the house down.”

“No, he won’t,” I said and laughed.

“Really. He doesn’t pay much attention to the outside world. He still thinks I’m twenty-five and hot.”

“That’s because you look like you’re twenty-five. You saved my life today. Thanks.” I gave her a hug.

“It was nothing. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I feel like a complete heel.”

“Andre’s the heel. I’m the dummy who fell for him.”

“No, he’s the dummy who didn’t deserve you. Call me tomorrow after you see your mother.” Stephanie kissed me on the cheek and ran down the stairs.

*   *   *

I sat on the steps. The night was gorgeous, warm and clear. I heard crickets and a frog burping. Max came outside in his pajamas and sat down.

“How was your day?” I asked.

“Great. Nineteen more days of school.”

“You love school,” I said.

“Sure, but summer’s better.”

“Summer is good,” I agreed. We usually spent summers at home, with weekend trips to Lake Tahoe. Last summer Max went to sleepover camp for the first time. He came home full of stories of giant spiders and the one fish he caught by himself. Andre and I spent most of the week Max was gone in bed, reliving the first year of our marriage. What would Max and I do this summer? I felt the tears start and rubbed my eyes.

“I don’t want to go to camp this summer,” Max said, linking his arm through mine.

“But you caught that huge fish. And this year you learn archery. Grandma bought you the bow and arrow set for Christmas.”

Max considered this. The bow and arrows had been lying at the foot of his bed since December. His little friends tramping through his bedroom on playdates were jealous of the five bows with the real feathers.

“I do want to do archery, but I want to stay with you and Daddy. Maybe he can teach me archery?” Max asked.

“We’ll ask him,” I said. I held Max’s hand and we listened to the crickets. For a moment I wavered. How could I divorce Andre and deprive Max of having a father around to teach him boy things? But what kind of husband would Max become if he learned from Andre?

“C’mon, let’s go to bed. I think we could both use a good night’s sleep.”

“But Daddy isn’t back yet,” Max protested.

“I’ll make sure we eat his bread for breakfast, with warm butter. How’s that?”

“I wanted to say good night.”

“I’ll lie down on your bed with you, and when Daddy comes he can say good night to both of us,” I suggested.

Max smiled. I never slept in his bed with him, so this was a huge treat. I took off my shoes and tucked my body against the wall, leaving Max as much of his bed as I could. I waited till I heard him snoring softly and then I closed my eyes.

Later I heard the front door open. I glanced at the clock; it was almost eleven o’clock. I held my breath, trying not to move and wake Max. I didn’t want to talk to Andre; I didn’t want to see him. I heard Andre go into our bedroom. I imagined him undressing and climbing into bed. I buried my face in Max’s pillow and surrendered to sleep.

Black Tuesday was finally over.

Chapter Three

When I pulled up at my mother’s house the next morning, I was reminded of how wealthy she was. Her attorney made house calls. Dean Birney, senior partner of Birney and Sutton, arrived before me, his black Mercedes with its tinted windows and gold rims parked in the driveway. I parked behind him and opened my door. The wheels of divorce were in motion.

Rosemary threw open the front door before I made it up the steps. I had called my mother after I dropped Max off at school and told her the whole story.

“Drive right over here. I’m calling Dean Birney,” she instructed. I could almost hear her fishing for a cigarette.

“Shouldn’t we take this slowly?” I asked as I maneuvered onto the Golden Gate Bridge. I hoped she would tell me I was being hasty, all marriages had problems, even she and my father weathered low periods. But she hadn’t. Instead she started swearing under her breath, either at Andre or at the cigarette she was trying to light. I hung up and concentrated on my driving.

Now I stood in the foyer and let Rosemary hug me. Rosemary had been hugging me all my life: when I failed a Spanish test in the first grade, when the kids in middle school made fun of me for having a neck like a giraffe, and when she found the crumpled college acceptance letters in my garbage can.

Until yesterday I had a husband to hug me. But he turned out to be a lying, cheating scumbag. I straightened my black Max Azria side-slit skirt and joined my mother and Dean Birney in the morning room.

“Amanda.” Dean stood up when I entered. “Grace has been briefing me on the situation.” Dean Birney was in his early sixties. He had a thick head of white hair, a long nose, and thin lips. In the thirty years he had been our attorney I had only seen him smile twice: at my father’s sixtieth birthday party, and at my parents’ silver anniversary. He was Harvard educated and fiercely loyal. Andre Blick was a dead man.

My mother held my face, checking for pain. Her hair was the same white-blond shade it had been all my life, cut in the same sleek pageboy. She wore a two-piece navy Dior suit and an ivory silk blouse. I glanced at my watch: It was ten a.m. and my mother looked as if she was dressed for an evening at Masa’s, or for battle with an errant son-in-law.

She sat next to Dean and motioned for me to sit on her other side. She reached for her packet of cigarettes and lit one before I could protest. The year Max was born she tried to give up smoking but failed. Now she insisted she only smoked one pack a day, and Rosemary backed her up, but for all I knew she bribed Rosemary to fib to me. I noticed she wore her Dior belt on its tightest notch and her skin was a translucent shade of gray. I promised myself I would say something when I could think straight.

“You discovered your husband has been having affairs for at least eight years and you want to file for divorce,” Dean said matter-of-factly.

I looked from Dean to my mother. I was thankful she had briefed him so I didn’t have to repeat the details, but the more people who knew, the more real Andre’s infidelities became. I glanced at the sideboard to see if Rosemary had put out any alcohol—a bottle of scotch would have done nicely—but there was only coffee, tea, and lemon. I’d have to survive on caffeine until lunchtime. I got up and poured myself a cup of black coffee, my third for the day.

“Yes,” I said.

“He admitted to having affairs?” Dean asked.

“I caught him in the act. He wasn’t playing canasta.”

“Does he want a divorce?”

“No.” I shook my head.

“But he doesn’t want to give up the other woman?”

“He said he’d fire her. He said it meant nothing, and I was the only one who was important to him.” I swallowed hard.

“You don’t want to give him another chance?” Dean asked.

“My friend Stephanie, who is also his silent partner, gave me a list of previous flings. He changes girls more often than he changes menus.”

“I just want to be certain you want to make this step. That the marriage can’t be saved,” Dean said.

“Dean”—my mother stubbed out her cigarette and lit another—“we went over this. Andre has been lying to Amanda for my grandson’s whole life. I don’t want her to spend another night under the same roof as him.”

“I needed to hear it from Amanda,” Dean said and smiled at me. “Divorce can be pretty brutal.” He squeezed my hand. I felt my eyes fill with tears and took another swig of coffee. Why couldn’t I have married a man like Dean: someone with white hair and kind eyes? Why had I fallen for a sexy Frenchman with zero morals?

“All right, I’m going to take some notes.” Dean released my hand and snapped open his briefcase.

“Your son is how old?” he asked.

“Eight,” I replied.

“And what property do you own?”

“Just the house in Ross.”

“Which I bought,” my mother interjected.

“That’s the problem. My mother bought the house for us when Max was born and put it in Max’s name. Andre says it’s Max’s house and he doesn’t have to leave.”

“Why did you put the house in Max’s name?” Dean turned to my mother.

“Because my bastard son-in-law was too proud to take any charity from me. Amanda would have been living in a one-bedroom apartment with a baby unless I intervened.”

“And you want him to leave?” Dean turned back to me.

“I do.” I realized it was the only thing I felt strongly about. I loved our little house. I adored pottering around my garden. I loved sitting on the front steps watching Max skateboard up and down the street.

“Can’t we kick him out?” my mother demanded.

Dean took his time answering. “No, actually, we can’t. Your inheritance is safe. Your father left the bulk of his estate to you and any heirs, but since he died before you were married it is not considered community property. But if the house was bought in Max’s name it is Max’s house. I’m afraid your husband has as much right to live there as you do.”

“Oh.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“You could move?” Dean suggested.

“I love Ross. Max has so many friends at school.” I shook my head.

“I mean move to another house in Ross,” Dean said.

I wanted to call Rosemary and ask her to bring in the vodka. But it was not even eleven a.m. “I was hoping Andre would have to move out of Ross. It’s such a small town. Everyone would talk, especially with the restaurant.”

“Let’s talk about the restaurant for a minute.” Dean pulled a fresh sheet of paper from his briefcase.

“Who owns the restaurant?” he asked.

“Andre does. And Stephanie and Glenn are silent partners.”

“You’re not an owner?” Dean asked. I heard the surprise in his voice and I swallowed again.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Andre was so proud he didn’t let my mother or me invest in the restaurant. He wanted to make it without our help. He was planning on buying Glenn and Stephanie out soon. We were going to buy some land in Napa and build a weekend house. With a pool and tennis courts.” I was over the edge. “Mother, do you think Rosemary could get me a scotch? My throat is really dry.”

“Rosemary!” my mother called. I smiled. My father and mother had never been afraid to turn to alcohol in tough times.