On a Night Like This (20 page)

Amanda pranced around the room. “I’m so hip; I’m
soooo
bohemian,” she said in a deep voice, hand on hip, other hand fake-smoking a joint.

“You were listening in,” Blair accused.

“Damn right,” Amanda said, giggling.

“I’m sorry,” Luke said, his voice serious.

“Why? I liked her!” Blair told him. “I was ready to invite her for dinner. She’ll be my new best friend. She’ll take me shopping and buy me pantsuits.”

“You are
soooo
sweet,” Luke said, and they all laughed.

Luke pulled Blair to him, wrapped his arms around her.

“Thank you,” he said.

“For what?”

“For a lovely one-night stand.”

Amanda stomped out of the room.

“Go to work,” Luke said. “I’ll deal with her.”

“That’s OK?”

“That’s fine,” Luke assured her.

“I don’t want to go,” Blair said when he released her. She stroked Luke’s back, her hands pressing into his muscles.

“I’ll wait up for you.”

“Is your wife really pregnant with someone else’s baby?” Blair asked, leaning back and looking up at Luke.

“I think so. I hope so. Then it makes leaving much easier.”

“You really left.”

“I really left.”

“I’m glad.”

“You’ll keep me around for one more night?”

“One more night.”

Blair kept smiling at work. She didn’t tell Daniel about her latest seizure—she would have to quit working soon and she’d tell him everything then. For now, she wanted to feel good. What a concept.

“I figured it out,” she told Daniel when he came in to bring her a glass of wine from an unfinished Bordeaux Grand Cru some diners had left.

“What’s that?” He perched on the stool behind her. “Chop the onions finer. No one should see them.”

Blair rolled her eyes and kept chopping.

“Why we never fell in love with anyone.”

“Oh, that. I thought we were done with that. Please.”

“Onions fine enough, my dear?”

“Perfect.”

Blair tossed them into the oiled pan, added garlic and red pepper.

“Love is terrifying. The minute you have it, you’re scared of losing it. And it’s so big. It fills up all the space of your life. I mean, I’m not standing here making linguine with clam sauce. I’m thinking about him; I’m missing him; I’m getting ready for him; I’m planning when I can make linguine with clam sauce for him.”

“You’ve lost it.”

“I’ve lost it! You fall in love and you go crazy!”

“No, you fall in love and you get boring.”

“But it’s not boring. It’s unbelievable. The whole world is charged. Like I’ve revved up all the ions around me, and they’re all crashing into each other making little love explosions.”

“I’m going up front. I can’t take this.”

“See. You’re scared of it. You want a small world. A safe world. There’s nothing safe with love.”

“Stir, Blair. If you burn the garlic, I’m sending you home.”

“But I wouldn’t care! I’d be going home to him!”

“Please tell me you’re kidding. This is all a bad joke.”

Blair looked at Daniel and offered a half smile. “Sort of kidding,” she said.

“Not good enough,” he said, getting off the stool and heading back into the restaurant.

Philippe burst through the doors, carrying too many plates. He dropped them at Manuel’s side, then slapped his butt to keep him from complaining. Philippe never organized his plates before depositing them for dishwashing—but all Manuel needed was a sexual tease to keep him happy.

“The boss says you are a mess,
ma chérie,
” Philippe said to Blair while swirling his finger in the sauce.

Blair slapped his wrist. “Get out of there.”

“Are you sick again?”

“Sick in love,” Blair said.

“The movie man?”

“Yes. He left his wife.”

“For how long?”

“He’s smitten. I’ve never seen anything like it. I never knew what smitten looked like before.”

“It looks like hell in about a week. When the wife calls him home.”

“Well, I’m not worried about a week from now.”

“Bring him here,” Philippe said, loading up the first-course dishes for his table. “I would like to serve dinner to the movie man and his smitten face.”

“I’ll do that,” Blair said. “Get those plates out before they’re cold.”

Philippe pushed through the doors to the restaurant. Rianne emerged in his place.

“You’re in love?” she asked, astonished.

“I’m not in love. Maybe I’m in love. I’m playing around with the idea. Nothing like a private conversation around here,” Blair said. She was still smiling.

“The screenwriter?”

“Yes, the screenwriter. He’s just a regular guy. No, he isn’t,” Blair said. “He’s amazing. Regular guys aren’t amazing.”

“You’re telling me,” Rianne moaned. “Table five wants the steak cooked more.”

“Tell table five the steak will be shoe leather if I cook it another second.”

Rianne whirled around, carrying the plate, and returned to the dining room.

Blair had three more desserts to prepare; then she was done. She was wide-awake, her body physically exhausted, her mind whirling. When Daniel returned, asking, “Is it safe to come back here?” she kissed him and whispered, “Let me leave early. Otherwise I’ll keep boring you with all this love talk.”

“Go. Get out of here. It’s downright frightening.”

She kissed him again.

“Stop kissing me.” Daniel swiped at his cheek.

“Go fall in love,” Blair said, putting the desserts on their plates, grabbing her jacket and heading to the back door.

“Go hide until you’re over this,” Daniel called back at her.

“Can I take the flowers?” she asked, grabbing a bouquet on the counter.

“Go!”

“And a bottle of wine?” she called out, whisking a bottle of their house wine into her bag.

“Leave!”

She left the restaurant, smiling.

It was a warm night, unusual for San Francisco, and all of the inhabitants of the Haight seemed to congregate on the streets. There was a group of musicians on every corner, kids smoking pot, guys walking arm in arm, a whole city of people who had just fallen in love. Blair could tell—they kept smiling back at her.

When she arrived at her cottage, she could hear Amanda’s African music coming from the open windows. A good sign—Amanda wasn’t holed up in her room. Unless Luke had left. The sister-in-law had come back and taken him away, returned him to his rightful place in the world. Amanda would be in the living room, celebrating.

Blair ran up the steps, her heart pounding. She threw open the front door and saw Luke first, in the overstuffed chair, reading a book. Amanda sat in the middle of the floor, her homework spread around her.

They both looked up, surprised.

Luke got up from his chair, put his arms around her, whispered in her ear, “My God, I was just wishing you home. I never knew I had these powers.”

“I couldn’t work. I couldn’t concentrate. I was acting like a goon in love,” Blair whispered back.

“Are you guys going to make out right here in the living room?” Amanda called out.

Blair and Luke unwrapped their arms, let each other go.

“Maybe,” Blair said.

“Spare me,” Amanda said.

“How was your dinner?” Blair asked, handing Luke the flowers, offering one more kiss.

“Great,” he said. “Amanda made me pasta with some perfect sauce and salad and garlic bread. I’m in food heaven.”

Blair looked over at Amanda, who shrugged. “It’s just the garlic-and-olive-oil sauce you always make.”

“I’m impressed,” Blair said.

“You thought I only knew how to cook an omelette.”

“Well, maybe you should be cooking more around here.”

“Maybe I will.”

Blair leaned over and kissed her daughter. “I love you, sweetheart.”

“I hate physics,” Amanda moaned.

“I couldn’t help her. I tried. She almost kicked me out of the house for trying,” Luke said.

“I should have warned you,” Blair said. “She asks for help. She doesn’t really want help. She just wants to talk it out with someone.”

“Where’d she learn that?” Luke asked.

“You don’t know that about me,” Blair countered.

“Just a sneaking suspicion,” Luke told her.

“I’m going to open this bottle of wine and pour us two glasses. And then I’ll join this scene of domestic bliss if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind,” Luke said, kissing her. “But why don’t I do that.”

He took the bottle and headed into the kitchen.

Blair fell into the armchair. She never wanted to feel her exhaustion, but sometimes it forced itself upon her.

“He’s OK, isn’t he?” Blair whispered to Amanda.

Amanda looked up from her physics book, shrugged, half-smiled.

“We had fun, I guess.”

“Thanks for making him dinner.”

“I had to eat. What do you think I do every night while you’re gone?”

“I know, Amanda. I’m just glad you’re giving him a chance.”

“I didn’t say anything about that.”

“Right.”

“He’s staying, isn’t he?”

“For the night. That’s all we’ve figured out so far.”

“His wife is pregnant, Mom. This isn’t a permanent gig.”

“And I’m dying. Let’s talk about permanence, here.”

Amanda stood up, stormed from the room, and in a second Blair could hear her bedroom door slam.

“What happened?” Luke asked, appearing in the doorway, wineglasses in hand.

“I screwed up,” Blair said.

Luke handed Blair a glass of wine, sat down on the floor in front of her.

“We did OK,” Luke told her.

“I know,” Blair said. “I could tell.”

She leaned forward and kissed him. He put his hand on her cheek and kept it there.

“She’s lovely,” Luke said.

Blair smiled. “I know. Maybe you should fall in love with her. You’d have a helluva better chance at a future.”

“I don’t believe in the future,” Luke said. “Take me to bed.”

“I’ll do that,” Blair told him, and she stood, taking his hand and leading him into her bedroom.

In the morning Amanda was gone, off to school before either of them woke up. Blair read the note on the kitchen table:
I fed and walked Sweetpea. If Mr. Hollywood goes home, tell him to leave his dog here.

Blair made coffee, took two cups back to bed. Luke was awake, waiting for her.

“My daughter wants your dog,” she said.

“So I guess we stay,” Luke told her.

“I woke up in the middle of the night terrified that you were gone,” Blair said.

“I’m right here.”

“For now.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“It doesn’t make sense, Luke. You don’t start a new life with a woman who’s dying.”

“It doesn’t feel like you’re dying.”

“It will soon.”

Blair thought about the pain in her head, the ache in her muscles. Each day there were new parts of her that hurt.

“Come back to bed.”

“I want to talk about it.”

“I can’t talk about it,” Luke said. “I think if we make love enough times, my brain cells will die and I’ll never have to think about it.”

Blair smiled, climbed into bed next to him.

“How did this happen?”

“I need you to live, Blair. I need you to spend a few more decades with me.”

She lay down, her head on his shoulder.

“I can’t do that,” she whispered, pressing her face into the side of his neck, breathing him in, willing him to keep her alive.

Chapter Ten

O
ver the next couple of weeks, Luke could see that Blair’s illness progressed, making her tired, occasionally weak. She sometimes moaned in her sleep and he would wrap his arms around her, wishing he had some power to take away her pain. If he asked her, she would say she was fine. She would tell him that it had been too long since they had made love. Which was daily, twice daily, never enough for either of them.

She wouldn’t quit work, wouldn’t slow down. She said she needed to cook, needed to see her friends at the restaurant or else she would disappear inside the Luke cocoon as she called it. “What’s wrong with the Luke cocoon?” he’d ask.

He wanted nothing more than to be with her. He wanted long days in bed while Amanda was at school. He wanted walks on the beach with Amanda and Sweetpea after school. And he wanted quiet nights with Amanda in the cottage if Blair was working, quiet nights with both of them if she had a night off.

He finished the story about the man in the woods and the bartender’s daughter. He was pleased, enjoying the process of fiction, the discovery of the story. He began a new story, this one about a high school boy, the golden boy, who fell for the odd girl, the loner. He would invent a shared childhood, let them marry, spend years together.

He wrote a few pages every day, letting the story find itself. He had never written this way before. All of his scripts had been crafted, scene by scene, before he wrote a word. He knew the stuff of Hollywood, the three-act structure, the necessary plot points to send the character on his filmic journey. Maybe he had become terrified of the unexplored territory. Maybe he hadn’t written anything original since
Pescadero.

So he took his time, wrote a few scenes and asked himself only: What happens next? Not: What happens at the end? Like his life. Writing as a one-night stand.

He loved the cottage, the coziness of the place. It was like his cabin in size, yet so unlike it in feel. The cottage was snug, full to the brim with women’s things: gauzy scarves hanging over lamps and the backs of chairs, beaded necklaces draped and tossed everywhere, candles lit on every surface of every room as soon as night fell, incense filling the place with an earthy smell. Whenever he walked into the cottage, from an outing with Sweetpea or a trip to the supermarket, he immediately thought,
I’m home.
Home was Blair, Amanda, this place. He had never been home before.

He wrote in the morning while Blair slept. When she woke, he made coffee for both of them, then took her back to bed. They often strolled the neighborhood, hand in hand, like kids. Luke would buy them presents on these excursions: CDs, books, more candles, wine, cookware. “I have money,” he told her. “I want to spend it on you.”

She had a doctor’s appointment—he asked if he could join her. “Yes,” she said immediately. “I hate seeing the doctor. Come with me. I have a favorite bar we can go to afterward and get smashed together. I’ll introduce you to my guardian angel.”

“I thought I was your guardian angel.”

“This one prepared me for you,” she said, smiling.

“Then I’d love to meet him,” Luke told her.

Luke remembered his last time with Emily, the doctor’s appointment she didn’t want him to come to, his intrusion into her secret life.

This clinic was shabbier, anything but elegant. They were in the middle of the Haight, and the patients looked ill, poor, lost. He wanted to take Blair somewhere else, somewhere they could save her.
No one could be saved here,
he thought.

But the doctor was smart, caring, attentive. He welcomed Luke, answered his questions directly, let him watch the examination and took the time to explain every step.

“I want to do more,” Luke told him, his voice catching in his throat.

“You’re doing a lot,” the doc said. “I’m glad she’s got someone.”

“Are there trial drugs, some kind of treatment—”

“Stop,” Blair said. “You promised.”

Luke had promised to respect her decision not to fight the inevitable. But in the doctor’s office, with Blair’s white skin exposed on the examining table, it was impossible not to dream of miracle cures.

“She’s making the right decision,” the doctor said. “We can talk about how to make the end easier, not harder.”

“Isn’t there something? Some new treatment—”

“Stop,” Blair repeated, sitting up on the table, looking more scared than angry.

“I think Blair’s right on this,” the doctor said. “It benefits us—the medical profession—to have her try one thing after another. But I know what’s out there. We would only be prolonging her life by a short time. And the quality of that life would diminish substantially. The drugs would kill her instead of the disease.”

Blair sank back onto the table, and Luke nodded his head, silent.

“I’ve talked to Blair about ways to alleviate pain, the stages she’ll go through, the way we can make it possible for her to stay home and out of the hospital.”

“Good,” Luke managed.

“Has the level of pain changed?” the doctor asked Blair.

“Some. The pills work fine so far. I don’t need anything else yet. Maybe something for my boyfriend, who’s going to be in great pain if he keeps this up.”

Luke looked at her and smiled. “I’ll shut up,” he said. “You never called me your boyfriend before.”

The doctor smiled. “Lucky guy,” he said. “I thought she was a pain in the ass when I first met her, but she grows on you.”

“She’s been growing on me since high school.”

“He’s lying,” Blair said. “He never talked to me in high school.”

“Guys don’t need to talk,” the doctor said. “They lust just fine without words.”

The doctor patted Blair’s shoulder. “You can get dressed now. I’ll see you in another month. Unless something comes up sooner. It might now. The pain and fatigue indicate that the disease has advanced farther. You can expect some changes.”

“What kind of changes?” Luke asked.

“More severe pain. Perhaps more seizures. Stay close to home or take this guy out with you when you do leave the house. You might think about quitting work. Save your energy. If you exhaust yourself, you’ll fire up the disease.”

Luke shook the doctor’s hand and watched him leave.

“I can’t stand this,” Luke said when he closed the door behind him.

“You have to stand this,” Blair said, sitting up.

“I know. Give me an hour. And a trip to that bar you were talking about.”

“Great,” Blair said, smiling.

“Good doctor,” Luke said.

“Yeah, I hated the bastard at first. Easier than hating what he told me. But he’s OK.”

“I love you,” Luke said. “Girlfriend.”

“Don’t get possessive,” she teased.

“Not a chance. Get dressed. Let’s get smashed.”

“You hang out here?” Luke asked when they entered the bar. It was the kind of place that you passed without noticing, no sign, no light, a dark door open just a crack. But Blair pushed open the door, flooding the place with light. The few patrons, old men and a couple of middle-aged women, squinted at them, clearly annoyed at the intrusion of daylight.

“I came here once. After an appointment. I say we make it a tradition.”

“I don’t like building traditions around doctor appointments,” Luke said.

“We don’t have much choice,” Blair said, heading right for the bar.

“Let’s take a table,” Luke suggested.

“Nope. The bar. It’s part of the tradition.”

Luke reluctantly sat at the bar, joining the grimmest set of characters he had ever seen in the city. No one was talking—they all seemed intent on hearing every word of Luke and Blair’s conversation.

“Hi, angel,” Blair said, and Luke looked up at the bartender.

He was young, too young for this place. Not bad-looking. Very pierced. Did Blair go for younger guys?

“Hey, you,” the bartender said. “Looking better.”

“That’s easy,” Blair said. “I was looped by the time I got to you last time. This is Luke.”

“Her boyfriend.”

Blair smiled and elbowed him in the ribs.

“Did she ever call you her boyfriend?”

“Nah. Just her angel,” the guy said.

“He wouldn’t sleep with me,” Blair explained.

“You didn’t try very hard,” the bartender said, smiling. “What can I get you?”

“Scotch for me. Bourbon for the boyfriend,” Blair said.

“Doubles,” Luke said.

“I knew that,” the bartender said, and turned to make the drinks.

“You jealous?” Blair asked.

“I don’t know,” Luke said. “The idea that you had a life without me drives me just a little crazy. It’s a guy thing. I’ll get over it.”

“Don’t get over it,” Blair said.

“Easy for you to say.”

The bartender slid their drinks across the bar to them.

“How’s your daughter?” he asked Blair.

“How well do you guys know each other?” Luke asked.

“You find out a lot when someone crash-lands on your bar stool,” the bartender said.

“She’s OK,” Blair said. “When she’s a little older, I’ll tell her to stop by and fall in love with you.”

“How long do I have to wait?” he asked.

“How old are you?” Blair asked.

“Twenty-three.”

“She’s sixteen. You’ve got two years.”

“She look like you?”

“Better. And she’s nicer.”

“Maybe she doesn’t need her mom to set her up,” Luke suggested.

“Took me more than forty years to find a good man. No reason she should flounder around for so long,” Blair told him.

“Maybe she’ll be better at it than you are,” Luke said.

“Maybe she’ll spend the rest of her life looking for a man just like you,” Blair said. “Won’t she be disappointed.”

Luke leaned over and kissed her. The bartender disappeared.

“This is a very cool place,” Luke said. “But why is he your angel?”

“One more drink and I’ll show you,” Blair told him.

They ordered another round of doubles when they finished the first. They drank, talked about whom they remembered in high school and made up stories for what might have happened to each.

When the bartender returned with sandwiches and chips—unordered—Blair beamed.

“My angel,” she said.

“I figured I had to feed you or save you again. Feeding you is easier,” the bartender said.

“I still want to be saved,” Blair said.

The bartender put his elbows on the bar and leaned toward them. “What can I do for you?” he asked, smiling.

“I changed my mind,” Blair said. “I don’t want to die.”

The bartender nodded, thinking. “I can see that,” he said.

“You gonna grant me a wish here, or what?” Blair asked.

“I don’t want you to die, either,” the bartender said quietly.

“Bad for business,” Blair muttered, drinking the last of her scotch.

“How soon?” he asked.

Blair shrugged.

Luke saw that she was crying. He put his arm around her.

“I’m turning into a sloppy drunk,” Blair whimpered.

“Two more,” Luke told the bartender. “She promised me we’d get smashed. I’m not even close.”

The bartender turned away reluctantly and went to make their drinks. Luke pulled Blair close to him and held her.

“I hate you,” she whispered.

“I know,” he told her.

“I want you out of my life,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said.

“Don’t let go,” she told him, and he held her tightly.

They walked home slowly, with great difficulty. The day had almost disappeared, though dusk, with its soft light, covered everything in Day-Glo pink. They held each other, weaving slightly, making their way through the early-evening crowds on the sidewalks.

They didn’t speak—they hadn’t had much to say to each other after their third round of doubles. They had kissed sloppily, and the bartender had finally bestowed his blessing: Come back again, many times, many doctor’s appointments, a lifetime of bar visits after death sentences.

Blair had kissed the bartender good-bye, promising him her daughter.

They walked home to the daughter, hoping the sandwiches and the walk and kisses along the way would sober them up, make them presentable. It didn’t work.

And when they opened the door to the cottage, having pushed each other up the long row of steps, they discovered someone waiting for them in their living room. Emily. Abandoned wife and pregnant woman.

They both stood up straight.

Emily sat in the armchair, watching them.

Amanda raced into the room from her bedroom and skidded to a stop in front of them. “She came a while ago. I let her in. I hope that’s OK. I couldn’t let her wait outside.”

“It’s OK,” Luke said. “Hello, Emily.”

Emily stood up slowly, one hand on her belly.

“This is Blair,” he said.

Emily nodded.

“I’m outta here,” Amanda said. “Too much homework.” She fled the room.

“I’d offer you a seat, but you already took mine,” Blair said, and started to giggle.

“I don’t think Emily needs to stay,” Luke said. “If she wants to talk to me, she and I can go for a walk and talk.”

“You’re drunk,” Emily said.

“That’s true,” Luke said.

“In the middle of the day,” Emily stated. She looked confused.

“It’s now the end of the day,” Blair said.

“I mean . . . I shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry.” Emily looked away from them.

“Would you like to leave?” Luke offered.

“No. I don’t feel well,” Emily said, and her hand reached out for the chair, but she misjudged the distance and leaned on thin air, so that her body, swollen and round, started to topple. Both Luke and Blair raced to grab her and bumped into each other, so that they all struggled to stay on their feet, to stand up, straighten up, separate themselves from the mess of each other.

“I’ll leave,” Emily said. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Let me get you a glass of water first,” Blair said.

Emily stood with her hand now firmly planted on the back of the armchair. “Water. That would be nice.”

“You OK?” Luke said. Suddenly he wondered if Emily was drunk.

“I’m just fine,” she said, her old voice returning. “I’m having a fine time visiting my husband and his girlfriend.”