One True Theory of Love (29 page)

“As part of your feeble attempt to rewrite history?”

“That’s right.” It was good to hear him laugh. “Although I was going for heroic.”

“Heroic’s a stretch.” Meg smiled into the darkness beyond her patio. “But it’s a start. I’ll give you that.”

M
eg hid the card and check in her kitchen junk drawer underneath the “Mothering the Fatherless Boy” article her mother had given her. Hidden yet handy, she could examine it as often as she wanted.
A hundred thousand dollars.
With that kind of money, a person could right a lot of wrongs.

Meg began with Amy. Ever since she’d blown up at her for still being in touch with Jonathan, things had been eggshelltiptoey between them. Amy had worked so hard to prepare her usual excellent Thanksgiving dinner. Meg hadn’t been very appreciative and she’d felt bad ever since. Jonathan
had
always been exceptionally kind to Amy—because of his urging, she’d gotten her first of eventually three poems published in
The Sun.

So Meg made reservations for the two of them at the Elizabeth Arden Red Door Spa at the Westin La Paloma. Amy found a babysitter and met her there. Meg had offered Ahmed a multitude of sexual favors in exchange for watching Henry for a little while before and a little while after soccer practice. He assured her the favors were appreciated but not necessary.

When Meg arrived at the Westin, Amy was already there and she threw her arms around Meg. “I don’t deserve this treat. I haven’t been a very good sister. I’m sorry for going behind your back and being in touch with Jonathan all these years.”

“I’m the one who’s sorry,” Meg said. “As Dad says, it’s really none of my business if you and Jonathan are still on friendly terms.”

“It’s really none of
Dad’s
business,” Amy said. “But whatever.”

“Are you ready?” Meg kept up her spirit of enthusiasm as she looked at the bright red door through which they would walk. Tall and wide, the door alone made her feel out of her league. Plus, she didn’t especially like people waiting on her, but perhaps, like dark chocolate, it was an acquired taste. “Should we go pick our pampering?” she asked.

“This isn’t cheap,” Amy warned.

“Maybe I came into a little money,” Meg said.

“Well?” As Amy waited expectantly, Meg imagined in a flash what she’d experience in reality if she told Amy about the money: her heart would quicken at the sharing of her secret.
You’ll never believe it,
she’d say.
But you can’t tell anyone.
Amy’s eyes would widen. She’d squeal. Clutch her. Congratulate her. Tell her how lucky she was. Say,
See, he’s not such a bad guy.

Which perhaps was true. But even if Jonathan was no longer her bad guy, Ahmed
was
still her good guy, and she hadn’t as yet been able to bring herself to tell him she’d seen Jonathan. He’d been sad and worried that night she’d told him about Jonathan’s call, and while she was relieved she’d told him about it, she had to believe that her seeing Jonathan would bother Ahmed—especially being told after the fact,
especially
after he’d told her how important truthfulness was,
especially
since the secret meeting was followed up by an outrageously large check. Every hour that went by, Meg felt as if she was lying by not telling him and resolved again that she’d tell him . . . but still, the hours ticked on by and still he didn’t know. So now she was lying to herself, too.

But Meg decided that until she told Ahmed, she wouldn’t tell anyone else.

“Maybe I’ll tell you another time,” Meg said to Amy. “For now let’s treat ourselves well.”

Faking bravery, she pulled open the poppy red door. As she approached the receptionist, she felt like a kid tiptoeing behind the altar at church. This was not a place where she belonged. The lobby furniture alone probably cost more than the hundred thousand dollars she’d been given.

After they checked in, they took the menu of spa options to a red leather couch and huddled together, examining it.
Abhyanga
—what the heck was that?
Shiatsu? Reiki?
These were not words from Meg’s world.
Craniosacral
must have something to do with the head—a fifty-minute head massage? No, thanks. And if she wanted hot stones on her body, couldn’t she just lie down on a hiking trail somewhere in the desert?

“Is anything jumping out at you?” she asked Amy.

“The Signature Stress Melter Ritual’s got my name all over it,” Amy said. “But it takes almost two hours, so it wouldn’t leave time for anything else.” She made a boo-hoo face.

“You wanted a facial and a hand-toe thing, too, didn’t you?” Meg said.

“A mani-pedi, you mean?”

“Whatever,” Meg said. “I guess I failed spa talk one-oh-one in college.” She bit her lip as she looked around the plush lobby. “I hate it when places don’t list prices.”

“Let’s ask,” Amy said.

Meg shook her head, knowing the prices would start her on her usual downward spiral. For this money, she could buy every student in her class a new pair of shoes . . . or five days of college for Henry . . . or immunizations for all of Africa. No, it was better not to know.

“For once, I want to make a decision about something that isn’t based on money,” she said. “Or my lack of it, which is more often the case. Whatever it costs, we deserve it.”

“I think that’s a really bad idea.” Amy went to the reception desk and looked over the price list. After studying it, she said something to the receptionist and sat back down next to Meg. “You know what I’d really like? A piece of chocolate raspberry mousse cake.”

Meg looked around for the cafe. “I didn’t realize they served food here.”

“They don’t, you goof,” Amy said. “I’m talking about at AJ’s.”

Ah, AJ’s Fine Foods, for fine, rich people. “I don’t think we’re going to have time to go there, too,” Meg said.

“I mean I’d rather do that than this.” Amy put her hand on Meg’s knee. “I’m really touched you brought me here, but this isn’t me. It’s just not how I’d ever choose to relax. I’d rather take a nap. Or even better, I’d rather have coffee and dessert—with my sister and without my kids. Would you mind horribly if we did that instead?”

Mind? Heck, no. No arm-twisting necessary. “That’s fine with me,” Meg said. “As long as you’re not saying it just because of the cost.”

“I’m not,” Amy promised. “Every time we’re at AJ’s, I let the girls pick whatever dessert they want—anything—and I always say,
Make sure you get what you really, really want, because Mommy’s not sharing.
And then they pick a chocolate-chip cookie or some stupid thing, and before I’ve even taken the first bite of my chocolate raspberry mousse cake, they poke their fingers in it to lick the frosting. It drives me crazy! Can’t I have
anything
all to myself? Just a friggin’ piece of cake—is that asking for too much?”

She had actual tears in her eyes.

“You poor, put-upon, stay-at-home mom,” Meg teased. “Don’t be so selfish.”

“When did selfishness become such a crime?” Amy asked. “That’s what I want to know.”

If selfishness was a crime, then the desserts they got were truly sinful. They sat in front of the fireplace on the patio at AJ’s. Amy, of course, got the cake, while Meg got cheesecake.

“I’m so totally in heaven right now.” Amy held a forkful out to Meg. “Want a bite?”

“After your sob story back there? No way!” Meg said.

“This is different,” Amy said. “I
want
to share with you.”

“No, thanks.” Meg held up a forkful of her cheesecake. “I’m pretty happy myself.”

“I swear, this cake is food for my soul,” Amy said. “Why do we not do this sort of thing more often?”

“Because each slice has about a million calories?” Meg suggested.

Amy’s face fell. “Meg? I need a new life.”

“Maybe you could start a business baking personalized, individual chocolate raspberry mousse cakes for stressed-out moms who don’t want to share,” Meg suggested.

Amy rolled her eyes. “Funny.”

“You don’t need a new life,” Meg said. “You just need small changes to the life you already have. The simple things in life are actually the finer things in life. For instance, when’s the last time you wrote any poetry?”

“Poetry. Right,” Amy said. “I could scribble it on the walls with the girls’ crayons in my spare time. Oh, wait. I forgot. I don’t have any spare time.”

“So cynical,” Meg said. “I thought chocolate was supposed to kick-start happy hormones.”

Amy laughed. “I’m such an ingrate, aren’t I? How’s this—I look forward to indulging in the writing of poetry after my beautiful girls are out of the house.”

“But you won’t be the same person then as you are now,” Meg said. “And who you are now’s important, too.”

“Good point,” Amy said through a mouthful of cake. It really
did
look heavenly. Meg decided she’d get one to go and share it with Henry. She could certainly afford it. “I could at least write
bad
poetry now, and then make it better once I have the time.”

“There’s the spirit! And maybe you
should
write it on the walls in crayon, because what the hell, they’re only walls.”

Amy’s mouth dropped open, but she had a gleam in her eyes. “I couldn’t do that. It’s naughty.”

“It’s appropriate naughtiness,” Meg said. “Do it in the laundry room. Whoever goes in there besides you?”

“I’m going to,” Amy said. “
Appropriate naughtiness.
That’ll be the title of my first poem, which I shall dedicate to you.”

“Here, here.” Meg raised her coffee cup in a toast. “To appropriate naughtiness.”

“To appropriate naughtiness,” Amy agreed. “Speaking of which, can I ask whatever happened between you and Jonathan?”

If only I understood it myself,
Meg thought. But she explained as best she could about her visit to the lawyer, about how she’d called him on Thanksgiving and seen him the day after. She told Amy about the powerful rush of feelings his visit had stirred in her, how they’d spoken on the phone since his visit and how she’d dreamed of him the previous night. The only thing Meg left out was the check.

“What does Ahmed think of all this?” Amy asked.

Meg cringed. “Beyond the first phone call, he doesn’t know anything about anything.”

“Good,” Amy said. “It’s none of his business.”

“How can you say that?” Meg said. “This is someone I’m hoping to spend the rest of my life with!”

“Trust me, he doesn’t want to know,” Amy said. “Even if he thinks he does, he doesn’t. Did I ever tell you Peter Flynn called me last year?”

“Ooh, sexy Peter Flynn,” Meg said. “He was hot.”

Amy reddened. “Did you know I slept with him in high school?”

“What! No! You didn’t!”

He’d been one of Catalina High’s resident bad boys. He’d had too-long hair, sung in a hateful punk band, and probably been stoned or worse throughout most of high school. But none of that negated the fact that he was the hottest guy in Amy’s class.

“We were at this football game, and he was with his friends and I was with mine and he leaned over and goes,
Hey, let’s get out of here
.” Amy buried her face in her hands and laughed at the memory. “I was shocked he even knew who I was!”

“So you just
had
to sleep with him,” Meg said.

“Hello, I
wanted
to sleep with him.” Amy giggled. “He introduced me to the pleasure of the one-night stand.”

“Amy!”

“Do you want to hear my story or not?”

“Of course I do!”

“So Peter Flynn called me last year out of the blue—he’d Googled me or something—and like an idiot, I told David.”

“Did you blush and giggle when you told David, too? Like you are right now?”

“No, but it brought up all these ridiculous questions about my past. Men don’t want you to have a past. They want to believe your life started the moment you met them. And if you’re smart, you let them.
Oh, I’ve never loved like this before. I never even knew what love
was
before I met you.
That’s what they want to hear.”

“Ahmed’s not like that,” Meg said.

Amy shrugged. “So tell him.”

“You think I should?”

“Hell, no,” Amy said. “There
is
a line with these things, Meg, which unfortunately isn’t always obvious until it’s been crossed. My advice? Cease and desist with Jonathan right now, because if you haven’t already crossed the line, you’re darn close to it.”