The Klone and I (5 page)

“I called to say good-bye,” he said easily. “I
forgot to ask for your number last night. Would it be all right if I called you?”

No. It would be terrible. I would hate it. I never want to see you again. I like you too much already, and I don't know you. Hearing the lions roar in the background, I gave him my number and then prayed he would never call me. The jerks always call, but never the good ones.

“I'll give you a call when I get back to New York,’ he said. “Have a great time with your kids.”

Have a nice life, I said to myself. And to him I said, have a great time in London. He said he would be working, and would be going back to the States via California. At least he wasn't boring. He was employed. He appeared to be supporting himself. He liked his son. He didn't seem to have a problem with his ex-wife. He had never been in prison or jail, not that he was willing to admit to anyway. He was polite, pleasant, sexy, intelligent, well behaved, handsome beyond belief, and nice, or so he seemed. Obviously a sicko.

Chapter Three

Roger dropped the kids off at my hotel with a look of immense relief the day after Peter Baker left for London. I had been to the Rodin Museum by then, and every boutique on the Left Bank, and bought a lot of clothes I wasn't sure I'd know what to do with. They were sexy and young and tight, and I felt a little hesitant about them, but decided that if they didn't work out, I could always pass them on to Helena, or Charlotte when she grew up.

The children looked great when they arrived. Charlotte was wearing pale pink nail polish, instead of green, and had settled for a second pierce in her ear, which seemed to satisfy her lust for self-mutilation, temporarily at least. Roger looked exhausted. He barely said hello, when he ran out the door, waving vaguely and saying he
had to meet Helena. She had stopped to do some shopping at Galliano, and he was going to meet her there. In thirteen years of marriage he had never shopped anywhere with me. Not once. Helena seemed able to elicit things from him I had never even dreamed of.

“Dad's weird,” Sam announced, throwing himself into a chair, with a Mars bar in one hand. They had paid two dollars for it at the Plaza-Athenée, where Roger and Helena were staying until they left the following morning for Florence.

“No, he's not,” Charlotte editorialized, checking out the new things in my closet. She glanced with interest at the white miniskirt with the see-through blouse with the white denim pockets carefully placed where it counted. “He's an asshole. You're not going to wear that, are you?” She looked contemptuously at me. Welcome back, Charlotte.

“I might, but you're not, thank you,” I said, happy to see her after her month away. You couldn't even see the double pierce, and the earring she wore in it was tiny. “You shouldn't say things like that about your father.” I tried to look disapproving, but it's hard to fool her.

“You think he is too. And Helena is still a bimbo. She went topless all over the south of France, and it drove Daddy crazy,” she said, grinning
broadly. “She picked up two guys one day at the pool, and Dad said next year they're going to Alaska.”

“Do we have to go too?” Sam looked worried.

“We'll talk about it later, Sam.” It was one of my stock answers, and seemed to serve the purpose at the time. He finished the chocolate bar, without destroying the furniture, miraculously, and we headed out for the afternoon. I took them to all the places I thought they'd love, and they did. And when we went to the Deux Magots that afternoon, I thought about Peter Baker, and wondered if he'd ever call me. Part of me hoped he wouldn't. Falling for anyone again would be too painful. But another part of me hoped he would call.

“So how about you?” Charlotte asked at that exact moment, as I was remembering how Peter looked the first time I saw him, reading the
Herald Tribune.
“Did you meet anyone while we were gone? A handsome Frenchman maybe?” Thirteen-year-old girls have the extrasensory perception of highly sophisticated Martians.

“Why would Mom want to meet a Frenchman?” Sam looked bemused and utterly uninterested as Charlotte prepared to interrogate me, and I looked vague. I could honestly tell her I hadn't. Met a Frenchman, that is. I had met Peter Baker, whoever he was. But I hadn't done anything.
I had nothing to confess. He hadn't kissed me. We hadn't had sex. All we had done was spend a day together. I hadn't lost my virginity in Paris.

“Nope,” I answered solemnly. “I was just waiting for you two,” I said innocently, which was more or less the truth. I hadn't had a single “date” all month, and no longer cared if I never did again. The charm of being driven home by drunks from dinners I hadn't enjoyed, and then pawed by incoherent near-strangers, some of them married, had worn thin months before. I was just waiting for the kids to grow up, so I could enter a religious order. But then what would I do with my nightgowns? They'd probably be worn out by then, so it wouldn't be an insurmountable problem. Maybe a hair shirt would remind me of my long-lost flannels.

“Sounds pretty boring.” Charlotte summed my life up with her usual precision, and then went on to tell me about all the cute boys she'd met, or wished she had, in the south of France. Sam told me he caught seven fish on the yacht, and Charlotte reminded him it was only four, immediately after which he punched her, but not too hard.

It was good to have them back. It felt comfortable and warm, and reminded me that I didn't need a man. All I needed was a television set, and a charge account at my neighborhood bookstore.
And my children. Who needed Peter Baker? As Charlotte would have said, if she'd known about him at that point, he was probably a pervert.

We flew back to New York, where we spent a day doing laundry, and packing again, and then headed for East Hampton. The house I had rented was very small, but adequate for us. The kids shared a room, I slept alone, and the neighbors assured us their Great Dane loved kids. They forgot to mention that he also loved our front lawn. He used it hourly to leave us unavoidable presents. There was a constant chorus of “You stepped in it again, Mom,” as we tracked his little gifts all over the house, grateful that we hadn't gone barefoot. But he certainly was friendly, and he loved Sam. We'd been there a week when I found him sleeping in Sam's bed. Sam had hidden him under the covers so I wouldn't find him, and it looked like a man sleeping next to him. After that, the dog sometimes slept in Charlotte's bed, and she slept in my room.

Charlotte was still asleep next to me, in fact, when Peter called on Saturday morning, and I thought it was the refrigerator repairman. The fridge had died the previous afternoon. We'd lost all our frozen pizza by then, the hot dogs had gone bad, and the ice cream had sat melting in the sink. The only thing we had left were forty-two cans of Dr Pepper, sixteen diet 7-Ups, some
bread, a head of lettuce, and some lemons. I do a lot of gourmet cooking in the summer.

“How are you?” he asked, and I recognized the voice instantly. I had spoken to him twice the night before, or so I thought, and he promised he'd come by in the morning, but so far he hadn't.

“I'll be a lot better when you get here. We lost three hundred dollars worth of food last night,” I said, crabbing at him. He had a deep, sexy voice, but like those people on sex hot lines, I figured he weighed three hundred pounds and wore pants that slid slowly down and revealed things you never wanted to see on a three-hundred-pound man, particularly one who was sweating and smoked cigars.

“I'm sorry to hear it,” he said sympathetically, referring to the food we'd lost. “Maybe I should come out and take you to dinner.”

Christ. Not another one. The carpenter who had come to fix the loose front step the second day we were there told me I looked great in a bikini, and then invited himself to dinner. I figured I looked desperate, and told him we were going out. “No, thanks, just come and fix the fridge. That's all I want. Just get over here, for chrissake, and fix it.”

There was a brief silence. “I'm not sure I know how,” he said apologetically. “I can try. I
took a couple of engineering courses in college.” Oh, great. A college graduate. A refrigerator repairman who was willing to admit he didn't know what he was doing. At least he was honest.

“Maybe you could buy a book or something. Look, you told me you'd be here yesterday. So are you going to fix it today or not?” Charlotte woke up and left the room while I argued with him.

“I'd rather take you out to dinner, Stephanie. If that's an option.” Persistent little devil. But so was I. It was hot and all the soda was warm, and I didn't find him amusing.

“It isn't an option … and I'm not Stephanie to you. Just fix the fridge, dammit.”

“Can't I just buy you a new one?”

“Are you kidding?”

“It might be simpler. I'm a lousy repairman.” He sounded as though he was laughing at me. And I was not amused.

“What are you in real life? A dermatologist? Why are we having this conversation?”

“Because your refrigerator is broken, and I have no idea how to repair it. I'm a high-tech scientist, Stephanie, not a repairman.”

“You're
What?”
And then I knew who it was. This was not the guy from Sparky's Cool World. It was a voice I had heard several weeks before, in Paris. At the Louvre, talking about Corot, and at the Ritz, explaining to the waiter how to make the
perfect martini. It was Peter. “Oh God … I'm sorry.” I felt like an utter moron.

“Don't be. I'm coming to the Hamptons for the weekend, and thought you might like to have dinner. I'll bring a new fridge, instead of a bottle of wine. Any particular brand?”

“I thought you were …”

“I know. How are the Hamptons, other than your fridge?”

“Very nice. My son has adopted a Great Dane who lives next door. And the house has been fine, except for this little problem with the fridge.”

“Can I take you all out to dinner?”

With my kids? It was a nice thought, but I wasn't sure I wanted to share him with Sam and Charlotte. In fact, I was sure I didn't. After a week of talking only to them, cleaning up after the Great Dane, who did the same thing in our house he did on the lawn, I was sure I was ready for an evening of strictly adult conversation. I was more than willing to drop them at the nearest orphanage, forget the fridge, or at the very least call a sitter. I wanted to see him
without
the children.

“I think the kids have plans.” I lied like Pinocchio, but I didn't want to share him. “Where are you staying?”

“With friends in Quogue. There's a restaurant there I thought you might like. How about if I come by at eight to pick you up?” How about it?
Was he kidding? After two years of alternately dating Godzilla's younger brothers and utter solitude watching
M'A'S'H
reruns on TV, which were infinitely better than the dates, a civilized person I'd met in Paris and eaten oysters with in Montmartre wanted to meet me in East Hampton and take me to dinner? He had to be kidding.

I hung up with a broad grin, and Charlotte walked back into the room and stared at me. She had just tracked a neat little path of dog doo straight across my bedroom, but I didn't have the heart to tell her. Besides, I was too happy to care after hearing from Peter. “Who was that?” she asked suspiciously.

“The refrigerator repairman,” I said, lying wickedly to my own flesh and blood, but it was none of her business.

“No, it wasn't,” she said accusingly. “He's in the kitchen, working on the fridge. He said we might need a new one.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling stupid, and then she noticed the dog tracks that had followed her in, and groaned. I couldn't help wondering what they were feeding him. Obviously, too much of something. Probably a side of beef every day, given what he was producing. And after she left the room, I called the sitter.

I didn't tell them till six o'clock that I was going out, and they were going out for hamburgers
and a movie without me. The refrigerator was working again, temporarily he said, but the Dr Pepper was cold again and everyone was happy. I had even gone to the store to buy them more frozen pizza and Rocky Road ice cream.

“Where are you going?” Sam asked suspiciously. I hadn't gone out since they'd come home, and it was obviously cause for some concern. I might get a life after all, and that could pose a real threat to them. Who would be around to drive them to the 7-Eleven? Or change the channels on the TV, or clean up after the dog? Let's face it, I was useful.

“With whom?” Charlotte asked more precisely.

“A friend,” I said vaguely, popping the top on a diet 7-Up and covering my mouth with it, so they couldn't hear the rest of what I wasn't saying. But children have extraordinarily sensitive hearing. Mine at least. She heard exactly what I said, although I had swallowed most of it along with the soda.

“From
Paris?
Is he French?”

“No, he's American. I met him there.”

“Does he speak English?” Sam asked, looking worried.

“Like a native,” I reassured him. They both frowned in joint disapproval.

“Why don't you stay home with us?” Sam
asked sensibly. It sounded fine to him. A little less so to me, considering the alternative, which was exceedingly appealing. In spite of myself, and the fact that I knew better by then, I liked Peter Baker, and also knew I probably shouldn't. He was the enemy, after all, wasn't he? But he didn't look like one. And I had spent a terrific day in Paris with him.

“I can't stay home with you,” I explained to Sam. “You're going to a movie with your sister.”

“No, I'm not” Charlotte glared at me, suddenly balking. “I said I'd meet some friends on the beach at nine o'clock.” I hate thirteen. It leads to fourteen, and fifteen. This was only the beginning.

“Not tonight,” I said firmly. I listened to no further arguments, and disappeared into the bathroom to wash my hair before dinner.

The sitter arrived at seven-fifteen, and, glowering at me, Sam and Charlotte left with her in my car at seven-thirty. They were off to dinner and the latest bit of violence on the screen, something Sam had already seen three times, but Charlotte hadn't seen yet, and didn't want to. I waved happily at them from the porch, praying that the damn dog from next door didn't return to leave one of his little gifts to us on the front steps before Peter got there.