The Life You've Imagined (4 page)

At the tip of my tongue is this: “Not such hot shit considering my gene pool,” but I know better than that. It’s too late in the day for that kind of sarcasm. I just want him to get out the door so I can call my brother and then meet Anna at the store, because I’m going to that engagement party for Amy and Paul.

Oh, right, that’s probably why I’m hot shit. I wore lipstick today.

I just shrug instead.

“You best leave my room alone, young lady. If you think this place is such a dump, then you can sit your ass in a Motel 6.”

Ah. I’m in trouble for cleaning. I tackled my old room first, then experimentally tugged at the carpet and found some pretty nice wood underneath.

I inspect my cuticles and say as casually as possible, “I won’t go in your room.”

When he breaks off his stare, I stand up and collect my dinner plate. I leave his alone. I rinse mine in the sink, but I’ll give it a thorough washing later, as I’d rather not have my back to him that long.

“You best not go in there,” he repeats, giving the table a lazy thud. “I’m outta here. I’m meeting the fellas.”

He leaves his plate to the flies coming in through a hole in the backdoor screen the size of a softball and stands up as if he’s on the rolling deck of a ship at sea.

I close my flimsy bedroom door firmly and drop the hook into the eye near the top of the frame. He hasn’t noticed this yet and I hope it’s a good while before he does. If he thought I was hot shit for cleaning up, I’d hate to see what he’d think of me locking him out—
of a room in my own damn house!
I can imagine him bellowing.

A keen sense of observation is not one of Tim Drayton’s strong suits, however.

When his truck belches away down the road and I’m sure he hasn’t returned for anything, I perch on the twin bed and slowly dial the many digits of Trent’s number.

“Hello?”

“Trent. It’s Cami.”

There’s silence for a beat or two and I don’t know if this is his reaction or a delay on the international line.

“Is everything all right?”

I can detect a tinge of accent in the cadence of his question. But then I shouldn’t be surprised, as he’s been in London eleven years now. No, twelve.

“Yes,” I say. “Dad’s not dead or in the hospital or anything.”

“Well, fine. I was worried. It’s late here.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I just had to wait until he left to call you.”

“You’re there now? At the house?”

“It’s a long story. I’m here for the summer. Look, Trent, I have to ask you about something.”

I’ve got a Bible in front of me as I speak to him. I found it when I was rummaging in the closet, seeking the source of a particularly foul stench. When I flipped through the pages, some photographs fell out.

“Trent, do you know much about Mom’s family?”

“As much as you do.”

“There’s this picture here. It’s Mom as a teenager, I’m sure it is, and there’s this couple she’s with, a generation older than her, not her parents.”

“It’s probably just Aunt Clara and Uncle Paul.”

“No, it’s not them; I’d know it. Anyway, on the back it says,
With love to our dearest Pammie.
Who else would have called our mom that?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t know why it matters.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I respond, mimicking his speech a little, which I know is mean, but it’s the first time I’ve spoken to my brother in three years and he acts like I’m some slightly annoying phone survey. “Except that Mom is dead and maybe she has more relatives than we knew about.”

“And why would I know?”

“Because you were a teenager when she died and I was just a kid. You remember more, yeah?”

“If I saw the picture, I might know them, I suppose.”

“Give me your address and I’ll mail it to you, if you promise to mail it right back.”

“Can’t you just scan it in?”

“I don’t have a computer.” Not anymore, since Steve still has the one we bought together. And with online gambling considered, it’s just as well.

“You don’t have a . . . ? How can a person as smart as you—”

“Can we discuss my technology shortcomings later? I’ll mail it to you. So listen, how are you? How’s Everett?”

“Exhausted. It’s very late and I have a very important meeting tomorrow.”

So I get his address and we exchange pleasantries like two vague acquaintances, and that’s that.

I suppose to Trent my curiosity must seem mysterious, since he launched himself out of here the minute he could and in fact left the country without looking back, with me coughing in his metaphorical dust.

Though, I don’t much care if he forgets about Dad. Can’t say as I blame him.

I put Trent’s address and the picture back in the Bible and slide it under the bed, against the wall.

I look at my watch and realize it’s time to go to the party. I don’t feel like a party, but I do feel like getting out of this shack for a few hours. So I slip my wallet into my pants pocket and head for the door, checking the hallway out of habit, though I know he already left.

Chapter 6

Amy

W
hen I see Paul’s reflection behind me in my full-length mirror, I snatch my robe off the bed and cover myself.

And he does the most infuriating thing ever. He laughs.

“Oh, baby, are you worried about your virtue?” He strides up behind me, moves my hair aside and grabs a mouthful of my neck. “Let’s ruin your virtue again before the party.”

I sigh and lean into him for a moment, until he tries to take my arms away from my robe. I tighten up my grip. “Paul! Not now, I’m trying to get ready.”

I meet his eyes in the mirror and they look downturned, like he’s wearing a tragedy mask. Oh, what a crybaby. Trust men to go all weepy about not getting sex. So I smile at him. “I’m sorry, sweetie. There will be lots of time for that later. I promise you can ruin my virtue all night long.”

I turn around in his arms and kiss him for a long time, and finally he leaves me alone, seeming to be slightly mollified. Goodness, it’s so much work, protecting a man’s ego.

I slide my dress over my head and turn back to the mirror once it’s safely in place. Oh, I love it. It’s a silk georgette with a floral pattern in a spring green that perfectly complements my current shade of blonde. I do an experimental twirl. When I’m standing still, the dress falls to the knee, and I’d have to pirouette like a child’s top to get it to swirl up high enough to show the stretch marks.

I add my new necklace. Head of the class, Amy Rickart. Amy Rickart-Becker, that is.

Paul is reading the newspaper when I come out. He doesn’t move the paper when I stand right in front of him, left hand on my hip so the engagement ring catches the eye.

“Ahem,” I say, and he’s still reading.

I go for coquettish and cute and bat the newspaper down, kissing him lightly on the lips before I twirl—carefully—in front of him. “You like?”

“It’s nice,” he says, rising and patting his pockets, then searching the end table for his keys.

“Nice? I spend forty-five minutes getting ready and ‘nice’ is all you’ve got?” I try to smile bigger, as if I’m only joking, still flirting.

He kisses me hard and without chivalry on the lips. “You look ravishing, stunning, beautiful beyond measure. Can we go now?”

“Well, gee, I’m overwhelmed.” I look away from him to pretend to search for my handbag, though I actually know right where it is.

“I tried to appreciate your beauty in there and you wouldn’t have it.”

“It’s just timing! We can’t be late for our own party.” I swallow down the next things I want to say, because we really are going to be late if we get into it now.

He’s tossing his keys lightly in one hand, his other hand hooked into his pocket. He looks like a Land’s End catalog page. “Who cares about the clock, Aims? Or convenience, whatever.”

I toss my hair and smirk at him, because I’ve got him now. “Really? What if I’d climbed into your lap this afternoon during your game, at the bottom of the inning when the bases were loaded?”

“I wouldn’t know. You’ve never tried anything not written in your daily planner.” He turns on his heel and calls over his shoulder. “I’ll bring the car around so you don’t have to trek across the parking lot in those heels.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” I mumble, but I don’t think he’s heard me.

A
s it happens, traffic is backed up on Shoreline Drive and we’re late anyway, but maybe that’s not so bad. As we walk up the long grassy slope from the circle drive to the garden gate, the party is in full swing and everyone looks so delighted to see us that I feel like a celebrity. I’m waving, grabbing hands, accepting kisses on the cheek. Paul is pulled away almost immediately by some guys, but I don’t care; I have him all the rest of the night, since he’s staying over.

Nikki has me at arm’s length, cooing over my dress. I give her a little curtsy. Sarah and Kristi are right behind her, and Sarah grabs my hand, yanking me half off my feet to look at my ring.

“Oooooh, it’s beautiful,” Sarah says, and they all stare at it for a good thirty seconds before letting go.

Kristi hands me a glass of white wine. “No, thanks,” I tell her. I’ll just grab a Perrier.”

“What?” She puts a hand to her chest, mock-scandalized. “At your own engagement party?”

“Do you know how many carbs are in that? Forget it.”

Nikki nudges me playfully. “Oh, come on, live a little. You look fantastic! And I know you’ll run it all off tomorrow.”

I see Paul across the grass, slapping the back of a friend of his, having a big laugh. I wave to get his attention, but he’s not looking this way and doesn’t notice.

“Well, all right.” I take a sip, and it slides down so cool that I take another.

“So, tell us about how he proposed,” Sarah prompts, raising her eyebrows.

By the time I finish the story about his proposal—in front of a whole restaurant on our one-year anniversary of dating, down on one knee and everything, the whole place cheered us and I cried like a little girl—the wineglass has emptied and been filled again and is half empty.

I finally catch another glimpse of Paul. I abandon the girls, skip over the grass to him, ooh, gosh, these heels are tricky in the grass, and hang on his arm while he finishes talking about some new development his dad’s company is in charge of downtown. When he’s done, I tug his arm to get his attention and give him one helluva kiss. With tongue and everything.

“Whoooa!” all the guys say, and there’s a whistle and something like a catcall.

Damn right, whoa.

Then I go off to find more wine, and when I find it, I also find Anna Geneva.

She doesn’t see me, and she wouldn’t recognize me even if she did.

“Anna!” I squeal.

She turns to me and cocks her head, narrowing her eyes like she’s trying to focus. I’ve seen this look so many times.

“It’s me, Amy Rickart!”

For just a second her eyebrows shoot up, then she shakes her head slightly and smiles. “How nice to see you!” I’m so grateful that she hasn’t mentioned the obvious that I hug her hard, sloshing a little out of my drink. So I lick the rim.

“I’m so glad Mr. Becker saw you in the store and invited you. I didn’t even know you were back!”

“I didn’t move back or anything. I’m just here for a little visit.”

Her eyes dart behind me. “Looking for Will?” I ask her, assuming she’s got to be seeking out her old boyfriend. After all, they’d been that high school couple who held hands constantly and sat in each other’s laps at lunchtime and basically made everyone else sick onto their greasy cafeteria pizza.

“No, not really,” she says, turning her eyes back to me.

“So, what do you do these days?” I ask, though everyone knows she’s a hotshot big-city lawyer, which we all think is great, considering her mom had to raise her by herself in that store. So she starts telling me all about it, only I don’t really follow her very well. Paul’s on the other side of the lawn and I keep trying to catch his eye.

That’s when Nikki and Sarah and Kristi catch up to us and I take another gulp of my drink. A big one.

“Anna Geneva! Oh, my God! I never thought I’d see you back here,” shouts Sarah.

Anna smiles at her, but only with her lips.

“She’s back for a vacation from her Chicago law firm,” I rush to say.

“Hey, you know what I remember?” Kristi says. “I remember when the SAT scores came out and you, like, went around telling everybody.”

“Yeah,” concurs Nikki. “And you had, like, this freaky high score.”

I say, “It wasn’t exactly—”

“I didn’t brag,” Anna says, the only changed expression on her face the cocking of one eyebrow, slightly. “It wasn’t like I hired a skywriter. I seem to remember everyone asking everyone else for their scores. Anyway, it was just a number, wasn’t it?”