The Actor and the Housewife (29 page)

In which Polly walks the red carpet

Months ticked by and the memory of her anger had been worn down to sand when she got the flowers: a huge vase of sunflowers, her favorite. The note said, “Forgive me?”

She called him. He didn’t answer his cell. She phoned his London house and his Los Angeles house, but she didn’t want to leave a message. She was about to call Celeste to get an update before her memory caught up, and her heart tore anew for the loss of that marriage. At last she just e-mailed him and said, “Of course I forgive you.”

He called the next day.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Pretty good.” He paused. “I’m sorry.”

“I am too. I’m happy to hear your voice.”

“Yours is nicer.”

“How’s Jessica?”

“You heard about that? She’s good. We’re in Houston now. Her family lives here.”

“How long will you be in Texas?”

“Another week, and then I’m back in L.A.” He cleared his throat. “We’re about to release the Dean Martin movie.”

“You are? That’s wonderful!”

“Yes. Thanks.”

A pause.

“This is awkward now but next time it’ll be easier,” she said.

“Just a matter of getting used to each other again.”

“Exactly.”

“And that’s why I’m going to have a layover in Salt Lake City next week. I’d like to see you.”

The following Tuesday she picked him up at the airport and they had lunch at the Red Iguana, ten minutes away. She ordered the mole negro. He had the “Killer Nachos,” a huge, heaping, sweating plate of tortilla chips covered in cheese, beans, meat chunks, chile verde, guacamole, and sour cream. He ate three of the chips.

“You look well,” she said.

“I’ve been in the sun a lot lately. And Jessica is good for me.”

“I’m glad. You deserve someone good for you.”

“Also, I’m taking a multivitamin.”

“You see? I knew they’d help!”

He smiled.

Now what? Were they going to talk? Did she need to tell him how she’d felt? Would she confess her boiling months, her jealousy, her spiteful thoughts? And how the lake worked it out of her? Would he reveal the tortured machinations of his brain that led him to abandon her at the club and ignore her for months? Or would they stay silent and pretend it never happened?

“I’ve been an a—” He paused, altering his word choice. “I’ve been a
stupidhead
. I won’t overexplain, for fear of making excuses. The plain truth is I’ve been a big, fat stupidhead.”

Relief surged through her. Until he’d said it, she hadn’t known how much she needed him to admit that he’d been an—whatever naughty word he’d been about to use. And in truth, she was almost as pleased with his substitution of “stupidhead” as she was with the apology itself. Felix just sounded so darling speaking that Hyrumish word.

He was looking at her shrewdly. “I was, wasn’t I? You’re not going to argue?”

“Oh no, you hit that one right on the head.”

“And you forgive me?”

“Completely, I think. I’ve missed you, Felix, more than I’ve even realized. I’ve missed me with you.”

And it was good. And they smiled. But by the time she had to take him back to the airport, they still hadn’t laughed.

She kept the radio off for the drive home and spent that rare hour of quiet wondering if they would ever laugh together again. Mike would’ve told her she was being fatalistic. She hoped that was all. But the silence felt permanent, as if she’d never hear anything but the drone of the car’s engine again. She always feared silence and scratched at it until the next wave of chaos rolled over her again and buried her in sweet normalcy.

Felix called her that night. And the next. Just a few days later, after a sum total of four hours of postcrisis talking, the icy space between them thawed just enough and they shared their first laugh of the new era. It was timid. It came from their throats rather than from their guts, was more an auditory expression of a smile than an irresistible guffaw. But it was a start.

It took a few weeks before they were engaging again in typical Becky-Felix conversations.

“Hi there.”

“Hey, hoser. How’s the movie release going?”

“Good. Busy. I have precisely thirty-two seconds left.”

“Well, that’s not nearly enough. Do you want me to talk to your people and finagle more time? I can be terribly convincing.”

“I would even say frighteningly convincing. Shockingly convincing. Horrifyingly con—”

“Or maybe I can win your director over with love. I’ll FedEx a loaf of zucchini bread.”

“It only took thirty seconds to confirm the fact that you’re still absurd.”

“I love you too. Hoser.”

After the publicity tour, he came to Layton for the first time in three years. He stayed at a local hotel and complained endlessly.

“That’s quite a shiner you have there, Sam. It’s the exact color of the wallpaper in my room. Is that an open sewer we just passed? A similar odor was leaking from my minifridge.”

“Quit your whining or you’ll be set up in the Jack family
Little
Mermaid
Suite.”

“Shutting up.”

He took the whole family out for miniature golf and pizza. At the ninth hole, Mike walked him aside for a private chat, and Becky imagined the scoldings and mild threats her husband might be expressing. For Felix’s part, he seemed to take it well; at least, he shook Mike’s hand and didn’t cut his trip short.

She didn’t need Mike to defend her. Felix didn’t need to hear what Mike thought about his behavior to know that he’d been a stupidhead. But all the same, Becky loved Mike for it. To be frank, it made her feel all gooey and affectionate.

After his Layton trip, Felix and Jessica broke up.

“She wants a family one day. She wants children. It’s more important to her than her career is, than I am. And I’m not interested in being a father.”

“Felix . . .” she used her motherly tones. “You would be a wonderful father. You really would.”

“No. I wouldn’t. And I don’t care to be. Besides . . .” His voice was sad, and he didn’t say any more.

“Oh, sweetie,” she said, hearing in the silence,
Besides, Jessica isn’t
Celeste. Besides, no one will ever be.

He began a series of relationships with other actresses, makeup artists, singers, all significantly younger than him. Some he mentioned to Becky; some she discovered by paging through the celebrity magazines.

Becky missed Celeste.

But he was between women when he was nominated for a Best Actor Academy Award.

“You were so brilliant, Felix,” Becky said. “If you hadn’t been nominated for this movie, I would’ve marched on Hollywood. Do you know I saw it five times in the theater? I can’t leave my children unattended without worrying Hyrum will burn down the house or Sam will crack his head open. Can you imagine then the pains I went to just to view you as Dean Martin five times? This is what I’m trying to tell you. You were that good. Five-times good.”

“It was a decent flick. I did it because of you.”

“Then you’d better mention me in your acceptance speech.”

“I find myself flying solo just now, and not having a date for the Oscars I—”

“Want me to attend with you? That’s so sweet! I’ve always wondered—”

“Er, no, sorry. You had to return the dress you wore to our premiere, didn’t you? And I don’t trust what hideous getup you might deem appropriate.”

“Oh. What a relief. If I had to watch you pretending to be humble while the crowd chants your name, I might—”

“Right. So I was asking about Polly. I’d hoped you might allow me to fly out your family for the before and after hoopla, and then at the awards Polly could play the part of my goddaughter and spare me inquiries about my current dating. I never forgot how she glowed at the premiere. I think she really enjoyed stepping into that world. Do you think Fiona would be heartbroken?”

Becky spoke with Fiona. Her first question was, “Will Celeste be there?”

“No, honey, I think they burned their bridge pretty thoroughly.”

“Oh.” Fiona thought. “Can I still get a dress?”

“Sure. He’s invited us all to a couple of parties where you could wear something nice.”

They were sitting on the couch, Fiona’s feet on her mother’s lap, and as the conversation turned to dresses and fashion, Becky detected a rare passionate tone in Fiona’s voice.

“Honey, do you think you’d like to design clothing?”

Fiona smiled shyly. “I’d been trying to keep it a secret. I was afraid it was silly.”

“The only silly part is keeping it a secret. You’ll be fabulous.”

So Polly was to be Felix’s date, and in compensation, Fiona got to design and make hers and Polly’s dresses. Becky dug out an old e-mail address for Celeste, sent her a quick line asking her to phone, and crossed her fingers.

The same day, she got a call.

“Hello, Rebecca. I had been expecting to hear from you for some time and am only surprised that it took you a year to come after me. Listen, there was much to our relationship that I am certain Felix never informed you, and before you begin to tell me what a wicked woman I am for leaving him, you should know that.”

“I . . . uh, Celeste, sorry, that’s not why I wanted to talk—”

“Then you wish to inform me that you and Felix are lovers? Are you trying to hurt me? I may not have gone about the end of my marriage in the best manner, but nevertheless, it
was
for the best. I am happy and can’t be wounded by that information. Go and enjoy each other, and I hope you can live with what you have done to Michael.”

Becky considered that Celeste was the most difficult phone conversationalist in the world.

“No, uh . . . no, not that either, Celeste. Mike and I are still married and very happy. No, this isn’t about Felix at all.”

“No?”

“No. I—well, this is even more awkward than I thought it would be.
Ahem
. I just wanted your opinion on something. You remember Fiona? She has a passion for fashion design and I’d love for her to be able to pursue it and just wondered if you had any advice—”

Becky was cut off by laughter.

“Advice? You’re calling for fashion-world advice for Fiona? And I attacked you and accused you—
quehonte, mon lapin
, you see what a monster I am. I am a pile of rubbish to be swept into the yard and buried under sand. Rebecca, my darling, of course! Advice and more and the world for dear Fiona! She is practically my niece. She is nearly my own flesh and blood. If you and Michael are killed unexpectedly I demand full custody of that child. How divine!”

They exchanged relieved compliments before hanging up. Becky stood by the receiver, staring at it for some time. Celeste had thought Becky had left Mike for Felix. Becky felt a little ill, as if she’d eaten a fast-food combo meal, and she went to find Mike and kiss him and tell him she loved him and always, always would. It seemed the best thing to do. It usually was.

Celeste called Fiona and soon they were regular e-mail correspondents, and Fiona began to stand up straight for the first time since she’d started puberty. Becky said a silent prayer of thanks for Celeste, considering that mothers are so important everyone needs more than one.

“Ouch,” Becky said aloud as a long-forgotten worry bit her—Felix’s mother. “Estranged” and “mother” were two words that should never go together. She called him at once.

“Polly is ecstatic about going to the awards and it’s very sweet that you asked her, but isn’t there someone else you might want to take?”

“We already had this conversation, and I don’t know how nicely I can tell you that your entire wardrobe deserves to be burned at the stake.”

“Not me. Family.”

Silence.

“Is this the bit where you confess your meddling?” he asked.

“Don’t think about her,” she said. “Or you. Think about Hyrum distancing himself from me for years, and one day accomplishing something amazing, and how I would feel all those years later if he called and asked me to come. You know how I would feel, right?”

More silence.

“I’ll think about it,” he said at last.

The next day, he phoned to say he’d booked a flight for his mother.

“I won’t crush poor Polly’s spirit, however,” he said. “She will still be my date on the red carpet, and my mother will join me inside.”

“Bless your heart, Felix Paul Callahan! Just bless your fuzzy little heart!”

“Enough.”

“Okay. Sorry. No more blessing. No more fuzzy hearts.” She couldn’t silence a little squeal however, and he groaned and ended the call.

The phone rang a few seconds later, and Becky assumed it was Felix calling back to throw out some snarky comment he’d thought of too late, but instead Celeste’s warm, syrupy voice asked for Fiona.

“She’s not here now, Celeste. I’ll tell her you called.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Thank you for what you’re doing for her.” Becky cleared her throat. She didn’t know how to talk to Celeste. As Felix’s best friend, she thought she should be angry, resentful, protective. But just then, she felt shy. “How are you and, uh, Alfredo? Doing?”

Celeste sighed. “Alfredo is gone. He is a passionate man, so passionate, and he burns and burns and consumes and then believes he must rage on elsewhere. I don’t hate him. It’s just as well—I grew weary of the burning. But I’m not left alone.”

And that’s when Becky heard it—the tiny hiccup cry of a newborn.

“Celeste, do you . . .”

“Yes! Yes, yes, Rebecca, I know what you are to say because we’re both mothers and mothers have powers of intuition. Yes, I have a baby here in my arms, my own baby. His name is Bellamy, and he is divine.”