The Starter Wife (25 page)

Was Gracie Pollock desirable? she asked herself. Lou seemed to find her desirable. Although he’d chastely kissed her cheek when he dropped her off, she distinctly felt the possibility of a diversionary tactic. He was kissing her cheek to keep her off-guard in the event his lips would someday land on hers in the not-too-distant future. She knew Lou had been in the Marines—didn’t everyone know Lou had been in the Marines? He was the only Hollywood player ever to
wear a uniform that didn’t have any connection to a religious school; he was the only Hollywood player who had good old-fashioned guts.

Which brought Gracie back to the idea of age. Lou had close to twenty years on Gracie. Yes, as Will had so helpfully pointed out, he could be her father—if her father was sexy and drove a Jaguar and dated movie stars and was just past his teens when she’d been born. Gracie couldn’t imagine her own father being so cool. Besides, there were benefits to Lou’s age, Gracie thought. Didn’t everyone say that age brought wisdom, security, experience—attributes which Kenny seemed to be doing swimmingly without. On the other hand, Gracie could see age as being a detriment. What if she tired of Tony Bennett? Would she run screaming at the first sight of Old Butt? And what about death? Of course a younger man would generally be around longer than an older man, but was this necessarily a good thing? Could Death, in addition to diamonds, be a girl’s best friend? And besides, Gracie thought, beggars can’t be choosers. And although she wasn’t exactly begging for it, she was asking more than she’d been asked.

Or was she? Hadn’t Lou asked her out? And didn’t she lock eyes with Clint, the man who saved her life, just as he tumbled out of sight, swallowed up by the front end of Lou’s new Jaguar?

If she was desirable, when did that happen? And what could she do to preserve her newfound desirability? Or should she just accept that she was man-nip in a beach cover-up?

Gracie looked out her kitchen window and watched the moon reflected in the night’s black waters and wished she had a man’s arms wrapped around her waist, the two of them looking in the same direction, surrendered to the moment. She closed her eyes and imagined who that man would be.

C
RAZY FUCKING RICH
people, Sam thought to himself, as he shook off his encounter with the front end of a Jaguar. He could’ve been killed, minding his own business, biking to Sav-on for a bottle of that antidiarrhea medicine Mrs. Kennicot needed. The Jag had come out of nowhere. The driver, some older guy, wasn’t even looking at him when Sam rolled over the front of the car. Just before impact, before he went flying, Sam could see that he was talking to the woman at his side. But she, she was looking at Sam; their eyes had met as he flew forward. It’s funny, Sam thought, the images people remember right before a traumatic event. He remembered bits and pieces—laughter, cigarette smoke, a friendly blow on the back. Then boom. One rocket (apparently), the jeep flies up in the air (apparently), three weeks in army hospital in a coma (apparently), and all you can remember are the seconds before impact. The life-changing event is not worth remembering, according to the human brain. It’s what came before that matters.

Sam locked his bike outside Sav-on, limped past the guys sleeping on benches, past the empties—generic vodka bottles—decorating the ground. His ribs hurt, his legs were on shaky ground, his bike was screwed up—the chain, which was never perfect (the bike was old when he “got” it), was now totally bent out of shape—but nothing was going to keep him from getting that bottle of medicine to Mrs. Kennicot. He was late as it was.

H
OW MANY TIMES,
Gracie thought, do I have to walk back and forth on this stretch of beach? She’d been up at six that morning, quite the feat considering she’d had two drinks more than her usual (which was no drinks) the night before. She’d awakened with a feeling of determination—she would find her
mystery man once and for all, and put an end to the cycle of anticipation, self-flagellation, and eating boatloads of processed sugar.

Jaden had spent a good forty-five minutes with her, digging holes in the sand while Mom meandered back and forth in front of the opening leading onto the beach,which the tenants on the land-side houses used. But then Ana, who was driving Jaden back to Kenny’s place, had arrived and flagged them down; she spent a good amount of time chastising Gracie for providing only dry cereal and a juice box for Jaden while she went on her wild-goose chase searching for a good-looking phantom.

Finally Gracie sat down in the sand and let the water, which was moving toward high tide (she’d taken to reading the tide charts in the newspaper) tickle her feet. She closed her eyes and let the sun seep into her skin, pretending to be unafraid of wrinkles, sunspots, sunburn, and sagging. Was there nothing she feared?

“Trying to drown yourself again?” she heard a man ask as she felt a shadow edge across the upper half of her body.

“No,” she said without opening her eyes. She realized she was afraid of something: actual intimacy. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. “But if I have to in order to track you down, I’m willing to do it.”

He was looking down at her, his expression opaque. Was there any way of reaching this man? What did a girl have to do? Gracie was never a big fan of the strong, silent type. Kenny was more like the weak, loud type. Maybe that’s what she liked.

“Did you run into my friend’s car last night on purpose?” she asked.

“No,” he said, looking up at the water, then down again at
her. “I prefer to fling myself at a Mercedes or a BMW—Jaguar drivers seldom go fast enough for my liking.”

Humor! Gracie thought, Eureka! We have progress!

“See, they tend to be a little older,” he continued.

Not just humor, Gracie thought. Biting Humor!

Why did I say that? Sam thought.

“Are you going in?” Gracie asked. His Labrador came up to Gracie and sat beside her. She reached over and scratched the dog’s ear while trying to keep from hitting herself on the head for asking
such a stupid question.

“No, I brought a towel because I like to lay out for a few hours, work on my tan,” he said.

“Oh, me, too,” Gracie replied, showing off her white arms. She kind of liked that he wouldn’t give her an inch after such a lame comment.

“I would invite you in,” he said, tilting his head toward the ocean, “but after our little meeting last night, I think I bruised a rib. I can’t guarantee your safety.”

“I think you should sue us,” Gracie said. “It’s obvious we were playing a dangerous little game of Jaguar tag.”

“I’m talking to lawyers. My lawyers are talking to lawyers. We’ll get back to you,” he replied.

Gracie noticed he hadn’t sat down yet. “Do you ever sit down?” she asked.

“It’s not my best skill,” he said.

“Oh, I’m really good at it, look,” she said, opening her arms to show off her sitting prowess.

“‘Ah, but a Man’s reach should exceed his grasp … or what’s a Heaven for?’” he said.

“Oh, that’s terrible,” Gracie said, “you’re showing off. Nobody knows quotes anymore.”

“Some of us have time to read. When we’re working on our tans,” he said.

“Some of us are impressed,” she said.

“Some of us should be.” He smiled.

Gracie smiled. They were smiling at each other. Now, Gracie thought, willing him to make a move. Take the next step, she thought. I can’t take the next step, I’m a girl—well, not a girl exactly, maybe an old girl. Anyway, ask me out!

“I’m going in,” he said. And he walked off toward the water. Gracie jumped off the sand like she’d been stuck in the ass by a crab—

“Wrong answer!” she yelled as he dove into the water. The Labrador started barking. “Tell him that’s not what he was supposed to say!” she said to the dog, who ignored her and chased his master down the beach.

Then she realized the dog had tags; the tags would tell her where this man lived. Gracie ran after the dog, full-force, sand spinning in the air under her feet. She felt like a movie heroine, chasing down her boyfriend before he left for the war. But no, Gracie thought as she heaved, her lungs betraying her. I’m a forty-one-year-old woman chasing after a dog because I’m trying to get information on a man who dared talk to me.

She slowed down and bent her body at the waist, resting her hands on her knees. She was busy coughing up mucus when a familiar presence made itself known by licking her hair.

“Well, hello,” she said to the dog, who had dropped a tennis ball at her feet. “Hello, hello,” she said as she reached down for his tags. “Your name is Baxter, and you live in … number 191.”

She looked into the dog’s eyes, which were pleading with her to throw the ball.

“Okay, Baxter,” Gracie said, tossing the tennis ball, soaked with dog spit. “It’s the least this girl can do,” she told him as he ignored her and ran for the ball.

S
WIM,
Sam thought as he knifed through the cold, murky water, his strokes even and strong, his body stubbornly ignoring the residual pain of his accident. Swim, swim, swim. Just keep swimming. How could he have flirted so boldly? It was as though he’d exercised a muscle he’d forgotten he had—and he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Mostly he found it painful. Part of him enjoyed flirting with a member of the opposite sex, sure—how often did a homeless man get the chance to do that? But there was pain, pain in being reminded how much time had passed, how much had been lost. No girlfriends, no wives, no children, no home. What kind of life had he led? His encounter with this woman reminded him that he was not an island. That he was a man, merely a man, just flesh and blood, muscle and bone. Oh, shit, would he even know what to do with a woman? How long had it been? He closed his eyes. Swim, keep swimming. Do not stop swimming.

Why was she so interested? he thought suddenly. Because she was definitely interested, that he was sure of. She’d been waiting for him; she’d even stated it as fact. She was a new face; did she think he was a homeowner? Did she think he rented? He almost smiled. A few years ago, he’d had one close encounter with the ex-wife of a famous actor. Sam knew who the man was because when it was raining in Malibu, the college kids working the counter would let him sleep in the local movie theater. He’d seen a couple of the famous movie star’s pictures, respected his tough-guy acting stance. The woman
had brought up his name as if to impress Sam, but the truth was, he wasn’t impressed. Acting seemed to him to be a girl’s job. She’d brought it up once, then twice, then never again when she could discern no reaction. Other than that, they barely talked. The sex was wham, bam, thank-you ma’am, and Sam was grateful for that. Less painful that way, all gravy. The woman had known about him, knew he was some kind of handyman. Maybe she even knew he didn’t have a proper home. But she didn’t care. There was no exchange of ideas, no discussions. Certainly no flirting.

But this woman, this one, wanted more, Sam thought, she wanted more than a onetime encounter. He could look into her eyes and sense her decency, he heard sweetness in her voice. And need. She wanted a relationship. And eventually she would want the truth. All of it. “Why?” He could see her asking him, her eyes wide and bewildered. “Why don’t you have a home?” And what could he tell her? That he tried? That he moved home after his second tour of duty? That he went back to college? That he was desperate to fit in? That the professors who called him and his buddies baby-killers made him ill with anger? That there was not one war he could win, including the one with his family? They hated him for leaving and they made him suffer when he returned. His problem wasn’t drugs, it wasn’t mental instability. His problem was the human race.

He’d have to avoid this woman, he thought. Neither of them were up for the truth. She just didn’t know it yet.

WIFE NUMBER SEVEN

A former tennis pro, married the eighty-year-old billionaire mogul after he impregnated her; later, she bore him a baby
girl. When they broke up a few months later, she sued for over $300,000 in monthly support; the billionaire went through the trash of a younger billionaire and got his DNA off a piece of dental floss.

The DNA matched that of the baby girl; he’s still paying child support.

17
 
INDEPENDENCE DAY