The Starter Wife (34 page)

Occasionally, he would talk to the men who gathered on the outskirts of the Starbucks hoping for a free coffee, some change. But he was a snob, he was the first to admit it. He wasn’t on his own because of alcohol, drugs, because of money issues. He had chosen this life. He preferred this life.

This woman was the first to make him question his choice.

Lavender would know what he should wear. He’d have to be discreet, though. He didn’t want her or anyone else knowing he had a date. He knew the guards—they were like a ready-made family. J.D. was the patriarch, the all-knowing, all-seeing father figure. Tariq was the younger brother, the easygoing one who sometimes made mistakes. Lavender was the sister, smart, hypervigilant. He didn’t want her thinking he was taking advantage—he knew some people probably already thought that—thought that he was taking advantage of the Kennicots. Which is why he never moved in with them, even when Mrs. Kennicot asked every other week or so, until she didn’t anymore.

Lavender was bent over a book, as usual, when there weren’t poor people to kick off the beach, or someone driving an Escalade looking for a party.

“Excuse me, Lavender,” he said. “What’ve you got there?” She smiled but didn’t bother looking up. They had known each other for as long as she’d been there.

“You are so cute,” she said. “I got homework. More homework.” But he could tell she wasn’t complaining. Books were her escape from the four-wall syndrome, whether it was here, the security shed, or her one-bedroom apartment in Inglewood.

She looked up, peering at him over her glasses.

“I have a question for you,” he said. He was rubbing the side of the door. Why was he so nervous? One small step toward
“the normal life” and he had become a jumble of tics.

“Shoot,” she said, looking at him. Waiting.

“I have to get a pair of pants,” he said. “I have some money saved up. I can buy ’em.”

Lavender smiled. She shook her head. She always did that when she was delighted. “You’re buying a pair of pants,” she said, looking at his shorts. “Will wonders never cease?”

“Here’s the problem,” he said. “Where do I go? And what kind do I buy when I get there?”

She looked at him. “What’s it for?”

“Personal,” he said.

“Ah,” she replied, smiling widely, the spaces between her teeth mocking him. She looked like a cartoon character.

“Okay, then,” she said. “I’m assuming it’s not formal.” Formal. Just the word sent shivers down his spine. He shook his head, emphatically. Still rubbing the doorway with his thumb.

“And not too casual,” she said.

He nodded.

“Dockers,” she said. “And you might want to get yourself a shirt, too, while you’re at it.”

Sam looked at his shirt. He had three like it—all short-sleeved T-shirts. One gray, one white, one gray and white. One of them was a Surfrider benefit giveaway. The other two had been given to him by Mrs. Kennicot, when she’d tired of the logos.

“Any idea what kind of shirt goes with these ‘Dockers’?”

“Boy, you got to figure out some things on your own,” Lavender said. “Do I look like a personal stylist?”

“What’s that?” Sam said.

But Lavender was lost to him. She was facing away from him now, and though he could not see her face, he could feel
her mouth curve down, her eyebrows pinching together. Her mood had shifted. Something about the way her shoulders rose beneath her crisp white uniform shirt. Her fingers tapping the pages of her book.

A large black car was turning into the Colony. Lavender was half standing, half sitting as it suddenly sped up and whipped past—

Lavender leaped up, raising the wooden barrier just in time.

Sam caught the half-opened window, the shock of black hair with bleached tips. The black sunglasses. The smirk. The sound of laughter coming from all sides.

When Lavender sat back down, Sam could feel she was vibrating.

“Assholes,” he said, clearing his throat. He wished he could sound more articulate, for her sake. He wished he could put together a string of words that would make it all better for her. That would put an end to the humiliation he knew she was feeling. He brought his hand forward, as if to touch her shoulder, to undo the knot that he saw form in front of his eyes.

“Just kids,” Lavender said, staring at the pages of her book. “That’s all. Just kids.”

Sam walked off, toward Mrs. Kennicot’s. It was only when he got halfway there that he realized he’d been clenching his fists.

23
 
DINNER WITH FRIENDS AND LOVER

7
:20 P.M.:
Gracie standing, dress on over pants, looking in the mirror.

7:22
P.M
.: Gracie standing, T-shirt on, nothing underneath, looking in the mirror.

7:24
P.M.:
Gracie standing, naked, looking in the mirror, razor in her hand.

7:25
P.M.:
Joan yelling at Gracie to get the hell downstairs and help her with setting the table.

7:30
P.M.:
Table is set. Joan is looking at Gracie and shaking her head.

“W
HAT ARE YOU WEARING?”
Joan asked.

Gracie looked down at herself. “I saw Kate Hudson wearing a long T-shirt over pants.”

“That’s Kate Hudson. She’s a child. Now go upstairs and put on a proper dress.”

Which is how Gracie wound up wearing one of Joan’s Diane von Furstenberg wrap dresses, one with forgiving fabric and design.

Gracie made a mental note to write a letter to Diane, thanking her if she got laid that night.

By 7:45, most of the guests had arrived—the guests being Will, Cricket, and Jorge. Joan was serving Mojitos, the Cuban drink, which was being billed as the new Cosmopolitan.

Prince Charming the Unencumbered had still not arrived.

Gracie was already on her second Mojito—a sort of Mojito drinking record for her, as she had never had one before. She was grateful that Jaden, sleeping over at Daddy’s house, would not be a witness to her bender.

“Maybe he didn’t get the time right?” Cricket asked.

“Why are you smiling so much?” Will asked Cricket.

“Those
Girls Gone Wild
tapes,” Cricket whispered. “They’ve changed our lives.”

Jorge just grinned and held up his Mojito.

“I should be a masturbation agent,” Will said. “But how would I collect my ten percent?”

“Can you bring me up to speed?” Joan asked. “Because I’m going to need my own help, now that Pappy’s gone.”

“Oh, Pappy,” Will cried, “we hardly knew ye.”

There was a knock at the door, which was slightly open. Gracie and Joan pushed each other as they vied to be the first at the door.

“He’s my date,” Gracie hissed.

“My invite,” Joan hissed back. “And my house—at least for the time being!”

Joan was there first, being more slim, agile, and faster on her feet. Gracie held herself back, aided by the iron grip of Will’s hand on her shoulder.

“Indifferent!” Will whispered in her ear. “You need to appear aloof and indifferent! Think Jackie O in her heyday!”

“Right,” Gracie said. “How do I do that?”

“Look at me and laugh,” Will said, sitting her down. “Tilt your head back while you do it.”

Gracie tried, she really did. She had her head back at a dizzying angle and was laughing gaily when she felt Joan and Sam step into the room.

“That’s enough,” Will said. “You’re going to hurt yourself. You look like Jackie Oh-No!”

Gracie stood up and looked over to where Joan and Sam were standing. Joan had a curious look on her face. Gracie couldn’t quite place it—her expression looked halfway between disturbed and fascinated.

Sam was in a white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and slightly slouchy khaki pants. He looked like someone who would be very comfortable throwing a football around on an expansive patch of Hyannisport lawn.

And he was holding a bouquet of daisies in his hand, wrapped neatly in a green napkin.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said to Gracie. Sam hated being late. If only she’d known how many times he’d combed his hair, how he’d agonized over what kind of flowers to bring. He hoped that Mrs. Walsh at 218A would forgive him; he’d picked the best ones he could find in her yard. He’d make it up to her somehow. “I brought these for the hostess—”

“Thank you, I’ll put them in water,” Joan said lightly. Her
voice sounded about an octave higher than normal. As she passed Gracie, she tilted her head toward the kitchen, in a conspiratorial manner.

Gracie smiled at Sam, who looked very alone without his flowers.“Will, can you get Sam a Mojito?”

“Love to,” Will said as he put his arm in Sam’s and steered his intractable body toward the bar, where Cricket and Jorge were staring into each other’s eyes like sophomores on a first date.

If Joan’s kitchen had had a door, she would have closed it. As it was doorless, she made do with whispering.

“How do you know him, exactly?” Joan asked. The color of her freckles intensified as she spoke.

“Are you angry?” Gracie asked. “What is this about?”

“No, no,” Joan said. “He just looks so familiar to me, I’m trying to place him.”

“I met him on the beach,” Gracie said, measuring her words, recalling events as they unfurled slowly in her Mojito-fied brain. “He takes a swim every morning.And he’s got a dog!”

She said that last part too loudly. She wondered why she should be excited about him having a dog, as though that proved he was a more worthy human being than a dogless person.

“Well, he’s ridiculously handsome,” Joan said finally. “If he’s not gay or married or both, you, my young friend, have hit the take-me-I’m-yours jackpot.”

Gracie smiled, giddy. “I know,” she said. “Maybe there is a God.”

“I know I’ve met him before,” Joan said softly, almost to herself, as she poured dressing on the salad.

C
RICKET,
caught up in the first blush of Mojito, was regaling the table with a story about her new life with Jorge, Post-Masturbatory
Age. “So, we’re lying on the bed at his mother’s house in Palm Springs, you know, we sometimes spend the weekend there, and he’s got one hand on my boob (Will covered his ears at this) and with the other, he’s, you know, whacking away. He was watching …
Girls Gone Wild in … Baja?”

“The sequel?” Will asked.

Cricket pinched Jorge’s cheek. He turned crimson and poured himself some wine.

“Anyway,” she blearily continued, “I’m reading the
Enquirer
or
Star
while he’s ‘busy’ … I forget what I was reading … so his mother opens the door—I don’t think she knocked—” She turned to Jorge. “Did she knock?”

Jorge shrugged. “I don’t think she knocked,” he said.

“She’s not a knocker. She opens the door, and sees us—imagine it, now, I’m lying on the bed, fully clothed, except my top’s open, I’ve got the
Enquirer
covering my face, Jorge’s hand is on my breast (Will screams), and he’s almost done—”

Gracie looked sideways toward Sam, who was following the story. She couldn’t read his face. Was he enjoying it? Did she want him to enjoy it?

Emboldened first by rum, and now by the Argentinian red, she slid her hand over to his knee, praying that he would take it.

He did.

“And she goes, ‘Excuse me!’ and jumps out the door—”

Jorge nodded. “I think she jumped.”

“That’s fascinating, Cricket, really—” Joan said.

“I’d like a bit more detail,” Will said. “But delete the bare breast. This is a mixed crowd.”

“I’m not finished,” Cricket said. “So, later on she says to him, ‘Is Cricket a good wife? Is she taking care of you?’”

Everyone laughed. Partially because it proved to be a funny story, but mostly because Cricket so needed them to.

“You know what, Cricket?” Joan said when the laughter died down. “I think I liked it better when you were miserable. Right now, your successful love life is more than I can handle.”

“You’re a true friend,” Cricket said, a bit slurred. “True friends are those to whom you can freely express your jealousy and hatred.”

“Here, here,” Joan said, and she raised her glass. She threw back the rest of her wine. “Anyone need anything?” she asked, as she stood. “I’m going to get my cigarettes.”