This Is How It Happened (8 page)

It’s typical to see a great-looking woman with an average-looking guy. It’s highly unusual the other way around. (Unless the woman is super rich and the guy is like her chauffeur or something.)

But that’s how it was with Carlton and me. Carlton was, in all senses of the word, gorgeous. Breathtakingly gorgeous. The type of man who caused you to tuck in your tummy and stand up straight when he smiled at you from across a room. And he chose me. Five-foot-three, size 6,
la bella donna
, Madeline Jane Piatro.

I never should’ve fallen in love with a man so far out of my league in the looks department. He could have whichever woman he wanted. The only thing standing in Carlton’s way was money. A hefty bank account to keep up with his silver spoon tastes. And then he’d have it all. The looks…and the Porsche.

Carlton’s father, while enormously wealthy, was one of those men who believed in making Carlton “work for it.” Plus, Mr. Connors had a gaggle of ex-wives and court-ordered support. Over time, these women had managed to ratchet down his sizable wealth. Forest Connors was still a safe multimillionaire. Many, many times over. But, according to Carlton, he’d once had a whole lot more.

Forest Connors also loved showering expensive gifts on the new women in his life. Carlton said his dad once bought a quarter-million-dollar diamond necklace for a woman he’d only known a month. A hairdresser from Abilene.

This drove Carlton nuts. The trophy wives, trophy diamonds, trophy cars, and trophy alimony payments. One thing Forest Connors did give Carlton was a wristwatch. A rare Patek Phillipe he’d bought at a Sotheby’s auction. Carlton wore the watch every day. Even when he rode his bike. It was like a talisman of power handed down from father to son. The watch symbolized Carlton’s future. A future filled with wealth and privilege. Carlton knew it was just a matter of time before his father’s jet-set lifestyle became his own. It was waiting for him like a trust fund—it was right around the corner.

And so, because of Carlton’s status as The Man Who Walked on Water, sometimes I liked to take him down a notch. Show him that I, too, was a force to be reckoned with. While I was neither rich nor drop-dead gorgeous, I still had chutzpa, as Michael would say.

And that’s why I liked to beat the pants off Carlton in tennis.

It’s the one area where I truly excelled. My body seemed made for smashing forehands and backhands low across the net. I might trip while walking in a pair of high heels, but on a tennis court, I was pure grace.

I’d been playing for as long as I could hold a racquet. It was my dad’s thing to enroll me in tennis camp as soon as I could walk. I guess he dreamed of sitting on the sidelines of the U.S. Open one day, clapping as I went head to head with Venus Williams. For an amateur, I wasn’t just good at tennis, I was great.

And so, because of Carlton’s healthy ego, sometimes I had to show him a thing or two. It was all in fun, of course. But I had more fun than Carlton did. He was ultra-competitive and couldn’t believe each time he lost to a mere pint-sized woman and got run ragged in the process. I was no Amazon woman, that’s for sure. But despite my size, I was fast as hell. And I liked to make Carlton chase the ball. It was good for him.

It was a source of entertainment, a joke we told at parties among friends. “Maddy may look like a sweet lil’ thang on the outside,” Carlton would say, “but I dare any of you guys to play her on the tennis court.” I’d watch Carlton as he’d push a perfect lock of hair off his perfect forehead. “Talk about brutal,” he’d say. “She kicks ass.” Sometimes he’d place bets. Challenge his buddies to a “Game with My Maddy.”

He won money, sometimes. But mostly, he won free beer.

The night before our big investor meeting with Carlton’s father, Carlton decided he wanted to play tennis.

“I need to let off some steam,” he said, holding up the racquets. “Care to rise to the challenge?”

I grabbed my Slazenger out of his hand. Shook it playfully in front of his face. “Let’s see what you got, girly-man,” I said. So off we went. To the public courts.

The Slazenger was a birthday gift from my dad. I got it after he died. He was having it specially fitted for me and the pro shop called three days after the funeral. “This is a message for Mr. Piatro. Your daughter’s racquet is ready,” it said on the answering machine.

The Slazenger was just like my dad. Classy. Old School. With a little bit of zing. Carlton sometimes wanted to borrow it, and I let him. But it didn’t make a difference. I’d beat him with a Wilson, too. It really didn’t matter.

Carlton said my racquet had the “Magic Juice.” But deep down, he knew it wasn’t the racquet. As a man, he had the power, but I had the finesse. And like my dad used to say, “Nothing beats a ball down the line.”

I could place the ball wherever I wanted it to go. Carlton’s only hope was to hit it fast and hard, and get it past me before I could react.

Carlton was naturally gifted. A born athlete. He was what you’d call an outdoors “enthusiast.” He ran, biked, kayaked, and played soccer on an intramural league.

I knew this tennis thing really bugged him, but I refused to be a wilting flower. The type of girl who “let the guy win.” Carlton didn’t need a confidence booster. He had a solidly healthy ego, to say the least. But I never beat him as badly as I knew I could. I always held back.

Still, Carlton tried every trick in the book; he even taunted me from the other end of the court.

This was the tactic he was trying now. Now that he was down, four games to zero. I guess it was time to let him win one.

It was my turn to serve.

“Look out!” Carlton shouted, “Here comes the noodle!”

He always did this when he was losing. Tried to get my head off the game.

I watch him as he makes a big production of walking closer to the net. Because he knows I don’t have the strength to ace him, to get the ball past the baseline. He’s in a ready stance, bouncing slightly on his feet, his tennis racquet in both hands, peering at me. Waiting for my serve.

“Come on, Maddy! I don’t have all day!” he shouts. Which is bad tennis etiquette. And poor sportsmanship. But he looks damn good in his white shorts.

I throw the ball into the air, arch my body back, and whack it. Immediately, I know it’s a good serve. I can hear the ball ping against my racquet strings—it’s a good sound, that ping.

I watch Carlton swing at the ball like he’s playing baseball. It’s ugly, but it goes over the net. I return it. He returns it. We get into a competitive volley. Each hitting the ball at different angles with different spins. I’m in motion, now. This is my thing. Back and forth. Front to back. Whap, whap, whap—

I watch Carlton race for the ball. He’s struggling, I can tell. Thinking to himself, “Don’t hit it in the net, don’t hit it in the net.” Which, by the way, he does.

“Goddamnit!” he shouts. He throws the racquet on the ground, stalks around in a circle. A pissed-off wildcat.

Perhaps I should bring it down a notch.

“You’re cheating with that racquet!” he says.

Hmm. Perhaps not.

I walk to the net. Calmly. Like a pro.

“Here, babe. Let’s switch,” I say.

He storms toward the net, grabs the Slazenger from my hand, and thrusts the Wilson over.

“I bet this’ll turn the tide of things,” he snaps. I watch as sweat drips down his forehead. He wipes his face with the edge of his shirt.

“Jesus H. Christ! It’s hot as a bitch!” he yells.

“Nice,” I say.

Carlton looks down at his New Balance tennis shoes. “You’re getting me riled up,” he says, apologetically.

“Your serve,” I say, tossing him a ball. I try not to laugh as he tries to catch it on his racquet, but he overcompensates, and the ball bounces off. “Sonofabitch!” he yells, chasing after it.

Granted I’m no Billie Jean King or Martina Navratilova, but I’m better at this game than Carlton. So I’ll be damned if I’m going to flit around in a short, white tennis skirt and let his attitude get to me.

I happen to be wearing a short, white tennis skirt, but that’s a minor detail.

Carlton walks to the baseline, a man ready to win. He waves my Slazenger in the air and says, “Now who’s got the Magic Juice?”

He arches his back and serves. The ball speeds past me.

Carlton raises both arms in the air. “Yes!” he says, because he’s just aced me.

He kisses the racquet.

“Fifteen-LOVE!” he shouts.

I move back way behind the baseline because I know what’s coming next. It’s time to have a little fun.

Carlton whacks it again. Harder this time. But I’m prepared. My racquet catches the ball squarely on and I hear the familiar ping. The good ping. The ping that means it’s sailing down the line.

I watch Carlton run for it, swing, and miss.

He stares at me. “Lucky shot,” he says. “Fifteen-All.”

Yeah right
, I think.

I know Carlton is nervous about the investor meeting, and about impressing his father, but I’m nervous, too.

I debate whether to let Carlton win as he rips another serve past me.

“Thirty-fifteen, BYYYATCH!” he shouts. He never calls me names like “bitch,” so I know he’s saying this as a joke. But still. Byyyatch or no byyyatch. I’ll show him a real byyyatch.

I see Carlton smiling this huge grin at the end of the court. Mr. Perfect. Thinking he’s about to win this game.

Think again.

I bend down, prepare for another serve, keeping the racquet loose in my grip. Carlton rips another serve and I hit it short over the net and watch him run for it. He pops it up, and I easily hit it back. He runs and hits it back. So I decide to do this sneaky thing. This thing where I hit the ball from side-to-side and make Carlton sweat it out. I watch as he runs to the left, then the right, then the left again. Until finally, he hits it in the net. We do this a few times until I win the game. And a few more times until I win the whole set.

Carlton curses at himself because he got beat, yet again, by a mere Maddy.

Game, Set, Match.

I watch Carlton as he flops down on the bench and drapes his neck with a towel. He hangs his head low. His face red and sweat dripping from his forehead. Totally spent.

He looks at me. “I think we’re ready for the meeting,” he says. And then adds, “You’re definitely ready.”

I plop my leg up on the bench and stretch, a little ballet stretch, with my arm over my head.

“I think you should be the one to make the presentation, Carlton. It’s your father. His investors. They know you. Plus, you’re one of the boys,” I say.

He shakes his head, slaps the towel on the bench. “No one knows the business model like you do, Maddy. If you can make the presentation like you just played tennis out there, we’ll be as good as gold.”

“Tennis is easy. Boardrooms make me nervous,” I say. “Especially since I’ll be the only woman.”

“Hey now. You just knocked it out of the park with the Meyers account. And that was all men. So this should be a piece of cake. Besides, I want my dad to see you in action. He can be kind of a dick, sometimes.”

I want to tell Carlton what Henry told me about Forest Connors. About how Carlton’s father didn’t pay Henry, and even got a nasty lawyer involved. But I hold back because I know what Carlton will say. He’ll say his father probably did take advantage of Henry, but that was a long time ago. Business is business. And maybe Henry should let bygones be bygones. That’s what Carlton will say.

“So what are you gonna do while I’m making the presentation?” I ask.

He slaps me on the bottom with his towel. Hard.

“Hey!” I say.

“You’ve got a great ass, you know that, Maddy?”

I smile and sit on his lap. Then I writhe around a little. Like I’m a stripper giving him a lap dance. I’m a saucy little tart sometimes.

Carlton reaches around and cups my breast in his hand. I can feel him getting aroused. I turn and kiss him on the mouth.

“Let’s take this home,” he says.

“There’s no one around,” I say. I slip my hand inside the front of his pants.

“Jesus, Maddy. We’re going to get caught.”

I lift up my white tennis skirt, put the towel over my lap, and let Carlton enter me from the back.

“No one can see a thing,” I say, as his breath gets faster and faster.

“I love you, Maddy,” he whispers.

I rock back and forth on his lap, going faster and faster.

“Good game, sport,” I say, breathlessly, in his ear.

Carlton moans. He grabs my waist and pumps me up and down on his lap. Hard. Like a man who’s had his ass handed to him on a tennis court. He’s gotta make up for his bruised manhood so he’s decided to punish me.

I kind of like it.

“You’re a naughty li’l thang,” he says, and his voice is hoarse in my ear.

“I haven’t even gotten started yet,” I say.

And we do it like animals, right there on the tennis court.

Wednesday morning rolls around and I’m desperate. I log onto the Internet and search revenge books on Amazon. There are more than I expected. The titles all sound alike:

10,000 Dirty Tricks to Pull on Your Ex-Husband

Down and Dirty Revenge Tactics for the Scorned Woman

Screw Him—The Ex-wife’s Guide to Getting Even

A sample chapter is called “Five Revenge Tactics to Get Him Good.”

The advice borders on obnoxious:

1. Kidnap His Dog.

Hmm, Carlton hates animals
.

2. Put a For Sale Sign in Front of His House When He’s Away on Business.

But Carlton’s renting
.

3. Place a Singles Ad for Him in a Gay Newspaper.

That’s pretty funny. But Carlton will think it’s a prank from an old fraternity brother.

4. Cast a Revenge Spell.

Hmm. Good one. A revenge spell. Despite my occasional fantasies when baking brownies, I’m no witch. But I bet I can hire one.

I type in the words “witchcraft spell” and arrive at the website of the California Astrology Association. It reads:

Want to right a wrong?

You’ve come to the right place.

We guarantee you won’t be disappointed!

Now it’s your turn to fight back!

Now we’re talking
, I think. I scroll down the page.

Hmm. Twenty bucks. Not a bad price. I guess witchcraft has gotten cheaper these days. Even witches give a good bargain.

I keep reading. This witchcraft website has me mesmerized:

Perfect
, I think. Just what Carlton needs. A little lowering of his huge, blimp-sized self-esteem.

I click the “ORDER NOW” button and a shipping information page comes up. I type in my name and credit card info. In the last box, it says,
Details for the spell.
And
Please be specific!
I pause for a moment and then type:

I hit the send button and get an instant reply.
Your spell has been cast.

Good, that should do it,
I think, sitting back in my chair. I can’t help it. I begin to cry.

Rushing to the bathroom, I lean forward and stare in the mirror. My eyes are puffy and dark underneath. I feel swollen, bruised. Angry. Overwrought.

And fat.

The pores on my nose look dirty. Like someone threw pepper in my face. Rainforest facial, my ass. I would’ve been better off with a giant blue tub of Noxzema. A cheap three-dollar fix.

Oh well. So I got ripped off at the spa. So what? I guess this calls for chocolate. Maybe a milkshake. Or some comfort food. I consider dialing my brother, but I call Heather instead. Heather is light and airy. My brother would probably start praying for me. And I’m really not in the mood for a Hail Mary today.

Fifteen minutes later, I hear a light tap on the door. Heather’s such a lady. The way she knocks. So politely. As if she’s a little unsure of herself.

It’s sweet.

I swing open the door and see my best friend is wielding a large potted plant. She’s dressed head to toe in a little flowery dress and little matching flowery flip-flops. She’s even got flowery barrettes in her hair. It’s as if Laura Ashley threw up all over her.

But Heather can pull it off. She looks adorable, of course.

“For you!” she titters, hoisting the plant into my arms.

I stare down at the plant like it’s my enemy.

“You know I’m a black thumb,” I say. “Remember what happened with the last plant you gave me?”

Heather bites her lip. “That one was touchy.”

“It was a cactus!”

My best friend squeezes past me into the living room and takes a seat on the couch. She crosses her legs and folds her hands prettily on her knee, like she’s on an interview.

“Relax,” I tell her. “You’re pregnant. Take a load off.” (P.S. When I’m at home, I prop my feet up on the coffee table.)

“I
am
relaxed,” Heather says, smiling perkily. She’s sitting erect, her back as straight as an ironing board. I imagine her presiding over a Tri-Delt sorority meeting.

I set the plant down next to the front door. “You’re taking this with you when you leave,” I say, pointing my finger at her.

“C’mon, Maddy. You could use a little greenery in this apartment,” Heather says. She stretches out both her arms and motions around like a game-show hostess. “It’s like a morgue in here,” she says.

“Thanks.”

“No, I mean. It’s nice to have a plant. A plant is
Life
, Maddy.”

“I killed a cactus, remember?”

“Even a cactus needs a little TLC,” Heather says. “You left it on the windowsill and forgot to water it.”

“Since when does a cactus need water!”

Heather shrugs. “Everything drinks,” she says, simply.

Jesus, I could learn a few tricks from her.

I sink down on the couch next to my friend and try to sit up straight and tall, but it’s too much damn effort. I fall back into the cushions. A heap of grungy sweat pants, stinky T-shirt, and stringy hair.

“What’s wrong, Maddy?” Heather demands. She whirls around and gives me a worried look. The type of look the ambulance driver gives the gunshot victim.

“Allergies,” I say. I grab a Kleenex off the coffee table and dab underneath my nose for effect. “I’m stopped up tighter than Martha Stewart’s bed sheets.”

Heather rolls her eyes. “Don’t make fun of my Martha,” she warns. “I love that woman. In fact, you remind me of her.”

“Why? Because I’m so damn prickly?”

“No, because she’s a great businesswoman. She’s got a great mind. And so do you.”

“Aw shucks,” I say.

“I’m serious,” Heather says.

“Look, if I was a great businesswoman, I would still be in charge of Organics 4 Kids. Instead, I’m stressing about what movie I’m going to rent tonight.”

“Come over for dinner,” Heather says. “Michael and I are doing Shabbat. I’ve hired Rabbi Moscowitz to come over and cut the bread for us.”

“You’ve
hired
him?”

“You know what I mean, Maddy. Don’t give me grief.”

“Sorry.”

“He’s coming over and he’s slicing the holler bread.”

“Challah bread, Heather. Not holler.”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Ooh!” Heather claps her petite little hands together. “And I bought some kosher wine,” she titters. “But don’t worry, it’s the good stuff,” she says, nodding her head approvingly.

“Ah, a good Manischevitz.”

“Oh yes,” Heather exclaims. She presses her hand against her chest. All prim and lady-like.

“There are wonderful vineyards in the Golan,” she gushes. “In fact, Michael says all the fighting for the Golan Heights—it’s really for the wine.”

I look at Heather and see that, bless her heart, she’s completely earnest. She doesn’t even realize when her husband is jerking her chain.

Don’t get me wrong, Heather’s a smart girl. But she’s not book smart. She’s smart in more subtle ways. Like she knows how many fat grams are in tomato bisque. She knows Brad Pitt’s birthday. She knows if a Hermes scarf matches a certain pair of shoes. She’s that kind of smart. Girly Smart. And that’s no small thing, believe me. I’m the last person on Earth who could pick out the differences between off-white, cream, and taupe.

But she still can’t seem to find her inner Jewishness. She doesn’t have that keen Jewish wit, as they say. She’s a little slow on the uptake.

Heather leans back on the sofa, finally, and pats her small belly. “I’m a size 4 now,” she sighs.

I could kill her, I really could. If she weren’t so damn sweet. And my best friend to boot.

“Wow, almost time for Plus-Sizes,” I say, sarcastically.

Heather looks at me and I see her eyes twinkling. “I don’t mind, Maddy, because my boobs are fabulous!”

Great. My pregnant size 4 girlfriend has fabulous boobs, now.

I look down at my own boobs. I’m not wearing a bra so they seem a little droopy. Like they belong on an old lady.

Heather shakes her head. “Oy Vay. I’m so nervous about my conversion test,” she says.

“You’re going to do fine. The Rabbis just want to see that you’re committed to this.”

“Oh I know, Maddy. It’s just that—I can’t seem to get anything right. I mean, I went to the grocery store last night and asked the manager where I could find the Filtered Fish.”

I chuckle and pat Heather’s shoulder. “Look, you’re doing your best. And Michael loves you for trying. I mean, c’mon. You spent August in Israel. It was 120 degrees in the shade.”

“Small price to pay,” she murmurs. I notice her mood is changing. Her face seems dark, suddenly.

“Hey, that reminds me!” I say. My mood has just changed too—for the better. I jump up and rush to my bedroom. I return with a book and hold it up in the air. Like Moses with the Ten Commandments.

“Voila!” I say. “We’re going to practice.”

I flash Heather the title.

“The Idiot’s Guide to Becoming a Jew,”
she reads.

“I figured out what your problem is,” I say.

Heather stares down at the floor. “Yeah, I’m an idiot,” she mumbles.

“Beep! Wrong! You’re trying to learn too much from a bunch of complicated books,” I say. “It’s time to simplify!”

Heather looks at me with a hopeful expression.

“Look, I made flash cards,” I say, holding up a stack of note cards.

Heather’s face brightens and she claps her hands again, a dainty little clap. “Ooh, I love flash cards!” she gushes.

“You’re going to pass this test with flying colors,” I say. “Okay, first things first.” I pull up the first flash card. “What’s a matzoh ball?”

“The Rabbis aren’t going to ask me that, silly,” Heather giggles.

“We’re getting into the swing of things,” I explain.

“A matzoh ball is made with egg whites and matzoh meal. You roll it and put it in a chicken soup broth,” she says.

“Very good.” I show her the back of the flash card where I’ve printed a recipe for matzoh ball soup from the Internet.

When I was making the flash cards, I decided to start with a cooking question because I didn’t want Heather to be scared right off the bat. Testing her Jewish I.Q. will pose a challenge.

“Next question. Why do the Jewish people celebrate Passover?”

Heather chews her lip. “Passover comes from the Hebrew word, “Pesach,” meaning to pass over, to exempt, or to spare. It refers to the time when God “passed over” the houses of the Jews when he was slaying the firstborn of Egypt. “Pesach” is also the name of the sacrificial offering, or lamb, that was sacrificed in the temple.”

“Wow. Very impressive,” I say. “And absolutely correct.”

“I’ve been reading up,” Heather informs me.

She leans back on the couch and I can tell she’s really getting into this flash card stuff.

“Hit me again,” she says. And her face is beaming.

I playfully punch her in the arm. A light little tap. “There, I’m hitting you.”

“You’re a goof,” she says.

“I’m Martha Stewart,” I reply.