I knew it was time for a career change when the invisible
but perpetual twitch in my right eye progressed to a
physical tic that made it appear as if I were winking at the
world.
The past few hours spent with my client, Bitsy Van der Berg,
had pushed me over the edge. Certain words come to mind at
the mere mention of Bitsy Van der Berg: self-absorbed;
manipulator; black widow spider, who kills everyone who gets
tangled up in her itsy-Bitsy web. Oh, and let's not forget
rich. The woman was born into one of those families
with more money than royalty. She'd popped right out of the
womb and straight into the lap of luxury.
What was supposed to be the glorious unveiling of a project
that took months of my time—I even designed a prime piece of
furniture for this job, had it custom made—and cost me
countless nights of sleep had turned into my worst living
nightmare. Bitsy swept in from Paris and insisted that the
Provençal/Mediterranean interior she signed off on before
she left for Paris three months ago was "absolutely wrong."
She claimed the design looked like a peasant's house,
particularly hating the armoire I designed.
"No. No. This will never do. Where's my gold-leaf crown
molding? Where are my mirrors and chandeliers?"
She'd changed her mind, but she wouldn't admit it. Once she
got to Paris and was swept away on her whim du jour, rather
than confessing that she'd found something else she liked
better—or worse yet, living with the design she'd chosen
like the rest of the peasants would, she tried to
blame me. Pointing the finger was the only possible way out
of paying for her fickle notions. Proving, once again, that
some of the wealthiest people in the world were also the
cheapest bitches, she opted for firing me, saying her lawyer
would be in touch.
Well, goody. Maybe I could redecorate his office in
oh-so-chic frivolous lawsuit motif.
Cursing the evil woman, I parked my white Volvo in the
garage, next to my husband Fred's white Saturn. I gathered
my briefcase and the bag of Chinese takeout I'd picked up
because it was already seven-thirty and cooking and cleaning
up yet another mess was the last thing I wanted to do tonight.
Fred had probably been home since five-thirty He was as
punctual and predictable as the quarter-hour chime of the
antique grandfather clock in the foyer. That's why I knew
before I walked in the door that he'd be hunkered down in
his recliner watching TV with his slippers on. The first
words out of his mouth would be a listless "Hey… how was
your day?" Then, "What's for dinner? I'm starving," as he
stared hypnotically at the boob tube.
Normally it didn't bother me, but tonight before I could
stop myself, I snapped, "I don't know, Fred. What did you fix?"
He lowered the television volume and shot me a befuddled
look. "Jeez, someone's in a foul mood."
I knew I shouldn't take my bad day out on him. I should've
checked the ugliness at the door and been happy that my
husband was at home, rather than at some corner bar drinking
with the boys. Still, I couldn't decide if it was the
predictability that irked me or the fact that he'd sit in
that damn La-Z-Boy and starve to death before he'd even
think of starting dinner.
"Well, yeah, it's been one of those days," I groused.
He sat up, pushed in the footrest and lumbered into the
kitchen, watching me as if I might attack.
My eye spasmed again, and I pressed my fingertips to it to
quiet the tic.
"What's wrong with your eye? Or are you winking at me?" Fred
winked back at me as he walked to the refrigerator and took
out an open bottle of Chardonnay and a can of Budweiser.
"Bitsy Van der Berg is what's wrong with my eye. The woman
has finally driven me over the edge. Will you remind me why
I wanted to design interiors for spoiled women with too much
money and nothing to do but cause others grief?"
He handed me a glass of wine, gave me a peck on the lips.
"Because you're damn good at it," Fred offered. "They may
have the cash, but you have the taste, my love."
His words soothed me, and I almost felt guilty for being so
crabby.
"And because people with deep pockets pay you a lot of money
to work your magic." He touched his beer can to my glass.
"Well, she fired me."
Fred's right brow shot up and his jaw dropped, forming his
mouth into an "oh."
"What happened?" he asked as we dished out our Chinese meal.
"The woman's crazy." I took my plate and sat down at the
table in the great room. "She approved everything before she
left for France—the color scheme, the custom-built
furniture, the tapestry. She signed off on it, but now she's
demanding I send everything back. She says I misled her and
misrepresented the design."
As I relived the day in painstaking detail, Fred's gaze
drifted to the muted TV visible in the sitting area.
"She's always been a pain in the ass, but she's never gone
this far."
Fred didn't say anything. His gaze had been fastened to the
television the entire time I was talking. At first I thought
he was being a good listener, but now it was obvious he
hadn't heard a damn word I'd said.
"Fred?"
"Hmm?"
"Are you listening to me?"
"What? Yeah, Bitsy… I don't know what you're worried about.
She signed off on everything, right?"
I nodded.
"Well, there you go. I don't know what's the big deal. You
can't stand the woman. Now you don't have to put up with her
crap anymore."
Irritation welled inside me, and I suppressed a snort. "It's
the principle of the matter, Fred. Don't expect me to be
logical about this for at least twenty-four hours."
The phone rang. I got up to answer it, welcoming the diversion.
"Hello?"
"Bonjour, Rita, it's Annabelle."
My sister?
"Anna! Hi, my gosh, what time is it in Paris? It's nearly
eight o'clock here."
"It's almost two. Jean Luc and I just got back from a party
at the art center and I thought I might catch you in."
I glanced at Fred, who'd carried his dinner over to his
recliner. The Jeopardy theme song rang out as he
pointed the remote at the television and restored it to its
full volume.
"Anna! Oh, I'm so happy it's you!"
"Hey, Ri," Fred called. Lowering his voice, he muttered,
"Since you're up, would you hand me another beer?"
I was too happy to hear my sister's voice to be annoyed at
my husband. Although, he could get up and get his own beer
if he wanted it that bad.
Waving him off, I took the phone into the bedroom so I
wouldn't have to compete with the background noise. "How was
the party?"
"It was great. It was the welcome reception for a new round
of art center residents."
I sighed. "Tell me everything. Let me live vicariously
through you."
It was hard to believe two years had passed since Anna had
won a residency at the International Center for the Arts in
Paris and ultimately won the one-hundred-thousand-dollar
purchase prize for one of her paintings. The residency
opportunity had come at a low point in her life. She'd
discovered that her husband of eighteen years wasn't the man
she thought he was. Or maybe it's more apt to say she
wasn't the man he'd fallen in love with.
Discovering the truth about her husband's homosexuality came
as a crushing blow. But with a little push from me, she
applied for a resident-artist program in Paris, won the
spot, moved to France and hadn't looked back.
That aside, what was even harder to believe was two long
years had passed since I'd seen my sister. I missed her
desperately.
"Rita, when are you coming for a visit?"
"I don't know, honey."
"You and Fred have an anniversary coming up. If my math is
right, it's a significant one. Get him to bring you to
Paris. You can stay with Jean Luc and me."
It would be twenty years this May. The thought of spending
our anniversary in the most romantic city in the world
lifted me up and out of the mire I'd been wallowing in all
day. Or maybe my change in mood came from hearing my
sister's voice. Either way, the anger that had festered
inside me earlier fizzled out as we talked.
"You're good," I said. "How can you remember my anniversary?
I'm not sure my husband even remembers it."
She laughed. "I won't let him forget. Put him on the phone
and I'll refresh his memory."
"Jeopardy's on right now. You wouldn't have much
luck. In fact, it would be like talking to a wall."
Anna and I spent the next forty-five minutes catching up on
her life in Paris with Jean Luc; the art world; her son,
Ben, who'd managed to make several trips over to visit his
mother; and how tonight she and Jean Luc had talked to a
glassblower from Provence about pooling their resources to
buy an old rectory near Avignon. That way she and Jean Luc
could extend their artistic presence into the south of France.
Yes, life was beautiful for my sister. I wanted what she had
so badly envy nearly oozed from my pores.
Especially when Fred shuffled into the bedroom. I glanced at
the clock on the dresser. The neon red numbers glowed a
decisive nine o'clock. But I could've told you that. It was
Fred's bedtime. I also could've told you the routine: he'd
shuffle into the bathroom where he'd spend six minutes
brushing and flossing his teeth and doing whatever he did in
there before he shuffled out in his navy blue striped
pajamas. He'd give me a peck on the lips, then stiffly
settle himself into bed and sleep contentedly until the
alarm sounded at five forty-five, when he would get up and
go to work at the Internal Revenue Service, as he had every
morning for the past twenty years.
A surge of irritation ripped through me again. Why was I
annoyed by my husband's predictable routine? Did I resent
him for being happy and content in the life we'd built? I
wasn't mad at Anna for being happy in Paris. Even if I did
envy her.
Ahhh, Paris. That's where I wanted to be.
"Enough about me," Anna finally said. "Tell me what's
happening with you."
I realized with a guilty start that I'd zoned out on
Anna-belle for a moment, and I struggled to recall what
she'd said and think of something positive to say about it.
She hadn't called to hear about our evening routine or my
bad day or my selfish ex-client. Make no mistake, she
would've graciously listened to me recount all the gruesome
details, but the truth was, I didn't want to. How tedious.
Why inflict that on my sister when even thinking about it
bored me?
"Nothing new here—work, work and more work. Then I get up
and do it all over the next day."
"Then all the more reason you should get Fred to…" She
paused and it sounded as if she put her hand over the
receiver because her voice was muffled. Still, I could her
laugh and murmur, "Jean Luc, wait… Mmm… No… don't…
stop… I'll be off the phone in a moment."
The reprimand is more "Don't stop," than "Don't. Stop."
And who could blame her? Even I was straining to hear their
exchanges until the sound of Fred gargling his Listerine
preempted my eavesdropping.
"I'm sorry, Rita. What were you saying?"
"I wasn't saying. You were. Something about how I
should get Fred to do something. I hope you were about to
suggest I get Fred to do the same thing to me that Jean Luc
is doing to you?"
"Oh! No! Oh, I'm so embarrassed—"
"Oh, come on, Annabelle, it's me you're talking to. Don't be
embarrassed because you're getting it. You're my heroine. My
role model. In fact, you just might have inspired me to
shake things up a bit in the Brooks bedroom tonight."
I sighed and Annabelle laughed. It was a sound like light
through crystal.
"You go, girl," she said. "But actually, what I started to
say was you and Fred really should come to Paris."
The Brooks toilet flushed.
"We're sort of at a standoff on that one. He wants to rent
an RV and take a trip to the Grand Canyon this summer."
I wanted Paris. He wanted a Winnebago. If that didn't say it
all? An RV was just a La-Z-Boy on wheels. In a split second,
the vacation flashed through my mind: I'd get to cook and
clean up the messes the entire time, only in a smaller space
than usual. Although, I'd draw the line at sanitizing the
onboard Port-a-Potty. Fred would get that pleasure. And that
was nonnegotiable. But if we went to Paris, we wouldn't even
need to have that conversation.
A moment later, my Lazy Boy emerged from the bathroom.
"I'll talk to him about it and let you know," I said. "But I
need to run. Fred's going to bed. I have a very short window
of opportunity, if you know what I mean."
I glanced over at him, but he wasn't listening to me. He was
making his nest.
"Oooh, have fun," Annabelle sang. "Love you, bye!"
I hung up and curled up next to him on the bed, my head
resting on his shoulder.
"Anna said to tell you hi."
"That's nice… Hi, Annabelle."
With my index finger, I traced the V of skin visible at his
throat. His eyes were closed, but he slid his arm under me
and pulled me close, nuzzling the top of my head with his cheek.
A surge of ooohhh-we're-really-going-to-do-this
excitement coursed through me, making my stomach
flutter, awakening sleepy, intimate places that hadn't seen
action in ages.
I eased my leg over his, so that I was on my side and
pressed against him. That way, I had better access to the
buttons on his pajama top, which I started working with one
hand until I'd undone the top two and could stroke his chest.
He tensed a little and pulled away the slightest bit—so
slight I couldn't quite read the signal. Stop? Go?
"Fred?"
"Mmm?"
It sounded more like a sleepy mmm than a
bring-it-on mmmmmm. But I could've been wrong.
"Fred, make love to me."
He was silent for a moment, then he gave me a little
squeeze. "Ah, babe, I'm so…tired. I'm sorry. That Chinese
gave me a bad case of heartburn and I just—"
I pulled away from him. "Fine." In two quick moves I was
sitting rod straight on my side of the bed. "Forget about it."
Tears stung my eyes, and the liquid-velvet sensation I'd
felt mere seconds ago dried up like barren desert.
"Aw, Ri, come on." His voice was husky with sleep, like he'd
been drugged, but Fred didn't take pills—he wouldn't even go
to the doctor. It looked as if it took every ounce of
strength he had to force his eyes open.