Monarch Beach Read online

  “So, Mrs. Blick, may I pour you some champagne?” Andre held my shoulders and kissed me slowly.

  “I think I had enough champagne at lunch,” I replied.

  “Then let’s get out of these clothes, yes?” he asked. He unzipped my skirt and slipped off my bodysuit without waiting for my response. Then he took my pantyhose and rolled them off my legs. He took my hand and guided me to the bed.

  “I am the luckiest man,” he said when we were lying naked facing each other. I had never seen Andre completely naked. His skin was olive and completely smooth. His arms had rows of small muscles from years of working in a kitchen. His stomach was flat and he had a smattering of black hair over his chest. Every time he touched me I felt an electric shock.

  He moved slowly, touching my hands, my stomach, my breasts. He planted little kisses up and down my spine. He pulled my hair to one side and covered my neck with his mouth. I thought, how did I end up in bed with this Roman god? Me, who had known the same skinny boys all through grade school and high school, who had not been on a real date since senior prom?

  Andre’s kisses grew deeper. I kissed him back and placed my hands tentatively on his chest. Andre climbed on top of me, covering his body with mine. We began moving together. I tried to give in to just feeling and follow him. He kept moving, stroking my hair and murmuring my name. When he finally shuddered to a stop, groaning softly and rolling off me, I moved to the side of the bed and lay perfectly still. I waited till I was sure he was sleeping and then I turned my head and looked at him. I studied his curly black hair and his long black eyelashes. I followed his long legs wrapped up in the sheets. I closed my eyes, and I thought at that moment nothing else mattered. The world outside the big picture window did not exist. I was complete.

  * * *

  I got up from the bench and stretched my legs. I thought maybe if I did some yoga, looking straight at the mountain, I could ease the pain that was squeezing my chest. I tried standing in a Half Moon and clearing my mind of unwelcome thoughts. Andre and Ursula danced before my eyes like hand puppets at the fair. I conjured up Max’s face, his blue eyes that were just like my father’s, but that made me start crying again. I relaxed the Half Moon and slumped back on the bench. It was easier just to hate him.

  * * *

  I remembered our first year of marriage when I was Andre’s willing sex slave. We rented an apartment in Cow Hollow and my mother decorated it for us as her wedding present. It had a tiny kitchen, a small living room, and a bathroom with a shower and no tub. But the bedroom was large enough for a king-sized bed, and it had a window with a view of the bay. Andre laughed at me and called me his little trollop because I would wait up for him till he closed the restaurant. I met him in bed so we didn’t waste time eating or talking about our day. I just wanted him between the sheets, as fast as possible.

  “You are not really American. American girls do not like sex like you,” Andre said after we had been married a month. We were sitting in bed at noon. I brought him orange juice and croissants and the newspaper.

  “How many American girls did you know?” I teased him.

  “I have no memory of anyone before you,” he said seriously. I didn’t press him. If he claimed he had forgotten all his past girlfriends, I wasn’t going to argue. I was too busy enjoying the present to worry about the past. I didn’t think much about the future either. My days were full. I had everything I wanted.

  * * *

  In our second year of marriage two things happened that changed our delicious routine: Andre had a falling-out with his partner, and I got pregnant. It was just after Christmas and I had a nasty cold that turned into walking pneumonia. I was given a course of antibiotics and told to stay in bed. With nothing else to do, and the restaurant closed for the holidays, we made love three times a day. The antibiotics canceled out the Pill, and by February I realized my period was late.

  I panicked. Andre and I never argued because I never voiced an opinion that was different from his. I bought my clothes and books with my allowance so I wasn’t even a drain on his income. I confided in Kate that I was pregnant and afraid to tell Andre.

  “What are you afraid of? He’s the one who knocked you up.” It was a Thursday afternoon. Andre was at work and Kate arrived from the spa in her workout clothes.

  “We’re so young and Andre works so hard. He’s at the restaurant almost every night. Now he’ll come home to a screaming baby instead of a sexy wife.”

  “Amanda, you have to stop being scared of your husband. He works hard because he wants to. Having a baby won’t cramp his style,” Kate said, taking a banana from the fruit bowl.

  “What do you mean, what ‘style’?”

  Kate was silent while she ate her banana. “Nothing. Just I’m sure your mom will help out with the baby. She’ll be in stitches over having a grandchild.”

  “I don’t know why you don’t like Andre.” I was feeling bloated and grumpy.

  “I like Andre, but you treat him like a god. He won the jackpot when he married you.”

  “Andre and I don’t talk about money. I don’t come into my inheritance till I’m thirty, Kate.” I narrowed my eyes.

  “Just tell him you’re pregnant.” She threw the banana skin in the garbage.

  * * *

  I told Andre I was pregnant on Saturday. Andre and Eric got in a huge fight on Sunday. When he came home early on Sunday night, and told me he quit, somehow I thought it was my fault.

  “You can’t quit, it’s your restaurant,” I said. We were lying on our bed and I was rubbing his back. He had come home, flung off his clothes, and thrown himself spread-eagled on the bed.

  “I can’t work with Eric anymore. He is making a bastard of French cuisine.”

  “But what will you do?” I kept rubbing his back.

  “He wants to serve flavored crepes. Cinnamon crepes, mocha crepes. We are not the House of Pancakes.”

  “Can you buy him out?”

  “I can’t afford to.”

  Finally I said, “We could ask my mother. She could help us buy him out.”

  Andre sat up and held my arms tightly. “I told you I will never ask you for money.”

  “But what will we do? With the baby, I won’t be able to work.” I made a tiny salary working at the boutique, but somehow I had to bring up the subject of the baby.

  “You think I can’t support our child? Do you think you married a boy?” Andre raised his voice.

  “I’m just being practical. You love the restaurant,” I said evenly.

  “I’ll find another partner, and another restaurant,” Andre replied. He placed his head between my breasts. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He nuzzled my breasts and pulled me down on the bed next to him.

  He caressed my thighs. He turned me toward him and stroked my hair. I closed my eyes and gave in to the luscious release of sex. After we made love and Andre was asleep, I felt a sharp stab of uneasiness about our future. Our bedroom with its wonderful king bed did not have room for a crib. For a guilty moment I wished I were back in my bedroom at my parents’ house, looking up at my beautiful ceiling with its gold stars and dark sky.

  * * *

  The next morning I ate a piece of wheat toast to settle my stomach, and walked to my mother’s house. I usually loved walking up the hills of San Francisco, turning at the top of every street to look out at the bay. But I was tired and feeling queasy. My stomach did little flips like goldfish trying to escape from their bowl.

  My parents’ house was set behind a rose garden. The house was three stories, all looking out on the bay. Ivy climbed the walls and the windows were hung with thick gold curtains.

  I rang the doorbell. Rosemary opened the door. “Is my mother home?” I gave Rosemary a quick hug.

  “She is in the morning room. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “No thanks, Rosemary. I’ll go say hi.” I walked through the long hallway with its black-and-white-marble floor and faux-painted walls. My mother was sitting a
t the breakfast table reading the paper. The table was covered in a gold tablecloth and set with sterling silver. My mother was perfectly dressed in a belted Gucci dress and pumps. She stubbed her cigarette out when she saw me.

  “Do you have to smoke at breakfast?” I asked.

  “That’s not much of a greeting.” My mother got up and kissed my cheek.

  “I just want you to live a long time.” I took a deep breath. “Since you’re going to be a grandmother.”

  “What?”

  “I’m pregnant, we’re having a baby.” My eyes filled with tears.

  “That’s wonderful. Why are you crying?”

  “I’m not crying,” I said, but then my voice wobbled and I burst into tears.

  My mother held me in her arms while I sobbed. Finally she pushed me gently away and smiled. “Welcome to pregnancy. I used to cry when I read fortune cookies.”

  “I know. I can’t wait to have a baby.” I rubbed my cheeks. “It’s just…” I started crying again. This time I couldn’t stop.

  “Okay, tell me what’s wrong,” my mother said.

  I told her Andre and Eric had a falling-out and he quit the restaurant. I told her how I was afraid we couldn’t fit the baby’s things into our tiny apartment. I told her Andre was determined to pay for everything himself.

  “I know I’m being selfish,” I finished.

  “I understand Andre wants to support you. But I could be a silent partner in a restaurant with him. He would run it, I’d back him financially,” she continued.

  I shook my head. “He would consider that helping out.”

  “But I believe in Andre. He is a great chef, and he’s charming and charismatic. I would like to be a partner.”

  “I wish you could, Mom. But he’ll be furious with me if you suggest it. I can’t risk it.” I shook my head.

  “I’m sure he’ll find another partner then.”

  She picked up a cigarette from its thin gold case. She lit it, and then quickly put it out. “I’m sorry. I can’t smoke around you when you’re pregnant. Your father was stubborn and proud, too. Marriage is tough.”

  “Thanks for telling me,” I said glumly.

  “Amanda, you’re having a baby! We should be so happy. Think of all the fun we’ll have shopping! Andre can’t fault me for buying the baby presents. We’ll get a lovely crib and baby blankets. And lots of newborn outfits, and a stroller so you can go on long walks. What if”—she paused—“what if I buy you an apartment in the baby’s name?”

  “Let’s not push our luck. I’m happy with a crib and a stroller,” I replied.

  “Well then, let’s go shopping. We can run down to Neiman’s and get a few newborn outfits.” She took one last sip of coffee and picked up her cigarette case.

  “Mom, I’m not due for seven months!”

  “It’ll be fun. And we can buy a couple of maternity outfits, too. Some of the young designers have come out with really pretty things.”

  “Okay.” I gave in and followed her to the garage.

  “Good girl. One thing your father taught me is a day’s shopping can fix almost anything.”

  “I’m sure the credit card companies loved him for that,” I chuckled, getting into the passenger seat of my mother’s silver Mercedes.

  “American Express used to send him a bottle of cognac every Christmas.” She nodded as we pulled out of the driveway and drove to Union Square.

  * * *

  Andre found his new partner at a dinner party given by one of my prep school friends. I didn’t want to go to the dinner. I was still really queasy and the last thing I wanted to do was spend the evening stuck in front of a plate of salmon and rice sauté. I wasn’t too keen on the company either. The hostess, Stephanie, had been one of the biggest flirts at school. She had big lips and huge breasts and toyed with all the male teachers, the soccer coach, even the headmaster.

  Stephanie and I lost touch after graduation. She went off to Penn to major in international finance. Now she was back, living in Marin, and somehow heard I had married a French chef.

  “You have to bring him over to meet Glenn.” Stephanie called out of the blue soon after Andre quit the restaurant.

  “Who’s Glenn?” I asked.

  “My husband, silly. We got married in St. Moritz last Christmas. Glenn loves French food and French wine. When Kate told me you married a French chef, Glenn said I had to have a dinner party in your honor. Friday night, eight o’clock.” Stephanie hung up before I could make up an excuse to beg off.

  I picked up the phone and called Kate. “When did you see Stephanie and what did you tell her about Andre?” I fumed.

  Kate laughed. “Sorry, you know how nosy she is. She came into the spa and somehow your name came up. I didn’t know you were hiding Andre.”

  “I’m not hiding him. But she invited us to dinner. I don’t want to go.”

  “Then don’t go,” Kate replied.

  “Andre will want to go. Her husband wants to meet a French chef.” I sighed.

  “It’s only dinner, Amanda. Are you afraid of Stephanie and her very large breasts?” Kate laughed.

  “I have very large breasts of my own right now.”

  “Then think of it as one night you don’t have to cook.”

  “I don’t like food, and food doesn’t like me.” I hung up the phone.

  I casually mentioned the invitation to Andre when he returned from one of his long afternoons spent at Starbucks reading the newspaper. His face brightened and he kissed me on the mouth. “Of course we’ll go,” he said. I knew what he was thinking. He had had no luck finding a new partner and he was running out of ideas.

  * * *

  We drove across the Golden Gate Bridge in Andre’s old Volkswagen. Andre drove with one hand on the wheel and the other on my thigh. His hair was tied back in a shiny black ponytail; his white shirt was open to the third button.

  Stephanie and Glenn lived in Ross, down the hill from our prep school. Ross was a tiny town centered around a patch of green called “the commons.” The commons was the home of the Fourth of July barbecue, Family Day in October, even a Winter Festival in December with fake snow. It was always full of kids playing soccer and mothers standing around admiring each other’s Gucci shoes.

  Andre and I pulled up in front of Glenn and Stephanie’s house: It was a big Craftsman style with a three-car garage and a yellow Porsche in the driveway.

  “I guess Stephanie married well,” I said as we approached the front door. I knew Stephanie hadn’t grown up with a lot of money, and real estate in Ross was astronomically expensive.

  “Maybe her husband will want to be my partner,” Andre said.

  * * *

  Glenn wasn’t interested in investing in Andre, but Stephanie was. From the moment she opened the door, wearing a green velour Juicy Couture sweat suit, her platinum-blond hair falling over her breasts, I wanted to throw up. She hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. She pouted prettily at Andre. I grabbed a glass of champagne from the bar.

  “Amanda, should you be drinking?” Stephanie shot me a quizzical look. She had one hand on Andre’s arm and was guiding him to the bar.

  “One drink every now and then is fine,” I said, giving Stephanie a wide smile. If Stephanie didn’t let go of Andre’s arm I might strangle her.

  “In France most pregnant women drink wine at dinner,” Andre said supportively. But he didn’t remove his arm from Stephanie’s grasp.

  “I’ll tell Glenn to open one of our best French wines.” Stephanie disappeared into the kitchen.

  Andre stood close to me and put his hand on my back. “Relax, Amanda,” he whispered into my ear.

  “I forgot what a vulture she is.”

  “She is an attractive woman,” Andre said. “But no one is as beautiful as you.”

  I was trying to figure out how to respond when a man wearing khakis came down the stairs. He must have been at least six foot three, skinny as a stick. He was almost bald and wore round brown glasses.<
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  “Hi, I’m Glenn. You must be Amanda and Andre. I’m so glad you came.” He shook our hands.

  “Andre, help yourself.” Stephanie held the tray in front of Andre. “I tried some French recipes in your honor. Tell me what you think of my escargot.” She picked up a small round snail and popped it in Andre’s mouth.

  I took a swig of champagne. I hadn’t eaten anything but a handful of saltines since lunch. The champagne floated straight down to my shoes.

  “How did you and Stephanie meet?” I asked Glenn.

  “I spent my junior year at the Sorbonne and Glenn was working at Lehman Brothers in Paris. We ran into each other at a café near to his office.” Stephanie was beaming.

  I took a piece of toast with liver pâté from the tray. It looked and smelled awful, but I had to put something in my stomach that didn’t have bubbles.

  “We had a lovely time exploring Paris,” Glenn agreed.

  I knew what Glenn saw in Stephanie: five feet seven inches of perfect bronze flesh. But why had she picked him? Glenn looked like a very thin version of Gumby. I glanced nervously at Andre and wished he’d button up his shirt.

  “He just swept me off my feet. Proposed to me at the top of the Eiffel Tower. With this”—she stuck her engagement ring under my nose. It was an emerald-cut diamond, at least five carats. She had a matching diamond wedding band. I noticed the large diamond studs in her ears and the floating diamond hanging on a gold chain around her neck. I was beginning to understand what Stephanie saw in Glenn.

  My legs felt wobbly. I sat down on the sofa. I saw Stephanie staring at Andre. Her pink mouth was open in a small o and she ran her tongue over her teeth.

  “Who else is coming?” I asked.

  “Oh, just a couple of guys Glenn knows from Lehman’s and their wives. Boring. I thought it would be such fun to have you two here. Maybe Andre can improve my French cooking.” Stephanie continued to beam.

  Andre was either oblivious to her advances or didn’t want to offend her. He smiled at Stephanie and made no move to sit next to me.

  “Actually, would you mind if I stole your husband for a moment? I want to show him my entrées.” She pulled Andre into the kitchen.