Monarch Beach Page 6

  “I’m not condoning it. I’m just saying Andre may have been brought up differently.”

  “We live in America. For the past ten years Andre’s been celebrating July Fourth, not Bastille Day. And Andre knows how I was raised. San Francisco society is very conservative. I went to an all-girls school till eighth grade where we had to wear uniforms. At the boys’ school they wore ties and blazers, and if they saw a Hamlin girl walking down the street in uniform, they weren’t allowed to talk to us.”

  “Andre isn’t a private-school boy,” Stephanie replied quietly.

  I looked at her as if she was a traitor. “But he knew how I felt about marriage. If he thought it was okay to mess around he wouldn’t have been so secretive. I didn’t hear him come out and say: ‘Amanda, would it be okay if I fucked the waitress on the side, because that is what we do in France?’” I felt all the rage welling up inside me again.

  “I get it.” Stephanie put up her hand to stop my diatribe. “I’m just saying if he wanted a divorce he would have asked for one a long time ago. These other women are just foam on his cappuccino. You make him belong, you are the American Dream.”

  “That is the most disgusting imagery. Our high school English teacher would flunk you.” I half-smiled.

  “I don’t think he’s going to give you up without a fight.”

  “I come from a family of fighters. My father fought off cancer for four years.” I couldn’t believe I was having this discussion. Twelve hours ago I thought I was happily married and my main worry was if I sold enough tickets to the Garden Party fund-raiser.

  “You need to talk to him. Leave Max here for dinner. Glenn or I will run him home later.”

  “I look like warmed-over death.” I studied myself in the gilt antique mirror.

  “You’re right, you do. Let’s go up to my bedroom and fix you up. I’ll give you something silk to wear, and douse you with Obsession.”

  “It’s three o’clock on a Tuesday,” I protested.

  “You can’t be overdressed for telling your husband to fuck off. You need the highest heels I have. To kick him right in the balls.”

  * * *

  An hour later I left Stephanie’s feeling like a new woman. I wore a Carolina Herrera dress that managed to look sexy and sophisticated at the same time.

  “You don’t want to look like one of his hussies. You want to show him what he’s missing,” Stephanie said when she picked it out of her closet. It had a floral print and was made of a gauze fabric over an ivory slip. My feet were squeezed into four-inch Manolo heels (Stephanie was one shoe size smaller than me) that made me about the same height as Andre. “You don’t want Andre to look down on you in any way. If we can make you taller than him that would be perfect.”

  Stephanie had applied my makeup. She lavished black mascara on my eyelashes and lent me one of her bright red lipsticks. “I know red lipstick isn’t really you. But it makes a statement: ‘Read My Lips.’ He’ll pay attention when you talk.”

  I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled at Stephanie. “You’re pretty good at this.”

  “I wasn’t as smart as you, or as rich as you. I had to use my feminine wiles to get ahead.” She laughed.

  “I wish I had your feminine wiles.”

  “You’re going to do great. Knock him dead.” She gave me a hug, sprayed me with perfume, and pushed me out the door.

  * * *

  I walked back to the post office where I had left my car a lifetime ago. The doors were unlocked; my purse was still under the seat. Ross was the safest place in the world, except for tramps who stole your husband. I climbed into the car and drove the two blocks home.

  Andre’s car was in the driveway. The restaurant was closed on Tuesdays, so he would have no reason to still be there, unless it was to go another round with Ursula. I took a deep breath, fixed the skirt of my dress, and walked inside.

  Andre was standing in the kitchen looking out the window. He had a glass of lemonade in front of him. “You look beautiful.” He kissed my cheek. “School committee meeting?”

  “I don’t have meetings on Tuesdays. I leave Tuesdays free for yoga and breakfast at the Lemon Café. Except today the Lemon Café was out of my favorite strawberry muffins. So I thought I would surprise you and we could get breakfast together. But guess who got the surprise? Me! Because it looked like you and Ursula already had breakfast and were working on dessert. Each other.” I got it all out in one breath, before I lost my nerve or took off my shoe and nailed him with the heel.

  “Amanda, don’t jump to conclusions.” Andre shook his head as if I were a child.

  “What conclusion would you jump to if you found me half-naked with my legs wrapped around another man? Escaping a rabid rat population?”

  “We once had a rat in the storage closet,” Andre mused.

  “You were fucking her, Andre. You were fucking the chef standing up in broad daylight.”

  Andre drank his lemonade. He put his hand on my arm. Usually his touch sent an electric shock through my body. I willed myself not to react. I would not give in to his charm.

  “Amanda.” He circled my waist with both hands.

  “Andre, I saw you and you saw me.” I pulled away. I was shaking so hard I wanted to sit down, but our kitchen was too narrow for a table and chairs.

  “Amanda, I am a fool and I am sorry. Ursula was crying, she was homesick and I was trying to comfort her. She has never been so far from home. We got carried away. It was nothing.”

  “You were fucking her! That’s not nothing, that’s everything!” I would have taken off my heel and hit him, but then he would have been taller than me.

  “It is nothing. You are everything. It will never happen again.” He pulled me to him and nuzzled my neck. I felt the warmth of his breath and his wonderful smell of cologne and fresh bread. On Tuesdays he baked bread, we ate fresh bread every Tuesday night.

  “Has it ever happened before?” I asked carefully, not moving out of his embrace.

  He stepped back as if I had physically wounded him. “What do you think? Of course not! She was just homesick. I will fire her immediately. We will advertise for a new chef.”

  “You said it’s impossible to find a chef in America who knows how to bake fondue.”

  “I will cover all the shifts until we find a replacement. Nothing is more important than you. I’ll find an old ugly chef, one with a hump on her back and a wart on her nose.” He kissed my cheek.

  “Andre, I know about all the others; about Bella and Angie, your whole harem. I don’t think even a wart on her nose would stop you. You are a serial adulterer and I want a divorce.”

  “What are you talking about?” Andre asked. He was very calm; his green eyes were wide and innocent.

  “I’m talking about you using La Petite Maison as a brothel since the day it opened. It is your restaurant, of course, at least sixty percent of it.”

  “You are mad, Amanda! Who told you these lies?”

  “Stephanie, your silent partner, finally spilled the beans. I am furious with her for not telling me sooner, for letting me be a fool for Max’s whole life!” I could feel the tears start again. I pushed them back. I couldn’t show any weakness or Andre would be on me like a bear with a honey pot.

  “She made it up, Amanda. Who do you believe, Stephanie or me?”

  “Why would she make it up?”

  “She is jealous of you. She has that boring old husband who thinks a fun night is solving a Rubik’s cube.”

  “I thought you liked Glenn.”

  “I like Glenn, but I don’t have to sleep with him. She’s always wanted to get in my pants. She’s trying to get back at me for rejecting her.” He stroked my hair. For one second I faltered. What if Andre was telling the truth? He started kissing my neck and I closed my eyes. But I flashed on the image of him entwined with Ursula, her tall, lean body pushing against his, his hands on her breasts. I opened my eyes and pulled away.

  “This is ridiculous, Andre. I
saw you. Whether it happened before, dozens of times before, is beside the point. I can’t live with an adulterer. I want you to leave.”

  Andre went into the living room and sat down on the low chocolate brown sofa. He kicked off his shoes and stretched his legs. “I don’t want to leave,” he said.

  “Well, you can’t stay.” I followed him into the living room feeling like I was an actress on Days of Our Lives. I was certainly dressed for the part. Only daytime soap stars wore four-inch Manolos in the afternoon.

  “I told you when we got married: In France one stays married for life.”

  “Well, we’re not in France, and in America most wives expect their husbands to be faithful—there are a great number of wealthy divorce lawyers to prove it. I want you out of the house.” I sounded much firmer than I felt. My stomach did little flips and my underarms were sweating. But I sounded as calm as General Patton leading his troops.

  “I am not leaving our house. Think of what it would do to Max. They are only women, Amanda. You are making too much of this.”

  I almost fell off my heels. How could I have lived with a man for ten years who thought having serial affairs was unimportant?

  “Monogamy is in the marriage vows. I feel terrible for Max, too, but you should have thought of that before Bella.”

  “You know,” Andre said carefully, “this is not your house or my house. Your mother bought this house for Max. Maybe you should ask Max who should leave?”

  “Now you’re crazy.”

  “I am trying to keep our family together. Your mother bought this house in Max’s name. He owns the house, so I am not leaving, and I hope you don’t either. I love you, Amanda. Nothing has changed.”

  “Everything has changed!” I yelled and I took off my shoe and threw it across the room. It didn’t hit him, but it made an indentation in the wood floor where it landed, and it made Andre get up. I stopped with the one shoe—I didn’t want to be escorted to the police station and charged with assault.

  “I’m going to the restaurant to get the bread for dinner. Give you some time to calm down.” He slipped his shoes on and walked out the door.

  I sank down on the sofa. It smelled of Andre: cologne and fresh bread. I closed my eyes and cried.

  * * *

  I let myself cry for half an hour and then I walked over to the cabinet that constituted our bar and poured myself a brandy. I didn’t know how the brandy would react when it met the tequila still in my stomach, but I figured it would be hard to feel worse than I did. I gulped the brandy down quickly. It burned my throat but cleared my head. The first thing I had to do, I told myself sternly, was to stop crying. I had given Andre ten years of my life; I wasn’t going to waste another minute on him. Then I had to make a plan. Andre was right about the house; it was in Max’s name. I didn’t want to spend another night under the same roof as Andre, but for Max’s sake I would have to. I poured myself one more brandy for courage. Then I sat down and waited for Stephanie to bring Max home.

  * * *

  Stephanie and Max pulled up just as the two shots of brandy were beginning to make me feel a little fuzzy. Max ran up the steps and hugged me.

  “You smell funny again.” He wrinkled his nose. I had to stop drinking or they’d cart me away to Betty Ford.

  “Daddy and I were making a new dish,” I improvised again.

  “Is Daddy here?” Max’s face lit up.

  “He went to get the bread, he’ll be right back.”

  “Can we go to the restaurant? I want to see him and tell him about the turtle we found in Zoe’s yard.”

  “He’ll be home any minute. Go inside and change. I want to talk to Mrs. Chambers for a minute.”

  Stephanie was standing at the bottom of the steps, probably wondering if I was waiting for Andre with a shotgun or a carving knife.

  “You look good, but you do smell a little funny,” she said, walking up the steps and sitting down next to me.

  “Couple of shots of brandy for Dutch courage. Andre says he’s not leaving.”

  “Told you,” Stephanie replied.

  “That’s helpful.”

  “What are you going to do? Besides drink?” Stephanie asked.

  “I’m going to stop drinking tomorrow. I promise. He’s not worth it.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Stephanie replied.

  “Poor Max.” My lips quivered. I felt the tears start.

  “And you’re going to stop crying,” Stephanie said.

  “That, too,” I said, though my eyes were wet. “Max doesn’t deserve such a shit for a dad.”

  “He doesn’t, but life isn’t fair, even for the privileged classes.” Stephanie grinned. “So, tell me again what you’re going to do besides not drink and not cry?”

  “I’ll go see my mother tomorrow and make an appointment with her attorney,” I said with a sigh.

  “Good girl.”

  “And I will not throw anything at Andre tonight.”

  “Did you throw anything at him today?” Stephanie asked.

  “Just your Manolo. But I missed him.”

  “After you see the attorney we’ll get you some target practice.”

  “No, I don’t want to impart bodily harm. Well, I do, but I don’t want to go to jail. That wouldn’t help Max.”

  “See, you are still thinking clearly, you’re stronger than you think.”

  “Oh, Stephanie.” I turned to her.

  “No more crying. I have to go home. Gisella gets off at six and Glenn doesn’t know how to use a microwave. He’ll put the baked potatoes in for ten minutes and burn the house down.”

  “No, he won’t,” I said and laughed.

  “Really. He doesn’t pay much attention to the outside world. He still thinks I’m twenty-five and hot.”

  “That’s because you look like you’re twenty-five. You saved my life today. Thanks.” I gave her a hug.

  “It was nothing. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I feel like a complete heel.”

  “Andre’s the heel. I’m the dummy who fell for him.”

  “No, he’s the dummy who didn’t deserve you. Call me tomorrow after you see your mother.” Stephanie kissed me on the cheek and ran down the stairs.

  * * *

  I sat on the steps. The night was gorgeous, warm and clear. I heard crickets and a frog burping. Max came outside in his pajamas and sat down.

  “How was your day?” I asked.

  “Great. Nineteen more days of school.”

  “You love school,” I said.

  “Sure, but summer’s better.”

  “Summer is good,” I agreed. We usually spent summers at home, with weekend trips to Lake Tahoe. Last summer Max went to sleepover camp for the first time. He came home full of stories of giant spiders and the one fish he caught by himself. Andre and I spent most of the week Max was gone in bed, reliving the first year of our marriage. What would Max and I do this summer? I felt the tears start and rubbed my eyes.

  “I don’t want to go to camp this summer,” Max said, linking his arm through mine.

  “But you caught that huge fish. And this year you learn archery. Grandma bought you the bow and arrow set for Christmas.”

  Max considered this. The bow and arrows had been lying at the foot of his bed since December. His little friends tramping through his bedroom on playdates were jealous of the five bows with the real feathers.

  “I do want to do archery, but I want to stay with you and Daddy. Maybe he can teach me archery?” Max asked.

  “We’ll ask him,” I said. I held Max’s hand and we listened to the crickets. For a moment I wavered. How could I divorce Andre and deprive Max of having a father around to teach him boy things? But what kind of husband would Max become if he learned from Andre?

  “C’mon, let’s go to bed. I think we could both use a good night’s sleep.”

  “But Daddy isn’t back yet,” Max protested.

  “I’ll make sure we eat his bread for breakfast, with warm butter. H
ow’s that?”

  “I wanted to say good night.”

  “I’ll lie down on your bed with you, and when Daddy comes he can say good night to both of us,” I suggested.

  Max smiled. I never slept in his bed with him, so this was a huge treat. I took off my shoes and tucked my body against the wall, leaving Max as much of his bed as I could. I waited till I heard him snoring softly and then I closed my eyes.

  Later I heard the front door open. I glanced at the clock; it was almost eleven o’clock. I held my breath, trying not to move and wake Max. I didn’t want to talk to Andre; I didn’t want to see him. I heard Andre go into our bedroom. I imagined him undressing and climbing into bed. I buried my face in Max’s pillow and surrendered to sleep.

  Black Tuesday was finally over.

  Chapter Three

  When I pulled up at my mother’s house the next morning, I was reminded of how wealthy she was. Her attorney made house calls. Dean Birney, senior partner of Birney and Sutton, arrived before me, his black Mercedes with its tinted windows and gold rims parked in the driveway. I parked behind him and opened my door. The wheels of divorce were in motion.

  Rosemary threw open the front door before I made it up the steps. I had called my mother after I dropped Max off at school and told her the whole story.

  “Drive right over here. I’m calling Dean Birney,” she instructed. I could almost hear her fishing for a cigarette.

  “Shouldn’t we take this slowly?” I asked as I maneuvered onto the Golden Gate Bridge. I hoped she would tell me I was being hasty, all marriages had problems, even she and my father weathered low periods. But she hadn’t. Instead she started swearing under her breath, either at Andre or at the cigarette she was trying to light. I hung up and concentrated on my driving.

  Now I stood in the foyer and let Rosemary hug me. Rosemary had been hugging me all my life: when I failed a Spanish test in the first grade, when the kids in middle school made fun of me for having a neck like a giraffe, and when she found the crumpled college acceptance letters in my garbage can.