Monarch Beach Page 7

  Until yesterday I had a husband to hug me. But he turned out to be a lying, cheating scumbag. I straightened my black Max Azria side-slit skirt and joined my mother and Dean Birney in the morning room.

  “Amanda.” Dean stood up when I entered. “Grace has been briefing me on the situation.” Dean Birney was in his early sixties. He had a thick head of white hair, a long nose, and thin lips. In the thirty years he had been our attorney I had only seen him smile twice: at my father’s sixtieth birthday party, and at my parents’ silver anniversary. He was Harvard educated and fiercely loyal. Andre Blick was a dead man.

  My mother held my face, checking for pain. Her hair was the same white-blond shade it had been all my life, cut in the same sleek pageboy. She wore a two-piece navy Dior suit and an ivory silk blouse. I glanced at my watch: It was ten a.m. and my mother looked as if she was dressed for an evening at Masa’s, or for battle with an errant son-in-law.

  She sat next to Dean and motioned for me to sit on her other side. She reached for her packet of cigarettes and lit one before I could protest. The year Max was born she tried to give up smoking but failed. Now she insisted she only smoked one pack a day, and Rosemary backed her up, but for all I knew she bribed Rosemary to fib to me. I noticed she wore her Dior belt on its tightest notch and her skin was a translucent shade of gray. I promised myself I would say something when I could think straight.

  “You discovered your husband has been having affairs for at least eight years and you want to file for divorce,” Dean said matter-of-factly.

  I looked from Dean to my mother. I was thankful she had briefed him so I didn’t have to repeat the details, but the more people who knew, the more real Andre’s infidelities became. I glanced at the sideboard to see if Rosemary had put out any alcohol—a bottle of scotch would have done nicely—but there was only coffee, tea, and lemon. I’d have to survive on caffeine until lunchtime. I got up and poured myself a cup of black coffee, my third for the day.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “He admitted to having affairs?” Dean asked.

  “I caught him in the act. He wasn’t playing canasta.”

  “Does he want a divorce?”

  “No.” I shook my head.

  “But he doesn’t want to give up the other woman?”

  “He said he’d fire her. He said it meant nothing, and I was the only one who was important to him.” I swallowed hard.

  “You don’t want to give him another chance?” Dean asked.

  “My friend Stephanie, who is also his silent partner, gave me a list of previous flings. He changes girls more often than he changes menus.”

  “I just want to be certain you want to make this step. That the marriage can’t be saved,” Dean said.

  “Dean”—my mother stubbed out her cigarette and lit another—“we went over this. Andre has been lying to Amanda for my grandson’s whole life. I don’t want her to spend another night under the same roof as him.”

  “I needed to hear it from Amanda,” Dean said and smiled at me. “Divorce can be pretty brutal.” He squeezed my hand. I felt my eyes fill with tears and took another swig of coffee. Why couldn’t I have married a man like Dean: someone with white hair and kind eyes? Why had I fallen for a sexy Frenchman with zero morals?

  “All right, I’m going to take some notes.” Dean released my hand and snapped open his briefcase.

  “Your son is how old?” he asked.

  “Eight,” I replied.

  “And what property do you own?”

  “Just the house in Ross.”

  “Which I bought,” my mother interjected.

  “That’s the problem. My mother bought the house for us when Max was born and put it in Max’s name. Andre says it’s Max’s house and he doesn’t have to leave.”

  “Why did you put the house in Max’s name?” Dean turned to my mother.

  “Because my bastard son-in-law was too proud to take any charity from me. Amanda would have been living in a one-bedroom apartment with a baby unless I intervened.”

  “And you want him to leave?” Dean turned back to me.

  “I do.” I realized it was the only thing I felt strongly about. I loved our little house. I adored pottering around my garden. I loved sitting on the front steps watching Max skateboard up and down the street.

  “Can’t we kick him out?” my mother demanded.

  Dean took his time answering. “No, actually, we can’t. Your inheritance is safe. Your father left the bulk of his estate to you and any heirs, but since he died before you were married it is not considered community property. But if the house was bought in Max’s name it is Max’s house. I’m afraid your husband has as much right to live there as you do.”

  “Oh.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “You could move?” Dean suggested.

  “I love Ross. Max has so many friends at school.” I shook my head.

  “I mean move to another house in Ross,” Dean said.

  I wanted to call Rosemary and ask her to bring in the vodka. But it was not even eleven a.m. “I was hoping Andre would have to move out of Ross. It’s such a small town. Everyone would talk, especially with the restaurant.”

  “Let’s talk about the restaurant for a minute.” Dean pulled a fresh sheet of paper from his briefcase.

  “Who owns the restaurant?” he asked.

  “Andre does. And Stephanie and Glenn are silent partners.”

  “You’re not an owner?” Dean asked. I heard the surprise in his voice and I swallowed again.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Andre was so proud he didn’t let my mother or me invest in the restaurant. He wanted to make it without our help. He was planning on buying Glenn and Stephanie out soon. We were going to buy some land in Napa and build a weekend house. With a pool and tennis courts.” I was over the edge. “Mother, do you think Rosemary could get me a scotch? My throat is really dry.”

  “Rosemary!” my mother called. I smiled. My father and mother had never been afraid to turn to alcohol in tough times.

  “Amanda, if Andre’s restaurant is in Ross and you have no grounds to kick him out of the house, it looks like you may have to make the town big enough for both of you.” Dean looked up from his notes.

  I waited till Rosemary appeared with a scotch on the rocks. I downed it one gulp. “I thought he’d move back to San Francisco, open a restaurant here,” I mumbled.

  “I don’t see why he would,” Dean answered carefully. “He is living mortgage-free and has a successful restaurant. Opening a new restaurant is never easy. I don’t think he’s going anywhere.” Dean shook his head.

  “You could buy another house in Ross, Amanda. Buy a big house, make him look like the tiny man he is,” my mother said.

  I felt a little better after the scotch. I remembered how much my mother had adored Andre, how he had brought her flowers and imported chocolates.

  “You could,” Dean said with a nod, “but if you buy another house before the divorce is final it might become part of the settlement: community property. I would rent for the next six months.”

  “I don’t want Max to move twice.”

  “You are a very wealthy young lady, Amanda. You can live anywhere and do anything.” Dean was so patient. I was used to Andre and how everything revolved around Andre: his restaurant, his fondue, even our sex life was dictated by when he wanted me.

  “I just want to stay in Ross and go on being Max’s mom,” I finally answered. “I want to pick Max up from school and take him to chess club. I want to be on the library auction committee and organize the annual garden party. Ross is like Mayberry, and we belong there. I don’t want to live anywhere else.” As the words came out I realized they were true. I had tossed out my dreams of studying fashion and moving to New York with my prepregnancy jeans. I was completely content being a wife and mother in the small grid of my freeway exit.

  Dean glanced at his gold Bulova watch. “Grace, Amanda, I
have a lunch date I can’t break. Why don’t you two talk and we’ll discuss filing later this afternoon.” He gathered his notes and snapped them into his briefcase.

  “Thanks for coming at such short notice.” My mother got up and pecked him on the cheek.

  “Everything will be fine. You girls have a nice lunch and hash it out. I’ll be with my cell phone all afternoon.”

  “I’ll phone just so you can call me a ‘girl’ again.” My mother smiled. She led Dean to the foyer and I took the opportunity to refill my scotch glass.

  “I told Rosemary to serve us a proper lunch in the dining room. You look like you haven’t eaten,” my mother said, coming back into the morning room.

  “You look like you haven’t been eating. Do you have cigarettes for lunch, too, or only breakfast?” I snapped. My mother’s ankles looked like they belonged on a bird, and her Cartier watch hung on her wrist like a bangle.

  “We’re here to talk about you,” she replied.

  “I know, I’m sorry.” The scotch on an empty stomach made me grumpy. And the news Dean had given me made me suicidal.

  “Come on, let’s go out to the garden while Rosemary prepares something.” She took my hand and led me out the French doors.

  * * *

  Looking at the view of the bay was almost as calming as doing yoga. The fog had cleared and it was a beautiful spring day. My parents’ garden was lined with rosebushes. The cars on the Golden Gate Bridge sparkled like diamonds, and the boats under the bridge dodged back and forth.

  “You could always move back home,” my mother offered. “There’s plenty of room for you and Max. You could have your own floor, two floors. I’d stay out of your way.”

  “That’s a tremendous gesture, since we know how well Max respects your marble floors,” I laughed. On his last visit Max had turned the library into a skateboard park. Rosemary had almost fainted when she found him stacking first editions as obstacles.

  “He’s a boy,” my mother said and shrugged. I noticed how thin her shoulders were: When she lifted them the bones stuck out.

  “You’re right,” I said. “You were lucky I only used the library to host Barbie tea parties.”

  “This house could use some young energy. Even Rosemary qualifies for senior discounts.” My mother sighed.

  “Thanks, but the one thing I’m clear on is I want to stay in Ross. We belong there; I don’t want to lose that. Because then Andre’s taken everything.”

  “I know what you mean.” My mother picked a rosebud. It was pale pink and when she held it to her nose to breathe its perfume, her cheeks looked even paler. I promised myself I would say something about the cigarettes at lunch.

  “When your father died, this house became my best friend. And this view.”

  “That’s how I feel about Ross. I love the school, and the commons, and the lake. I just don’t know how I’ll feel running into Andre every time I turn around.”

  “Mrs. Bishop, Amanda, lunch is ready.” Rosemary stood on the stone patio.

  “Come on, we need some food before we can have a cocktail and decide what to do.” My mother steered me to the dining room.

  “Absolutely.” I nodded. “I wouldn’t want to make any major decisions with a clear head.”

  * * *

  We sat across from each other at one end of the long dining room table. My mother insisted on eating in the formal room. Perhaps she thought the beauty of the fine chandeliers twinkling above us and the elegance of the emerald velvet chairs would entice me to move home. Instead I wished I were standing in my galley kitchen serving Max a peanut butter sandwich. I also wished Max’s father wasn’t a cheating pig. I nibbled at my Cobb salad and decided wishing was for little girls who still believed in Santa Claus.

  “School is out in three weeks,” I said, giving up on the salad and biting into the olive Rosemary had placed in my martini.

  “You have to eat something,” my mother said, pushing a plate of ham and French bread in front of me.

  “I am eating my olive, and I am washing it down with this lovely liquid,” I replied, draining my glass.

  “Amanda, think of Max.”

  “I don’t see you making a dent in your salad. For once my eating habits match yours. I’m following your example.” I smiled sweetly.

  “I’m not a good example,” my mother muttered, pushing back her plate and reaching for her cigarettes.

  “You certainly are not!” I could feel my anger at Andre welling up and being directed at my mother. “Give me one of those cigarettes. If you can kill yourself, I can, too.” I reached across the table and grabbed her cigarette case.

  “Amanda, stop it.” She pulled the case out of my hands. For her birdlike appearance, her grip was strong.

  “I mean it! You look like a solitary confinement inmate. Martinis and cigarettes are not a lunch.”

  “I miss your father,” my mother said.

  “Mom, Dad has been gone for ten years. That’s no excuse for trying to kill yourself. I need you and Max needs you. You have to stop smoking.”

  “I can’t,” she said; her face was blank.

  “You can do anything you want,” I retorted.

  “It’s too late anyway,” she muttered, staring at the table.

  “What did you say?” Suddenly my lovely martini haze lifted.

  “I said it’s too late.”

  “And what did you mean?” I picked up a sterling silver knife and put it back down.

  “This isn’t the time. We need to talk about what you and Max are going to do. You could stay with Stephanie till school gets out,” my mother said, changing the subject.

  “Mom, we are not discussing anything except you and your cigarettes. What have you not told me?”

  She sighed and looked at me. Her head looked too heavy for her thin neck. “Dr. Jensen wants me to leave San Francisco for the summer. He says the fog is bad for my lungs.”

  “What’s wrong with your lungs?” I asked.

  “They found a little spot on my last X-ray.”

  “You didn’t tell me?” I demanded.

  “I was planning on telling you, I was even going to ask if you and Max wanted to come with me. Maybe go somewhere hot and exotic, play on the beach. But your phone call this morning distracted me.”

  “Mom.” My eyes filled with tears.

  “But actually,” she said brightly, tapping at her cigarette case the way she did when she got excited, “we could solve your problem and mine at the same time.”

  “You don’t ‘solve’ a spot on your lung, Mom. And you don’t keep smoking.”

  “You and Max can come with me. We’ll pick somewhere wonderful. You’ll be away from that miserable man and Max will think we’re on vacation. Where shall we go?” When she lit her cigarette her hand shook. Her wedding ring was too big for her finger and had been sized down twice since my father died. But her voice was bright, like a sorority sister planning spring break.

  “You’re not listening.” I tried to play the responsible daughter, but the idea of a luxury getaway was tempting: just pack all my problems in a suitcase to be unpacked at the end of the summer. I could lie on white sand, watch Max splash in the waves, and pretend Andre had stayed in Ross to take care of the restaurant instead of to screw his Swedish chef. The image of the two of them entwined together popped uninvited into my head.

  “You have to say yes. It’s the best thing for all of us. There’s a wonderful new St. Regis in Laguna Beach. It has a private beach club with surf butlers. Max would be in heaven. And it’s in California so Andre can’t make a fuss about you taking Max far away. The service is supposed to be excellent—as good as the St. Regis in New York. You know that was your father’s favorite hotel.”

  I remembered when I was a child, she and my father would fly to New York midweek to catch the latest Broadway show and eat at the Four Seasons. When they returned she would fill my bathroom with St. Regis soaps and scents and tell me about the incredible service: chocolate tru
ffles waiting on their pillows at night, a silver tray with a Chinese proverb and fresh strawberries placed on the coffee table in the late afternoon. Even their underwear and socks, my mother told me, were laundered and returned wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with yellow bows.

  “How long were you planning on going for?” I asked.

  “We’ll leave the day after school ends and come back Labor Day weekend. Three months of five-star service and beautiful sunsets. I’ll book the Presidential Suite so we won’t get in each other’s hair. Say yes, Amanda.”

  I played with my olive. I closed my eyes and saw cliffs dotted with houses wrapped in walls of glass. I saw an oceanside bar where people gathered to watch the sunset and drink colorful sugary drinks. My vision did not include any handsome Frenchmen or Swedish blondes.

  “I guess there’s no reason not to,” I replied slowly.

  “And a million reasons to go! I haven’t had you and Max to myself in ages. I’m going to call my travel agent right now.”

  “Mom, wait.” I didn’t want to make any decisions. Somewhere deep inside me there was a stubborn hope that the last thirty-six hours were a dream. I would wake up to find my husband had never cheated on me, we were still madly in love, and summer would consist of shooting bows and arrows on Ross commons.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” she said. “If you spend the summer with me, I’ll stop smoking.”

  “You said you can’t stop.”

  “I can for you, and for Max.”

  “You promise?”

  “Scout’s honor”—she held up her palm—“the minute we get on the plane.”

  “Deal,” I said. How could I say anything else? I had been trying to get my mother to stop smoking since I was twelve years old.

  “Deal.” She was beaming. “I’m going to call the travel agent.”

  I looked at my watch. “Oh my gosh, I have to go or I’ll be late to pick up Max.”

  “Can you drive, Amanda?”

  “I’m fine. I’ll go outside and take big gulps of fog before I get in the car.”

  * * *

  The fog had slid over the Golden Gate Bridge and the air was icy cold. My mother waved from her study on the second floor. She held the phone with one hand and blew me kisses with the other. I slid into the driver’s seat, shaking my head. Had it been that easy to convince my mother to stop smoking? Just agree to spend the summer with her in the Presidential Suite of a luxury resort and she’ll quit cold turkey? I guess she was prepared to do anything to get me away from Andre. If she could be so mature so could I. I was going to stop feeling sorry for myself … and stop wanting to kill Andre. I pictured shivery cold margaritas, and for the first time in almost two days I smiled.