Monarch Beach Read online

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  I pulled up in front of the restaurant and checked my watch. I had forty minutes till Max got out of school: enough time to confront Andre. I opened the door of the restaurant, half expecting to see Andre lip locked with Ursula. Instead he was in the back room, sitting at his desk running his hands through his hair. He wore a white shirt, navy silk shorts, and leather sandals. I could see his tan calves stretched out underneath the desk. I had always found his calves sexy. I swallowed.

  “Hi,” I said. I sounded weak. I cursed myself and tried again. “I’m filing for divorce.”

  He looked up and smiled. “I don’t want a divorce.”

  “You should have thought of that before you took up extramarital fucking.”

  “I told you it means nothing. I love you.” Andre reached forward and put his hand on mine.

  I pulled my hand away. “The only person you love is yourself.”

  “Amanda, the sex means nothing. You and Max are my life.” He actually sounded angry.

  “Sorry to be so bourgeois, but the sex means everything to me. If you wanted a cosmopolitan wife, you should have married one. I am a hometown San Francisco girl who believes in family values. In my language, adultery spells divorce.”

  “I’ll never do it again. You have my word.” He put his hand over his heart.

  “We already had this conversation. I wasn’t brought up in a house that condoned adultery. I’ve seen my mother’s attorney and I’m filing.”

  I saw a flicker of worry pass through Andre’s eyes. He had met Dean Birney at family functions. He knew I was serious.

  “I’m not moving out. I have as much right to the house as you do.”

  “I know, Dean told me.”

  “We can make it work, Amanda. I will fire Ursula.” He reached for my hand again.

  “You haven’t fired her already?” I almost laughed. “I thought you said she was packing her bags the minute you untwined your legs.”

  “Ursula’s an excellent chef and really knows fondue. She and I are over.”

  “No, we are over. When our divorce is final I’m going to buy another house in Ross. I don’t want Max to be uprooted. In the meantime, Max and I are going to Laguna Beach for the summer with my mother.”

  “You’re doing what?”

  “They found a spot on my mother’s lung. Her doctor wants her to leave San Francisco for the summer and we’re going with her. We’re going to the St. Regis in Laguna Beach. Max will swim and surf. When we come back we’ll look for a new house. Maybe you’ll have come to your senses and moved out of town.”

  “I’m not leaving Ross. My house and my restaurant are here.”

  “Whatever,” I said with a shrug.

  “I won’t let you take Max away for the whole summer.”

  “Really?” I spat at him. “Shall I tell him that his father screws other women? He’s not stupid and he’s not a baby. We’re going. You can have your precious house all to yourself.”

  “I said no, Amanda,” Andre replied in a steely voice.

  “Well, I say yes. My mother said if I go she’ll stop smoking. So I have to go. You can visit Max if you want, it’s an hour’s flight.”

  Andre was silent. I hated using my mother’s condition as ammunition, but I knew Andre thought the world of her; to him she was the original American princess.

  “She really said she’d stop smoking?”

  “Yes,” I said. We were almost a married couple again, facing my mother’s illness. For a moment I remembered the good things about Andre: his compassion, his charm, his intelligence. I shook myself. Why did men have to think with their dicks and screw everything up?

  “I guess it will be good for Max to be at the beach, and good for your mother to be with her grandson. Take the summer to think about us, Amanda. We are so good together,” he replied in a soft, coaxing tone.

  “I’m done thinking. Max and I will stay with Stephanie until school is over.” I turned and walked out before he could argue. I got in the car and drove around the block to the school entrance and waited for Max.

  The wonderful thing about being a mother is the minute you see your child—his smile smeared across his face, his shoes untied, and his backpack bumping along behind him—everything else disappears. I opened the car door and hugged him.

  “Hi, Mom, how was your day?” Max hugged me back.

  “Great, I went and saw Grandma and we have a surprise for you.”

  “A new skateboard?”

  “Better.” I smiled.

  “A motorized car?”

  “Even better. Hop in, we have to go see Mrs. Chambers and I’ll tell you.”

  On the short drive to Stephanie’s, I described the St. Regis in vivid detail. I told Max he could order milkshakes in the middle of the night. He could swim in five pools, and ride in a tram like they had at Disneyland. I could see Max’s eyes grow wide in the rearview mirror.

  When we pulled into Stephanie’s driveway, Max jumped out to find Zoe and tell her about presidential suites and beach clubs and surf butlers. Stephanie was in the kitchen peeling Fruit Roll-Up from Zoe’s lunch box.

  “Hi, girl warrior, how goes the battle?” she asked.

  “Bad.” I sat down at the kitchen island.

  “Is it tequila time?”

  “My tequila days are over. The morning after is too gruesome.”

  “How about a double espresso with a sprinkle of nutmeg?”

  “Perfect.” I slipped out of my heels. While Stephanie attacked her Italian espresso machine, I told her about my meeting with Dean Birney.

  “Bitch,” Stephanie said, setting a demitasse of dark brown liquid in front of me.

  “Who’s a bitch?” I sipped it. It was awful, like castor oil. I don’t know how Italians could drink espresso and look so happy.

  “Life’s a bitch. Andre shouldn’t get to stay in the house. It’s not fair.”

  “Next time I ask for espresso remind me I like a cup of Nescafé with extra cream. I realized the one thing I want to do is stay in Ross. Max belongs here. When the divorce is final, I’ll buy a house here for Max and me.”

  “And live across Ross commons from Peter Pan?”

  “I have to behave like a grown-up and think about what is best for Max. He needs to be close to his father,” I said.

  “Even if his father is a world-class prick?”

  “Even if. But in the meantime, Max and I are going to have a fantastic summer.” I told her about the vacation my mother had planned: the St. Regis service, views of Catalina, private beach club.

  “Now you’re on to something. I wish I were going. We have to visit Glenn’s parents in Michigan.”

  “You and the kids should come for a week.”

  “No, you don’t want an old married woman hanging around. You want to meet fresh, single meat.”

  “Stephanie, I’m not going to meet a man. I’m going to get away from a man, and to keep my mother company.” I shivered.

  “You never know. There’s nothing wrong with meeting a new man.”

  “I’ve had enough of men.”

  “No, Amanda, you’ve had enough of Andre. There are plenty of good men out there. Even some who will love and cherish you.”

  “I’m terrible at picking men.” I put the cup on the marble island. “Isn’t it funny. You ended up with the big house in Ross, two kids, and a dog. And I’m homeless with a broken heart.”

  “You’re only homeless by choice, and only for a few months. You could buy this whole street if you wanted to.” Stephanie stacked lunchboxes in the pantry.

  “How were you smart enough to pick Glenn?”

  Stephanie sat on the stool next to me. “My father was in advertising. He met my mother on the set of a Clairol commercial. He got her pregnant and promised he was going to marry her. One day he came home from work and said he was offered a job with a big ad agency in London: creative director, worldwide. He told my mother he loved her but it wasn’t ‘the right time’ to
get married. He couldn’t pass up the opportunity, and he didn’t want to be saddled with a wife and child in a new country—”

  “I never knew that,” I interrupted.

  “Everyone at school had fathers who drove into their offices in San Francisco on weekday mornings, and watched their soccer games on the weekend. I told the other kids my father was ‘traveling.’ For eighteen years,” she laughed.

  “Do you ever see him?” I remembered the Stephanie I knew in high school. She had a mane of golden hair, and a body like Jessica Rabbit. She used to strut around the student commons with a guy on one arm and another carrying her books behind her. She was the only girl in the freshman class invited to the senior prom, and on Valentine’s Day she received so many Love-o-Grams she couldn’t fit them in her backpack.

  “No.” Stephanie shook her head. “He married a Brit a few years later and has three pale children named Daisy and Nigel and Hamish. But he paid for my education, so I can’t complain. I guess when I was shopping for a husband my main criteria was one who was home by five p.m.”

  “Glenn is more than that,” I said.

  “He’s a lot more than that. But when we were first dating I thought he was skinny, and a bit of a geek. He used to read articles from the Harvard Business Review out loud, when all I wanted to do was sample chocolate croissants at Parisian bakeries and make out.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  Stephanie thought for a minute. “He told me I was smart, and all the other men I’d been with were just interested in my cup size. I started to listen when he talked, and I realized we wanted the same things: house, kids, and enough money to give kids a great childhood. When he took me to the top of the Eiffel Tower, he pointed down at the streets of Paris and said, ‘I want to put the world at your feet.’ I knew he’d never walk out on me. There are a lot of different kinds of love.”

  “And I picked Andre like a teenager choosing pinup posters for her room.” I tried to laugh.

  “You had the world at your feet. You had your own skating rink for Christ’s sake.”

  “I didn’t have my own skating rink.” I shook my head. A rumor had started sophomore year that we had a skating rink in our basement. An ambitious party planner had installed fake ice for one of my parent’s parties, but it had been removed the morning after the event.

  “You had a mansion and two parents who were like royalty. We used to call your family ‘the Kennedys.’ You couldn’t know there were cads out there. They weren’t allowed in your house.” Stephanie got up and opened the fridge.

  Max and Zoe came running into the kitchen.

  “Mom, Zoe doesn’t believe in surf butlers. She thinks I’m making it up,” Max protested.

  “She’ll just have to come see for herself,” I said, pouring the espresso down the sink.

  “You did get something special out of the deal.” Stephanie nodded toward Max as the kids zoomed out of the kitchen.

  “I did,” I agreed, trying to keep the tears from my eyes.

  Somehow we made it through the next three weeks. Max and I stayed in Stephanie’s guest room, sharing the king-sized bed. I told Max our house had a giant ant infestation. Thank goodness he was so thrilled to watch the sixty-inch TV in Stephanie’s family room and play their Wii, he didn’t ask questions. I took him by the restaurant every evening before it opened so he could see Andre. I waited in my car while they hung out and drank lemonade.

  I didn’t see Ursula, but I didn’t go inside the restaurant either. It wasn’t my business whether he fired her. I did notice the new hostess who came out to set up the tables on the sidewalk wore fishnet stockings with seams down the backs. Her heels were ridiculously high for someone who was on her feet all night. But maybe she wasn’t on her feet all night. Maybe Andre put her on her back at the end of the night, and helped her out of her stockings. I reminded myself that wasn’t my business either. I was finished with Andre. I couldn’t wait to get on the airplane so he would be out of sight. I ticked off the days on Stephanie’s kitchen calendar, and when the last day of school came I think I was happier than all the third graders tumbling out of their classroom. We were free.

  Chapter Four

  We landed at John Wayne Airport in Orange County in the late afternoon. On the plane I had sat next to a girl wearing a pink T-shirt dress and rainbow flip-flops. She sported huge white sunglasses and a gold toe ring. Looking at her, I already felt like I was on vacation. After we disembarked, we made our way down to baggage claim and found our bags in the hands of a man in a blue-and-gold uniform.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bishop, Mrs. Blick, Max. My name is Michael, I will be your driver to the St. Regis. Allow me to escort you to the car.”

  “Wow!” Max ran ahead of us. Michael opened the door of an ivory-colored Bentley.

  “Mother, what is this?” I asked, sliding into the cream leather seat and admiring the walnut interior.

  “This is how we are going to live from now on.” My mother settled herself into the front passenger seat.

  “Let me know if I can adjust the air for you. Would Max like to listen to Radio Disney?” Michael asked as we rolled away from the curb.

  “Are these Jelly Bellies for me? Look, Mom, strawberry smoothie in a can! Wow, this is awesome!” Max riffled through the contents of a maple box secured in the middle of the backseat.

  “All for you.” I grinned. Michael raised the windows and I watched the Pacific Ocean fly by. I examined my new Tory Burch sandals, orange with giant gold buckles. I wore a Theory sundress in lime green. Orange and green, Stephanie had said on our predeparture Union Square shopping spree, were the spring colors. I felt silly handing over my purchases to the salesgirl at Neiman’s. I hadn’t kept up with spring colors since Max was born. My wardrobe for the last eight years had many designer pieces, but they were designed for the suburban mom. But Stephanie had threatened to use her own credit card and pack my suitcase herself. Now I was glad I had given in. I felt different, not like Amanda the mom, Amanda the betrayed wife. More like the girl on the plane with the white sunglasses and toe ring.

  “Unless of course there might be a daiquiri in here for me. It is cocktail hour,” I said to my mother and Michael in the front.

  “Side compartment, Mrs. Blick. Or a martini if you like, already stirred, over ice.”

  “Martini for me,” my mother chimed in.

  I handed my mother her drink and sipped my ridiculously sweet banana daiquiri.

  “Wow, look, Mom, a Nintendo DS.” Max found a new treasure.

  “Goodness.” My mother laughed. “We’re not even at the hotel yet!”

  * * *

  We pulled into the St. Regis as I contemplated finishing the jar of gummi bears Max had opened. At this rate I would have to head straight for the spa and hit the elliptical machine. The St. Regis was a giant Tuscan villa with seven floors spilling down to the ocean. We were greeted by an army of bellboys: one to open each car door, one to carry our bags, one to present Max with a yellow sand bucket and spade and shovel.

  “Can we go to the beach, right now?” Max asked, waving the spade and shovel in the air like twin swords.

  “Let’s check in first,” I said. Any fear I had of Max missing his father was fast dissipating. His eyes were wide and his mouth set in a permanent o. We were treated like royalty; escorted from the Mediterranean lobby with its giant palm trees and mosaic tile to a private elevator that carried us to the Presidential Suite.

  “The seventh floor can only be reached by a special key, so you have complete privacy.” Our bellboy waited for us to exit the elevator. We walked down a carpeted hall and stopped in front of gold double doors. “You have a butler at your service twenty-four hours a day. We stocked the fridge as per your instructions, and the Kids’ Club assembled some books and games for Max, but please don’t hesitate to ask for anything.” The bellboy swung open the doors and I stepped into paradise.

  I stayed in many fine hotels with my parents when I was young, bu
t since I married Andre our vacations had consisted of overnights to check out French restaurants in Napa Valley. Once he had agreed to join my mother in Hawaii, but insisted it was so Max could play in the warm ocean. I sighed, thinking of all the effort I spent during my marriage so that Andre would not feel like a “kept” man, while he spent all his energy screwing other women. I had forgotten the pleasure of perfectly arranged linens, huge white bath sheets, rows of skin-care products and beauty oils lining a marble vanity.

  The Presidential Suite was bigger than our house in Ross. The living room had matching love seats and a baby grand piano. A separate dining room housed a gleaming mahogany table and twelve chairs upholstered in burgundy velvet. A small kitchen held a full-sized fridge and microwave and a pantry stocked with gourmet coffees, tiny tins of caviar, and boxes of crackers, cereal, oatmeal, peanut butter, jams, and jellies. I thought Andre would have been impressed by the gourmet selection of foods. Then I tried, for the hundredth time, to push all thoughts of Andre out of my head.

  The bellboy drew back the curtains and we moved onto the balcony. Below us was a grand lawn with a white rotunda and a circle of palm trees. Waiters crisscrossed the grass, carrying frosty pink drinks down to the pool.

  “Look, Mom, the pool has a fountain! Can we go swimming?” Max squeezed his face between the railings.

  “Tomorrow; now it’s dinnertime,” I said.

  “I’m not hungry!” Max protested.

  “Jelly Bellies and a strawberry smoothie are not dinner. The pool will be there tomorrow.” I tried to sound firm, but I was so tired I just wanted to climb into the giant canopied bed. Suddenly, I couldn’t see the pool or the ocean. All I could see was Andre in the green Speedo he wore in Hawaii. I told him men in America didn’t wear Speedos. He asked why not, and I remember looking at the distinct outline of his crotch under the spandex and saying it was indecent. He laughed and called me a puritan. Then he kissed me and said, “In France I would be overdressed. Many men walk the beach naked.” I closed my eyes, willing the image away.