Collateral (39 page)

and maybe children, who

knows? That Dad would

never leave her solo on

Christmas, if for no other

reason than to show up

at mass and let Father

Frank see him there.

But I don't know for sure

if any of that is true. Cole

might insist we spend

Christmas in Wyoming.

And Troy could very well

be in Germany. Those two

things could happen at

the same time on any

given year. And as for Dad,

he's always been a wild

card. Not to mention,

a selfish bastard. Mom

deserves better. A lot better.

Until the champagne is gone.

Dad has been drinking right

along with the younger crowd,

getting sloppy and slurring and

outright flirting with a few of

the girls. They seem to find it

funny, maybe even flattering.

I think it's disgusting. No wonder

Mom wasn't anxious to join

the party. She finally emerges

from her sunroom asylum,

takes one look, and hustles

off to the kitchen, ostensibly

to refill the goody trays. She

doesn't reappear until Troy

and Gretchen see their guests

to the door. Ever the hostess,

after all. With the other girls

gone, Dad comes over, sits on

the recliner adjacent the sofa

where Dar and I are talking.

Great party, huh?
he asks.

A jolt of anger zaps me. “Looked

like you were having fun. Poor

Mom got stuck with kitchen duty.”

Right where she belongs. Right

where all decent women belong.

If it was a joke, it was so not funny.

It was ignorant. I chalk it up to

booze. Dad sways slightly, and

his eyes have a hard time focusing.

This is not the time to discuss

anything of importance.

“It's been a really long day, Dad.

I'm going to bed. You coming,

Dar?” On the way to my room,

we pass Troy and Gretchen.

I hug my brother. “I'm so happy

for you guys. Sorry about Dad.”

He gives me a “so what's new?”

shrug. Dar doesn't have to follow

me. She knows the way to my room.

Wow. It hasn't changed at all.

First thing my mom did was paint

mine blue and make it the guest room.

Mine is still lavender, with white

furniture, curtains, and throw

rugs over the hardwood floor.

The same framed prints of irises

and white roses hang on the walls.

“It's kind of like a shrine, isn't it?”

Darian laughs.
I like it. Sort of

comforting to know everything

doesn't have to change. Hope

the mattress is still comfortable.
We

change into warm pajamas, fall

into bed, and barely talk at all.

For the lack of conversation last

night as we tour the foothill wineries,

seeking the perfect combination

of amenities, availability, and price.

Darian knows all the right questions

to ask. Basic venue fees. Vendor

recommendations. Hours weddings

are allowed. Some places make you

wait until their tasting rooms are

closed, which can push a wedding

pretty late into the evening. It takes

all day. Some wineries are close

together. Others require a good deal

of driving time. And while we're on

the road, we talk. I mention I told

Mom about changing my major.

Good. I'm glad she's in your corner.

About my dad, his inappropriate

behavior. What a jerk he can be.

Your poor mom. She's so complacent.

Which leads to a discussion about

fidelity. If it's necessary. If it's possible.

If a marriage can survive without it.

It's possible. Look at your parents.

“Thirty years. But was it worth it?”

Around to Jonah. Not sure why

it took her so long. I expected

her questions before today.

So, what's up between you

and your cute poetry teacher?

“Jonah?” Like there's another

one. “Nothing. What do you mean?”

First of all, you call him Jonah.

Pretty friendly, if you ask me.

Plus poetry slams. Surfing?

Since when do you own a board?

“Since you moved out and I quit

going to the gym. I decided I prefer

exercise that doesn't involve inhaling

other people's sweat stench.”

Fair enough. But when did you

start hanging out with Jonah?

“We don't hang out. He asked me

to help judge a poetry competition.

Took me to dinner and a slam after.

We've only been surfing once. That's it.”

Sounds like hanging out to me.

Come on. What else? Any, you know?

“Absolutely not! He's never even

tried to kiss me. Let alone, you know.”

Okay, fine. But, just in case you don't

know, and I'm not sure how you

couldn't, he'd “you know” with you

in a hot damn second. I'd consider it.

“Hello, Darian? I'm getting married.

To Cole, remember? That's why

we're uh . . . here.” We pull into

the final winery of the day—a huge

Spanish-style stucco affair on a hill

with a magnificent view. “Ooh. I like

this one, don't you?” She agrees,

and we go inside to do some talking.

Driving back to Lodi, we go over

copious notes. Discuss pros and cons

of the five possible venues. “Now

that we've narrowed it down, I'll see

if Mom wants to check them out

with me. She still isn't too excited

about the whole idea. But at least

she isn't trying to talk me out of it.”

Darian reflects. Says softly,
I wish

someone would have talked me out

of it. I love Spence. Then, and now. But

I don't love much about being married.

I drop Dar at her parents' house.

Stay long enough to say hello

and walk with her out to the paddock

where her aging bay mare, Snaps,

is sniffing the ground, looking for

grass. Not much out there this time

of year. When she hears Dar's voice,

her head springs up and she whinnies

a greeting, comes over for a scratch

behind the ear. “At least she's the same.”

Yeah, but getting up there. One day

I'll come home and she'll be gone.

“Way to mess up my high, Dar.

I was hoping to hold onto it a little

longer. Guess that means I might

as well head home. So looking

forward to mass this afternoon.”

You used to be such a good, little

Catholic. What happened?

“My parental role models. All

that confessing going on

and not enough genuine apology.

I still like the incense, though.”

We arrange for me to pick her up

in a couple of days.
Say a Hail Mary

for me. I could use some forgiveness.

Christmas Eve mass was critical.

My obligation was fulfilled. I had

been forgiven. Baby Jesus was almost

born, and he was happy with me

(okay, slight logic lapse, but whatever),

and that meant Santa was definitely

on his way. That last part I deciphered

all by myself. We always had a nice

dinner out, so Mom wouldn't have

to cook or wash dishes. Enough of

that to come the next day. Then it

was overdosing on sappy holiday

flicks. My parents let Troy and me

stay up really late, hoping we'd sleep

in a little. As if. He and I were up

before dawn broke. We'd sneak into

the living room to count all the gifts

Santa had delivered overnight.

It was magical. Over the years, little

by little, the magic has faded away.

The only person up early today is me,

and only because my phone rings

a little after five a.m. It's five thirty

p.m. in Afghanistan. “Hey, baby.”

Merry Christmas, lady. Sorry

to get you up at the crack of dawn.

Everyone wants the phone. I can't

talk more than a second. But I want

you to know I love you. Miss you.

I'm in need of some serious Ash time.

Up the chimney, he's gone.

I lie in bed, visions of Afghanistan

dancing in my head. I expect to find

an e-mail from Cole later, with a little

more information. Probably what

they're having for dinner. Some

prank some grunt pulled on another.

Possibly a hint of what he's been

doing during those long stretches

when I hear not a word from him.

The usual minutiae on this less-

than-ordinary day. That's what

it should be, anyway. I'll settle for

mellow. A little conversation would

be nice. Something to melt the silent

ice between Mom and Dad. Troy

and Gretchen and I have done our

best, but so far, no dice. I get out

of bed, snuggle into a robe. Maybe

Santa showed up last night after

all, with a tree and trimmings and

lots of presents. I extract the ones

I brought from my suitcase, tiptoe

down the hall to the living room.

See no sign that Santa was there.

I turn up the heat, root through

the entertainment center shelves,

locate a CD of Christmas music.

Old rock 'n' rollers, singing carols.

If no one else wants Christmas, I do.

It's only a little after six, but I put

on the music, turn it up loud enough

so I can hear it in the kitchen. Go

start coffee. Glance in the fridge.

Looks like prime rib for dinner.

Perfect. There are lots of apples

in the drawer. I'm thinking pie.

I start peeling and slicing and by

the time the rich, bitter scent of

Sumatran perfumes the air, Mom

comes padding into the room.

Merry Christmas, Ashley.
She hands

me a small box, wrapped in gold

foil. Inside it are two filigreed rings.

Mom and Dad's wedding rings.

I thought you'd appreciate them

the most. Hope Cole likes them.

Her long, deep hug makes me cry.

Cole flew back to San Diego with me.

The whole way, I wondered if his mom

had mentioned the thing with Lara,

but if she had, he didn't bring it up.

I decided confession was every bit

as useless as my confronting Lara

had been. Rochelle was right. Love

without trust is nothing more than

infatuation. Pointless, considering

the loosely woven fabric of my relationship

with Cole. It's impossible to weave

the threads tighter when you spend

so much time apart. We felt like gauze.

I had to have faith that the filaments

were strong. Easier, when you're

sitting close, holding hands, making

plans for a future together. Easier,

when you're laughing over a couple

of beers, fish and chips, and a shared

piece of chocolate decadence cake.

Much easier when, buzzed and needy,

you tumble into a familiar bed together.

At Rochelle's, but not comfortably.

It felt strange, sharing a bed there,

like maybe the walls possessed ears.

The sex was muted. Low-volume

fumbling. Satisfaction-free. At least,

for me. By the time we got back to

my apartment, I was starving for more.

And, doubtless because of my recent

run-in with Lara, I felt like I had something

to prove. To Cole. And to myself. I was sick

of playing passive. I wanted to try on

the power role, and so I didn't crawl

to one side of the bed and wait for Cole

to make love to me. I pushed him

backward into the bedroom. Dropped

to my knees in front of him, unbuckled

his belt, unzipped his jeans, slid them

off. Watched him stir, helped him grow

completely hard with my hands. Mouth.

I brought him right to the brink. Stopped.

Stood. Took off my own clothes. “Lie

down. And don't move.” Oh yes, I liked

taking control. I kissed my way up on

top of him. Licked his face. His neck.

His chest. I straddled him, pushed

him in, rocking hard. Harder. Not enough,

with him still inside me, I turned around,

faced the other way, and that angle

created exquisite pressure. I made it

last as long as I could. We both howled.