Authors: Evan Marshall

Crushing Crystal (32 page)

BOOK: Crushing Crystal

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Chapter 41

W
hich brings me to today. It is my thirty-seventh birthday and I am waiting for my suitcases to arrive in the busy Rome airport. Last week at dinner Jennifer, Sophie and Chad gave me their shopping lists of things they want me to pick up in Italy. I will send back a handblown glass vase for Sophie. Jennifer and Chad both want leather. Nothing specific, just leather. “You'll know it when you see it,” Chad assured me. “You know me, simple and elegant,” Jennifer laughed.

I did hear from Matt one last time before I left. Just this morning as I was headed out the door for the airport, he called. Thankfully, I was running late and decided to screen the call. I heard his voice blasting through my darkened loft as I stood at the top of the staircase with my suitcases. “Malone, it's me. I miss you. Can we talk it over?” Then his real agenda. “Oh yeah, by the way, can you tell me which insurance company you got me that liability policy from? We are getting sued after all, and a year's worth of work is going to go totally down the tube if they get an injunction against the film. Plus, the legal fees alone are going to wipe me out. If they get a judgment, I'll be completely broke.”

Thankfully, my answering machine only takes messages for thirty seconds, and cut him off. My impulse was to run to the phone and return his call, but I decided against it. I was already late for check-in and there was no way I was going to miss this flight. Besides, Matt's a smart guy. Sooner or later, he'll remember that the policy was through State Farm. And when he does, he will thank me, just as I'd predicted. Not because the policy will do him any good, of course. I canceled it the day after he broke off our engagement. He will thank me for really listening to him. Matt told me that the insurance policy was an insult, and I didn't want to offend him any further.

Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, the guy in the seat across my aisle started making flirty eyes at me. I made them back and silently encouraged him to move to the empty seat next to me. He smiled shyly. I was appalled at myself for returning the advances of a man who is so young I'd have to check his ID before sleeping with him. He was tan with blond curly hair, and undoubtedly used his masculine charms to weasel his way into first-class.

Soon he was in the seat next to me drinking Chianti while I sipped a tall glass of milk. In a thick Italian accent, he said, “Pardon me, signorina, but I couldn't help noticing your beautiful blue eyes.”

“Contacts,” I said.

“'Scuse me?” He looked puzzled.

“Thank you,” I said instead of clarifying. “I'm Prudence, Prudence Malone. And you are?”

“Very much happy that I am sitting in the first-class today, Miss Prudence Malone,” he smiled. “I am Gianni Cipriani. This is your first journey to Italy?”

I nodded. “I've dreamt of coming here all my life.”

“Then both of our dreams is coming true today, Prudence,” he said.

“How old are you, Gianni?”

“Twentyâ” he said.

I waited for the second half of that number, but that was it.

“Do you know how old I am?” I asked.

“Twenty?” he smiled.

“No, how old
I
am?” I said.

“I am making the joke,” he said. “I know you are the older woman, but I hope you give me the chance to win your affections, Prudence Malone.”

Why in good God's name has it taken me so long to get to Italy?!

Gianni and I spent the rest of the flight to Rome talking about art, Italy and New York. As it turns out, he is an art history major at NYU, and was on his way home to spend the summer with his family in Tuscany. “Prudence, let us spend the summer together. I show you Italy you do not see as the tourist. My family will be so happy to have you stay at our summer villa, and I will show you the country, the museums, the beaches. I have the convertible car and we can drive the country. We have a wonderful time together.”

Is this kid serious?! On the other hand, driving around Italy in a convertible with my hair blowing in the breeze sounds awfully tempting.

“You're very sweet Gianni, and I'm flattered by the offer really, but I promised to spend my time with someone very important in Italy, and I need to keep that promise.”

He tucked his head into his chest and glanced up at me sadly. “I see,” he said. Then I realized he was still flirting.

“Tell you what, Gianni,” I offered. “Why don't you give me your phone number and when I'm getting ready to leave in August, I'll give you a call. If you still want to show me around, we can do it, do that, I mean. We can have dinner.”

As we landed in Rome, I tucked Gianni's telephone number in my wallet and made my way to the car rental desk. I struggled with my Italian as the clerk smiled. “Can I assist you in English?” he asked. He typed my name into the computer and confirmed my reservation. “Here you go,” he said, handing me the keys to my rental car.

“Actually,” I hesitated. “I'd like a convertible.”

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Jennifer Coburn's next new novel
TALES FROM THE CRIB
coming next month in trade paperback!

Chapter 1

I
wasn't entirely surprised when Jack said he wanted a divorce. Our marriage had been rocky for the last few years. On another day, it could've been me asking to end the relationship. But on this day, Jack's timing could not have been worse. I knew we had serious problems, but this was not the ideal moment to call it quits.

We'd been to marriage counseling, taken several unsuccessful weekend getaways, and even, embarrassed as I am to admit, enrolled in a Tantra Yoga class together. Each was more of a disaster than the other.

Our therapist actually dumped us after six months. I never knew they could do that, but one day we showed up at Dr. Lee's office and he wasn't there. There was no note, no apologetic phone call, no explanation whatsoever. I called three times to try to reschedule, but Dr. Lee never returned any of my calls. I knew he wasn't dead because a few months later I saw him at the movie theatre with two young boys I assumed were his sons. I know he saw me because he self-consciously snapped his head in the opposite direction and sped away. Jack didn't seem at all bothered by Dr. Lee's disappearing act. He said he was probably just busy, and he'd get to us when he had time. Why do men think this modus operandi is acceptable in every context? I needed a real patient-therapist breakup. Who was Dr. Lee so busy with anyway? Other couples with more interesting problems than ours? Couples he thought had a fighting chance at marital success? Loath as I am to confess this, I once drove by Dr. Lee's office and tried to peek in the window to see the other couple he was counseling. My near miss of a parked car scared me away from future stalking of my unfaithful ex-therapist.

The weekend getaways were so full of promise, I still wonder how they went wrong. Actually, that's not true. I can plainly recall the points when our romantic weekends soured. Every trip has a few glitches, and depending on the state of the relationship, these snafus can either bring a couple together or drive them to each other's throats. I know a couple who was kidnapped on their honeymoon in Mexico. Ten years later, they still admiringly recount how cool the other was under pressure. “Karl is fluent in Spanish, so he was able to negotiate with the kidnappers,” Audrey sighs. “Oh no,” Karl always protests. “If it weren't for your suggestion that they take your grandmother's ring, we would have never gotten out of there alive.” They've recalled this nightmare a dozen times and still tell it as though it's a great love story. I'm happy for them, really. It's just a depressingly stark contrast to Jack and my lemon-oil incident during our last romantic weekend together. I'll get to that in a moment.

My friend Zoe recommended a Tantra Yoga class for Jack and me. She said that she and her boyfriend took the workshop and suddenly became amazingly in synch with each other. “Mind-blowing doesn't even begin to describe the sex I had with Paul this weekend,” Zoe said as she rested her exhausted head blissfully into her hands. “Everyone I know who has taken this class says it has completely and totally transformed their relationship,” Zoe promised. Since Jack and my fourteen-year marriage had disintegrated to a veritable piece of shit, a complete transformation sounded like just what we needed.

During our first day of the Tantra Yoga workshop, we were told to gaze into the eyes of our partner and try to see his soul. I actually saw a Knicks game. Instead of focusing on my husband, I started looking at the other couples and, I don't know, maybe I was jealous, but they looked silly to me. When I say I started laughing, I don't mean a dainty little giggle escaped. I burst into hysterical, uncontrollable laughter where tears rolled from my eyes. “What's so damn funny?” Jack asked.

“I'm sorry,” I tried to stop laughing. “Let me catch my breath.” But the more I tried to stop, the more I laughed. It took a full three minutes to stop laughing, and while the teacher seemed sympathetic if not amused, she suggested that Jack and I take a class together called Orgasmic Laughter. We declined on that offer, but picked up a brochure for a lovely-looking resort in the Berkshires. We rented a cabin with a cozy hot tub, fireplace, and king-size bed with a comforter so thick a couple could get lost in it. The full-wall-of-glass window overlooked an overgrown forest of lush trees and giant-leafed plants. It was like Jurassic Park without the dinosaurs. The landscape was carpeted with dark moss, rocks, and a stream. In the cabin, a small CD player offered Jack and me classical and jazz music, as well as one selection called “Nature's Soundtrack.” There was a luxurious calm and a rustic sensuality about the place, which was accentuated by the scent of freshly burnt firewood and clean, pure rain.

Jack and my cabin at the inn was probably the most romantic place on earth. Until we arrived, that is. On our first night, I suggested we run a warm bath and set a few dozen candles around the rim of the tub. That always seemed to work in the movies. My girlfriends and I just about died during the bathtub scene in
Bridges of Madison County,
when Clint Eastwood and Meryl Streep slid out of their real lives and into unforgettable, eternal love. I had twice as many candles as they did, and my secret weaponâlemon oil.

When I was in Longevity Natural Foods a week earlier, I stared at the hundreds of tiny black bottles of aromatherapy that lined the wall. A nice woman who worked there approached me and asked if I had any questions. I told her my husband and I were taking a trip together, and confided that our marriage had been rather stressful for some time. “Do you have anything that will help us, you know, slide out of our real lives and into unforgettable, eternal love?” I asked.

“Why don't you try this?” the woman suggested, handing me a small bottle of lemon oil. “Put two drops of this in your tub and you'll bliss out together.”

I figured if two drops was good, twenty would be excellent. She had no idea how much more stressed we were than the average, overworked couple. It might have been thirty drops of lemon oil I put into the tub. I don't know. It was dark and I just turned the small bottle upside down and shook most of the contents into the water.

At first, Jack and my bath together seemed idyllic. “This is nice,” he said, reaching for my shoulders, pulling my back against his chest. I settled into Jack's body like an old, comfortable chair. Enveloped by warm water, Jack's embrace was heaven. His arms reached around to the front of my body and he began to sweep my hair behind my back. As Jack's firm, calloused hands moved across my stomach and toward my hips, I took a deep breath and tried to release my feelings of physical inadequacy. I had gained twenty pounds since Jack and I met in grad school. My stomach and thighs now looked as if they'd been spackled with dough. But chunky women could still be beautiful these days. All the magazines were saying so, as they trotted out articles about how my size twelve was the same as Marilyn Monroe's. Besides, I wanted to let go of my body angst because I knew Jack would sense it. Zoe says that, like animals can smell fear, men can smell confidence, and that there is nothing in the world sexier than a woman who feels gorgeous. Silently, I repeated the mantra I learned from a Goddess Body workshop I took with my mother and cousin Kimmy last month.
I am a goddess and my body is to be worshipped.
Easy for those two to say, but it took several repetitions before I stopped repeating
Yeah, right
after my positive affirmation. My attention snapped back to the present as Jack abruptly stopped touching my hips.

“Lucy, do you feel something tingling?”

“Honey, remember it takes me a little longer to get warmed up thanâ”

“I'm not talking about being turned on, Lucy,” he snapped. “I meant does your skin feel funny?”

“Funny likeâ”

More frantic, he shouted, “It's getting worse. The stinging! Doesn't your skin feel like it's burning?!”

As soon as he mentioned it, a thousand tiny pinpricks attacked my body. Then they spread to create an all-out burning on every part of my body that was submerged in water.

“Oh shit!” I said, standing up naked in the tub. “It must be the lemon oil.”

“The what?” Jack demanded, now also standing and scratching his legs frenetically.

“The lemon oil, the lemon oil,” I repeated, as if that would explain everything. “I put lemon oil aromatherapy in the tub to help relax us.”

“Well done,” he snapped and moved on to scratching his legs.

“I don't think you should scratch it, Jack. You'll just irritate your skin.”

“Irritate my skin?! Whatever the hell New Age snake oil you put in this tub is irritating my skin!” And with that, things got worse. Jack slipped and fell back into the tub and a tidal wave of unholy water splashed into his eyes and all over his face.

Like Audrey during her honeymoon kidnapping, I would be grace under pressure. Jack and I would one day tell the story of our lemon bath together and how Cool Hand Lucy saved the day. I grabbed his arm and took charge. “Jack, you're going to be fine. Let's get you out of this tub and rinse your eyes with fresh water.” As I led my blinded husband out of the tub, his foot knocked over one of the candles and set the bathroom rug on fire. It was a small fire, but big enough to burn part of Jack's left foot. I didn't know if the lemon oil was flammable, so I filled a small bathroom glass and dumped fresh water on the burning rug. Twice. Then a third time before it was fully extinguished and the smell of firewood and rain was overpowered by burnt wool and lemon.

After a few minutes, Jack's vision returned, and I ran clear water through the shower for us to rinse our stinging bodies. “God, Lucy, that was awful,” he said, sounding much softer. “For a few minutes there, I thought I could be blind for the rest of my life. And all I kept thinking was I might never see my family. I might never see my gallery. Blind, Lucy! Do you know how bad that would suck?”

Jack picked up the bottle of lemon oil aromatherapy and read the back of the label. “May irritate skin,” he said. Subtext: You might not have nearly blinded me if you'd simply read the label, you idiot. Sub-subtext: Can't you do anything right?

That night, I stupidly asked Jack if he wanted to light a fire and snuggle under the cloud of a comforter. “Lucy, my dick has no top layer of skin. I'm not exactly in the mood right now,” he said rolling over.

Believe it or not, the next night we had amazingly passionate sex. It wasn't making love. It was sex compliments of an excellent bottle of red wine our waiter insisted we try. Our night was release-stress, really, but I wasn't about to complain. I was so grateful for the contact that I just played the hand I was given and hoped it would grow into something better eventually.

I think that's the night I got pregnant. In fact, I'm sure it is because it was the only time we'd been together in months.

Nearly five months later, I prepared Jack's favorite mealâprime rib and garlic mashed potatoes with Caesar saladâand planned to tell him about the baby over a glass of red wine. Here's how the fantasy goes: I look ravishing, stunning, really. As I put Jack's dinner on the table, he says something lovely about my cooking, the effort I made, and how much he loves me. I pour a glass of wine for him and tell him that I know we've had a tough road of it over the last few years, but that I want to get our marriage back on track. My eyes well with tears of joy and I tell him I have some exciting news. He asks why I'm not drinking any wineâthen, in an instant, he knows. He jumps from his chair, this time knocking nothing over and starting no fires, lifts me in his embrace, and tells me he's overjoyed.

Here's how the reality went: I looked pretty good. Not bad. I was bloated but relieved that it was because I was four-and-a-half months pregnant and not just a cow, as I'd originally suspected. I didn't have quite as much time to primp as I'd planned because I kept repeating the home pregnancy test and calling the people at Planned Parenthood
^Â®, asking them to please check my test results again to be sure they hadn't accidentally switched my results with someone younger and more fertile than me. The clinician assured me that since I'd peed directly onto the stick that we both watched turn pink, a lab mix-up was impossible. Anyway, just as I was about to tell Jack the news, he blurted out that our marriage had run its course and he wanted a divorce. “I love you as a person, but I'm not in love with you, and honestly I don't think you're in love with me either.”

At the moment, I want you dead.

“So what did you want to tell
me?
” he asked. It was a home pregnancy test commercial gone terribly, terribly wrong.

BOOK: Crushing Crystal

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