Love Deluxe (3 page)

“John listen to me, anytime you’re dealing with someone who you think has the whole world in their pocket just remember, they’re human. They’re going to suffer and have their hearts and dreams broken just like anyone else. Their money won’t stop it, there are losses that wealth and power can’t fix. When you realize that then the money’s not so intimidating.”

“Wow, that’s a freaky way to look at it,” he said shaking his head.

He was so boyish and somewhat innocent and naïve. Peter Pan syndrome for sure, he didn’t seem to realize he was an adult.

We climbed the flagstone steps to the front door and he leaned down as if to kiss me good night but a hint of doubt clouded his eyes.

“This really is an impressive house,” he said, he was nervous suddenly and fidgeting a bit as he took it all in. The grand historic house and the sprawling lawn with hidden lights illuminating the high branches of the massive live oak trees. The light filtered down around us like pixie-dust and settled in pools at our feet as if we were caught in an enchanted land.

“It’s just a house, John, like a billionaire’s just a man,” I said, but I realized my life must seem charmed through his eyes.

“Yeah, and the President is just like a homeless man,” he said, smiling down at me.

“Well, thanks for going with me, it was fun,” I said, unlocking the door.

“It really was fun, can I call you?” he asked, shifting from one foot to the other, stalling for time.

“Sure, that’d be great.”

He was silent and clearly he didn’t want to leave. I could very well have invited him in, and part of me wanted to, but I didn’t.

“Anyone here?” he asked, jamming his hands in his pockets as if to stop himself from reaching out to touch me.

“No,” I said, sighing as I stepped through the heavy oak door with its meticulous beveled glass panes.

“I saw some pictures in the house earlier, nice looking family, you just have one son?”

“Just one,” I whispered and held my breath as I felt the sledgehammer swing toward my heart. That wasn’t something I talked about with just anyone. Not casual conversation by a long shot.

“Good looking boy, seriously, tall and handsome, the works. Will he be home tonight?”

“No, he doesn’t live here now,” I said quietly and I turned my back on him and let the door swing shut with a resounding thud. 

***

The next day Emily and I went antiquing and then to lunch. We hit the flea market early and picked up a few odds and ends— vintage mercury-glass vases and tortoise shell writing boxes for my antiques shop, Paris-Texas. Rob was golfing with some of his lawyer buddies so Em had most of the day free. We ate at Sol Luna; it was a perfect early summer day so we sat outside on the canvas-shaded patio. We ordered guacamole with chips and iced tea and then Emily started in with the questions.

“Okay, tell it all, sister, I’ve waited long enough. How was your date? Was it a date? Did you sleep with him, was it incredible?”

“Yes of course I did, I dragged him to my bed and we fucked all night,” I said and we both rolled our eyes. “It was good, fun, fine, we had a nice time. Honestly it went really well, he was a little under-dressed, that’s all.”

She looked at me like I was lying, “I see, and which pretentious snob and a half said something?”

“Oh, that tacky Claire Nance, I don’t know why I care, I can’t stand her phony ass anyway.”

“Exactly, screw her! She was pure trash before she married mister ‘Bank of Greater Texas’ and she still is. I hope you’re not letting that tacky gold-digger get to you.”

“Oh, not really, she’s rude to everyone. I’m just… I’m kind of confused about John Foster. He’s interesting to be with and he says these weird, off the wall things that are actually kind of funny. But I’m not used to being without Jackson, I miss him.”

“Well, I can see that,” Emily added sarcastically, throwing her hands up in disgust and giving me the evil eye over the top of her sunglasses. “Fuck Jackson! But wait a minute Catey-bug, of course you miss him. Who wouldn’t long for those middle of the night trips to the police station to bail his childish ass out of jail or finding him passed out on the front lawn not to mention that his liquor bill could feed a small country? And so what if his dick won’t get hard and then there are his drunken hallucinations that gang members are chasing him….”

I stopped her before she really got on a roll. “Okay, okay. I get it. But I’m used to him and he has some good qualities. When he’s sober he’s insightful, intelligent and entertaining. I always love being with him when he’s… normal.”

“Yeah, I totally get that. So you’re saying Jackson is the man of your dreams for about ten minutes a week? Great reason to go back to him and forget about the hot guy who, heaven forbid, is a little bit odd and was under-dressed for a ‘who gives a shit’ society wedding. Never mind that John Foster is a grownup and he’s obviously in to you and might want a
real
relationship. Should I remind you of those huge hands you’ve mentioned more than once that he probably uses to hold his HUGE DICK?”

“Shut up with your slutty thoughts, bitch!” I said, laughing in spite of myself and thanking the Lord for this crazy woman who was always there for me and always had my back. “Someone should bottle that amazing wit of yours, Em. Come on we’ve gotta get going, I’ll drop you off then I need to get home, I still haven’t unpacked.”

We paid for lunch and realized everyone else had left, as usual we’d lost all track of time and talked late into the afternoon.

After I dropped Emily off I listened to phone messages and there were about twenty from Jackson and one from John Foster. I was surprised and excited that he’d called.

“Hi Catey, its John Foster, just wanted to tell you what a great time I had last night. Man, you are a fun hang and a classy gal. You’re seriously fine looking with the whole Snow White thing you’ve got going on, dark hair, white skin, red lips, hot! I wanna see you again; you know I have a contracting business so I can take off whenever. Call me if you’re up for anything. Thanks again for inviting me.”

Lord
, the man said whatever popped into his head and that damned “gal” comment again. “A classy gal— a fun hang!” what was this, 1982?
I told myself to stop being so judgmental; he was a quirky guy, sort of a big, pretty, surfer dude. I should just take the compliment and move on. Unpacking didn’t sound very inviting so I dropped my purse in the entry hall, sat at the bottom of the stairs and took a good look around. I needed to sell the house I decided, it was a family home and I wasn’t a family.

***

I found the house when I was pregnant with Brooks and fell in love with its long-ago storybook quality. A Mediterranean style masterpiece built in the nineteen-thirties with West Texas oil money, it sat empty and neglected for years. Henry hadn’t wanted to buy it arguing that it needed too much work and he didn’t want to live in anything older than he was. But my nesting instinct was strong and we were practically newlyweds, so he gave in. We bought the house and turned it into a gracious family home, restoring its original beauty and soul along the way.

It was where Henry and I were lost in each other and in happiness through the long, dreamy months of my pregnancy. Henry’s hands would reach out for me and come to rest on my swollen belly, jubilant smiles lighting both our faces. The house sheltered our love while we searched for the absolute perfect name for our son. We decided to give him my maiden name combined with Henry’s middle name and then we brought our baby boy home from the hospital, all nine pounds, nine ounces of him. That wonderful old house was where Brooks Edward Stuart learned to walk and talk and say his prayers before bed. Where he believed in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and marveled at the generosity of the Tooth Fairy. A house of love and caring and plenty where a charmed family lived…. I stopped myself, knowing it wasn’t wise to start down that dark road.

More and more, the house had begun to overwhelm me. I did want to sell it and move on and not let it be the anchor that held me in a place where my dream became a nightmare. Some nights I wandered through the rooms and imagined that I would grow old and die alone, that the house was nothing more than a drafty mausoleum. Be careful what you pray for, I’d wanted the house to raise my child in, to be happy in. I’d prayed for it with all my heart, but I suppose I forgot to mention all the specifics that go with it. I neglected to say, “Let me have this magnificent place to raise a family and let me grow old here with my husband, let my child not only know the safety of this house, but let him outlive me, or moreover, let him live past the age of seventeen.”

Indeed, I forgot to list every eventuality in that prayer and so I received exactly what I asked for, and many things I didn’t.

I climbed the stairs, casting a glance down the hall to my son’s room, I wanted to go in and sit among his things. His boyish smell lingered there and always brought instant tears to my eyes. Not the hysterical kind, just salty tears that I hoped one day would wash the grief from my soul. I walked to his door and only opened it a crack and the familiar smell of his belongings engulfed me. Scientists say the area of the brain that registers smell was the first to develop in human beings; Proust could’ve told them that. Brooks’ room remained a time capsule of a boy playing with action figures, bouncing a basketball, sneaking a cigarette, calling a girl for a date. It held his childhood, his history, his very beginning. Those things, along with memories, were the only part of him left on earth, and they broke my heart again and again.

In my own room, I shook a couple of blue pills out of the bottle and swallowed them quickly. They calmed the tempest in my brain and uncoiled the rusty spring that twisted in my gut. I lay down on the bed to wait for them to take effect and fell asleep.

When my eyes opened the sun was gone and I could see the outline of trees through the wavy-glass windows, their branches moving gently. The branches seemed lonely and obscure under a moon that was rising full and silvery. Maybe I’d go for a swim, just shed my clothes like an old skin and slip into the pool. The water and the moonbeams would surround me and whisper a silent promise against my nakedness. But I would never let myself swim nude.

The pool was private with the house in front, a cabana in back and a high rock wall enclosing the rest. Not a soul could see me but I wasn’t comfortable being so naked, so exposed. Besides, if someone were to see me wouldn’t they see the sign across my forehead? The one that said “widowed mother of a dead child”? What business would that woman have for swimming naked? No more reason than she had to be happy or breathing or getting older, but that’s how it was.

I changed into an old one-piece swimsuit and floated in the pool; the air was so still that the surface of the water was like glass. I lay on my back and let the water carry me, the moon above was as big as I’d ever seen it. The night was warm and peaceful, quiet except for the sound of Locusts chirping somewhere unseen. I wondered how any bad could exist in such a world. I swam to the side of the pool and picked up the phone, dialed John Foster and was surprised I already knew his number by heart. He answered after a few rings and sounded groggy. I wasn’t sure what time it was and hoped I wasn’t getting him out of bed.

“Hello?” He said and I pictured him running a hand through his pale silky hair.

“Hey, John, its Cate Stuart, hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay. I just dozed off in front of the tube. What’s up? How are you, still wearing that hot dress?”

“Well, no I’m not, I have other clothes.”

He laughed and said, “Speaking of that dress, you’re kinda skinny for such a tall girl. Maybe I should take you out for some pork chops and gravy! I’m kidding, that body of yours is hotter than a two dollar pistol. Cate, are you still there? Fuck… me and my lame jokes. When can I see you?”

“I was thinking maybe tomorrow, I know it’s short notice but I have to go up to the lake to look at a piece of land and…”

“Sure, yeah, sounds great, I’m up for it. Which lake?”

“Lake McQueeney, do you know it? It’s about thirty miles from here, a little private lake. It’s nice and there’s a club where I’m a member, we can stop there for lunch or have a drink later.”

“Cool, what time, should I come to your house? I can’t get you out of my head and it’s got me completely crazy. So we can take my car and put the top down, whadaya think?” He rattled off, rapid fire, we were both talking fast, I had no idea why.

“I thought maybe eleven and yes, come here but we should take my Volvo.”

We agreed and I climbed out of the pool. I made a wish on that wonderful moon, and throwing caution to the wind I peeled off my swimsuit and dove in again.

***

John showed up pretty much on time and stood at my door looking like an oversized kid in shorts and tennis shoes with white socks scrunched casually around his ankles. I let him in and he wandered around the house while I gathered my things. I was wearing shorts, too, since it was ninety-plus degrees. I had on sandals then decided to change to tennis shoes since the land we were going to see was neglected and overgrown.

John jumped on that immediately. “You without those pretty toes showing, that’s not possible. You’re the queen of sandals!”

“How do you know that? You’ve only seen me a couple of times.”