Mine Are Spectacular! (24 page)

Though keeping Owen happy may be harder than I think. As I go over to the table on the other side of the bed, I notice that his reading includes a one-page real estate newsletter—and a stack of photographs of beautiful women with their bios tacked onto the back. Maybe he's doing a casting call.

“Owen bankrolling a play?” I ask Kate when she emerges in a sheer blouse and a pair of Seven for All Mankind jeans. The brand is so low-cut that they're apparently meant for All Mankind except me.

She pauses, and then seeing the photos in my hand she snaps, “What are you doing? Put those down!”

Instead, I turn over the picture of a luscious, long-haired brunette and begin reading from the bio.

Svetlana. Five-foot-eight beauty, PhD, speaks five languages, former gymnast, very flexible. Available for interesting encounters. Prefers threesomes.

Kate snatches the page from my hand and the rest of the photos go flying across her thick Oriental rug. She bends down on her knees to pick them up.

“Now see what you've done?” she says, sounding more agitated than she did about her chipmunk cheek.

“I haven't done anything,” I say. “But what are you and Owen planning on doing?”

Kate stands up and furiously puts her face an inch from mine.

“A threesome!” she says vehemently. “Have a problem with that?”

I let the information sink in and then ponder her question for a moment. “A threesome,” I say slowly.

“You think a threesome's disgusting, don't you,” says Kate accusingly.

“I didn't say that,” I reply carefully. “So I can only guess there's a little transference going on here and that's what you think.”

“Thank you, Ms. Freud,” she says snippily, turning to walk out of the room.

I race after her and grab her arm. “Hey Kate, wait. If you and Owen want to have some perverted threesome it's your business. But why are you getting so mad at me?”

Kate shakes my hand off her arm and glares at me. “Because you were snooping.”

“Mea culpa,” I say, spouting Latin, which is what I tend to do under pressure.

“Apology accepted,” Kate says, calming down slightly. “Now let's go on to something else.”

“Okay,” I say agreeably. “Next topic. Which girl did you pick for your threesome?”

“Leave me alone,” Kate says. But instead of sounding angry, she covers her face with her hands. I'm not sure if it's because the sun is filtering in from the skylight directly above her and she wants to hide her face. Or if she's crying.

Kate's shoulders are shaking and I go over to put my arms around her. She moves her hands away, revealing a tear-streaked face and red eyes considerably puffier than her Hylaformed cheek.

“Oh honey,” I say, wondering how I can possibly comfort her. “What's wrong?”

“I want to keep Owen, but I don't want a threesome,” she says, gulping back her tears.

“Is that what it takes to keep him?”

“I don't know,” Kate admits. “This all came up the other night when he brought home the pictures. He was so casual about laying it all on the table that I was almost too embarrassed to object. And then he was disappointed that I didn't immediately jump at the chance.”

“He's done this before?” I ask, thinking just how naÏve I really am.

“I guess,” she says, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her sheer blouse. “He says he likes variety now and then. Threesomes. The occasional fling. When he and Tess were married, they had a little understanding. But I'm not so sure I really understand.”

“If he likes variety, why did he move in with you?” I ask.

“Because he loves me!” she wails. “More than he's ever loved anyone in his life! But just because you've finally found your filet mignon doesn't mean you can never again have a cheeseburger.”

I know she's quoting him. But this isn't about burgers and steaks. It's about Owen feeding her a whole bunch of baloney. “Maybe when you're as rich and powerful as Owen you think you can do whatever you want. But I do think it's disgusting. If he loves you, he shouldn't be treating you this way.” I stop myself, not wanting to give her a lecture. “Anyway, what are you going to do?”

“I haven't decided,” says Kate, who seems finally to have realized that she wasn't Owen's first affair. And she probably won't be his last. And then, looking at me with hurt, mournful eyes, she asks, “What would you do?”

I may have trouble making sense of my own relationship, but this one is crystal clear to me.

“I'd be out of here in a split second,” I say without missing a beat. “A guy like Owen may want filet mignon, but he doesn't deserve it. I wouldn't even let him eat cake.”

 

I'm walking briskly to school on Monday morning when I get a call from James.

“I can't believe you're right outside my window!” he practically screams into my cell phone.

“I'm not. I'm on my way to my art class at Spence,” I say, striding along the Upper East Side and knowing that James's new apartment is at least thirty blocks away.

“But I'm looking right at you,” he says. “A bus is stopped in front of my building. I'm staring at your beautiful face.”

Instead of being pleased, I'm irked that the Food Network must have switched our ads from the Lexington line to First Avenue without telling me. If only I'd known. Kirk and I could have found much better cappuccino over there.

“This is really exciting,” James says, before we hang up. “I'm so proud of you.”

At school, I pull out the art supplies for my fifth graders. Today I'm having them draw in the style of Mondrian. With everything else going on in my life, Mondrian's simple blocks of color are about all I can handle.

But the girls rush into my classroom with something else on their minds.

“You didn't tell us you're a star!” says one girl named Sadie, jumping up and down and shrieking, as only an eleven-year-old girl can.

“I watched your show yesterday,” another announces, joining her in front of my desk. “Your costar is hot.”

“Is he your boyfriend?” asks a third.

“No, Ms. Turner's engaged to one of my dad's partners,” says Sadie. “But he left her to go to Hong Kong.”

“Then if he left, she can definitely hook up with that hot guy,” says another in the know.

“You can get him,” says one of the girls, turning to me. “You're blonde now and you're famous. Boys like that.”

“We like it, too!” says Sadie. Who I now know is the daughter of Bradford's partner. And who I'm hoping isn't about to report to her father that the lovely art teacher Ms. Turner is hooking up with the daytime soap stud. “Now that you're famous you're our very favorite teacher.”

My, my. Apparently the girls are a lot more interested in my class than I'd thought. Although I'm not sure they're learning the right lesson. I went into teaching because it's a noble profession. But in terms of getting the kids' respect, being on television wins hands down. You don't get much money or recognition for influencing young minds. And you certainly don't get a good table at the Four Seasons. But make a Snickers soufflé on a cable channel and the world is your oyster.

I try to get the class settled down with their red, blue and yellow paints so they can make their faux Mondrians but they have other things on their minds.

“Is it fun being a celebrity?” asks one of the girls.

It's hard to think of myself as a celebrity. And I want the girls to know that making a change in the world is what really matters. Like James tried to do in Patagonia. Or Berni is doing right now.

“I am having fun,” I blurt our exuberantly. “I love working with Kirk. I loved the photo shoot. I love the phone calls when friends recognize me. I love being blonde. It's just the best.” I certainly have my values in order, don't I?

The girls giggle. Truth is if I said anything else, they'd know I was lying. I'm not the only celebrity in the school.

“But I also love art,” I tell them. “And what I really want to talk about today is modern art, Mondrian and minimalism.” Amazingly, they're willing. We get into a spirited discussion of art that's about art. Pretty highfalutin for eleven-year-olds. But if they're mature enough to be talking about hooking up, they're ready to wax philosophical about painting.

The girls take out their paper and gouache paints and start creating their Mondrian interpretations. I watch them, feeling pretty good. I give a few autographs, but I also manage to teach something. Best of both worlds.

I'm making my way down the school steps at the end of the day when a man calls out to me from the lobby.

“You look even prettier in person than you do on the bus,” I hear him say. I do a double take and almost trip on the bottom step.

“James, what are you doing here?” I ask in total surprise.

“I just wanted to bring you a little something to celebrate your TV success,” he says. “I'm so excited for you.”

I walk over to him, seeing the pleased smile on his face. A gaggle of girls gather around us as James hands me a package wrapped in hand-stamped brown paper, tied with a raffia bow.

“What is it?” I ask, wondering how I can shoo our audience away.

“Dumb question!” calls out one of the girls. “Just open it!”

She has a point. Why ask what's inside a present when the answer is one tear of a ribbon away? At least in most cases. I go to rip into the package, but this ribbon isn't budging. The girls are peering and I'd like to cut the scene short, but I know nobody's leaving to go home until I get the gift unwrapped.

“Can you help me?” I ask James.

“Of course,” he says, pulling out a Swiss Army knife that has so many gadgets it could probably do everything from cutting your nails to clearing a forest. And knowing James, he's probably used it for both. With one swift motion, he disposes of the raffia and hands the package back to me.

I carefully remove the brown wrapping and pull out what looks to be an oversized book written on heavy parchment paper. I flip through the pages, and while it appears to be recipes, I don't recognize a word, never mind a measurement.

“The most famous cookbook ever written in Kawésqar,” James says proudly. It takes me a moment to remember that was the Patagonian language he'd been trying to save.

The book is totally and absolutely useless to me. But like the clumpy clay necklace Dylan made for me last Mother's Day, I realize that it has a different kind of value. To James it's precious, and he wants me to have it.

“Thank you,” I say, genuinely touched, and rising onto my tiptoes to give him a kiss. It was meant to be a peck but James holds me for a second and it lasts a little longer.

“Ooh,” call out the girls.

“He's cute,” I hear one of them whisper.

I hold the book as carefully as if I've just been given the Ten Commandments and call out my good-byes to the girls. James is at my heels as we walk to the sidewalk. Behind me the girls are giggling. All but one.

“She's supposed to be engaged,” announces Bradford's partner's daughter Sadie importantly. “And she kissed him. I'm telling my daddy.”

Chapter FIFTEEN

IF SADIE'S PULLED OUT
her binoculars, she'll have something else to report to her father, because James comes home with me after school to see Dylan. When we walk in the door together, Dylan seems pleased but not too surprised to see James.

“Are you living here now?” he asks James directly, as only a seven-year-old can.

James just laughs and we all sit down for a quick catch-up on the day. Dylan reports that he played third base at recess and caught two fly balls, had a math test and got a hundred, and was given a note with heart stickers on it from the freckle-faced girl who sits behind him.

“That's my boy,” says James proudly. “Math genius, great athlete and already the girls are after you.”

“The note wasn't really that good,” admits Dylan. “It said ‘You stink.' ”

James nods sagely. “That's what a girl says when she's seven and in love. You have to know what she really means, not just what she says.”

Dylan looks a little bewildered. “What do girls say when they're older and like you?”

James looks at me. “Sometimes they still don't want to admit it.”

Dylan jumps off his chair and heads toward the backyard. “I'm going to go play,” he says. “Anyone want to come?”

“In a minute,” James says. “Just let me grab something to eat.”

Dylan's now so used to having James around that he doesn't mind running off without him. And James is becoming so comfortable in the house that he casually goes over to the refrigerator, peruses the contents and pulls out an apple. He heads to the sink to rinse it off, then grabs a paper towel.

“Can I get anything for you?” he asks, taking a juicy bite.

What a cozy domestic scene. Is this what my life would have been like if James had never left? We'd been so happy before he disappeared to Patagonia. At least I'd thought so. But maybe if he hadn't gone off and followed his dream, our marriage would have fallen apart anyway. He wasn't ready to be tied down then, or to be a father. Still there's no denying now that he's changed.

Watching James munching his apple, I have an odd sensation we could just pick up where we left off. But it takes me a moment to realize that this house, this kitchen, this world I have now isn't where James and I left off. This is the life I've made with Bradford. Instead of fantasizing about going backward, I need to figure out how Bradford and I can move forward.

Apparently, Bradford has been thinking the same thing, because our housekeeper Consuela bustles in with a FedEx box with labels on it from Hong Kong. James looks at it inquisitively, but I put it aside.

“Go ahead and open it,” he says. “I'm curious what the perfect man sends from China.”

“Me, too,” I say, excited to have a package from Bradford. And wondering why everyone's giving me presents when it's not even my birthday.

I tug at the string on the FedEx box, which breaks off after half an inch—and for the second time today, James comes to my rescue with his Swiss Army knife. He slices easily through the thick cardboard box, and when he hands it back, I reach inside and find a note in Bradford's messy scrawl.
Saw this and it made me think of you. Miss you. Love, Bradford.

What could have made Bradford think of me? Excited, I plunge my hands into the deep box and feel for my treasure—which seems to be large, cylindrical and cold to the touch. I wrestle it out of the packing and find myself face to face with a shiny metal pot with holes. I do a double take. A wok. How romantic.

James thinks so, too. He picks up the gift and can't help snickering. “A wok. Way to go, Bradford. What girl could resist?”

“I think it's very thoughtful,” I say defensively. “Bradford's supporting my career.”

James rifles through the FedEx box. “Maybe there are some Teflon muffin tins you missed.”

I grab the box back. But it's empty. Doesn't matter. I'm thrilled that's Bradford's gone to all this trouble to send me anything. Although as long as he was shopping, I've heard that Hong Kong has very nice jade.

James stands up, tosses his apple core into the basket, and looks over at the well-chosen book he gave me earlier. “I'll leave you alone now to think about Bradford and sauté some vegetables,” he says. “I'm going out to play with Dylan.”

He grabs a baseball glove and when he's gone, I start making a salad for dinner. I don't bother with radishes since Bradford's the only one who likes them. I'm slicing nice ridges onto the side of the cucumber when James comes rushing back. He's slightly breathless and lets the screen door slam behind him.

“I can't find Dylan anywhere,” he says, beads of sweat popping out on his forehead. “He's not in the backyard, and I checked the pool and the shed. Anyplace else he goes to play?”

“Not by himself,” I say, immediately on alert. We make a quick check of the house, but Dylan hasn't come back inside. I call my two next-door neighbors, who haven't seen him, and then punch in Berni's number on the off chance Dylan has gone over to read to the babies.

“Dylan's gone?” Berni asks, snapping to attention.

“Don't say that!” I cry, my voice trembling. “Dylan always plays outside alone and it's supposed to be safe here. He was running around and he was happy as a lark and then James couldn't find him.” I'm babbling, but I can't stop myself.

“James is there?” Berni asks. And before I can answer she says, “Put him on. Maybe he'll be more coherent than you.” Without thinking I hand the portable phone to James, and he briefs Berni quickly on the situation.

“Sara and I are going to look for him,” he tells her. And then after a pause for Berni to speak, he says, “If you think you should, sure. And tell the guard at the gate to check all cars before anyone drives out.” Then another pause, and James adds, “I don't mind. I don't think it's necessary, but I don't mind.” He hangs up.

Berni's on the case but I can't even think about what she's planning.

“My god, what should we do?” I ask James, noticing that my hand is shaking. “Dylan could be hurt. He could be lost. He could be dead.”

“And he could be playing with a puppy down the street,” says James. “Calm down.”

“Calm down?” I nearly scream. “Are you crazy? My child's missing and I'm supposed to be calm?” I can practically feel the adrenaline coursing through my body. Right now I could go outside, pick up my car and hurl it down the block if it would help Dylan. But instead James just picks up my car keys from the table. He comes over and gives me a reassuring hug. “It's okay. This is a safe neighborhood. Let's drive around and see if we can spot him.”

James leads me by the hand to my Volvo and automatically gets into the driver's seat. We tour the usually quiet streets of Hadley Farms. Lots of children are playing in yards or bicycling on the sidewalks, but none of them are Dylan. I'm suddenly wildly jealous of every mother I see whose child is happily within her view. In front of Berni's house, I see neighbors starting to gather and Berni pointing them off in various directions. A search party? Instead of being comforted that my neighbors are rushing to help, their concern just fuels my anxiety. By now, I have enough adrenaline to toss a sixteen-wheeler.

James keeps driving slowly, craning his neck in both directions, hoping to catch sight of Dylan's blue shirt. “Not that many places to go around here,” he observes as he peers through the windshield. I see the veins in his neck tightening, and I can tell he's not as unruffled as he's making himself out to be.

I try to put out of my mind every horrifying story I've ever read about lost children. Not Dylan. He knows all the rules. We've gone through the Safe on the Streets instructions a thousand times. Finally James stops the car and sits back in his seat. “Everybody's running around looking for Dylan,” he says, staring straight ahead, “so let's take a minute and think. Be rational. Where would a little boy go?”

I'm completely blank. We've already checked the soccer field and playground. And the ice-cream truck left an hour ago.

“Are there any woods around here?” James asks.

“Down back toward our house,” I say, gesturing in the general direction. “But Dylan never goes near them. Bradford tried to take him once but Dylan said he was scared.”

James turns the car around. “Let's go check it out anyway. Boys and woods are a natural. It's where I spent most of my time as a kid.”

“He's not you,” I say. But then I stop. Because it's at least half true that he is.

We park at the end of the street and venture into the cool forest, the one spot on Hadley Farms that hasn't been paved over by developers' plows. Old oak trees and thick pines loom overhead and our feet crunch on the fallen leaves and acorns that carpet the ground. James grabs my hand as I stumble on a tree root.

“He's not going to be here,” I say, ready to burst into tears and angry that I've allowed James to drag us off the main road. Why the heck are we in a place where the only living things seem to be squirrels scampering over branches and the birds soaring overhead.

But James sees something else in the scene. He ventures forth a few feet, and looking off to his left he calls out, “Dylan!”

At first my precious son's name just echoes hollowly in the air. Then from not too far away I hear his voice.

“I found a frog!” Dylan calls out cheerfully.

I turn abruptly as our little boy, squatting on a rock at the edge of a trickling brook a hundred feet from us, swings around, a huge smile plastered on his face.

I let go of James's hand and rush over to my baby. When I reach him, I hug him so tightly that I almost send both of us tumbling off the rock. I want to tell him I love him. I want to tell him I'm going to kill him. I want to tell him that we were terrified and he's never ever to do anything like this again.

But all I can say over and over again is, “My baby, my baby, are you okay?”

“I'm not a baby,” Dylan grumbles, pulling himself away from me. “I'm an explorer.” And even in the midst of my relief I can recognize that my little boy is growing up and testing his mettle. He's ready to start having his own experiences.

James also seems to understand Dylan's need to break free. And why wouldn't he? A moment later he's crouching on the rock next to him, gazing into the brook.

“Show me your frog,” James says.

Dylan gleefully jumps up, his soaking sneakers squishing underfoot, and points toward the water. “The one with the spots. Maybe it's a poison dart frog. Like the ones you saw,” he says hopefully.

“Very cool frog,” James says solemnly. “Not a poison one, though. A very nice bullfrog.”

“I also saw a grasshopper and a snake. One of those little water snakes you showed me before that I don't have to be afraid of,” Dylan says, as proud of himself as I've ever heard him. “I'm being adventurous, just like you, Daddy.”

James looks Dylan squarely in the eye. “Adventures are great,” he says. “In fact, they can be the best thing in the world. But your mom and I were worried about you. We didn't know where you were.”

“Sorry,” Dylan says.

“Next time, tell someone where you're going,” James says, making sure Dylan's got the point.

“I promise,” Dylan says, standing up and brushing off his muddy jeans. “But I had fun.”

“Fun isn't any fun if it hurts other people,” James says, looking at me now, not Dylan. “But maybe you need to be older than seven to understand that,” he continues quietly just for me to hear.

James takes both our hands to lead us from the brook, and once we're out of the woods, he reminds me to call Berni and let her know Dylan is safe.

“Maybe you can catch her before she calls in the National Guard,” he jokes.

“How come she hasn't brought in helicopters?” I laugh, looking up into the still blue sky. With Dylan at our side, we're both feeling giddy again. The panic has lifted so quickly that I hardly remember that five minutes ago I would have been grateful if the entire U.S. Army had parachuted into Hadley Farms.

When we get back to the house the neighbors Berni had gathered are there to greet us.

Berni throws her arms around me and Dylan and then kisses James lightly on the cheek.

“Our hero!” she exclaims, holding onto James's arm. “Good work.”

Everyone gathers around to listen intently as I tell the whole story of how James knew to look for Dylan in the woods. James keeps a suitably modest smile on his face, but it doesn't escape Berni that he has exactly the right square-jawed look to play the leading man who saved the day.

“I wish I were still an agent so I could discover you,” she sighs, kissing him again and granting him her highest praise.

Not wanting to be out of the center of activity, Priscilla rushes toward Dylan in her pink slit pencil skirt and gold high-heeled mules. Perfect outfit for a search party.

“Where were you, dear child?” she asks solicitously, somehow hugging him without ever touching him.

“Following my heart, but I didn't know my heart was at home,” Dylan intones solemnly.

There's a surprised silence in the backyard, and then a few people chuckle. Doesn't sound like a seven-year-old talking. Doesn't even sound like most thirty-year-olds. But it takes me barely a moment to realize where Dylan got that lyrical line. From the corner of my eye I see James blush slightly and dip his head away. So that's how James explained his long absence to Dylan. My ex-husband has a way with words. How nice that at least he came up with a poetic excuse.

 

Even though Dylan's safe at home, I'm so wound up by his adventuring that I check on him every couple of hours all night long. Dylan might be ready to start testing his independence, but I'm ready to follow two paces behind him for the rest of his life. I notice that for the first time ever, he's pushed his teddy bear Bunny to the floor. I pick up the stuffed animal and hold him for a minute, then finally tuck him into Dylan's arms.