Marrying Up (19 page)

Afterwards, we stroll around the neighbourhood until dark. Just as the crumbling bookstores close for the night, the bars are opening, and music and laughter spill out onto the streets. Vale reaches for my hand as we walk down Grant Avenue to Green, where we stop in for a cappuccino at an off-beat little café. It’s no Mulberry Street, but San Francisco’s Little Italy definitely has its charms.

While Quentin and George debate whether or not
the
Al Capone had ever really taken a shit in the toilet we’ve seen in his cell, Vale and I talk about our jobs and families and friends. Okay, so maybe it’s him doing all of the talking, but I’m definitely interested. On our way back to the car, he redeems himself by paying me one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever received: “Holly,” he says, “I think you have the most soulful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

If you’re trying to woo a skinny white girl from Buffalo, telling her she has soulful eyes is like shooting fish in a barrel. I’m sure Vale Spencer knows that, but it’s nice to hear anyway…especially since sex isn’t on the menu, and I’m sure he knows that, too.

Since the guys definitely aren’t psychos, we gladly accept a lift home. Before they drop us off, we make plans to see each other again the following weekend—separately, this time—after Vale returns from a business trip to Chicago. We do the kiss-on-the-cheek thing (double dates are not the
right forum for anything involving open mouths) and wave goodbye as they drive off.

“Well, that was easy,” she exhales, evidently surprised that things had gone so well. I’m pretty shocked, too. Both Quentin and Vale are excellent prospects for the future, just as we’d hoped.

“I know!”

“Maybe a little too easy…”

“Don’t be so pessimistic.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” she says. “I’m sorry. They
did
seem okay, didn’t they?”

“I think so.”

“And cute!”

“I know! And they’re…” Dare I say it?

“Rich!”
George squeals and begins jumping up and down.

“Oh my God, they are, aren’t they?”

She nods. “Let’s walk around the block, ’kay? I can’t go in yet—I need to deconstruct.”

“Okay. So did Quentin tell you what he does? I didn’t hear him mention it.”

“Actually, he’s a…what did he call it?…an adventure capitalist? Something like that.”

“A
venture
capitalist? No way! That’s good, George. Really good! That means he goes around investing his money making
more
money! I wonder how he ended up doing that?”

“Oh, I know—he told me! He used to be a gardener at some big company’s head office and he got all these stock options and sold them at just the right moment.”

“You’re kidding. What company?”

“I don’t remember.”

“It hardly matters.”

“Well, his car sure was nice,” she says. “Small backseat, though.”

“Oh, yeah,” I agree. “Jaguar convertibles suck when it comes to leg room!”

She giggles. “Good thing my legs are short.”

“He’s
perfect
for you!”

We shriek and jump around again, until a strange look crosses George’s face.

“Hold on, Holly. Let’s get real for a second, here. I wouldn’t say Quentin is
perfect.
He’s a bit of an idiot, to tell you the truth. Your guy’s better. He’s got personality.”

“Naw, ya think?”

“Could be…”

Vale does seem to have it all—he isn’t hard to look at (by the end of the night, I’d decided he’s definitely cute enough to be attracted to), nice (he offered to rub my ankle after I twisted it on a prison sewer grate) and wealthy (a bankruptcy lawyer with an Ivy League degree—“the only kind of lawyer to be, these days!” he’d joked).

Every instinct I have is screaming this is all way too good to be true. Come to think of it, the entire date seemed, well, choreographed, like they’d done it a thousand times before. And Vale was smooth. There’s no doubt about it. But is that a reason not to trust him?

Though all the research firmly supports my Two-Thirds Theory of millionaire dating—hold out for looks, personality
and
bank account, and you might as well throw in the towel—perhaps Vale is one of the rare exceptions. Hard to say for sure, but I’m willing to stick around long enough to find out. My instincts are notoriously off when it comes to men, anyway, so maybe I’m wrong and he
isn’t
too good to be true!

“Vale seems pretty well-rounded, I’ll give you that. But Quentin might be one of those diamonds in the rough. Get past the boorish exterior and I bet you’ll find he’s a total pussycat. A real sweetheart.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

“Well, he does seem to like me.”

“A very important quality in a boyfriend.”

“I’ve never had a normal boyfriend,” she sighs. “It would be so great… They
are
boyfriend material, aren’t they Holly?”

“Yes, George.”

“Because they obviously weren’t only after…you know…or else they would have just taken us out and gotten us drunk somewhere, right?”

“Right…although maybe that wouldn’t have been so bad!”

By the time George stops laughing, we’re back in front of our house.

“We should have moved here years ago, Holly. I love it. I’m
loving
this. All of it!”

“Well, our apartment does rock,” I say.

“I’ve never felt so much like a real person before. It’s so…
exciting.
”

“What do you mean? You were a real person back in Buffalo.”

“I know, but I feel like I’m actually contributing something out here.”

“Your job
is
pretty amazing….”

“Yeah, but not only that. I feel like a real
Cosmo
girl.” She twirls around so that her skirt flies out.

“Hey—I’ve been telling you you’re fabulous for years. You should have listened to me.”

“I even lost six pounds!”

“Really?”

“Yeah!”

“How do you know? We don’t have a scale.”

“I put a quarter into one of those machines. There was
one in the bathroom at the Pier today. And that’s with clothes on and
after
I ate that huge chowder thing!”

“That’s amazing, G!”

Just as we’re about to go inside, Remy steps out onto the porch with a garbage bag. When he sees us, a huge grin spreads across his face.

“You look like the cat that ate the canary,” he says to me.

“Maybe I did.”

“Ah! So tell me—what have my two favorite little gold-digging hussies been up to all day? Staking out the Yacht Club? Slinking around the men’s section at Neiman Marcus?”

George gives him the finger. “You coming?” she asks me.

“In a sec.”

“Suit yourself.” She shrugs and goes inside.

“That wasn’t very nice, you know,” I tell him.

“I know, I know. My bad. But I can’t help it—you guys are just so teasable.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

He puts the bag down and begins picking up dried leaves off the porch. “I called before to see if you wanted to come up for dinner, but you weren’t home.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but we were on a date.”

“That’s nice.”

“With two
really
great guys.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yup.”

I can’t think of anything else to add, so I head for our door.

“Haven’t seen too much of you lately,” he calls out after me.

“Now that I have a real job, I suppose you’re missing me terribly.”

“It is a bit lonely. I’ll admit it. But without you around to distract me, I’ve been getting a lot done. It’s only been a week and I’ve already finished the mantel.”

I stop in my tracks. “Really?” Remy had been particularly
worried about the mantel, since the woodwork was original to the house and had to be very carefully removed when the fireplace guys came to fix the masonry and reline it.

“Everything’s back up and it looks great. You wanna come in and see?”

I hesitate. George is waiting and we still have so much to talk about. “Uh, no, I don’t think so. Not tonight.”

“Tomorrow, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

Truthfully, I’m planning to wait by the phone for Vale to call. Is there any better way to spend a Sunday than basking in the afterglow of a wonderful date?

“I’ll be around if you change your mind,” he says and heads back inside.

“I’m really beginning not to like that guy,” George says after I’ve closed the door behind me. “His attitude is completely offensive.”

“Oh, he’s not so bad. All that stuff is just an act.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not impressed. And you shouldn’t be either.”

“Remy’s just lonely, I think.”

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: Guess what?

Dear Holly,

I am having a lot of fun in Miami. We are staying in South Beach at a not that bad hotel just off Ocean Avenue. Deb found a cockroach in her bed but we are very happy to be here. Thankfully it was dead. Everyone here is very beautiful and all the buildings look like ice cream.

The manager at the Seaquarium granted me a private audience with Flipper. The only problem was that I found the aquarium to be a little filthy. I made a donation and now I feel better. I also have an autographed picture that I will frame. I also suppose that seeing this dolphin in person makes me realize that he is just a dolphin. But I am just a woman, so there! We are the same.

Also just to tell you that your father was waiting for me at the hotel. He had a dozen roses that he paid too much for, but this is a very expensive area and all the flower shops are run by fancy men who overcharge. Your father bought Deb a plane ticket home and a ticket for her car on the train. She has to go back to work on Tuesday and Uncle Herbie needs her, but I have decided to retire. As you know personally, your father is now very loose with money and I have decided that this is okay because what are we waiting for, anyway? So we bought a Winnebago. The one we got is called a Minnie Winnie. It has air conditioning, a kitchen with a convection oven and all kinds of luxuries. I refused to buy used since you never know who was there before you with the toilet. By the way the toilet uses special chemicals. It’s like a second honeymoon.

There is a TV collectibles show in Baton Rouge which is in Louisiana on April 17 then one in Little Rock which is in Arkansas in the beginning of May. Deb is shipping part of my collection to me when she gets home. There is a very big market for this sort of thing in the South and your father agrees that if we want to get serious we should start with other shows too like
Gilligan’s Island
and
Green Acres
. Maybe we will do crime shows too like
Mission: Impossible
and
Get Smart
because your father likes those. One day these things will be worth a lot of money and then they will be for you and your brothers, but maybe not Bradley. Olivia says he is doing very well for himself now in Detroit with his store but nobody tells me anything.

Love, Mom

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

Subject: re: Guess what?

Call me! Call me! Call me!

I hear nothing from either of them for three weeks, and now this? I grab the phone and dial my parents’ house. (Why neither of them has a cell phone is beyond me, especially now that my mom is so technically active.)

“Mom! Dad! It’s me! I just got your e-mail, and I want you to call me as soon as you get this message! I am
soooo
happy and so relieved and so excited about all this…so, uh, call me, okay? Bye!”

I hang up and immediately call Cole.

“Cole?”

“Hey, Holly. Whazzup?”

“Did you hear from Mom and Dad?”

“Yeah.”

“So?”

“So what?”

“Tell me!”

“They’ve gone crazy. Big surprise.”

“It’s not crazy, it’s great! My faith in marriage is restored! All is right with the world again! Mom loves Dad and Dad loves Mom!”

“I guess,” he snorts.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, put Olivia on!”

“’Livia! Take the phone!”

My sister-in-law is far more excited about the whole thing.

“Isn’t it romantic?” she gushes.

“Totally!”

“I gotta tell ya, I did
not
think your old man had it in him. He just woke up one day and said, ‘Kids—I’m taking a trip. I’m going to get her. Make sure you check the house every
two days and don’t let the mail pile up.’ So I called Uncle Herbie to ask him if Deb left the name of the hotel where they were staying and Larry flew out that afternoon.”

“When was this?”

“Last Thursday.”

“And nobody told me?!”

“Your dad wanted to keep it quiet in case things didn’t work out. I bet it’s just about the craziest, most impulsive thing the guy has ever done in his life.”

“Olivia—he hasn’t even been out-of-state since the ’80s!”

“Wow. You know, you had a lot to do with this, sweetie.”

“Me? How?”

“You inspired him! I’m sure of it! People around here tend to forget they actually do have some control over their destinies.”

“He just loves her, and he didn’t want to lose her.”

“Yeah. And I suppose when your wife leaves you for a fish, it’s a real wake-up call.”

“Flipper’s a marine mammal,” I correct her.

“Whatever he is, I’m just glad he was no match for your dad.”

Isn’t is funny how when you’re the one who’s gone, you kind of expect everything to stay the same at home? Especially if the reason you left in the first place was because it felt like nothing was ever happening there. But life goes on, I suppose. Things change. Even in Buffalo.

One Hump or Two?

I
have an hour to kill before Vale picks me up for George’s big book-launch party. It’s her first major event and she begged us to come, just in case nobody showed up and the promising young author was left, humiliated, to read to an audience of carefully arranged chairs.

“There’ll be free food and drinks…” George promised when she sensed my reluctance.

I am more than a little bit envious of any up-and-coming writer who isn’t, well, me. A fabulous book launch in a trendy new club attended by all sorts of critics and authors and publishing professionals might only reinforce my burgeoning feelings of inadequacy and compound my writer’s block even further. On the other hand, maybe it will spur me to action, which is why I agreed to go.

Yes, my book—if you can call it that—is an absolute mess. I have three jumbled notebooks overflowing with disjointed
ideas; a huge collection of pithy quotes from imaginary husband-hunters (last names changed to protect their “anonymity”); and an appendix featuring a state-by-state directory of relevant specialty dating services, although the accompanying list of online matchmakers promising financially fruitful unions will probably be out-of-date by the time I finish the first chapter, anyway. The only main text that is even remotely first-draft quality is half a chapter entitled
“Shake Your Moneymakers,”
a guide to making your assets work for you (everyone loves a makeover!).

Instead of writing while I wait for Vale, which is what I should do, I call Remy to see if he wants to come downstairs. We really haven’t seen much of him in the past month or so, since things have been going so well with Vale and Quentin. Truth be told, the man’s life is an absolute mystery to me. He doesn’t seem to have many friends, I’ve never known his family to visit and he spends all his time hunting down mysterious things like antique ceiling tin and cast-iron finials. The one and only time I opened a dialogue on the subject and asked him if he was lonely without George and me around anymore, he decided to raise our rent by $150. It was part of our original deal, but still—just when I start to feel bad for the guy, he always goes and does something annoying.

Remy comes in without knocking, of course, grabs a bag of pretzels out of the pantry and a beer out of the fridge, then makes himself comfortable on the couch.

“Do you mind at least taking your shoes off?”

“It’s my house.”

“Well, I pay rent here so it’s
my
couch and
my
apartment,” I say, and push his feet down.

“Semantics. So how’s work?”

“All right. Boring as hell, actually.”

“Monotony can be cathartic….” He taps his temple. “Especially for people with mental problems.”

“Thanks, Remy. That’s a super thing to say.”

“I just mean that sort of boring, repetitious work has its advantages. Like manual labor. It can purge your pain.”

“Like when I read
Ulysses.
I thought I was going to die, but when I finally got through it I felt like I’d climbed Mount Everest. Nobody can ever take it away from me.”

He laughs. “I thought you went to community college.”

“I did, you snob. They do teach James Joyce at schools other than Stanford, you know.”

“Yeah, but did you understand it?”

“Enough to know that that’s virtually impossible. And that I didn’t want to read
The Odyssey.
”

“Fair enough. So, this job of yours—is it a permanent thing?”

“More of a temp job, I guess. I’m on contract right now, which means no benefits, of course.”

“That sucks. Why’d they do that?”

“I just have two volumes to proof…then if a buyer likes the prototypes and picks up the line, I’ll get hired full-time, along with a whole team of in-house copy editors and fact-checkers and freelance writers. Right now, it’s just me and the boss, and she’s writing the bloody things herself.”

“What? She’s writing a whole set of encyclopedias?”

“Just
A
and
Z
for now.”

“Still, they’re like thousands of pages each.”

“I know—it’ll take me months just to get through the first volume.”

“But only one writer? It seems a little one-sided, don’t you think?”

“Budget constraints. What can you do?”

Encyclopedia Gigantica
is definitely a labor of love for Cinda Jarvis. She hired me right around the time she finished Volume A, four years after she started it, working nights and
weekends. By the time she finishes Z—which she figures will take her another six or seven months, full-time—the idea is that I’ll be all caught up with the proofing and doing the pages as she finishes them.

“It’s ridiculous.”

“I know. I looked up her main competition,
World Book,
and—”

“I loved those! My parents got me a set for my tenth birthday! They were trimmed in gold and every year I got an annual update….”

“Why, you’re just a big nerd in stud’s clothing, aren’t you?”

He raises his eyebrows and gives me a wide grin. “So…I’m a stud, huh?!”

“And a legend in your own mind… Anyway, World Book has something like four thousand writers, experts in every field, contributing exhaustively researched articles, so of course it’s absurd to try and write one yourself, but what am I supposed to do? Tell my boss she’s insane? I need the job.”

“You could help. Offer to write Z.”

“I have my own book to write.”

“Ah yes. The Great American Romance. And how’s that been going?”

“Don’t ask!”

“I just did.”

Remy stops stuffing pretzels into his face and waits for me to answer. Annoying though he is, he really does seem to care. Since I know a guy like him could never be attracted to a plain Jane like me, I can only assume that he isn’t interested in getting me into bed, which in turn is proof of his sincerity. I miss his friendship, I realize. And I’ve been neglecting him.

“Sorry,” I say. “Slowly. It’s going very slowly.”

“Why don’t you just write a proposal first? I don’t think
publishers expect to see a complete manuscript when you’re trying to sell non-fiction.”

“Really?” Why didn’t I think of that? A proposal is a brilliant idea!

“I’m pretty sure, yeah.”

“Wait a second… How do
you
know so much about publishing?”

“My wife wrote two books.”

I practically choke on my gum. “You’re
married?
I can’t believe you never told me, you ass! So tell me… Where is the lucky Mrs. Wakefield?”

“Not so lucky, actually.”

“Oh?”

“God, I have to stop doing that,” he mumbles to himself. “I’m sorry, Holly. My
late
wife. I meant my late wife.”

Remy’s a widower?

It’s probably the last thing in the entire world I expected him to say.

“You can’t be a widower—you’re too young! Aren’t you? I mean…how old are you?”

He looks up at me quizzically.

Shit.
“I’m sorry… Obviously, there’s no age limit for, uh, that sort of thing….” I fumble. “I don’t know what to say… I mean, I’m sorry. Obviously I’m very sorry. God, Remy. I really don’t know what to say. I was, uh, born with my foot in my mouth.”

“Don’t get yourself in a snit, Holly. It’s fine. Most people just say ‘I’m sorry,’ or ‘My God! What a tragedy!’ or something like that.”

“I’m
really
sorry, Remy.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I never know what to say at times like these.”

“Neither do I,” he smiles.

I smile back. What else could I do?

Vale is already on his way to pick me up, but I don’t really feel much like going to a party anymore. “Do you want me to stay here with you?”

“It’s okay, Holly! Thanks, but I’m okay. It was five years ago. I’m over it.”

“Really?”

“Well, no, I’m not
over
it, over it. But I’ve accepted it. I’m moving on.”

“Do you mind if I ask…”

“How she died?”

I nod, painfully uncomfortable, yet unable to contain my curiosity.

“Breast cancer. It ran in her family. Her mother and two of her great-aunts died of it.”

“How awful.”

“She had it when I married her. We knew she didn’t have long.”

“Wow,” I say quietly. “You must have really loved her.”

“Yeah…” He laughs nervously, uncomfortable himself now. “Don’t get the wrong idea, though. I’m no saint. And neither was she.
She?
What’s the matter with me? I mean, Sylvia. Her name was Sylvia.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Remy? I suppose it’s not really my business, but…”

“But you’re my friend. We’re friends, and…” He shrugs. “I hate telling people. Because of this. This
weirdness
afterward. I hate it.”

“I can definitely understand that.”

“I don’t want you to feel bad for me.”

“I don’t,” I lie.

“Good, because most people treat me like a baby for a while after they hear. It’s like, I’m a widower, not a leper, you know?”

“Of course.”

“Okay!” he cracks his knuckles and gets up to leave.

“Why don’t you stay for a bit?”

“Naw. Your sugar daddy’s coming and I wouldn’t want to hold you two lovebirds up. Have a good time tonight!”

“You sure?”

“Yup. I’m taking the pretzels, though.”

“I figured you would.”

He’s halfway to the door when he turns around. “Oh—I almost forgot!”

“What?”

“I’m thirty-four.”

“That’s it? You look almost old enough to be my father.”

“Old enough to be your big brother, maybe,” he winks.

“Get out of here!”

George’s book launch is painful, though she’s never looked better, glowing with excitement and showing off her ten-pound weight loss with a sexy new outfit. After what seems like an eternity, she introduces the writer, who obliges us with a short reading from her novel,
Surrogate Moon.
From what I can tell, it’s about a race of sterile humanoids on some distant planet who, too smart for their own good, devise a way for their females to mate with carnivorous plants.

I sit between Quentin and Vale. Vale keeps nodding off, and Quentin snickers loudly when the writer finally comes to the end of a violent five-minute passage describing the pod-babies’ first attempt at breast-feeding. A few rows in front of us, George is on the edge of her seat, utterly enthralled. I try to pay attention, I really do, but my mind keeps drifting back to Sylvia. I wonder what she looked like, if she was smart, if she suffered. It occurs to me that I hadn’t even asked Remy what kind of books she wrote. How could I have been so rude?

As promised, cocktails and hors d’oeuvres follow the read
ing. I eat and drink as much as I can, while Vale and Quentin try not to look bored out of their skulls. The crowd of excited well-wishers around the writer do inspire enough envy in me to take Remy’s advice—I vow to write a partial manuscript and an outline of my research, along with a kick-ass query letter, and send it off to every publisher I can find that might possibly be interested.

A couple weeks after the reading, Vale calls from work to tell me his business trip scheduled for the weekend has been cancelled. He invites me over to his place for “dinner and whatever.”

It’s going to be The Night.

It probably would have happened sooner, if Vale wasn’t always away in L.A. or Chicago or San Diego, or if he didn’t work such ridiculously long hours. (I’ve accepted that dating someone successful requires certain sacrifices on my part, especially while he’s in his prime income-earning years.) What this all boils down to, practically speaking, is that we’ve been seeing each other for about five weeks and have done most of our courting over the phone. Aside from our first kiss—which I secretly suspected he’d penciled in, and which happened in the car he’d hired to take him to the airport then deliver me back home—the only time we’d even fooled around was one night at his place, but things didn’t get too heavy because he had to be at work by five the next morning, when business opens on the East Coast.

Despite his physical unavailability, Vale is really good at calling. Once, when he was in L.A., we got drunk together and had phone sex (my first time, but I got the sense he’d done it before). Usually, though, our conversations are much more mundane. At the end of each day, he likes to tell me exactly what he’s done—almost a minute-by-minute play-by-play. Ninety-seven percent of the time I have no idea
what he’s even talking about, but it seems to be something he needs to do. At the end of these conversations, he politely asks about my day, and so I recap what I learned about absinthe or acetaminophen or whatever. Not that I’m complaining, because it certainly helps me fall asleep.

Anyway, all this is to say I’m ready. Since tomorrow also happens to be my birthday—May 10, the same day as Sid Vicious
and
Bono—I take a good chunk of my paycheck for the week and go out and buy some really sexy lingerie at La Perla, which specializes in small but wealthy chests in need of professional help. I consider the $110 Classic Push-Up Bra in black lace (and $75 matching thong) an investment in our relationship. Damn if I’m not going to make
my
assets work for
me.

While Vale reheats the dinner his caterer had prepared for us that afternoon, he cracks open a bottle of Château Something that is way too good for somebody with my unrefined palate to be drinking. We make it about halfway through the first course—stuffed dates with goat cheese and pistachios—before we’re in his bedroom, tearing off each other’s clothes. Well, technically the only thing that got torn was the condom wrapper; the clothes were actually unbuttoned, folded and neatly put aside.

Before I know it, it’s over.

It was…

Great!

Or rather, it was good. Solidly good!

Decent. More like decent…

Better than Jean-Jean, anyway.

Well…maybe not.

But at least it wasn’t physically painful or anything. Which made it better than a trip to the dentist, though not quite as much fun as visiting the gynecologist. (At least with the gyno, you know you don’t have to go back for another year
and can enjoy the satisfaction of an unpleasant chore ticked off your list of things to do.)