No Ordinary Life (18 page)

40

G
o and don't come back,” I hiss.

We're in the hallway outside the condo. The kids have said their good-byes, Sean promising he will see them soon.

“Faye, what's gotten into you?”

My arms are crossed over my chest, and I'm shaking. For four hours I've held my rage, but I can't hold it any longer.

“Faye…”

“Go!” I screech.

He ignores me. “They're my kids too.”

“They're your kids when there's money to be made off them. I can't believe you, Sean. You really think I'm going to give you a penny?”

His face transforms, the pretense of affability dissolved as his face grows dark. “It's not up to you.”

“To hell it isn't,” I snap as the awful realization hits me that he might be right.

“How much did the Gap pay her?”

“Go to hell.”

“I'm sure that's where I'm headed, but I'm not there yet, and like it or not, I intend to ride there in style.”

“You goddamn son of a bitch.”

Emily runs through the door. “Mom? Dad?”

Sean wraps his arm around her. “It's okay, Em. Your mom and I are just working things out.”

“But you're coming back, right?” she asks.

He turns his face to me so I can see the veracity in his eyes as he says, “Yes, baby. This time I'm here to stay.”

“Em, go back inside,” I seethe.

Reluctantly she obeys.

Sean shrugs, palms out. “They love me. What can I say? I'm irresistible.”

My hate is so raw that if I had a gun, I swear I'd use it. But I don't have a gun, so I stand quivering with rage but with no idea of what to do about it.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, but one way or the other, I'm back and I'm a part of this.”

The elevator dings, the door opens, and my mom steps off.

“Hello, Brenda,” Sean says, stepping on. “Thanks for the great day, Faye. I'll be in touch.”

My mom looks at him then at me, and my expression must tell her everything because her lips purse then she opens them to speak.

“Don't,” I spit. “Just don't.”

I whirl from her and storm into the condo.

“When's he coming back?” Emily asks, her face lit up.

Molly and Tom look at me expectantly as well. My nose flares, and I bite down hard on my lip to keep from lashing out at them as I continue to the bedroom.

Collapsing on the mattress, I bury my face in the pillow and try not to hate them for their betrayal. It's not their fault. Sean is like the Pied Piper who appeared from nowhere and granted them a magic day. And though he will lead them to their doom, at the moment, all they hear is his sweet music, and they can't wait for him to appear again.

I reach for a tissue to wipe the rogue tears that have escaped from my eyes, and when I lift the box, something rattles. Moving the tissues aside, I fish out a small red velvet bag. Inside is a heart-shaped silver locket engraved with the letter “M.” The clasp is difficult to work but finally opens to reveal a tiny folded note.

“Em,” I shout, the harshness of my voice causing her to appear almost instantly. “Where did this come from?” The locket dangles like a pendulum from my fist.

Her face goes white as she glubs for an answer.

“The truth,” I roar. “Now.”

“That guy, John Lennon,” she stammers. “Melissa's mom dropped me off after soccer on Monday, and he walked up and handed it to me.”

Since the day we snubbed John Lennon after the flower incident, he has disappeared. I assumed it was for good; obviously I was wrong.

“And you took it?”

Her eyes drop to the ground. “He paid me. Gave me twenty dollars and said all I needed to do was give it to Molly. I didn't figure it was a big deal. It's just a stupid necklace. I didn't even give it to her. He doesn't know the difference. The guy's a whack job.”

“Exactly. The guy's a whack job, and you think it's okay to talk to a whack job, take money from a whack job, then not tell me about that whack job giving you money to give a necklace to Molly, your four-year-old sister?” My voice has reached glass-shattering shrill.

“I figured if I told you, you'd freak out and throw it away like you did the flowers. It's real silver. I was going to sell it on eBay.”

My vision blurs with my fury.

She continues, “Molly's like a big deal, and once
The Foster Band
season starts, she's going to be a really big deal. I looked up celebrity auction items, and it's crazy how much famous people get for their stuff. Justin Timberlake's half-eaten French toast breakfast sold for over $3,000, and Michael Jackson's underwear sold for a million. I figure if I take a picture of Molly wearing the necklace then post it for sale, we could get like $10,000 for it.”

“Get out,” I scream.

She rears back. “Does that mean I can't sell it?”

“Out! Now!”

The door closes, and I bury my face in my hands, my emotions raw. Then taking several breaths to calm myself, I sit up and reach for the phone. Emily's right and she's wrong—I am freaking out, but this time I'm not going to throw the gift away.

The officer that shows up is young, cocky, and bored, his sunglasses perched on top of his buzz cut as he takes down the report without expression.

I tell him about John Lennon and where he used to wait for us. I describe him as best I can, and he asks if I took a photo of him, making me feel stupid for not thinking to have done that.

When he's finished taking down all the information, he drops the locket and the note, along with the card that was delivered with the roses, into evidence bags and, with an unconvincing promise that he'll look into it, leaves.

I put the kids to bed, then spend the next three hours driving myself insane, staring out the window, my eyes roving over the sidewalk and peering into the crevices of the neighborhood, wondering where he is, convinced he's out there, hiding in the shadows, staring back, knowing I called the police, knowing the police are gone, watching and waiting, waiting and watching. Out there somewhere.

41

F
ortunately the kids and I are on our way out of Los Angeles, away from Sean and any whack jobs who might be stalking us.

Three times a year the entire cast and crew of
The Foster Band
spend a week on location at a farm in the wine country of Temecula to shoot the vineyard scenes, and the families of the cast are invited along. I've been looking forward to this week since we started. Finally I don't have to leave Emily and Tom behind, and my mom gets a well-deserved week off, and I get a well-deserved week off from her.

The Pathfinder bumps from the road onto the driveway of Paddison Farm, and my heart swells. Though we've never been here, it's like going home. On our left, a vineyard rolls to the foothills, and to our right is a pasture with horses, a barn, and several corrals. I open the windows, and the distinct smell of hay steaming in the sun fills the car, verdant and earthy, flooding my mind with thoughts of Bo and Yucaipa.

In front of us is the Foster home, a white Victorian farmhouse with black shutters, a wraparound porch, and window boxes spilling over with red geraniums.

Beyond the house, a thicket of trees conceals a camp of dark brown cabins. We park beside number eleven and carry our bags inside.

The cabin has two bedrooms, a kitchenette, and a spacious bathroom with a claw-foot tub. It is only slightly smaller than our home was in Yucaipa, and I can't believe that it and the dozen others like it are only occupied three weeks out of the year.

As soon as the kids drop their bags, they are out the door to explore.

“Em, keep an eye on your sister,” I yell after them.

She doesn't answer, but I know she will. Molly's been traipsing after her since she could walk.

I wander outside to explore as well, reveling in the freedom of being alone. Most of the cast and crew won't arrive until tomorrow, so other than the people who work the farm, hardly anyone is around.

I make my way past the corral to the barn, following the scent of horses. The farm is perfect. Too perfect. No farm looks like this—a split-rail fence precisely spaced; a vegetable garden with exact rows of crisp lettuce, stands of tomatoes, and boxes bursting with herbs; a barn that looks like it was painted yesterday; and a chicken coop with a dozen plump, gorgeous hens—everything you need to represent a quintessential American farm except the evidence of struggle and hard work.

Which is because none of it is real. The fence is laminate, the vegetable garden is filled with plastic plants, the barn was painted yesterday, and the gorgeous hens are stuffed.

But it's nice to look at, and as I walk around, I reminisce about some of the wonderful scenes from past seasons that took place here. I hear the rush of water and remember that there's a river nearby and that Jeremy likes to fish. He and Mr. Foster are always bringing home trout. It's a running joke on the show because Mrs. Foster, originally a city girl, hates cleaning fish.

I walk past the house and smile. Beside the door is the porch swing where dozens of romantic kisses and heart-to-heart conversations have taken place. A wine bottle–shaped sign hangs beside it, “The Fosters” painted on its label. The sign was a gift from the social worker in one of the first episodes.

“Hello.”

I turn to see Chris walking from the barn. He wears designer jeans, a black western shirt with pearl buttons, a belt with a silver buckle the size of my hand, and cowboy boots. His face is unshaven, and on his head is a NASCAR hat with the number 88.

“You're an Earnhardt fan?” I ask.

“Dale and I met a few years back. You know NASCAR?”

Of course Chris Cantor is not
just
a fan. Of course he's
met
Dale Earnhardt Jr. Of course they're on a first-name basis. Chris Cantor may be dressed like a cowboy, but he's still Chris Cantor.

“A little,” I answer. “My husband…”
Is? Was?
“Was a fan.”

“Where's Molly?”

“Off exploring with her brother and sister.” I emphasize brother and sister more than necessary, feeling the need to remind him that I have three kids, not just Molly.

“Wow, I actually have you all to myself,” he says, completely unaffected by my breeder status.

“Did you call that waitress?” I say, nipping his Don Juan act in the bud. After yesterday with Sean, I'm in no mood for charming actors.

“The waitress from Ruth's Chris?” he asks, all innocence.

“Has more than one waitress slipped you their number in the past two days?”

He smirks and shrugs, a boyish Dennis the Menace expression, innocent and guilty at the same time. “Hazard of the job.”

“Not too bad of a hazard. She was pretty.”

He shrugs. “I'm single, and she was offering. Until I find something more, that's what I've got.”

I wince slightly.

“You find that distasteful?”

“I don't know. Yeah, I guess so. She thinks you're going to help her.”

“Ouch. You really know how to stomp on a guy's ego. Did you even consider that she might have been attracted to my stunning good looks, bulging biceps, and charm?”

“Perhaps the biceps,” I say, adding a giggle as he strikes a he-man pose, his arms not even coming close to filling out his sleeves. “But even with those massive muscles, your influence might have had a teensy-weensy little bit to do with her giving you her number without any more conversation than ‘How's your steak?'”

He nods in agreement. “A fair exchange.”

My nose crinkles again, causing him to laugh.

“That offends you even more,” he says.

“It's your business.”

“But you think it's awful?”

I think about this for a second.
A fair exchange.
Is it? Sex for opportunity? Involuntarily I shudder.

“Wow, I guess so,” he says. “Full-on heebie-jeebies.”

“It's not that it's wrong,” I say, trying to articulate the feeling that is vague yet undeniably distasteful. “It's just so…so…” I search for the word.

“Meaningless,” he says.

That wasn't exactly what I was thinking, but I nod because it's kinder than “repulsive,” “callous,” “ruthless,” and “demeaning.”

“It's not so bad. Like you said, she was pretty, and she actually had a great personality. We had fun.”

“If you say so, then I'm glad for you.”

“You're actually feeling sorry for me?”

And I realize I'm looking at him with sympathy.

I wipe the expression from my face and change the subject. “Yeah, well you do look a little pathetic, especially in that outfit. Who dressed you? Garth Brooks?”

He looks down at his clothes. “The shirt too much?”

“Not if you're going line dancing at a gay rodeo.”

“Dang, Faye, you're just full of compliments, aren't you? I'll have you know, I'm dressed to go riding.”

“On a horse?”

“Yes, on a horse. Do you ride, Miss I-only-wear-worn-out-Wranglers-and-tight-white-T-shirts-that-drive-the-boys-wild?”

“This look happens to be very retro and very functional.” I give a twirl of my drive-the-boys-wild look. “And yes, I ride.”

“Well then, perhaps you'd like to join me.”

The thought is horribly tempting. It's been months since I've been in the saddle (both connotations running through my head), but it's also undeniably a bad idea. Chris Cantor is a bad idea—a very attractive, very charming, very, very bad idea.

“I can't. I'm still on mom patrol,” I say, proud of my restraint.

“Beth,” Chris calls, and amazingly the woman materializes from the barn. “Keep an eye out for Faye's kids. If they come looking for her, tell them she'll be back in an hour and look after them until then.”

“Will do,” Beth says.

“Must be nice having women at your beck and call.”

“Not just women. Men, children, dogs. I'm the producer. I rule the world.” He gives a sadistic ruler-of-the-universe laugh then leads me into the barn.

Chris may be ruler of the universe in his make-believe world, but on our ride, I'm the one who takes the reins.

We slow to a trot after a full gallop through a flat pasture.

“That was amazing,” he says, breathless. “I've never ridden full-out like that.”

“And you probably shouldn't again. I'm surprised your horse didn't leave you in the pasture.”

“Madame, are you making fun of my riding skills?”

“What riding skills? You told me you could ride.”

“No, I said I was going riding and asked you if you ride. There's a difference.”

I dismount, and Chris begins to do the same.

“Wrong side,” I say, stopping him. “You need to mount and dismount from the left, otherwise it freaks out the horse.”

He slithers off the other side and winces. “A little hard on the haunches.”

“The way you were bumping around, I'm surprised you can walk at all.”

He picks up a clod of dirt and throws it at me, pegging me on my jeans. I curl away in defense, my hands up, and when I unfurl, he is in front of me, his lips coming down on mine. I release the reins, and my horse scampers off with Chris's, and I should be concerned because we're miles from the farm, and there's a good chance we've just lost two good horses, but at the moment, Chris's breath is mingling with mine, sweet and heavy, like he ate a piece of chocolate before we started out, and I can't be concerned with runaway horses.

Pure electricity runs through my veins, my body ringing like a tuning fork. His hands are on my shoulders, mine on his chest, and when he pulls away, I'm breathless.

He smiles, brushes a hair from my eyes, and says, “I've been wanting to do that for weeks.”

“So what took you so long?”

“You're a damn hard woman to get alone.”

I laugh, and it causes him to kiss me again.

He's smaller than Sean, at least six inches shorter, his shoulders narrow, and I do not need to crane my neck.

His hands slide down my body to wrap around my back, and my body melts against him, my leg sliding between his knees, the bulge of his jeans swollen against my hips.

He lowers me to the ground, his tongue working its way into my mouth as his left hand slides beneath my shirt, his fingers burning against my skin and causing me to moan.

He pulls away, his lips curled in a grin. “This is going to be fun.”

I nod and pull him back to kiss him again. I need more fun in my life.

As we continue to kiss, an alarm, thready and thin, blares in my brain, a warning siren screaming that this is a bad idea. But the rush of blood in my ears drowns it out. Then the horrible, wonderful spot two inches below my belly button joins in, fluttering and trilling and spreading outward until every fiber in my body is singing and cheering me on and telling me not to listen to my brain, which has no sense of fun and adventure at all.

“God, you're sexy,” Chris says, coming up for air.

I pull him back down, and his tongue dives back into my mouth as his hand continues to inch up my ribs, then his fingers touch my bra, and I push him off so abruptly, he falls to the ground.

Crappy, cheap utility bra! Dishwater gray from a zillion washes!
The thought blindsides me.

Chris groans and rolls onto his back, clearly in pain. “Shit. Are you trying to kill me?” The source of his agony pulses impressively from his jeans. “First with the horse and now with sexual torment and denial?”

I laugh, lean over, and peck him on the lips. “I think you'll live.”

His hand wraps around the back of my head, and he pulls me into another long kiss, and when he releases me, he says, “I really do like you.”

“I like you too,” I say, pushing off him and standing. “But I might stop liking you if I have to walk three miles back to the barn. So get up and help me find our horses.”

I hold out my hand to help him up, and he takes it and pulls me back to the ground to kiss me again. He doesn't take it further than that, but we have a grand time rolling around in the hay.