The Good Life (30 page)

“It’s no big deal,” said Sally. “Jesse and Paula will get a kick out of it.”

“I don’t think so,” said Ann, hands on bony hips. “One of us will have to change.” Recognizing an order, Sally slowly stood and walked to the bureau that held her clothes. She grabbed her other suit, last year’s aqua one-piece with a low-cut back, and walked silently into the bathroom. Two minutes later, she emerged. “You look fabulous,” said Ann, grinning. “Let’s find the others.”

Sally watched as Ann quickly pulled a pink diaphanous cover-up over her head, the same cover-up Sally had purchased from Candace because it matched the suit. Luckily, Sally had packed her white, terry-cloth cover-up. When she put it on, Ann told her how versatile it was, a word Sally well knew meant uninteresting.

Paula, wearing a black tank suit under a large black and white vertical striped tunic, and Jesse, wearing a pale yellow one-piece with a matching sarong tied around her hips, were already sitting on the porch when Sally and Ann walked downstairs. As soon as compliments were paid all around, Ann suggested they head down the cement pathway to the beach, where they would find chairs, towels, umbrellas, and—most importantly—the bar. Wearing her new straw hat and Juicy sunglasses, Ann led her friends under the palm trees to the sand. She told the beach boy to set up four chairs and a table under two umbrellas. She then ordered four frozen margaritas for delivery. “Now this,” said Ann, as soon as she sat down in a chair, “is what it’s all about.”

“I’ll second that,” said Sally, taking the chair next to Ann.

“All I need now is that drink,” said Ann, craning her neck around to see if the margaritas were on their way.

Jesse sat in the fourth chair, giving Paula the seat next to Sally. Paula hadn’t been sitting thirty seconds when she pulled a romance novel from her beach bag and started reading. “Oh, here we go,” said Sally. “Has the prince invited the scullery maid to the ball yet?”

“No, no, no,” said Paula. “This one takes place in the here and now, in Manhattan,”

“Let me guess,” said Ann, grinning at the muscular, tanned, Speedo-clad beach boy offering her a margarita on a Lucite tray. “She’s an ad executive, and he’s a well-mannered office boy who doesn’t yet know he’s heir to the throne of a faraway kingdom.”

“They’re in retail,” said Paula dismissively.

“I don’t know how you read those books,” said Sally, taking a sip from the drink just handed to her. “They’re really kind of silly, aren’t they?”

“Haven’t we had this discussion?” asked Paula, taking her drink from the tray but keeping her eyes on her book.

“Well,” said Sally, removing the latest thick issue of
Vogue
from her canvas beach bag, “perhaps we just haven’t found your answer satisfactory.”

“And since when has my goal in life been to satisfy you?” said Paula, looking up from her book and through the gray lenses of her aviator sunglasses at Sally.

“Touché!” said Ann, giggling.

Jesse took her drink from the beach boy and set it down in the sand next to her. “There’s a good reason women read romance novels,” she said, gathering her shoulder-length brown hair into a ponytail. “They’re hugely popular.”

“And why is that?” asked Sally, still smarting from Ann’s remark.

“Women love romance,” said Jesse. “Ninety-nine times out of a hundred they don’t get it from their husbands of twenty years, so they read about it in books. Experience it vicariously, so to speak.”

“My husband can be romantic,” said Sally defensively.

“Think about when and why he’s romantic,” said Ann, drink in hand. “Isn’t it because he wants sex? Then again, Jack’s ahead of the rest of his gender if he’s romantic at all, Sally. Most men hop into bed and expect their wives—wild with lust after a day of caring for the children, running errands, and doing housework—to jump on top of them and beg for it.” Paula laughed out loud.

“Are you saying making love isn’t romantic?” asked Sally, removing her sunglasses, looking confused.

“It can be very romantic,” said Jesse, “especially if both people want it at the same time. However, if the husband wants it and the wife simply acquiesces to get him to focus on something else, that’s not all that romantic.”

“Amen to that,” said Ann. “Sex comes first and everything else comes afterward.”

“You see, Peter, in the book, isn’t like that,” said Paula, swatting at but missing a horsefly that landed on her fleshy knee.

“That’s why it’s called fiction,” sang Ann.

“It used to be true, though, didn’t it?” asked Jesse. “Remember when we were dating our husbands? Remember how attentive they used to be?”

“Absolutely,” said Paula. “My husband was the original Prince Charming.”

“Flowers, dinner reservations, sunset strolls on the beach,” said Jesse, smiling. “They know exactly what it takes to win us over.”

“Then we get married, thinking we’ve met the man of our dreams,” said Ann, “and everything changes. After all, he now gets sex for free!”

“Not in my book,” said Paula. “Peter waits on Linda. He gives her foot massages.”

“Now that’s nice,” said Jesse, turning her attention to the
Time
magazine she’d bought for weekend reading.

Sally took the last sip of her drink and then spoke slowly, as if recalling a dream from the previous night. “So, are you saying all men really want is to make love?”

“Yup,” said Ann. “You’ve got it. Well, that and have power and money. Speaking of sex, where is that darling cabana boy?”

Sally sat back in her chair and covered her tiny tummy bulge with her hands. “That’s depressing.”

Paula leaned over and patted her shoulder. “That’s why I read these books,” she said. “You can have it when I’m done.”

Sally didn’t respond, deciding against talking to her friends about her love life. It certainly wasn’t what Ann and Jesse described, and it wasn’t found in the pages of Paula’s romance novels. Her husband, Jack, was tired when he came home from work, often not until eight thirty or nine in the evening. Most of the time he had eaten dinner at his desk and wanted nothing more than a quick look at the evening newspaper, a twenty-minute bath, and a good night’s sleep. Occasionally, when Sally would offer herself to him in the middle of the night, without saying a word to each other, they would make love. Until now, Sally actually thought this was quite normal. Neither of them seemed to require much physical passion. Of course, when she and Jack were first married, they made love regularly. They were in their early twenties and full of energy and, well, lust.
That’s just what being twenty-two is all about,
was what Jack, grinning, would say to her afterward. Now, they were close to fifty. And Sally assumed her lack of interest in making love mirrored her husband’s; that they’d just moved into another stage in their relationship and, frankly, didn’t need to prove their commitment to each other by groaning and grunting in the bedroom. She and Jack had never discussed it, and, until today, Sally hadn’t given it a lot of thought. Women made jokes about it, but Sally had taken them as simply that, jokes.

Paula put down her book and took a sip of her melted drink. She looked up at the horizon, composed of nothing but ocean and sky, one green and the other blue, stacked like colored sand in a gift shop jar. “Who wants to go for a swim?” she asked.

“Good Lord, no,” said Ann, reaching for her glass. “I was about to order another drink. Who wants one? Sally?”

Sally looked at her empty glass and, not wanting to disappoint Ann, nodded her head.

“I’m all set,” said Jesse.

“Me too,” said Paula.

“I’ll take you up on that swim, though,” said Jesse, getting out of her chair.

When Jesse and Paula had left, Sally watched Ann make her way to the bar. The sand impeded her progress, sometimes causing her to check her balance like a sailor on a ship in stormy seas. Halfway there, she was met by the beach boy, who had run to meet her. He bowed and ran back in the direction of the bar. Ann wheeled around and, appearing lost, scanned the sparse crowd, hand shielding her eyes. Instead of signaling Ann, Sally turned to watch Jesse and Paula work their way into the water. They stood, hands on their hips, in knee-deep ocean. She wished she had gone with them. She was light-headed and drowsy and had no use for the drink Ann had ordered for her. Perhaps she could just get up and join Paula and Jesse before Ann made it back. Sally looked back at Ann, then quickly stood and removed her cover-up. She had just finished reapplying sunblock to her nose when Ann ducked under the umbrella shading her chair. “God, that sand is hot,” she said. “My feet are on fire.”

“Come swimming,” said Sally.

“We’ve got cool drinks coming, my dear. That’s all the liquid refreshment I need at the moment.”

“Mmm,” said Sally. “I’m just going to test the water. I’ll be right back.”

“Suit yourself,” said Ann, settling into her chair.

Released, Sally walked quickly to the water’s edge. She called out a greeting to Paula and Jesse, who had made little headway. “Have you come to brave the salty waters with us?” asked Paula, turning around at the sound of Sally’s greeting.

“I don’t know,” said Sally. “Is it cold?”

“It’s lovely,” said Jesse. “I’m just not ready for full immersion.”

Sally walked into the water to meet them, lifting her feet up high with each step, as if she were wearing clothing she didn’t want to get wet instead of a bathing suit.

“We were just talking about Ann,” said Paula.

“Oh?” said Sally. “What’s up?”

“Well, Jesse’s worried about her drinking.”

Sally tucked her freshly highlighted bob behind her ears. “We’re on vacation, Jesse. She’s just cutting loose.”

“She has had a drink in her hand since we walked into the condominium,” said Jesse.

“The Ann I know does like her alcohol,” said Paula.

“We all like our alcohol,” said Sally.

“This is different,” said Jesse. “She’s been drinking more lately—she had too much when she was away with Mike, and she drank like a thirsty frat boy at lunch before the fashion show.”

“How do you know she had too much with Mike?” asked Sally. “Did she tell you?”

“I don’t know about the fashion show,” said Paula. “We all had a couple of glasses that day. Pinot grigio goes down like water.”

“So you think I’m worried about nothing,” said Jesse, hands on her hips.

“No,” said Paula, reaching out to touch Jesse’s shoulder. “I know Ann drinks a lot. I just don’t know if that amount has increased enough to warrant worry or action.”

“Action?” said Sally. “What are we talking about here—an intervention? I don’t think that’s necessary, girls. We’re on vacation.”

“Just watch her with me,” said Jesse. “I know we’re on vacation, and I know she’s going to drink more than she usually does. I’m telling you, I’m worried. She’s been different since her parents arrived.”

“Do you think that’s what it is?” asked Sally, her brain racing, searching for details. What had Ann said about her mother?

“Partly,” said Jesse. “Having long-term company is stressful, no matter who it is. But when you are face-to-face with your parents, your own history, every day of the week? Well, I can’t really imagine how strange and unsettling that must be.”

“You’ve got a point there,” said Paula, wading a foot deeper into the water.

“It can’t be that cold!” The three women turned their heads toward shore. Ann, holding her empty margarita glass, was standing on the sand dampened by the surf. “Go for it!”

Paula, Jesse, and Sally all looked at one another and then dove under the surface.

 

After late afternoon showers and a drink on the porch, they walked down the path to The Beachcomber, the resort’s casual beachside restaurant. The tables and chairs, made from bamboo, sat on a cement floor that had been swept free of sand. The grass roof, sheltering them from unlikely rain, was supported by four corner posts, and the clear plastic sheets that served as walls in bad weather were rolled up and fastened at the roofline. They were shown to a table at the far end of the outdoor room, away from the resort kitchen and close to the beach. As they sat and chatted about the sound of the waves and the brilliant moonlight, Ann ordered an expensive bottle of white wine and insisted they all try the local fish, which was delicious as well as low-fat. Jesse closed her eyes. The warm breeze moved the stray hairs at her temples and cooled her hot skin. When she opened them, Ann was facing the bar in search of their wine; Paula was looking at the menu; and Sally was gazing into a compact, touching up her lipstick. As soon as the waiter arrived and filled Ann’s glass, she took a mouthful.

“Ann,” said Jesse softly, as soon as their waiter had left the table. “Where’s the fire?”

“No fire,” said Ann. “I’m just ready to get there.”

“Get where?” asked Sally, shutting her compact.

“To an altered state,” said Ann, taking another sip. “That’s where I’m going.”

“Take a look around you, Ann,” said Jesse. “From where I’m sitting, it looks like we’re already there. We’re not in Kansas anymore, honey.”

“We sure as hell aren’t,” said Ann, raising her glass to toast no one and nothing and then draining its contents. Normally, Ann could tolerate three small drinks in an hour, when she was home on her living room couch with nothing but the newspaper for company. But the effect of being in the sun all day, combined with the margaritas she’d sipped most of the afternoon, caught up with her, its power sudden and irreversible. Her head lost its weight, feeling like a helium balloon attached to her neck. When she spoke, her words echoed in her ears. And when her friends spoke, she couldn’t understand their muttering. It was all incredibly funny to Ann, until she tried to order another bottle of wine and Jesse laid her hand on Ann’s wrist and suggested they order bottled water instead. Ann pulled her arm away with such force that she rocked back in her chair. She was on her way down, her head seconds away from connecting with the shiny cement floor, when the waiter—who had just set their salad plates down on the table—reached out with his giant forearm and stopped the chair midair. He gently righted it, and then walked away as if nothing had happened. Ann burst out laughing.