“Jeez, I thought this run was going to be fun.”
James grinned, but I wasn’t off the hook and I knew it.
“Well, his flight to Mexico from bankruptcy, incidentally leaving me holding the bag, certainly didn’t help things any. But you’re right - as much as I hate to admit it, it wasn’t all his fault. It wasn’t even that we wanted different things from marriage, but that we didn’t talk about those things very well. We stunk at communicating and though we met for sex at regular intervals, we just slipped further and further apart.”
James let me think now as we turned back towards the house.
“When I think back about the fights we did have, they were always about the same thing. He said I wanted control, which I did, even if I didn’t exercise it. I didn’t trust him and that drove him crazy. I couldn’t trust him, because then I wouldn’t be in control and only being in control of all the variables would keep me from getting hurt. Or so I thought.”
“Then what happened to the financials?”
“Ah, I trusted the consultants. The so-called experts. And they trusted Neil, who was sure that there was a big IPO in our future and truly could sell ice to the Innu. Maybe he’s selling sunshine to the Mexicans these days.”
“He had a line, I’ll give him that.”
“They were all counting on a big influx of cash at some future point, and I guess, so was I. I just didn’t know how far things had gone until Neil was gone.”
We turned back onto James’ street. “So, do you blame him for the failure of business and marriage?”
“Ah, the million dollar question.”
“Bingo.”
“No. I can’t.” I frowned and turned to James as we walked the last block to cool down. “You’re right. I was a participant, and I guess acknowledging that means that I can learn something from it and move on.”
He smiled at me. Evidently I’d gotten at least a B on this exam. “We’re where we are because of where we’ve been, Maralys, and because of who we’ve been there with. Things would have been different if you and I connected again all those years ago, but they wouldn’t be the same because we wouldn’t be the same.”
“Things might not have been as good between us,” I dared to suggest. “It doesn’t say anywhere that it would have been better.”
“No, it doesn’t.” James had no chance to elaborate. We were approaching the back porch and my father’s voice carried from the kitchen.
“Put another teabag in that pot. They’re not made of gold -”
I had time to wonder who he was talking to, because the boys wouldn’t be making his tea, before a familiar voice answered.
“And a man’s got to have some pleasures. I know, Dad, I know.”
Marcia.
James looked as amazed as I felt. He bounded on to the porch and opened the door, though whether it was because he was dying to see her or because he had to see it to believe it, I didn’t know. (I spent a good bit of time thinking about that later, btw.)
All I saw was that my father’s face was lit up like a Christmas tree. The boys were glowing, too. And in the middle of this little triangle of love was none other than sister dearest, looking like a million bucks.
Give or take.
She’d always been a morning person, damn her. She’d lost some weight on her sojourn and had obviously been pampered. She looked sleek and expensive, turned out and subtly made up. She was tanned and thinned and I wondered fleetingly whether she’d had a nip and tuck, because she looked so much younger and more serene.
Is that all she’d left for? A little restorative work in the desert? I wouldn’t have put it past her to at least upgrade the hardware before heading back out in the marriage market again.
Maybe she came back because her Amex card was declined.
My sister turned with a smile, her response soured when she saw me. Her gaze flicked between James and me, and oh yes, I knew that I wasn’t welcome.
Nor could I compete with that roses and sunshine look. I stood, perspiring and unshowered, hair snagged up in an impromptu ponytail, red-faced to be sure, dressed for success in her husband’s faded old sweats. You’ve got to love the contrast.
“Mary Elizabeth,” my father said. “I didn’t realize that you stayed the night.”
“It was too late to go home. I slept on the couch.”
My sister’s eyes narrowed.
“Well, perhaps you’d best head home now,” my father suggested with false cheer. “This looks to be a family moment.”
That he included himself as family, but not me, shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. “Good idea,” I said brightly, then headed to the living room and my stash of clothes.
“Maralys,” James said from behind me and I felt them all turn to watch as he pursued me. “Thanks for yesterday,” he said carefully, his eyes filled with a thousand things he couldn’t say. “Thanks for everything.”
Did that sound like a brush-off, or what?
I peeled off the running shoes and chucked them back into the Goodwill box, still smoking. “We aim to please,” I said and he flinched at my tone.
Well, good! How dare he thank me as if I was hired help?
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll change and get out of here.” I gave him a look that could have stopped nuclear torpedoes cold, but James held his ground. He wanted to say something, but didn’t want to do it in front of the current audience.
Well, he was the one who didn’t want to hide anything. I reached for the hem of the sweatshirt and hauled it up. I was spitting sparks, let me tell you.
When I pulled it over my head, they were all gone.
I could have offered to launder his sweats but wasn’t feeling particularly charitable in the moment. I couldn’t tell what James was thinking, I didn’t know how far his gratitude to Marcia extended and I wasn’t going to make the opportunity to ask.
I was mad.
I didn’t even say goodbye, just headed out the front door and slammed it hard enough to rock the crockery in the kitchen. I replayed the conversation I’d had with James this morning, seeking clues that he had known of Marcia’s pending return, or hints of what he would do when faced with that eventuality. All I had was that he was less angry with her now.
That he felt indebted to her.
Great. That was very reassuring stuff.
I got halfway home before I cooled down enough to think straight.
If Marcia had left because James wasn’t being a good enough father and spouse, she was going to love James v2.0. He even had a swell job again, so the cash would be flowing like milk and honey soon enough. My father’s beaming countenance spoke volumes and I knew the boys had to be thrilled that their mom was back.
It had all just been a bad dream. Go away, Maralys, you’ve outlived your usefulness.
If nothing else, it would be much much easier to just continue on the same path. I didn’t think James was the kind of guy to take the path of least resistance, but then, he’d faced a lot of obstacles lately. He might be ready to just get on with his life.
Maybe I had been a rebound special. Galling thought.
Maybe I was the only one who thought that I could do this family stuff, after all.
Yet I, with my characteristic brilliance and spectacular sense of timing, had not played the only card I had. The man had said that he loved me - granted, it had been a few days ago and before I had insulted him royally - but he had said it. And James wasn’t the kind of guy who said stuff like that, then changed his mind.
Was he? Gut-writhing time. Surely he must have told Marcia that he loved her, at least once in all those years. And yes, I had confessed love to Neil, many drunken moons ago, but that had nothing to do with this.
I reminded myself that the man had said that he only wanted to get involved if our goal was marriage and eternal happiness. He could very well think that I wasn’t interested in his long-term plan. James could very well think that I’d come back for the sex the night before
and said what was necessary to get it.
We hadn’t talked that much, after all.
But I hadn’t gone back just for sex. I was in love with James Coxwell. I was determined to work for what I wanted.
Too bad I hadn’t said so, flat out.
Because now, I wasn’t going to get the chance to strive for what I wanted. It was another repeat of every time Ms. Gimme swooped in and took what I had, what I wanted, and got away with it.
No. Not this time.
I damn near went back - until I realized that I was now officially in a no-win situation. If I called up and told James now that I loved him - or worse, went back and humiliated myself in front of them all - it would look as if I was competing with my sister. Like I was trying to one-up her. Like I wanted the goodies, just to keep her from getting them.
Gee, not like we’ve seen that game played before, is it?
I trudged back to the loft, which seemed to have become a big echoing hole in my absence and treated myself to a long hot shower, trying to figure out what to do.
I studied myself in the steamed mirror afterward, welcoming the harsh light of morning. I usually shunned it and it was not friendly on this day.
I was just as harsh on my appearance as the light. Black might have been a good hair color for me once, but on this morning, it contrasted too much with my fair skin. All the little lines were made more evident by the contrast, as were the shadows under my eyes.
Okay, I was tired, but still. And I generally look good for my age. But sixteen is gone, honey. Long gone. In this moment, I looked about as alluring as roadkill. I had become what all women love to mock.
The woman who dresses as if she’s younger than she is. The woman who has outgrown her look.
I did not look like the kind of woman that a prominent lawyer should have lunch with, unless she’s a client. I certainly did not look like the kind of woman he should be seeing over the breakfast table every morning for the rest of his life.
Surely, you didn’t think I was just going to roll over here, did you? No. It was time to defend my turf. I might lose, but I’d go down with everybody knowing what I’d wanted to win and why. I needed heavy artillery.
Remember that song “My Boyfriend’s Back”? I started humming it, liberally changing the lyrics to suit my circumstance. Go on, make your own words to it.
My sister’s back and she’s making double trouble.”
The thing was that I knew it wasn’t just about Marcia and me. James would make what he thought was the best choice for his sons, even if meant less of a good choice for him. I could lose him on a technicality.
And I wouldn’t love him any less because of that. I liked his sense of honor and responsibility. I liked how serious he was about protecting his sons.
I took a deep breath and considered my reflection. It was time to grow up, whether or not I ended up with James. It was time to pick up all my emotional baggage and make my way out of the terminal under my own steam.
‘I yam what I yam’ and all that, but I looked like what I had once been, not what I’d become. I needed to look like an adult. Not just any adult, though, not just any successful entrepreneur who could be trusted with the secure handling of your deepest employee secrets. Not just the kind of woman who could win James Coxwell’s heart and keep it.
I needed elegance with edge. Edge, I understand. Elegance was tougher.
Fortunately, I knew just the person to ask for help. You know, this asking for help thing really does get addictive, even when you do know that somehow, someday in someway, you’ll need to reciprocate, though probably not exactly in kind. I’m starting to like this network of connections. I picked up the phone, reached out and touched somebody.
Shay la, shay la, my sister’s back.
* * *
Subject: pearls to swine
Dear Aunt Mary:
My son is an A-student, good-looking and athletic. He’s got everything going for him, but he insists on throwing himself at the most trashy women alive. How can I persuade him that he can do better?
Worried Mom
–-
Subject: re: pearls to swine
Dear Mom:
Give the boy my phone number.
;-D
Seriously, maybe he sees something in these chix that you don’t. Maybe you have ::ahem:: an elevated idea of your son’s many charms. Maybe he’s depriving some village of an idiot. Tough to tell from here.
No matter how you slice it, no one can save people from themselves. Unconvinced? Type “Darwin Awards” into your search engine. Some of these stories *have* to be urban myths…don’t they?
Aunt Mary
***
Uncertain? Confused? Ask Aunt Mary!
Your one stop shop for netiquette and advice:
http://www.ask-aunt-mary.com
Which is how I ended up at the city’s most exclusive spa/salon on the following Saturday, with an appointment at a most coveted time. You know the place, the one where you have to sleep with some rich and famous muckity-muck to even get in the door.
That, come to think of it, was more or less what I’d done. Beverly Coxwell took me, so I was under her patronage, so to speak.
She’d had only one question when I called her up, even given my fairly remarkable request. “What are your intentions toward my son?”
I’d jammed the phone under my chin, not really comfortable telling James’ mommy that I wanted him hook, line and sinker. “Aren’t you supposed to ask him that?”
She laughed. “I know what James’ intentions are. You’re a wild card, though, Maralys and I don’t know you that well. What do you want with my son?”
I took a deep breath. “I’m in love with him. I want to find out whether we can make it work.”
“There are no guarantees, Maralys,” she said softly and I remembered that she was in the midst of a divorce from James’ father. Well, not his father. Robert Coxwell. “Even with James.”
“I know. But some things are worth trying for.”
“For whatever it’s worth, I think you’re wrong, Maralys.”
“What?”
“I don’t think that how you look will make that much difference to James, or he wouldn’t look the way that he does when he talks about you.” My heart went skippity-bump at that. “But if it will help your confidence, I’d be glad to help you. We women are often a bit short of the confidence we need to achieve what we want to achieve.”
“Thank you.”
“Wait until I’m done before you thank me,” she advised, a smile in her voice. “Let me phone my salon and get back to you. Is any time particularly good or bad for you?”
* * *
So there I was five days later, in the swishy salon, in the front chair even, within the domain of the great man himself. I was thinking, not about the cash flow of this place - though that would have made for some interesting math - but that no one had called me again this week. It proved my theory that I had to tell James what I felt or lose it all.
Without calling the house, lest Marcia answer.
I would not give a message to his mommy, thanks.
Adrian was running his hands through my locks while Beverly consulted with him. He had that way of grabbing your hair that gay hairdressers always have - a possessive caress that leaves you wondering whether you just get to borrow the hair for those three or four weeks between appointments.
“It’s wonderfully thick, very healthy despite the obvious abuse.” He surveyed my ends, his expression adequately conveying his opinion.
Beverly stood slightly behind me, her arms folded across her chest. Both she and I were wrapped in terry robes so thick and swish that I was wondering how I could nick one without anyone noticing. “I think it’s too heavy for her face.”
“Oh, yes, it’s definitely in need of shaping.”
“She has such lovely cheekbones.”
“Great blue eyes.” Adrian twisted my hair up in his hands, studying my reflection
in the mirror as he mocked different lengths of cut. He pulled a few strands free, arranging them over my brow. “Maybe we should take it to the shoulders, work in some long layers to get rid of the bulk, give it some swing. Maybe a few long bangs.” He plucked and pushed my hair around, showing what he would do.
I found it interesting that “we” apparently didn’t include me.
“That would draw attention to those eyes,” Adrian continued, fixed on his vision. “Then, we could sweep it up for formal occasions.” He did just that, baring my neck.
“We want something elegant,” Beverly said firmly. “Gracious and graceful.”
Adrian arched a brow. “Yet easily maintained.”
I could have been insulted at his assumption of my prowess with hair care, but then, he had pretty much nailed it. I color my hair, I trim the ends bluntly with a pair of kitchen shears. This is the sum of my hair care regimen.
I guess it showed.
“We have to be able to make a ponytail,” I insisted and Adrian nodded, barely listening to me.
He was too busy grimacing. “But the color…” he began, unable to bring himself to finish. He rubbed my hair between his fingers and tsk-tsked
“The black has to go,” Beverly concurred. “It’s too harsh.”
“How about my natural color?” I interjected. They both looked at me as if they’d forgotten I was there, a curious thing since the man’s hands were full of my hair.
“What is your natural color?”
“It’s golden brown,” Beverly said, then faltered. “At least if it’s like Marcia’s.”
“Beverly, we all know how many luscious shades come out of bottles,” Adrian chided gently and Beverly lifted one hand to her lusciously silver coiff.
“It’s brown,” I said with a smile. “The exact color of melted chocolate.”
Adrian studied my roots and the hue of my brows, looking for confirmation of what I said. “It could very well have been,” he conceded finally. “How long since you’ve seen it?”