The Good Life Page 22

  Sharon took a step closer to him, fingers now on his chest, and said, “Are you sure?”

  Mike looked down at her and swallowed hard. He had been in this position before, but not for some time. It was a business trip, about a year ago. Ann was shopping in New York and had not been able to accompany him, but many of the other wives had tagged along with their husbands. They were all staying at a gorgeous, secluded resort in the Florida Keys, where they spent their warm days on the golf course and cool evenings eating and drinking in a private outdoor dining area. It was the youngest and most attractive wife who approached him after dinner one night. He had gone back to his room and was undoing the tie to his tuxedo when he heard a soft knock on his door. He opened it to find her standing before him in her clingy gold dress, looking like a piece of chocolate waiting to be unwrapped. She’d claimed she’d lost her way, but when Mike pointed her in the right direction, she didn’t move. Instead, she suggested they have a nightcap in his room. Mike had opened his mouth to speak, having no idea what he was going to say—he still didn’t know what he would have said to her, to Rachel—when she caught sight of her husband at the far end of the corridor and scurried away. And while Mike knew then as he knew now that women approached him because of his position in the company, he occasionally got caught up in the notion that he was, indeed, magnetically attractive and they couldn’t stop themselves from falling for his charms. “No,” said Mike, smiling. “I’m not sure, but I’ve got to get back.”

  Sharon pressed her body into his and then slowly pulled away. “Perhaps another time,” she whispered.

  Mike awkwardly thanked her, then turned before she could see the result of her suggestions. He walked quickly back to the room, where Ann was still in the tub. “You must have gone to the front desk for that Coke,” Ann called from the bathroom.

  “Something like that,” said Mike, taking a sip from the can and adjusting his hard-on in his boxers.

  “Are my eggs here yet?”

  Mike looked around the room. “No,” he said. “I’ll call and check on them.”

  “Good,” said Ann. “Then come in here and tell me all about last night. I can’t seem to remember a thing.”

  Mike sat down on the bed and dialed the phone. While he waited for an answer, he thought about living in a hut in Greenland. By the time he was put on hold and then was assured the eggs would arrive within fifteen minutes, he was physiologically able to face his wife. He got off the bed and walked into the bathroom and found her—pink cream covering her face—lying up to her shoulders in bubbles.

  It was always hard for Ann to leave. She loved the luxurious, pampered life expensive spas and hotels provided, preferring it to the routine of everyday life at home. She pouted as she packed her bags. “Honey,” said Mike from across the bed, where he was packing his suitcase, “we can do this again.”

  “You say that,” said Ann, “but it will be months before I can get you out of the office again.”

  “That’s not true,” said Mike gently. “We’ve been home so much because your parents are living with us.”

  Ann stopped what she was doing and looked at her husband. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Exactly what I said,” said Mike.

  “Well, I think that’s a rotten thing to say,” said Ann.

  “There’s nothing rotten about it,” said Mike, returning to his task. “It’s factual.”

  Ann refolded a sweater she hadn’t worn and put it into her large bag. “You don’t want them there, do you?” she asked, her eyes on the pink sweater.

  “I said nothing of the kind,” said Mike. “Their presence doesn’t affect my life one way or the other.”

  “Of course they affect our lives,” said Ann. “You’ve got your head in the sand if you don’t think so.” Mike walked into the closet and grabbed his bagged tuxedo. He brought it back to the bed and set it down beside his suitcase. “Did you hear me?” said Ann, throwing her shoes into another suitcase. “I said you have your head in the sand!”

  Mike walked around the bed to his wife, who was glaring at him, and put his hand on her shoulder. He knew better than to hug her, at this point. “We don’t have to do this,” he said softly. “We’ve had a lovely weekend.”

  Ann’s eyes began to water. “Let’s stay another day,” she said, suddenly smiling. “We could be recklessly spontaneous and stay another day.”

  Mike now leaned forward and gathered her into his arms. “We’ll come again,” he said. “On the way out, we’ll book another weekend.”

  “When?” asked Ann, pushing against his chest and looking at him.

  “Soon,” said Mike.

  One of Ann’s tears spilled over the rim of her eye and down her cheek.

  “I hate that word,” she said. “It means nothing. ‘Let’s get together soon!’ people say when they rarely mean it. ‘I’ll call you soon!’ promise people who’ve got no intention of calling at all. ‘Soon, it will be just the two of us,’ say married men to their mistresses, knowing they will never leave their wives. It’s a hateful, deceitful, overused word that makes me crazy.”

  Mike took his BlackBerry off the bedside table. He looked at his calendar, then looked at Ann. “How does the weekend of March twentieth sound?”

  Ann immediately brightened. “Really? Are you serious?”

  “Completely.”

  “I think the Gallagher Gala is that weekend,” said Ann, “but I don’t care. What shall we do?”

  “Whatever you want to do,” said Mike. “I have only three or four days, so don’t book us too far away.”

  “Do you want to come here again?”

  “I’ll do anything you want to do,” said Mike, kissing his wife on the forehead.

  “I’ll ask around,” said Ann. “You can leave that with me, and I’ll take care of everything.”

  Mike kissed her on the lips. “You always do,” he said.

  At the airport, Ann bought a stack of teen magazines for Lauren and a Stephen King book for Nate. She always brought them a souvenir from wherever she and Mike stayed, but she had forgotten about it over the weekend. In fact, she and Mike hadn’t talked about the children at all. Ann decided that was healthy, a sign that she and Mike had really needed the time away to focus on each other. She also bought a large, skim milk latte, with a half shot of sugar-free chocolate syrup and a half shot of sugar-free caramel syrup and a black coffee for Mike. “I don’t know how you can drink that,” said Ann, holding out the foam cup to her husband, “when you could be drinking this.”

  “Because I’m a boy,” said Mike, folding the Wall Street Journal in half and setting it down on the vacant seat next to him to accept the coffee, “and you’re a girl.”

  “That I am,” said Ann, sitting down beside him.

  Mike looked at his watch. “Well, in five hours we’ll be home.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “I like going home,” said Mike. “I like unpacking my bags and sitting in my study. I’m at ease there.”

  “Of course you like sitting in your study,” said Ann, cupping her hands around the latte. “That’s where your computer is.”

  “I’ll grant you that,” said Mike. “It’s nice to work at home.”

  “Not after you’ve put in twelve hours at the office,” said Ann. “That’s not nice, that’s obsessed.”

  “And who would you rather have running the company?”

  Ann put her hand on Mike’s knee. “No one,” she said. “You’re the best big boss there is. It’s just hard on me sometimes.”

  Mike laughed. “You poor millionairess.”

  Ann smiled at him. “It’s not always about money.”

  “Really?” asked Mike, arching his eyebrows. “What then?”

  Ann thought a moment and took a long drink from her cup. “Never mind,” she said. “It is about money.”

  Mike kissed her forehead and then returned to the newspaper.

  The reality of going home hit Ann again as t
hey sat in their lounge chairs on the jet. She didn’t feel in control of the decision to go home, even though she’d booked the flight with Mike’s secretary for that very day. Nothing but a stack of unread newspapers and unpaid bills awaited them at home, so what was the big rush? After that came the phone calls mandated by the messages left in her absence, and the gargantuan grocery list for Emma. Lauren had probably polished off her bottled water and 100-calorie pack stash. Ann knew that before long, she would be so successfully reimmersed into her home life that she would barely remember the soft hands of the massage therapist or the state-of-the-art fitness room with a view of the San Francisco Bay. “Where’s Jenna?” Ann asked Mike.

  “Doing whatever flight attendants do, I guess.”

  “Ring for her, will you?” said Ann. “I want a drink.”

  “I thought you weren’t drinking today.”

  “Oh Mike, that was hours ago,” said Ann, looking out her window. “You’re not going to hold me to that, are you?”

  “No,” said Mike, putting his BlackBerry back into his pocket. “I won’t hold you to that. I will, however, hold you to your bet.”

  “What bet?”

  “You know very well what bet.”

  The blow job. Oh God, she had forgotten all about the blow job.

  “Well?” asked Mike.

  It would take five minutes, Ann told herself. “I’ll have some pinot,” she said.

  Mike smiled at her. “Coming right up.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Nate opened his swollen eyes and rolled over to look at the clock. It was five in the afternoon and the pain in his head from that morning showed little sign of diminishing. He sat on the edge of his bed and rubbed his face. When he felt ready to stand, he lifted himself off the mattress, slowly walked into his bathroom, and took three Advil from the bottle on the counter. This was his third trip to the bottle that day, but the ibuprofen had still not delivered on its promise. In fact, Nate knew from experience that nothing would help except heavy, greasy food and the passing of time. Tomorrow morning—he told himself as he swallowed the medication—it would be as if the party never happened.

  He walked down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he found his grandmother stirring something on the stove. He winked at her, even though she had woken him at nine o’clock that morning to clean out the garage. After that, she sent him to the grocery store with a long list of items, and after that, she told him he needed to spend a couple of hours with his grandfather. Cleaning out the garage, she told him, was penance for throwing up all over the front hall. That had been the most disagreeable thing she’d had to clean up in years. Going to the grocery store was a favor. As she had cleaned up after him, he would do something nice for her. And visiting with his grandfather was an act of kindness. It was important, she told Nate, to think beyond oneself. The people who dictated the morals and ethics of today’s society didn’t do enough of that.

  Nate complied with his grandmother’s wishes, mostly because he really did feel bad about barfing all over everything and then passing out. He still couldn’t figure out why he puked. He drank five, maybe six beers. And while that was a good amount, it certainly wasn’t enough to blindside him. He couldn’t even remember how he got home. Jenny must have driven him because she was with him when he got sick, but he had no idea how he got from Steve’s basement to his front hall.

  Cleaning the garage was a piece of cake because his dad was compulsive about keeping things in order. The bright red Lamborghini sat under a protective cover in the third bay, and the Aston Martin followed suit in bay four. Why his father owned two incredibly cool and expensive cars mystified Nate. Mike took them out only three or four times a year. The rest of the time, they just sat there. Occasionally, his father took a male party guest into the garage for a cigar and a peek at them, but that was that. Still, nothing could be close to them—no bikes, no skateboards, no power scooters, no flower baskets, nothing. To that end, Mike had painted lines on the floor, between which four unused bikes leaned on their kickstands. He had also installed shelves, which he numbered, that held everything else, from the gardener’s tools to the outdoor Christmas lights. Nate simply checked the master list on the garage wall to see that everything was in its place—which it was, as usual—then picked up the broom and pushed a thin layer of dust and dirt out the second bay door.

  His trip to the grocery store turned out to be more enjoyable than he thought. He walked a cart up and down the aisles at a leisurely pace, checking out the products that lined the shelves like brightly colored paper box soldiers. Everything looked so good. The background music was a little lame, but the atmosphere was relaxed, soothing even. No one seemed rushed, except a couple of mothers with young, crying children. They scurried through the aisles like they were in a reality show race, throwing cans and boxes into their carts and shoving fish-shaped crackers into their toddlers’ pudgy hands. When he heard them coming, Nate simply wheeled his cart to one side, letting them roar past him. And then it was peaceful again. After he bought everything on his grandmother’s list, he bought a few things with his own money—chocolate-covered pretzels, Smartfood popcorn, and a six-pack of orange pop—which he decided to store in his bedroom for his occasional nocturnal hunger attacks.

  When he had unpacked and put away the groceries and his treats, his grandmother thanked him, and reminded him of his final obligation: a visit with his grandfather. Selma, Eileen said, had been with him all weekend and could most likely use a little fresh air. Eileen didn’t care what Nate and Sam did—they could watch TV, have a snack, read the newspaper—but she expected Nate to spend two hours with him. After that, Eileen said Nate could take a nap. Selma, who had been filled in on the plan, grabbed her coat from the closet when Nate knocked on the guesthouse door. She put her finger to her lips. “He’s sleeping,” she whispered as she opened the door.

  “Perfect,” said Nate, who thought he might get his nap early.

  “There are some chocolate chip cookies on the counter,” she said, easing her coat over her shoulders. “They’re your grandfather’s favorite.”

  “Mine, too,” said Nate, taking off his jacket and hanging it on the hanger that had just held Selma’s.

  “You’ll be here for a couple of hours?” she asked, looking at her watch.

  “That’s the plan,” said Nate.

  “Have fun,” she said on her way out.

  When Nate heard the click of the latch, he turned from the door and walked into the living room. “That,” he said, flopping down on the couch and putting a pillow under his head, “should not be a problem.” He took the remote control from the coffee table and clicked through several stations: movie, shopping channel, cooking, weather, movie, movie, Spanish channel. He settled on golf, even though he thought the game was a huge waste of time and nothing close to a real sport like football. What he loved about it was listening to the whispering commentators; they made him sleepier than Mrs. Annon’s English class lectures. He woke with a start to find his grandfather standing over him.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Sam.

  “I’m here for a visit,” said Nate, sitting up. “I guess I fell asleep.”

  “I do a lot of that,” said Sam.

  “I’m still tired,” said Nate, yawning and looking up at Sam. “Do you want to sleep some more?”

  “I’d love to,” said Sam, shuffling back toward the bedroom, “but there’s no time for that. We have to be at the airport in an hour.”

  Oh shit, thought Nate. “What airport?” he called, getting off the couch and following Sam into the bedroom, where a small canvas suitcase with leather trim was sitting on the bed. The only things in it were a toothbrush, three pairs of black socks, and a book about space travel.

  “The airport we always go to,” said Sam. “I’m almost packed. How about you?”

  Nate looked at Sam and knew he was serious. “It won’t take me long to pack. I just have to confirm the flight first.”

&nbs
p; “Good thinking, young man,” said Sam. “Do you have the number?”

  “Oh yes,” said Nate. “It’s in my head.” Nate walked into the kitchen and sat down in the chair next to the phone. He dialed the 800 number of Columbia House and listened to the recording. When prompted, he punched in his membership number and ordered three DVDs. When Sam called, “Is it on time?” from the other room, Nate grabbed a pad and pencil from the counter and wrote down a bogus flight number. He also wrote the words FLIGHT CANCELLED—TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES, which he showed to Sam, who had made his way across the living room carpet onto the tile floor in the kitchen and was now standing at his side. Nate hung up the phone.

  “Technical difficulties?” asked Sam. “What kind of excuse is that?”

  “I guess it’s a pretty good one when it comes to planes,” said Nate. “You wouldn’t want to get on a faulty airliner.”

  “I don’t think there’s any such thing,” said Sam, batting the air with one hand. “It’s a conspiracy, son. The government is so concerned now with the comings and goings of normal citizens that, I think, it randomly cancels commercial airline flights.”

  “I had no idea,” said Nate.

  “Most people don’t,” said Sam. “It’s a well-kept secret. Did they say when the next flight was scheduled to go?”

  “No,” said Nate, jerking his head to the side to move his bangs off his face. “They said nothing about that.”

  “It figures,” said Sam dejectedly. “The inconvenience to John Q. Public means nothing whatsoever to the United States of America.”

  “How about a cookie?” asked Nate.

  “I’d love one,” said Sam, “but first I’m going to call that airline and give them a piece of my mind.”

  “You can do that,” said Nate. “But if the U.S. government is the culprit, aren’t you simply shooting the messenger?”

  “Good point,” said Sam. “I’ll call the White House.”

  “I think it’s closed on Sunday,” said Nate.