Plain Jayne (13 page)

“Perfect,” I say sarcastically. “Only I won’t
be here this weekend. Would you like me to leave the manuscript with Mrs.
Edwards?”

The silence that greets my question is so
complete that I think for a minute that we’ve been disconnected and he never
heard the question at all. Which would be a pity, because I’m pretty proud of
how seamlessly it fit into our conversation.

As I’m about to hang up and wait for him to
call me back, he says, “Shit. Tell me she’s not there.”

“That would be a lie, unfortunately.”

“When did
she
get there? Sonofa… Sally!”
he yells a little bit away from the phone but not enough that it doesn’t hurt
my ear. I hear Sally’s faint response in the background. “Get my wife on the
phone for me right now… No, not my cell phone,
obviously
, since I’m
currently holding that one to my ear; my
desk
phone. Let me know when
you have her.”

“Listen, I don’t want to get in the middle of
anything,” I say, trying to talk as quickly as possible before a call goes
through to Caroline, who’s still right across the hall, dictating an endless
grocery list to Paulette. “I just thought you should know that I’m leaving.”

“Well, where are you going to go?” he asks
hotly and then doesn’t wait for an answer. “When did she get there?”

“About a half hour ago. And I’ll go back to my
friend’s apartment until I find something more… permanent. Or I could go back
to Indianapolis, and we can conduct our business through email and phone.”

At least in Indy, I’ll have my blankie and my
candle, so I know I’ll be able to write. It’s no seaside
mansion
, but
it’s better than Gus’s place. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before, actually.

Unfortunately, I don’t want to go back to
Indiana at all. It’s
not
better than Gus’s place, if I’m being honest
with myself. Not at all. It’s lonely. I know hermits aren’t supposed to feel
lonely, but I didn’t feel a gaping hole in my life when there was no one there.
Now that I’ve had the company of Gus and Paulette, people who seem to
care
about
me, for reasons unknown (although in Paulette’s case, it’s probably more a
matter of her being
paid
to care), I don’t want to go back to my
solitary existence, no matter how comforting the familiar surroundings would be
at first.

How did this get so out of control? I naively
thought that I’d pop into Boston, meet with Mr. Editor, and then my book would
get published, all in the span of a week or two. Okay, maybe not
quite
like
that, but I did think it would be a lot tidier than this.

This is a business trip turned vacation turned
writing retreat turned reality TV show.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he orders firmly.

“Well, I’m not going anywhere today, but she
wants me to leave in the morning,” I explain.

“No. You were there first.”

“It’s her house.”

“Umm… well, legally, maybe. But we had a deal.
SALLY!”

I jerk the phone away from my ear and mouth,
“Ow,” while he asks Sally if Caroline’s on the phone yet and then tells her to
clear his schedule for the rest of the afternoon when she tells him Caroline’s
not answering her phone. I’ve never heard someone actually give the order to
“clear his schedule” before. In real life. Not on TV. It makes me snort back a
giggle.

To me, he says, “I’m on my way. Don’t move.”

“That could get very uncomfortable. Even more
uncomfortable than I already am, stuck in the middle of… whatever this is. My
foot’s already falling asleep in this position.” But when he insists and then
hangs up without a goodbye, I have to admit that a tiny piece of me is glad I
may not have to leave. A big piece of me. As a matter of fact, I’m pinning all
of my hopes on Lucas using his considerable intimidation skills on his wife to
get her to go away. My book kind of depends on it.

Chapter Eleven

Oh, the yelling! It’s been going on for over
an hour now. Paulette and I have shared an entire pot of tea (so much for
sleeping tonight), sitting across the table from each other, mostly avoiding
eye contact, but every once in a while unable to resist wide-eyed looks at each
other in response to what they're saying in the next room. It’s probably not
right to eavesdrop, but since I have a fairly high stake in this, I feel
justified.

Lucas and Caroline, of course, have no idea
we’re in here listening. I was going to wait out in the gazebo, but on my way
through the kitchen to the back door, Paulette snagged my arm. She put a finger
to her lips and pointed to the wooden table, which she had set for tea for two.
Snack and a show. I didn’t protest for a single second. I mean, this is
riveting stuff.

Unfortunately, they haven’t gotten around to
discussing
me
yet.

They’ve been too busy screaming at each other
for things dating back to their engagement. It’s a wonder the two of them ever
got married. And it
was
a mystery why they’re still together, until
Lucas interrupts Caroline in the middle of an old grievance about a broken
gravy boat and says:

“Just… stop it! Stop! None of that has
anything to do with why I’m here!” I can picture him pacing the airy living
room in efficient, long strides. “You’re trying to distract me, but it’s not
going to work.”

“I want you to admit, after all these years,
that you broke that gravy boat—a family heirloom—and then tried to hide it from
me. Or, at the very least you’re protecting one of the help,” she hisses.

The help? I squirm in my chair and fiddle with
the cotton ties on the red and white gingham seat cushion. Those two words seem
to rest between Paulette and me like a racial slur. We’re both doing our best
to ignore it so that we don’t have to acknowledge the subtle hierarchical
differences that exist between even the two of us.

“I’m not going to get into your unhealthy
obsession with possessions in general and that hideous piece of pottery in
specific. Unless you want to talk about this
house
, which I do. Because
we had a deal, Caroline.” As his voice lowers, Paulette and I both lean closer
to the wall that separates the two rooms. I’m practically hanging off the side
of my chair.

“Screw the deal. I changed my mind,” she says,
sounding like a spoiled brat.

He laughs the most unamused laugh I’ve ever
heard. “Too. Bad. If you don’t want to keep up your end of it, then fine. As a
matter of fact, great! I’ll have my lawyer call your lawyer.”

Again, I have to struggle to keep from
laughing out loud at all these TV-script lines creeping into his speech today.

I don’t need to worry about anyone hearing me
laugh, though, because it would be drowned out by the screeching, “Noooo!” that
Caroline lets loose.

Lucas doesn’t change his tone at all. “Yes.
But it’s up to you. It’s an easy fix. I’m perfectly content to continue our
agreement, exactly as we’ve been doing for the past two years. I get this
house; you keep our marriage on paper and in public. It’s simple.”

“You know it’s not simple!” She’s downright
hysterical now, but she may as well be behaving like a rational person, based
on Lucas’ reaction to her.

“Yeah, it is. What’s more important to you?
Using a house
maybe
three weeks out of the year or keeping your parents
and so-called friends in the dark about the end of our marriage? It makes no
difference to me, Caroline.”

If I didn’t think I knew him better, I’d say
he was being
gentle
with her. It almost sounds like he’s reasoning with
a child in the throes of a temper tantrum over choices.
Do you want to go
swimming in the ocean or in the pool? You can’t do both. You have to choose.

When she doesn’t answer him, he says more
forcefully, “Come on! I have a life. And whatever you choose doesn’t affect it
either way, but I’d like to get back to it. You want this house back, then we
draw up the divorce papers. You leave here, I’ll pretend this never happened,
and we go on like before. I’ll see you a few times a year at your parents’
house for Thanksgiving, Christmas, what have you, and I’ll make sure I sign the
tax return and get it in the mail before the deadline each April. It’s not like
I ever want to get married again…”

Now it’s obvious he’s merely talking to fill
the silence while she comes to the decision he’s almost sure will benefit him
the most. It also sounds like he’s reciting something he’s said several times
in the past. I peek at Paulette from the corner of my eye and see that she’s
listening with her mouth hanging open, absent-mindedly rubbing her bottom lip
with the tip of her thumbnail.

“…And I do love this house,” Lucas continues.
“It’s perfect for relaxation in the summer and solitude in the winter. But…
it’s a small price to pay for being rid of you forever… Hmm… Now I’m not sure
which decision I’d prefer you make,” he says, sounding surprised. “No house,
bad; no Caroline, good. House, good; putting up with your bullshit theatrics
for the rest of my life, bad.”

“Fuck you!” she shouts.

Now he laughs. “Uh… no. That was a major
mistake. Moment of weakness not to be repeated… ever. Plus, don’t you have…
people… for that?”

“You… are… the… biggest… dickhead… on the
planet!”

In this moment, I can’t help but sympathize
with Caroline. I know only too well how he can drive someone crazy with his
smugness.

“How can you joke about that?” she asks in a
tortured voice.

“About what?” After a pause, he says, “Oh,
come off it! Surely, you’re not serious.
You
were the one who made such
a big deal about it being wrong. I mean, I was okay with it. It was… well, not
the best I’ve ever had, but it had been a while, so I thought it was… fun. Harmless,
in any case. You went on and on about it being the biggest mistake of your
life, and you weren’t happy until I agreed. You hounded me for a week
afterwards, first apologizing and then begging me to tell you
I
was
sorry. Even though I wasn’t. I mean, we
are
married. We used to do it
all the time—”

“Enough! Oh my God, my nerves are shot!”

I hear the squeak of leather as someone sits
on the sofa, followed shortly after by another squeak.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I’m only joking… you know,
trying to get you to make a decision. Remember how you used to like that?”

“I
never
liked that, Lucas. You know
it’s always made me furious. And don’t touch me.”

“Oh. Well, it’s hard to tell the difference
with you, sometimes. Anyway, what’s it gonna be? I need to know what to tell
Jayne. She’s supposed to be here working, you know.”

The ice is back in Caroline’s voice as she
says, “Oh, yes. Your pet, Jayne.”

“Don’t be an idiot.” More squeaking, and then
his voice comes closer to the kitchen door.

Paulette jumps up and grabs the first thing
she sees (the teapot), carrying it to the sink, where she dumps out the dregs
and makes a big show of looking busy and rinsing it. I remain glued to my
chair, paralyzed by panic at the idea of being caught listening. But he stays
in the other room, apparently standing on the other side of the door while he
explains, “She’s just another writer. And a head case, at that.”

Wow. Now it’s Paulette’s turn to pretend she
didn’t hear anything. Frankly, I’d rather be called “the help” than a “head
case,” no matter how accurate his description is.

“I sent her here to get her out of my hair for
a couple of weeks, and now you’re fucking everything up. As usual.”

“You’ve never let any of your other authors
use the house. Not even the good ones. Why is that, Lucas?” Her patronizing
tone is insufferable. I can only imagine the pounds per square inch of pressure
Lucas is exerting on his jaw. “Don’t try to bullshit me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Darling. Now, be a good
girl and go pack up your things.”

“No. I told you, they’re painting the house in
town. I can’t stay there.”

“Shit, Caroline!” What sounds like a punch
rattles a shelf of collector’s teacups on the wall three feet away from me. “Do
you know how awkward this is for me? I—”

“I don’t care! It’s obvious your precious
Jayne didn’t know you even had a wife, so I’m sure you have some explaining to
do there, but I have bigger things to worry about than that.”

Paulette rejoins me at the table. Twisting a
dish towel between her fingers, she stares intently at the kitchen door as Caroline’s
kitten-heeled shoes click across the wood floor.

Lucas murmurs barely audibly, “As in…?”

Tearfully, and sounding tortured, his wife
answers, “I’m pregnant.”

*****

When Paulette was unable to hold back her bark
of a laugh, and I fumbled the spoon I was mindlessly fingering, the crying came
to an abrupt stop, and the door flew open. The two of us couldn’t have looked
guiltier if we’d been stuffing the silver into a big black bag. I suddenly
remembered how to use my legs, though, and took off with my laptop out the back
door, practically running toward the gazebo, where I should have been the whole
time, anyway. I didn’t even stick around long enough to hear how Paulette
explained herself.