I lie staring at the ceiling for half an hour trying to figure out how I can help Kate. Or when I can get the ceiling painted. Maybe I can ask Berni who did her little clouds. As long as I'm wide awake I get out of bed and pad down to the study where several sample wedding invitations are spread across the desk, exactly where they've been sitting for three weeks. The standard engraved one is too stuffy. The hand-printed calligraphy is impossible to decipher. I toss them all into the wastebasket. Maybe I can create my own. Even better, make it a project and declare next Wednesday Design a Wedding Invitation Day at Spence. Or maybe that sends the wrong message to eleven-year-old girls, who should be thinking about becoming world leaders, not wives.
Better to focus on someone else's problems than your own. I put my mind back to solving Kate's married-man crisis, but I need help with this one. I slip out of the house, and walk through the quiet streets of Hadley Farms over to Berni's. I know she and the babies will be awake at this hour because it's feeding time. Then again, it's always feeding time. I knock softly on the door, and Berni doesn't seem at all surprised to see me. She's up, so why wouldn't the rest of the world be?
“Kate needs our help,” I say, skipping past hello and getting right to the point. “She has an addiction.”
Berni seems unfazed. “Who doesn't have an addiction? With a client list like I used to have, I've seen 'em all. Let's see, there's alcohol, cocaine, heroin, Percoset, sex, shopping and chocolate.” She reels off the classics as casually as she would this week's grocery list. “What's Kate's problem?”
“Owen,” I say.
“That's all?” Berni asks. She sounds disappointed. It's hard to impress a woman who's visited so many clients at Betty Ford that the clinic named a bench after her.
While we've been talking, Berni has been holding Baby B over her shoulder and patting his back. Now he lets out a contented burp and Berni breaks into a big smile.
“My smart boy. My wonderful boy.” She rubs his back happily. “Wasn't that the best burp you ever heard?” she asks me.
“Good burp, but not the best burp,” I say critically, as if I'm judging an Olympic competition. High marks for length of emission, but points off for volume. Most new moms think their baby's every burp qualifies for a gold medal. But aren't we setting unrealistic expectations if a baby grows up thinking that whenever he burps or poops, the world is going to cheer? Let the kid try either of those things in public when he's six and see what happens.
“So a substance abuse problem. Kate. Owen. It's simple,” says Berni, sounding professional as she puts down Baby B. “We need to do an intervention.”
It doesn't take her more than a couple of minutes to clue me in on what she has in mind. Asking Berni what to do about an addiction is as efficient as asking Anna Wintour where to buy sunglasses. She's done it a million times and knows exactly how to proceed.
“Let's head over to Kate right now,” she says. “No time like the pres-ent.”
“What about the babies?” I ask.
“The baby nurse is here. And Aidan. And my mother.” Berni snaps her fingers. “My mother. Erica should come with us. As many people as possible should confront Kate. The whole idea of an intervention is to make the addict realize that everyone in the world sees her problem.”
I'm starting to feel a little bad about turning Kate into the poster girl for addiction. Just because she won't leave Owen doesn't mean she's the new River Phoenix. Still, Berni seems to know what she's doing. And it's starting to sound like a party. Maybe I should call ahead to make sure Kate has enough food.
Berni grabs her half-asleep mother, who thought she was here for a visit with her grandchildren but has now been enlisted into the Leave Owen Now army. We get into the car to race over to Kate's new upstate house and storm the barricades. Or in this case, the white picket fence.
“Surprise is everything,” says Berni, as we get to Kate's front door and she expertly picks the lock. Something else she learned from one of her clients? But even Berni's no match for Kate's alarm system. Loud wails and flashing lights scream into the dawn, along with a deep, masculine recorded voice. “The perimeter has been breached. Police have been called. Leave the premises immediately.” You'd think we were breaking into the National Gallery.
With the alarms and warnings ringing, Kate dashes down the staircase in a panic, and when she sees us, she looks relieved. Why she came down if she thought she was interrupting a crime in progress is beyond me. A bell goes off, and everyone's first impulse is to run right into the arms of the robber.
“What are you doing here?” Kate asks, turning off the alarm system. And then looking alarmed herself as the three of us circle around her.
“It's an intervention, dear,” says Erica kindly. “I'm not sure what that means. But you do have a lovely place here. Thank you for having us.”
Kate, who hadn't intended to have us at all, looks baffled and turns to Berni for help.
“We're here to make you see the truth,” says Berni.
“I can't handle the truth,” says Kate flippantly. “I still refuse to believe that butter is bad for you.”
“You have to handle this,” I say adamantly. “We're here to get you to break up with Owen. He's bad for you. It's never going to work. You have to leave him.”
Kate ducks away from our circle and stamps into the living room. “Is that what this is about?” she asks incredulously.
Before we have a chance to answer, three policemen walk through the still open door, hands poised on their pistols.
“Dr. Steele, are you okay? We got a call from the security company.” He eyes us suspiciously. “These people bothering you?”
Kate spins around, looks at us, and then putting her hands on her hips turns histrionically to the policeman. “Yes, yes!” she says. “Definitely bothering me. They're up to no good.”
“Are you filing a complaint?” asks one of the other cops, pulling out a pad.
“I certainly am,” says Kate, flouncing over to lean against her grand piano. Which in her case, is best used for posing, not playing. I once heard her pound out the “Minute Waltz” when we were kids and it felt like it took an hour.
Berni goes over and puts her arm around the shortest policeman's shoulder. “Honey, it's just a domestic dispute,” she says. “We'll take care of it.” She artfully steers him toward the door and the other two follow without even a backward glance. These guys are less effective than Patrolman Pete. And not nearly as cute. I kind of wish we'd set off the smoke detector. Firemen are always adorable.
“I need a drink,” says Erica, once they're gone.
“Coffee? Tea? Milk?” asks Kate, happier to play hostess than hostage.
“A nice Chardonnay would be good,” says Erica.
At seven-fifteen in the morning? We could be focusing on the wrong addict here.
Kate comes back with an open bottle of white wine, and in deference to the hour, four juice glasses. She fills each glass to the brim and hands them out. When Kate sits down, we each grab a chair to gather around her.
“We're here because we love you,” says Berni, kicking off our intervention.
“And because we're worried about you and want to help,” I add importantly.
“So let's start with the fact that you're dating a married man,” says Berni.
“You are?” asks Erica, who up until now hasn't known the details and is suddenly interested. She sits up, takes a sip of her wine and gives a knowing smile. “Aren't married men the best? I had one myself. They're so passionate. So attentive. Shower you with presents.” She settles back into her chair, lost in her own memories.
Berni whips around. “Mom, you?” she asks. “I thought you'd never been with anybody but Daddy.”
“This was before I met your father,” Erica says. “Why would I have told you?”
“Why would you tell me now?” Berni asks.
I clear my throat. “We can discuss this another time,” I suggest. “But thank you for sharing, Erica.”
“It's been a pleasure. I'm glad you appreciate it,” she says, patting me on the knee. “We can only help dear Kate if we're honest.”
Kate swigs down her wine and refills her glass.
“All right, I'll be honest,” says Berni, turning back to Kate and getting straight to the point. “You're being an idiot. Owen's a shit. I personally can't bear the sight of him.”
“You've never seen him,” Kate fires back.
“None of your friends get to see him,” I say. “Including you half the time. Owen only gets together with you when it fits into his schedule.”
“Which is fine, because I'm very busy myself,” says Kate.
“Right,” I retort. “Busy waiting in Tortola. Waiting by the phone. Waiting for him to introduce you to Billy Crystal. Waiting in this house for him to come by for a quickie.”
Berni said I had to be confrontational if we're going to bring Kate to her senses, but I might have gone too far. There's a palpable silence in the room. Erica rushes in to fill the void.
“Nothing wrong with a quickie,” she says cheerfully. “Some mornings when Doug's in the mood and I'm not, I tell him just to go ahead anyway. And you know what? Makes us both feel better for the whole day.”
Berni looks thoroughly horrified. “Doug?” she asks.
Erica smiles. “Dear, I loved your father very much. But he's been gone five years. He would have wanted me happy, don't you think?”
“No,” says Berni.
“You're wrong. Sex was very important for both of us. And what I've learned is that a quickie today will allow a man to be patient and loving tomorrow.”
We all stare at her. It's encouraging to know that at sixty-four, she's still having great sex. I make a mental note to ask her out to lunch next week. Who knew that feisty Erica Davis was the Dr. Ruth of Poughkeepsie?
“Okay,” says Berni, turning back to Kate. “We've established that Owen's a shit. That he's ruining your life. You spend too much time waiting for him. And my mother's a slut.”
“You've only hit it right on one of those,” says Kate haughtily.
“Which one?” asks Erica, more curious than worried about whether she's being branded with a big red S. Even a designer one.
Kate uncorks a second bottle of wine and pours us all another round. “I do spend too much time waiting for Owen,” she admits.
“Good start,” says Berni approvingly. She pulls out her pad. “That'll be number one on the list of three things you hate about Owen. Now tell me two more.”
Kate takes a long time. “I can't think of any,” she says.
“Sure you can,” I say helpfully. “The sandals.”
“He stopped wearing those the minute I asked,” she says. “He does everything I ask.”
“Except leave his wife,” I say.
“Oh, they never leave,” says Erica, who obviously knows. Because we now know that Erica knows everything. “Is that what you were hoping for?”
“Not at the beginning,” Kate says, squirming in her chair and pouring herself yet another refill. This is more than I've seen her drink in the last twenty years. If she wasn't an addict before, the intervention could turn her into one. “But now that Owen and I are so close, I guess it hurts that we can't be together all the time.”
“And you'll never be together all the time,” I say. “I know you're in love and I'll even believe that he is, but he's never leaving. It's just going to get more and more painful. Worse than waiting for the Birkin bag.”
“Supposed to be arriving next week,” says Kate. She takes a little nip of wine straight from the bottle.
“Promises, promises,” I say.
Suddenly, Kate bursts into tears. “I don't know why I'm crying,” she says. “I never cry.”
“You never drink, either,” I tell her, putting my arm around her comfortingly.
“He's the most wonderful man I've ever been with,” Kate says. “A little of him is better than a lot of most guys. At least I thought it was. I'm still convinced it's a good theory. But dammit, I hadn't planned on getting so emotional about him.”
Now we all get emotional. Erica dabs at her eyes with a tissue and even Berni sniffles a little. Hard to bring Kate to this point, but it's been worth it. Maybe Kate's hurting a little today, but we've saved her years of heartache.
Kate stands up and looks pointedly at each of us to make her important declaration. “I have to give Owen up because he's never leaving his wife,” she says. “He's never leaving.”
“Never leaving,” says Berni firmly.
“Never leaving,” I chime in.
“Never leaving,” agrees Erica.
We all rush over to Kate and in a moment we're all crying and hugging. In the midst of our group embrace, none of us hears the front door fling open.
Owen bursts into our gathering, holding a big bouquet of flowers and a Tumi suitcase. He charges over with a cocky smile on his face.
“I've done it,” he says pushing us all aside to give Kate the only hug she really wants. “Thank you for never losing faith in me. I've done it, darling. I've left my wife.”
Chapter ELEVEN
AS FAR AS INTERVENTIONS GO,
I'd have to say ours was a bust. But upbeat Berni has a different take.
“We did it!” she boasts as we drive home. “We changed her life!”
“We did?” I ask.
“Maybe not the change we planned on,” Berni concedes. “But after this morning Kate's whole life has turned around. A success is a success.”
No wonder Berni was such a hit in Hollywood. She's mastered the art of spin-doctoring. I decide to give it a whirl.
“If Owen's moving in with Kate, maybe now she'll get more than quickies,” I say, going for the only positive thing I can think of. I was wrong that married men don't leave. But there's a bigger problem. Owen was fine for a free-spirited dalliance, but how will he be to live with day-to-day? From all evidence, he doesn't seem like good husband material.
“I think we've had a wonderful morning,” chimes in Erica from the backseat.
“I bet you can't wait to call Doug and tell him all about it,” says Berni. Who may need her own intervention after learning that her mother gets more than a glass of warm milk every night before bed.
Berni drops me off and I see the door fling open while I'm still fumbling for my key. Skylar appears and watches me come up the front steps, her hands on her hips and her head cocked to one side.
“Your boyfriend's here,” she tells me in a challenging tone. “Just because my mother's sleeping with my father again doesn't mean you should be dating.”
I open my mouth but I hardly know which part of this multiple bombshell to address first.
“Which boyfriend?” I blurt.
“A cute one and he's waiting for you,” Skylar says. She eyes me with a little more interest than usual. “How many boyfriends do you have?”
I brush past her to see who could possibly have arrived. In the living room I find Dylan happily jumping up and down. And next to him, running a Lego truck across the Aubusson carpet, is James.
“Hi, Mommy, look what we built!” Dylan calls out excitedly. “Come see!”
From where I'm standing I can see quite enough. One trip to the zoo and James thinks the welcome mat is out? Time for me to set some ground rules. But before I have a chance to say anything, James unfolds his long legs and stands up abashedly.
“Hi, Sara,” he says. “I didn't mean to barge in. I was just dropping off a present for Dylan.” He points to the brand new Legoâthe one Dylan's been dying for and I decided not to buy until his birthday.
“He was going to leave but I asked him to stay,” says Skylar, who's traipsed in behind me. “Everyone's always telling me I should have better manners.”
And what a time for her to follow advice. Although I'm thinking that her real motive was stirring up trouble, not earning an etiquette award.
“Really, this wasn't my plan,” James confirms.
“Best I know you've never had a plan,” I say, a bit too tartly.
James nods solemnly. “I'm not going to argue that, believe me.”
From his spot on the carpet, surrounded by a pile of still unconnected red, blue and yellow plastic Lego blocks, Dylan calls out to James, “I want to build the spaceship next. Can you help me?”
James looks uncertainly at me, and I take in Dylan's bright, expectant face. I'm pretty good at making up games to play with him. And Bradford's been a champ about teaching Dyl to kick a soccer ball. But Bradford's not homeâwhich is becoming a constant refrainâand eager James is right here.
“Go ahead,” I say to James with a half shrug.
Skylar, standing in the doorway, looks disappointed. “That's all that's going to happen?” she asks. “Aren't you going to get mad at him? Or me? Or somebody?”
“Nope,” I say, clearly foiling her plans for an earthquake in the middle of the living room. Or at least a few tremors.
“Fine,” she says, stomping out of the room. “I'll go watch some ice melt. More exciting than anything else going on in this house. Not like my other house.”
Skylar's probably hoping I'll run after her to ask how exciting the days are at Mimi's house. Or the nights. And whether any of them really do involve Bradford. But I'm not going to buy into it. If Skylar's looking this hard for attention, maybe I should see if Berni can get her a screen test.
For once Dylan's paying no attention to Skylar's theatrics. He and James have already snapped together half a space station and Dylan's intensely sorting through piles of blocks looking for the next piece they need. “Anybody seen a red with six holes?” he calls out. Without thinking, I kneel down to join him in his search. Before I know it the three of us are working as a team. James is reading the instructions, I'm finding the pieces and Dylan is gleefully constructing his rocket and feeling like a junior astronaut. He's so animated that he seems like he's already in orbit.
I slip off to the kitchen and bring back a tray of lemonade and my own homemade chocolate chunk cookies.
“Delicious,” says James, nibbling his second. “I remember what a good baker you are.”
“She cooks on TV. Mom's famous!” pipes up Dylan, my own personal publicist.
“I'm not surprised,” James says admiringly. “You have a really special mom.” Dylan grabs his empty lemonade glass and then runs into the kitchen for a refill.
The room is suddenly silent. James fiddles idly with some of the Lego blocks, still strewn around the room. “You're doing well for yourself, Sara,” he says without quite meeting my eye. “I always knew you were going to be okay. But it's good to see just how awesome you are.”
I feel that usual flash of anger at James. “You knew I was going to be okay?” I ask, my voice tightening. “Is that what you told yourself when you decided not to come back? Sara will be okay? Everything will be okay?”
“I don't know what I told myself,” he says quietly. “It seems like so long ago. Amazing how you can screw up your life. You think you're doing something free and wonderful and then one day you wake up and you realize you've blown everything.”
Despite myself, I feel a pang of understanding. What I'd always loved best about James was his wild spirit that took me out of my own tightly-wound world. I was cautious and James wanted adventure. He swept me along and made our world exciting. But I guess it really is true that what attracts you most to someone is exactly what you most end up hating.
I stand up and kick some of the scattered Legos into a pile. I've spent eight years hating James. And that's enough. A part of me will never forgive him, but it's time to move on.
“I'll never really understand what you did, or why,” I tell him. “But we can't change the past. All we can hope is that we do better in the future.”
“That's what I'm trying for,” James says. “Do you think you can forgive me?”
“No, but we can get past that,” I say with a weak smile. “It feels good not to hate you.”
James stands up and puts his hands on my shoulders. “It feels good to be back,” he says, locking eyes with me. He's standing a little too close for my comfort.
And apparently for Bradford's comfort, as well.
“What's going on here?” asks Bradford, coming into the living room and tossing down his briefcase.
James takes his hands off my shoulders and steps back, guiltily.
“Who are you?” asks Bradford.
I move farther apart from my ex-husband to make the proper introductions. “Bradford, James, James, Bradford,” I say nodding from one to the other and running their names together until it sounds like a fancy hotel in Washington, the James Bradford. Or in London, the Bradford James.
“So this is James,” Bradford says, offering a curt hello but not reaching out to shake his hand. I'm guessing walking in on our cozy little makeup scene has upset him. But sure enough, being a man, he focuses his distress on something he thinks he can actually change.
“What are all these Legos doing here?” he asks, looking around the messy room.
I bend down to scoop some of the pieces back into the box. “We were playing,” I say.
“That's why we have a playroom,” says Bradfordârather sternly, it occurs to me. “Everything in its place.”
I don't look over at my freewheeling ex-husband, whose only rule used to be anything goes. Place for everything? James always insisted that for every time we had sex in the bedroom, we had to have sex twice somewhere else. Preferably on the same day.
Hearing slightly tense voices, Skylar prances back into the room expectantly. Maybe there'll finally be some natural disasters. Or one she can cause.
“He's been here for a while,” she tells her dad, pointing a finger at James. “He told me that he used to be married to Sara. They used to sleep together.”
“I didn't tell you that,” says James, taken aback.
“But you
were
married to Sara,” says Bradford.
“A long time ago,” I interject, trying to be reasonable. “But nobody told anybody anything about us sleeping together.”
“Sometimes I sleep with mommy,” says Dylan, innocently entering the conversation.
Finally Bradford laughs. “Me, too,” he says, coming over to put his arm around me. I give him a light kiss, glad to have everyone else in the room see us together.
But Skylar's not happy about it.
“Well, I sleep alone,” she says petulantly, finding a whole new way to stir up trouble. “And frankly, I'm the only person in the whole ninth grade who does.”
Bradford and I just gawk at her, but James turns and gives Skylar a little smile. “Don't bet on it,” James says. “What you have to remember about the ninth grade is that ninety percent of what a third of the kids tell you is fifty percent untrue.”
Skylar tilts her head to one side, as if she's trying to absorb this nugget of information. Since she got a C in math, I'm figuring this tricky equation will keep her busy for a while. And hopefully keep her away from sex even longer.
I sneak a look at my watch and realize I have a new problem. Despite the fact that my fiancé's in a snit, my ex-husband's camped in the living room, and Dylan's rocketing around like he's halfway to Mars, I have to make a hasty exit. “Guess what,” I say brightly, figuring I'll be cheerful rather than apologetic. “Kirk and I are shooting another show this afternoon. So while I'd love to stay, I have to get into the city.”
“On a Saturday?” Bradford asks, removing his arm from around my waist. “You're working?”
“We have to shoot on Saturday because I'm at school all week,” I reply.
“Looks like you were working today, too,” James says, pointedly staring at Bradford's briefcase and instinctively coming to my defense.
“I came home early,” Bradford says. Then realizing he doesn't owe James an explanation, he says to me, “I was hoping we could do something together this afternoon.”
“I'm sorry about this afternoon, but we have all day tomorrow,” I tell him.
Bradford pauses. “Actually I don't,” he says a little awkwardly.
“Ha ha, no he doesn't!” Skylar gloats, finally triumphant. “My mom got theater tickets for the three of us. Another birthday present for me. Just the three of us. You're not coming.”
“Good!” says Dylan, going over to James again. “That means you can visit again tomorrow! Do you know how to play Sim City?”
Bradford nailed it that night when he said we have complicated lives. Right now, I'd need a scorecard to know who's up, who's down, and who's miffed. Though the one thing that's clear is that we're all feeling a little strained. And nobody seems to be winning.
“Listen, I really do have to get going,” I say, looking furtively at my watch again. “Kirk's waiting for me at the studio.”
“That's right, your other boyfriend,” says Skylar, thoroughly pleased with herself. She's having a much better afternoon than she thought she would.
But Bradford has apparently had enough. “I'm going upstairs to change,” he says, putting an end to the proceedings. “See you later, Sara. Have a good shoot.”
I go into the kitchen to collect the props I need for today's show. I'm finally allowed to use the Food Network's mixing bowls, and if I do well today, next week I get a time-share on the Cuisinart. Everything gathered, I head outside to go to the train station. But James is waiting for me by his carâan energy-conserving, environmentally-friendly Toyota hybrid Prius. The same model Jennifer Aniston drives when she's not tooling around the Hollywood Hills in her gas-guzzling SUV.
“Can I give you a lift into the city?” James asks.
“No thanks,” I say, hesitant to get in the car with him. “I'm short on time. I'll take the train.”
“I can get you there faster,” James says. And then he gives me a wry, knowing smile. “Don't worry, I won't go off track. I finally know how to stay on course and end up where I want.”
Okay, I hear him. And I decide to join him. The show starts taping in less than an hour and my prop bag is heavy. “If where you want to get is Ninth Avenue,” I say, “I'm with you. Let's go.”
Â
For today's show, Kirk and I make a key lime pie. Or at least our version of it. After the success of our Chocolate Surprise, we've learned that America loves anything with packaged marshmallows, gooey chocolate, or gumdrops. Preferably all three. So our pie includes a creative crust of Kit Kat bars and a filling healthy with fruit Skittles. Lime ones, of course. As usual, network president Ken Chablis is beside himself with joy. Or maybe he's just on a sugar high.
“You two are brilliant,” says Ken, gobbling down a hefty slice of pie after the shoot. “This crust! Pure genius!”
I've heard there are eight new ways to measure intelligence, but who knew that choosing Kit Kat bars over Snickers was one of them.