Monarch Beach (3 page)

Sometimes I thought he was just filling his days off. I would leave for New York, and he would kiss me good-bye at the airport and find a new girl to hang out with in Pacific Heights. The week before Labor Day he proved me wrong. It was a Tuesday evening. I had worked all day at the boutique and was in the kitchen nibbling popcorn. My mother was at her book club and Rosemary was upstairs, turning down the beds. I heard a knock at the back door. I went outside and turned the corner toward the front of the house. Andre was sitting on a bench holding three bunches of roses. Beside him were a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

“Pick a bouquet,” he said as I approached.

“Why?”

“One of them holds a prize. A prize for me, but I want you to pick.” He smiled. His green eyes were like emeralds in the evening light. He wore a crisp white shirt, open at the collar, and navy slacks.

“Okay.” I stood uncertainly in front of the roses.

“Pick this one,” Andre said.

I took the bunch of roses he offered. “Why this one?”

“Look inside.”

I undid the tissue paper and found a small red box sitting at the base of the rose stems.

“Open it,” Andre said quietly.

I opened the box. Inside was a white gold ring with a small, square diamond.

“You are my prize, Amanda. Will you marry me?” Andre took my hand, which was shaking, and put the ring on my finger.

“Why do you want to marry me?”

“You only get to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Not why,” Andre told me.

“Before I answer yes or no,” I replied, trying to sound like an adult, “I have to know why. I don’t have a brilliant career. I’m not sexy.”

Andre put his finger on my lips and kept it there till I stopped talking.

“In California I have met a dozen women. They all have breasts out to here”—Andre stuck his hands out in front of him—“and blond hair down to here”—he touched my back—“but they have nothing up here.” He put a finger on my forehead. “You have hair like the Mona Lisa, eyes like a tiger, and up here”—he touched my forehead again—“you are an angel.”

I studied the small diamond on my finger. I looked at Andre, kneeling in front of me like a medieval knight. I wanted to believe he thought I was beautiful, but when I looked in the mirror I saw brown curly hair that frizzed up in the summer. My eyes were green but they were placed too close together, and though I was tall I had a neck like a giraffe.

“But we’re so young. We hardly know each other,” I said, trying another avenue. My whole body wanted to say yes, but somewhere inside me I knew a sophisticated Frenchman wanted more than a twenty-two-year-old virgin.

“Getting to know each other will be an adventure. You make me feel happy, Amanda. You give me something to look forward to when I am working.”

I sighed. He almost had me convinced. I had to bring up the one subject we had ignored: my money. “You know, I’m not really rich. All my money is in trust and I only get an allowance. I don’t see any real money till I’m thirty.”

Andre did not take his eyes off my face. He stayed kneeling and he held on to my hand. He chose his words carefully.

“Amanda, I know you were raised like a princess, and I will not be able to support you like that yet. But one day I will have my own restaurant. I promise I will never ask to borrow money from you, and we will never live on your income.”

We were both silent. I smelled the scent of three dozen roses. My parents had married after six weeks and they lasted twenty-three years.

“Yes,” I said, nodding.

Andre stood up and kissed me. He crushed the roses against my chest and he held my hand so tightly my new ring left an indentation on my finger.

*   *   *

We were married at Thanksgiving in my father’s library. It was too soon after my father’s death to hold a big wedding, and I didn’t want to wait. Since the day Andre proposed, I was a bundle of nerves. Like most girls who stay a virgin into their twenties, I became obsessed with sex. I clung to some romantic notion that we should wait till our honeymoon to really “do it.” Maybe I still thought I wouldn’t live up to Andre’s expectations and he would call off the wedding.

Thanksgiving morning was foggy and drizzly. I wore a simple Jackie O–style wedding dress: white and short with a full skirt. Andre wore a gray suit and a red rose in his lapel. His partner, Eric, was his best man and my best friend from high school, Kate, was my maid of honor. My mother gave me away. She was completely charmed by Andre and pleased that I was starting my own life.

“You and Andre haven’t known each other very long, Amanda, but he seems to make you happy,” she said in my bedroom on the morning of the wedding.

“I’m deliriously happy,” I replied, trying to tame my hair into a bun and slipping small diamond earrings into my ears.

“Deliriously happy doesn’t last,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette. She still smoked a pack a day, but she tried to stop when she was around me.

“You and Dad acted like life was one big party.”

“Your father lived large, but he had a solid backbone.”

“Andre is going to be very successful. The restaurant is doing really well. Dad started small.” I slipped my feet into ballet flats. Andre was tall, but I wanted to be looking up at him when we said our vows.

“You’re right. I’m just playing devil’s advocate. Marriage is a long haul.” She looked in the mirror and smoothed her pink Chanel skirt. She was over sixty but her face was smooth. Only her neck was wrinkled, hidden under a bright Hermès scarf.

“We’ll be great, Mother. I had the best role models.” I hugged her.

She snapped open her bag to find another cigarette. “I’ll go downstairs and see if the caterers are here.”

The ceremony was short, performed by one of my father’s old friends, Judge Hansen. Afterward we popped a bottle of champagne and nibbled salmon and rice balls. The wedding-Thanksgiving lunch was served in the long dining room under crystal chandeliers.

Andre sat at the head of the table, my mother at the other end. I was on Andre’s left, Kate on his right. Andre kept his hand on mine the entire lunch, so I had to eat one-handed. While we waited for the pumpkin pie that was going to be our wedding cake, Andre stood up to make a toast.

“This is my first Thanksgiving. I am so lucky to be welcomed into this family. And Grace”—he nodded to my mother—“I will treat Amanda like this champagne flute: delicate, perfect, and priceless. Thank you for allowing her to be my wife.” He lifted his glass and we all drank.

Later, when I was changing into my going-away outfit, Kate knocked on my door.

“What do you think?” I asked. Kate and I had known each other since grade school.

“A little corny,” she said, pulling off her heels and lying down on my bed.

“What do you mean?” I frowned.

“I like Andre,” she said carefully, releasing her short blond hair from its ponytail holder. “He’s just a little clichéd.”

“Well, thanks.” I sat down on the bed next to Kate.

“He’s just sooo romantic. So French.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. I hope it lasts.”

“You’re jealous.” I laughed. “You want someone to shower you with rose petals.”

“I’m fine being single. Sorry, I wasn’t trying to be nasty.”

“I forgive you. It is my wedding day,” I said. I closed the overnight bag that held my La Perla negligee. “And tonight is my wedding night.”

“Maybe you should have had the wedding night first,” Kate giggled.

I threw a silk pillow at her. “Maybe I should have made you catch the bouquet.”

*   *   *

We checked in to the Mark Hopkins on top of Nob Hill. I felt electric shocks run up my spine when the concierge welcomed us as Mr. and Mrs. Blick. I wore a taupe Eileen Fisher skirt, a Donna Karan silk bodysuit, and camel-colored Prada flats. I had straightened my hair and it lay in silky layers over my shoulders. I looked like a confident San Francisco twenty-something. But as Andre and I stood in the elevator, climbing to the twenty-third floor, I felt like a little girl going to her first ballet class. Andre placed his hand on the small of my back. I was too nervous to make polite conversation with the bellboy. I pretended to search my Michael Kors clutch for some imaginary item until we arrived on our floor.

While Andre inspected the room I stood by the window, hoping the familiar view of San Francisco Bay would steady my nerves. I watched the ferry leave its wake in the gray water, and I studied the Golden Gate Bridge. I took a deep breath and turned to face Andre.

“So, Mrs. Blick, may I pour you some champagne?” Andre held my shoulders and kissed me slowly.

“I think I had enough champagne at lunch,” I replied.

“Then let’s get out of these clothes, yes?” he asked. He unzipped my skirt and slipped off my bodysuit without waiting for my response. Then he took my pantyhose and rolled them off my legs. He took my hand and guided me to the bed.

“I am the luckiest man,” he said when we were lying naked facing each other. I had never seen Andre completely naked. His skin was olive and completely smooth. His arms had rows of small muscles from years of working in a kitchen. His stomach was flat and he had a smattering of black hair over his chest. Every time he touched me I felt an electric shock.

He moved slowly, touching my hands, my stomach, my breasts. He planted little kisses up and down my spine. He pulled my hair to one side and covered my neck with his mouth. I thought, how did I end up in bed with this Roman god? Me, who had known the same skinny boys all through grade school and high school, who had not been on a real date since senior prom?

Andre’s kisses grew deeper. I kissed him back and placed my hands tentatively on his chest. Andre climbed on top of me, covering his body with mine. We began moving together. I tried to give in to just feeling and follow him. He kept moving, stroking my hair and murmuring my name. When he finally shuddered to a stop, groaning softly and rolling off me, I moved to the side of the bed and lay perfectly still. I waited till I was sure he was sleeping and then I turned my head and looked at him. I studied his curly black hair and his long black eyelashes. I followed his long legs wrapped up in the sheets. I closed my eyes, and I thought at that moment nothing else mattered. The world outside the big picture window did not exist. I was complete.

*   *   *

I got up from the bench and stretched my legs. I thought maybe if I did some yoga, looking straight at the mountain, I could ease the pain that was squeezing my chest. I tried standing in a Half Moon and clearing my mind of unwelcome thoughts. Andre and Ursula danced before my eyes like hand puppets at the fair. I conjured up Max’s face, his blue eyes that were just like my father’s, but that made me start crying again. I relaxed the Half Moon and slumped back on the bench. It was easier just to hate him.

*   *   *

I remembered our first year of marriage when I was Andre’s willing sex slave. We rented an apartment in Cow Hollow and my mother decorated it for us as her wedding present. It had a tiny kitchen, a small living room, and a bathroom with a shower and no tub. But the bedroom was large enough for a king-sized bed, and it had a window with a view of the bay. Andre laughed at me and called me his little trollop because I would wait up for him till he closed the restaurant. I met him in bed so we didn’t waste time eating or talking about our day. I just wanted him between the sheets, as fast as possible.

“You are not really American. American girls do not like sex like you,” Andre said after we had been married a month. We were sitting in bed at noon. I brought him orange juice and croissants and the newspaper.

“How many American girls did you know?” I teased him.

“I have no memory of anyone before you,” he said seriously. I didn’t press him. If he claimed he had forgotten all his past girlfriends, I wasn’t going to argue. I was too busy enjoying the present to worry about the past. I didn’t think much about the future either. My days were full. I had everything I wanted.

*   *   *

In our second year of marriage two things happened that changed our delicious routine: Andre had a falling-out with his partner, and I got pregnant. It was just after Christmas and I had a nasty cold that turned into walking pneumonia. I was given a course of antibiotics and told to stay in bed. With nothing else to do, and the restaurant closed for the holidays, we made love three times a day. The antibiotics canceled out the Pill, and by February I realized my period was late.

I panicked. Andre and I never argued because I never voiced an opinion that was different from his. I bought my clothes and books with my allowance so I wasn’t even a drain on his income. I confided in Kate that I was pregnant and afraid to tell Andre.

“What are you afraid of? He’s the one who knocked you up.” It was a Thursday afternoon. Andre was at work and Kate arrived from the spa in her workout clothes.

“We’re so young and Andre works so hard. He’s at the restaurant almost every night. Now he’ll come home to a screaming baby instead of a sexy wife.”

“Amanda, you have to stop being scared of your husband. He works hard because he wants to. Having a baby won’t cramp his style,” Kate said, taking a banana from the fruit bowl.

“What do you mean, what ‘style’?”

Kate was silent while she ate her banana. “Nothing. Just I’m sure your mom will help out with the baby. She’ll be in stitches over having a grandchild.”

“I don’t know why you don’t like Andre.” I was feeling bloated and grumpy.

“I like Andre, but you treat him like a god. He won the jackpot when he married you.”

“Andre and I don’t talk about money. I don’t come into my inheritance till I’m thirty, Kate.” I narrowed my eyes.

“Just tell him you’re pregnant.” She threw the banana skin in the garbage.

*   *   *

I told Andre I was pregnant on Saturday. Andre and Eric got in a huge fight on Sunday. When he came home early on Sunday night, and told me he quit, somehow I thought it was my fault.

“You can’t quit, it’s your restaurant,” I said. We were lying on our bed and I was rubbing his back. He had come home, flung off his clothes, and thrown himself spread-eagled on the bed.