Monarch Beach (7 page)

“Andre is a great actor. He pulled one over on all of us.” Stephanie shrugged.

“But I’m married to him. I should be able to read him.” I dug my fingers into the sand.

“We can sit here all day wallowing in tears or we can think of a plan of action,” Stephanie said.

“Such as?” I gulped.

“We could put hemlock in his wine.”

“I think hemlock went out as a poison with Romeo and Juliet,” I replied.

“Then you think of something.”

I tried. I thought of all kinds of revenge. But revenge took energy and planning. I was wiped out. “I guess I’ll tell him it’s over.”

“Just like that?”

“Stephanie, you just gave me a list of girls’ names longer than Santa Claus’s.”

“I don’t think you’ll get rid of him that easily,” Stephanie said slowly.

“What do you mean?”

“In Europe it’s more accepted for men to forget to keep their pants on. I don’t think he wants out of the marriage. They are all just flings. Work freebies.”

“That’s disgusting,” I said, and shuddered.

“Come on, let’s go inside.” Stephanie stepped out of the sandbox. “It is officially afternoon and you need a drink.”

We went into the library and Stephanie poured me a shot of tequila, and then another. By my fourth shot I was feeling a little better—in a cowboy-about-to-shoot-up-the-bar sort of way. What a morning. I had seen my husband making another woman into a swizzle stick. I used more swear words than I had since high school. I got drunk before afternoon pickup. Then I passed out on Stephanie’s leather love seat.

When I came to, Gisella was standing next to me with a jug of water.

“Where’s Mrs. Chambers?” I asked groggily.

“Mrs. Chambers took the children to pick Max up from school. She said to tell you she be right back.”

“Oh, my head. Do you have any aspirin, Gisella?”

“Yes, Mrs. Blick.”

I was armed with aspirin and tonic water when Max and Zoe and Graham piled through the kitchen door. Max ran straight into the library and hugged me. He was getting so tall—the top of his head was in line with my chest. I breathed in the avocado shampoo mingled with sweat and playground dirt.

“You smell funny, Mommy.” Max squirmed out of my embrace.

“Mrs. Chambers and I had Mexican food for lunch,” I improvised.

“Tacos?” His blue eyes sparkled. Max loved Mexican food.

“Sort of liquid tacos,” I mumbled. My vision was still blurry. I was not an experienced noon drinker.

“Can I have some?” Max asked.

“Ask Gisella to make you a snack. And Zoe wants to show you her new Wii game. She’s in the family room,” Stephanie instructed, coming into the library.

Max disappeared and I sunk back onto the love seat, my “mommy” strength dissipated.

“How are you doing?” Stephanie asked.

“Thanks for picking him up. I have to practice my tequila shots.”

“Practice makes perfect.”

“A rule my husband lives by. What am I going to do?” I groaned.

“What do you want to do?” Stephanie perched on the love seat next to me.

“I love Ross and Max loves his school. But it’s such a small town. No one stays in Ross when they get divorced.” When Ross couples divorced, they moved away. The houses and mortgages were too big for single parents.

“Don’t even think about moving. Max has lived here his whole life. You belong here.”

“But how can I walk by La Petite Maison every day and think about who Andre is screwing now?”

“Andre can move. He can open another restaurant in San Francisco.”

“He loves the restaurant. I think he would rather part with Max than with the restaurant. Obviously he would rather part with me.”

“I told you, I don’t think Andre will want a divorce. In his way he loves you.”

“He has a very odd way of showing it.”

“He’s French, Amanda. You knew that when you married him. Remember that movie
Le Divorce
with Kate Hudson? She went to Paris to visit her sister, and ended up having an affair with a sexy married Frenchman.”

“That’s a movie,” I told her. “They do lots of things in France they don’t do here. They drink their coffee black and they eat dinner after nine p.m. Andre used to give me all that crap about French marrying for life and Americans divorcing too easily. But I don’t believe it.” I shook my head. “Any Frenchwoman who is in love with her husband couldn’t stand knowing he is unfaithful.”

“They say Paris is the city of love,” Stephanie replied.

“Maybe mothers teach their daughters not to marry for love, maybe they arrange marriages to carry on the family name or combine vineyards. The wives take lovers and the husbands keep mistresses and everyone’s happy.” I was on a roll. “You don’t know what it’s like, Stephanie, to see your husband kissing another woman, screwing another woman. You can’t turn your head away from that.”

“I’m not condoning it. I’m just saying Andre may have been brought up differently.”

“We live in America. For the past ten years Andre’s been celebrating July Fourth, not Bastille Day. And Andre knows how I was raised. San Francisco society is very conservative. I went to an all-girls school till eighth grade where we had to wear uniforms. At the boys’ school they wore ties and blazers, and if they saw a Hamlin girl walking down the street in uniform, they weren’t allowed to talk to us.”

“Andre isn’t a private-school boy,” Stephanie replied quietly.

I looked at her as if she was a traitor. “But he knew how I felt about marriage. If he thought it was okay to mess around he wouldn’t have been so secretive. I didn’t hear him come out and say: ‘Amanda, would it be okay if I fucked the waitress on the side, because that is what we do in France?’” I felt all the rage welling up inside me again.

“I get it.” Stephanie put up her hand to stop my diatribe. “I’m just saying if he wanted a divorce he would have asked for one a long time ago. These other women are just foam on his cappuccino. You make him belong, you are the American Dream.”

“That is the most disgusting imagery. Our high school English teacher would flunk you.” I half-smiled.

“I don’t think he’s going to give you up without a fight.”

“I come from a family of fighters. My father fought off cancer for four years.” I couldn’t believe I was having this discussion. Twelve hours ago I thought I was happily married and my main worry was if I sold enough tickets to the Garden Party fund-raiser.

“You need to talk to him. Leave Max here for dinner. Glenn or I will run him home later.”

“I look like warmed-over death.” I studied myself in the gilt antique mirror.

“You’re right, you do. Let’s go up to my bedroom and fix you up. I’ll give you something silk to wear, and douse you with Obsession.”

“It’s three o’clock on a Tuesday,” I protested.

“You can’t be overdressed for telling your husband to fuck off. You need the highest heels I have. To kick him right in the balls.”

*   *   *

An hour later I left Stephanie’s feeling like a new woman. I wore a Carolina Herrera dress that managed to look sexy and sophisticated at the same time.

“You don’t want to look like one of his hussies. You want to show him what he’s missing,” Stephanie said when she picked it out of her closet. It had a floral print and was made of a gauze fabric over an ivory slip. My feet were squeezed into four-inch Manolo heels (Stephanie was one shoe size smaller than me) that made me about the same height as Andre. “You don’t want Andre to look down on you in any way. If we can make you taller than him that would be perfect.”

Stephanie had applied my makeup. She lavished black mascara on my eyelashes and lent me one of her bright red lipsticks. “I know red lipstick isn’t really you. But it makes a statement: ‘Read My Lips.’ He’ll pay attention when you talk.”

I looked at myself in the mirror and smiled at Stephanie. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“I wasn’t as smart as you, or as rich as you. I had to use my feminine wiles to get ahead.” She laughed.

“I wish I had your feminine wiles.”

“You’re going to do great. Knock him dead.” She gave me a hug, sprayed me with perfume, and pushed me out the door.

*   *   *

I walked back to the post office where I had left my car a lifetime ago. The doors were unlocked; my purse was still under the seat. Ross was the safest place in the world, except for tramps who stole your husband. I climbed into the car and drove the two blocks home.

Andre’s car was in the driveway. The restaurant was closed on Tuesdays, so he would have no reason to still be there, unless it was to go another round with Ursula. I took a deep breath, fixed the skirt of my dress, and walked inside.

Andre was standing in the kitchen looking out the window. He had a glass of lemonade in front of him. “You look beautiful.” He kissed my cheek. “School committee meeting?”

“I don’t have meetings on Tuesdays. I leave Tuesdays free for yoga and breakfast at the Lemon Café. Except today the Lemon Café was out of my favorite strawberry muffins. So I thought I would surprise you and we could get breakfast together. But guess who got the surprise? Me! Because it looked like you and Ursula already had breakfast and were working on dessert. Each other.” I got it all out in one breath, before I lost my nerve or took off my shoe and nailed him with the heel.

“Amanda, don’t jump to conclusions.” Andre shook his head as if I were a child.

“What conclusion would you jump to if you found me half-naked with my legs wrapped around another man? Escaping a rabid rat population?”

“We once had a rat in the storage closet,” Andre mused.

“You were fucking her, Andre. You were fucking the chef standing up in broad daylight.”

Andre drank his lemonade. He put his hand on my arm. Usually his touch sent an electric shock through my body. I willed myself not to react. I would not give in to his charm.

“Amanda.” He circled my waist with both hands.

“Andre, I saw you and you saw me.” I pulled away. I was shaking so hard I wanted to sit down, but our kitchen was too narrow for a table and chairs.

“Amanda, I am a fool and I am sorry. Ursula was crying, she was homesick and I was trying to comfort her. She has never been so far from home. We got carried away. It was nothing.”

“You were fucking her! That’s not nothing, that’s everything!” I would have taken off my heel and hit him, but then he would have been taller than me.

“It is nothing. You are everything. It will never happen again.” He pulled me to him and nuzzled my neck. I felt the warmth of his breath and his wonderful smell of cologne and fresh bread. On Tuesdays he baked bread, we ate fresh bread every Tuesday night.

“Has it ever happened before?” I asked carefully, not moving out of his embrace.

He stepped back as if I had physically wounded him. “What do you think? Of course not! She was just homesick. I will fire her immediately. We will advertise for a new chef.”

“You said it’s impossible to find a chef in America who knows how to bake fondue.”

“I will cover all the shifts until we find a replacement. Nothing is more important than you. I’ll find an old ugly chef, one with a hump on her back and a wart on her nose.” He kissed my cheek.

“Andre, I know about all the others; about Bella and Angie, your whole harem. I don’t think even a wart on her nose would stop you. You are a serial adulterer and I want a divorce.”

“What are you talking about?” Andre asked. He was very calm; his green eyes were wide and innocent.

“I’m talking about you using La Petite Maison as a brothel since the day it opened. It is your restaurant, of course, at least sixty percent of it.”

“You are mad, Amanda! Who told you these lies?”

“Stephanie, your silent partner, finally spilled the beans. I am furious with her for not telling me sooner, for letting me be a fool for Max’s whole life!” I could feel the tears start again. I pushed them back. I couldn’t show any weakness or Andre would be on me like a bear with a honey pot.

“She made it up, Amanda. Who do you believe, Stephanie or me?”

“Why would she make it up?”

“She is jealous of you. She has that boring old husband who thinks a fun night is solving a Rubik’s cube.”

“I thought you liked Glenn.”

“I like Glenn, but I don’t have to sleep with him. She’s always wanted to get in my pants. She’s trying to get back at me for rejecting her.” He stroked my hair. For one second I faltered. What if Andre was telling the truth? He started kissing my neck and I closed my eyes. But I flashed on the image of him entwined with Ursula, her tall, lean body pushing against his, his hands on her breasts. I opened my eyes and pulled away.

“This is ridiculous, Andre. I
saw
you. Whether it happened before, dozens of times before, is beside the point. I can’t live with an adulterer. I want you to leave.”

Andre went into the living room and sat down on the low chocolate brown sofa. He kicked off his shoes and stretched his legs. “I don’t want to leave,” he said.

“Well, you can’t stay.” I followed him into the living room feeling like I was an actress on
Days of Our Lives
. I was certainly dressed for the part. Only daytime soap stars wore four-inch Manolos in the afternoon.

“I told you when we got married: In France one stays married for life.”

“Well, we’re not in France, and in America most wives expect their husbands to be faithful—there are a great number of wealthy divorce lawyers to prove it. I want you out of the house.” I sounded much firmer than I felt. My stomach did little flips and my underarms were sweating. But I sounded as calm as General Patton leading his troops.

“I am not leaving our house. Think of what it would do to Max. They are only women, Amanda. You are making too much of this.”

I almost fell off my heels. How could I have lived with a man for ten years who thought having serial affairs was unimportant?

“Monogamy is in the marriage vows. I feel terrible for Max, too, but you should have thought of that before Bella.”

“You know,” Andre said carefully, “this is not your house or my house. Your mother bought this house for Max. Maybe you should ask Max who should leave?”