Barefoot Beach (30 page)

We then fast-forwarded to Pete heading to the shower and a wiped-out Margo collapsing back to sleep. When she woke he was gone, having left a note on her pillow. “Tomorrow. Same time, same station.”

“That's when I panicked.” She popped a truffle pacifier into her mouth and said between sucks, “I'm thinking the girlfriend can be no more than thirty, thirty-five at a stretch, and if I have any chance of holding my own, and Pete's, it's time to step up my game. But how?”

I could feel a grand “uh-oh” coming on.

“Then the lightbulb. Pete takes these vitamins called Super Silver designed for fifty-plussers. Okay, so I'm three years short of fifty, but I thought I'd give myself a head start. I read the dosage info. One pill a day. If one is good, two should be better, especially the first day, like a booster shot to get me started. Drastic times call for drastic measures, right?”

She waited for a sign of agreement, didn't get it, and pressed on. “I read the label. The ingredients were only vitamins and serotonin in megadoses. That seemed harmless enough. So I shook two out”—she took a pregnant pause—“and got not Super Silver. I got Super Low-Down Dirty Liar, Super Cheating SOB.” Chocolate spittle gathered in the corners of her mouth.

She opened her hand, finger by finger, for dramatic effect. On the cushion of her palm rested two diamond-shaped blue pills. “Read 'em and weep. You read. I weep.”

I read the stamped name aloud, “Pfizer.”

“Wrong side. Flip it over.”

“Viagra.”

The word hung in the air like a red flag. Margo gave off an about-to-charge snort. “Vi-freaking-agra. Sneaky Pete's been hiding Viagra in his vitamin bottle.”

I sighed, waited a beat to choose my words, then responded, “It's one of the best-selling drugs in the country. Many men his age resort—”

“Noo-no-no. Didn't I tell you Dr. Fleckleman warned Pete that taking those erectile-dysfunction meds was dangerous with his low blood pressure? He could die from it.” Her voice lowered to a Madame Frankenstein timbre. “
I
almost did.”

“Died? You? From Pete's taking Viagra?”

“Not by injection. But yes, I was still groggy, and if I hadn't spotted the name, I would have swallowed those two blue pills thinking they were vitamins. Then I could have come up with a hard-on who knows where. Like my tongue maybe. Or my nipples. Or I could have died from a massive erection of the left ventricle.”

“Margo . . . ,” I began again, knowing it was as futile as standing on the tracks in front of a bullet train. She was picking up speed, heading for the crazy station.

Or maybe not so crazy. The image of Pete swinging the bag with the bauble he'd just bought for Dana Montagne and the goofy-cum-smug smiles they'd exchanged while leaving the jeweler's popped into my memory bank. I tried to cash it out. It wasn't going anywhere. I tried to rationalize it away. “But he's still having sex with you. That doesn't add up.”

“It adds up to brilliant. Have sex with me and he deflects any suspicion of another woman. He hides the Viagra so I'll think it's me who's the big turn-on. But the pecker-picker-upper is really to keep the mistress happy. The tramp he's risking his life for.”

This was the time I could have commented that his hiding the Viagra might have had to do with male pride, not wanting his wife to believe he needed pharmaceutical assistance in the bedroom. Or maybe I should have reported what I'd seen in Baltimore.

I was Margo's best friend. Didn't best friends support and protect? But I wasn't certain beyond an unreasonable doubt. Coward that I was, I went for common sense, which never struck a chord with Margo.

I said, “The time has come to talk to your husband. You're past due.”

“The hell it is. The hell I am. We've been through that before, you and your Sister Loretta pious advice. And I've been through it with Pete and his fake explanations. Talk is cheap, Nora. Divorce is expensive. What's Maryland's state motto?
Fatti maschii, parole femine.
Men act, women talk. Well, screw the founding fathers. Am I not an actor? Actors act.”

“Oh God, what did you do, Margo?”

“Calm yourself. Nothing that will land me in jail on a felony charge. I just put things back where they belong. The Viagra is currently stashed in my jewelry vault. The bottle in the medicine cabinet now holds its original contents, Super Silver. And wouldn't I love to see Pete's face when he sleepwalks into our bathroom to fortify himself with his little blue pill and finds little white ones that promise nothing more than a bunch of nutrients for, as the label says, ‘the most important parts of you' and not what he thinks is his most important part.”

“He'll know you did it.”

“Damn right he will. I want him to. Let him bring it up. I'm dying to hear his bullshit explanation.” At which point her chocolate high crashed and her gaze turned bittersweet. “Look, Pete's going to leave me. I don't know the for-who or the when, but my gut and his weird behavior tell me
he's already halfway out the door. I can't stop him, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let him go quietly. I've got a plan.”

Of course she did.

“First I'm going to hire the best private detective on the East Coast to follow my wandering husband. I'll give the guy the key to the Baltimore house and have him check the medicine cabinets for Pete's extracurricular Viagra. I'll have him take photos of the happy couple in compromising positions. Then, after I stack up the evidence, I'll get the most low-down lawyer, the most vicious matrimonial shark money can buy, and when the time is ripe, there will be an attack that will make
Jaws
look like feeding time at the National Aquarium. If this marriage is going to be shipwrecked, count on only one survivor.” She stabbed herself in the chest with a perfectly manicured fingernail. “One. Yours truly.
Moi.
The Margonator.”

Then she toppled forward into my arms and sobbed like a baby.

She pulled herself together by opening night of
The King and I
. After the breakdown on the bed, after my “show must go on, get your ass to rehearsal” lecture, she'd hauled herself to the theater, where, according to Emine, who'd heard about it from a stunned Merry, Margo had taken out her pent-up fury on the cast, whipping them into shape with no mercy. The result was a flawless, flamboyant production that commanded three curtain calls and the lead actress summoning “our brilliant New York director, Margo Wirth Manolis,” to the stage for a bow. She dipped her head once in modest acknowledgment. Then, with the applause still ringing, she darted offstage left and (this next generous gesture was as much Margo as her self-indulgence, her need for attention; this was what had always tipped the scales in our friendship and my loyalty to her) returned tugging a dazed Merry. I knew the girl had painted scenery, scoured for props, done the cast's makeup, and most of all kept Margo on track as she threatened to go off her emotional rails.

Margo had even gifted her with a new Android to replace the old cell phone Adnan had handed down to his daughter. This one had all the bells and whistles so Merry could record rehearsal glitches for Margo's review, send her photos of scenery construction in progress, and remain available during the boring hours playing Plants vs. Zombies and Candy Crush, among the apps Jack, playing big brother, had loaded for her.

Meryem Haydar was credited in the program as “Assistant to the Director.” Now she joined the cast in an ensemble hand-linked bow, grinning on the upsweep, looking like the kid next door. No black lipstick, no blue hair, just jeans, a white shirt, and that exultant smile.

Emine, sitting next to me third-row center, swiped her eyes. “She's a good woman, Margo. Merry will never forget this night. I will never forget this night. Her father have should been here.”

He should have,
I thought. He should have seen what the troupe thought of Merry and how hard she'd worked. He should have heard the applause for her.

In the theater lobby, I said to Em, “Margo tells me Merry's a great help and everyone loves her. So I assume she's doing much better.”

“Yes.
Maşallah, nazar değmesin.
May the evil eye not touch her. Except there are problems with Adnan. A storm between them yesterday.”

My heart sank.

“Ramadan starts in a few days and we received an invitation from the Turkish-American Association of Maryland to their Iftar dinner, which breaks the daily fast. An important event. A United States senator will be there. Other influential people, Turkish people in business. A family had canceled so they only just called us. The problem is the dinner is a week from this Saturday and Merry was counting on being here for the final performance. Especially for the cast party afterward. But Adnan is insisting she go with us. So of course they clashed.”

Emine replayed the scene for me. Merry had been standing next to
her brother, her fists clenched, as Adnan announced the invitation and added, “To attend such an event honors our family.”

“Family means except for me, right?” Merry had said. “Because you and I made a deal.”

“This was unexpected, but of course you and Erol must come.”

“Yeah, well, you can't do this. I'm assistant to the director. After the last performance, they strike the set. I have to be at the theater to help.”

Adnan jabbed the air near her, but without touching, “You have to be where I tell you to be.”

“What? No.” She reared back. “I can't believe this. You don't get it, do you? You do know we're not in Turkey anymore, right? This is America. Here men and women are created equal.”

“But you are not a woman, Meryem. You are a child,
my
child, and you will obey me. You are part of our family and you will go to the Iftar.”

Merry curled one side of her lip in disgust. “So you're like some dictator or something? Well, we'll see.” She was seething. “And you.” She'd whirled on Em. “You let him get away with all this crap. You never stand up to him.” Her pupils flared. “You're both so . . .” She'd stomped from the room, rumbling an avalanche of unsaid curses.

“A daughter talks like that to her father,” Adnan had muttered after her. “This is what they do in America?”

When Emine tried to pour soothing waters on the fire, he switched into Turkish. “Don't take her side on this one. Do not cross me.”

Em said to me now, “He and I haven't spoken since. He's furious. She's furious, and I'm caught in the middle.”

“You think she'll go with you Saturday night?”

She shrugged and pulled her shawl around her shoulders as if she were cold. We were in the street, walking through a hot, thickly humid night, heading for our cars. “You saw her face on the stage. She loves this so much. I don't know what she'll do. Or him.” She gave me a wan smile.
“There is a Turkish saying that translates, ‘If you spit downward, it hits the beard; if you spit upward it hits the mustache.' In other words, either way, the situation sucks, as my fresh-mouthed daughter would say. I can tell you this: if she defies him, there is no telling what he'll do. He said he will take steps. That's the phrase he used, ‘take steps.'”

“Which means?”

“Only God knows. Pulling her away from the theater. Sending her off to boarding school in the fall. Shipping her to Istanbul. All would be disaster.” Her voice quavered when she repeated, “Disaster. And I don't know how to stop it.”

The following Tuesday night I was in front of the room demonstrating the salsa with Bobby when Scott waltzed in. He was seven minutes late according to the clock on the far wall and I had just emerged from a double turn into a low dip—that was Bobby showing off—when I saw him walk through the door. Maybe the spin had left me dizzy, but I jerked so hard in surprise that Bobby looked down at me and said, “You okay, honey?”

“Don't drop me,” I said. And if
that
wasn't Freudian.

Scott and I danced only one dance together that night. As the class scrambled for partners, I didn't approach him and he made no move toward me. Our pairing was accidental. Or that's the way it seemed, anyway, but he was an expert at military strategy, so maybe not. When everyone sorted themselves out for the final foxtrot, the two of us were left for each other, with each other. Of course, the music had to be something so romantic, so ironic—“Let's Face the Music and Dance”—that I broke out in a sweat flash even before he touched his fingertips to mine.

I moved robotically through the first chorus. During the second, he spun me out, unwinding me gently, slowly, and in perfect rhythm. On the return, I felt the flat of his hand trembling against my waist. I heard him clear his throat twice before he said in a hushed voice, “Uh, Nora, I was wondering if you had time tomorrow, maybe we could grab lunch.”

My brain said,
Wait, what? I thought you'd gone MIA on me.
You've been out of sight for more than two weeks and suddenly you're reporting for . . . Wait, what?

“Lunch?” I repeated stupidly.

He nodded. The look he cast me was appraising, doubtful.

I forced myself to take a calming breath, then hummed something that must have come through as assent, because he went on. “I was thinking someplace outdoors where I could bring Sarge along, if that's okay. I'd like to keep an eye on him for the next few days. He tore his paw on a scallop shell. That kind of wound can go septic and he's on meds.”

Dog talk. We were back on safe territory. “Of course, bring him.”

“And someplace quiet, so we can hear ourselves talk.”

Aha, talk. I managed to string together a few words myself. “How about my deck?” I asked, thinking if this was the official announcement of the end of us, he could take those steps down and away in seconds without looking back and I could head to the TV for reruns of
Rhoda
. But maybe what I'd thought was the evil eye had been God getting ready to wink at me.

“Your deck would be great. I'll pick up a couple of crab cakes at Loonies. Around one, okay?” He smiled. It was a little wiggly at the edges, but enough to get my heart pumping. God, I'd missed him.

He showed up at my front door at precisely thirteen hundred hours military time with a loaded shopping bag and a limping canine companion.

“Hey, fella. You doing okay?” It had been a while, but the shepherd seemed to remember me. His greeting was a happy growl and a rough-tongued lick.

“He's doing better,” Scott said. “The antibiotics are kicking in.”

Sarge limped the perimeter of the deck twice, sniffing, then settled under the table in an umbrella-shaded spot where I'd set up a bowl filled with ice water. “Thanks for that,” Scott said as he unpacked a bag with
the Loonies logo, a six-pack of beer sweating condensation and two chilled bottles of wine, one red, one white.

“I didn't know what you'd want, or even if you drink in the daytime, but
I'm
sure as hell going to.”

“The cabernet,” I said. “Fill her up.”

We ate and drank our way through small talk. About Morty Felcher back on his feet doing a spirited mambo the night before. About Scott's daughter starting to teach in the fall. We talked about Scott's work. He had prospects for a job in his specialty, something to do with defense strategy. It looked like a good fit. He could work from home, wherever home was, and he wanted it not to be Tuckahoe. “In winter anyway. This town hibernates in the off-season and by February it's terminally depressing. The job is near D.C. and there are tons of condos in the area. So we'll see. They haven't made me a solid offer yet, but I've been back twice, I've got top security clearance, and they get credit for hiring a disabled vet, so I figure I've got a shot.”

I didn't tell him about my offer. I was still thinking it through, still on the fence. I'd surveyed my two closest friends. Each had responded in character. Em had said only, “You need to weigh very carefully the pros and the cons.”

Margo was unfamiliar with carefully. She'd said, “What decision? Snap it up! It's fabulous.”

I'd replied, “The job is. I'm not sure about Tess. You should have heard her on the phone with one of the physicians. Hell on wheels. This woman is tough to get along with.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Nora, if you can get along with me, you can get along with anyone.”

“You're not my boss.”

“Wanna bet?”

There had been no follow-up from National Care. Typical Tess. She wasn't going to make love to me. She'd done as much foreplay as she intended to. The top-level salary. Summers on my terms. Her telling me I
was worth it. Now it was up to me. Take it or leave it. I was still inclined to leave it, because no one in her right mind would drive from Baltimore to Bethesda and back twice a day four times a week. I'd lose my mind doing that. But I was hoping I could adjust my Baltimore schedule. If I could jam my sessions at the psych hospital into a single day and negotiate something similar at the VA medical center, then it might work out. I had a call in to Josh at Poplar Grove. He was on vacation with his wife in Tuscany, so that conversation was on hold.

When I tugged my focus back from the brink of my own life, Scott was pouring himself a second glass of wine. “You?” He held up the bottle to refill my glass.

“Not yet,” I said. I was saving it for when I might really need it. For when my lieutenant colonel would bark, “Dis-missed!” or murmur, “Fall in.”

“Okay.” He seemed to be talking to himself more than to me, getting ready to plunge, like a diver on the high board. I had a feeling his toes were gripping the edge. “I'm probably going to feed you TMI, but after my failure to launch in the bedroom I owe that to you.”

That last took a lot. He was nervously rolling the wine cork between his palms.

“You don't owe me a thing, Scott. No one's running a tab here.”

“Copy that and correct it. I owe it to myself to tell you. But please, shut me up when you want to run screaming from the table.”

And so it came to pass that I heard about his marriage.

We didn't go back to the begats. We started at Exodus. Bunny's from her marriage vows.

“I'm not saying it's easy on the spouse left behind during a military deployment,” Scott said. “It's hell. I assume some responsibility for all this, or the U.S. Army does. My absences, the multiple missions. She had the kids to raise by herself; then her mom was diagnosed. Belinda had a lot to manage. On the other hand, she didn't take advantage of the programs set up for dependents. You know, she's never been a people person.”

I barely kept my eyes from rolling on that one.

Bunny had managed to get through her husband's first deployment without falling into another man's bed. Or at least she never confessed to screwing around during Scott's initial round in Iraq. But after he returned from the second one, this time minus a leg, she seemed to be a different person.
An alternative dearly to be wished for,
I thought. Scott hadn't seen it that way.

“She was cold, distant.” To my raised eyebrow, he added, “More than usual. It was like she was disappointed in me for getting blown up. But, hey, your husband is away for two years and comes back half a man—”

“That's crazy!” I couldn't help myself. I smacked the glass table, startling Sarge underneath, who yelped and shot to standing.

“Whoa, woman. Easy there, boy.” One of Scott's hands slid over to cover mine; the other reached down to calm the dog. “I didn't say that's what I am. But if you hear it over and over, you come to believe it. Bunny”—he'd slipped into the vernacular—“doesn't fight fair. Never did. And she wanted out. She had other interests. She'd hooked up with a radio DJ in Miami. It had been going on for more than a year by the time I got back. And it didn't stop even after that. She made some trips to Florida supposedly to see a high school girlfriend who was going through a tough time. More lies. The so-called friend was the guy she'd met at Foolaround .com, Moe of
Joe and Moe's Drive-Time Team for Music and Mayhem
, WTON-1050 on your AM dial.”

“You had no idea?” I motioned for a refill of my wine glass.

“Not at the time. She played the dutiful wife in public. We made the front page of the
Coast Post
, a story in the
Baltimore
Sun
, a piece on WJX, the happy couple. Local hero, Silver Star for bravery under fire, back from the war minus a leg, doting wife. She loved people thinking that, loved the press while it lasted, but it was all a sham. The truth was, the marriage was ashes. It was dead cold in that bedroom. Not me. Well, not at first. In the beginning, I was eager, willing, and, I swear to you, Nora,
able. But someone tells you what she told me, in some ways that's worse than any IED. It eats away at you, and after a while . . .” He shrugged and leaned back in his seat. “So now you know.” He scanned my face and asked, “Too much, too soon?”

“No. I'm glad you trusted me enough to bring me in.”

“I do. Trust you. I'm beginning to trust myself again too. I got to a point where I decided—you helped me decide—hell no to who she said I was. That's not me. And I'm tired of being alone in the dark. Tired of stumbling around with all the lights out. Tired of wanting you but hiding out from you. So . . .” He stretched his left leg in front of him and pulled his chinos up from the cuff. “Here I am. No, dammit, my leg is not me. Here
it
is. In full freakin' sunlight.”

I bent over. I felt the smooth space-age silicone and touched the seamless sleeve where the prosthesis met the stump. “It's a beauty,” I said.

He laughed. “My shrink got it right. I've got a shrink now, by the way, and my appointment was why I missed class Tuesday. I'm two weeks in and last session we talked about you. He said if I told you, you'd say something like that. You really are an amazing woman, Nora.”

He steered me up then, one finger under my chin and, when I smiled, drew me to him. He kissed me. Hard and soft. I longed to explore other parts of him, hard and soft. Did this mean we were back on track to who knew where, who knew when? All I knew is it was better than it had ever been because there were no secrets between us. After I came up for air I said, “You're pretty amazing yourself.”

“I'm working on it. But I've got to tell you, it might take time.”

To that I said what soldiers' women have been saying since the Trojan War, probably since the first man ever went off to battle. “I'll wait for you.”