Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis (31 page)

She takes in my black satin sheath dress. “Very sophisticated.”

“Do you really mean old?”

My daughter laughs. “I mean age appropriate.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment … I guess.”

“Hey,” Sam says, “do you think people will throw like, manure at us or something because we’re not wearing hemp?”

“No,” I assure her. “This is the type of crowd that prefers to throw money.”

Retrieving my purse and car keys, we move toward the front door. “Did you call Dad?” Sam asks, casually.

I pause. “No. Why? Was I supposed to?”

She rolls her eyes. “I told you on Wednesday that he wanted you to call him.”

“Well, I’ll see him tonight,” I say, continuing to the door and opening it. “You invited him, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, following me outside. “But he wasn’t sure he could come.”

Locking the door behind me, I follow my daughter down the steps. “Does he have other plans tonight?”

“You know how he is,” she says, walking gingerly in her heels to the car.

I give a derisive snort as I get into the driver’s seat. I do know how Trent is. Since our split last winter, he’s vacillated between attentiveness and neediness. He’d been angry at first when I refused to let him move back into the house. But after a few weeks his rage seemed to dissipate and he launched a campaign to get back into my good books. Behind his back I called it Operation Lasagna.

Practically every time Sam came home from his apartment she was carrying a casserole or a pot roast. There was always a note taped to the lid, something like:

Lucy,

Reheat this lasagna in the oven at 350.

Hope it will keep my girls warm on this chilly night.

Trent

I appreciated the food. With my business gaining speed, I was only slightly better in the kitchen than I’d been when I worked on
Cody’s Way
. But the notes always felt a little manipulative to me. It was true—sometimes the nights were cold and lonely. But I was also enjoying the extra space in the bed, and being lulled to sleep by the rain instead of being kept awake by Trent’s incessant snoring. And I liked putting a chick flick on in my room and inviting Sam to watch and fall asleep with me. Of course I missed my husband sometimes. I missed his presence, his companionship, and his cooking. That didn’t mean I was ready for him to move back home.

When his crusade didn’t produce the results he’d hoped for, the casseroles had stopped coming. In the last couple of months Trent seems to have adopted the role of poor, ostracized martyr. Sam and I continually try to include him in family gettogethers. We’ve invited him to movies, twice, and over for Thanksgiving dinner, but he always refuses. “I don’t want to intrude,” he says, or “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Lucy.”

“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” I am forced to reassure him. “You’re still a part of this family.”

“So, you won’t be inviting a date or anything?” he’s sniffed.

“What? No!” Eventually, Sam is forced to step in and convince him that his presence is truly desired and we’re not just including him out of pity. When he does arrive, I always get the feeling he’s doing me some sort of favor.

I’m not sure what prompted this childish behavior. When I served him with the separation agreement, I explained that it was designed to protect both of our interests, and that it didn’t necessarily mean divorce was imminent. He’d seemed to accept that, at the time. But shortly afterward he got all weird and hyper-sensitive. It’s as though he can’t accept us being together in anything other than the traditional sense. I guess it’s hard for him to understand that I have different needs now. I don’t want to go back to that stagnant, conventional marriage. I can’t! Maybe having sex with him was a bad idea?

I hadn’t meant to give him false hope. And it was only a few times. But I’m a red-blooded woman in the prime of her life. I have
needs
. And I still find Trent very attractive. The first time it had been great—comfortable yet still new, somehow. And there’s something reassuring about making love to a man who’s spent eighteen years studying your body. There was no need to worry about a couple of gray pubic hairs. (I’d spent twenty minutes with the tweezers before I’d attempted to seduce Wynn.) And I knew Trent wouldn’t be disappointed when the push-up bra came off and he was faced with the reality of my breasts. That night, I realized that sex with Wynn Felker, as thrilling as it may have been, wouldn’t have been nearly as satisfying. Trent knew my body and I knew his. The sex was intimate, effortless, and wonderful.

The second time we made love was great too. But the third time Trent got all emotional when it was over. He said he couldn’t keep doing this if he didn’t know where he stood. I got flustered and tried to explain it to him, but I couldn’t find the words. I ended up using a space analogy—we were all planets in the same orbit, and though we were sometimes miles apart and moved at different speeds, we were still held together by a gravitational force. This seemed to upset him more.

I pull the Forerunner up to the hotel entrance and hand the keys to the valet. Why not splash out tonight? This is a really big deal for Sam and me—seeing all our hard work showcased at such an exciting event. If Trent can’t be here to support us, then that says a lot about our future. Sam and I made the effort. I secured a third invitation and Sam called to invite him. We continually try to include him in these special events, and he continues to act like he needs more.

But maybe Trent’s feelings are justified? Maybe he’s too traditional to give me the kind of relationship I’m asking for? I want freedom and space and time for me. He wants a key to the house and our undying devotion. If I can’t give him that, maybe I should just let him go?

I push these thoughts from my mind as my daughter and I enter the elegant, carpeted lobby. “This is so cool,”Sam says, her voice gleeful but hushed.

“I know,” I whisper. Taking her arm, we follow the signs leading us up the stairs to the Pacific Ballroom. A vestibule is set up where our invitations are whisked away and our coats hung up. “Uh …” I hesitate before proceeding. “I have my husband’s invitation here. I’m not sure if he’s coming but … Could I leave it with you?”

“I’ll take care of it.” An efficient blond woman with a reassuring smile snatches the piece of paper from me.

Inside, the opulent ballroom is seething with people. Guests mingle, champagne flutes in hand, as liveried servers sashay expertly between them. In the center of the room I spy the runway set up for the impending fashion show. I feel a flutter of excitement. Sam and I meander our way through the crowd as she whispers a running dialogue in my ear.

“Oh my god! There’s that guy from the news! You know, the kind of good-looking guy? … And there’s Richard Dean Anderson!”

“Who?”

“General Jack O’Neill from
Stargate
.”

“Right … He’ll always be MacGyver to me.”

“And there’s the Attorney General!”

I look at her, shocked.

“What?” she says, her tone defensive. “I’m not a complete airhead, you know.”

Putting my arm around her, I give her a squeeze. “I know.”

She points conspicuously this time. “There’s Sarah-Louise’s mom and dad.” We make a beeline for their familiar faces.

I feel a twinge of something uncomfortable as I greet Hope and Mike. It’s not jealousy exactly, but seeing them standing there as a couple makes me long for that comfort and security. Sam is a great date. She’s an integral part of ReTotes and I wanted to share this evening with her. But a small part of me still wishes I was holding my husband’s arm. Of course, I can’t forget that both Trent and Mike are less than ideal husbands, but then … I guess everyone makes mistakes. Everyone except maybe Hope …

“Is Sarah-Louise here?” Sam asks Hope.

“No, honey. She’s really wrapped up in this paper she’s writing about the evolution of capitalism.”

“I guess you’ll just have to hang out with us old fogies,” Mike says to Sam. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Pop only,” I say as they prepare to head to the bar.

Mike rolls his eyes. “Like I was going to get her a dirty martini.” Sam snaps her fingers with faux chagrin.

“I saw Camille here,” Hope informs me. My two friends are on much better terms now that Hope is working with me. “She was popping backstage to check on the fashion show. Her friend is the producer.”

“Maybe I should go back there?” I say. “Just to make sure they’ve got all the bags coordinated with the outfits.”

“They’ve got people for that,” Hope replies. “We’re here to enjoy the show. They’ve even got front-row seats saved for us.”

“That’s great. Sam is so excited.”

“Will Trent be coming?” As always, there’s something a little hopeful mixed with something a little disapproving in her voice. Hope seems to think that the only thing keeping my family from a joyous reunion is me. Well, I guess she’s right in a way. But I’m not inviting Trent back just for the sake of appearances. I stopped caring about that kind of thing around the time I was featured under the “Cougar Attack” headline.

I shrug. “We invited him. And I know it would mean a lot to Sam if he showed up.”

“What about you?” Hope says, fixing me with an intense stare.

For some reason, I hear myself stammering. “W-well, obviously it would be nice to know that he supports my business, but I don’t expect … I mean, he’s had a hard time respecting my boundaries and maybe he’s uncomfortable, you know, being here with me.”

“He shouldn’t be.”

“Yeah, I know, but he’s been acting weird lately. I think he’s pulling away.”

“And do you want that?”

I know she means well, but now is not the time for a mini therapy session. Besides, I don’t really know how I’d respond. No, I don’t want him to pull away. But I’m beginning to understand that what I’m offering him might not be enough to keep him hanging around. Instead, I say, “Hey look! There’s Miranda, a props buyer I used to work with.” Rather desperately, I wave Miranda over.

Hope and I chat with Miranda and a few other film industry acquaintances. When Hope is engaged in another conversation, Miranda says quietly, “So … we’ve got this new lighting director who just moved up from L.A. I thought you two might hit it off?”

“Thanks for thinking of me but … I’m not interested.”

“Are you sure?” Miranda says. “He’s cute.”

Just then Camille rushes up to us, looking ravishing in winter white. She kisses my cheek.

“I was just backstage and the bags look fucking awesome,” she assures me.

“Well, that’s the look we were going for,” I say, “fucking awesome.”

Camille leans closer to me. “Have you seen Wynn Felker here?”

My stomach lurches. Oh god. It’s possible that Sam’s feelings of anger toward her former crush have mellowed over time. It’s just as possible that they haven’t. The subject never comes up, so I have no way of knowing.

“Why? Is he here?”

“I don’t know,” Camille says. “I just thought he might be. Richard Dean Anderson is here.”

Miranda places a calming hand on my forearm. “He’s not here,” she assures me. “One of my friends is a D.O.P. on
Cody’s Way
. They’re in Miami shooting his spring break getaway.”

I breathe a sigh of relief, just as Mike and Sam return. My daughter has a cranberry soda that I unobtrusively sniff for alcohol.

Camille looks at her watch. “We should sit. The show will be starting in about ten minutes.”

Our group moves slowly toward the runway and the assembled chairs. The first two rows have folded paper cards on them: Reserved. I find five seats in the front row inscribed with “ReTotes.” Hope and Mike take the first two, leaving the other three vacant. Sam and I sit down, the empty chair conspicuous between us.

I lean over to my daughter. “I can’t wait to see your designs on the catwalk.”

She nods and looks distractedly over her shoulder. I know she’s searching for her dad.

“Honey,” I begin carefully. I don’t want to upset her right now. I don’t want this evening to be tinged with more adult drama. But I feel the need to explain Trent’s absence. Sam should know that this isn’t about her. “I think it’s hard for your dad to be around me right now. Our relationship has gotten kind of complicated lately, so … if he doesn’t show up tonight, I’m afraid it’s because of me.”

Sam takes a sip of her drink. “Whatevs,” she mutters.

We sit silently, waiting for the show to begin. A curtain moves on the stage and I think I catch a glimpse of Goldie Hawn. I lean over to tell Sam. Of course, to her, Goldie Hawn is nothing but Kate Hudson’s mother, but she does love spotting celebrities.

As I turn toward my daughter, I catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. Trent is lingering at the back of the crowd, looking handsome in his dark suit and tie. He has a glass in his hand—rye and Coke, probably. He likes a stiff drink when he’s feeling out of place. As Trent scans the crowd, I hold my hand in the air, waving to capture his attention. When he sees me, I beckon him over.

“Hey Dad,” Sam says, jumping up to kiss Trent’s cheek. “I’m so glad you came.”

“Are you kidding?” Trent says. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

“Hey,” I say, looking up at him from my seat.

“Hey.” It’s a little awkward, a little cool.

I lift the reserved card off the seat beside me. “Sit down.”I pat the chair. “I saved you a seat.”

Trent sits and, almost without thinking, gives my knee a squeeze. “You look beautiful,”he murmurs, before turning away to talk to Sam. It’s an intimate gesture, and his words send a little thrill through me. I look over at him, but he’s listening attentively as Sam chatters in his ear.

I reach over and give his knee a deliberate squeeze. He turns to me, a bemused smile on his lips. Our eyes meet and we share a lingering look. “Thanks,” I say softly, “for being here.”

He gives my hand a pat. The intimacy is gone, and his touch is nothing more than friendly and supportive. “Thanks for including me.”

Goldie Hawn walks out on stage and I join the applause of the crowd. In a matter of moments, my bags will be carried down this glamorous runway. My daughter’s designs will be showcased for all these people to see. The business that I started, all on my own, is an unqualified success. And Trent is here, sitting between Sam and me, and supporting us. I pause my clapping for just a moment to wipe a small tear from the corner of my eye.