Live a Little (37 page)

“Raquel,” he murmurs against my cheek.

He pushes my robe apart. The bar stool wobbles, but his grasp on me is firm. I understand why people invent words like “automagically,” because, lo and behold, my legs automagically part and wrap themselves around him. We kiss violently for a while, or it could be minutes. I don’t know. Everything is bright and stark and overclarified, even a little bit ugly, like a sex scene in a French movie aiming to shock. It is, I am fully aware, a perfect good-bye.

“I’m not saying good-bye to you,” he says, nuzzling my ear and neck and lips. The sound of his breath ragged against my face makes me weak. Duke’s palm steals under my cami and around my breast, rough and possessive and deliciously dirty and—do I imagine this?—just a little bit awed. For the first time in memory, I am able to see my ample, prone-to-sagging forty-three-year-old rack through someone else’s eyes, and the view is favorable. Under the patchwork Levi’s, Duke’s crotch is alive and hard. I slide tighter against him, reaching deep for something I didn’t think I wanted to find a moment ago. The jeans give a satisfying leap.

It is, without question, the best kiss I have ever had.

The kiss does something instantaneous and irrevocable to memories of all other kisses. Not only do I recall all of them in a moment of instant, beautifully preserved clarity, but I am, perhaps for the first time ever, able to view them with the tenderness and lack of judgment they deserve. It’s as if I opened a box of See’s Candies, and each one represented a single aspect of myself, from the singularity of dark chocolate to the artless delight of moist caramel. With Ren, I see now, I was toffee brittle, so stratified with girlish passion and unfulfilled need, that to kiss me was to shatter me. The girl who first met Phil Rose was pure milk-chocolate buttercream, primed and velvety, with a drop of rummy sophistication fermented by Ren’s injurious abandonment. Later, Mrs. Raquel Rose: bitter nougat, studded with the salty crunch of nuts, coated in complex truffle.

The kiss shatters two notions I have always held dear: first, that you have to be in love with somebody—really, truly, planning-your-future in love—for a kiss to portend a great next thirty minutes. And second, that hellos are always better than good-byes when it comes to sex.

Something falls. It is not me, and I don’t think it is Duke, who is wrapped so greedily around me that he may as well be a carnivorous plant.

I look up.

Taylor and Micah stand at the kitchen entrance, looking way too alert for four
A.M.
Tay stomps her fake-UGG-shod foot again, her face flushed with childlike mutiny. Then she rears back and kicks the wall. It leaves a hole the size of an overturned coffee spill. Unfortunately, it is not big enough for me to crawl into. Tay steps over the crumbs of plaster and takes a few tentative steps into the room.

“Funny, I thought it was past the kids’ bedtime,” she says.

“Syrup?” I ask.

All three takers sit obediently while I pour a generous amount of Vermont’s finest over their pancakes.

“Powdered sugar?”

Duke declines, but Taylor and Micah both nod. The butter has already melted, forming frothy puddles.

“Coffee?”

I have never offered my children caffeine at home, but then neither have they stumbled upon me making out with Taylor’s surf instructor on the kitchen island or kicked in a wall with nary a repercussion. Grasping the need to flow with the surreal nature of this encounter, the kids simply hold out their mugs and accept the brew. Truthfully, I am impressed. Children really
are
resilient.

Everyone eats.

I take in the civilized scene and think,
I could get used to this.

Micah breaks the silence. “Have you ever surfed Mavericks?”

Duke swallows a bite of banana pancake. “Yeah.”

“What was it like? Was it insane?” Enthusiastic. One immortal young athlete to another.

“It’s like dropping off a thirty-foot ledge into thin air. If you survive the chops on the face— which are bigger than what most people ever ride
ever
— you do it again. And again. The drops are unbelievable. The wave jacks so hard . . . I’m not sure I’d even try it again. I feel lucky.” He looks hard at me as he says this. I blush.

“Are you moving in?” Taylor asks abruptly.

“Nobody’s moving in,” I answer sharply, glancing at Duke to see if the suggestion has caused apoplexy. Apparently, it is so off-the-charts ridiculous—or he is so deluded by romantic notions of my viability as a MILF—that it causes no distress; he continues to wolf our premature breakfast at a hangover pace.

I do not want to insult my kids’ intelligence by dragging out the old chestnut about Duke and me being “just friends.” I don’t care what anyone else does: I do not nibble the seashell ridge of my friends’ ears while they convulse against me, and my friends do not hook their thumbs under the strings of my bikini briefs and massage my hip flexors until I scream. Nor do I intend to apologize for carrying on with Duke Dunne in the middle of the night in our kitchen. It occurs to me that to acknowledge the moral inferiority of your paradigm to your children is to yank the very foundation of life out from under them. The fact that your actions or beliefs may indeed be morally inferior is secondary. They are going to have to trust me on this one.

“I just want to know.” Taylor looks at me. Her eyes brim. “So I can get you declared incompetent, get legally emancipated from you and Dad, and go to L.A. to model.”

Micah laughs. “She thinks she’s Lindsay Lohan or something.”

Although I tend to agree, I don’t like Micah’s tone, which is somewhere between disdainful and downright nasty. Yet I dare not mock Taylor’s anger. If I were the one in her position, the foyer mirrors would have come down along with the wall.

“No one is moving in with anyone,” I say again. “We can talk about the emancipation of Taylor when everybody’s calmed down and had some breakfast.”

“I hadn’t asked your mother yet,” says Duke over a mouthful. “I’m not sure I’m the marrying type. I’m a free spirit, too.”

“Duke, for God’s sake.” But I can’t help grinning.

Micah cuts in. “Did you know she drives a minivan?”

“Do you have kids?” Taylor continues the Inquisition, this time flicking the bullwhip at Duke, building her case to take before a mock judge.

“No. I was married for a year after college, but we didn’t have any kids. It didn’t work out.”

The pugnacious Schultz chin sticks out at this newsy nugget. “Sounds like you
are
the marrying type, you just suck at it.”

“Taylor!” I scold.

Duke laughs. “You know, she’s right. My little sister said the same thing once. She said something to the effect of, if you really want to be a good husband, then don’t get married in the first place. I thought it was pretty smart for a twelve-year-old.”

“Very observant,” Micah notes.

Duke cocks his head. “She’s single, if you’re interested. Just graduated from UCLA. Brainy, a little bossy, if you ask me. You want her number?”

“I’m gay.”

Duke nods. “Oh, yeah, Raquel told me that. Duh.” He tugs his goatee. “Dude! This dude I know in Santa Cruz—”

“Guys.” My hands grip the table, not white-knuckled, exactly, but close. I may have wanted to flirt with the idea of the blended family, but this is getting ridiculous. Duke as late-night rosebush trampler I can take; Duke as yenta, not so much.

I glance out the window as the sun peeks over the houses across the street, sending them into shadow. Daylight makes me think of reality, which pushes several important things to the forefront of my worry basket: Sue; the pieces I need to finish for Saskia; whether Duke and I have anything resembling a future together; whether Phil and I have anything resembling a future together; what the kids are going to tell Phil; what
I’m
going to tell Phil; how I’m going to end this giant fiasco. Last night doesn’t strike me as officially regrettable yet, but I see, now that the moon has descended, it soon will. Maybe it was worth it, though. Maybe my See’s Candies moment will flavor things to come.

CHAPTER 28

How to Win a Time Slot Without Even Trying

“Ms. Rose, I saw your new show at San Francisco MOMA, and I have to say, I was so moved.” Shiny Pony, Laurie’s associate producer, holds her clipboard firmly to her scant chest, as if physically reining in the torrent of sentimentalism that threatens to burst forth, shearing its way through the prim layers of mauve cotton-Lycra button-down and Banana Republic wool crepe. She is staring at me with the fevered admiration formerly reserved for, well, Laurie.

Mindful of not smearing my makeup or mussing my hair, I lean forward and grasp Shiny’s blunt-nailed hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze. Also, I give her the thousand-watt smile, baring teeth recently bleached by lasers in the warm-modern office of Dr. Quentin Sloane, who, everyone knows, is the man responsible for the porcelain grins of every news anchor, aspiring starlet, and celebrity artist in town. Gratefully, Shiny returns my squeeze, then slips away with great reluctance, her eyes misty.

Don’t laugh. In the months since my first taping, I have developed a highly functional repertoire of such gestures: the sisterly half-hug, the empathetic shoulder stroke, the prim white-girl power salute, the killer grin. In fact, as Ma observed rather pointedly on a recent family outing, where I was swarmed by well-wishers and fans of the show, my smile was starting to resemble Tom Cruise’s in terms of pure eat-your-enemies-with-a-side-of-salsa gusto. I never thought I’d say this, but really, Tom is not
that
bad. I’m sure he’s just trying to make his fans feel good. And if it makes them feel good, why not?

With regard to my newfound people skills, I suppose you could say, in addition to channeling my good friend Tom, I have followed the sterling example of someone close to me—modest, successful, unimpugnable Laurie. In this new world of mine, this swirling, tilting, tingling world, collecting accolades is part of the job. The job of being a celebrated role model, that is.

The first time I graced the
Living with Lauren!
set, I was overweight, insecure, and the teeniest bit intoxicated. This time, admittedly with the assistance of clever Jonesie and the divine Cleo, I am svelte(ish), confident (somewhat), and abstemious (perfectly). On this, my fifteenth appearance, I am an old pro with a large and loyal (if slightly insane) following. I no longer cringe when Jonesie squirts volumizer down my esophagus and attacks me with his Mason Pearson blowout brush. I experience no compunction whatsoever when Cleo squeezes filler in my crow’s-feet or tamps down my love handles with packing tape. These passive moments—increasingly rare in my overbooked life—allow me to contemplate the purposeful nature of my current existence.

“Excuse me, hon. Can you do me a favor? I could use another one of these. Totally parched.” I rattle the cucumber slice around in my empty SmartWater glass. Shiny’s new assistant is a sweet-faced Latina with an accent that says barrio and a vocabulary that says Ivy League MBA. The girl’s eyes flash with irritation before her thick lashes obscure her thoughts, and she jogs to the canteen to get me another drink. Huh. Well, Sweet Face will have to go. I make a mental note to drop hints—nothing obvious—to Shiny Pony and Boss of Shiny during the next meeting.

Shiny trots over, her well-tended mane flying. “Ms. Rose, there’s been a small change in today’s panel. I guess Dr. Chen had to cover for a sick colleague who was supposed to be on call, so she can’t make the taping. We called around and got another oncologist. I have his name here somewhere”— Shiny leafs through her sheaf of printouts in a rare moment of turbulence—“he’s supposed to be excellent,” she finishes. Her brow glistens a bit.

“It’s okay, sweetie. I’m sure whomever you got is great.” It feels so good to throw them a bone. You just can’t overdo it, I’ve noticed, or things get a bit sloppy.

Shiny preens. I pointedly glance down at my notes. Like the Seven Sisters graduate she doubtless is, she gets the hint quickly and scuttles off to kiss some more on-air-talent ass.

Today’s show, part of the series I’ve secretly started thinking of as
Cancer: Reloaded,
is focusing on ways that medical personnel can improve the period immediately following the diagnosis for the patient. As the patient, you’re vulnerable, in a state of shock. The docs are anxious to start pumping you with toxic drugs and lop off vital parts of your anatomy. They don’t understand why you’re being so combative. Don’t you know they’re your new best friend? Don’t you know you don’t stand a chance against the Big C without them? The families are reeling. The sickies are keeling. The insurance companies are repealing. All in all, it’s pretty touchy stuff. And we all know how much doctors
love
communicating. Laurie and the producers have high hopes for the series, particularly this episode. As in Emmy-winning high hopes.

And to think it was all my idea.

It took three of my guest appearances before Laurie lost her famed composure. Okay, maybe she didn’t exactly
lose
it, but it did vacate the premises long enough to produce two medallion-size rosettes on her expertly powdered cheeks.

When Boss of Shiny Pony commented on the unprecedented volume of fan mail and suggested I become a semipermanent fixture on
Living with Lauren!
, Laurie drew a deep, aggrieved breath and propped her elbows on the conference-room table with her hands resting against her chin. That was when I knew she meant business. You don’t pull out the classic Dominance Power Triangle unless you anticipate a serious confrontation over make-you-or-break-you stuff.