Menage (3 page)

Heather's own ambitions, which had gone underground but hardly vanished when they moved, also received a vitalizing jolt. Just about the time Jamie was finally in morning preschool, a former colleague, who had launched a new general-interest online journal, invited her to write a column on ecology. Although it did nothing to bring Mack
home, and it was biweekly and barely paid, it did reconnect her to the world, if only the virtual one. With an editor awaiting her words, her discipline returned, and after that, for the few hours when the children were either at school or out in the garden speaking French with Françoise, she holed up in her study, a small, windowed room overlooking the woods, which she found the most charming and peaceful in the house. There, in her brief mornings, she researched and wrote her columns and put on hold the amazing stories she hoped to write once both children were in school full-time.

4
       
“ZOLTAN BARBU?” SAID MACK
,
skipping the formality of introductions.

Zoltan took a reflexive step backward to stave off possible intrusive intimacy before giving a clipped tentative nod.

“If it's any comfort to you,” said Mack, “the last couple of times I was with Maja she couldn't stop talking about you.”

Zoltan studied the stranger's face before asking, “And you are …?”

“Allerton McKay, a friend of Maja's.” He handed Zoltan an engraved business card.

Zoltan did not look at it but instead gripped Mack's eyes with his. “What did she say?”

“She said you have too much integrity for Hollywood, maybe even for her.” Mack let the flattery
take effect before pressing his conclusion: “So if she didn't blame you, why should you blame yourself?”

Zoltan relaxed a bit. “Good try, thank you, but I'm afraid her opinion no longer counts. Besides, my profession requires that I understand all persons' predicaments. Evidently, I did not understand Maja's. I dismissed her threats as manipulative … Your connection to her?”

Now that Maja was in no position to contradict him, Mack was tempted to use the traditional male prerogative of claiming the sexual victory that had so far eluded him but that he'd hoped to perhaps secure that very night. On the other hand, there was undoubtedly a certain moral benefit attached to proclaiming fidelity to one's wife. He didn't know which response was more likely to win Zoltan's admiration and confidence. Which was more appropriate to the circumstances? Mack whipped out his handkerchief and coughed into it for the full thirty seconds it took to weigh the pros and cons of each response before saying, “Just friends.”

Unconvinced, Zoltan folded his arms and raised a skeptical eyebrow at Mack, who thus reaped the benefit of both answers.

“I knew her through Terry Josephs,” Mack said reassuringly. “We were roommates at college. I
used to see the two of them whenever I came to L.A. on business. I suppose you know she tried to kill herself before, after Terry told her he was moving to Australia. Luckily, she failed. So before he left, Terry asked me to stay in touch with her. In fact, I was supposed to have dinner with her tonight. Made the date a week ago. But when I called earlier today to confirm, someone answered her phone and told me the terrible news.” He shook his head. “I couldn't believe it. I had meetings scheduled for the rest of the day. But I canceled them all and drove straight here.”

“Everyone has a story: ‘Where I was when I heard.' You only had dinner with her? That's all?”

“That's it. I'm married, and Terry's my friend.” Mack was pleased that Zoltan thought Maja might have been sleeping with him when in fact, despite her ceaseless flirtation, which was as much a part of her style as her low-cut dresses, she treated him more like a girlfriend than a possible boyfriend, confiding the story of her life after a single glass of wine. Part of a generation whose artistic aspiration was to make films rather than poems, she knew early on that to pursue her dream she would have to emigrate. She worked in kitchens and mastered English in order to hurry to Hollywood. Arriving at twenty-two, she
began climbing the ladder from production assistant to assistant producer until she landed a plum job in casting—less glamorous, perhaps, but more powerful. Hungry starlets befriended her and ambitious men pursued her; but her own desires, she confessed to Mack, tended toward oddball artistes and Indie filmmakers. When she met Zoltan she felt an instant bond. That he belonged to her parents' generation only enhanced his appeal.

Mack wondered: Could he have had her? Though he had the money for her, he probably lacked the panache. And if he had succeeded, without her other men to discuss, what would they have found to talk about? Unlike his usual women—the flight attendants and receptionists for whom his money was attraction enough, or the cyber dates with whom he shared some naughty pictures and sexual kicks—Maja had other intentions.

Zoltan studied Mack's card. “What exactly are Allerton Enterprises?”

“Commercial properties mainly, some mixed use, some public buildings, the occasional fantasy home. Mostly back east, but now I'm looking into a couple of interesting projects here. One's a biggie. If I can pull it off—let's just say I have high hopes for it.”

“You own, you design, or you just build them?”

“Depends on the financing.”

“I see. Isn't that difficult now?”

“You're right, Zoltan, shrewd observation. But in every financial crisis, there are losers and winners. This time I'm one of the lucky ones.”

“How is that?”

“I've been able to acquire some exceptional properties at a fraction of their value.” He couldn't help gloating.

“And you are the man she stood up tonight?” asked Zoltan, looking down at the card. “ ‘Allerton McKay, President and CEO.' ” He stared at Mack. “President? CEO?”

Mack's gaze hit the floor in affected humility and his voice dropped half an octave. “I founded the company, so I get to be prez. You want to be VP? I'll put you in business.”

“Careful there, Allerton—”

“Mack.”

Zoltan took a harder look. So this was the mighty Mack: Maja had said that he was loaded, but not that he was short. “Careful, Mack, I could accept. Whole new life is what I need, as far from here as possible.”

A mustached man with shoulder-length, probably dyed hair and bad skin bowed before Zoltan and mumbled, “Terrible, terrible, terrible.”

Zoltan lowered his great arc of a nose in a dignified nod.

“We all loved her, but the pity is she didn't know it,” said the man. “Which is probably why she did it. And now it's too late to tell her. Wouldn't she have enjoyed this though, all this attention?”

Zoltan closed his eyes until the man was gone.

“An ex-boyfriend?” asked Mack.

Zoltan tossed back his forelock and said contemptuously, “Within one week every man here will promote himself to ex-lover. What's to prevent it? See already how they enjoy themselves at her expense?”

Mack was glad he had not claimed to be her lover, though he could hardly deny that he too was enjoying himself at her expense. “Not me,” he reasserted. “As I told you, we'd only have dinner together now and then. For Terry's sake, really.”

Seeing another long scrutinizing stare begin to inhabit Zoltan's eyes, Mack said, “Let's get out of here, get something to eat, okay? I still have my reservation at La Mer.”

“La Mer? I'm afraid La Mer is out of my range.”

“No problem. My treat. And if you don't mind my saying so,” he confided, draping an arm around Zoltan's back and leading him toward the exit, “you look like you could use a decent meal.”

5
       
AT THE FIRST RING
of the phone Heather leaped up, overturning her tea. She glanced at her watch: late. Emergency? An official announcement of Mack's sudden death? She hoped that she didn't hope so, but wouldn't bet on it. She let the tea sink into the Moroccan rug, which, unlike her, seemed able to absorb everything without showing it.

His death would certainly shake things up, lift the doubt that had settled over her like mist in the valley, allowing her to see ahead to some decisive act. If he suddenly died she'd sell the house, buy a condo in the city, find a good school for the kids and enroll in the best MFA program she could get into. Or take a live-in lover and stay on here to write. If their father died in an accident, the children couldn't blame
her—how often did they see him anyway?—though part of her believed there are no accidents.

She reached for the phone. Forget the insurance. Bite your tongue. Where would they be without Mack? She picked up before voicemail kicked in and heard the familiar “Hi, babe.”

Only Mack, calling with lies. She moved to the floor and squatted on her haunches, back flat against the wall, and took a deep breath, marshaling her wits. “Oh, hi. Finally!”

“Believe it or not, this is the first free minute I've had all day. You weren't asleep, were you?”

“No, but you missed the kids, they've been asleep for hours.” She hadn't wanted to accuse him; it just popped out. She pressed each vertebra against the wall, then slowly rose and squatted again.

“I know. But I need to talk to you, babe.”

“I need to talk to you too. In fact, I've been trying and trying to reach you, but your phone was off. I tried your hotel, but you aren't there. Where are you, Mack?”

“In a restaurant. About to have dinner.”

“With—?”

“Actually, a very interesting man. A writer. You've probably heard of him. Zoltan Barbu? If that's how you pronounce it.”

“Yes, of course I've heard of him,” snapped Heather, unable to suppress a flash of envy. She, not Mack, was the book lover. On a sudden hunch, she blurted out, “What's his connection to Maja?”

“Heather, you're psychic! Get this. Zoltan has been in a relationship with her for nearly a year now. But, uh, he's not anymore.”

Was Mack boasting? Had he won Maja away from Zoltan Barbu?

“So …?”

“It's a long story. I'll tell you all about it when I see you. Which is why I'm calling now. I've had to change my flight. I'll be staying here an extra day. I still have a lot of work to do. And lots to tell you when I get back.”

He sounded too excited. Her stomach tightened. “Tell me now. Please.” Loneliness was a weakness she could handle, but not the unpredictable demon of jealousy that lay sprawled behind her consciousness like a napping child ready to cry out at the slightest disturbance, more demanding and exhausting than a three-year-old.

“It's too complicated, babe. I'll tell you when we can sit down.”

She stood up. Her mind raced ahead. He would probably try to get the house, though it was in her
name. Let him buy her out—alone she couldn't afford the upkeep anyway. But if he planned to move Maja in, she'd fight him. And she'd fight him for the children too. They were hers.

By the time she hung up, Tina was whining to be let in. Heather opened the door and stood on the deck peering down the valley at the view that was supposed to make her happy, barely able to guess in the sliver of moonlight at the voluptuous colors of turning leaves stretching down one mountain and up the next. Knowing she wouldn't be able to read or sleep, she decided to go straight to her study to begin her next column.

She would write on the virtue of never having two of anything when one would suffice.

6
       
ZOLTAN SLOWLY SCANNED THE
long menu. Gorging himself on the night of Maja's funeral was probably inappropriate; yet he found a certain poetry in being taken to dinner by one of her patrons; and how often did he get to dine at a place like La Mer? The turbot with tiny shrimp was appealing, but the restaurant was famous for its bouillabaisse. As well as the zucchini crepes. Zoltan thought vegetarian would serve his image better than fancy fish; perhaps have them as a starter.

“Sorry,” said Mack, sitting down and signaling the waiter. “I always forget how much later it is back home. Ready to order?”

Zoltan knew that a man who was president and CEO of a corporation probably never had trouble
choosing what to eat—much less how to work, where to live, whether or not to get up in the morning. He surely took such things for granted—unlike himself, who had quite forgotten how it felt to rise at the same time each day with a purpose and destiny. Could he even say with certainty that he was still a writer?

As the lantern-jawed waiter bent toward them, his pencil at the ready, Zoltan quickly decided on bouillabaisse, and as quickly switched to turbot.

Mack was amused to recall that the last time he had eaten at La Mer, Maja had picked at her food and self-servingly grumbled about this very Zoltan. “He complained I distracted him. So was I supposed to make myself ugly whenever he wanted to write? God, genius is impossible!” Mack thought Maja had a certain genius of her own for making even her failures sound like conquests. Not content to be exploited by the star, like an ordinary groupie, Maja had mastered the ironies of injury: “Oh, he's so charming, he can charm the birds out of the trees with one of those slingshot looks of his”—as if charm were nothing but a weapon.

Mack couldn't fathom her moods. Bubbly over the bouillabaisse, she had turned sad with the salad, spearing and dropping the same asparagus
repeatedly. That troubled pout should have been a clue. Did she find him boring? He often wondered why she bothered with him. He presumed that at first she had confided in him about her conquests in hopes he'd repeat every word to Terry, her ex. (He hadn't.) Or was it just a wily way of reminding Mack that men found her irresistible? Heather once told him that attractive women used that trick to control how they were perceived. Or maybe Maja just liked to be taken to expensive restaurants. He didn't mind. Even as she sat across the table going on about other men, he was appreciating her round breasts pressing against the invariably low-cut dress, always of some arcane color, mauve or bronze or sea. He wondered if Maja spoke of him to her other friends as she spoke of them to him, and if so, what she said. He appreciated that successful men were valued in part for their buying power, and he was glad he possessed that asset. Still, he did sometimes wish that women—particularly lovely, ambitious ones like Maja—would see beyond the dollar signs. He might lack the sophistication of a Terry or a Zoltan, but he was, after all, a Phi Beta Kappa from Yale who had once, unlike most of his classmates at the Business School, had other aspirations. With his mathematical talent and his artistic turn
he could have been an architect, or perhaps even a scientist—both professions that required being tuned in, as he definitely considered that he was, to the mysteries and beauties of the physical world. But he had no comparable trick to let her know it.