Mine Are Spectacular! (21 page)

 

I don't get to tell Bradford about my gumbo lunch in New Orleans, because for the next three days, I barely see him. He gets home late and leaves early, and the one evening we might have to see each other, Kirk and I are preparing for our next show. I've figured out how to adapt the New Orleans whiskey sauce so it's pretty darn good. And that might be the only thing around this house that is.

Bradford's sleeping in our room again, but you'd hardly know it. We each stay on our own side of the king-sized bed, and the one time I try to cross the border and make peace, Bradford's asleep. Or pretending to be.

Thursday morning, I call Bradford's office, thinking we should go out to a romantic dinner and try to forget about our fight. But his assistant won't even put me through.

“He's in a meeting,” she tells me apologetically. “Important one. I really can't disturb him.”

I hang up, pretty disturbed myself. This is the first time Bradford's given instructions that he can't be interrupted, even for me.

Well, damn him anyway, this whole fight was his fault. Or maybe it was mine. I tried one morning to tell him how sorry I am, but when he asked “What are you sorry for?” I realized I didn't know. I can't be sorry for having a demanding job and an ex-spouse. Though I am pretty sorry that he has a demanding job and an ex-spouse.

After school, I help Dylan with his homework and take him to the diner, where he gobbles down mac and cheese and gets to play the video games on the machines in the back. He has almost identical games on his computer at home, but somehow they're more fun when you have to put a quarter in the slot to play.

At home, he falls asleep on my lap, watching a show about constellations on the Discovery Channel. Why we don't just step outside to look at the stars in the real sky is another matter. Maybe tomorrow night I'll pull out blankets and get Bradford to come outside with us and point out the Big Dipper.

I manage to carry Dylan into his bed and turn on the Harry Potter night-light that matches his Harry Potter pajamas and sheets.

Instead of going to bed myself, I head to the kitchen to catch up on the stack of
New Yorker
s that's been piling up. For some reason, even the Roz Chast cartoons aren't making me laugh tonight, and I keep looking at the clock. It's after eleven when Bradford finally comes in, looking tired.

“Do you need something to eat?” I ask him, trying to get things back to an even keel.

“No, thanks, I got something at the office,” he says. “I had a long day.”

“I noticed,” I say, and I hope I'm sounding sympathetic, not angry.

He takes off his jacket and hangs it over the back of the chair. His tie is already uncharacteristically loosened and his white no-crease Brooks Brothers shirt is wrinkled.

“I have some news,” he tells me. “Don't get upset. I'm leaving Saturday for Hong Kong.”

“Hong Kong?” I repeat, letting the syllables sink in.

“It's a business trip,” he says. “A lot of important things are happening in my company over there.”

“How long will you be gone?” I ask, biting my lip. Sure, it's a long flight but I hope it will be a short trip.

“Three months,” he says quietly.

I sit down and stare at the open
New Yorker,
but everything is blurring in front of my eyes. I'm not going to remind Bradford that I bought tickets to
Madame Butterfly
for next week. Bad opera to have picked anyway. Isn't that the one where the soprano is abandoned by her lover and kills herself?

“Three months is a long time,” I say carefully. I won't think about James, I won't. And I won't wonder what it is about me that drives men to leave for exotic places.

“It's business. A good opportunity for me. I've been thinking about it for a while.”

“You have? This is the first time you've even mentioned Hong Kong.”

“It's been on the table at work for a few weeks,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “At first I said no. But I finally decided it might not be a bad thing for us to spend a little time apart.”

“Or it might be a very bad thing.”

“I'm not really seeing it as a trial separation,” Bradford continues.

And until those words tumble out of his mouth, neither was I.

I sit very, very still. Maybe if I don't move, my world will stop turning upside down. “We just had a silly little argument the other night,” I tell him softly. “Couples have those. It doesn't mean you need to run off to Hong Kong and disappear.”

Bradford comes over and rubs my shoulders. “I'm not running off and I'm not disappearing.” He gives a weak smile. “Hong Kong isn't Patagonia.”

“Might as well be,” I say.

He stops rubbing my shoulders and sighs. “Sara, please, we're back where we started. You have to be able to trust me.”

“I didn't feel that much trust when you complained to me about James and Kirk,” I say. And then I realize we're about to start rehashing the same argument all over again. So softening, I say, “I still love you.”

Bradford doesn't say anything, but he gently kisses me. When he kisses me again, I melt into him, letting myself relax in his strong arms. I feel the barriers dropping between us. More urgently now, Bradford unbuttons my blouse and drops his lips to my neck. He leans me against the kitchen counter and pulls me closer. It's not an aluminum sink at thirty thousand feet, but it's still pretty fantastic.

Chapter THIRTEEN

“
SO YOU AND BRADFORD MADE LOVE
after
he told you he was leaving?” Berni asks me Sunday morning, as I'm sitting in her sunroom.

“After he told me he was going to Hong Kong,” I correct her.

“Do you think he'll come back?” Berni asks, absentmindedly folding some of the babies' tiny T-shirts. “I mean I know he's not going to stay in Hong Kong forever. But how'd you guys leave it when he went off yesterday?”

“He wouldn't let me drive him to the airport,” I admit. “He had a car service pick him up.” I bite the side of my thumbnail. For some reason, his ordering a cab upset me more than anything. I thought driving him to Kennedy would be a loving gesture, proof that I understood this was a business trip, not a breakup. He said my driving him made it too dramatic, and he wasn't looking for a good-bye scene. We shared the same sentiment, but had different ideas about how to express it.

“If you had sex, you know he still loves you,” Berni says, trying to be comforting.

“You know better than that,” I say. “The sex was great, always is. But I can't figure out if it was makeup sex, I-love-you sex, or good-bye-forever sex.”

“Any of those are better than I-just-had-babies-so-stay-away-from-me sex.”

I force myself to smile, but I'm not feeling very lighthearted today. I keep picturing Bradford in his Hong Kong hotel suite. Is he spending as much time thinking about me as I am about him? He couldn't be or he'd never get any of his work done. He left a voice message saying he'd arrived, but that was it. I've picked up the phone and put it back down about fifteen times without calling him. We didn't set up the rules for our time apart and I'm not going to be the one to call first. Before he left, Bradford kept saying that the trip would be good for both of us because we needed a break. He said it gently, but to me a “break” doesn't sound very gentle—it evokes images of smashed china, windows blown out by Hurricane Ivan or a horrible accident that lands you in the emergency room.

I blow my nose and stuff the Kleenex back in my pocket. “Allergies,” I tell Berni, but she knows I'm lying.

“Look, I know you're heartbroken but no crying until after the photo shoot on Tuesday,” says Berni, switching hats from love counselor to career coach. “And no salt. Can't have you showing up on a bus ad with puffy eyes.”

“Fine,” I say, thinking that after the shoot, I'll let myself have one heck of a good time sobbing for hours and stuffing myself with potato chips. If Bradford hasn't called by then it's going to be three bags of Lay's Sour Cream & Onion. Or maybe garlic, since I'll be sleeping alone.

Berni takes her babies' folded laundry and I follow her into the nursery where Dylan is currently babysitting. At least he thinks he is. Baby A and Baby B are sound asleep in their cribs, but Dylan is perched on a chair reading them
The Very Hungry Caterpillar.
From the number of baby books at his feet I can tell he's taking his assignment seriously and clearly enjoying it. He's having fun being a big kid and reading books where he recognizes all the words.

Berni ruffles Dylan's hair. “You're the best babysitter I ever had,” she tells him.

Dylan beams. “This is my first job,” he admits.

“I'll never find anyone better. You're such a good reader. The twins are lucky to have you here.”

“Thanks,” says Dylan, whose little boy chest seems to have puffed out under the praise. Who knew Berni would be this good with children? Having her own babies has clearly opened a whole new world to her. I'm not sure that before the twins Berni had a whole lot of interest in anyone under twenty, unless he was a teen actor starring on the WB.

Berni puts the T-shirts into one of the dresser drawers and pulls out a stack of tiny embroidered smocks and crocheted sweaters that still have the tags on them. “The babies have outgrown these already and they never even wore them. Such a waste.”

I rifle through the stack of precious clothes that must have cost a fortune.

“All gifts,” Berni says.

“What are you going to do with these?” I ask.

“I could donate them,” says Berni. “Who wouldn't want to get such beautiful things, even if your baby can only wear them once?” She looks at the items thoughtfully. “But maybe there's something even better I can do.”

“Isn't this the one Tom Cruise sent you?” I ask, fingering a suede fringed vest in a size 3 months. Too small for Berni's big babies fifteen minutes after they were born. “Useless, but I'd take Tom's present just as a souvenir.”

“So would most people,” says Berni. She pauses and refolds the suede vest with yellow tissue paper, so it won't get creased. “Can I run an idea by you?”

“Sure.”

“I mean a serious idea. Or maybe it's silly. I can't tell,” says Berni hesitantly.

“Hit it,” I say, curious now. I've never heard Berni uncertain before.

“I've been thinking about a project I could do from home. I'd still be right here with the twins. In fact, they could watch me and they'd probably be proud.”

I wait, not sure where she's going. What more could Berni do to make the twins proud? I'm guessing it's not my new contract at the Food Network.

Berni takes a deep breath. “So here's the point. My twins were born lucky, but there are a lot of needy babies out there. If I sell all this show-offy stuff, I could use the money to buy things for other babies that they really need.”

“Nice idea,” I say, impressed.

“And then I'd try to get more things to sell. I could call all the stars I know in Hollywood and see if they'll contribute their over-the-top baby gifts, too,” Berni says enthusiastically. “If I sell just one pair of crystal-encrusted booties, I could get enough stretchies and Pampers for three dozen kids.” As evidence that she's not making up that extravagant fashion item, Berni opens another drawer and pulls out a pair of shimmering silk blue booties, so heavy that any baby wearing them would probably never be able to take his first step.

“If anybody can get the stars involved, you can,” I say encouragingly. So now it's going to cost me to get that Tom Cruise vest. But it'll be for a good cause.

“Do you really think this will work?” Berni looks at me so intently that I realize the plan means a lot to her. Instead of being a Hollywood agent, she wants to become an agent for change.

“Anybody who made a TV star out of me should be able to save the world,” I say. And then I grin. “And I really mean it.”

Berni smiles. “Thanks.” But her next words are drowned out by her housekeeper, who's been vacuuming in the hall and now opens the nursery door. I wave frantically to signal that the babies are sleeping and she should leave, but Berni motions her in.

“Don't worry, I have her do this every day,” Berni explains. “I figured out that if babies get used to noise they'll be able to sleep through anything. It's only when you make everyone whisper around them that they wake up at the drop of a pin.”

Dylan covers his ears but I notice that the babies barely stir. Maybe Berni's onto something. She seems to be figuring out a lot of things about her babies—and her life. I wish I were doing as well.

 

“How are your sex toys working out?” community queen Priscilla asks when she calls me a week later. I guess the news about Bradford's leaving hasn't spread around Hadley Farms yet. What's the use of living in a small town if nobody's going to gossip about you?

“Not well,” I say, for some reason confiding in my neighbor. “Bradford left for Hong Kong.” Look at that, I'm gossiping about myself.

“He did? Without you? Oh, you poor dear,” Priscilla gushes sympathetically. Then getting an inspiration, she asks, “Are you putting the house up for sale? I'd love to show it. I've had my real estate license for two months now and I'm already the best in town. But for you, I'll drop my commission to four percent. I can get you an appraisal this afternoon and have buyers there in the morning.”

Priscilla rushes along with her plans at such breakneck speed that in another minute or two she'll be filing my divorce papers—and I'm not even married.

“Bradford's just away on a business trip,” I say, trying to haul her back to reality and convince myself at the same time.

“What a shame,” Priscilla says. But she's resilient and shakes off her disappointment. “So the reason I called is I'm throwing a little Hadley Farms party.”

Another one? I have so much whipped cream left over from her last get-together that I might as well use it on my chocolate mousse.

“Boys and girls at this one,” Priscilla says, and it takes me a moment to realize that she's not referring to our children.

“I'll be there,” I say, thinking that maybe a party will cheer me up. And only when I put down the receiver do I realize that being the only single person in the room is just going to depress me more.

As per Berni's orders, I keep from crying too much until the photo shoot's finished. It goes off without a hitch, even though this time Berni can't be induced to come. She's too busy making plans for her new project, which she's named Celebrity Kids' Clothes. Or at least that's what she's calling it today. Yesterday it was Designer Duds. The day before that, it was Why the Hell Do People Buy Such Expensive Stuff When They Could Buy Things People Really Need. Actually, I don't think Berni ever really planned on using that one because she couldn't get the initials on a button. But she'll make a final decision after she has the results from the focus group and phone survey she's commissioned.

From time to time during the week, Priscilla's party crosses my mind. The Lilly Pulitzer ladies already surprised me once at the Newcomer's Club. Do their R-rated afternoons turn into X-rated evenings when their men are around? Or do the guys have the opposite effect and turn Hadley Farms' sex-crazed wild women into doting, proper wives?

The morning of the party, Dylan and I are supposed to meet James at the Museum of Natural History, but I'm too down about Bradford to cope with being upbeat for an entire day. For the first time since James reappeared in our lives, I tell him he can pick up Dylan and take him out by himself. Once they're gone, I wish I'd joined them, because I don't even get out of my bathrobe. Actually Bradford's bathrobe—which seems to be the only connection I have to him at the moment. He hasn't called in three days. And the last time he did, we only talked for a few minutes because he had to run off to a meeting. Bradford says he's working round the clock, but who doesn't have time for a phone call?

James thoughtfully checks in with me twice during the day, once to ask if it's okay for Dylan to eat three hamburgers and four servings of fries for lunch. And then to ask if Dylan often complains of stomachaches. Later, I talk to Dylan, who's eating ice cream and floating on cloud nine, and I agree that he and James can—as usual—stay out longer than we'd planned.

I pull myself together to get dressed before they get home in the evening and even put on eyeliner, lip liner and a pale peach cheek gel. I'm getting so good at coloring things I could become a cartoonist.

“You look fabulous,” James tells me, appraising my low-cut pink cashmere sweater and black leather boots, all borrowed from Kate for the photo shoot. Apparently they're mine now, because the clothes are from last season and she doesn't want them back. She did, however, ask that I return her Ralph Lauren lapis lazuli belt since it was a gift from Ralph himself. I'm thinking I might wear it a few more times—and then get her to donate it to Berni's charity.

We all sit down for a snack because for some reason Dylan is hungry again. The babysitter, who happens to be Priscilla's sixteen-year-old son, joins us and then whisks Dylan off to play catch by the lights in our backyard.

“You're all dressed up and you've got a babysitter,” James says. “What are you doing tonight?”

I look down at my low-cut top, wondering if I'm showing too much cleavage. No, for once I'm like Kate. Just right.

“I'm going to a party,” I say dispiritedly.

“You don't seem in the mood,” James says. And then risking being too personal, he asks, “Anything going on? Can I help?”

I don't feel like having a conversation with my ex-husband about my current fiancé. Or at least I hope he's still my current fiancé. So I just say, “Bradford's on a business trip, and I don't love going to parties alone.”

“Then let me come,” James offers with his endearing shy smile. “I'm pretty good at social events. If things get dull, I can always do my card tricks. Remember that Christmas party we threw?”

Despite myself, I smile at the sweet memory of James mesmerizing a room full of happy guests in our tiny apartment by pulling the king of clubs out of somebody's ear. I haven't thought about what a charmer he is in a while. And what the heck. I'm not feeling very charming myself tonight so I might as well bring him along.

“Sure you can come,” I tell him. “For some reason, everybody's always happy to have an extra man in a room.” Though frankly, I don't know why. Who needs extras? Dealing with one man is usually more than enough.

James stands up and rubs his hands on the back pockets of his Levi's. “I'm not really dressed for a big evening out. Can I go like this?” he asks.

I have to admit that in his jeans, hiking boots and work shirt, ruggedly handsome James doesn't look like the typical Hadley Farms husband. Not at all. He looks a lot better. So I tell him we're good to go.

We say good night to Dylan and head out into the unexpectedly cool evening to walk over to Priscilla's house.

“What's this crowd going to be like?” James asks as we stroll down the quiet street. “I don't know how good I'll be at talking about stock funds, soccer games and SUVs.”