Secret Lives Of Husbands And Wives (20 page)

Cal looks at his feet. “I’m not great at saying ‘I love you.’ I know that.”

“Well, admittedly, it is the first step. Even ‘Honey, thank you for all you do’ will go a long way.” I pat him on the shoulder. “Hey, better yet, call in a maid for a day to get the house shipshape. Anyone who works as hard as Bev would appreciate that. Then surprise her by taking her out to dinner, just the two of you. I don’t know what woman wouldn’t love that.”

“I do.” Pete looks me in the eye. “Don’t you think I know what everyone—especially your girlfriends—says about Masha and me behind our backs? Okay, Oprah, since you have all the answers, what am I supposed to do, mainline Viagra?”

“Viagra? No, I don’t think so.” He’s caught me off guard. “Look, I don’t have all the answers, believe me. I wish I did. But if the issue you have with Masha is, um, personal, then maybe you need to stop thinking like a guy and think like a woman. She’s a stranger in a strange country, and whatever issue she has with love—or for that matter, with sex—more than likely finds its root in some emotional
pain she’s never even mentioned to you.” I take a deep breath. “Keep another thing in mind: as much as we women love sex, romance is our biggest turn-on.”

Pete shrugs, but I know I’ve hit on something when he takes out his cell phone and texts a message. I’m hoping it’s to a sex therapist. Or some romantic B and B.

The fun and games are over. Cal and I round up our kids and head out. Seeing that I’ve got a drowsy Olivia draped over my shoulder, Harry takes her from me, murmuring to Jake to get his sister to bed while he walks us around the block.

The boys race home, but I walk next to Harry. Only when we reach my porch does he break the heavy silence that hangs between us. “I’ve never talked to a woman the way I talk to you. Ted’s a very lucky guy, in more ways than one.”

He leaves it at that, and so do I. What can I say?

Frankly, I don’t know how he’d feel to learn that I’ve told him things I’ve never said to Ted, and possibly never will.

I talk a good game, but I’m just like him and the other guys. I can’t handle the truth if it means finding out that I’m living a lie.

“If there is such a thing as a good marriage, it is because
it resembles friendship rather than love.”

—Michel de Montaigne

Tuesday, 26 Nov., 1:27 p.m.

You know, right now Margot is pea green with envy! She never in a million years thought you’d get even this close to PULLING IT
OFF
!” Brooke’s whisper ends with a shriek, not for emphasis but of pain: Geraldo, her masseur here at Serenity Now, has found yet another knot in her neck and is pushing, pulling, and tugging it into submission.

Or else the former Green Beret and black ops mercenary may finally have snapped and made good on his threat to shut her up once and for all. He claims her ongoing chatter defeats the purpose of getting a deep-tissue massage because she never gives her mouth a break.

He also insists that her constant yammering is worse torture than what he inflicted on our enemies.

For this reason alone, I forgo his flying fingers for those of a small Asian Zen master, Mr. Qi. Qi may be blind, but he reads muscles as if they were lines of braille, and he certainly doesn’t mind it when I converse with Brooke through the high partition that separates us. Granted, Mr. Qi may not be as strong as Geraldo; then again, I’ll never worry that what I say might induce a flashback that gets me waterboarded under specially oxygenated, rose-petal-infused water.

“But I haven’t ‘pulled it off.’ At least, not yet. I still have another two hundred or so cans to go.” I flip over so that Mr. Qi can work my forehead. Nothing he does will remove the lines there, forged deeper from all my worry that I’ll blow this opportunity to show up Margot. We are in the last twenty-one hours of the food drive. Despite my efforts and those of Pete and Harry, victory is slipping from my grasp. “I know it’s petty of me, but I
really, really
wanted to beat her, just this once. Then Thanksgiving would be perfect.”

Even without breaking Margot’s record, I’ve got a lot to be thankful for. To start with, Mother is spending Thanksgiving with her sister, down in Carmel.

“Hallelujah!” said Ted when I told him that bit of news, last night while we—well,
he
—watched the last few minutes of the Lakers game in bed. “Do you know how hard it is to swallow with her sour puss staring at me from across the table?”

“Hey, it’s not all that bad. . . . Okay, yeah, it’s a downer.” At his behest, I was straddling his back in order to massage his shoulders. But my nuzzling him behind the ears didn’t seem to arouse him half as much as Kobe’s two consecutive three-point shots, so I gave up and hopped off. “Best yet, with Mother out of our hair for the weekend, you won’t have to pretend you have to go into the office on Friday.”

“Yep, we’ll get to sleep in for four whole days in a row.” He flipped over to face me. “When was the last time we did that?”

“You tell me.” I turned and muted the sound using the TV’s remote so he could see I meant business. “You’re serious, right, about taking off Friday? You’ve been working so many nights and weekends lately that I can’t believe my ears.”

“Cross my heart, babe, I’m all yours. Why, what did you have in mind?” He kissed me hard, but his eyes were following Derek Fisher down the court.

“Absolutely nothing. In fact, I think we’ll skip the potluck open house at the club, too.” Really, I hadn’t planned on going anyway.
Not if I had to hear Margot feign sympathy over my failure to lead the troops to victory in our Thanksgiving food drive.

Now I realize that Brooke has given up on me too. Some pal.

“Hey, you can’t say you didn’t give it the . . . ol’ . . . college . . . TRY!
Ouch!
Way to go, big guy!” Brooke caresses each syllable in sync with Geraldo’s smacks to her tush on the pretense of massaging her upper thighs. If he thinks he can beat her into submission, he’s sorely mistaken. She’s admitted to me that part of the thrill of going to him is coming
through
him. (Being married to a dentist says a lot about your threshold for pain.)

“Your phone is vibrating.” Mr. Qi’s whisper tickles my ear like a sweet breeze. He’s right: my purse is dancing a jig on the small stand beside the massage table as my cell buzzes away. I flip it open to a cryptic text message:

Paradise Heights Market, 2pm in back. Mojo knows.

The caller ID says
CyBerGuy
.

I am intrigued, to say the least. “Gotta run! See you at pickup!” There’s no guarantee that Brooke heard me. The smacks are now coming fast and furious, as are her yelps of pleasure.

Mr. Qi can’t see my concern for my friend, but he can feel it in my aura. “Not to worry. You know what they say: ‘No pain, no gain.’”

2:06 p.m.

Behind the Paradise Heights Market is the part of the shopping experience few ever get to witness: the shuffle and jive of produce delivery via big trucks and beefy men. Most of them are swarming around a small balding guy who sports a full-body apron embroidered with the market’s logo. After perusing the goods being delivered, he begrudgingly signs the bills of lading handed to him.

I stand behind the last deliveryman, not knowing exactly what I should say to him. When it’s finally my turn, he gives me a cool
once-over with one eye shut. “You lost or something?”

“I was told to pick something up here, something called, er, ‘mojo’?”

His guffaw covers a bad cough. “I’m Mojo. So, you’re Lyssa?” Reassured by my nod, he points to a small trailer. “Then that’s for you.”

“What is it?”

He sighs, then nudges me over with him, swinging one of the doors open in the back. I can’t believe my eyes. On one side it’s stacked to the ceiling with cans, while the other side holds bags of rice, boxes of stuffing mix, and about twenty turkeys.

Yes!
I am now
so
beyond my quota!

“For your little cause. I had the stock boy pull cans that are close to their expiration dates, or are too dented for the swells. And we overbought on Butterballs. Your crowd prefers free-range birds anyway. Now, if you’ll sign this donation receipt . . .”

I do so with a happy flourish. “Oh, my goodness! Thank you, thank you! But how did you know?”

“Bev Bullworth called. She’s our biggest advertiser”—he points to a row of abandoned shopping carts; all of them have Bev’s face, name, and motto plastered on the back of the toddler bench—“and we appreciate it. When she asked if we could help out, of course we said yes.”

“This is so great! Well, let me give you the address for the delivery—”

“Nope, sorry, lady. You’ll have to tow it out of here yourself.”

“But . . . I don’t have a hitch.”

“Your husband has already taken care of that.”

“My . . . husband?” How did Ted know about this? Except to complain about “all the junk”—that is, the cans—filling the garage on the side where I usually park, he didn’t even seem to be aware of my project.

“He said to tell you he’ll be back with the U-Haul. That was an hour ago, so he should be—yeah, okay, here he is now.”

It’s not Ted behind the wheel of the rental truck, but Harry. He waves with one hand while turning the steering wheel with the other until the truck is positioned perfectly in front of the trailer, then jumps out to hitch the vehicles together.

“Isn’t this your day to be in the office? You took off to help me?”

“No, not exactly. I was home anyway, when Cal called to tell me about his score.” He shrugs. “My partners feel I’m too distracted to be in the office. They’ve asked that I consider a sabbatical.”

“That doesn’t sound like a good thing.”

“Financially, it’s not, really. But better now than later, right? At least I can enjoy all of the Thanksgiving break with the kids.”

“Wow! That’s super you’ve got them for the four days.”

“Yeah, well, DeeDee needs to ‘find herself.’ I presume her journey of self-discovery will take her somewhere she can get an allover tan.” He jiggles the door of the trailer. Finding it unlocked, he slams it closed with more force than is needed. “I hope she and her secret lover get a bad case of sunburn.”

Obviously Harry has had a change of heart over the issue that has stymied the rest of Paradise Heights:

Did DeeDee take a lover before she left Harry?

“But you said you’re sure it had nothing to do with anyone else. The breakup, I mean.”

“That was before Temple walked in on DeeDee and some guy doing the nasty, one night when the poor kid was staying over there. At least, that’s what she told Jake. DeeDee insists it was just a bad dream. And she blames me for our daughter’s reversion to a baby bottle. Apparently Temple swiped one from a toddler when Miss Judith wasn’t looking.”

“Wow, that’s pretty darn serious!” I feel sorry for Harry. “Well, if you need any tips on roasting a turkey, I’m at your disposal. . . . Hey,
speaking of turkey, why don’t you and the kids eat with us?”

I don’t know what I’m thinking. The words just came out before I had a chance to consider the consequences. Not that the kids would mind. In fact, they’ll probably appreciate the company. But Ted still takes Tammy’s point of view on Harry, no matter what I say.

“No, I could never put you out that way.” But the way Harry licked his lips shows he’s tempted. “Besides, you’ve inspired me to greater heights of volunteerism. Thanksgiving morning the kids and I are going to help prep the meals in the homeless shelter. I think it will be good for them to see that, even with the divorce, they have a lot to be thankful for.”

“You’re absolutely right. Collecting food makes you feel good, but it’s still an abstract experience.” I look at the trailer. “In fact, maybe we’ll join you. We can eat our own meal afterward. And I insist that you and the kids join us for that.”

“Well . . . okay, yeah, that sounds like a plan. I look forward to meeting Ted, finally.”

Oh yeah, Ted.

I turn away before Harry can see my frown. As much as I want to tell myself that watching a few bowl games together with their sons is the perfect way for Ted and Harry to get to know each other better, I’m kidding myself.

I don’t know which will make Ted groan the loudest: my invitation to get up early to feed a bunch of people whom he feels deserve the hand fate dealt them, or the news that he’ll be breaking bread with the one guy in the neighborhood he can’t stand.

“Where there’s marriage without love,
there will be love without marriage.”

—Benjamin Franklin

10:41 p.m.

You’re kidding me, right? You’ve invited that guy here, for THANKSGIVING?” Ted is so shocked that he quits brushing his teeth and sprays me with a fine sheen of toothpaste. “Just what the hell were you thinking?”

“Well, actually I was thinking how much fun it would be for Olivia and Tanner to share Thanksgiving with two of their closest friends. And how sweet of you to be neighborly to a very nice guy who just so happens to be going through a pretty bad divorce.” I wipe off his spittle with deliberation in the hope that he will take the hint that I’m just as miffed at his reaction as he is at my invitation to Harry. “What’s the harm in that?”