The Good Life (21 page)

“Oh man, don’t go,” said Nate, hooking Jenny’s trim waist with one arm.

“Jenny, can you get him home?” Josh asked.

“Yeah,” said Jenny. “I need to drive Allison, too, but I can drop her off first.”

The music started again and Nate groped for Jenny. “Are you drinking?” shouted Josh.

“Nursing one,” Jenny shouted back, showing Josh her beer can.

“Cool,” said Josh. “Thanks.”

Josh cut a path through the middle of the room. He grabbed his coat from the pile on top of the washer and dryer and walked out the sliding door, pulling it closed behind him. The relative quiet soothed him, as did the cold, clean air. He walked back along the crunchy trail of footprints to his car and started the engine. It was just ten o’clock; he had no interest in going home. He pulled out onto the road and drove; ten minutes later, he was in front of Nate’s house, Lauren’s house, and the lights were on. Josh drove up the driveway and parked in front of the garage. He got out of the car and walked along the shoveled path to the back of the house. Almost to the back door, he could see into the kitchen. Lauren, wearing pink gingham pajama pants and a Nike T-shirt, was sitting at the kitchen table eating a bowl of ice cream. Her hair was down, framing her face before spilling over her shoulders. At school, she wore it up in a tight ponytail Josh was always tempted to tug whenever he passed her in the hallways. He hesitated for only a moment before knocking on the thick glass panel separating them. Visibly startled, Lauren shifted her attention to the door. When she saw Josh, she got up, deactivated the alarm, and opened the door. “You scared me,” she said, one hand covering her heart.

“I’m sorry,” said Josh. “I didn’t really think you’d be here. Didn’t you go to the movies?”

“I was supposed to go to the movies,” said Lauren, shutting the door behind Josh. “My idiot friends got last-minute dates and blew me off.”

“That sucks,” said Josh. “I would have gone with you.”

“Oh yeah,” said Lauren, sitting back down at the table, “and not gone to the party.”

“Yeah, well, the party sucked, too,” said Josh, pulling off his coat.

“Where’s Nate?”

“Still there,” said Josh. “Jenny’s going to give him a ride home.”

“So, why didn’t you stay?” asked Lauren, putting a spoonful of ice cream into her mouth.

“Because someone drank my beer and there was no way I could talk to Allison Haynes all night without some kind of buzz.”

Lauren laughed and held up her bowl. “Do you want some?”

“Sure,” said Josh. “Thanks.”

Lauren got up and got the Brownie Batter ice cream her grandmother had bought out of the freezer. She scooped some into a bowl, put the carton away, and set the bowl in front of Josh. Josh looked at the ice cream, then looked back at Lauren. “Can I have a spoon?” he said, smiling. “I know where they are, but you’re already up.” As Lauren walked back across the room for a spoon, she considered her outfit. Being seen in pajamas wasn’t the best option, but it was far better than being seen in sweats or mismatched home-all-day-on-the-weekend clothes. She thought about pulling her hair back and wrapping it with the coated elastic around her wrist, but decided to leave it alone. Josh never saw her this way. “So,” said Josh, taking the spoon from Lauren when she returned and scooping up some ice cream, “why don’t you go on dates?”

“Because nobody asks me?” said Lauren.

“And why’s that?”

Lauren shrugged, putting a small spoonful of ice cream into her mouth.

“Because everyone knows you’re wild about Judd Acker?”

Lauren’s face got hot and pink. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“It’s got everything to do with everything,” said Josh. “If boys know you’re interested in someone else, why in the world would they ask you out?”

Lauren took another bite of ice cream. “Because I’m cute?”

“You are very cute.”

Lauren cocked her head at Josh, wondering if he was teasing her, but he looked very serious. Never breaking eye contact, Josh switched chairs and sat next to Lauren. He smiled at her, then lightly kissed her forehead. Lauren shut her eyes. He kissed the tip of her nose. Lauren breathed in deeply. He kissed her mouth, and then kissed it again. “Oh God,” said Lauren, barely above a whisper.

“Oh God, what?” whispered back Josh, inches from her face.

“That felt so good,” said Lauren, opening her eyes.

“Well, good,” said Josh, “because there’s more where that came from.”

Lauren laughed, which make Josh laugh. “Why did you kiss me?”

“Because I wanted to,” said Josh. “Did you want me to?”

“Oh yeah,” said Lauren. “I wanted you to. This is just so weird. I mean, you’re my brother’s best friend.”

“I don’t talk about you with him.”

“You want to keep it a secret?”

“Keep what a secret?” asked Josh.

“This,” said Lauren.

“What?” asked Josh.

“Don’t tease me.”

Josh put his hand under Lauren’s chin. “When I ask you to go somewhere and you say yes—if you say yes—it will no longer be a secret.”

“Are you going to ask me to go somewhere?”

“Yes,” said Josh, pulling back. “Let’s go into the den and watch TV.”

“I’m in my pajamas,” said Lauren.

“Consider yourself lucky,” said Josh, standing. “I wish I were in mine.”

They walked down the short hallway at the back of the house and into the Baronses’ den, a room Josh had been in many times, watching TV with Nate. Even though Nate had a television in his room and an extravagant entertainment center in his basement, Josh preferred the den’s comfortable leather furniture and close atmosphere. “Are you cold?” he asked.

“A little,” said Lauren, arms crossed over her chest.

Josh took a blanket out of the antique wood chest at the end of the couch and then sat down. “Sit with me,” he said to her. She sat down next to him and he covered both of them with the blanket. He reached for the remote on the glass coffee table, turned on the TV, and then wrapped his right arm around Lauren’s shoulders and drew her to him. He brushed her hair from her face with his fingers.

“What do you want to watch?” asked Lauren.

“Anything,” said Josh. “I’ll watch anything you want to watch.”

 

An hour later, Josh heard a knocking sound. “What’s that?”

“Someone’s at the door,” said Lauren, getting up.

They walked through the hallway to the front door. Jenny’s face was framed in the beveled glass, her breath fogging the lower half. Lauren opened the door. “I need help,” said Jenny. “Nate’s had too much to drink.”

Lauren looked past Jenny to the front driveway, where Nate, with his head at an uncomfortable-looking angle against the headrest, was slumped in the passenger seat of her car.

“Can he walk?” asked Josh, moving through the doorway.

“Not very well,” said Jenny, following him. “It took two guys to get him into the car.”

Josh walked the short distance to the car and leaned down to talk to his friend. “Nate,” he said. “You’re home, buddy. Let’s go.”

Nate opened his eyes and looked up. Unable to focus on Josh’s face, his eyes gave up and rolled back in their sockets. “I’m fucked up, man,” he said.

“I know,” said Josh, bending down and putting his arm around Nate’s shoulder to ease him out of the seat.

“Everything is fucking spinning,” said Nate.

“Let’s get some air,” said Josh. “What you need is some fresh air.”

“No,” said Nate. “What I need is a large pizza. Will you call for me?”

“Yes,” said Josh. “We’ll get you inside, and then I’ll call.” Josh pulled him out of the car easily enough but, not expecting to completely support 160 pounds, lost control. Nate sank to the ground. “Maybe you’re the one who drank my beer,” said Josh, teasing his friend as he leaned over to help him up.

“That’s possible,” said Nate. “I’m quite sure, at this point, that I had more than my share.”

“Up we go, pal,” said Josh, lifting Nate from behind. “Let’s get you moving.” With Josh half-carrying him, Nate made it to the front steps.

“Maybe we can make him some coffee or something,” said Jenny.

Josh pulled Nate through the front door and into the hallway, where Eileen, in a white terry-cloth bathrobe, was now standing. Nate looked at her and said, “Oh shit,” and then threw up.

C
HAPTER
11

W
ith a glass of pinot grigio in her hand, Ann lay back on the fluffed pillows of the king-sized bed, admiring her fresh manicure. A ninety-minute massage had taken care of the company jet ride ache in her lower back, and her legs still tingled and glistened from their waxing and conditioning treatment. Tomorrow, she would immerse herself in a rejuvenating body bath, guaranteed to restore youthful oils and nutrients, followed by a butt polish. Finally, some attention to her needs. Ann took another sip of wine and closed her eyes.

Minutes later, Mike walked in the room from their bathroom, wearing a towel around his waist. That afternoon, he’d spent an hour with the tennis pro, an hour with a massage therapist, and $6,000 in the men’s shop. He smiled at his wife as he stood over the bed. “Don’t you look like a new man,” she said.

“I feel better than I’ve felt in months.”

“See?” said Ann. “It’s like pulling teeth to get you away from the office, but whenever I do, you’re grateful, aren’t you?”

“I am indeed,” he said, removing his towel to dry his hair. “There’s just one more thing that could make me the most grateful man on the planet.”

“Really?” asked Ann.

Mike dropped his towel to the carpet, sat down, and stroked one of her exposed legs. “Your thighs are perfect.”

“They ought to be,” said Ann, finishing the wine. “God knows I work them.”

“I can work them, too, you know,” said Mike, climbing onto the bed.

“Mmmm,” said Ann, setting her glass down on the bedside table. “I know you can.” He straddled his naked body over hers, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. “You’re the only man who turns me on,” she whispered.

“Oh God,” said Mike, entering her.

It’s so easy
, thought Ann as Mike rocked back and forth. A few words, a touch here and there, a well-timed moan; it took ten minutes. Early in their marriage, Ann had tried to inject her own sense of romance into their relationship. She held his hand whenever they walked together. She wrapped his arm around her when they sat on the couch watching TV. She told him how much she loved fresh flowers—all in the hopes that he would realize it was his attention she sought. She wanted him to think about her, for thirty seconds even, think about what she wanted or what would please her. His attention, when he looked at and listened to her with intensity, was much more of a turn-on for Ann than his naked body. They approached their physical relationship from opposite ends: she wanted to feel loved before they had sex, and Mike thought sex was the proof.

For a while, Ann had tried a few “No Fail” options described in a Valentine’s Day article in a women’s magazine: watching sports on TV with him, giving him back rubs, calling him at work to tell him she was thinking about him.
Shower him with your affection, and he will shower you with his
(Suggestion #6). He seemed to appreciate these efforts, especially the back rubs, but they didn’t change his behavior. In his defense, he had always been that way. He had never been the suitor with a bouquet of red roses, offering instead a post-hockey game freshly showered body and a six-pack of beer. And Ann had fallen just the same.

While Mike groaned, Ann decided what she was going to wear to dinner. After, Mike lay on his side, looking at his wife’s naked body. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

“About last year’s fourth quarter,” said Mike.

“Well,” said Ann. “There’s an honest answer.”

“And?”

“It’s okay to be satisfied, Mike. To linger in the moment rather than launch yourself into the last or the next business quarter.”

“Because you’re basking in postcoital bliss right now? Tell me you weren’t just deciding which shoes you’re going to wear to dinner.” Ann wrapped her robe around her and sat on the edge of the bed. Mike reached out, his long arm just an inch or two short of touching her. “Hey,” he said, gently. “We’re on vacation. Just relax.”

Ann rubbed her temples. The light buzz from the wine circulating earlier had settled there, threatening, a storm cloud on the horizon. “I’m going to take a bath,” she said, reaching for her wineglass, looking for the on switch. “Then we should probably get ready for dinner.”

“I’ll get you some,” said Mike, sitting up and taking the glass from his wife. “Go get in the tub.”

Mike got out of bed and walked naked to the wet bar, where he poured himself a scotch. He took a sip, concentrating on the warmth of the liquid as it traveled from his mouth, down his throat, and into his gut. One of the best things about vacation was the freedom to drink whatever and whenever he chose. He’d had a martini at lunch and a beer after tennis and it didn’t matter to anyone. He had no meetings scheduled. He had no phone calls to make until tomorrow. He had nothing and no one except his uptight but very sexy wife to attend to. Pleasing her was no less challenging than satisfying his stockholders.

Her demands were different now that they were approaching middle age. She examined her face every night in the bathroom mirror, lamenting the inevitable “aging process” and rubbing expensive cream into the tiny lines around her eyes and mouth before yanking the occasional gray hair from her scalp. Her obsession with being thin had burgeoned over the last few years, with exercise and diet knocking everything else off her priority list. And the children, as teenagers, didn’t need or want her in their lives.

When Nate and Lauren were young, they defined her mission, perhaps even more than other mothers because getting pregnant had been difficult with Ann’s endometriosis. And as a mother of young children, Ann had been playful, silly even, like she was in college when they first met. She was competitive and determined as well, capable of outdoing and outshining those who challenged her. And it was this trait that Mike most admired, that drew him to her, and made him choose her over the girls who wilted in this presence.

She was drifting now, his stalwart wife, searching for what mattered. And he could not help her, either define it or acquire it. She would find her ground, but she would do it as she did most things, on her terms and by herself.

Mike took another sip of scotch; his thoughts switched to work and the juxtaposition of where he was that moment and what he was usually doing. The pressures on him were continual, like the chemicals running through a pipeline in one of his manufacturing plants, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He poured Ann a half glass of wine. And there was certainly no room for drinks in that design. At business lunches, he sipped mineral water. Those who chose less wisely quickly lost the thread of the conversation, nodding their heads in false comprehension while he steered the discussion. Mike walked Ann’s wine into the bathroom, where he found her sitting in a bubble bath, surrounded by candles. He handed her the glass, wrapped a fresh towel around his waist, and then sat down on the pink marble steps leading up to the tub.

“Did you drink the other half?” she asked.

“There is plenty more where that came from, Ann. Pace yourself.”

“We’re on vacation, remember?”

“Which means you can drink yourself into a stupor?”

“No,” said Ann. “I didn’t mean that.”

“What did you mean?”

“Never mind,” she said. “If you’re going to play Alcohol Cop, I can’t stop you.”

“Somebody’s got to,” he said, drinking his scotch. “At some point you need to realize that she who drinks the most wine and champagne does not necessarily win.”

“Win what?”

“Exactly,” said Mike.

“Can we stop now?”

“Yes,” he said, knowing her overindulgence with alcohol was part of her search. Yet whether or not this dependency would fade was far more troublesome to him than her excessive exercise and shopping. Her drinking was escalating in spite of, or perhaps due to, his periodic lectures.

They sat in silence.

“Thank you for taking me away,” Mike said, changing a tired subject. “I’m enjoying this immensely.”

Ann took a sip of her wine, then set the glass down on the edge of the tub. “We really have to do this more often.”

“Let’s do that.”

“You say that,” said Ann, “but you don’t mean it.”

“I do mean it,” said Mike. “This life looks pretty good compared to working my ass off.”

“Retire,” said Ann impulsively.

“At forty-six?”

“It’s not like we need the money,” said Ann, reaching for her glass.

“The way you spend it,” said Mike, smiling, “we could always use more money. And as much as work is constant, it is rewarding. I work with a great bunch of guys and I’d miss that. What would we do with ourselves?”

“Travel the world,” said Ann.

“You’ve seen quite a bit of the world already.”

“The world’s a big place.”

“And we’ve got lots of time. The kids will both be out of the house in a few years and then we’ll have no ties whatsoever.”

“God, I dream about that,” said Ann. “A quiet, clean house— no fighting, no talking back, no lying. Of course, we’d have that already if you’d just said yes to boarding school.”

Mike stood and stretched his arms over his head. “And we’ve had this conversation a thousand times,” he said. “No go.”

“We could send them to the best schools in the country,” said Ann.

“I know that,” said Mike, looking into the mirror behind the tub and wondering if he should shave again.

“And?” asked Ann.

“As you already know, I spent my entire childhood at boarding school,” said Mike, rubbing his chin to assess the stubble. “I won’t do that to my kids. End of discussion.”

Ann took another sip of her wine. “Fine then,” she said. Mike glanced down at her. “You definitely need to shave,” she said, sinking lower into the tub.

“Okay,” said Mike, dropping his towel to the heated floor. “I’m going to take a quick shower, then dress for dinner. What’s the drill for tonight?”

“Formal,” said Ann. “Wear your tux. I got you a new tie and cummerbund.”

“Not floral,” he said, turning on the shower.

“MacAndrews plaid,” said Ann. “You’ll look fabulous.”

 

At dinner, they sat with the same three couples as the previous night. Ann had requested major league players at their table and she was not disappointed. Then again, most of the people who stayed in five-star resorts didn’t have their money in 529 college funds—like most Dilloway people at home. Those Midwestern wives had absolutely no fashion sense, thinking Talbots was an upscale place to buy clothes and jewelry. Sometimes three or four showed up to the same company dinner in their new faux pearl earring and necklace sets. Awkward in social situations above them, they blushed frequently and seldom talked. When one did speak, it was often a failed attempt to sound up-to-date on current politics or an ignorant compliment on Ann’s outfit. And their husbands were, in some ways, harder to take. They spent the evening trying to outdo one another in the presence of the big boss. “You know Mike,” one would say, before launching into a supposedly impromptu economic theory that everyone within earshot knew he’d rehearsed at home. Ann had to resist the urge to shoo such people away like fruit flies from ripe bananas. This crowd wasn’t like that. They all had money and power, although by Ann’s quick calculations, not quite as much as she and Mike, the Big Cheeses.

After dinner, they all danced to Tunes by Taylor, a fabulous deejay who played music from the 1970s through the 1990s. Ann had always been an avid fan of eighties pop. Duran Duran, Boy George, Fine Young Cannibals, the Bangles—she could shake her bones to anything with a beat. Again and again, she pulled Mike away from business conversation with the boys to romp and stomp on the dance floor. She sang the words, clapped her hands over her head, and let the champagne she’d drunk at dinner work its magic. The disco ball hung from the ceiling sent circles of colored light spinning around the room, while Mike, a capable dancer, spun Ann around the floor.

Back at the table, they had brandy. Everyone was in a good mood, such a good mood that Ann decided to share some bawdy stories from college. She had them all in stitches with her favorite—Pencil Dick—when the first wave of nausea hit. She stopped abruptly and looked at Mike. He said something to her that she couldn’t understand. When the second wave came, she stood up. Excusing herself, she walked as fast as she could around tables and people to the nearest exit. Gagging, she threw herself through the French doors out onto the terrace where they’d had cocktails several hours earlier. Across the flagstones and out onto the grass, Ann ran with her hand over her mouth. She ducked behind a hedge just as the evening’s festivities roared out of her like water released from an uncapped fire hydrant. Falling to her knees, she retched again and again, into the bushes. A few minutes later, Mike found her, picked her up, and carried her through a back hallway and up two flights of stairs to their room. Closing the door behind them with his foot, he walked her to the bed and set her down gently. “Where is everyone?” asked Ann sleepily.

“Still at the table, I would presume,” said Mike, undoing his tie. “Are you all right?”

“I’m drunk,” said Ann.

“Well, yes,” said Mike. “I think everyone knows that.”

“How do they know?” asked Ann, shielding her eyes from the light when Mike turned on the bedside table lamp.

“Pencil Dick’s a pretty good barometer for that sort of thing,” he said.

“Oh shit,” said Ann, rolling over and hiding her face in the pillows. “How will I face them again?”

“I told them you were on medication,” said Mike. “They all seemed to understand completely.”

“Why did you let me drink so much?”

“I think you did it all by yourself,” said Mike, helping Ann out of her dress.

“I was having such a good time,” said Ann. “Until I threw up.”

“Well, yes,” said Mike.