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Chapter Twenty-Three 2 page

“You could live with Grandma,” Eric suggested.

She offered a pained smile. She knew he was trying to be helpful. “You know Grandma lives in an assisted living setting, sweetie. It’s not really an option.”

He laughed again, knowing all of her issues with Debbie. While her parents had always been good to him, particularly when John was alive, she’d always felt closer to Francine, Paula’s mother. Francine had been instrumental in Steph’s decision to keep Eric and they still remained close through phone calls. She’d never say it out loud but Francine had been more of a mother to her than Debbie.

He spent another half-hour lobbying for her departure, and she finally asked him if he was trying to get rid of her. He dismissed the idea with a wave and she knew he had no ulterior motives such as returning to his life of hard partying. She pondered his offer seriously until the back door opened and Marta appeared. In the distance Lawrence’s car left the garage. She almost laughed. How stupid did he think she was?

Marta had told them she’d been a model back in Europe and since her body was nothing but curves, Steph believed her and Lawrence instantly hired her. Her hair was wet from the shower she’d taken after they crawled out of Steph’s bed, and the smile that spread across her face could only belong on the face of an adulterer.

“How you doin’ Marta?” Eric asked, lifting his drink.

She flashed a wide smile and Steph bristled. Marta had been eyeing him ever since she arrived and Steph worried that she’d make her way into his bed too. Steph knew that he’d lost his virginity to a woman ten years his senior during a church summer camp on abstinence and addiction.

“I’m great, Eric,” she said, refusing to acknowledge Steph. “In fact, I’m perfect.”

“Is that what Lawrence says, or is that your own over-estimation of your ability in bed?”

She’d said the words before she could stop herself.

Marta stared at her, her eyes the size of golf balls.

Steph looked at Eric and his broad grin.

“Damn it.”

Chapter Three

Steph’s exodus from Lawrence and her socialite life in Scottsdale began the moment she confronted Marta. The maid had gasped and run back into the mansion, no doubt phoning Lawrence immediately. Steph could easily predict how Lawrence would spend the rest of the afternoon. He’d leave work early to buy her an expensive gift and two dozen roses—and practice his begging on the way home. It was a poker game they’d played several times.

When he arrived home carrying three dozen roses and presenting her with a Cartier watch, she knew he’d realized the stakes were higher and he’d upped the ante. But she was ready to fold—forever. Eric magically disappeared with fifty bucks in his pocket and Lawrence ordered Chinese over the phone, not bothering to ask Steph what she wanted. He assumed he knew her tastes as he assumed many things, including her forgiveness.

He went upstairs to shower and change, and when he returned wearing jeans and a sweater, she sat regally in the Queen Anne chair, her legs crossed at the ankles. She wore a silk blouse with deep cleavage and wide-legged black dress pants. Her makeup was flawless and she’d adorned herself with some of her finest jewelry to create a look of power and confidence. They’d performed this play many times and Steph had always dressed the part, hoping that her beautiful exterior would give her the inner strength, but it had never worked before and she’d always forgiven Lawrence after he’d worn down her resistance and tickled her fear of being alone.



He knelt before her like a royal subject in front of his queen. He took her left hand and kissed her wedding ring.

“You know how much you mean to me.”

She remained calm and still. She didn’t answer and she didn’t pull her hand away, not even when he brought it to his lips and kissed each finger.

“I’m sorry about Marta, Steph.” He kissed her wrist and forearm, murmuring, “It’s just you’ve been so distant and I’ve felt so lonely. It feels as though you’d rather spend time with Eric or your club friends than with me.” He stared into her eyes and her frozen expression. “You understand, don’t you? I work so hard to provide for you and Eric and I just needed a release. But you’re my wife, my love.”

He burrowed his face into her cleavage and squeezed her breasts. Just as he started to unbutton her shirt, the doorbell sounded.

“Shit,” he said, rising and grabbing his wallet from the sideboard while Steph brought two plates and a small basket to the dining room table.

“What’s that?” Lawrence asked, pulling the boxes of takeout from the brown bag.

Steph smiled. “Homemade Chinese fortune cookies.”

Lawrence grinned and plucked one from the basket. “You know I love these.” He cracked the cookie and pulled out a slip of paper. “Five million. What the hell is this?”

Steph shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe you got a bad fortune. Why don’t you open a different one?”

Lawrence frowned and cracked another cookie. “You’re a dickhead.” He took a deep breath and met her icy stare. “Okay, I probably deserved that.”

“Open another one,” she said flatly, her arms crossed.

There were two left in the basket and he crushed both of them at the same time and pulled out the slips of paper. Her smile grew wide as she watched him digest the words on the papers. I’m leaving you. I want a divorce.

He leaned over the table, shaking his head, laughing. “Oh, Steph, you’re such a card. Like you’d ever really leave me.”

She grabbed her purse and keys from the sideboard and glanced at him over her shoulder. “I’ll be staying at the Troon Bungalows for now.”

His shoulders sagged slightly but he wore a smug smile. “You’ll be back.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. You know that first fortune you opened, the one that said five million? That’s what I want—half of your practice.”

 

Only when she was certain that Eric was fine and his summer classes were underway did she point her Beemer north and begin the trek back to Oregon. She’d loaded the car for the long drive across the southwest, taking only the essentials, since she didn’t have a real plan. After eighteen years of filling Daytimers and social calendars with Lawrence’s and Eric’s activities, driving out of Phoenix’s city limits was liberating. But six hours later, as she turned north onto I-5 outside of L.A., anxiety sat in the pit of her stomach. She’d been a marionette for her entire adult life, dancing each time her doctor-husband moved the controller. At one point during her drive—somewhere outside of Sacramento—she’d actually gazed down at her legs to make sure they were really her own.

As she crossed the Oregon border, she should’ve been celebrating the sight of the green trees and the cool weather. But she felt sick and was ready to barf by the time she drove through Eugene. She wasn’t prepared to see her mother the way she was feeling so she turned left and kept driving—all the way to the ocean. She eventually wound up in Yachats, a popular coastal town.

After three days of sitting in a motel room staring at the tacky blue wallpaper and sobbing periodically at the mess she’d made of her life, she ventured to the store for groceries.

A woman stared at her as she roamed up and down the aisles, and she assumed it was because her eyes belonged on a raccoon and her hair was horribly disheveled.

“Stephanie?”

She turned around slowly to greet the smiling face of a woman wearing jeans and a Windbreaker.

“I thought it was you.” The woman stepped forward, a hand over her heart. “Caroline Bickford? We went to Eugene High together. Do you remember me?”

She nodded. She remembered her and that she hadn’t been very nice to her either. Over the years she’d found herself reflecting on her behavior during school and she wasn’t impressed. She’d been a snob. Caroline hadn’t been beautiful then and she wasn’t now, but she was nice looking with bobbed brown hair and a pleasant face. She’d always been a little heavy—and still was—and her physical features ensured Steph and her cheerleader friends wouldn’t bother to know her.

“Are you here visiting Debbie?” she asked, as if she knew what the answer would be.

“Uh, yeah, partly,” Steph hedged. She held a box of Wheaties tightly against her chest like a security blanket.

“I ran into her at the park a few weeks ago. She just raved about your wonderful marriage and your growing medical practice.”

She nearly dropped the box but caught it before it hit the floor. Her chest heaved with sobs.

Caroline quickly escorted her outside.

“I’m sorry, Caroline. That was very inappropriate.”

Caroline reached into her purse and handed her a tissue. “It’s no big deal. I’m sorry I upset you.”

“Don’t be. It’s just that Debbie isn’t well and she tells stories.”

Caroline nodded, understanding. “I see. Reminds me of high school,” she said softly. When Steph composed herself, Caroline said, “So, what’s the real story, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“I’m not a doctor. I’ve left my husband. I’m a terrible mother and I don’t know what I’m going to do with my life.”

She’d spewed the truth like an exploding geyser and she was prepared for Caroline to walk away, dismissing her as a nut.

Instead she stuck her hands into her jacket pockets and sighed. “Where are you staying?” she asked.

“The motel up the road.”

“C’mon,” she said. “You’re coming home with me, but we should probably go back and pay for that cereal,” she added, motioning to the box Steph had strangled between her arms.

After they checked out of the motel, Caroline took her home.

“You live here?” Steph asked incredulously as they drove up the trail to a lighthouse keeper’s house, which had been transformed into a bed-and-breakfast.

“Yup. My husband and I bought the bed-and-breakfast about six years ago. We came up here for a romantic weekend and fell in love with the place. Then we found out the couple who’d owned it for years were ready to retire. It’s our pride and joy.”

She parked in the back of a large, white Queen Anne style house, complete with a gorgeous red roof. An enormous weather vane twirled slowly in the light breeze, emitting a soft creak that harmonized with the wind whistling through the trees.

The porch stretched across the front, providing a beautiful view of the churning ocean two hundred and fifty feet below. Steph turned to the west and gazed at the Heceta Head Lighthouse, its beacon flashing intermittently. She’d only visited it once on a class field trip and she remembered it was the most photographed lighthouse in America. It sat atop a bluff at Devil’s Elbow State Park and at sunset no picture was its equal. Heceta Head was the image Americans associated with lighthouses.

She stared at the tall sentinel, tempted to drop her bags and run up the trail to greet it.

“She has that affect on people,” Caroline commented, smiling at her. “You see whatever you need to see in her—love, comfort, even strength. This was the picture that drew us here.”

Caroline touched her arm and Steph followed her into the bed-and-breakfast. She shook hands with Caroline’s husband, Rick, who was nothing like Lawrence. He was sturdy and reminded her of a lumberjack. Then Caroline picked up Steph’s luggage and led her into a small room off the kitchen that Steph imagined had once been used for storage.

“It’s not much,” Caroline apologized, setting her bags on the small twin bed.

“It’s fine,” Steph replied, and she really meant it. She didn’t miss her six thousand square-foot house at all. Guilt consumed her and she said abruptly, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry about high school.”

It was entirely impromptu and if they’d been much younger, denials and obsequious flatteries would’ve followed, but they weren’t young.

Caroline looked at her with a smile borne of years of experience and said, “Apology accepted. I’ll let you get settled and then we’ll talk.”

She left the room and Steph checked her cell phone—three messages. Eric wanted to know how she was doing, Lawrence screamed into voice mail that she was a fool, and Paula’s mother Francine wanted her to call because Lawrence had called her.

She quickly unpacked and joined Caroline in the kitchen. Caroline gave her a tour of the house, showing off the amazing parlors, fireplace and dining room. They toured the bedrooms upstairs, each one bearing a different name because of its place in Heceta history. She stopped at the last bedroom, her hand on the doorknob.

“This is Victoria’s Room and it’s the most unique of all.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s haunted.”

 

After a week Steph’s life settled into a pleasant routine. She called Eric twice a day, helped Caroline with the chores, ignored Lawrence’s messages that became more terse and shrill with each call and debated when she would announce her presence to her mother. She was desperate to see Francine, who finally agreed to a visit after several rounds of phone tag and one cancellation. Steph sensed that something was going on but Francine had sounded like her usual cheerful self.

Steph wasn’t prepared for the woman who greeted her at the door. She was emaciated and her cheeks were hollow. Her skin had yellowed and the steel-gray hair Steph remembered from high school had been replaced by white cottony tufts. She realized Francine was in her eighties. She’d been so much older than the other parents, having given birth to Paula at forty-three.

Francine hugged her and Steph returned the embrace gently. It was like squeezing a humming bird and she worried she would break her.

“Come in,” she said, and moved slowly back into the house.

Steph followed her to the sofa, replaying the last time she’d visited—the night she came to ask her advice about her pregnancy. Francine had listened carefully and told Steph to keep the baby and marry Lawrence, holding her hand and assuring her that she was making the right decision. She’d gone with Steph to tell her shocked parents, a gesture Steph would never forget.

The place was exactly as she remembered it, including the plastic that covered the sofa and loveseat. Francine was of a different generation than her parents, one that practiced frugality as a science. The faint smell of menthol hung in the air like a hospital. Steph gazed at the photos that covered every flat surface in the living room. Most of them were of Paula—Francine and Paul’s only child—but a few eight-by-tens featured Paul in his dress blues, holding a young Paula in his arms and standing beside a small plane. He’d been a pilot, first in the navy and then for a commercial airline. He’d been killed by a drunk driver when Paula was ten.

Her eyes settled on Paula’s senior picture and a kaleidoscope of images filled her mind—her laugh, her voice and their first kiss. She’d imagined her face nearly every day of her adult life but she rarely took the time to pull her box of memories off the top shelf of the closet in Scottsdale and retrieve any of the old photos. The price for her laziness was a hazy remembrance of Paula’s true self—the richness of her blue eyes, her aquiline nose and the dimple in her chin. She’d forgotten about that entirely.

Francine slowly settled next to her, every movement conveying her frailty. Her demeanor was still that of a lady. She wore a simple skirt and blouse, for it would be inappropriate to receive guests in a housecoat or jeans. Steph instantly thought of her mother who would open her front door dressed in her underwear.

“Would you care for something to drink? I’ve made iced tea.”

Francine started to rise slowly but Steph jumped up. “Let me get it.”

She retrieved the serving tray from the kitchen, cringing at the effort Francine must have exerted to prepare the refreshments.

Steph joined her again on the sofa and they sipped the tea. Steph knew there were things Francine wanted to ask but she’d never broach sensitive topics without an appropriate segue, one that was polite and correct. Francine smiled again, waiting for Steph to start.

“I’ve left Lawrence, for good,” she stated.

Francine frowned and her face conveyed further disapproval. “I’m sorry, Stephanie. I know Lawrence is a difficult man. Is there any hope it could work out?”

“No,” she said firmly.

“I see.”

Steph was uncomfortable with her tone. She knew Francine believed that people married for life. Her insistence that she keep Eric had been rooted in that traditionalistic attitude and she knew her effort to rally her in support of marriage was borne from the same belief.

“It’s not that I haven’t tried, Francine, but the man’s had several affairs. Even Eric thinks I should leave him.”

Francine raised her eyebrow at this news. “Well, I don’t know how much stock I would put in the opinion of a seventeen-year-old, particularly one who hasn’t always exercised good judgment.”

Although she jabbed with the blunt side of her blade, it still hurt. They both knew she was referring to Eric’s drug addiction.

Steph felt the need to defend him. “I know Eric’s made mistakes but this time I think he’s right.”

Francine sighed heavily and Steph could tell she was wearing thin of the conversation and the visit. Her hands shook slightly and her eyes were tired. Although Steph had only been there a few minutes, she needed to leave and let Francine rest.

Francine patted her on the arm and said, “I know you’ll do what’s right. How long are you staying in Eugene?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, indefinitely I guess.”

The wheels in her mind were turning. Sitting in the room, Steph could feel the difference in their ages.

She took a sip of tea and asked, “Stephanie, you haven’t spoken to Paula recently, have you?”

The question was asked innocently but Steph sensed it was rhetorical.

She searched for words to explain why her childhood friend of ten years had been absent for her entire adult life. Then she simply said, “No.”

“I never knew what happened between the two of you. Would you care to tell me now?”

She spoke to the coffee table in front of them, an extraordinarily odd gesture for her. As children she’d always remind them to look at adults when they were engaged in conversation. To do otherwise was rude.

Steph’s mouth started moving but words wouldn’t come. After three false starts she cleared her throat and issued a planned response. “Francine, what happened between me and Paula was unfortunate. I blame myself for losing touch with her. She was a dear friend and we had a ridiculous argument but it’s all water under the bridge.”

Steph cringed at her use of a hackneyed cliché but she couldn’t tell her the truth. Francine met her gaze with a hard stare. When Francine finally looked away Steph noticed her hands shook and her shoulders sagged.

“You look tired and I should probably be going. Next time I’ll visit in the morning,” she said, thinking that perhaps Francine would be better rested after a night’s sleep.

Francine offered no protest and followed her to the door. They hugged again and Steph could hear her heavy breathing. She wondered if she was sick and if so, how bad was it?

When they parted, Francine dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “You’re like my other daughter. You know that, don’t you?”

The comment implied a connection between her and Paula, one that hadn’t existed for seventeen years and Steph was touched.

Francine took a breath and set her jaw before she spoke. “Steph, I want you to do something for me.”

“Of course.”

Francine put her hands on Steph’s shoulders and looked her squarely in the eye. “I know you haven’t seen Paula for a long time. Someday I want you to make up with her. I want you to promise me that by the time you’re as old as I am, the two of you will be friends again. You can do that, can’t you?”

In her eyes Steph could see how much she’d hurt Paula. Does she know we kissed? Does she know we almost went to bed together?

When Steph said nothing, Francine asked again. “Can you promise me, Stephanie? Will you do this for me? Someday?”

“Yes, of course. Someday.”

“Do you really believe it’s over with Lawrence?”

She asked it as a question but Steph sensed a different tone—hope. And she was bewildered.

“Yes,” she said emphatically. “It’s over.”

Francine nodded, as if she approved, and closed the door.

Chapter Four

“There’s no easy way to say this, Paula, so I’m just gonna put it on a paper plate and set it on the table. I’m not dressing it up with garnish and sliding it onto Grandma’s fine china.”

Paula smiled congenially at her boss who sat at his ornate desk, constantly smoothing his silk tie. One of the downsides of working at a PR firm was the overuse of metaphor and spin. And no one could decorate a Christmas tree the way Christian Marcum could. Christian was constant motion and while Paula worked tirelessly, he still arrived before her in the morning and was rumored to have fathered the baby of one of the night custodians because she was the only woman he ever saw consistently. He was a bona fide workaholic, one who couldn’t stop moving. He tugged at his cuffs and shifted in his seat.

She’d worked at CM Connections for nearly three years, putting in an average of seventy hours a week—more than any other employee—to endear herself to the man who was regarded as Seattle’s premier PR guru. And it had worked. She’d slowly ascended the food chain to account executive, overseeing two of his most important clients, FitnessPro and Cyberlink. She loved the folks at Cyberlink, but the FitnessPro exec, Lenore Kerry sat at the heart of Christian’s bad news. Lenny was a power lesbian who often clashed with her. Their relationship ran hot and cold—until Lenny had made it very clear how hot she wanted it to get. But Paula found her totally unappealing, the complete antithesis of a beautiful woman.

Paula was totally turned off by Lenny’s clownish makeup and manly suits. She preferred femmes and their sweet perfumes and delicious curves. So after Lenny made a play and Paula rebuffed her, their meetings had become uncomfortable.

“Paulie, I need to let you go.”

“What?”

It was only eight thirty in the morning and she’d barely finished a cup of coffee so she was certain she’d misheard him.

He held up his hands, wrists together. “I’m a prisoner here, shackled by the almighty dollar. I’ve got to think of the company.”

“What the hell is going on?”

He gasped at her reaction. She’d always used a sing-song tone and when she had to discuss problems or challenges with him, she spoke in euphemisms. He swallowed the jagged little pills easier that way.

“Paulie?” he cried.

“Christian, I need answers.”

“Paulie, I don’t have a choice. Lenny is threatening to pull the account.”

“Is that what she said?”

“I’m not sure we need to go there.”

“Of course we need to go there. I’ve worked my ass off for you for the last three years. You’ve seen me more than my lover, a fact she throws in my face on a regular basis. I’ve been abandoned by a ton of women over this job. If you’re firing me, I think I deserve a full explanation.”

He leaned back in his chair and tented his fingers. “Lenny claims that you engaged in inappropriate verbal banter with her during one of your meetings.”

She sighed. “In English, please.”

“Lenny says you sexually harassed her by making lewd suggestions about hooking up.”

Her eyes widened. Lenny had turned the entire situation around, making her the aggressor.

“You don’t believe this, do you?”

He scowled. “Of course not, but that’s not the point. FitnessPro is a huge account for us, you know that. You also know that Lenny is the face of FitnessPro. They go hand in hand.” For emphasis he clasped his fingers together.

“Why can’t you just take me off the account instead of firing me? I wouldn’t like the idea of losing it but it’d solve the problem.”

He grabbed his reading glasses from the table and picked up a letter from his desk. “Not according to Lenny. She states that seeing you during a visit to CM would be terribly distressing and she doesn’t think she could bear it.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” She reached for one of the stress balls that he kept in a bucket on his desk and squeezed it, pretending it was Lenny’s head. “She’s just a manipulative bitch. She actually came on to me. And it wasn’t just with words.”

He showed no surprise or reaction. He released the letter dramatically and it floated to the desk. “Put yourself in my shoes, kiddo. What would you do if you were me, and before you say anything rash,” he quickly added, “remember I know you want to be me. You want to sit in this chair. So what do I do?”

He tapped his finger on the desk, waiting for her to answer the rhetorical question. She flashed to Lenny’s visit the month before. She’d staged an elaborate scenario, requiring Paula to deliver some important documents to her hotel suite late at night. The moment Paula crossed the threshold she knew it was a setup. Lenny greeted her in a satin robe, the lights were dimmed and a room service tray sat on a table with predictable foods for a sexual encounter—strawberries, chocolate sauce, whipped cream, cherries and a bottle of champagne.

She’d tried to hand Lenny the documents and go but Lenny insisted she stay for a glass of champagne. Before she popped the cork she discarded her robe, revealing a lacy bra and panties that exposed most of her body—and the muscles Paula were rather certain derived from steroids. She apologized profusely for potentially sending the wrong signals and left immediately. Apparently the apology hadn’t satisfied Lenny or her libido.

“So is there anything I can do to reverse this decision?”

He shook his head slowly. “No, unfortunately not. Of course I’ll give you a fabulous recommendation. This won’t come up again. I know it’s bogus, Paulie, but that’s part of the game. We’re in PR,” he said dramatically. “It’s all about pleasing the clients, kissing their asses. Hell, we build them a new ass if necessary.” He stood and held out his hand. “I’ll give you two weeks to hand over your accounts, and I’ll write a great recommendation and offer a terrific severance package. I’m truly sorry.”

She wandered back to her office threading her way among the cubicles of people on computers and phones, and loudly slammed the door. She’d never been fired before and she wanted to scream. This wasn’t even her fault and it was totally unfair. She sighed. She might hate her predicament but she knew Christian was right. Corporate PR was all about pleasing the clients. If she wanted the big bucks and the corner office, she had to keep the clients happy.

“Damn that bitch,” she muttered.

Her phone rang. Shelby. She took a deep breath before she answered. “Hey babe, how’s the opening coming?”

“It’s crazy but I’m so psyched! We’ve got all my paintings hung and Gemma even cleared out an extra space for my mural. Isn’t that fabulous?”

Paula gritted her teeth at Gemma’s extra attention to Shelby’s art. She suspected Shelby was stepping out on her but she didn’t have proof, only the experience and knowledge of one who’d made excuses during most of her own relationships.

“Look, I’ve gotta run and I won’t be home till really late tonight. Gemma invited some bigwig investors to the gallery, kinda like a private preview. Everything okay with you?”

She knew it was a rhetorical question and Shelby expected a simple answer. “Fine,” Paula said, dismissing the past twenty minutes with her boss.

After Shelby hung up Paula gazed out the tenth story window and the view she was about to lose. She doubted there was a special preview scheduled and she imagined Shelby would spend the evening between the sheets with Gemma. But she couldn’t fault Shelby for sleeping with her benefactor. Monogamy wasn’t a skill Paula herself had mastered and she’d begged more than a few girlfriends for a second chance after she slipped. She believed relationships should be able to get past affairs. Yet she was learning that most women didn’t share her liberal view.

She put her head on her desk, thoughts of Shelby vanishing. She’d lost her job in a shaky economy. She knew Christian would give her a glowing recommendation and she’d leave quietly in return. He’d make up some story about creative differences. She’d survive but this would definitely derail Shelby’s hope of cohabitation.

Shelby wanted Paula to support her while she created art. Paula had said she’d consider it but that was out of the question now and she was relieved. She dreaded everything else—retuning her résumé, job hunting, filling out applications, finding a head hunter and interviewing. It also dawned on her that she might need to leave Seattle, a fact that depressed her immensely.

She reviewed her messages—eight from the same unknown number in the Eugene area code. Just as she was about to hit voice mail, the phone rang again.


Date: 2015-12-18; view: 554


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