The Tawdry Tangerine Farewell Pt. 04

This time took longer — it always did — and would be different from the titanic explosion of the last. I felt the first of the smaller detonations occur and, knowing there would be several, I pinned the vibrator into me with an ankle, dipped my fingers into my own juices, and frigged myself like mad until, with one hyperventilated moan that might have been an incoherent, "No more!" to nobody but myself, I let it drop out and fell into oblivion.

I wasn't a quitter when I had a goal. Mom reminded me of that the day after Thanksgiving. It took until then to have that talk. Even though they'd come back from the Keys several days before, I hadn't called. I was on an emotional seesaw: one moment sucked into anger that Rick had publicly embarrassed me, another floundering in confusion that I'd had a session of DIY-time thinking about him.

Thanksgiving had been awkward. I wasn't really in the mood to make nice with my relatives and, sure enough, I got drafted into the kitchen. But I got through it. Friday the two of us were sitting in the family room when she looked over and said, "So, talk, Katie."

I did. I told her about the long period of realizing that, no matter how good a husband Rick was, I didn't really respect him. I told her about my confusion at what to do, my inability to make up my mind. I told her about the fateful evening when, an extra drink having lowered my inhibitions the small bit needed, I said yes when Scott asked if I'd like to come home with him.

"You were drunk when you said yes?"

I shook my head. "Not really. Feeling good but it wasn't the alcohol. I'd had a thought or two that way about Scott before but was too uncertain to act on it. The drinks just let me reach for the brass ring. To be honest, I think it would have ended up there even without them, just maybe a week or two later."

She nodded. I could see she disapproved massively, but she was trying to help, not scold. Ironically, I never did fight with Mom during that conversation, though the same can't be said for Dad.

I came clean about not wanting the divorce but being pressured into it. I jumped forward and told her about my realizations about Scott: he was fun, he treated me great, but he wasn't going to be Husband Number Two. To him, I was only two or three notches above friend with benefits. I told her about my upset over the public shaming in the article.

"Yes, dear, we heard about that," she murmured.

I told her about my conversation with Rachel and Molly, getting angry again at the memory.

"Were you and Rick having problems in the bedroom that made you want another man?" I could see it embarrassed her to ask that.

"No. Rick's a good lover and lately..." I paused, suddenly self-conscious. Mom waited, so I told her in highly elliptical language, both of us flushing with embarrassment, that the anger had warred with a few of "those" kinds of thoughts this week. "When the mood hit, Rick and I were fine in bed. It was just hitting less often for me. It's hard to feel sexually attracted to someone who's fundamentally apathetic."

"Oh, bullshit!" The two of us turned, startled, to see Dad standing in the doorway. "I've been sitting in the other room listening to this crap, but I can't take it anymore."

"Kevin," Mom said sharply. "This is girl talk."

"And bullshit to that, too. She's my daughter as much as yours." He turned to me. "Rick is no more apathetic than I'm the Pope. What he is, is ..." he stumbled for a second over words, "...well, whatever the adjective of artistic integrity is. And, my guess is that the reason you've had the hots for him this week" — I could see he was even less comfortable alluding to his daughter's sex life than my mother was, but he had a point to make — "is because Rachel and Molly drilled a little reality into you."

If he'd left it there, we could have short-circuited a bit of yelling. But, he didn't. "Your problem with Rick wasn't that he was lazy. It was that he wasn't another trophy to put on your shelf so everyone could admire it and tell you what a success you've made of your life. And, now that Rick might be turning into a damn shiny knickknack for a spoiled little girl's mantel, suddenly Mr. Lover Boy doesn't seem like such a good trade."

I got a head of steam going and the next few minutes involved some sharp words and ever-escalating voices. Mom tried to intervene, but we weren't really listening. Finally, she snapped at him, "Kevin! Stop it! Leave this to me."

My dad's eyes, no longer particularly friendly, turned to her. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize that mothers had a monopoly on good opinions about this stuff." His tone dripped sarcasm.

Great! Now my parents were angry with each other.

"We don't," she replied. "But you're not helping her decide if she wants to get back with Rick or move on."

He looked at her in astonishment, then over at me, then back to her. His snort was derisive. "Well, good luck on that! All I can say is this, and I've said it before: if it was me and you cheated, I wouldn't have stopped at naming a statue only rich people will see. I'd have posted one of those pictures every damn place I could find."

"Wha ... what pictures?" I stumbled.

He turned back to me. "You don't think I went to talk to Rick when I heard you two were getting a divorce? He showed me just one picture, and not one a father wants to look at." He turned and walked out. I was shocked. None of the pictures I'd seen at Nicole's were inherently painful, not nearly enough to warrant that tight jaw and that pained expression.

Mom and I talked. She cried a little. I cried a little more. Finally, "Katie, the first problem is that you've confused ambition with success — no, just listen! You wanted advice so I'm giving it to you. Maybe it's hard for you to separate the two because, in the business world, ambition and drive often lead to success if you're competent and personable. I don't think the formula is that simple in the art world."

She brushed my hair back from my forehead in a gesture she hadn't used since I was a young teen. "I think what you thought was apathy was actually Rick just not compromising. If I had to make a bad analogy, I'd ask how you'd have felt five years ago if some senior VP had offered you a leg up if you'd sleep with him." My eyebrows went up. "You'd have told him to shove it and went on to make your mark the right way, wouldn't you've?" I nodded. "I think what Rick's done is something like that. He knew the family was provided for, and he could afford to wait until someone recognized his talent."

The similarity to what Rachel had said caused me to stop my retort and think about it. Finally, I asked, "You said first problem. What else?"

"That you're used to being smarter than most of the people around you and you just assume that makes you right." She looked sad. "Most of the time, it's true. But I'm not sure you've ever seen Rick for who he really is, not from the very beginning." She almost looked as if she was going to cry again. "It's why I always held back. Rick has as many faults as the next person. But, sweetie, your dad's right: he isn't what you thought. My opinions don't count. Only you can decide if he really is the right husband or whether too much water has gone under the bridge for you. Whatever you decide, I believe in you. It may take a lot to mend but you're not a quitter when you have something you want."

I disregarded the snort from the other room.

Molly

There was something about tearing into Kate a little that had me feeling good most of the week. And Thanksgiving at the Trevisani house does nothing but produce feelings of bloated contentment. Kids are screaming all over the place. Everyone is talking too loudly and interrupting each other constantly. Dad and my uncles are slightly potted on vino by three o'clock and busy giving any new boyfriends of the younger cousins the third degree. The women are ruling the kitchen with an iron hand.

As an adult woman, I was included in the latter and the truth is, even though I privately scoff at my mom's assertion that I need to be a good cook to hold a man, I make a pretty mean Wedding Soup and am a good assistant at stuffing cannelloni. It was fun to just slide into the noise, send the young boys fleeing the kitchen with a glare when they tried to steal a taste of dessert, lapse into fractured Italian when speaking with my nonna, and generally just be part of it all.

Occasionally I'd wonder how Rick would fare if I brought him. On one hand, it was so not-him that I thought he'd be screwed and swear he was never coming back.

On the other hand, maybe that difference would make it okay. He'd show up with a bottle of great wine as a present for my mother, greet nonna with a compliment in Italian that he'd painfully memorized the day before, treat me with utter deference. Then, having secured his rear line of defense with the women, he'd greet the men with a handshake like a piece of granite from a decade of swinging a heavy hammer, and spend the rest of the day amiably quiet, watching football with them and helping out whomever needed something done.

At the end of it all, my dad would say, "He's a little quiet but sembra un bravo ragazzo" — "seems okay" being about as good as it gets with any man even looking at his daughters. Mom would give a "we hope to see you again" to him and, to me, an approving look and probably some not-so-subtle hint about my older sister's three not being enough grandchildren.

That night, as I lay in the spare bed in my younger sister's room, mine being commandeered by visiting relatives, I thought how it would feel if he and I were a couple, privileged to have one of the private rooms "as long as you don't do anything to make the children ask questions." That thought brought others, ones that made me wish I could indulge in a little finger painting, but my sister was four feet away and a light sleeper, and cousins were on air mattresses all around.

The mood lasted right through the weekend. There was a small interruption to it late Sunday afternoon when Connor called me but, all in all, it wasn't a bad week.

"Hey, Molly, it's Connor."

"Hello." In some strange way, I was glad to hear from him. I still thought of him as fucking pond scum but talking to him meant we were in the endgame. At least, I hoped we were.

"Making sure we're still on for next Saturday."

"Yeah."

"You're gonna like this Rick guy plus I think you're going to find Leah even hotter than Piper was." He'd just finished mentioning that another couple might join us. Even though he was as cagey as before, he knew I understood that this wasn't some random thing. He'd spent a few seconds making sure I understood Leah played both ways.

I was afraid that being too accommodating would raise suspicions. "Well, that sounds great about Leah but, Connor, remember what I said about multiple guys."

His response was so quick that I knew he'd been thinking about this. "Listen, just keep an open mind and, if you like his looks — and I know you will — then we'll see where things go." I could translate that: once we're back to the boat and things are more private and you're higher than a kite, I'll put the pressure on. I didn't say anything and he added. "We had a blast with Piper and nothing bad happened. Don't you want this to go the same way?" The unspoken threat.

"You and Leah, leave Rick home."

"Can't babe. She's his girl."

"Oh." I pretended to think. "If I say no, it's no."

"Absolutely."

"It's ending with Leah," Rachel said to me. We were sitting at her house while I drew her. Her daughter, Ella, was reading beside her on the small sofa. The boys, big and little, had been banished because Rachel was sitting there in her underwear. She wasn't sure if she wanted that type of image in her portrait, mentioning her children. I'd countered that Jeremy's portrait had an image of him unclothed and gazing away, but it basically looked like he was just missing a shirt, only a faint hint of buttock visible if you looked closely. We compromised on putting together a lot of sketches and then she'd decide.

"Yeah, Rick said after this weekend she's back in LA."

Rachel nodded and went back to saying nothing for a while. Then, somewhat out of the blue, "Hey, Ella, how does the princess thank the prince for saving her in the movies?"

"She gives him a kiss and then they get married," Ella announced with all the authority of a seven-year-old expert in Disney productions.

Rachel glanced at me slyly. "A kiss. Yeah, that's what we tell the young 'uns."

Rick

My phone rang on Tuesday afternoon. "Hey, Rick, it's Connor. Fancy a drink?"

We'd traded numbers that day on my boat. "Umm, sure."

"You know where I'm moored. About eight?"

Four hours later I was sitting in the main cabin with a single malt in hand. When I'd hailed from the dock, the young, extremely fit driver had poked his head out of a door and Connor emerged a second later and waved me aboard. Adrianna, the brunette I'd met at the party, was behind the bar, and Connor asked her to pour us each one.

"Hon, why don't you head down below for a bit?" he'd told her. On the surface, it sounded like a request. The tone was more like an order. That didn't surprise me. We watched her walk away. I felt a bit like the creep I was pretending to be, but it was a very nice ass and I figured it was in character.

"Sweet, huh?" he said when she was gone. I nodded. "Saturday'll be fun, too."

I took a sip. "Yeah, Leah and I are looking forward to it."

He grinned. "So, anyway, I was thinking. Your buddies and you doing the Great Loop with all those girls."

"This time of year's no good. There'll be ice. Gotta start in the sum—"

He laughed and cut me off. "Nah, wasn't thinking that. I can't spend three months. What I was thinking is that a buddy of mine has a boat down in the Bahamas. An Azimut. What if we took a long weekend down there?"

"Go on."

"You could bring Leah. Molly'd come. Adrianna, too, if you wanted. Plus I know a couple of others who'd say yes if I asked. And..." he gave me kind of a hesitant grin, like what he was about to say wasn't really the entire point of this conversation, "maybe your friend Sophie would want to come along." I gave him a noncommittal look, saying nothing. "Whaddya think?" he pushed.

This seemed like dangerous territory. "I'm assuming you mean Sophie but not her husband."

"If that works, or if he likes a bit of fun, too."

I thought about what to say. A "no" could queer this whole deal. "I'll think about it" wouldn't be much better. On the other hand, trashing Sophie by saying she'd accept would likely get her and Mark pissed off at me if Connor mentioned it to someone and word got out. It occurred to me that it wasn't my decision to make. I pulled out my phone, hoping I didn't get voicemail. As I dialed, I lowered the volume to be sure that only one side of the conversation could be heard.

"Hey, Sophie, it's Rick."

"Rick! How are you? And I told you to call me Sophia."

"I know, Sophie. I'm well. Anyway, I'm here with a buddy of mine, Connor Thompson. He's a friend from down at The Point Boat Club." I heard the intake of breath. "We were talking over an idea and wanted to run it past you."

Her voice was cautious. "Go on."

"The weather's getting nippy up here and we were thinking about some warmth. Turns out a friend of his would let him use his yacht down in the Bahamas. He and I, his girlfriend, maybe some others. I wondered if you'd be interested in coming along for a little fun in the sun. Maybe there's some weekend when you're not busy. You could bring Mark if you wanted." Connor raised his eyebrows. I just winked. Jesus, I felt like a character in some B-movie.

She didn't say anything for a long moment, then, "Whose idea was this, yours or his?"

"Well, we could work around that."

"What? Oh, is he listening?"

"Yes."

"Is this your idea?"

"No, of course not!"

Another silence while she thought. "Say whatever you need to say, Rick."

"One sec. Let me make sure that's okay. Connor, she says it sounds like a great idea and she's in. She's not sure if Mark can make it or not. She'd have to check. Does that work?" His grin was answer enough.

"You're a pig, Rick," I heard through the phone, but she was laughing as she said it.

"Katie, something's come up this weekend. Would you like to have Sammie? I know it's short notice and, if you've got plans with Scott, I'm sure Rachel could watch her."

I'd originally planned to ask Rachel since I assumed Katie would be busy with her boyfriend. However, the slightly plaintive air Katie had when I dropped Sammie off the day after Thanksgiving niggled. I suspected I'd be feeling the same at Christmas and I wasn't a total asshole, so I made the offer and left it up to her.

"No, I'd love to have her. Do you want to drop her or should I come to get her?"

"Just pick her up from school like always."

"I wanted to talk to you about something."

"Is there some problem with Sammie?"

"No. Nothing to worry about, but I'm at the office right now and can't talk."

"I'll drop her off Friday."

She met me at the door to her apartment in a faded pair of hip-hugger jeans and a white t-shirt. It was a look I used to like. I still did, just on other women. "Sweetie," she said to Sammie, "go change into messy clothes. You and I are going to make pies." Sammie gave a little yelp of delight and scurried off.

Katie picked up Sammie's backpack and put it in the closet, then hung the discarded coat up. I waited.

"This won't take long." She didn't look thrilled at whatever it was she wanted to talk about and seemed to have trouble meeting my eyes. "Rick, I need to tell you—"

"Are you marrying Scott?" I broke in. "Are you trying to tell me I have to deal with Sammie having a step-dad?"

"No!" she said loudly then, glancing toward Sammie's room, repeated more quietly. "No."

She took a breath and dove in. "Obviously we had some problems in our marriage." I stiffened. She put out her hand as if to calm me but thought better of it and pulled it back. "But," she said, emphasizing the word, "regardless of what those problems were or who was responsible, I was one hundred percent wrong in the way I dealt with them. You did absolutely nothing to deserve the way I acted. I don't think I've ever apologized for cheating on you, so I'd like to do that now. I am very, very sorry I broke my promises to you, and I wish there was some way to go back and change that, but I know there's not."

I didn't know what to say.

"Every bit of anger you've felt was totally justified. I'm ashamed of myself." She finally looked up at my face. "That's it, all I wanted to say. Oh, and I'd never let anyone replace you as Sammie's dad. No matter what happens down the road." She stepped away as Sammie came bouncing back into the room and demanded to know what kind of pies. Katie scooped her up. "Pumpertin," she answered, using the name Sammie had given them years ago.

My phone rang as I was driving away. "Hi, Rach."

"Hey, Rick. Jeremy said you called but you didn't leave a message."

"The others are coming over tonight around seven. Can you?"

"Oh. Yeah, I can do that." There was a pause. "Are you okay? Your voice sounds a little weird."

"Katie just apologized to me for having an affair."

"Holy shit! That's a first."

"I was thinking the same thing. It sounded like she meant it. Maybe she's changed."

There was dead silence on the phone for a few seconds. "And if she has?"

"If she has, what?"

"Would you forgive her?"

"Yes."

"What!"

"Come on. You know what I told the counselor. I meant it." Then, because I'm not stupid and I knew what she was really asking. "If you're asking whether I'd consider trying again ... she doesn't love me, Rach, at least not the way I define the word. And I won't settle for whatever it is she does feel."