an excerpt from
Sleeping With Dogs and
Other Lovers
by Julia Dumont
Copyright © 2012 by Julia Dumont and published here with her permission
Chapter 1
Cynthia
Amas was wide-awake long before the alarm went off. She had spent
twenty minutes watching the sun creep over the canyon wall, across the
deck, and into the corners of her bedroom. It was autumn. One of those
hot Los Angeles Octobers that would be the dog days of August in most
places. Her mind had been racing, not only checking off the list of
to-dos for the day, but also the events of her life that had led her
here, to this moment, to this new venture.
Her
own love life, an often-exciting series of failures—one short-sale
marriage, many ill-advised flings, and one recent romantic encounter
with the best man in an unlocked cloakroom at a wedding reception that
literally lasted the length of the first dance, I mean it was an
extended re-mix, but still hardly constituted the kind of romantic
resume to impress the lovelorn ladies and gentlemen she was hoping to
woo as clients. How that cummerbund ended up inside one of the legs of
her pantyhose, she’d never know, but it made for a hilarious moment in
the conga line. He lived in Melbourne and it turned out he had a wife
and two kids back there. And a dog. Maybe a kangaroo. Probably a
mistress. There were no second dates on the calendar.
And
then there was Walter, who she’d met only a month ago and who seemed to
be falling hard for her. Unfortunately, the feeling was not mutual. He
was sort of a perfect guy—good looking, successful in business, lived in
a great house that he’d already invited Cynthia to share with him.
There was nothing wrong
with Walter exactly, and that was the problem. He was devoid of
idiosyncrasy—no spark, no spontaneity, no surprises. He’d never made a
fool of himself, never made a dumb joke, and while she was prone to
belting eclectic medleys out of the blue—from classic girl groups to the
rock’s Black Keys to R&B’s Janell Monae to Adele to Billie
Holiday—she’d never heard Walter sing a note, not even in the shower,
which to her was unfathomable. When Walter discovered a tiny hole in his
jeans, he immediately threw them out, despite the fact that, clearly,
that glimpse of thigh was by far the sexiest detail in his entire
wardrobe. To Cynthia it was a fortuitous entryway to a full-blown
afternoon delight, but, “You must be kidding,” is all he’d said in a
humorless deadpan when she’d tried to rescue the pants from the pile
destined for the thrift-store. He was beyond safe, like he was walking
through life in a suit of bubble wrap. Cynthia thought he needed his
bubbles popped, but she was starting to think she wasn’t the one to do
the popping.
Despite
all that, Cynthia had an undeniable knack for matching other people.
She had hooked up half of her friends and somehow their relationships
invariably blossomed into shockingly successful unions. A strong
promoter of psychosexual healing, she was thrilled at the possibility of
playing doctor feel-good professionally, writing her own prescriptions
for long-lasting love and lust. The epiphany struck during her own
short-lived addiction to online dating services. She got a quick
education about every site and decided that she could build a better
mousetrap. Mantrap. Whatever. She was also not-so subconsciously hoping
that being a soul mate searcher for others might somehow lead to finally
finding something lasting for herself. Like most people, she wanted
true love and a lasting relationship, and deep down she knew she
deserved it. She just couldn’t figure out why, every time she got
interested in someone, that elusive goal always slipped through her
fingers.
She
rolled out of bed, wearing only a man-sized silk t-shirt, gray-green,
incredibly soft, and barely long enough to maintain modesty, really the
thing she felt sexiest in. It had been in her sleepwear rotation ever
since Max left it behind. Even though he was long gone, and there had
been plenty of others since, the garment was his enduring legacy. It had
been washed a hundred times, so it couldn’t possibly still smell like
him, and yet it somehow did. When it brushed against her skin, she
recalled his skin, his hands, his everything…a sensation she obviously kept secret from subsequent lovers.
Max
wasn’t even the ex-husband. In fact, their affair had lasted only three
months, but he was still the first one she thought of when she
considered might-have-beens. She should have probably thrown the shirt
out a long time ago, switched to something not infused with these kinds
of indelible memories, but he’d gotten married and lived halfway around
the world, so it was a fantasy devoid of any real-world significance.
Plus, she knew why it hadn’t worked out…he was bad for her. She had a
tendency to be needy around him, something that had never happened with
any of the others. What they’d had together was so impassioned, so
deeply romantic, so all consuming, the rest of her life had instantly
fallen to pieces. And then, as quickly as it started, it was over, and
Cynthia found herself alone, sifting through the wreckage. But that was
years ago now, and she was over him. It was just a stupid shirt.
Cynthia headed to the bathroom, then to the kitchen, where the day would begin: coffeemaker, laptop, action. The site had gone live at eleven the night before and she quickly checked the inbox: sixty-two new items.
BZZZZ…her
mother calling. No way, click…straight to voicemail. Back to the task
at hand. Quickly scrolling: junk, junk, bill, bill, junk, bill, bingo…a bonafide inquiry.
Dear Second Acts;
First,
let me say I’ve never done anything like this before. I never thought
I’d need to. But lately I seem to be something of a loser magnet…guys
who you really don’t want
to still be there in the morning. Hunks of beef who pass their
expiration date on the way home from the meat market. I mean, I own my
own business—I’m a dog groomer to the stars—and I do get my share of A
and B-listers Ryan effing Gosling and his Weimeraners drop by once a
month), but the unattached guys are all wannabes, has-beens, agents, or
downright Hollywood sleaze buckets. Speaking of which, last Sunday
morning I spent an hour hiding under my covers, pretending to be asleep,
waiting for the latest king dork to compose a kiss-off note. What, did
he want me to dictate the thing? Excuse me, would you like to borrow a thesaurus or something? I
mean, the night before when he passed out, I opened the door to let the
dogs in, thinking they’d crowd him out of bed in no time, but there he
still was at dawn, struggling to string together the six or seven-word
dose of poetic psychobabble he thought he needed to let me down gently.
Don’t you get it, Shakespeare? I’m kicking you out. I mean, move it, some of us have lives.
Anyway, I’m starting to think I may need help with this.
Best,
Sick and Tired in Beverly Hills
Wow, thought Cynthia, I like this girl.
Sick
and Tired didn’t even bother to fill out the questionnaire. Cynthia
remembered how long she’d spent coming up with it, avoiding the obvious
questions that every dating site asks: likes/dislikes, musical tastes,
last book read…blah, blah, blah. She preferred open-ended questions
evoking longer responses that reveal personality. Short essays vs.
cookie-cutter multiple choice. Of course it would require more analysis
and thoughtful consideration on her part, but that was what this
boutique dating service would specialize in: personal attention. She
wanted that same feeling she’d had while hooking up friends. . . helping
good people find each other.
It
started in junior high. One time, it must have been in seventh grade,
she was at Darlene Dalvecki’s house for a sleepover. There were a couple
of other girls there too and someone brought up Brian Bickford. Darlene
really liked him, but Brian was clueless. That night, Cynthia thought about it while the other girls snoozed in their sleeping bags. Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match. She
didn’t know much about Brian. He was a super-shy kid. She could only
think of two overlapping interests. Favorite band: The Ramones.
Favorite drink: root beer. The next day at school, Cynthia hatched a
plan. It involved Cynthia singing Rock and Roll High School while
walking down the hall, getting Darlene to join in, then intentionally
getting bumped into by Brian, causing his root beer to spill all over
Darlene’s blouse, and then blaming the whole thing on him. He was so
apologetic. He must have said he was sorry about two hundred times while
he helped clean her up. Twenty-four hours later, they were a couple and
stayed a couple until they graduated high school. Cynthia wondered if
they were married with a gaggle of kids now. Might be worth tracking
them down on Facebook to get a testimonial out of them. In any case,
this matchmaking thing has been with her for a long, long time.
BZZZZ…her mother calling again. Nope, sorry, click. Cynthia slid the phone across the countertop. Not now, Mom.
Sick
and Tired was her first client and, by god, she was going to get
extremely personalized service. Cynthia also figured that Sick and Tired
might have girlfriends in similar situations in the 90210 and
surrounding zip codes. She looked down the list of other messages and
there were more prospective clients. She poured a cup of French roast
and fired off a reply to Sick and Tired.
Dear S & T,
Thanks for the funny and insightful letter. I hear you and I can help.
BTW, speaking of Hollywood, it’s not you, it’s some men who’ve gotten small. But not all of them. Let’s meet for coffee near where you work and we can make a game plan.
Best,
Second Acts
Cynthia clicked on the next message.
Dear Second Acts Dating Service,
I’m
a ridiculously successful hi-tech entrepreneur. I’ve been divorced for
six years, but every time a guy gets a gander at the depth of my
pockets, his gonads shrink like raisins and blow away in the breeze.
Please send me a real man. Now. If not sooner.
-Lonely in Brentwood
Cynthia laughed. This was going to be fun.
Lonely—
Welcome to Second Acts. As God is my witness, you will never be lonely again.
Frankly, my dear, I give a damn.
-Second Acts
BZZZZZZ!
“Mom!” said Cynthia, rolling her eyes and taking a sip of coffee.
BZZZZZZ!
BZZZZZZ!
BZZZZZZ!
She
watched the phone vibrating, turning slowly on the marble
surface.Sheknew that ignoring it was not an effective strategy. Her
mother was a lot of things, but quitter was not one of them.
She reached across the counter. Beep. “Mom, what is it?” she asked impatiently, “Can I call you back? I’m kind of in the middle of something.” She sipped more coffee.
Long pause. Wind rushing over the receiver, clearly in a car with the windows open or top down.
“Mom?”
“Now,
Cynthia,” boomed a man’s deep voice over the sound of the wind.
“Doesn’t a mother have the right to contact her only daughter even if
said daughter is a spoiled-rotten brat?”
What? Cynthia nearly did a spit take.
“Well,
well,” she said. “If it isn’t Mr. Dimples.” Max had better dimples than
any man she’d ever met. Cheeks, obviously. Chin, Cary Grant-esque. But
the two dimples in his lower back, or was it his upper butt?
Whatever—somewhere between the gluteus maximus and the latissimus
dorsi—just above where the jeans hung on his hips. She had never seen
anything like them. Epic. Earth-shattering. Monumental.
“How are you, Sin?”
Sin. Oh, brother. He’d always called her that. And spelled it like that.
“I’m
good,” she said, trembling slightly and trying to concentrate on the
laptop screen. She was suddenly acutely aware that the silk of Max’s
shirt was making contact with her left nipple. She placed her hand on
her breast in a bland pledge-of-allegiance manner, trying to extinguish
whatever was stirring there, but that just made it worse. She inhaled
sharply and shivered.
Plink. Already another message from Sick and Tired:
Do you want to meet this morning at the Peet’s on Beverly? Can you make it by ten?
Ten? She’d have to get moving.
“Max,” Cynthia continued, “I’m in the middle of something. Why are you calling? Where are you?”
“Heading
south on PCH, Sin. Passing Topanga. I live in Santa Barbara now. Want
to meet me for dinner at the beach? I’m at Shutters.”
Shutters, of course. Cynthia imagined his curls blown back in the wind. She couldn’t believe it. This was not a good time.
“So, you’re on vacation or something? Traveling with the wife and kids?”
“No,
Sin,” he said. “That union was kid-less, thank God. And besides, it’s
over. Finished—in the history books. She never really knew me. Not like you know me. If this is any indication, in four years of marriage, she never discovered that birthmark.”
Oh my God, thought Cynthia. How
could you not notice such an unusual birthmark? Granted, it was in a
private place and required a thorough inspection. Very thorough. But
still.
Another call incoming: Walter. Good God. Beep: ignore.
It
occurred to Cynthia that if Walter had a birthmark in that same spot,
she would not have found it yet. If that is, you know, any indication.
Max. She took a deep breath. This was so
not a good time. She gazed out the window in the direction of Santa
Monica. She thought about that weekend they’d spent at Shutters…the
weekend that turned into a week. And then two.
“Hold on, Max. I need to get back to you.”
“How about just a drink, Sin? Remember those mojitos?”
“What
mojitos?” she lied, not willing to give him the satisfaction. Of course
she would always remember how he “accidentally” spilled his all over
the front of her and then licked it off and kept on licking. They could
still taste the rum and lime on each other the next day. She could
almost taste it now. Her heart was beating a little faster. “Max, I need to call you back.”
“C’mon, Sin…for old time’s sake.”
How did I never notice how similar his voice is to Brad Pitt’s?
“Max. I. Will. Call. You. Back.”
“Okay, okay. It’s just that I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“Poor baby. Goodbye, Max.”
She hung up, shook her head, and focused on the screen, forcing herself to think solely about Sick and Tired so that she couldn’t think about Max for a moment.
She replied to Sick and Tired:
Great. See you then. I’ll be wearing a red beret.
Second Acts Dating Service was officially in business.
Meanwhile,
two hundred pounds of unabashed testosterone was hurtling down Pacific
Coast Highway toward the luxury hotel that was ground zero of Cynthia’s
all-time-greatest erotic adventure. She stepped into the bathroom,
lifting the t-shirt over her head and dropping it onto the white-tile
floor. She stared at it for a moment and then looked up into the mirror.
She studied herself, remembering Max’s breath, his tongue, how he had
worshipped every square inch of her. She searched for new war wounds
that might disappoint him. Turning slowly, she caressed herself here and
there, pretending her hands were Max’s. Her best assets were still good
assets. She took a long shower…taking refuge in the suds and steam. She
closed her eyes and aimed the hot water directly into her face,
entertaining the delusion that this might somehow wash away the fluster
that swirled inside her head…the sweet confusion that had suddenly
complicated everything.
Chapter 2
The
bumper-to-bumper over the hill on Coldwater gave her way too much time
to think, if you can call it thinking. She talked to herself, mired in a
circular brain loop.
One:
Second Acts is your second act. You’ve come a long way—from Dad’s
death, to Stanford, to a Pepperdine MBA, to a successful career as a
marketing executive at two major Hollywood studios, to death and rebirth
by downsizing, to this exciting reinvention. You can’t let Max or
anyone else screw it up. Two: Sick and Tired is as much your salvation
as you are hers. Three: Max. Four: Max. Five: Max, Max, Max, Max, Max.
Six: Have you lost your mind? You must not see Max under any
circumstances. Seven: But this is MAX we’re talking about! Eight: Begin
again.
She decided that this might be a good time to call her mother back. Ear buds in. Speed dial #1. Ringing...
“Hello!” Her mom always yelled to be heard over the yapping of her three neurotic Shih Tzus.
“Hi, Mom!”
Yap! Yap! Yap!
“Why are you yelling?!” she yelled.
“One guess, Mom!”
Yap! Yap! Yap! Yap!
“So, what does it take to get one’s daughter on the phone?!”
“Mom, we’re on the phone.”
Yap! Yap! Yap!
“Yes, but it’s too late! I don’t even remember why I called now!”
“Oh, well, that’s good then…whatever the problem was has resolved itself.”
“Who said anything about a problem?!”
Yap! Yap!
Plink.
Text from Max. Actually, no text…just a photo. Cynthia squinted…the sun
was hitting the phone’s screen and it was hard to make out.
“What is that?” she said to herself, but out loud.
“What is what?!” asked Cynthia’s mother. Yap! Yap! Yap! Yap! “You think I just sit around all day inventing problems to bother you about?!” Yap! Yap! Yap!
“No…not
at all,” said Cynthia, even though she was pretty sure her mother
invented most of her problems. She also knew that she could not take the
yapping or this conversation…especially the conversation. “Listen, Mom,
you’re dropping out. I’m in the canyon. Let me call you back. No, in
just a minute or two. Okay, bye. Okay, okay. Bye. Okay. Good. Bye.” Click. Once
Second Acts really got going, she would find a man for her
mother—someone willing to fill in for her at least part of the time.
The
traffic had come to a complete halt and Cynthia grabbed the phone. Max
had sent a photograph of his hand, his left hand…no ring. His fingers
were touching the raised numerals on a white door…the number 14. Simple,
but as was always the case with Max, perfectly composed and considered.
Fourteen was the room they’d shared at Shutters. She would never forget
because they ended up staying for fourteen days. In addition to his
other considerable talents, he was a master of long-distance foreplay.
He was reaching through the phone, touching Cynthia exactly the way she
wanted to be touched. She felt a little dizzy. The photo was like a
portal to their past and she was instantly transported back to that
first night.
She
remembered losing her sandals in the sand in the dark—one of her
favorite pairs ever, but she didn’t care. At all. They sang soft harmony
together, winding their way up the path, weaving through the maze of
hallways, and every time they realized they’d taken a wrong turn, they
stopped to whisper and kiss. He traveled slowly from lips to neck to
collarbone to breasts and southward, taking unpredictable, circuitous
side trips, making her shiver…making her weak in the knees. The sun, the
surf, the drinks, and her slightly sunburned skin—not painful, but
ultra-sensitive—created a sweet, tingling, coconut-flavored sensory
overload. With each new corridor, more zippers unzipped and buttons
unbuttoned. It took a while to find the right room and by the time they
arrived, they were unhooked, untied, unfastened, and utterly
unraveled—their clothes more off than on. Along the way, he made her
laugh by sliding the key suggestively into lock after incorrect lock,
before finally easing gently into number fourteen and, at last,
mercilessly consummating the evening and shaking her to her core.
Plink: Another photo, interior, room fourteen, fresh bouquet. When Max wanted something, he never, ever, ever gave up.
BZZZZZ: Walter calling. Sorry, Mr. Bubble Wrap. Beep: straight to voicemail.
Plink: Chocolate on pillow.
HONKKKK! BMW behind Cynthia leaned on his horn. Traffic moving again.
Plink!
She
eased her foot off the brake, studied the curving road ahead, and
glanced down at Max’s newest photo:A wider shot of the California King
comforter—pure white, thread count off the charts, glowing like a
cumulus cloud. Cynthia felt herself falling into it. This was the kind
of soft-focus flashback she thought only occurred in the sappiest of
Hollywood scenarios—movies that she didn’t particularly like watching.
But being in one was a whole different matter.
She looked up and slammed on the brakes, stopping an inch from the bumper in front.
She put the phone in her purse and threw it onto the back seat.
Chapter 3
Cynthia
recognized her client immediately. A beautiful redhead, mid-forties,
sexy, overdressed for Peet’s Coffee and extremely overdressed for a dog
groomer…but this was Beverly Hills. She was sitting at an outside table,
sandwiched between a Great Dane and an Irish Wolfhound, together
probably four hundred and fifty pounds of dog. They were dominating the
entire patio.
“Sick and Tired, I presume?”
“Second Acts?”
“Cynthia
for short. Let me grab a coffee.” She bought a latte and pulled up a
chair between the towering canines, which were immaculately coifed with
colorful ribbons around their massive necks. “So,” continued Cynthia, “I
assume most people don’t call you Sick and Tired.”
“I’m
Lolita,” she said with a nod. “My parents had a weird sense of humor.
When I was young it was tantamount to child abuse. In my twenties it was
a blessing and a curse. Now people usually think I’m kidding. When they
realize I’m not, they assume all kinds of things about me. Granted,
some of those things are true. I’ve thought about changing it, but it’s a
little late for that now.”
“I like the name,” said Cynthia. “Definitely an attention grabber.”
The
Great Dane nonchalantly ate two huge croissants from Lolita’s plate.
She made no attempt to stop him. In fact, she whispered to him, nuzzled
him with her nose, and then put her ear to his mouth, as if listening
for some kind of reply. Weirdly, the Dane growled softly, right on cue,
with a degree of vocal modulation that seemed eerily human. No actual
words, but party-trick-wise, certainly YouTube-worthy.
“So, the dog talks,” said Cynthia.
“Definitely,”
replied Lolita. “King said that almond croissants are his absolute
favorite.” She looked over at the Wolfhound. “Max is less talkative.
More of a strong, silent type. And he prefers the lemon poppy seed cake.
He had a slice with his salad nicoise.”
“The dog’s name is Max?” asked Cynthia. She didn’t believe in signs, but this was a sign.
“Yes, why?”
“No reason, I’ve just always loved the name.” Max, Max, Max, Max. She had an earworm going.
“Yeah,
me too, but I named him after Maximilian Schell. I had an affair with
him when he was living up on Mulholland in the eighties. He was fifty, I
was twenty. It was during my punk rock phase and the only movie I’d
seen him in was Judgment at Nuremburg.
I think I got some kind of perverse thrill from screwing a Nazi. Well, a
fake Nazi. Real screwing though. He was making a documentary about
Marlene Dietrich at the time, so I met her. Had dinner at her house
once. She got a little drunk and sang Lili Marlene to me…but Lolita Marlene instead.”
“That’s incredible,” said Cynthia, pulling out a folder and handing it to Lolita. “I want to date you.”
Lolita smiled. “At another time in my life, I would have taken you up on that.”
Cynthia blushed. Note to self: Do not under any circumstances introduce or even mention Lolita to Max. “Okay,”
she said, “the way this works is really quite different from your
ordinary run-of-the-mill dating service. It costs a little more, but,
believe me, it’s well worth it. I have a list of
100%-guaranteed-appealing males. No strangers. They’re all personal
connections of mine or referred by friends or colleagues who I deeply
trust. I’ve met each and every one, done extensive in-person interviews,
and I personally vouch for them. One of my rules is that I don’t add
any man to my list who I wouldn’t be thrilled to see naked. If being
stranded on a desert island with him doesn’t sound wonderful, he’s
absolutely, positively not on my ship. If I can’t fathom him kissing me
here, there, and everywhere, he’s gone. Period. And each has written a
statement that is so personal and honest, it removes a lot of the
guesswork. In some ways, I’m much more like an old-time matchmaker . . .
but without the old-time morality. I assume you’re in this for the lust
and
the love of it, after all. I want you to take these guys home and spend
some quality time with them. Roll them around on your tongue. Then,
just call me with your top five and we’ll get started.”
“No photographs?” asked Lolita, thumbing through the pages.
Plink.
Since their conversation began, Cynthia had been aware that her phone
was buzzing and plinking almost nonstop inside her purse.
Lolita noticed too. “It seems a lot of desperate clients are trying to reach you.”
“Yes,
well, Second Acts is booming. There are a lot of women and men looking
for love out there.” She knew that, in reality, most if not all of the
action inside that bag was Max. It was pulsating with mojo. It was like
his virtual hard-on was pounding against the inside of the bag, trying
to slam its way through the leather to find her. A rocket in her
pocketbook. A heat-seeking missile. She pictured him lounging in a hotel
robe, snapping pictures and concocting messages designed to tease and
tantalize her. As important as this meeting with Lolita was, Cynthia was
longing to look at her phone, dying to see what kind of mischief Max
was making in there. She imagined her purse overflowing with suggestive,
illicit, downright filthy communiqués by now.
“I’ll
email you photos of your top five,” she said to Lolita, lifting the
phone and sneaking a peek at Max’s most recent digital dispatch: a
bottle of Dom Pérignon on a table on a balcony…sand and surf stretching
to infinity. She did a double take and almost burst out laughing. He’d
placed two blood oranges near the base of the bottle. From anyone else,
she might have believed that the hilariously phallic still life was a
happy accident, but she knew Max and this was plenty happy, but no
accident. God, he was nuts in a good way.
“But
I’m telling you right now,” Cynthia continued, raising her eyes to
Lolita’s again, “there are no dogs on this list. Dog lovers, but no
dogs. On the contrary, I am beyond confident that you will not be
disappointed.”
“Good,” said Lolita. “I hate disappointment.”
“Me too,” replied Cynthia. “And unless you have any questions, I think we’re done here.”
“Also good,” said Lolita. “I’ve got bow-wows backed up to the 405.”
“Great. Call me tomorrow?”
“No way…I’m calling you tonight.”
Cynthia smiled. Maybe this was going to work.
“Perfect,”
she said, standing and reaching out to shake hands. Lolita also rose,
leaning forward as she pushed back, causing her collar to dip, and
revealing a generous bit of lovely cleavage. Cynthia noticed a tiny
tattoo on the inside of her right breast: a purple heart with a question
mark within it. Understated but devastating. This customer really was
in the market for something and Cynthia was sure she could satisfy her.
They clasped hands and kissed cheeks. Cynthia patted the heads of the
Dane and Wolfhound. “Adios, big boys. I’ve got another meeting to get
to.”
She
hopped into the car, put the top down, and sped west on Wilshire.
Uncharacteristically smooth sailing, no traffic…all signals go. The
universe seemed to be green-lighting her desire and destiny. On this
particular Monday morning, if there were going to be a roadblock between
Cynthia and reckless abandon, she would have to construct it herself.
But she was in the mood for making something else.
The
wind was roaring, wrecking her two-hundred-dollar hairdo, but she
obviously didn’t care. Even though she had left the heat of the valley
behind and cool westside air now enveloped her, she felt the warm rush
of blood to her cheeks and other places. Her body never could keep a
secret. By the time she arrived at the hotel every square inch of her
would be on fire. Max would see it. Even the valet would see it. It
would be visible from space. She never ignited so quickly, burned with
such intensity, nor melted with anyone like she did with Max. She caught
air over the hill at 26th Street and suddenly smelled the ocean.
Chapter 4
Meanwhile,
it was hot in the valley. Margie Amas, Cynthia’s ever-loving
long-suffering mother, suddenly stopped in her tracks. Tou-tou, Fifi,
and Fred, her three Shih Tzus, strained against their rhinestone-studded
leashes—together as forceful as one real dog. They scuttled over the
curb, first toward the crosswalk, then off to the right, almost pulling
Margie into a car pulling up to the red light on Ventura Boulevard. She
yanked back hard and dragged all three darling demon dogs back up onto
the sidewalk.
Margie
remembered something: the reason she had called her daughter this
morning. She had just seen Dr. Willowby for the fourth time in a month
and was absolutely positive that he was the man for Cynthia. He was the
kind of doctor who makes you want to be sick. Makes you scour yourself
for symptoms. Hell, invent symptoms. After her husband died—the rock of
her life—she couldn’t look at another man for decades. She had finally
moved beyond it, but she still hadn’t found someone she wanted to grow
old with. Well, grow older with. She
did still dream about that. But in the meantime, Margie savored almost
any attention from men—from the handshakes of casual acquaintances, to
the smiles of bag boys at the market, to the kind of intimate encounter
that Dr. Willowby had unwittingly provided.
“Hmm.
I don’t know, Mrs. Amas,” he’d said, gently circling his fingertips
around her right breast, along the bottom at the ribcage, then up and
in, deeper into the flesh, his other hand resting tenderly on her
shoulder, “Still can’t find that lump.”
“First
of all,” she’d replied, suspecting he was on to her, but not caring,
“Call me Margie. But, wait, did I say right? I think maybe it was the
left one.”
“I’ve already examined both, Margie. Twice. You get dressed and I’ll be right back.”
Earlier
in her life, Margie never would have pulled shenanigans like this, but
she had officially entered the WTF stage. She wasn’t interested in
subtlety anymore. No time for niceties. She was grabbing for all the
gusto she could get and if eliciting cheap thrills from a handsome
unmarried gynecologist was her greatest sin, she was still going to
heaven. Provided there was one. That was yet another dream she was
losing faith in. Another reason she yearned for a tiny bit of heaven
now. On the odd chance that she did ever see her husband Harold again,
she was pretty sure he would forgive her. God knows he’d done worse
while he was alive.
But
even her lavish fantasy life was not powerful enough to make her
believe that Dr. Willowby would ever be interested in her. Sure, she
looked good for sixty-four, but Cynthia was her carbon copy, except
twenty years younger. And prettier. And smarter. And a whole lot less
falling apart at the seams.
Margie
was always trying to fix up Cynthia. In fact, she was a little offended
that she hadn’t given her credit for being the inspiration for her new
business. As far as she was concerned, her matchmaking talents far
surpassed her daughter’s. She wouldn’t mind a new career herself.
Perhaps a partnership. She had mentioned it to Cynthia on the phone a
few weeks before, but it had not gone over well.
“Well,
sweetie,” she’d said, except she’d shouted it over the yapping of the
dogs, “I think we both know that I taught you all there is to know about
the art of matchmaking.”
Cynthia
didn’t say a word for at least five seconds, picturing the long line of
losers her mother had paraded before her over the years, and then cut
her to the quick with a joke that she always made when she suspected her
mother was losing her marbles: “So, should I install you in a home
now?” Margie dreaded the inevitable day when she wouldn’t realize that
Cynthia wasn’t making a joke.
Back
to business. How was she going to get Cynthia to meet Dr. Willowby? She
struggled to keep the canines under control, the leashes wrapped
tightly around her wrist, and she punched in the doctor’s phone number
with the thumb of her other hand.
“Hello, doctor’s office,” said the ridiculously young and perky receptionist.
Margie hated young and perky.
“Hello,”
she said, trying hard to convey an air of importance that was being
severely compromised by the guttural growls of the Shih Tzus, who had
suddenly taken offense to the two handsome policemen entering Jerry’s
Delicatessen. “Hold on…sorry officers. They’re good dogs, they just
don’t like uniforms. But I do.”
“Hello?” said Young and Perky again. “Is someone there?”
“Yes,” said Margie, yanking hard on the leashes and waving goodbye to the policemen. “This is Mrs. Amas. How are you, missy?”
There
was a pause and then the girl said, “I’m fine,” with an unmistakable
edge in her little-girl voice. “Listen, Mrs. Amas, you can’t keep
calling to talk to the doctor. He has other patients, you know.”
“Listen
you neonatal nutcase,” said Margie. “I’m not calling to talk to the
doctor, even though it’s well within my rights to do so. I’m calling to
make an appointment…for my daughter.”
“Oh, okay,” said the girl, “let me see what’s available.”
“Thank you,” said Margie. “I wouldn’t want to have to talk to your superior. Which could technically be anyone on Earth.”
She said that last sentence with her hand over the phone, but she knew
there was a good chance the girl had heard. And of course she didn’t
care.
Chapter 5
When
Cynthia descended onto the private road that connected Ocean Boulevard
to the horseshoe driveway of Shutters at the Beach, she felt a rush of
emotion, like she was coming home. Only a whole lot better. She breathed
in the ocean air and imagined the aroma of mojito and Max.
Suddenly
she was forced to stop short at the end of a long line of cars. She
slammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt just in time. Considering
how fast she’d gotten there—risking life, limb, and moving
violation—this was an ironic spot for a traffic jam. She craned her
neck, looking for a valet, but none were to be found. What was going on
here, some kind of cock-block convention?
“Fuck,” she said in a loud whisper, and then instantly laughed to herself that she wished she were doing it instead of saying
it, and that made her laugh out loud. And then she noticed a young
valet parker—he looked too young to drive, much less park—leaning down
toward the window, about two inches from her face.
“Hello, ma’am,” he said with a smile. “Are you checking in?”
“No,”
Cynthia said, “I’m just visiting someone…my cousin.” Why on Earth was
she lying? What was this, the 50s? This guy could care less who she was
seeing or what they’d be doing.
“So,” he continued, “you’ll just be here for an hour or two?”
“Yes, I mean no,”
she said, sliding off the seat and handing her keys to the valet. “It
might be longer. You know, probably have some dinner…and drinks. Maybe
sleep over…slumber party kind of thing. My cousin and I are very close.”
Yeah, right…Cousin-Cousine close.
“Very good, ma’am,” he said, smiling a knowing smile. “Thank you and enjoy your stay…however long it turns out to be.”
“Thanks,” she said, slightly irritated. She wound her way through the
maze of luxury automobiles. She entered the lobby and almost stopped at
the courtesy phone, but then thought better of it and turned down a
familiar hallway instead. She rounded a couple of corners and came to
the home stretch.
The
door to the room was ajar. This was just like Max. He was waiting for
her. She peeked inside. It was dark in there. The curtains were drawn.
She could barely make out his silhouette…he was on his side, under the
covers. Was he asleep?
“Max,” she whispered. Nothing. “Max?” Oh, god, he was
asleep. So unlike him, he never took naps. He was hyper-alive,
squeezing more life into more hours of the day than anyone she knew, and
he hated the idea of sleeping during daylight. He must have been
exhausted, poor guy.
Cynthia entered and silently closed the door behind her. She moved across the darkened room, the room she had known long ago.
This
was going to be good. She placed her phone on a chair and shimmied off
her skirt, top, shoes, then everything else…her panties last to go. She
slid under the covers. Being naked under great sheets in a great hotel with a great man was heaven on Earth.
... Continued...
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