All That Was Happy

by M. M. Wilshire

Copyright © 2010 M.M. Wilshire

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.

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Chapter 1

Having received her divorce papers by ambush, Beckie’s next action had been to call her best friend Leah, her closest friend throughout her 29 years of marriage to Leah’s brother-in-law, Bernie.

Beckie and Leah agreed to meet for lunch on the patio at Chillers, their table facing The Promenade, a European-style, open air mall laid out by the city of Santa Monica and filled with trendy eateries, T-shirt shops, and other amenities suitable for chasing away dark moods.

Chillers, famous for a menu boasting a wealth of brightly-colored tropical drinks, served as a natural watering hole for lonely women in the middle of the afternoon..

“He's divorcing me," Beckie said. "He had me served this morning without warning. I was in the grocery store and a man walked up to my cart and handed me the papers. I feel as if I’ve been turned upside down."

“That's normal, to go through a period of temporary insanity,” Leah said. "No one can get a shock like that and not go bananas. I can’t believe Bernie did this to you the way he did--no discussion--just had you served out of the blue. After 30 years!”

"Not 30," Beckie said. "It would have been 30 this year. The diamond anniversary, or, if you're old fashioned, the pearl. Now it is neither." She began to convulse in spite of herself, tasting the salt of tears.

The drink waiter appeared, a quick blond man of lanky, yet muscular good looks and an amazing tan. The knees below his tan cargo shorts were more than a little knotted, indicating a great deal of time spent on a surfboard in the ocean a block from where they sat. He directed a concerned stare at Beckie, his clean cool gaze making her feel foolish.

“What do you have that really builds self-confidence?” Leah asked. “We’re a little depressed this morning.”

“How about a Banana Banshee,” he said. “Vodka, banana liqueur, cream de cacao, ice cream, and blended bananas. On a nice spring day like this, you’ll be happy again in no time.”

“Make it two Banshees,” Beckie said. “The bananas may help--I skipped breakfast this morning, and I think the stress may have burned off a lot of my potassium.”

He smiled--at Beckie, not at Leah--turned smartly and hustled off.

"Did you see that?" Beckie said. "The smile on that guy?"

"He is cute," Leah replied. "In a rough-cut sort of surfer-dude way. Maybe he'd like to shoot my curl."

"Please, Leah!" Beckie sighed.

“You’re going to get through this,” Leah said. “You’re not alone--millions of women in this town have gone through it.”

“That may be,” Beckie said, “but let me tell you, when it’s your turn, you walk it alone. For one thing it’s like God, or somebody, reaches inside you and flips the agony switch. I’m scared, Leah--I’m not sure I can handle this. I’ve been married twenty-nine years! Do you know how long that is? I got married to Bernie when I was twenty years old! I was just a kid! What am I going to do? What does Bernie think he’s doing!”

“Bernie is a pig. But you're not. At least you’re still gorgeous,” Leah said. “As soon as you’re ready, you’ll have no trouble getting another man.”

“Gorgeous! Another man! I’m twenty pounds overweight!”

“Better than being fifty pounds, like me--you always were the beauty, Beckie,” Leah said. “That’s why you got married so young--you’ve always had those cheerleader good looks. And what’s a few extra pounds? The latest poll in Cosmo indicated that most men are tired of skinny women. Did you see the way our server smiled at you?”

“I can’t even think about dating,” Beckie said.

"Who's talking about dating anybody? Don't tell me you wouldn't like that surfing waiter to wax your board."

"Please, Leah! For one thing, I’ll never live through this. The pain is overwhelming--when I got served the papers, it was like my stomach dropped ten floors. My whole body started vibrating. I don’t even know how I managed to call you and drive over here--I don’t even remember getting here.”

“You’re in shock, that’s all,” Leah said. “That’s what doctors are for. We’re going to spend the rest of the day together and I’m going to drive. The first place we’ll go after we have our drink is to my shrink to get you something for the stress.”

“You mean pills? They don’t make a pill that’ll stop this kind of pain. This kind of pain invades one’s entire body and soul.”

"Trust me," Leah said. "They make pills nowadays that'll do anything."

The waiter returned in record time with the drinks. Each lady took a grateful, tentative sip of the brightly fruited yellow slush.

“It’s good,” Beckie said. "A couple more of these and maybe I will hang ten with that waiter."

“Who says you can’t buy happiness?” Leah replied.

Beckie noticed the waiter wasn’t leaving. She glanced up and caught him giving her the once over.

“Waiter, or waitperson, or server, or whatever you call yourself--you’re hovering,” Leah said, her sharp words propelling him back to his fluorescent grotto of booze.

“Leah, I think he was giving me the eye. And a rather hungry eye at that.”

“And why not?” Leah said. “He for sure wasn’t giving it to me. It’s like I told you--once you’re emotionally ready, you’ll have no problems finding somebody.”

“I had my ring off,” Beckie said. “I took it off and threw it into the backseat of my car. The waiter thinks I’m single--but he’s so young!”

“Young and cute--what could be better? It’s your body language,” Leah said. “You appear vulnerable right now--the guy spotted it and thought you were sending him a signal. I’m telling you--you’ve still got it!”

Fresh spring breezes complimented the new blooms surrounding the topiary dinosaurs on the promenade, the whole mixing with a mist-softened mid-morning light, which played over the strolling shoppers--it was a perfect day in hell.

“I don’t know what to do,” Beckie said. “I don’t know where to turn.”

“You turned to me,” Leah said. “And I’m with you all the way. Bernie may be my brother-in-law, but you’ve always been there for me. I love Bernie, but right now I could kill him for what he’s doing.”

“But how do I go on with my life?” Beckie said. “Do I even go home? Do I even have a home? If I go home, will Bernie be there? This can’t be happening! He’s got to come to his senses!”

“You’ve got to get a grip,” Leah said. “The first thing we’ve got to do is have some lunch--you need to keep your strength up. After lunch, we’ll go talk to my shrink and see about getting you something for the stress.”

“Oh,” Beckie said. “This is getting worse every minute. This morning, when I got up, I sensed something bad was going to happen today. Bernie left the house early, and there was no good-bye kiss. The next thing I knew, I was being served. My premonition this morning was right. The world I inhabit now is vastly different from the one I woke up to.”

“Bernie’s a jerk,” Leah said. “He thinks he can just up and waltz out of your life.”

“He not only thinks he can,” Beckie said, “he just did. The only question I have is, Why did he do it? We weren’t fighting or anything. I noticed that he’d been a little distant the past few months, but I thought it was from all the hassle at the company, what with the merger and all.”

“It’s a beautiful day out,” Leah said. “I’ll call the waiter back and we’ll order something--maybe some baby backs with a salad.”

Beckie balanced her gaze on her friend’s face. “Leah,” she said. “You know why, don’t you?”

Leah’s face wilted.

“Leah!” Beckie cried. “Dammit! You do know why! And you better tell me right now!”

“I didn’t want to be the one who told you,” Leah said. “I begged Bernie to face you himself. I told Bernie he was being stupid and foolish. A man his age!”

“A man his age!” Beckie said. “A man his age! Don’t tell me it’s another woman!”

The silence between them grew, expanding until it seemed to fill the entire Promenade.

“You might as well know,” Leah said. “Bernie’s found somebody else. They’re going to have a baby.”

Beckie’s world chose at that moment to collapse completely, the degree of orderliness and predictability normally required set aside, for the time being, to allow for the weight of the news, which now, spelled out, destroyed completely any vestige of hope which still remained, and closed tight the door to her past life. She was alone with her Banshee, watching the familiar rules fall into an abyss, rules giving way to a new rule and a new law--the law of immense pain.

“Bernie’s not been himself,” Leah said. “He’s been dealing with a lot of issues about his mortality--when you were unable to have children, he put everything he had into the business, but now he’s feeling empty.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” Beckie said. “And he’s right to be fearing his mortality--because the next time I see him, I’m going to kill him.”

“You’re just upset,” Leah said. “You don’t need to kill anybody.”

“I’m not upset,” Beckie said. “I’m just feeling old, ugly, and utterly alone. I’m not upset, but I am furious--there’s a difference.”

“We need to eat something,” Leah said.

The waiter returned. “What’ll you ladies have?”

“I’ll have the baby backs,” Leah said.

“Another Banshee for me,” Beckie said.

“Beckie, that’s not a good idea,” Leah said. "You've never had more than 1 drink at a time in your life."

“I’m either having another Banshee right now,” Beckie said, “or I’m getting in my car and I’m taking my gun out of the glove box and going to find Bernie. Which do you prefer?”

“Bring her another,” Leah said.

This time, the waiter didn’t hover. He knew enough not to.

Chapter 2

“It’s going to be up and down for awhile,” Dr. Black said, “like being in a trance. You’ll be in shock because of your fear that your basic survival needs aren’t being met.”

“My survival needs?” Beckie said.

Beckie, sitting with Dr. Black in the inner sanctum of Black’s tenth-story corner office in the World Savings building at the corner of Wilshire and Barrington, had been picking through the destroyed remains of Beckie’s former existence in an attempt to establish a few new underpinnings which, if they held, might offer Beckie some chance of erecting a sufficient emotional shelter to make it through the next twenty-four hours until her next appointment with the shrink, who had, in just under an hour, managed to win Beckie’s support and confidence enough to be viewed as a sort of lifeline, however jury-rigged and impermanent such a lifeline could be said to be. Black, a younger woman of obvious Native American Heritage, lean and fit, very tall, with minimal makeup beneath luxuriant, long black hair, and decked out in a simple rose-colored business skirt and vest, presented a face of sympathetic concern which pushed Beckie to the point of tears.

“Divorce threatens us at our core,” Black said. “We fear that our need to be protected, nurtured, touched, looked at, listened to--our need to belong to someone--has been permanently taken away.”

“It’s true,” Beckie said. “All of a sudden I don’t feel safe--and I don’t mean from outer things, like criminals and the like--I mean from myself--I don’t know what I might do, or how I might be getting ready to react to all this.”

“Earlier you mentioned your desire to shoot your husband,” Dr. Black said. “Tell me about the gun.”

“The gun is the one I keep in my glove box,” Beckie said. “It’s a Charter Arms revolver--a policeman’s special. It’s got a stainless steel frame and I had it fitted with non-slip rubber combat grips. It’s loaded with four high-impact hollowpoint shells. I keep the hammer on an empty cylinder.”

“Only four shots?”

“That’s all I’ll need if ever I’m hijacked,” Beckie said. “Because of the expensive car I drive, Bernie felt I should be able to defend myself in case of an attempted carjacking.”

“Are you proficient in the use of the gun?”

“I’m an expert in personal firearms,” Beckie said. “Bernie and I are charter members of the Beverly Hills Gun Club. We joined back in ‘81 after it was first built. Bernie loaned the founder some money to pay for some of the warehouse conversion and was awarded a lifetime membership. Originally, I became interested in carrying a gun because I used to take the cash receipts bag to the bank every night after we closed our business for the day. Because of Bernie’s connections with the Gun Club, I was able to wrangle a carry permit. But after awhile, I really got into it. Some of the other ladies and myself formed an informal shooting club. It turned out I had a knack for target shooting. I’ve competed in many competitions. I’ve got a garage full of trophies. I’ve taken the official LAPD combat shooting course every year since ‘81.”

Black walked to her desk, a neat-as-a-pin chrome-and-glass affair whereupon she extracted a pad and began to scribble. “I’m prescribing something for the stress,” she said. “I want you to start on the medication immediately. Your experience today has impacted your sense of wholeness--but you’ll want to keep in mind that you’re going to find your safe space again--if you find yourself experiencing strong feelings of violence towards yourself or towards Bernie, I want you to call me right away. I suggest we meet every day for the next week or so until we get you stabilized.”

Beckie accepted the prescription. “What is it?”

“It’s just a little Tofranil,” Black said. “And don’t infer from this that drugs are the answer--over the next few days, we might try some biofeedback, or perhaps some guided imagery to help you through. But for now, treating your emotional pain is important. I want you to take the medicine regularly. Don’t skip a dose or wait until you’re hurting before taking it. By the way, you mentioned you drive an expensive car--what type is it?”

“A Mercedes SL600 convertible,” Beckie said.

“Is it fast?”

“It’s got a V-12,” she answered. “It’ll blow away almost anything out there.”

“I want you to concentrate carefully on your driving,” Dr. Black said. “Take lots of deep breaths and avoid the temptation to speed. You’ve got a lot on your mind right now. By the way, you might want to have a friend keep you company for the next few days.”

“I’ll think about it,” Beckie said. “Leah can keep me company if I want her to. But right now I just want to be alone.”

“You’re lucky to have such a friend. But doesn’t it bother you that she’s married to your husband’s brother?”

“She was my best friend all through high school,” Beckie said. “In a way, she’s like my sister. Too bad I married her brother-in-law. One of my fears is that it’s going to strain things with Leah, then I’ll be completely alone. But to answer your question, no it doesn’t bother me--Leah is my lifeline--she’ll probably offer to mediate if Bernie and I decide to communicate with each other.”

“Bad things do happen,” Black said. “And life does beat up on people at times. Nearly all newly divorced women are convinced that they are facing some special, awful truth about themselves--but the truth is, just because another person has chosen to be cruel and thoughtless towards you, it doesn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with you.”

“Oh,” Beckie said. “You aren’t going to say Don’t Take It Personally, are you?”

“I’m not saying that,” Black said. “But I am saying if you learn to look at it right, you can come through this not only in one piece, but maybe better than you ever were before.”

Beckie left the room and was escorted out by Leah, who’d been thumbing through a venerable stack of old National Geographics.

“These older issues are incredibly sexist,” Leah said. “How’d you like Dr. Black?”

“She thinks my problems with feeling depressed and discouraged are normal, considering the circumstances,” Beckie said. “But what does she know--the truth is, I’m a loser. I found myself sitting in there trying to be the perfect patient--all the while, my guts were screaming.”

“That’s normal,” Leah said. “It takes a few sessions before you start letting it all hang out. Dr. Black is not your usual shrink. She's a Navajo Indian. I think she trained in magic on the reservation as a child.”

"That's just perfect," Beckie said. "A shaman. Only in Los Angeles."

They elevator'd down to the parking lot and entered Beckie’s silver Mercedes, pulling out into the pre-rush hour Wilshire Boulevard traffic, the convertible allowing a full bask of the April sun, hot on their skin, as they made their way through the peculiar pack of low and medium-rise construction densities, where the packing, shipping and handling of the wealthy populace was performed expertly inside the exotic mini-environs of accountants, lawyers, doctors, and others who understood the importance of practical pizzazz and its applications to the dried souls pressed beneath their stacks of money.

Beckie turned off Wilshire and entered the cusp of a district of older homes, choosing a country-style white brick mini-manse, pulling into the driveway, the car gliding underneath a canopy of acacia trees and into a surrounding garden--a woodland cocoon which sheltered the entrance from the intrusions of the urban neighborhood, a garden which, with splashing fountain muting the roar from the nearby Wilshire, lent an atmosphere of shaded solitude to the place. She turned off the car and stepped out.

“Home sweet home,” she said. “It’s strange. I haven’t really heard that fountain since we installed it over five years ago. Now I can hear it clearly. At the time, Bernie didn’t want to buy it--but I wanted to make a strong, simple statement for guests. I wanted a bright spot in the middle of the shade--a place for birds to bathe and squirrels to drink.”

They crossed the wide, covered porch and entered the residence, making their way past the huge living room--filled with comfortable couches, happy pictures, antique lamps and artful placements of candles--to the tiny, cramped kitchen whereupon Leah set about making a pot of coffee.

“There’s some crumb cake in the cupboard,” Beckie said. “It’s funny, we were going to remodel this kitchen to better accommodate our plans for entertaining. We were going to draw some extra space from the living room and go with multiple work centers--I had a contractor plan out the island as a staging area which also housed the oven and the microwave. We were going for clean lines and a lot of wicker.”

“You still can,” Leah said, setting out the crumb cake and a couple of plates.

“How do I do that?” Beckie said. “How do I just keep on going with my so-called life? How do I learn to think for myself after twenty-nine years of thinking the way Bernie wanted me to? It’s just inconceivable that there’s going to be a life after this divorce. I’m going to die alone in this house--alone and friendless.”

“I’m calling the pharmacy,” Leah said. “They’ll deliver your medicine and you’ll feel better.”

“I don’t want to feel anything,” Beckie said. “Not now. Not ever again.”

“Eat your crumb cake,” Leah said. “You need some sugar in your blood.”

“You’re right,” Beckie said. “And I shouldn’t even be thinking about the future. I need to keep my mind on where things are right now. If I could simply do that, then I wouldn’t feel such a sense of overwhelming evil. But you know what really hurts, right now? It’s knowing that when it’s time to go to bed tonight, for the first time in twenty-nine years, I’ll be getting in that bed by myself--and it’ll be that way for the rest of my life.”

“The prescription will be delivered in about an hour,” Leah said, hanging up the phone. “And you should try to eat something.”

“The problem is,” Beckie said, “nowadays we all live too long. If we died when we were supposed to, Bernie wouldn’t have divorced me--he would have died by now. Instead, he did die--he died to me--he ended his life with me, but instead of going to his grave, where I could at least grieve over him, and respect him, he’s divorced me and is starting another life--he’s going to have a child! The child I could never give him!”

Beckie’s tears, no longer held in check by the earlier shockwave of the serving of the papers, began to copiously flow.

“It’s going to be okay,” Leah said. “What’s done is done--you can’t turn back the clock and do it over--but the future still belongs to you.”

“We had a pleasant home,” Beckie said. “It just doesn’t seem fair. Yesterday, I was a wife, with a place in this community. Today, I’m a pariah. All our friends are going to treat me like a second class citizen. I’m so ashamed. I’m so alone.”

Leah held her until the tears ran their course, tears which, like lava from a volcano, burned their traceways across the landscape of her soul, and of which there were plenty more where they came from.

Chapter 3

“Even allowing that you’ve been in the face of great frustration,” Leah said, “what you’re doing doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“Why should anything I do from here on out make sense?” Beckie said. “All I’ve done my whole life is make sense, and what’s it got me? It’s got me replaced by a younger female of child-bearing age, that’s what.”

Beckie, glaring venomously at the world through the windshield of the Mercedes Roadster, was bidding good-bye to Leah for the moment, and preparing to depart for places unknown. She’d changed from her pantsuit into a scoop-neck, pale pink camisole and jeans, setoff by a pair of white platform wedgies. The cool of a spring evening was setting in; the convertible top whined into place.

“I just think it would be better if you waited until tomorrow,” Leah said. “Especially since you’re new to the medication you just took. It says right on the label that drowsiness can occur. C’mon back in, Beckie. You can wait a few more hours.”

“Wait for what? For more punishment? I’ve already been found guilty on all counts of being a bad wife. Maybe I’ll feel differently later, but for right now, the thought of sleeping in that bed tonight is just too much for me. I can’t even face the thought of lying there alone in the darkness. I need some time alone to think. I’m going to take a drive, and then I’ll get a hotel room someplace.”

“I don’t think you should be alone tonight,” Leah said.

“I can’t face anybody right now,” Beckie said. “Not even you. I really need to be alone.”

“You’ll wind up in a bar someplace,” Leah said. “A hotel will be too lonely--you’ll wind up drinking yourself into a coma. Or worse, dressed like that, you’ll get picked up by some creep--I can see it clear as day. Don’t forget, that guy who cuts off women’s arms is out again.”

“I’m forty-nine years old,” Beckie said. “I don’t think I’ll be cruising the bars the day I get served my divorce. But if you’re right, if I do go to a bar, I’ll call you and you can join me.” She hit the gas and the powerful car skewed sideways before straightening out and exiting the driveway, heading back to Wilshire, turning east towards the 405 freeway and the Valley. The traffic was thick and barbaric in the thin, cooling, early evening light. It took her the better part of an hour to make her way north over the pass and back down into the San Fernando Valley. The light had faded into an urban glare by the time she turned off Sepulveda onto Saticoy and arrived at the single story Argon Tools warehouse, the business she and Bernie had built almost from scratch, slowly and painfully over the past twenty-nine years, the building she had spent most of her life working in, answering the phones and keeping the books until six months ago, when Bernie told her she could retire, that he would hire an office manager to replace her, one who was better trained on computers.

She cruised slowly into the parking lot. Bernie’s car, his new silver Jag sedan, was parked in front. It was approaching 7 p.m. He normally knocked off at 7, she knew, and would be coming out soon. She parked beside the jag and opened her glove box and removed the Charter Arms revolver, keeping it gripped in her right hand. She put the seat back, closed her eyes and waited.

Something awoke her--a scratching sound outside the car. She opened her eyes. It was dark, but the parking lot was well lit--and empty. She’d fallen dead asleep. Her mouth was thick and dry and her eyes felt scratchy and heavy, as though they wanted to close again. Somewhere in the middle of her dark, dreamless snooze, Bernie had come out, seen her sleeping inside her vehicle with a gun in her hand, and coolly driven off. She remembered the last time she’d seen him at the warehouse--had it been over a week? He’d been his usual self, constantly on the phone in his huge corner office, the one with the couch, barking orders to his secretary Nolene.

Nolene. It was her. The sweet young thing had taken Bernie for herself. Nolene, a nice enough young girl, a college girl according to the agency, a girl who should have been working someplace else at something more important but who’d chosen instead to fill the Office Manager position for Bernie. Nolene, a girl with an Irish name but Hispanic good looks, a girl who admitted to singing in her church choir but who’d one day shocked Beckie by showing her a tattoo of two snakes intertwined in the middle of her back--who’d been working for Bernie for only the past six months, who’d come highly recommended from the temp agency. Why hadn’t she seen it? Nolene wasn’t a temp anymore--she’d just been promoted to permanent. Nolene was pregnant with Bernie’s child. The thought of this, of a baby coming into the world with Bernie’s chin and nose, and perhaps Nolene’s hair and eyes, was too much. Beckie took the gun and inserted it into her mouth, feeling the acrid taste of the metal on her tongue, the ugly hardness of the short barrel on her teeth. She thumbed back the hammer, impressed with the smooth turning of the cylinder which brought into play the live round which would, momentarily, go rocketing through the roof of her mouth and into her brain. The hammer clicked into place and set the trigger. It was only a sixteenth of an inch away from releasing the bullet. She touched the trigger thoughtfully, lightly, amazed that this tiny sliver of steel could unleash a force that would end everything forever. She closed her eyes. She’d count to three and simply do it. One. Two.

The scratching sound again. What was it? Was someone in the parking lot with her? It was annoying. She wanted to be alone to kill herself. She didn’t want some idiot witnessing it!

The scratching continued. Her ears tracked the source. It was coming from a cardboard box set next to the light post. The box shook--there was something inside it.

There was a terrible booming coming from somewhere. She realized with a start it was the beating of her own heart, going a mile a minute. She removed the barrel from her mouth and took a shuddering breath, feeling raw.

She got out of the car, still holding the gun, and approached the box. Something was inside, scratching to get out, something not powerful enough to escape a simple cardboard box. But what was inside? A kitten? A snake? A rat? It could be anything! The box moved and she flinched. Gripping the gun with one hand, with the other she took the edge of the closed box flap and pulled it open, standing back, ready to blast the hell out of whatever sprang out.

A dog stared back at her, tail wagging furiously. The tiniest dog she’d ever seen. A teacup Chihuahua!

“Awww,” Beckie said.

She’d never liked dogs, and had no use for the fools who did. But she couldn’t just leave this tiny, shivering, hairless creature sitting in the box, to fall prey to whatever insidious event might occur at some later time in the parking lot. She knew for a fact that the Valley was infested with gopher snakes and overpopulated with barn owls, one of whom would surely track onto the tiny sniveling beast at her feet. The thought of the horned, feathered machinery of the owl converting this living thing into a compact ball of hair and bones by morning made up her mind for her.

“I’m going to pick you up,” she said. “But if you bite me, I’ll put you back in the box and blow your head off.” The creature allowed itself to be picked up. Her hands curled around its tiny rib cage and she felt its heart fluttering, felt the heat from its shivering body as its adrenaline flowed fast and hard, caught up in the excitement of the rescue, the release from the box. She got back in the roadster and set the beast on the seat, but it immediately sought solace in her lap.

“I don’t like you,” she said. “But I feel sorry for you. I’ll get you something to eat but what happens after that I can’t promise you. It all depends on what I feel like, and I better warn you, I feel pretty awful. So don’t go planning out your future and imagine yourself all curled up in a little ball at the foot of my bed tonight.”

She fired up the Mercedes and backed out of the parking spot. As she drove through the back streets towards the freeway, she wondered if she’d done the right thing by picking up the dog. A day ago, she would have asked Bernie what to do. He’d have known how to handle the discovery of the dog in the box. Then again, maybe not. Bernie probably would have simply backed over the box on his way out of the lot and left it for his janitor to sweep up. In any case, she wouldn’t be getting his input. In spite of her realization about Nolene and all that it implied, illogically, through her veil of anger, she felt somehow closer to Bernie than ever before, as though all she had to do was call him and he’d come tearfully back to her. The feeling dissolved in the darkening shadows as night marched slowly forward across the city, flushing out emotions she wanted no part of, feelings of being frightened--a fear of not making it to morning. Or of making it, and not knowing what to do then.

She was alone.

No, not quite. She now had a dog. It wasn’t much, but it was a lot more than she’d had an hour ago. She punched in a number on the cell phone and waited for the answer.

“Dr. Black’s service,” the operator said.

“This is Beckie--I just tried to kill myself. I put a gun in my mouth. I didn’t kill myself because of the Chihuahua in the box.”

“Hold, please,” the operator said.

“Beckie?” Dr. Black said. “Do I need to call an ambulance and have them come to you? Are you in trouble?”

Beckie gripped the wheel and drove fast up the southbound onramp to the massive 405 freeway. “I was in trouble,” she said. “That is to say, I nearly killed myself but didn’t. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I don’t know if I’m going to kill myself or not. I almost did, and it was a lot easier than I thought it would be. If I’m going to kill myself in the next few minutes, I suppose it will be death by speeding into a bridge abutment. I can take the car up to a hundred and eighty and then just turn into the nearest pile of concrete. I guess that’s one option.”

“Beckie, I’m at The Sandcastle, in Paradise Cove, do you know the place?”

“Yeh, I know it,” Beckie said, “it’s where they used to shoot The Rockford Files.”

“Why don’t you drive out and join me for a drink? We can have a bite to eat and take a walk on the beach. There’s a lovely full moon coming out. Will you join me?”

“What kind of a shrink are you?” Beckie said. “I’ve never heard of a doctor inviting a suicide case for a drink and a walk on the beach.”

“I’m just a friend,” Dr. Black said. “Can you come?”

The freeway was lightly trafficked--the big Mercedes would make good time.

“In an hour,” Beckie said. “And I’m bringing a friend.”

“A friend? What’s her name?”

“It’s a he,” Beckie said. She blew out a breath and broke into long, deep sobs. “He’s just a little guy somebody abandoned. He’s sort of in-between names right now. I guess we’re both sort of in-between nowhere and nowhere.”

“I’ll see you in an hour,” Black said. “I’m looking forward to meeting your friend.”

“Wait,” Beckie said. “I’m going to give my friend a name. It isn’t right that he doesn’t have one.”

She looked down at the dog, who continued to shake uncontrollably in her lap. A name drifted into her mind from somewhere out there, and the name fit perfectly.

“Okay Doctor,” she said. “My friend has a name--I’m calling him Mr. Boopers.”

“I’ll see you in an hour,” Black said.

Turning off the Santa Monica freeway onto Highway 1, Beckie felt the glow of familiarity, enjoying the feel of the roadster as it sailed along the ocean. Mr. Boopers continued to shake, and do small things with his paws, twitching an ear or two repeatedly in the process of adjusting.

Mr. Boopers was right to be a little nervous. After all, he’d had a tough day, and there was no telling when or how it would end.

Chapter 4

“We call ourselves WE,” Dr. Black said. “WE is an acronym for Women Empowered--we’re a support group of women who live in Santa Monica and the Palisades who are dealing with issues surrounding men. We deal mainly with divorce and abuse. We meet here at The Sandcastle once a week.”

The fast hop down the 405 to the Santa Monica Freeway behind her, Beckie, in the big roadster, had made record time up the Pacific Coast Highway to Paradise Cove Road, a narrow, winding finger of asphalt which transferred her from the bluff to sea level and the entranceway to Paradise, the way guarded, not by a gate of pearl or any such material, but rather instead by the more typically hum-drum guard kiosk, where Beckie had picked up her ticket to paradise and idled past a jumble of trailer homes and into the parking lot of The Sandcastle, which perched at the edge of the oceanic eternity of the Pacific, and was privy to, on this particular night, the thundering of storm-inspired sizable waves sparkling under a refulgent full moon. The spray of the waves, aided by a stiff offshore breeze, reaching her face even from her sheltered position behind the restaurant, had inspired her to open her trunk and pull out a heavy windbreaker and, as an afterthought, a large straw beach bag before she’d proceeded into the comfortable square archeology of the restaurant, a popular place, not known for its food, but rather for being where it was, which was on a beach-access portion of the Malibu coastline, beach access being a rare thing, as most of it had been purloined previously from the public by the rich and famous--who inhabited their Herodian lairs strewn like golden dominoes along the beach--and whom the public generally adored and therefore allowed them their slight indulgence of stealing a bit of beach.

Black, extending her hand in invitation to Beckie to join them in the restaurant booth, introduced two women--Scotia and Betty.

“The tradition started last Fall,” Betty--a well-appointed, matronly type--said, “when a few of us in the group decided that we needed to take at least one night each week and devote it to something more important than watching our husbands act out their rage fantasies on Monday Night Football, or worse, massage their greed glands while watching Regis Philbin and his geek parade insult the nation’s intelligence. We start with drinks and dinner and, weather permitting, we take a nice stroll on the beach after--which I think we’ll do tonight, albeit it’s a bit windy. As everybody here knows, I always go wading after dinner, no matter how cold or windy it is--it’s my way of challenging the universe, or something. But anyway, we’re glad you’re here--I think you’ll find the food here is decent, and the conversation’s wide open--no holds barred.”

“I’m glad I came,” Beckie said. “I haven’t had anything to eat all day--I probably wouldn’t have--I can’t really enjoy eating when I’m alone.”

“I feel like a good scotch and a decent steak,” Beckie said to the waitperson. “Load the potato, oil the salad, burn the T-bone and rock the scotch.”

“Beckie just got served her divorce papers,” Black explained to the other two ladies in the booth. The women eyed Beckie attentively, their faces suffused with a loving support that put a lump in Beckie’s throat. “After which,” Black added, “she tried to commit suicide.”

Beckie had to give the group credit--nobody flinched.

“Beckie, perhaps you’d like to share your story with the group,” Black said.

The waitperson materialized, slapped down a napkin before offloading a tall, sweating scotch, along with a simple tossed salad. Beckie sipped carefully, feeling the burn, almost not daring to speak.

“My husband Bernie is the worst person in California,” she said. “After twenty-nine years of marriage, with no warning, he had me served with divorce papers. The only sign something was coming was his failure to kiss me good-bye before he set off to work this morning. I just found out that he’s having a baby with his hot young Irish-Hispanic office manager.”

This admission, which would, by any normal standard, be a real conversation stopper, instead solicited various comforting cooing responses from the women assembled, the effect of which caused Beckie’s tears to flow freely.

“I just don’t think twenty-nine years should be written off like that,” she cried. “It isn’t fair--I gave my entire life to him. What was I to him? Just somebody to help him with his laundry and keep the books at his business until he was rich enough to dump me and rob the cradle?”

“Stop insulting yourself like that,” Scotia said. “Why do you automatically label yourself a loser just because someone else, who happens to be your husband, behaves like an idiot? Going through a divorce doesn’t make you a loser--you don’t have to get off the planet just because somebody tells you to shove off--you have just as much right to be here as anyone else. If somebody thinks they can write you off, so what? As long as you respect yourself, you don’t need to be concerned with others’ opinions.”

“That was direct,” Beckie said, not looking up, avoiding the psychic intensity of Scotia’s blazing eyes by looking down instead and picking at her salad.

“I guess I should tell you,” Black said, “the group’s rule of thumb is that when we’re together, we put aside the conventional conversational forms for something a bit more upfront--since women are expected to wear so many masks during their daily walk through the corridors of male power and domination--since we’ve been trained from birth to feel that what we do for men really doesn’t count as much as what they do for us--we find it refreshing to meet once a week to say whatever we really want to say, with the caveat that what we do say is said in love and mutual respect. Scotia is sort of the Patty Hearst of our little group--she just walks in to our emotional bank and starts blasting away--but it’s only out of concern for you.”

“I don’t know if I’m ready for anything like this,” Beckie said. “My wounds are a bit new, and raw. Perhaps I should just go home and go to bed.”

“You can’t sleep it away, my dear,” Betty said. “I tried that for years--instead of dealing with my jackass producer of a husband, I chose to sedate myself in order not to rock our expensive little boat. I wound up with a sleeping pill addiction and I’ve got the shot liver to prove it. I finally had to throw the bum out and get on with my life.”

The waiter arrived with a thick T-bone still sizzling.

“Please stay,” Black said. “It won’t hurt you to at least eat something. And don’t I remember you telling me you were bringing a friend?”

“I did bring him,” Beckie said. “But I’m not sure it’s appropriate to have a male guest at a table like this.”

“Well, I’m sure we’d all like to meet him,” Black said. “Where is he?”

“He’s right here,” Beckie said, reaching into her large straw purse and extracting the salivating handful of tiny canine, who, once at surface level, managed to spring free onto the T-bone and work a corner of it with a mind-blowing savagery.

“Ladies,” Beckie said. “May I introduce Mr. Boopers? A few hours ago, he saved my life.”

Chapter 5

“So what’s your favorite flower?” Scotia said.

“White Chrysanthemums,” Beckie said. “Whenever I see them, I feel giddy, as if I were on the verge of fainting.”

“White Chrysanthemums for a girl with white-blonde hair--that’s just perfect,” Scotia said. “You’ve certainly got the looks I wish I had. That long blonde hair and those blue eyes certainly spell out California girl.”

Scotia, a diminutive waif with a shiny head of short brown curls framing a lightly made-up elfin face, her body wrapped against the wind in a large black leather coat, leaned against the railing of the rudimentary fishing pier which jutted tentatively over the swells and shook submissively as each successive moonstruck foaming breaker contacted the loose-jointed pylons, the whole structure of which hosted the three members of WE who, along with Beckie, after dinner, had broken up into more intimate conversational pairings, having foregone the usual walk along the shoreline in deference to the crashing waves and driving wind, choosing instead the relatively drier platform of the pier.

“I’m not a true native,” Beckie said. “But I’ll take the compliment. At forty-nine years of age, I don’t get many of them.”

“You should get the compliments, from the tourists if nobody else,” Scotia said. “You could double for Suzanne Sommers. It sounds to me like you’ve been trapped in the typical marriage, where your husband took you and your looks totally for granted.”

“I’m just starting to realize it,” Beckie said. “Much to my dismay.”

“If you’re not a native, where are you from originally?”

“Believe it or not,” Beckie said, “I’m a native Tennessean. We came out here in the early ‘60’s when I was ten years old--my dad was looking for work. He drove us out in a ‘62 Buick Special. I thought L.A. was going to be this little berg by the ocean--boy was I in for a shock.”

“You don’t have an accent,” Scotia said.

“The accent is something you lose when you find yourself the butt of all the hayseed jokes,” Beckie said. “I guess you could say my childhood entry into the multicultural world of the Los Angeles school playground was nothing short of brutal--the kids out here were a lot more sophisticated than I was--they showed me no mercy. For the first year, my only friend was a little girl from Guatemala--an orphan who spoke only broken English. To make things worse, I developed early--by the fifth grade I had pretty much the same body I do now--minus about twenty pounds--and went through pure hell from all the nasty little boys all the way to my Senior year at Van Nuys High School. I’m still not over it. It’s probably part of the reason I married Bernie when I was only 20--just to take myself completely off the market and get the whole thing over with.”

“How’d you meet Bernie?”

“Believe it or not,” Beckie said, “Bernie was the step-brother of my best friend Leah’s husband. Leah married her boyfriend right out of high school. I got to know Bernie through her--I think Leah did a little matchmaking in that regard. Every time there was a family event, Leah invited me. Bernie and I had our first kiss inside the pool cabana in somebody’s backyard in Encino while attending a Bar-Mitzvah for one of his cousins.”

“Are you Jewish?”

“No, it’s worse than you think--I’m Catholic. His parents hated me. I was Bernie’s blonde shiksa. Bernie’s mother was an ultra-orthodox Jew, and Bernie’s dad did time in a concentration camp--he had the number tattooed on his wrist and everything. I don’t have to tell you how my own Catholic parents reacted to the news of me dating somebody Jewish. Both sets of parents tried to break us up, so we ran off to Vegas and tied the knot. Needless to say, we totally alienated our parents when we showed up married. My mother never did get completely over it. But enough about my sorry life--how about you?”

“The short version? I’m single,” Scotia said. “I’m likewise not a native, being a transplant from upstate New York who also went into total cultural shock when I arrived a few years ago. I came out here ready to conquer all, armed with my AA degree in Physical Therapy and my Certified Massage Therapist license. My plan was to use my skills to support me while I tried to get into the movie business somehow, but I wound up working at a day spa in Beverly Hills and I’ve left it at that.”

“That’s one thing I’ve never gotten used to about this town,” Beckie said. “Everybody you meet isn’t really what they seem--every guy who serves you a hot dog is an aspiring musician or actor--me, I was just a wife who worked for her husband’s tool import business.”

“What about kids?” Scotia said.

“We tried,” Beckie said. “Two miscarriages later, at our doctor’s advice, we quit trying--which is probably why I’m where I’m at today--Bernie left me to father a child, because we believed I couldn’t give him one.”

“You gave him two,” Scotia said. “They just didn’t live very long. But they’re just as real--they still have their role in the universe.”

“That sounds very Catholic to me,” Beckie said.

“It’s also very Hindu,” Scotia said. “I was raised Methodist, but I’m exploring something with wider margins at the moment.”

“Dr. Black was right,” Beckie said. “You are a little firebrand. What you just said about my babies being just as real as the ones who make it all the way to term knocked the wind right out of me. Somewhere, deep down, I’ve never accepted that I wasn’t their mother.”

“Where are they buried?” Scotia said.

“Oh,” Beckie said. “No place, really.”

“They just took them, didn’t they?” Scotia said. “They always do that--they did the same thing to me when I had an abortion last year--I was only having the abortion to please the man I was seeing, and emotionally I was in the wrong zone and I let them get away with it. But since I’ve started working with Maharaji, I’m learning to make some new connections with myself and how I relate to the world. In fact, I think it’s wrong for them to dispose of our fetuses the way they do. What they’re saying is that whatever is inside a woman’s body is nothing but trash to them. But that’s going to change--this coming year, I’m getting a bunch of women together to start a class action lawsuit about that.”

“This is going too deep for me,” Beckie said. “I’m starting to need a drink in the worst way.”

“I’m sorry,” Scotia said. “I’ve become something of a combat puncher since I’ve been in town. I live just off Melrose, in Gower Gulch, which is a real psychic war zone--everybody you meet is laying out their psychobabble all the time--it’s probably the most bizarre pocket of L.A. I could possibly have chosen, but I’ve adjusted, somewhat, and I think it’s been good for me--you know what I mean--the way everybody around me is working on their issues and all.”

“Compared to you,” Beckie said, “I feel like I’ve never talked about anything my entire life except what to fix for dinner, where to go for dinner, or what movie to rent.”

“I had to learn to be willing to explore the inner world,” Scotia said. “Most of the early encouragement I received, I got from my boss, Vito. He’s a stylist to the stars, but he’s into personal growth and discovery and all that--he finally convinced me that if I was ever going to strengthen the weakness in my aura, I would have to confront the bad karma surrounding my abortion. To make a long story short, I took Vito’s advice and started working with Dr. Black.”

“I’m sorry,” Beckie said. “I guess compared to your problems, my plain old everyday divorce must seem dull.”

“Not at all,” Scotia said. “It doesn’t matter what your issues are--the real trip we’re on is learning how to climb up the ladder of fear until we’re on top of the world--until we’re free! That’s what Dr. Black is all about. That’s why she started WE. Do you think you’ll be joining us, Beckie? Are you ready to start climbing the ladder of your fears?”

“If I look at my life all at once,” Beckie said, “I feel buried alive--but I’m starting to like the ladder idea--the idea that I’ll just take one problem at a time, one fear at a time--my biggest fear earlier today was sleeping in my own bed alone--I cried my guts out at the thought of climbing into that bed all by myself for the rest of my life--after that, I decided to kill my husband and then kill myself. I waited for him outside the warehouse, but I fell asleep and he slipped past me.”

“Would you have really killed him?” Scotia said.

“Yes,” Beckie said. “I know it sounds crazy, but at the time, I think I was a little crazy. I was going to give him four shots right in the chest, then reload my spare round and end my own life.”

“Will you join our little group?” Scotia said. “Will you become a member of WE?”

“I want to say no,” Beckie said, “because part of me had it all planned out to be a martyr--I’ve spent my entire life serving my husband’s needs. Now that the someone I served no longer needs me, it makes more sense to me to kill myself.”

“That’s part of the problem all women suffer from,” Scotia said. “We sacrifice ourselves for others--the problem is, in your case, you’re carrying the sacrifice too far. That’s why the universe sent Mr. Boopers in to break up the murder-suicide plot you had going. Mr. Boopers is trying to show you that your services are still needed--that even a quarter pound pooch is worth staying alive for--but you can’t serve Mr. Boopers until you learn to stop punishing yourself.”

“Wow,” Beckie said.

“Yeh,” Scotia said. “It’s pretty incredible, isn’t it?”

“No,” Beckie said. “I wasn’t talking about what you just said. I said Wow because I just saw something in the water. Look down! I just saw a huge fish come up to the surface and go back down.”

“Oh man, you’re right,” Scotia said. “There it is!”

“It’s a shark!” Beckie said. “It’s right below us!”

“Dr. Black!” Scotia yelled. “Betty! Come quick! There’s a Great White in the water!”

“It’s got something in it’s mouth!” gasped Beckie.

“A seal!” Black said. “It’s eating a seal!”

The group assembled on the rail and marveled at the sight of the feeding shark, a creature unconcerned with proper table etiquette, or climbing ladders of fear, and one not needing permission of any sort to behave in whatever way it chose, a creature whose life was spent effortlessly cruising through a kind of liquid eternity, and who contained within its taut muscularity all the energy and resilience of a god, imparting to their collective souls a sense of awe, and a reverence, if such it could be called, for the massive fish which had chosen that precise instant to display itself to them as if to send them the message that life wasn’t all wrapped up, that there still remained within the envelope some room for mystery, and power.

The excitement of the four women--transmuted to Mr. Boopers through the large straw bag--caused his hairless head to appear and, upon looking down and seeing the impressive poundage and cool fury of the feeding predator in the water, further inspired him to unleash a series of short, sharp barks of which his willingness to do so--to face the necessary but unpleasant task of chasing the evil thing away from his new master--demonstrated clearly to everybody present his considerable loyalty and courage, the size of which was certainly greater than the sum of his parts. With an impressive surge, as if acknowledging Mr. Boopers wishes, the big fish submerged beneath the rolling, foam-backed waves.

“Oh man,” Betty said. “I was going wading in a few minutes--I always wade up to my knees whenever we come here. I’m going back inside for a drink.”

“Dr. Black,” Beckie said. “I’m going to join WE--I’m going to become a Woman Empowered.”

Chapter 6

On the drive back into Santa Monica from Paradise Cove, Beckie stared at nothing for a long time. She’d popped a Tofranil before leaving the Sandcastle and that, plus the small amount of scotch she’d consumed, had helped push back the grief to a place just beyond the fringes of feeling--for the moment. But as she approached the short, curving ramp by which she would ascend from the ocean’s edge to the security of the bluff and Palisades Park, the pain, uninvited as it was, closed back in and the first fear she’d been wrestling with--that of sleeping alone for the first time--began to encircle her guts with strands of what felt like electrified barbed wire. She could draw only one conclusion--going home alone wasn’t going to cut it.

It didn’t take her long to find a parking space behind Chillers and make her way into the crowded bar, the place in full swing with younger people in tight jeans and combat boots who held good jobs in daylight hours serving their city as civil engineers and environmental planners, many of them on loan from the vast, corn-fed universities of the Midwest, places where nothing ever happened and nothing ever would, places to which they would return upon completion of their internship in this, the largest city in the nation, a city which encouraged them to open more than a few top buttons before they swam back upstream and died a living death in some backwater high-rise.

He was there, and she went up to him.

“What’ll it be,” he said.

“I saw you earlier today,” she said. “I was on the patio with my friend.”

“I remember you,” he said. “The Banana Banshee. Can I get you another?”

“What time are you off work?” she said.

“I’ll be out of here just after 12,” he said.

“Were you attracted to me?” she said. “Or was that just your way of hustling a tip?”

“I was looking,” he said.

She took a cocktail napkin from his tray, along with his pen, and began carefully drawing.

“This is my address,” she said. “It’s right off Wilshire. I’ve been married to the same man for twenty-nine years--I’m sure that’s longer than you are old. In all that time, I’ve never been with anybody else. Today that man served me with divorce papers. Now listen to me. I’m going home and going to bed--but I’m leaving the back door open. Do I have to say anything else?”

He cleared his throat. “Do you even want to know my name?” he said.

“Not really,” she said.

“It’s Huntington,” he said. “What’s yours?”

“Let’s not make it awkward,” she said, turning on her heel and heading straight out through the back.

Chapter 7

“I can tell by your boldness you’ve done this before,” Beckie said. “And often. But just because you’re assertive, don’t expect me to get me warmed up to the point emotionally where I become attached to you and start to whimper over you simply because you’re sleeping in my bed. And don’t think for a minute because you’ve managed to get this far, that I’m going to be fixing you a fancy breakfast in the morning. If you’re hungry, and you can’t find anything yourself, you can ask me, but I’ll probably just open a can. And another thing--I expect you to be quiet in here, and don’t think I’m going to be screaming out your name at any time, or making up cute little pet names or other terms of endearment--no, it’s not ever going to be like that. From this point on, you’re just going to be Mr. Boopers, and that’s all you’ll ever be.”

This being said, Mr. Boopers, flushed with victory at having recently, with only a few barks, sent a giant shark packing, turned around three times at Beckie’s feet and curled into a tiny ball. Beckie, teeth freshly brushed, and wearing her best silk teddy, turned out the light and waited. The curtains were half-open and the moonlight illumined the shelf on the opposite wall which supported her collections of miniature brick-a-brac, a row of antique porcelain glazed figurines gathered here and there along the pathway of her twenty-nine years of marriage.

Suddenly, she needed to open the curtains all the way to let the rest of the moonlight in--that’d been something she’d always wanted to do before, but Bernie, with his problems sleeping, had never allowed it. She remembered the time they’d stayed at the condo in Palm Springs in August, and how she’d slept outside in her swimsuit by the pool in the full moonlight on a night so hot even her sweat dried instantly, wishing Bernie would join her where she lay, awash in the intense spirituality of the moon’s rays--but he’d stayed true to form, preferring to sleep by himself alone in the air-conditioned grotto.

I was hot and he was cold, she thought. Rising from her bed, she threw open the curtains and fiercely breathed in the moonbeams--it wasn’t much, but it was a step towards something. She returned to bed and joined Mr. Boopers atop the sheets, as though to re-create the moment from long ago in Palm Springs.

No, she thought. Bernie wasn’t always cold. She remembered the time she came back from a trip with Leah to San Diego and Bernie was waiting for her, the dining table set with their wedding silver, the magnificent pieces surrounding a large vase of white chrysanthemums--her favorite, in the center of the table--along with lit candles and poured wine, accompanied by the mouth watering smells from a gourmet stroganoff on a silver platter on the sideboard. After a sumptuous dinner, he’d stroked her long blonde hair for hours and insisted she never leave him alone again.

Bernie hadn’t always been the ice and stone he’d become--there was the time after her second miscarriage, when she’d awakened to find him sitting up in the room they’d prepared for the baby, just sitting there on top of the little fruit wood toy chest they’d picked out together at the flea market on the Strand.

Dear God, she prayed, let this not be true--don’t let this divorce be happening to me.

She half-laughed. The prayer wasn’t going to work--she’d already been given the knife in the back--the divorce was real--perhaps a little too real for any last minute rescue by God. Besides, God didn’t owe her a thing. She’d been a weak Catholic and married outside the church--a Las Vegas wedding, to boot! In truth, the Church didn’t even recognize her marriage--not as far as she knew. She’d broken every commandment when she’d married Bernie--she’d not honored her father and her mother--now it was payback time. God had waited until the time it would hurt the most, and then he’d stuck the knife in her back and started twisting the blade.

Sooner than she expected to, she heard the back door open. For a brief instant, the sound startled her--she’d been so lost in her ruminations that she’d forgotten what she’d done! Mr. Boopers, apparently a light sleeper, was rigidly alert, emitting a wary, cutting growl.

Huntington appeared in the bedroom doorway, the embodiment of her sins, a man perhaps half her age, at the threshold where she lay atop the moonlit covers. Mr. Boopers, sensing no alarm from her and not yet knowing who belonged in his new life and who didn’t, chose the prudent action of disappearing under the bed from which vantage point he could prepare his next move, if one was required.

She started to speak and couldn’t, realizing with surprise there was a choking lump in her throat. Whether it was from shame or desire, she couldn’t tell. Huntington approached her and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out a tentative hand to her long blonde hair spread over the pillow.

“I belong to a group,” Huntington said. “I’m sure you’ve never heard of it--it was just something that I got into when I was forced to undergo a considerable amount of post-pubescent torture at San Marino High School. You might say it was a reaction to all the drugs and general weirdness I was exposed to. Some of my friends and myself needed a refuge from the disaster we sensed was occurring to the kids around us.”
Oh you little fool, Beckie thought. You willful little fool, you’ve just made a huge mistake--this guy’s barely out of high school. She started to rise, to start in motion some sort of effort to cast him out of her room, but his hand stroking her hair was somehow comforting--she sensed no evil in Huntington, no aggressiveness.

“We called the group The Young Fogies,” he said. “You know--you’ve heard of Old Fogies--the old geezers in the films from the 30’s who smoked the best quality Cuban cigars and drank the best Sherry from the finest crystal, all the while presiding with studied earnestness over all that was Victorian? Well, it was like that--we wanted to be like those old fogies--only we were young--so we formed a group and we all pledged ourselves to live a life of truth, honor and valor.”

“I’m too old for you,” Beckie said. “I want you to know that it is not my custom to proposition waitpersons in bars. I’ve just had a very, very bad day. I was in a lot of pain when I approached you tonight, and I didn’t want to sleep alone--maybe I wanted to see if I still had it, I don’t know--the fact that you showed up in a way gratified me, but it also horrified me. I’m sure I’m not making much sense, but I just now realized when you showed up that all my troubles can’t be so easily tidied away.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Huntington said. “I should never have come here--I think I was tempting fate, or testing myself, or whatever, because, you see, one of the things we Young Fogies pledged to ourselves was to follow the old-fashioned virtue of saving ourselves for marriage. But I had a moment of weakness when I saw you this afternoon--you simply struck me as the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. When you approached me tonight, I was powerless--I just couldn’t fight it.”

Of all the things that could have come out of Huntington’s mouth, that for sure was the last thing Beckie expected.

“You must like my hair,” Beckie said.

“Your hair shining in this moonlight is beautiful,” he said. “And so are you--in every way.”

“I’m too old for you,” she said. “You’ve made a mistake coming here. You should have fought harder to resist me.”

“I want to kiss you,” Huntington said. “May I?”

“I really don’t know if it’s a good idea,” she said. “You’re the first person besides my husband to kiss me since I was twenty years old.”

He bent forward and slowly pressed his rather sensitive, expressive lips atop hers. The kiss confused her, the action at once alarming and at the same time powerful, something to be explored further for its possibility of introducing the sweetness of pleasure into the bitterness of her life while at the same time serving to blunt her pain and guilt. As abruptly as he’d started the kiss, he drew back.

“If we stop now,” he said, “we can still collect ourselves. We haven’t gone too far. We can still handle it.”

“You don’t like me,” she said.

“No,” he said. “That’s not it. The real problem is--I like you too much.”

Pity surged in her chest for the young man, and for herself. She couldn’t go back to her youth, of that she was sure, and it was highly improbable he was prepared to take on all the baggage she had packed from the last three decades. She surprised herself by standing up straight, slipping on her robe and acting quite normally for a middle-aged woman who’d just been kissed by a much younger, total stranger after twenty-nine years of marriage.

“Huntington,” she said, “I know it’s late, but would a Young Fogy such as yourself like a really, really good cigar?”

Chapter 8

“It’s a Macanudo,” Beckie said. “My husband used to smoke one every evening after work. They’re grown in Jamaica from Cuban seeds.”

“If they’re good enough for your husband, they’re good enough for me,” he said, balancing the eight-inches of serious cigar between the thumb and third finger of his right hand, exhaling with some evident satisfaction a ring of smoke into the ripened air of the living room.

“You’re not too old for me,” he said.

“I am,” she said. “And it’s too soon to be discussing something like this anyway. I’m not even divorced yet--I only got served the papers this morning. I’ve got a stiff round of lawyers and mediations to deal with before I’m even close to being legally available again. Even after I am, it might take years before my emotions recover.”

“I’m rich,” he said.

“Of course you are,” she said. “Everybody knows all the waiters at Chillers are millionaires.”

“No, it’s true,” he said. “And another thing--I’m a lot older than I look--I’m thirty-seven, but because I’m blond and lanky, most people think I’m twenty-five.”

“How did you acquire your fortune?” Beckie said.

“Easy,” he said. “--after I graduated from UCLA, my dad, in a misguided attempt to prevent me from doing something Kerouac-esque, shipped me off to Harvard B-School. When I got out of there, I went to work for Goldman Sachs in New York for ten years and I made a pile on the trading floor.”

“Even if that were true,” she said, “money doesn’t impress me--I’m part owner of a very successful tool importing company, and I’m worth many millions. So don’t expect me to simply swoon on the altar of your financial ego.”

“I only mention money to show you that I can be taken seriously,” he said. “--that I’m not just another flake.”

“Show me your license,” she said. “If you just lied to me--if it doesn’t match your age, it’s all over.”

“Not yet,” he said. “If I show it to you, and I’m thirty-seven like I said, will you agree to start seeing me within the context of starting a serious relationship?”

“There’s no way you’re thirty-seven,” Beckie said. “But if you are, I’ll agree for my part to keep listening.”

Huntington whipped out his license.

“Oh wow,” Beckie said. “You are thirty-seven. I can’t believe it. At least that much is true about you, although I’m sure you’re not really a wealthy ex-investment banker. I can’t believe you look so young! You’ve got apple cheeks!”

“I’m of Polish descent,” he said. “The apple cheeks run in the family. So we have a date for tomorrow, then?”

“Not so fast,” Beckie said. “I only agreed I’d keep listening to you for awhile. You know I’m in the middle of a huge emotional conundrum--are you sure you want to take that on?”

Huntington stepped close to her and suddenly the room felt close with heat.

“I’ll take it on,” he said.

“Last question,” she said. “If we’re going to see each other even one more time, I must insist that we start off by being totally honest with each other. So I want you to tell me the truth about your past and why you’re working at Chillers or it’s no deal. I won’t refuse to see you tomorrow night if you’ll tell me the truth--just admit you lied to impress me or whatever and we’ll let it go.”

“Everything I told you is true,” he said. “There was just one thing I didn’t tell you.”

“Spill it,” she said.

“I own Chillers,” he said.

Chapter 9

“If the problems in your life seem overwhelming,” Scotia said, “that’s the exact moment when you should try to give yourself a little pleasure--Vito can see you at 1:30. We’re down on Doheny a couple of blocks south of Sunset--you can’t miss it, it’s a cute little Tudor job with a sign out front that says Vito’s Of Beverly Hills.”

“I’ll see you after lunch, then,” Beckie said.

She’d awoken to a chill, gray, joyless mid-morning which promised her shocked emotions little relief. Upon reflection of last night’s events, especially as they concerned the possibility of keeping some sort of sporadic company with Huntington, the younger man she’d entertained the night before, and after having given herself an unusually harsh appraisal in the morning mirror, upon said sober reflection, she’d decided to spend the afternoon immersing herself in a marathon round of beauty treatments at the day spa where Scotia worked and where, she’d learned from the waif, there was a hairdresser named Vito, a man with just one name--a tactic which ostensibly kept the man’s reputation on a height with, and in close keeping with other Hollywood legends who also adhered to the one-name practice, such as Madonna, and Cher--or if his singular name did not exactly keep Vito at their nosebleed heights, it at least kept him high enough to be considered a hairstylist of legendary renown north of Melrose and south of Sunset, in an area which bordered 90210, where a reputation for doing good hair was a considerable feat in the fast-paced and ever-changing world of hairstylists, at least as far as the Hollywood crowd was concerned, among whom were numbered, as Scotia had informed her, such fiery, sanguine and ethereal beauties such as Halle Berry and Jeri Ryan, and once, although only for a fast nail repair--the great Liz Taylor herself.

The phone rang--Leah.

“Leah, I can’t talk,” Beckie said. “I’m hurrying to get ready--I’ve got an appointment with Doctor Black in twenty-five minutes, after which I’ll just have time to grab a bite before my 1:30 at this new day spa I learned about last night. I’ll probably be at the spa until at least 5, but after that, I wondered if you and Ira would like to join a friend and myself for dinner someplace around here.”

“A friend?” Leah asked.

“I’ll explain later--why don’t you set something up at a nice place around here--no, wait--let’s drive out to the Valley--I’m hungry for some real Mexican food. I’ll meet you and Ira at Taxco, the one in Van Nuys, at 7.”

“I saw Bernie last night,” Leah said. “He wants to make a time for us all to get together at his lawyer’s office tomorrow. What’ll I tell him?”

“You know, Leah,” Beckie said. “Someday, maybe a few hundred years after The Big One, archeologists are going to be digging in the rubble around here, looking for artifacts. You know what they’re going to find, along with all that broken pottery? They’re going to find my broken heart lying in the ruins of this living room--why did you have to call me about Bernie and his stupid meeting? I was just getting up enough nerve to get past the bogged-down feeling that I woke up with, and now you’ve sent me straight back to the bottom. I’m popping an extra Tofranil even as we speak.”

“I’m so sorry, Beckie,” Leah said. “You don’t deserve this--you’re such a good, amazing lady--the more people I meet in this life, I realize you are simply the best one of them all. I tell you, Bernie never deserved you--I always told him that over the years you two were together--now it’s come true. If he wasn’t my brother-in-law, I’d disown him.”

“It’s just that the sound of his name is so crushing to me right now,” Beckie said. “And as far as meeting with him and his lawyer tomorrow--well, all I can tell you is, I’ll have to let you know. Just tell Mr. Cradle-Snatcher that you’ll let him know after you see me tonight. That’s the best I can do right now.”

“I understand, sweetie,” Leah said.

“I know you do, doll,” Beckie said. “I’m just hanging on, right now. I’m only now starting to realize that ultimately, I’m going to have to start my life all over again--and I have no idea where to even begin.”

“We’ll see you tonight,” Leah said.

Beckie consulted a card in her purse and dialed Dr. Black’s exchange. “This is Beckie,” she said. “I’m feeling suicidal again. I started out okay this morning, and even made a hair appointment, but all of a sudden, I’m back to square one. The Tofranil isn’t holding.”

“Hold please,” the operator said.

“Beckie?” Dr. Black’s rich, firm voice.

“I’m sorry to bug you, Dr. Black,” Beckie said. “I just had another strong desire to use the gun on myself again--I thought I’d better call--I don’t think I’m up for my appointment this morning.”

“You know, Beckie,” Dr. Black said. “You’re on the verge of living a rich full life--are you going to choose to get off your butt and get to work, or are you going to cry in the corner and say good-bye to all your dreams?”

“Dr. Black,” Beckie said. “I--”

“Here is what you are going to do, Beckie,” Dr. Black said. “You are going to get in your car right now, exactly the way you are, dressed or not, and hightail it over to my office immediately, do you hear me!”

“I’m still in my nightgown,” Beckie said.

“Throw on a robe,” Black said. “I’ll expect you here in ten minutes, and not a minute more.”

“I can’t,” Beckie said.

“You can overcome whatever obstacles you think you have in your life,” Black said. “The first step is to get in the car and get over here--once you’re here, if you still want to stuff that gun in your mouth, I’ll march you into the Ladies’ Room and help you pull the trigger myself!”

The phone went dead in Beckie’s hand. The doctor’s harsh words had extinguished her emotional inferno, leaving her flat on her back in the ashes of her soul. There was no strength flowing anywhere in her body.

I cannot go on, Beckie thought.

Yet somehow, she did, as was attested to by the stares of the parking lot attendant, along with the various and sundry persons in the hallways and elevators she passed on her way to Black’s office, rational persons who stared at the loony lady in the tattered bathrobe clutching a large straw beach bag--from the top of which protruded the head of a tiny dog--as she shuffled past them on her way to a place where, hopefully, she would be able to draw from some source of natural power and replenish whatever had been taken from her by the singularly evil actions of Bernie.

Chapter 10

“I know when Bernie’s affair started,” Beckie said. “It was over Christmas--that’s when he gave me the roadster for an early Christmas present--he had it waiting in the driveway for me one morning wrapped with a big red bow. It was a guilt offering--he must have just started seeing Nolene and was trying to salve his conscience.”

“People are like plants,” Dr. Black said. “They come in a wide variety of emotional colors, sizes and heights. Some are quite easy to dig up, because they have shallow roots. That’s how I see you, Beckie, with your beautiful face and figure, driving your exotic, fast car. You’re like a plant which presents a beautiful flower, but you’re roots are shallow. Bernie’s really not the issue here--what’s at stake is who you are and what you’re going to become.”

“That’s a tad blunt,” Beckie said. “But you may be right--I’m a neophyte as regards knowing myself. I guess for most of my life, I’ve just wanted to be safe--even during the ‘60’s, I was never into doing drugs or trying new religions or any of that. What I was after was security--I’ve always liked knowing where everything is and where it would be tomorrow. That’s what Bernie provided me for twenty-nine years. Bernie provided security.”

“I’m not saying there isn’t some value in a life spent just sitting around watching the paint dry on your soul,” Black said. “But where did it leave you? When Bernie pulled the rug out, you went into a free-fall. The problem is, you have nothing to catch you--no religion, no inner reserves, no sense of how to deal with evil, or bring meaning to that evil.”

“I guess it’s time to face the fact that Cinderella, after her triumphant wedding to the prince, just got kicked out of the castle,” Beckie said. “All my life, I thought it was enough to simply have plenty of money and be a California blonde with a good tan.”

“Is that why you want to kill yourself?” Black said. “Because you think you’re not enough anymore?”

“There’s so many reasons,” Beckie said. “Part of it is to punish Bernie, part of it is feeling sorry for myself, part of it is running away from the pain, part of it is having no hope--the list seems endless. Or maybe it’s my way of crying out for help.”

“No,” Black said. “That’s not why you want to kill yourself--you want to kill yourself so you can remain in control of Bernie’s life. You’re killing yourself --not because you can’t face life anymore--but to boost your own ego. You know that if you kill yourself, it will tie you to Bernie’s soul forever, and destroy any chance he might have of living a happy life without you. Your act of taking your own life is supremely selfish--you are, in effect, a spoiled brat--you married Bernie because you wanted security instead of love--for the past twenty-nine years, you’ve never truly loved Bernie--he’s just been someone you’ve used your beauty to imprison--like an insect--stuck through with a pin to a cardboard while still alive. You have lived a life of total, ruthless, manipulative selfishness, and now Bernie’s finally called your number, and you have the nerve to make him out to be the monster.”

“Dr. Black!”

“If you had any kind of compassion,” Black continued, “you’d feel sorry for Bernie--do you really think a man his age wants to take up with a younger woman, and go through all that again? Can you imagine the guilt and remorse he feels for abandoning you? His life is ruined. But he had to get out from your smothering selfishness--you trapped him in his youth with your fiery beauty, but after that, for the rest of his life, you never gave him anything but lukewarm love--yet you demanded everything from him. Bernie’s the victim here. You know what’s killing you? Terminal selfishness, that’s what.”

Beckie, her emotionally hammered pieces scattered all over the floor of Black’s office, worked hard at simply getting enough air in her lungs not to pass out. It was awhile before she had anything to say, and during the silence, she felt her mind attach itself to the white noise of the building hum, keeping her seething emotions in check, keeping her urge to respond violently to the Doctor’s lambasting to a minimum.

“My favorite flower is white chrysanthemums,” Beckie finally said. “My mother used to keep them fresh on her dining table every spring. She once painted an old hotel dresser green and then stenciled it with white chrysanthemums for my room when I was growing up. She said that the flowers were a symbol of the warmth she felt towards those who entered her home. I guess, somewhere along the way, I never picked up what my mother was trying to impart. Somehow, I went in another direction--a direction without passion.”

“It’s not too late,” Black said.

“People used to laugh that Mom bought old hotel furniture and then refinished it,” Beckie said. “But she used to tell me not to be afraid to buy what I loved, no matter what anybody else thought. When I met Bernie, he was a fat little guy with a big square head and big thick glasses trying to grow his hair long and be hip--it was obvious he wasn’t ever going to be attractive. And I came along, with my scoop-neck Granny dresses and my long blonde hair and my dynamite figure and I knew that I could make Bernie do anything I wanted him to do--I was very cruel to him at first. When we started dating, I used to call him up at his parents late at night and make him stop whatever he was doing and go fetch something for me. If it was summer, I made him get me Rocky Road ice cream. If it was winter, he had to bring me a thermos of hot chocolate. When he’d arrive, I’d take it from him at the doorway and not even let him come in.”

“In other words, the exact opposite of the warm friendship your mother had for people,” Black said.

“My mother used to tell me that I should never pass up something I loved,” Beckie said. “She used to tell me that regret is a terrible thing. She said if I passed something up, I’d never find it again. Now I realize that she was right--I passed up love, I never loved Bernie--I liked his fat, froggy little self--but I never had the kind of romantic love for him that a woman should have for her man. Now that I’ve lost him--I’m filled with regret over what might have been.”

“It’s always been your little party,” Black said. “You’ve always been the center of attention in your little world--well, now that the spotlight is off, what are you going to do?”

“The first thing I’m going to do is stop trying to kill myself,” Beckie said. “And I guess I’m through vilifying Bernie for something that’s not his fault. But as far as the rest goes, I can see that this is not a job for your average, ordinary selfish, manipulating female--if you’ll agree, I’d like to keep working on myself.”

“Once you seek a teacher,” Black said, “you’ll find the Universe itself opening up to you--everything will start to come into line.”

“I’m a woman banished,” Beckie said. “And in my new exile, I’m not all that sure of myself. It’s funny--up to now, I’ve done whatever I pleased, whenever I wanted to do it without a thought for the consequences--now I’m afraid to do anything for fear it will be a huge mistake.”

“Our time for today is almost up,” Black said. “But there’s a few things I think we ought to consider--I’ve heard a number of things today--one is, I’ve heard that you ignored the wishes of your mother to adopt a compassionate stance towards the people in your life. You also abandoned your religion and forced Bernie to do likewise. You’ve also realized that, deep down, you never loved Bernie. I’m going to ask you for a moment, to think the unthinkable--to imagine reconciling with Bernie.”

“I can’t,” Beckie said. “The gulf between us is simply too enormous--not only his sins against me, but mine against him! As of yesterday, the marriage died.”

“You are both still alive,” Black said. “Life is for the living, not for the dead. Life is for being with the people you care about--it’s for tuning in and turning on to what’s important. Your former basis for living has been an unbalanced selfishness--I suggest to you that if you should ever make up your mind to pursue a compassionate vision of life, that all things would be possible to you. You could find it in your heart to love Bernie if you tried. You can stop being an alien in your own emotional life and become a lover and a friend.”

“Dr. Black,” Beckie said. “This is going to sound crazy, and maybe I shouldn’t bring it up now, but last night I met a guy.”

Black never blinked, but her mouth worked and no words came out--Beckie had succeeded in shocking the doctor with the news.

“That’s an earthy choice,” Black said.

“He’s younger by a dozen years, and he claims to be rich,” she said. “We’re having dinner together tonight.”

“My mother always used to tell me,” Black said, “to butter my toast at the counter before I brought it to the table.”

“What’s that mean?” Beckie said.

“You figure it out,” Black said. “Our time is up for today.”

Chapter 11

“What do you mean my car’s not here?” Beckie said.

“It was picked up by an agency,” the attendant said. “I’ve got a copy of the paperwork right here giving them authority to take it.”

“You jerk!” Beckie said. “That car’s worth over a hundred and fifty grand--you just let somebody drive out of here with it?”

Having left Black’s office and once again run the gauntlet of well-dressed people staring at her like she was crazy for still being in her bathrobe and clutching a tiny dog, Beckie, upon handing her ticket to the parking attendant, was stunned to learn that the car was gone.

“I don’t think you’re the one to be arguing with me, lady,” the man said. “You being in your bathrobe, and with the little dog, and all--it doesn’t present a good case for your credibility. The paperwork here has a copy of the pink slip to the car. Maybe you had a fight with your husband, huh?”

“My husband,” Beckie said, “is divorcing me--but it was my car--he gave it to me for a Christmas present only six months ago.”

“You two having a little trouble? Perhaps he got tired of making the payments.”

“Do you see a bank’s name on that pink slip?”

“No, I guess I don’t.”

“Why are we standing here discussing this? I’m freezing in this wind. I need you to call me a cab. That’s the least you can do. And don’t expect a tip. If you don’t hurry it up, I’m complaining to the building management.”

“Complain all you want,” he said. “My cousin owns this building--how do you think I got the job here?”

“Forget the cab,” Beckie said. “Call a limo service--get me a big one--a stretch Lincoln if they have it--and make it white. White’s my favorite color.”

“You sure you got that kind of cash on you, lady? If you ask me, you look like you’re a few tacos short of a combination plate.”

“There’s a gun in my bag,” she said. “It’s loaded with four hollow-point bullets. Now you can either call me a limo or you can make the 5 o’clock news on KTLA.”

“Sure thing lady,” the man said, hurriedly dialing the number. He was used to dealing with strange people, what with his position as gatekeeper to the important building. He’d learned the importance of looking at things from the other person’s point of view--especially if they looked a little crazy, their favorite color was white, they had a stupid little dog in a bag, and claimed to be carrying a gun.

Chapter 12

“Where to lady?” the driver said.

“Run me over to Nordy’s,” Beckie said. “And step on it.”

The sparkling white stretch Lincoln caught the first of the late morning sun as the haze burned off enough to impart a hopeful cast over the hard-charging river of traffic on the Wilshire/405 overpass. Fed up with hearing about her imperfections, and pestered by a bad bout of worry regarding Bernie’s seizure of her car, Beckie had decided to clarify her anxieties about her tatty appearance with a trip to Nordstrom’s, the store which made it possible not only to climb any social mountain, but to purchase it, if one desired to, and have it delivered anywhere at any time of day or night. This service was routinely provided and each shopper had come to expect, upon entering the sacred shopping spaces, to find themselves the focus of the sort of highly focused, personal attention which rivaled that which a U.S. First Lady might expect to receive from her personal aide when choosing what to wear for an important night of diplomatic revelry in the Lincoln bedroom.

There was nothing she could do about her initial appearance as she made her entrance into the store, but, once inside the safety of its doors, she was absolutely certain that she could effect a transformation which could range anywhere from the predictable to the sublime, depending on her whim. That, plus perhaps a little champagne and a cheese Danish or two, might help to offset the dark clouds of emotions hovering just offshore of her soul.

“Not the front entrance,” Beckie said. “Let me off around back. I don’t want the whole world seeing me like this.”

Once inside, Beckie was immediately hailed by an attractive young Asian woman who called herself Virginia and blinked not at any suggestion of Beckie’s apparel that she was perhaps less than in her right mind. At Nordstrom’s, a customer was a customer, and as such, considering they drew as their clientele from among the wealthiest residents on the planet, were accustomed to the noble practice of treating every customer as a potential Queen.

“I need a whole new me,” Beckie explained. “I just got served my divorce papers and I’m still struggling for air--I’ve got a date tonight with a much younger man. We’re probably going into the Valley for Mexican food. What do you suggest?”

“With your figure,” Virginia said, “we can go hot or cold--we can go backless, or go with a big slit up the side of the skirt, or whatever you want--we can have you looking like a school girl or like Sharon Stone. You tell me. Do you feel hot or cold about tonight? It’s whatever you want--come this way and I’ll show you. Do you want some champagne?”

“Please,” Beckie said. “And whatever you’ve got for a snack. You still serving those little cheese Danish's?”

“We’ve got a great chocolate eclair, everything low-fat,” Virginia said, “or you can have some macadamia nuts--everybody is on the Atkins diet and they’re all eating macadamia nuts and fried pork skins.” Virginia pointed to the comfortable chair where Beckie should sit, and left her there, like a queen on a throne, waiting for the presentation of the outfits by Virginia and her support staff.

A helper brought the crystal flute of champagne along with a silver dish of miniature, bite-size eclairs, a couple of which Beckie stuffed into her mouth before sipping eagerly of the champagne, noticing the way the chocolatey creamery of the pastry, aided by the acidic but fruity bubbles seemed to sweep away the unpleasant taste left in her mouth by recent events.

“Do you like the champagne?” the helper said.

“Mmmph!” Beckie said, nodding her head vigorously up and down.

Virginia returned with a rack containing several choices. “What are you going to do with your hair?” she asked.

“I really don’t know,” Beckie said. “I’m working on building my confidence and self-esteem ever since I got served my divorce papers yesterday--I’m actually just trying to learn to relax enough so I don’t go insane. I mean, take last night, for example--I met a new guy and he came over and we talked and everything, so I agreed to see him again tonight, but meanwhile, my husband just repossessed my Mercedes, and I was stranded right there on Wilshire and Barrington in my bathrobe.”

Virginia did not attempt to reply to this, but instead chose from the rack a beautiful, port-colored silk camisole top.

“I can’t do this,” Beckie said. “I can’t shop for clothes right now. Look, Virginia, here’s my Platinum card. I’m going to grab a plate of these eclairs and I’m getting out of here. I thought coming here would help me to relax, but the harder I try to relax, the more tense I feel. Here’s what I need you to do--I need you to put together a half-dozen outfits for me, everything from red-hot to ice-cold. I mean, shoes and everything. I’m leaving it all up to you. The main thing is, I need a whole new look, my favorite color is white, and I’m not sure I trust my own judgment any more--just keep in mind that tonight I’m seeing a guy who’s about twelve years younger than I am, and tomorrow I have to attend a meeting with my husband’s lawyers--the main thing is, I don’t want my husband to see me wearing anything he’s ever seen me wear before.”

“Just deliver everything to your house?” Virginia said.

“No--I’ll be at Vito’s Of Beverly Hills this afternoon,” Beckie said. “Send everything over there--I’m going to spend the rest of the day in my bathrobe. And why not? Elvis did.”

“I understand,” Virginia said. “You’re a beautiful lady--you’re giving yourself a break. I’ll deliver everything personally to Vito’s and help you with trying them on--I’ll give you some variety--you won’t have to be bored with your clothes any more--I’ll make you something with a lot of sizzle, something that creates energy all around you--your new boyfriend will not know what hit him.”

“I think we understand each other,” Beckie said. “An hour ago, I was ready to seek reconciliation with my husband--but he just declared war on me--I’m taking the gloves off.”

“We’ll pull out all the stops,” Virginia said. “Just leave it to me--tonight you’ll be wearing a lace skirt and embroidered silk top, with some beaded sandals that will wake everybody up. Tell Vito’s to make sure they pull your hair back, and no braids or anything like that...I’ll put in some sexy lipstick, too.”

“And so the pendulum swings,” Beckie said, hoisting her flute.

Chapter 13

“Stop at the little park on Roxbury,” Beckie said. “Mr. Boopers has some personal business to attend to.”

The white Stretch, having entered the sacred, and somewhat pastoral, albeit highly security conscious Beverly Hills, where such stupendous vehicles cruising past the fabulous mansions were as common as Gucci bags, their number equaled only by the number of illegal immigrants who populated the various bus stops, who waited patiently for buses which ran slow and late, and who were vigilantly eyeballed on the half-hour by K-9 patrol cars equipped with savage dogs which never ran late. Beckie eyed nervously the simple people who dressed poorly and who were on foot and thus were ranked very low on the desirable persons scale by the highly wheeled legal citizenry of Los Angeles, who further ranked these so-called “illegals”--whose country was stolen from them by lawyers in 1846--on a social-desirability scale with the dead and dying who lay on the streets of Calcutta, these same Beverly Hills servants who stood at the bus stops and watched Beckie in her white limousine cruise past them, these same persons, who, after having served their daily indenture to the obscenely wealthy masters of world consciousness, who, having fed their masters and polished their toilets and bidets and kept their secrets, were then forced to return to the hostile, crowded warrens of the gang-ridden, burned-out, older, eastern section of Los Angeles, where they crammed themselves into roach-infested firetraps and gamely attempted to serve their families with whatever strength they had left over. The message of this dichotomy, of beautiful blondes in white limousines passing bus stops crowded with illegals was obvious to all--In L.A., poverty sucked big time.

Mr. Boopers, upon the limo stopping at the park and the door opened to him, and finding some fresh grass and trees presented to him, concerned himself not with the social scale or economic status of any biped, legal or otherwise, near or far, but instead wasted no time in attending to his personal business, which he cleverly spring boarded into the additional benefit activity of boosting his own standing on the social scale by letting every dog who might be passing by, either shortly or even in the distant future, know he’d been there, and, not only that he’d been there, but also that he had enjoyed the run of the place while he was at it, ignoring the leash laws with impunity and marking as he did a territory quite large for a creature so tiny.

This business finished, the limo once again took up its trek, winding its way past the security-walled mansions and on into the lightly high-rised commercial zone which began The Strip, passing a bank or two--these towers host to a few dark foyers where people like Elvis used to be sighted, and who, along with the likes of people such as Pat Boone, used to conduct their blue and white suede enterprises--buildings lining Sunset, buildings host to unspeakably evil financial workings performed on behalf of the Hollywood movers and shakers--buildings which had to be passed before the limo finally turned right onto Doheny, heading south for a block before pulling to the curb in front of the smartly restored 30’s Tudor day spa sporting the muted but elegant sign bearing to the viewer that they had indeed arrived at Vito’s Of Beverly Hills.

Beckie entered the back steps to find her new found friend of the night before, Scotia, waiting for her in a sweet-smelling, converted, brick-floored kitchen filled with candles and white ironstone pottery stuffed with lemons and limes. In the center of the antique wooden kitchen table, beside a magnum of champagne cooling in a silver bucket, was a magnificent centerpiece of white chrysanthemums.

“You remembered my favorite flowers,” Beckie said.

“I hope you like them,” Scotia said.

“So this is where you work,” Beckie said. “It’s really quite charming. And the air is beautifully scented--it’s like an English country kitchen.”

“This is where I make my daily bread,” Scotia said. “And truthfully--I love it here.”

“I almost didn’t make it,” Beckie said. “My husband repossessed my car and left me stranded at the corner of Wilshire and Barrington in my bathrobe. I was lucky I had my Platinum Visa with me.”

“I was wondering if it was you,” Scotia said. “When I saw the limo, I thought maybe we were going to get one more shot at Liz Taylor--she was riding in one the day she had her nail repair emergency. Can I pour you a glass of champagne? We’re serving a Pierre Jourdan Brut, from South Africa--it’s got the most bubbles of any champagne we’ve ever tried. Maybe it’ll help you forget about the loss of your personal coupe for awhile.”

“None for now,” Beckie said. “I’ve got to keep a lid on the booze and maintain a clear head. Just to let you know, I’m expecting a delivery from Nordy’s sometime while I’m here--a personal shopper named Virginia is going to give me a hot new look.”

“Be careful what you say,” Scotia said. “If Vito hears you’re looking for something hot, he’ll really do a number on you.”

“I’ll just have him do a light trim and pull it back,” Beckie said.

“Let me give you a clue,” Scotia said. “Vito doesn’t do light anything and he never pulls anything back. Before he’ll even touch your hair, he has to get the vibes just right. I once saw him throw the Lewinsky woman out of here when she failed to tune in properly.”

“What do you mean?” Beckie said. “The guy just cuts hair spontaneously? Is he some kind of birdbrain or something?”

“Not exactly,” Scotia said. “Vito’s no cowboy--he’s not going to rope you and run. Let’s just say he likes to work in an atmosphere of spiritual spaciousness--one thing I will say--you won’t leave here the same as you came in.”

“She’s right,” a soft, high male voice behind her said. “I’m no cowboy. I don’t come in with guns blazing. I prefer flowers to bullets.”

Beckie turned to behold a tight, wiry man in Reeboks and jeans, a lemon-silk jersey hanging loosely from his shoulders. His smiling face was crowned with a cap of artfully tussled, short, bleached curls.

“Welcome to Vito’s Of Beverly Hills,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Vito.”

He shook hands in the European manner, without force or pressure, allowing her to take the measure of his fingers, which felt spring-loaded.

“What a cute little dog,” Vito said, reaching into the bag and drawing out a struggling Mr. Boopers. “Scotia, call somebody and have them deliver a taco or something for him--we don’t want him getting hungry and biting one of the guests. And put Mr. Fleas in the closet until the doggy goes home.”

Beckie felt a laugh billow up and she let it out. “Mr. Fleas?” she said.

“Our cat,” Vito said. “Pure bluepoint. He’s a terror. Last week he chewed the ear off a lady’s teacup poodle. I’m taking no chances with your tiny friend. You’re laughing. That’s good--it means we’re making progress. Earlier, I was taking bets with Scotia that I could cheer you up, no matter what your initial mood.”

“I’m up and down these days,” Beckie admitted. “My moods aren’t something a respectable bookie would take odds on.”

“We’re going to start you off with a bath and shampoo,” Vito said. “After that a massage to relax you before you and I meet in my cutting room and see what kind of fire we can light under you about going for a new look.”

“I was telling Scotia I’d really just like a trim.”

“Hair styles are like cars,” Vito said. “You can drive a truck or you can drive a Maseratti--it’s up to you. But I won’t send you out of here in a truck--if that’s your choice, you’ll have to get that from the hair criminals at the mall.”

Beckie swallowed hard and looked away. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t mean to offend--the truth is, I don’t know who or what I am anymore. I’m going through a divorce and I just started dating someone new, and tomorrow I’m meeting with my husband’s lawyers--the truth is, I don’t really feel up to any of this. If I had my way, I’d just go home and sleep.”

“You’re crossing paths with a little bad luck,” Vito said. “But the right cut can give you the edge.”

“I wish it were that simple,” Beckie said.

“Sometimes it is,” Vito said.

“You sound like an optimist,” Beckie said.

“You’re depressed,” Vito said. “Now is the time to ask yourself--is there another way of seeing things? I’m no cockeyed optimist, but here in my salon, I can tell you that we can move you from where you are now, which is living in one dimension, into another world entirely--and it all starts with the way we decide to cut your hair. Now, we’re going to get you into your bath, and we’re going to get some tacos for your dog, and we’re going to make everything all right, okay?”

Beckie nodded. As she followed Scotia towards the bath, she realized how miserable and worried she must have appeared to Vito, how lonely and depressed she must have seemed. He’d read her perfectly, was probably an expert on communicating with rich women such as herself who had too much time on their hands and too many problems to solve. She’d have walked out, but she lacked the courage, and there was one thing they’d forgotten to mention, and by that omission had thus secured her loyalty and allegiance.

Neither Scotia or Vito had remarked on the fact that she’d showed up in her bathrobe.

Chapter 14

“Every woman on the verge of discovering her true self is a diamond in the rough,” Scotia said. “Or in your case, we might say she’s a white chrysanthemum about to bloom.”

“But who am I?” Beckie said. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“If you think of life as money,” Scotia said, “Finding out who you are means being able to spend your life the way you want to, instead of the way somebody else wants you to. Look around you--how many people do you see living their lives the way they really want to? Are you?”

Beckie, inside the tub room, submerged deep in the whirling suds of Vito’s marble bath, and feeling herself relaxing fully for the first time in the past 48 hours, found herself surprisingly open to Scotia’s philosophical ramblings, enjoying a sense of sisterhood with the girl who, as she talked, massaged Beckie’s long blonde hair with a rich shampoo, the strawberry scent of which mingled nicely with the heady nose ambrosia of aromatic soaps and lit vanilla candles upon her olfactory palette, the experience as a whole promoting a feeling of security which allowed her to explore some of the raw edges of recent events without incurring further pain. The tub room had a peace to it.

“The guy I met last night,” Beckie said. “His name was Huntington--he’d been a big time Wall Streeter, but he abandoned it to buy a nightclub near the beach--if you ask me, he’s doing what he wants to do.”

“That’s not it,” Scotia said. “It’s not a matter of what you’re doing, it’s a matter of how you’re doing it--if Huntington were truly free, it wouldn’t matter to him if he stayed on Wall Street or worked in a bar--he’s not free yet, if such a thing still matters.”

“You’re saying as long as I want my broken marriage to be healed, I’ll never be free,” Beckie said.

“I’m saying,” Scotia said, “as long as it matters to you one way or the other, you’ll never be free--it shouldn’t matter whether it’s repaired or let go.”

“I’m not there yet,” Beckie said. “I may never be. I have made some progress, though. I’m no longer suicidal. I learned that much about myself.”

“That’s a beautiful discovery,” Scotia said. “Sometimes, I think it’s kind of nice what we discover about ourselves when life is shaky.”

“I discovered I’m not suicidal,” Beckie said. “But I am homicidal--I’m going to kill my husband for taking my car.”

There was a pause, then an eerie quiet as Scotia shut the tub jets off and handed Beckie a large, thick towel.

“Why?” Scotia finally said.

“Why what?” Beckie said.

“Why are you talking about killing your husband? It scares me when you say that--I don’t know if you’re speaking literally or just letting out your frustrations.”

“Let me put it this way,” Beckie said. “Tomorrow we’re meeting at his lawyer’s office--I’ve made up my mind. I’m walking in there and I’m going to blow him to smithereens.”

“You’re not kidding, are you?” Scotia said.

“Scotia,” Beckie said. “I’m absolutely not kidding. I’m going out tonight with a new guy, and I’m going to have one, final, really good meal with him at this great little Mexican place I know of. It’ll be me and my new date and my best friend Leah and her husband Ira. Then I’m going to get a good night’s sleep, take the limo over to the lawyer’s office, wait until we’re all seated at the conference table, and put four shots straight into Bernie’s fat little heart.”

Scotia’s voice went high, urgent. “Beckie?”

“Look,” Beckie said. “I’ve tried to get into the WE thing, and the sessions with Dr. Black and all, but I just can’t do it. I’ve been married for twenty-nine years to the same fat little businessman--that’s been my life. It’s probably a life few women would envy. I haven’t learned to do anything creative in all that time, haven’t explored myself, or ran marathons, or raised kids--the only thing I’ve done is collect little ceramic figurines--I’ve done that, maybe a bit too much--I’ve got over a thousand of them in the vault at Bekins. But that’s it. It’s too late for a woman like me to learn anything about how she fits into the universe. I liked being married to Bernie--I didn’t love him with the kind of passion I was supposed to have, but in my own way I loved being with him. I liked being financially secure. I was ready to finish it out to the end--what I don’t like is being left alone, and having my husband making a baby with his hot young Irish-Hispanic secretary. What I don’t like is being left standing in my bathrobe at the corner of Wilshire and Barrington without my car. What I don’t like is being summoned to appear by my husband’s lawyers so they can lowball me and take advantage of my disorientation and flimflam me into giving up what’s rightfully mine. Believe me, Scotia--I’m deadly serious when I say I’m going to send my husband to the afterlife tomorrow.”

“But you never loved him?” Scotia said.

“I respected him, and in my own way I loved him,” Beckie said. “But that’s beside the point. In fact, that may be the main reason I’m going to do it. You know, perhaps I have discovered who I am after all--I’m a woman in a killing rage--and let me tell you, right now it feels great. King Solomon had it right--there’s a time to kill. I’ll do the weeping after Bernie’s gone.”

“I’m skipping your massage,” Scotia said. “This is getting too weird for me--I can’t handle the way you’re acting--you need to go straight in to Vito. Maybe he can do something with you.”

Chapter 15

“I should tell you,” Vito said. “That dog of yours makes a pretty poor Chihuahua--we brought in a couple of those chalupas from the Taco Bell down on Melrose and he wouldn’t touch them--it appears his tastes are a good deal more sophisticated--we finally got him to eat a couple of jumbo quail we had left over from a party last night.”

“There’s no accounting for taste,” Beckie said. “I wish all my problems were as small as that dog.”

“When you’ve got a big problem,” Vito said. “The first step is to admit there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“You mean just forget about solving it?” Beckie said.

“I mean, nobody ever solves a big problem by solving the big problem. They do it by solving all the small problems leading up to the big problem. When you solve the small problems, one-by-one, by the time you get to the big problem, it no longer exists, because big problems are just collections of small problems in the first place.”

Beckie, sitting on a stool and draped with a black sheet in the windowless, mirror-less, soundproof cutting chamber, the top of her head the focus of a single spotlight shining down on her from the ceiling, had become immersed in a weighty, pre-cut discourse with Vito about her preparations for the direct assassination of Bernie at the lawyer’s office on the morrow.

“I appreciate your trying to talk me out of shooting Bernie,” Beckie said.

“I’m not trying to do that,” Vito said. “I don’t control where people’s lives flow--if you want to shoot your hubby, then go ahead--but don’t do it without getting a good cut first--after you spread his insides all over everybody in the conference room, there will be a lot of reporters and TV cameras--it’s going to come out that you were over here--I don’t want them talking about your haircut and saying I didn’t do my job.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Beckie said.

“Hey, life is one big joke sometimes,” Vito said. “What concerns me right now is, I’m wondering how you’ve managed to even remain upright for more than ten minutes with that monstrous, frizzed-out, over-bleached, over-conditioned dust-mop weighing down your head?”

“That’s it,” Beckie said, rising from the stool. “We’re done. I didn’t come here to be insulted.”

“It’s too bad,” Vito said. “My desire to sculpt you into a goddess has become overwhelming--but perhaps you prefer to go around look like a worn out surf bunny. But don’t blame me when, after you shoot your husband and the photographers are through with you, your hair is at the top of the joke lineup on Letterman every night for awhile. Go ahead--become the next Linda Trip--at least you’ll know why she finally broke down and got herself a decent cut.”

Beckie sat back down. “You’re a thug, Vito,” she said. “But now I have to know--is it true what you’re saying about my hair?”

“Some people don’t like change,” Vito said. “I sense you’re one of them. For many years now, your little surfer girl thing worked for you--that’s why you liked to keep your hair flowing. For you, your hair isn’t a style, but a magic talisman--something good must have happened to you long ago when you first wore your hair blonde and long, and you’ve kept your hair hanging there from your scalp like a big, overstuffed blonde rabbit’s foot ever since. But sister, I can tell you, whatever it is you had going, it’s stopped flowing.”

“I had this style before I was forced to grow up,” she said. “And you’re right--I used to be one of those little surfer bunnies who spent all their time at the beach. Did you know I used to be a pretty fair surfer? I even appeared in the movie, The Endless Summer--not in the water, but I was one of the girls on the beach when Bruce Brown did the Mickey Dora footage in Malibu. That was the best day of my life.”

“That’s why you’ve kept your hair long,” Vito said. “As a memorial to Mickey Dora.”

“But after I married Bernie,” Beckie said, “my surfing life just kind of evaporated. Bernie was really kind of a geek--he never did any sports or hobbies--he preferred to pour himself into the work ethic--he taught me that life wasn’t just one big party--that a big part of growing up was being held accountable for my actions. So I put away my surfboard and spent the rest of my life working in the office. That’s why I’m going to kill him tomorrow--I made our tool business what it is--it was me, on the phone everyday to the suppliers, the shippers, and the customers, arranging everything. Sure, Bernie took the good old boys out to lunch and signed up the accounts, but after that, it was my efforts to deliver the tools on time that made him look good. And what was my reward? He just repossessed my car!”

“Getting four bullets in the chest is probably the justice he deserves,” Vito said. “You’ll probably get away with it--nowadays, it’s okay to shoot a guy fifty times just because he’s reaching for his wallet in front of his home, but if you ask me, the guys who really deserve the bullet are the guys who rip everybody off by using lawyers and accountants to steal everybody blind.”

“What I should do is use a knife, or a baseball bat,” Beckie said. “A jury won’t convict you if you slaughter your spouse with a knife--look at what O.J. got away with--he’s never missed a day of golf since--or look at Tanya Harding--she had Nancy Kerrigan bashed and she had to do was cry a few crocodile tears.”

“Before you kill him,” Vito said, “no matter which method you decide to use--you owe yourself an evening and a morning of looking fabulous--can we get started on sculpting a new you?”

“What are you going to do?” Beckie said.

“Not me,” Vito said. “We--we’re going to take it down past the bleach, the damage and the frizz--and then we’ll sculpt you into a fantastic geometric cut--you’ve got a nice mix of natural blonde and light gray--I don’t think we’ll even need to add any highlights--If I’m right, it’ll come out a soft platinum--but I’ll have to go all the way down.”

“You’re going to cut off all my hair,” Beckie said.

Vito unholstered the large shears and grabbed a big hank of hair.

“Say good-bye to Mickey Dora,” he said.

Chapter 16

“What is separation, anyway?” Beckie said. “What do people mean when they say they’re separated? Does it mean cooling off and then seeing how we feel? Or does it mean it’s over? I just can’t see that there are any clear cut rules. My husband left yesterday morning to go to work and he’s never coming home--I don’t even know where he lives now. He’s erected a barricade of lawyers between us. He even repossessed my wheels.”

“I’ve been separated for a year, now,” Virginia said. “My parents still don’t know. They’re in Hong Kong--I haven’t figured out what to tell them. They don’t even know I had to go to work.”

Beckie and Virginia--the young lady from Nordy’s--were reviewing Virginia’s choices of wardrobe which had been selected entirely by Virginia and delivered to Vito’s, where the entire collection was now spread out in a back room away from the clamor which took place in the converted living room and which was filled at present, with a half-dozen ladies having their wishes fulfilled as regarded that which made them feminine--their hair, face and nails--and which defined their essence as members of the female sex and hopefully rendered them sufficiently engaging to the males which inhabited their corner of the woods to assure everyone involved in the ritual that life as it was known in Beverly Hills would continue uninterrupted, at least for the rest of the day and perhaps possibly the week, before another visit to Vito’s would become, for many, an item, not of choice, but of necessity.

“Do you get lonely?” Beckie said.

“At first,” Virginia said, “I was glad when he left--I felt relieved. But later, I felt much lonelier than I had anticipated--I began to miss him, no matter how badly we used to argue.”

“Right now all I’m feeling is anger,” Beckie said. “I was prepared to go through all the crying, and hand-wringing, and everything, and I’d started to do just that until he repossessed my car and left me standing there in public in my bathrobe--that’s when I switched to full-blown anger. Tomorrow, when we meet at the lawyers, I’m going to put four bullets in his chest.”

“I understand that kind of anger,” Virginia said. “When my husband first left me, I felt so much anger that I set fire to my apartment. I tried to put it out with our fire extinguisher, but it had no charge left. I finally called the fire department, but before they got there, the whole living room was destroyed--I just told them I’d fallen asleep smoking, but I think the Inspector knows what I did--he tried to make me go out with him so he wouldn’t tell.”

“My husband didn’t take anything with him,” Beckie said. “Not even a suitcase--I couldn’t believe it. It was like he didn’t even want anything that we’d had together--he wants everything in his new life to have no reminder of me. That’s another reason his life ends tomorrow.”

“I was going to suggest the lace skirt with this port-colored silk cami,” Virginia said, showing her the delicately embroidered skirt. “But with that incredible short haircut, which, by the way, looks absolutely fantastic--no, it’s beyond fantastic--you look like a Greek goddess or something--anyway, with that incredible new look, I think we should go with this.”

“Wow,” Beckie said. “Strapless. I’ve never worn anything like that before.”

The garment in question, a short, flowing tube of white spandex covered in silver sequins, was presented to Beckie, upon which she tried it on and stood before the full-length mirror on the back of the door.

“I’m wrestling with my feelings,” Beckie said. “I wish I wasn’t carrying the extra twenty pounds--do you think I can get away with it?”

“It’s not something you’d wear to a PTA meeting,” Virginia said. “But you can get away with it if you have the right attitude--you’ll have to walk proud if you wear it--no tiptoeing around.”

“Can I wear this on a first date?” Beckie said. “We’re going out to the Valley to a hole-in-the wall for some Mexican food. Don’t you think it’s a little too much for that?”

“You’ve gone and done your hair,” Virginia said. “You’ve started the ball rolling--you might as well go all the way and see where it leads you--you’re starting a new life. No sense making it exactly like the old one.”

“You’re right,” Beckie said. “Besides, this may be my last night out for awhile. After I kill my husband, I’m sure the police will want to detain me--I may even wind up sitting in jail for a year and playing on the Internet like O.J. did.”

“You keep talking about killing your husband as if you’re really going to do it,” Virginia said.

Beckie reached into the straw purse and pulled out the gun.

“Each cylinder is filled with a half-jacketed 180-grain hollowpoint bullet,” Beckie said. “The kind of bullet that makes a small punch-hole going in, expands to the size of a fifty-cent piece once inside, and takes a bowl of chili with it going out.”

Virginia stood very still, very quiet, a few shades paler.

“I’m sorry,” Beckie said, putting the gun away. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“That’s okay,” Virginia said. “Forget about it.”

“Everything these days is about boundaries,” Beckie said. “Everybody always wants to know who’s responsible for what, and how everything is going to be done. When my husband walked out on me, I realized I didn’t have the strength to spend the rest of my life wrestling with him over all the issues surrounding the disposition of the business we’d created together. I didn’t have the strength to watch him with the child he’s having with his secretary. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to handle it--so tomorrow, I’m going let my gun decide everything for both of us.”

“We’d better decide on some shoes,” Virginia said. “Do you like these silver platform wedgies?”

Chapter 17

“There’s no law that says being loved is an absolute necessity for being happy,” Leah said.

“I’m not sure what love is, anyway,” Beckie replied. “Is it something real, or something imaginary?”

At midpoint in their dinner, Beckie, Huntington, Leah, and Ira were halfway through the second round of Gold Margaritas, the first round of potent golden slush having already been quickly sucked down to quell the fires from the homemade, freshly toasted tortilla chips dipped in a fresh, peppery salsa that convinced the tongue it had just been pressed onto the surface of Hell. They’d all met at the hole-in-the-wall, Taxco Mexican Restaurant, which, although in the middle of what many considered a culture-free zone, that is to say, conditions surrounding the Van Nuys restaurant rivaled that of the worst slums of Bogota--served what was possibly the best Mexican food in the city, if such a thing could be said to exist, and had served it for the better part of thirty years without changing the menu a whit.

Huntington, it being his first time to visit the joint, initially approached his plate as though it might be exceedingly poisonous, but after a first, tentative bite, proceeded to quickly make a good job of consuming with gusto the savory, gravy-soaked platter of chili rellenos, plated alongside a greasy, dripping taco lying atop a lake of mashed beans soaking in melted cheese, the entire affair topped off with a hot tamale such as could be normally found only in places south of the border where the girth of a man was still a measure of his importance. At Taxco, lard ruled, and lard, in spite of the bad press it received from the Richard Simmons crowd, was mighty tasty stuff.

“I think love is real,” Huntington said to Beckie. “But that doesn’t mean it’s good. What gets me is why people assume that love, once they get hold of it, will fix all their problems.”

“I think love can run up quite a tab,” Beckie said. “And sometimes, when the bill comes due, we find out we don’t have the resources to pay it. When Bernie had me served yesterday, that was the bill for our twenty-nine years together--I’m still picking myself up off the floor over that one.”

“Beckie,” Ira said. “I just want you to know I’m very ashamed of my brother. The mess he’s caused by taking up with his sleazy concubine is unforgivable. We all have to make choices in this life, and I must say, I’m totally against the choice Bernie made.”

“Thank you, Ira,” Beckie said. “By the way, do either you or Leah know where he’s staying?”

Ira and Leah exchanged slightly uncomfortable looks.

“Oh, don’t tell me!” Beckie said. “He’s not at your place in Agoura!”

“The bum came to us yesterday afternoon and begged us to let him sleep in the guest room for a few days,” Leah said. “I was against it, but Ira caved in.”

“I should think you would have sent him on his way,” Beckie said. “Especially you, Ira--Bernie’s your brother. Don’t you think you could have at least sent him to a hotel out of respect for me? The way it stands now, it looks like you are siding with Bernie! What I don’t understand is--why he isn’t staying with his tramp?”

“Beckie,” Leah said. “I don’t know if now is the right time to tell you this. On the way over, Ira and I discussed breaking the news to you. Ira was against me saying anything, but I think you should know, Bernie broke it off with Nolene.”

“What are you talking about--what do you mean, he isn’t seeing Nolene anymore? She’s having his baby.”

“Actually,” Ira said, “she’s not having his baby. It seems that Nolene lied to Bernie about being pregnant with his kid.”

“Did he fire her?” Beckie said.

“Not exactly,” Ira said. “--she still has her job, but he’s ending the relationship.”

Beckie looked around helplessly, her action drawing the attention of the drink waiter.

“I wasn’t calling you,” she said to the waiter, “but as long as you’re here, you better bring me another Margarita.”

“I think we could all use another,” Ira said.

This new reality carried with it a certain freaky wavelength which began resonating unpleasantly within Beckie as she realized the awful truth--Bernie had left her--not because of another woman--but just because he wanted to. Somehow, the abandonment had been tolerable when she’d understood the justification to be the Oldest Reason In The World--another woman. But the thought of her husband of twenty-nine years of marriage who, after having dabbled in the wares of another chick and who had subsequently taken out divorce papers on his wife as a result of the comparison, her husband who’d vowed, at one of the nicest chapels in Los Vegas, twenty-nine years before, to love, honor, cherish, and obey until death did he part, this husband, having dilly-dallied around with some chick half Beckie’s age, had simply gone off to live at his brother’s house and repossess her car, and arrange for her to face a phalanx of his high-powered Century City lawyers in the morning--all this without a word from him spoken directly to her, his choice being the intermediaries of his brother and sister-in-law, her best friend, Leah.

“Why hasn’t Bernie even called me?” Beckie said.

“He’s too proud,” Ira said. “He told me he’s not going to go around with his tail between his legs.”

“Why did he take my car, did he tell you that?”

“It had something to do with Nolene,” Ira said. “Apparently he gave the car to her.”

“He gave my Mercedes to his secretary?”

“I’m sorry,” Ira said.

“I’m going to be sick,” Beckie said. “Please excuse me.” With that, she got up and made tracks for the powder room, quick-stepping along the tile breezeway and through the door marked Banos Damas, praying that she’d make it on time.

Chapter 18

“I guess you could say that what began as a terrifying and stressful situation yesterday, has become quite a bit clearer tonight,” Beckie said. “You guys are all against me. What shocks me most is you, Leah--doesn’t the fact that we’ve been friends since high school mean anything to you?”

“Please don’t feel betrayed because we took Bernie in,” Leah said. “After all, he’s Ira’s flesh and blood--I had to respect Ira’s wishes. I’m caught in the middle between the two brothers.”

The two ladies, sitting together on the little couch in the anteroom inside the Banos Damas, were attempting to find a common ground upon which the energies of the long-standing friendship could be put to work to sort out the various issues which had just arisen, issues regarding loyalty of friends versus loyalties of blood relations, issues complicated by the giving of elaborate presents to overactive teenage office workers and seductresses, the whole of which had overwhelmed Beckie to the point where she’d been forced to empty the contents of her stomach, an unpleasant occurrence at best, but one that now left her drained and dispirited and not looking forward to continuing the evening, or anything else.

“I guess I’m really being forced to face reality today,” Beckie said. “I have to confess something, but you’ve got to promise it stays between you and me.”

“You know me, Beckie,” Leah said.

“I was going to murder Bernie tomorrow at the lawyers,” Beckie said. “I was simply going to march in and blast him four times right in the chest with my little snubby.”

“For real?” Leah said.

“For real,” Beckie confessed.

“That concerns me,” Leah said. “Any other woman making that claim, I could dismiss it, but you--what with your training and all--it’s a threat I think I might have to take seriously.”

“Trust me,” Beckie said. “I’ve changed my mind. After hearing what I heard tonight, I guess you could say I’m not as angry at Bernie as I was before--I think my urge to kill arose from the constant thought of him and that little concubine of his having a kid together--now that Bernie’s backed away from the situation, it sort of took away my rage.”

“I don’t know why he took your car and gave it to her,” Leah said. “But when we get home tonight, I’m going to confront the little weasel about it and see that he gets you another car--a woman can’t be left without a car in Los Angeles--it’s unthinkable that he should do that.”

“What’s worse,” Beckie said, “and not that it matters anymore, but that car had my wedding ring in it--I flung it somewhere in the back seat yesterday!”

“Your wedding ring?” Leah said.

“Doesn’t that just stink! You can tell Bernie he accidentally paid his Lolita, in addition to the hundred and fifty grand the car cost, probably another thirty or forty grand--that ring was a flawless three carats. The inside aura was a high, blue-white iridescence without a trace of yellow.”

“Where will it end?” Leah cried.

“My whole life has turned into the unthinkable,” Beckie said, “What I find most unthinkable of all is that Bernie could break his vows the way he did. How could that man just up and abandon me?”

“You want to know something?” Leah said. “Bernie told me why he abandoned you. I guess it wasn’t such a sudden decision for him--it took him months to actually work up his courage. I’m not sure if now is the time to bring up why he did it, though--how’s your stomach holding up?”

“My stomach feels fine,” Beckie said. “Better. But remind me never to eat here again when I’m emotionally upset--Mexican food isn’t the kind of stuff you want to taste twice, believe me. So tell me--what reason did the little horned toad give for abandoning his wife of twenty-nine years?”

“It’s the thing about no children,” Leah said. “As you’ve suspected all along. The man’s going through some kind of identity crisis--he complains constantly that he’s built this tool empire, but he has no one to leave it to but the IRS. And now, with the merger almost in place, he feels even worse, because his little empire’s going to be just that much more valuable. Apparently, the more valuable the tool business is, the more it hurts Bernie that he can’t leave it to the son he never had.”

“He blames me for him not having a kid,” Beckie said.

“He does,” Leah said. “I’m sorry.”

Beckie spun and grabbed Leah. “Do you see what a crock that is! Don’t you see what they’re doing to us? I had two miscarriages with Bernie and who gets the blame? Me! Did it ever occur to him that perhaps my body miscarried because something was wrong with his half of the contribution? Did it ever occur to him that I, too, have no offspring to carry on my name? That I, Beckie, am the last of my line to breath this air and walk on this earth? Did it ever occur to that fat little worm that to blame me for those miscarriages is the greatest deceit of all time?”

“Beckie, you need to calm down,” Leah said.

“Oh no,” Beckie said. “Bernie is the one who’s wrong here. He’s the one who broke the agreement to love, honor and obey--he’s the one who keeps coming up with the reasons, excuses, and self-justifications to assign me to a living death--don’t you see? His abandonment is no different in intent than if he just walked up to me and shot me dead! For the rest of my life, the people who know me will know me as the woman who was abandoned by her husband for failure to reproduce more like him! Well, as far as I’m concerned, I’m glad I miscarried! You go home tonight and tell him I’m glad I didn’t make any little Bernie’s! You tell him that!”

“Beckie!” Leah cried.

“Get out, Leah--take Ira and go home. I can’t be with either of you now.”

When Leah left Beckie and entered the cool, tile corridor outside the Banos Damas, the refreshing evening breezes washed over her from the open back door of the restaurant, reminding her that Spring had arrived, and with it the reminders to every woman that the season of new life was bursting from the sleep of winter. She retrieved her husband from the table and together they bid their good-byes to Huntington who, like the former investor he was, patiently waited to see the results of what he’d put into the deal thus far and who, like every investor, hoped for an increase in his fortunes and prayed, not disrespectfully--like all men to whom the outcomes of casting their bread upon the waters was unknown to them--to his personal God for a little luck with the outcome.

Chapter 19

“Where to?” Huntington said.

“Anyplace,” Beckie said. “Just lets get out of here, please.”

Having come to grips for the moment with the anguish of her rejection by her husband, not, as she’d previously thought, because of an actual child on the way, but because of its opposite, to wit--the absence of any child on the way, and having overcome the feeling of being unfairly judged by her husband enough to leave the Banos Damas off the breezeway of Taxco Mexican Restaurant, and rejoin the waiting Huntington, and after having accepted his invitation to ditch her limo in favor of his personal vehicle, a huge Chevy Suburban, which sat high in the air on big mud tires, and the interior of which was long enough to accommodate a couple of surfboards in the back, and a lot of miscellaneous restaurant boxes, Beckie, sitting in the jump seat in her white, silver-sequined tube dress, her hair cut short, and shining with a platinum glow, she herself looking fabulous, a shimmering dream in gray-suede spiked heels, watched the world around her go by as her date for the evening guided the mammoth SUV with a light touch through the evening Spring traffic, heading west on Vanowen, a six-lane cross-Valley arterial which cut through the endless sprawl of uncontrolled strip malls, apartments, and shopping centers gone to seed as they approached Haskell Avenue and the connection to the 405 freeway from which they could quickly, traffic permitting, access any point in the five-thousand square mile sprawl containing the eleven million estimated denizens of the City of Angels.

“I want you to see my place,” he said, indicating his first choice among all the billions of possible places available, piloting the Suburban up the onramp and stepping on it, the humongous power plant surging them forward impressively and competitively into the 10-lane engineering nightmare known, for some reason unknown to anyone, as the San Diego Freeway.

“No,” she said. “I know we kissed last night, and I know from the dress I’m wearing, you probably think something’s going to happen, but I should warn you, I’m not in the same place I was last night. I think maybe it would be best, in fact, if we simply called it a night. Besides, don’t you have to go wait tables at your restaurant, or something?”

“I have a manager who handles that,” Huntington said. “Nobody there knows I own the place. Twice a month, I wait tables so I can check up on how things are being run. Last month, I had to fire the bartender after I observed him skimming the receipts. The permanent staff just thinks I’m an actor with a part-time waiter gig.”

“My husband isn’t having a child with another woman,” Beckie said. “Leah just told me.”

“I’d really like you to see my place,” Huntington said. “It’s right on the strand--the section of condos just north of the channel at the Marina.”

“You live there?” Beckie said.

“I’ve got a tri-level that overlooks the strand and the beach,” Huntington said. “I surf every morning right out my front door. Of course, it’s a shallow shore break and if the waves are bigger than three feet they snap you in half, but most mornings I can grab a few rides.”

“I envy you,” Beckie said. “I used to surf, back before you were born, of course.”

“I’m thirty-seven,” he protested. “You’re only forty-nine--twelve years is nothing.”

“I’ll tell you what I will do,” Beckie said. “The truth is, I don’t dislike you--you’re very good-looking, in fact. But I’m not interested in any kind of look-before-we-leap relationship. We’ll go over to your place and you can show me your view of the strand. We can have some hot chocolate, or whatever, and we’ll lay out some ground rules for our being together that we both can live with.”

“Fair enough,” Huntington said. “I can respect that--we can decide what’s important to each of us, and if we have a conflict, we can try to find some alternatives--it’s a way we can make the transition into something more solid.”

“You must have been a banker,” Beckie said. “That was a very graceful analysis.”

“Being on Wall Street isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Huntington said. “My first year everyone referred to me as “Peckerhead”. After that first year, I did okay with my portfolio, so they stopped calling me “Peckerhead” and elevated me to “Butthead”. It wasn’t until my fourth year of continued success that the managing partner actually used my first name.”

“What drew you to Wall Street in the first place,” Beckie said.

“In a word--money,” he said. “I wanted to make barrels and barrels of it.”

“Did you succeed?”

“You’d be amazed,” he said. “But I finally had enough and I got out--I was one of the lucky ones--some guys never do.”

“Oh no,” Beckie said.

“Oh no?” Huntington said.

“You’ll never believe this,” Beckie said, “but in all the confusion, when I dismissed the limo, I forgot to take my big straw carryall out of the backseat.”

“What’s in the bag?” he said.

“Not much,” she said. “Just my bathrobe, my gun and my dog--not to mention that I left the trunk filled with about fifteen-thousand-dollars’ worth of designer labels.”

“You sure you’re not just wiggling out of our evening?” he said.

“No,” she said. “But may I borrow your cell phone? I’m going to call my driver and have him meet me over at my house--that way, I can set Mr. Boopers free and get him fed and bedded down for the night before we head over to your place--do you mind?”

“Not a bit,” Huntington said. He was a banker, and used to the changing variables inherent in any investment of time and energy.

Chapter 20

“What do you mean I’m not allowed on the property?” Beckie said.

“I mean just that,” the man in the guard uniform said.

They’d arrived to find the limo waiting curbside at Beckie’s off-Wilshire Santa Monica residence, the driver standing by the trunk. But they’d found something more--a uniformed, armed security guard, his cruiser blocking the driveway, his presence there to prevent her from entering the premises.

“But this is my home!”

“I’m sorry, lady,” the guard said, handing her a card. “Here’s a number you can call to discuss the details.”

“I’m calling the police and have you arrested for trespassing!” Beckie said. “That’s my home--everything I own is in there--my food, my clothes, my bed--everything! You have no right to prevent me from entering!”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I truly am--but it’s my job to secure the residence--as to calling the police, they’ll just tell you what I’m telling you--it’s all legal. The paperwork has already been filed with the Santa Monica PD. However, you’re certainly welcome to call them if it will help put your mind at ease.”

“It looks like the fight is escalating,” Huntington said. “Your husband just upped the stakes--he’s just putting the division of property into the legal arena. Beckie, there’s nothing you can do about it tonight--I know it’s hard, but we can get you through this. I know a good lawyer we can call in the morning.”

“What am I going to do?” Beckie said. “Where am I going to go? What about Mr. Boopers? It’s past his bedtime. He’s accustomed to sleeping at the foot of my bed.”

“We’ll go to my place,” Huntington said. “I can put you up in my bed--you’ll be safe and comfortable there.”

“Oh no,” Beckie said. “I’m not sleeping over at your place--we don’t even know each other. I’ll get a room at the Westwood Marquis.”

“You don’t want to go to a hotel,” Huntington said. “Look, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll sleep in the Suburban tonight so you can have the place to yourself--you can lock all the doors and put the perimeter alarm on so you’ll feel safe against any untoward advances you fear I might make. In the morning, we’ll go out to breakfast and take a look at this whole situation. Now c’mon, have you got any better ideas?”

Beckie was exhausted. The day from Hades had taken its toll. She was simply too tired to wrestle with it anymore.

“Have you got any brandy?” she said. “If you do, some brandy in a glass of warm milk would be nice about now--I’m just too tired to react to any more of this.”

“Driver,” Huntington said. “Give the lady her straw bag and load everything else into the back of my Suburban and that’ll be it for tonight.”

The driver opened the rear door and Mr. Boopers sprang out, running to Beckie and whimpering excitedly.

“Awww,” the driver said. “I didn’t know the dog was in there! Oh man, it stinks in this backseat! What’d he eat, a rat taco or something?”

“For your information, he doesn’t like Mexican food,” Beckie said, scooping up the tiny, quivering bundle. “Oh, Mr. Boopers, I’m so sorry I forgot you--I’m so sorry I let the bad man drive off without you.”

“Hey,” the driver said, after he finished loading the Suburban, handing Beckie her straw purse. “I’m sorry about your dog--but I can’t hear a thing back there when the glass is closed and I’m blasting the Bose. I had no idea your little dog was trapped back there--you’ve got to admit, he doesn’t make much of a profile, him being not much larger than a rat and all.”

“No harm, no foul,” Beckie said. “C’mon Huntington, let’s go before this thing gets any further out of control.”

“I’m sorry about your troubles, lady,” the security guard said.

“It’s not your fault,” Beckie said. “Just be a prince and keep the house secure for me while I’m gone.”

“You got it, lady,” he said. “By the way, your boyfriend’s a lucky man.”

Beckie found herself flushing--in all the excitement, she’d forgotten how she must appear to the guard, with her new geometric platinum cut, gray-suede high heels and white, silver-sequined tube dress. Embarrassed, she fished her bathrobe out of her straw carryall and slipped it on.

The Suburban idled slowly down the street, crossing Wilshire completely and heading south before turning west on Colorado. Huntington took his time, working his way over to the Marina, cruising slowly down a long condo canyon, whereupon he hit the remote and pulled the Suburban into a clean, unobstructed garage.

“I had to have the garage lengthened to hold my car,” he said. “They trimmed about three feet off my kitchen to make it work--the contractor called it a man’s compromise.”

“He was right,” Beckie said. “No woman would give up kitchen space for a car.”

“I mostly eat out anyway,” he said.

“You’ve got the neatest garage I’ve ever seen,” Beckie said. “Are you sure you really live here?”

“I’ve got another place across town,” he said, “where I keep all the usual kinds of junk that most people have in their garage, you know, the rear-bagger, the blower, the bicycle with the flat tire--but how much stuff do you really need at the beach? All you need is your board, your wet suit, your bicycle for cruising the strand, your in-line skates for doing the same, your telescope for checking out the action on the sand, and your hibachi for whenever you feel hungry. Besides, if you let your life get all cluttered up with stuff, it’s just a built-in excuse not to do what’s important to you. Too much stuff creates chaos.”

“You said you’ve got another place across town?” Beckie said. “Where?”

“I’ve got a little place in San Marino,” he said. “But I don’t spend much time there.”

Beckie did the math. A little place in San Marino, which happened to be the most expensive little neighborhood on the planet, plus a tri-level at the edge of the Marina waterway? She could only conclude that Huntington, if he was for real, must have a net worth of a size somewhat roughly equal to about half the U.S. monetary supply.

“You have a wife and kids somewhere else, don’t you?” she said. “That’s why you keep this beach house--so you can have your fun, too. I’m calling a cab and going back to Westwood.”

“Beckie I swear to you,” he said. “I have no one else--and I can prove it. Tomorrow night, I want you to come with me to a charity dinner downtown--it’s a place where a lot of people know me--you can ask them all if I’m single or not.”

“How convenient,” she said. “That’s tomorrow--but meanwhile, you’ve succeeded in attracting me to your lair tonight. How do I know anything about you is for real? How do I know you’re not just the hired help for the real owner of this place?”

Huntington did an odd thing--he got down on his knees. “I’m begging you to believe me,” he said. “Don’t desert me tonight. Please.”

She’d never had a man down on his knees before her. Certainly not Bernie--when he’d proposed, it had simply been tossed out to her as part of a general discussion on where he was going with his life in the tool business. She remembered it clearly. She’d tagged along with Bernie while he scouted for a decent commercial rental in Van Nuys, and it was during an inspection of one particular run-down building on Sherman Way and Valjean near the Van Nuys airport, that Bernie had casually said something to her about needing “a good life’s partner” or some such, and he thought it was probably best that they put the paperwork together on a marriage before he launched his business and got too busy for a honeymoon. Now here she was, twenty-nine years later on a moonlit night at the beach with a younger man down on his knees, begging her to believe he was who he said he was--it was more than Bernie had offered. The ugly fact was closing in--she’d just spent over half her life in a marriage devoid of romance.

“You don’t have to sleep in the Suburban tonight,” Beckie said. “Being rich myself, I understand how important personal space is to us wealthy. The amount of personal space we need is inversely proportional to the size of our bank accounts.”

“Thanks for being so kind,” Huntington said, rising up easily on his springy, surf-tuned legs. “If you’re still unsure about me, you can lock me in the loft and keep my cell phone under your pillow.”

“You can sleep in your own bed and I’ll sleep in the loft,” Beckie said. “Like I said--I wouldn’t want to be responsible for the death-by-squeezing-into-too-small-a-space of a multi-millionaire.”

Chapter 21

“You tricked me,” Beckie said. “You’re a lot smarter than you look. You turned my doubts about your identity into another date for tomorrow night--a charity event you said?”

“The United Way,” he said. “Every year they host a few dinners for anybody who lays a little bread on them. Tomorrow night, we’re feasting at the top of the Washington Mutual Building in Banker’s Gulch.”

They were on barstools in the efficiently designed, tiny kitchen off the living room, the absence of windows on the kitchen side of the house lending an air of privacy to the nook. Beckie, nursing a brandy and warm milk, having previously admired the small home that was big on style, the entry opening onto the surprisingly classy living room, its tall casement windows overlooking the strand and the ocean beyond, effectively connecting the beach with the living room and making the room seem larger than it really was. The steeply pitched roof with decorative beam ends--upon which--hanging by a yellow nylon rope--was a long black surfboard--gave the place an established appearance, considering the front of the house was only fourteen feet wide. Mr. Boopers, pleased with the place, luxuriated himself on a pillow beside the fireplace, which provided him a cozy warmth from its gas flame hissing over a trio of reasonably realistic ceramic logs, content to finish up some last minute grooming before retiring.

“I’ve never trusted these charities,” Beckie said. “People give them their money and they wind up wining and dining the rich. Wasn’t it just a few years ago that United Way’s top guy spent all the money buying up condos in Florida or something?”

“They’ve cleaned house since then,” Huntington said, “and these dinners do appear to be the product of ill-spent funds, but the truth is, they don’t spend a penny of the charity pot to host them--the fancy dinner is actually just a big pot luck affair. Everybody in the donor club donates something for free--for example, my consortium is supplying the wine.”

“Your consortium?”

“Chillers isn’t a closely held corporation,” Huntington said. “It’s really a part of a much larger co-op--we participate with other related businesses to purchase things in bulk, and at a discount. Actually, what I’m doing now isn’t so much different than what I did on Wall Street--when I was on The Street, I specialized in institutional trading, which is another way of spelling monopoly.”

“In other words,” Beckie said, “you monopolized Wall Street, and when you got tired of that, you monopolized the food and drink trade on the Third Street Promenade. That’s why I can’t get a corn dog unless I’m willing to walk all the way to the pier.”

“Co-ops are a sort of necessary evil nowadays--a financial circling of the wagons,” Huntington said. “Our increased strength keeps us safe from the raiders. By the way, if corn dogs are your thing, I’ll lay in a supply.”

“You sound like Bernie,” Beckie said. “He’s spent the last six months working on a merger, trying to connect himself to related enterprises, which is another way of saying monopoly--when I advised him against it, he threw me out of the office--come to think of it, that was probably the beginning of the end. We worked together at the business every day until six months ago, when he started entertaining the idea of taking Argon Tools and having it become a part of something larger. I was happy with running the business ourselves, but he used to say Argon Tools was just a wheel in the machine--now he says he’s almost closed the deal that will make Argon tools one of the richest spokes on a very large wheel.”

“Beckie,” Huntington said. “From what I’ve heard, this thing you’re dealing with, what with Bernie serving you your papers out of the blue, and the marshaling of your assets and all--well, something doesn’t smell right to me--I think there’s some angles here that need to be investigated.”

“Oh my,” Beckie said. “I don’t believe it!”

“Believe what?”

“That board hanging by the rope in your living room--I think I recognize it! It looks like the Ten-foot-six-inch Jacobs’ surfboard Robert August used when they filmed Endless Summer!”

“It is,” Huntington said. “How did you know?”

“I was on the beach when Bruce Brown was filming the part in Endless Summer where Mickey Dora is hanging five in Malibu. Robert August showed up with that surfboard during the filming.”

“That’s my favorite part of the movie,” Huntington said. “The part where they’re filming Mickey Dora hanging ten, where he stands there for what seems like forever, and Bruce Brown, in the narrative, says that Dora looked so relaxed on the nose of his board that he could probably eat a ham sandwich while he’s waiting for the ride to end. It’s like a little story that explains what life is all about--if everyone could be as patient as Mickey Dora, we’d all have the perfect ride, and we’d all get exactly what we wanted. Life is a ride on an endless wave.”

“I don’t quite get the connection,” Beckie said. “Between Mickey Dora and the ham sandwich.”

“Don’t you get it?” Huntington said. “Mickey Dora’s ham sandwich represents a man who knows how to wait for what he really wants--in the end, he gets to eat his ham sandwich while hanging ten at Malibu--it’s another way of saying he’s got it all--if you can wait as patiently as Mickey Dora, you’ll soon have it all. It’s another way of saying, All Things Come To He Who Waits.”

“Robert August let me surf on that board,” Beckie said.

“Awww, that’s incredible,” Huntington said.

“How did the board get into your living room?” she said.

“My older brother was really into the surfing life,” Huntington said. “After my dad died, believe it or not, my mom dated Robert August’s father for awhile--while they were dating, my mom discovered the board in Mr. August’s garage and she picked it up for my brother.”

“Your brother just gave his legendary Robert August surfboard to you?”

“My brother died in Vietnam,” Huntington said.

“Oh, Huntington,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago,” he said. “I keep the board on display in his honor.”

“It’s fate,” she said. “To think, I met you only yesterday, and today we’re connected by the same surfboard.”

“It’s amazing what a turn life can take,” he said.

“This brandy’s made me sleepy,” she said. “Can we talk about it in the morning?”

“C’mon,” he said. “I’ll show you your room. We’ll leave the fire on for the dog.”

They took the winding staircase past the second level featuring the sumptuously appointed master suite to the third-story loft, a tiny space fitted into a whimsical gable, a unique round window providing the ultimate view of sand, sea and moonlit sky. Aside from a built in bookshelf over a desk filled with a computer and a lot of camera equipment, the only other item in the room was an expensive-looking telescope and two comfortable chairs by the window.

“There’s no bed in here,” Beckie said.

“But there is a half bath through that tiny door beside the desk,” he said. “I think the former owner rented this space out as an artist’s retreat. I hope you can stand a futon. I keep it rolled up in the closet for emergencies like this, when a beautiful woman agrees to let me into her life.”

“A futon? You’ve got to be kidding! Somehow I expected something more luxurious from a rich man,” Beckie said. “Or are you expecting me to refuse the futon and agree to sleep in your bed?”

“I told you I could sleep in the Suburban--that way, you could enjoy my bedroom suite--it has every luxury you can think of--it’s got a high-def, flat-screen TV, a redwood sauna and even a jacuzzi tub on the balcony with built in stereo and flashing lights.”

Am I crazy? Beckie thought. What am I doing staying over at this guy’s house? How did I get here? Where did all my boundaries go? She remembered suddenly how it felt to be barred from her own home only an hour before. That’s why she was staying with Huntington--or was it? Could it possibly have anything to do with the fact that he was rich and handsome?

“Okay Huntington,” Beckie said. “I don’t want to take over your bedroom. Roll out the futon. I’m going to rough it for a night.”

He rustled the futon from the closet and rolled it out, supplying her likewise with bedding from the closet shelf.

“You’ll find everything you need in the bath,” he said. “Even a new toothbrush. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Huntington, wait,” Beckie said. “Sit with me a moment.”

They sat together by the window, enjoying the ever-changing light and shadows on the strand outside, the three-quarter moon roseately ringed.

“Are you doing anything with your life besides just enjoying being rich?” she said.

“Besides running a business?” he said.

“Yeah, besides that.” she said. “I mean, really doing anything with your life?”

“When you asked me that,” he said, “I wasn’t sure I wanted to answer it.”

“When you’re ready to answer me,” Beckie said, “take a deep breath and tell me.”

“You like to peel away the layers in people don’t you?” he said.

“Impress me,” she said. “You say you’re interested in me--well, now’s your chance to impress me--answer my question.”

“Am I doing anything with my life?” Huntington said. “Let me ask you--have you ever really wanted something? Something that you could never find--have you ever spent years wishing you were somebody else but you didn’t know who? Have you ever got down on your knees and admitted to God that you’d sell your soul for something, if only you could find what it is you wanted to sell it for?”

“Yes,” Beckie said.

“Okay,” he said. “What I’ve been doing in my life is looking for somebody. That’s what I’m really doing with my life--I decided recently it might be that I was looking for a woman. But since you asked, I think you should know that I’ve made a big discovery--I think I’ve finally found her--ready or not, here it comes--it’s you.”

His words burst in on her like an incoming wave. She tried to speak, but found herself speechless.

“Aw, C’mon Beckie--you don’t have to look so horrified!”

Beckie made a motion, as if to scoop her hair back.

“I keep forgetting I have no hair,” she said. “Look, Huntington, I’ll admit it pleased me just now to hear you say that. I suppose you’ve figured out by now that there’s something missing in my life, and you sound like you’re hoping you’re the answer to that. But you just asked me if there was something I wanted in life enough to sell my soul for. The answer is yes. Not that there is anything now, but there used to be something I wanted bad enough. There was something I wanted so bad I was willing to sell my soul for it--and I did.”

Tears filled her eyes and she took a deep breath.

“When I was a kid,” she said, “we moved around a lot because my dad was always looking for work--so I guess what I always wanted, deep down, was to stay in one place--to never have to move again, no matter what. To be honest about it, that’s part of the reason why I married Bernie--my shrink, Dr. Black was right--she confronted me about my selfishness. She tried to get me to see it, to see that when I married Bernie, it wasn’t out of love, but from a desire for security--I knew Bernie wasn’t going to be flaky--I knew he’d be a good provider and give me the kind of security my dad never could.”

“You wanted security more than anything,” he said. “So you compromised--you traded passion for security.”

“Yes,” she said.

“It’s understandable,” he said. “Most people do that. I never have--one of the vows I made all those years ago in High School as a Young Fogy was to hold out for true love--the kind Bogie and Bergman had--or the Duke with Maureen O’Hara.”

“I had a shot at romance when I was just a little surfer girl,” she said. “Mickey Dora was interested in me. That’s why I was on the beach that day. Perhaps I was his ham sandwich. But I put it all away when I decided to go with Bernie.”

“After all this time, do you love your husband?” Huntington asked.

“That question is out of bounds,” she said. “I haven’t had time to sort out my feelings about Bernie yet. I’m still not certain he really means to divorce me. I’m half expecting him to call me and come whining back.”

“Do you love your husband?” Huntington asked. “Tonight, at the restaurant, you said you weren’t sure what love is--answer me--do you love Bernie?”

Beckie began to softly cry. “Turn out the light in here,” she said. “I don’t want people walking by down there to be able to look up here and see me crying in this window.”

Huntington got up and hit the wall switch, whereupon the room transformed itself into a floating island in a moonbeam.

“This is difficult to admit,” she said. “But I’ve had no romance in my life in the entire twenty-nine years I’ve been with Bernie. I guess to make up for it, I kept focused on working to build the tool business. After awhile, I forgot all about romance. Staying busy in the day-to-day running of the business kept me from looking at myself--when Bernie closed me out of the business six months ago, it caused me a lot of pain--pain I couldn’t face, and a pain I didn’t understand--I started going through my day very carefully, not looking at myself or what I was feeling. I knew something was very wrong inside, but I couldn’t face it. Every day, while Bernie was at work, I shopped for antique ceramic figurines--I must have collected a zillion figurines--each time I purchased one, I looked at it, trying to find the meaning of its life. I realize now that I was trying to find myself inside those shining figures. In a way, you could say I was searching for my soul.”

“Do you love your husband,” Huntington said.

“Yes,” Beckie said. “I love him--but not with passion.”

“I’m sorry,” Huntington said. “Beckie--it’s not too late to have passion in your life--it’s not too late. Look, we’ve found each other--the surfboard proves it--you and I are connected--it’s the hand of fate.”

“It’s too late for me,” Beckie said. “Listen, Huntington, I can’t turn back the clock. I can’t go back to where I was before I married Bernie. I can’t be that little surfer girl again riding the beautiful black Jacobs board. I’m going to have to live my life without the passion and the beauty you speak of. The past twenty-nine years has left me with nothing but ice and stone inside. Right now I’m tired--I’m more tired than I’ve ever been in my entire life. I think we’ve done enough peeling of layers for one night--I don’t want to talk about it anymore. I just want to sleep. I want you to leave me alone--please go--and lock the door behind you.”

Chapter 22

She knew Bernie was up there somewhere--she could hear him but not see him. She had a long, silver cord protruding from her navel. The silver cord extended upward, as far as Beckie could determine, clear into Heaven. She was standing on the beach, talking with the unseen Bernie. The full moon sparkled on her silver cord.

“I can’t hear you very well, Bernie,” she said. She’d been talking to Bernie for a long time. He’d been explaining to her about the Great White she’d seen at the Pier.

“You were supposed to feed your dog to the shark,” Bernie said. “You were supposed to do that--when you didn’t do that, I had to take your car and your home--don’t you see? The dog is our child--our passion--you were supposed to feed it to the shark so it could live again in three days.”

“I can’t hear you,” she cried.

“I’m coming down,” he said.

He began to slide down her silver cord, coming towards her from Heaven, getting closer and closer. But the cord broke free from her belly and he started to tumble--as he dropped into the ocean, she could see something was wrong with his face. It was elongated, and lumpy. It was Bernie’s body, but with the shark’s face.

Beckie screamed.

She awoke to the hammering of her heart, her body hopelessly tangled in the comforter, her upper torso half off the futon. Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog was barking at the moon. The background drone of the mighty city was subdued while its people slept; she could hear the sound of a clock ticking somewhere in the house. The room had lost its life, imparting to her the sensation of lying bound within the dusty confines of a coffin. The coffin began to shrink and as it shrank the air heated up--she felt her skin starting to burn. She threw off the covers and stepped to the window, unlatching it and pushing it open, letting the cool air cascade in over her face. The shushing of the shore break muted the sharper serenades of pre-dawn traffic--the moon was nearly down for the night but still brilliant; the misty air completely still; the world asleep. The telescope called to her--she scanned the moonlit beach, pausing the lens at the shoreline, marveling at the glassy, pristine condition of the waves, their combs sleek and smooth, unruffled by any wind. A few night birds shrieked lonely shrieks.

There was but one single solitary act left to perform to properly atone for her sin of living a lifetime without love, a lifetime of living with Bernie. Slipping back into her sequined silver tube, she eased the door to her room open and made her way to the second floor landing, opening the door to Huntington’s master suite. She shook him awake and he sat bolt upright.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

“Get up,” she said. “The moonlight’s bright as day outside. The waves are two feet and glassy.”

Groggily, he stood up and yawned. “You’re dressed,” he said. “Okay. I understand. I’ll drive you over to the Marquis--but you can’t blame me for trying.”

“That’s not where we’re going,” she said. “Follow me.” She led him down the spiral staircase and into the living room. Mr. Boopers, comfortable on his pillow before the fire, wagged his tail and made a few licking sounds but did not rise, it not being an hour he cared for.

“Take the surfboard down,” she said.

“My Robert August surfboard?” he said.

“If you want a shot at having me in your life, you’ll take the board down,” she said.

Opening the front door, Beckie stepped out into the night, surprised at how quiet it was, and how many stars were shining.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.

“I’m not kidding,” she said. “I’m going surfing. I’m doing what I should have done twenty-nine years ago. I should have stayed on the beach and let Mickey Dora devour me while he hung ten.”

“It’s 4 o’clock in the morning,” he said. “The water’s freezing--don’t tell me you’re going surfing wearing a two-thousand dollar silver-sequined Gucci tube dress.”

“Give me the board,” she said. “While you’re at it, you can grab yours from the back of your car and join me.”

She didn’t wait for Huntington--it was something she had to do by herself. The board, at ten feet six inches long, was heavy, and wide, and she had to balance it on her head, the way she used to do long ago. It took some effort to cross the wide expanse of sand to the chill waters where, it was thought by some, that all life began. The setting moon, with its roadway of strong moonbeams hinted at the existence of a place beyond the freezing waters, a place where human weakness would fall away like a baby’s tears--a better place than where she now stood.

She hadn’t forgotten how to knee-paddle, or turn turtle to roll beneath a breaking wave--for a brief instant, there was a joy to it, and she could almost sense the weight of her long blonde hair once again, and the weightlessness of it as it unfurled beneath the depths. On her way out through the breakers, she felt the joy she remembered feeling and gained a little freedom for her soul. The water was freezing cold but she paddled hard and soon her pumping blood began to warm her freezing limbs. After she was past the break line, and she could see the shadows of the rising swells of the new set coming in behind her, she turned the board and began to paddle, putting her in synch with a beautiful swell of water, feeling the awesome energy of the swell lifting her up, at which point she managed to make it to her feet, her body crouching for balance as the board shot forward, swiftly dropping her smoothly into the crest, her ears singing with the hiss of the rails--after all that--she finally felt the peace she’d been seeking, a peace which flowed through her, and which invited her to join herself with the energies around her, taking her home, a place, she knew, where romance, and passion, and the ever-changing power of life was to forever become her new constant in the never-changing world she was leaving behind. She turned around and paddled out again. This time she was going to hang five.

Chapter 23

“You’re going to have a real shiner,” Huntington said. “The right eye, for sure, and maybe even the left.”

“I’ll look like a raccoon,” Beckie said.

The pair sat together on the edge of the huge redwood hot tub just off the rear balcony of the second-floor master suite, their legs dangling in the steaming hot, bubbling waters, examining a bump on Beckie’s nose and a spreading bruise surrounding her right eye. The bump was currently rising faster than the morning sun.

“I think it makes you look a lot like Streisand wearing a mask,” Huntington said.

“I’d just caught the perfect wave,” Beckie said, “and was scooting up to the nose to try and hang five when my feet went right out from under me. I slipped off into the curl and took a pounding on the bottom. When I came up to the surface, the board smacked me right in the face.”

“There wasn’t any wax on the nose of the board,” he said. “It was only waxed in the middle.”

To properly prepare a surfboard, one had to apply a rough coating of melted paraffin which provided a non-skid, rubbery traction to the surface when wet. Beckie, in her haste, had violated this rule, and found herself attempting to maintain her balance on the slippery nose, her chances of staying on her feet at that point about the same as her chances of standing on top of a whirlwind.

“It’s a good thing you arrived when you did,” Beckie said. “The board nearly knocked me unconscious.”

Huntington, having elected not to go surfing at 4 o’clock on a chill April morning, and having instead chosen the softer, easier route of simply driving down to the water’s edge in the Suburban, had handily retrieved his priceless Robert August surfboard, along with his shimmering, silver-sequined, ocean-soaked tube-wrapped, newfound love, and transported both of these treasures quickly back to the comfort and security of his tiny home at the edge of the world, whereupon he attempted to remedy the various ailments and complaints presented by Beckie, chief among which was that she was half-frozen to death, and secondly, was fearful that her nose might be broken, this latter point quickly dismissed, as there was no bleeding, and no blockage of the air passages, the nose not appearing to be pushed to one side or the other, and the main damage limited to some heavy swelling and the inevitable bruising around the eyes.

“Oh man,” Beckie said. “For a minute, just for one beautiful minute, I had my right foot over the edge of that board. I think I can honestly say that I can die now, and have no regrets--Huntington! I surfed! I did it! Nobody can take that away from me--not ever!”

“I watched you,” he said. “When you started off across the sand with that board balanced on your head, I ran up to the loft and filmed the entire thing through the top window--it was incredibly impressive--with the moonlight shining on your dress, you looked like a knee-paddling angel. And when you caught your first wave, and came up out of your crouch, I felt like I was watching some sea-goddess at play.”

“You got it on video?”

“The telescope has an attachment for my digital vid cam. I captured the entire performance.”

“Oh, Huntington!” Beckie cried, grabbing him by the face before planting a fervent kiss on his lips. This celebratory exchange between them, starting out playfully, as it did, quickly danced through their souls, lighting fires everywhere, throwing open the doorways to generous flows of heated emotions which ran together at the speed of light, uniting them with the force of the heat until both were caught up in one, singular, white-hot flame, a flame which soon consumed all the oxygen in their bodies and forced them to come up gasping for air, unable to think or speak or even look at each other, the fear being that their eyes would meet and cause a further explosion which would consume them completely and forever in an endless union.

“I need you to go back downstairs,” Beckie said. “It’s too soon for me. But after I finish my bath, maybe we can go to breakfast.”

“I want you,” Huntington said. “In every way.”

“Perhaps we’ve become a gift to each other,” Beckie said. “But we’ll need to move slowly and carefully.”

“We belong together,” he said.

“I hope you understand,” Beckie said. “I’ve just come from a lifetime of doing what my therapist calls watching the paint dry on walls of my soul--but now I’ve got a blank canvas--I just need some time to know what picture I want to paint.”

“You’re right,” he said. “In the heat of the moment, it’s easy to get swept away.”

“It’s not the heat of the moment I’m worried about,” Beckie said. “I just want to be sure. I’m a little up in the air right now--I have no home to call my own. But I promise you, if what we have is real, I’m not going to pass it up--my mother always told me not to pass up something I loved. I’ve learned in the past twenty-nine years just how right she was. Tonight I found something I thought I’d lost--out there, on that ocean, I found my passion again.”

He got up and walked to the doorway, looking back one last time at the girl in the shiny silver wrapper.

“Pretty soon, you, too, will have a home,” he said.

Chapter 24

“I can’t do anything about my face,” she said, “I haven’t any makeup with me--everything is locked up and under guard in my former home--I don’t see how I can go out in public like this. I look like the poster girl for the Nicole Brown Simpson foundation.”

Huntington was on the phone, into which he mumbled a few words before hanging up the receiver. He stood up and smiled.

“You don’t need any makeup,” he said.

She’d come downstairs wearing one of her new outfits, a simple blue plaid skirt and white blouse with a draped sweater and sensible, soft, calfskin shoes with a rounded toe cap and a flat heel.

“I’m really not dressed for meeting Bernie’s lawyers,” she said. “I just didn’t think to have the Nordy’s girl pick me out a power suit. But how do you like the Ali McGraw Preppy look?”

“It’s classic,” he said. “Just like you. And you don’t need a power suit--what you need is a power lawyer. I just called a legal beagle friend of mine. Her name is Lauren Shane--she’s willing to offer us a little free legal advice before she heads in to the office--but it’s going to cost me breakfast at the Polo Lounge.”

“I’m starved,” she said. “How soon can we get there?”

“As soon as Mr. Boopers gets back,” he said. “He’s out inspecting the back alley.”

The Suburban made good time across town and up Sunset Boulevard before turning into the palm tree’d entrance to the Beverly Hills Hotel Polo Lounge, getting a jump on the commuter jam on account of the early hour, and soon they found themselves seated over fresh brewed coffees beneath a spotlit, pink-linen’d, demi-table in a booth at one end of which sat Lauren Shane, a large, bony, bespectacled woman in a red Nancy Reagan suit, her round, cheerful face topped with a no-nonsense crown of tightly permed brown hair.

“Forgive me if I seem a snob for meeting you here,” Lauren said. “But it’s convenient for me--I pass this place every morning on my way out to Century City.”

“I’ve never been here before,” Beckie said. “Everybody eating breakfast looks like somebody important in the Industry.”

“Speaking of somebody important, it’s not my fault I know Huntington,” Lauren said. “So if you ever find him behaving despicably, don’t lump me into the same category--my father was a friend of his father--Huntington and I used to play together as children in his backyard while our fathers drank too much brandy and made too much money.”

“You and Huntington are childhood friends?” Beckie said.

Lauren nodded.

“Don’t let the red dress fool you,” Huntington said. “She just wears red to keep the bloodstains of her enemies from showing--if you really want to sic a lawyer on somebody you hate, Lauren’s the lawyer for you. She can bleed anybody dry in two minutes or less.”

“That’s enough, Huntington,” Lauren said. “One more word from you and I’ll tell your companion here about what you really did during your tenure at Goldman Sachs--perhaps we’ll discuss the time you blew 1.6 million by going to the can at the wrong time.”

“It’s a rough business,” Huntington said. “That’s why I got out. I got tired of the financial bungee jumping. I much prefer my present life.”

“Which is what?” Lauren said.

“Bartending and working on my tan,” he said.

The waitperson appeared and attempted to present menus, but was rebuffed in the attempt.

“Never mind menus,” Huntington said. “We’ll just order what we feel like eating and you can sort it all out. Put it all on my account.”

“I haven’t got much time,” Lauren said. “Let’s order and then we’ll talk.”

“I’m starving,” Beckie said. “I’ll take the biggest breakfast you’ve got--I’m talking pancakes, scrambled eggs, bacon, the works.”

“Make it two of those,” Huntington said, “but pile on some whipped cream and chocolate chips on mine.”

“I’ll go with your zucchini-pumpkin muffin and one of those little jars of your Tupelo honey,” Lauren said.

“Server,” Huntington said, “the above order is post haste--that means we want it like yesterday.” The server, used to such imperial decrees from the spoiled clientele which normally frequented the place, managed a curt not, after which he spun smartly and made quick steps towards the kitchen.

“Lauren,” Huntington said. “I’m a little worried. I’m trading you this breakfast for your free advice, but how much free advice are we going to get for the price of a muffin?”

“That all depends on what they charge you for the muffin,” Lauren said. “But speaking of free advice, my first piece of advice to Beckie would be learn to duck, or at least get yourself one of those Tai Bo videos. I assume one of the issues in your divorce is going to be spousal violence?”

“This is not what you think,” Beckie said. “I got this last night from a surfboard.”

Lauren sighed. “I understand how afraid you must feel,” she said. “But there are ways to protect yourself from your husband during the divorce--remember, once you are less afraid and feel less manipulated by fear, you’ll notice how many choices you really have. For the interim, I suggest we bring in a personal bodyguard to provide some sort of security until we can set a more permanent form of control in place.”

“Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh,” Huntington chuckled.

“Huntington, why are you laughing at me?” Lauren said.

“Beckie’s telling the truth,” he said. “Last night she hit the surf and got bonked by the board--I got the whole thing on videotape.”

Lauren threw up her hands. “Huntington,” she said, “Just because we’re friends doesn’t mean you can continue your childish pranks with me. After I finish my muffin, I’m going to show you a whole new definition of violence.”

“I’m sorry,” he laughed. “It was just too good to pass up.”

“I need to know one thing before we begin,” Lauren said. “Are you two an item?”

The question caught Beckie off guard. Was she an item with Huntington? What was the answer? She’d grown very aware in the past few hours just what an effect he was starting to have on her--for one thing, her life, in spite of the cloud of divorce hanging over it, seemed to be brightening, somehow--she found herself looking forward to spending more and more time with him.

“Never mind the question,” Lauren said. “It’s written all over both of your faces--now, from what Huntington told me this morning on the phone, your husband has seized all of your assets, correct?”

“Just the house and the car,” Beckie answered.

Lauren shook her head. “If I were you, Beckie, I’d give a quick call to the bank and all my credit card companies--you’ll probably find that all your accounts have been frozen.”

“Frozen?” Beckie said.

“This is how it works, Beckie,” Lauren said. “Do you know how the military defines a successful attack? It’s an attack that’s over and won before the enemy even knows it’s started. By now, you’re unemployed, with no money in the bank, no functioning credit cards, no place to live, no car insurance, no health or medical insurance, no nothing. If your husband is allowed to succeed, the only thing you’ll be left with is his last name, and I doubt very much you’ll want that by the time this is over.”

“But we have no-fault divorce in California,” Beckie said. “Half of everything is going to me.”

“Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh,” Lauren chuckled, the way the devil might do if he heard a good one. “The truth is, no-fault is a disaster for women. The reality is, by the time your divorce is over, you’re going to be on the street for good.”

“But Bernie and I have a lot of money. Our tool business is worth millions.”

“Beckie,” Huntington said. “You told me that, for the past six months, Bernie has been working on bringing the tool business into a co-op. Unfortunately, what he’s probably done is mortgage up everything you own to raise the cash for the buy-in.”

The waiter arrived with the specified food, upon which Huntington and Lauren began to eat with a fair amount of zeal.

“Good pancakes,” he said. “Beckie, do you want some of this whipped cream on yours?”

“She’s crying,” Lauren said.

Beckie was crying. She’d just been plunged into a world she didn’t understand, a world in which Bernie had staged a financial coup and left her twisting in the wind, a place where, presumably, she’d continue to twist in the coming hours, weeks, and possibly months to come.

“Cheer up and eat, Beckie,” Lauren said. “It may look right now as though the cards are stacked against you, but perhaps it was time you had a wake-up call.”

“I’d just found my soul,” Beckie said. “I found it last night on a smooth wave. But I didn’t realize what the cost would be--they say a soul is priceless--well, apparently they’re right--finding it has cost me everything I’ve earned in the past twenty-nine years, and then some.”

“You’re in a fog,” Lauren said. “You’re disoriented. You don’t know where the boundaries are anymore. But the war isn’t over yet--this is just your husband’s way of turning up the heat until you’re so uncomfortable that you’ll do almost anything.”

“Bernie’s putting the pressure on,” Lauren said. “But we can start turning the tables if we work fast.”

“We?” Beckie said.

Lauren smiled. “That is, if you’d like me to represent you,” she said.

Chapter 25

“Well, I guess that’s pretty much it,” Beckie said. “My cell phone service has been shut off. Lauren was right--my credit cards and my bank accounts are frozen. All I have left at this point is a large straw bag, a small collection of designer outfits, an old bathrobe, a small dog, and a gun.”

“You can’t let it get you down,” Huntington said. “Remember, Bernie’s lawyers are using these scorched-earth tactics to wear you down and starve you out. The real ugliness hasn’t even started yet.”

“The real ugliness?” Beckie said.

They were in the Suburban, having left the Polo Lounge and were heading back to the beach to await Lauren’s call regarding the upcoming meeting with Bernie’s lawyers, which would take place in Century City, the legal power nerve plexus of Los Angeles which, from its location near the ocean on the far western side of the city, complimented and assisted an equally powerful financial district about twenty miles to the east of it, as though the corpus of the city itself, with its several divergent power centers, was descended from the legendary giant with two heads, in this case one head being legal and the other head financial.

“By the real ugliness,” Huntington said, “I mean the ugly part where they tear you apart publicly and ruin your good name, at which point your closest friends abandon you and you become the town leper.”

Beckie shuddered at the thought, which crowded its way in among her other fearful festerings, mostly financial. She had used Huntington’s car phone to call her bank and verify the bad news about her sudden impoverishment, and was feeling the first icy fingers of shock seeping into her system, fingers which had, at the moment, begun to squeeze her heart.

“My Citibank Platinum Preferred Business Customer Visa had a special credit limit of two-hundred grand,” Beckie said. “It was something we got from our personal banker, Jeff Santorini a few years back. Now the jerk won’t even take my call.”

“You can stay with me as long as you like,” Huntington said, taking a shortcut from Sunset to Wilshire Boulevard.

“You don’t understand,” Beckie said. “I can’t live with you--I’ve only known you two days. It’s wrong to even think of it.”

“I understand,” he said. “We’ll get you a room at the Plaza when we get to Century City. You can stay there until Lauren is finished dismantling Bernie’s two-bit legal defenses.”

“Huntington,” she said. “You’re still not getting it. I can’t take your money. I can’t even let you pay for my lawyer. That’s something I’m going to have to work out with her.”

“Look,” he said. “I understand how you must feel--you don’t want to be obligated to me. But you need somebody to help you through the minefield. Why can’t it be me?”

“You can’t possibly understand how I feel,” she said. “Do you realize that right at this very moment, if it weren’t for you, I’d have nothing? No home, no car, no money? Do you have any idea how that must feel?”

“Okay,” he said. “You’re right. I have no idea.”

“I shouldn’t even be going in to see Bernie’s lawyers--what I should do is call Bernie and beg for mercy.”

“You don’t mean that,” he said.

“I can’t win this fight. You don’t know Bernie--he’s like a little pit bull. How do you think he built a tool business from scratch into a multi-million dollar enterprise?”

“He can’t be that tough,” Huntington said.

“When we were new in the business,” Beckie said. “Bernie crawled over a competitor’s fence one night and went through their garbage to find out what they were charging. But before he went over that fence, he shot the guard dog.”

“That’s not tough,” Huntington said. “That’s just mean.”

“I’m going to ask Lauren to see if she can get me some kind of settlement,” Beckie said. “Maybe she can get me a hundred grand if I agree not to contest the divorce. After legal fees, I’d have enough to make it through the first year until I can get some kind of job or something.”

Huntington, having reached Wilshire Boulevard, suddenly pulled into the parking lot of Simonson Mercedes. Reaching into his glove box, he extracted a checkbook and began to scribble.

“Here,” he said.

The check was in the amount of five million dollars.

“Heh, heh, heh, heh, heh,” Beckie chuckled. “Okay, Huntington, it’s funny. You made me laugh. And you’re right--I was taking myself too seriously. The truth is, I’m not totally without resources--if it comes right down to it, my friend Leah will let me stay with her. Or I can call Doctor Black--I’m a member of a self-help group called WE, which is short for Women Empowered--I’m sure they have some sort of assistance for a woman who’s being financially pounced upon by her greedy husband. All in all, I suppose I should be ashamed for feeling sorry for myself like I have been. After all, there are fifteen million people crossing over from Tijuana every year with nothing but the clothes on their backs and they’re not complaining.”

“The check for the five mil is real,” he said. “It’s yours. I told you I found the woman I’ve been looking for.”

He got out of the Suburban, walked around and helped her from the jump seat. A salesperson approached, her eyes trying not to register shock at the sight of Beckie’s swollen nose and black eye.

“I’m Kasha,” the salesperson said. “Beautiful day, isn’t it? Are you folks in the market?”

“Kasha,” Huntington said. “I want you to witness something. My name is Huntington. This is Beckie. I’m about to hand her a check for five million dollars. I’m doing this of my own free will. There are no strings attached of any kind whatsoever to this gift. She does not have to date me, or love me, or be my friend, or anything else. I’m doing this because of something she told me earlier, something she learned from her mother. Her mother said that if you find your dream, don’t pass it by. She said that if you pass your dreams by, you can never go back and find them again.”

Huntington got down on one knee. “Beckie,” he said. “You are my dream. Please accept this small gift in token of my undying appreciation for the two days of heaven I’ve experienced with you.” He handed her the check. “This is my pledge to you that this is one Old Fogy who will never pass you by. It’s my hope that you’ll use this money to start a new life--with this money, you won’t have to be dragged through a messy divorce--you can simply sign off on whatever Bernie wants and get him out of your life. Then you’ll be free to see if I’m the man you’re looking for.”

With a flourish, Huntington stood up, reached into the Suburban, retrieved Beckie’s straw bag containing her bathrobe, her gun, and her dog. Climbing back into the driver’s seat, he rolled down the window.

“Don’t forget,” he said. “You’re going with me to the United Way dinner tonight--I still have to prove to you who I am by introducing you to charitable important persons of substance who’ll vouch for me. Call me when you get situated.” Blowing her a kiss, he drove away.

“We’re on Candid Camera, aren’t we?” Kasha said. “I recognize you--you’re Suzanne Sommers--at first I thought you might be Barbra Streisand--but now I see the difference--you’ve got more you-know-what than Streisand does--that’s a pretty good disguise job they did with the black eye and the short hair, but I recognize your figure and your smile. I love your show.”

The two women stood there in the crisp, but warming morning breeze.

“I’m not Suzanne Sommers,” Beckie said.

“Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh,” Kasha chirped. “Where is the camera? Is it over there behind the pre-owned vehicles or something?”

“We can’t turn back the days that have gone,” Beckie said. “I learned something last night--I learned that when you get your chance to ride a really good wave, you better take that chance, because that wave may never come again. Even if you can’t stay on the wave--even if you can’t catch it, you should at least try.”

“That man really gave you five million?” Kasha said.

“He wanted to strut his stuff,” Beckie said. “Apparently, he wasn’t having much fun until I came along. Life had been cruel to him--he’d never found his match.”

“I have seen many strange things in this town,” Kasha said. “But I have never seen a man hand a woman five million dollars and then drive off. I’m thinking it must be a joke--that check isn’t real.”

“It’s real,” Beckie said. “It’s my reward for something I did early this morning. I gave him something priceless. Something I can never give any man again. I gave him my first passion.”

“What are you going to do now,” Kasha said.

“Well, I’ve been giving that some thought,” Beckie said. “After all, this is Los Angeles. This is the town where nobody walks.”

“You should maybe buy yourself a new car or something,” Kasha said.

“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Beckie said. “Have you got any Roadsters left?”

Chapter 26

“It took them awhile to accept the check,” Beckie said. “And after they called all the right good old boys and made sure the funds were good, they really freaked out when I asked for a “less cash” of a hundred grand. They took me into a special room they had so nobody would see me put their bank bag holding the hundred grand into my straw purse.”

“I don’t imagine too many people come in to World Savings carrying personal checks for five million dollars,” Dr. Black said.

“They were kind of suspicious,” Beckie said, “--in fact, so were the Mercedes people--they followed me over to the bank to make sure they got their hundred-and-sixty thou. It didn’t help when they asked me for my address and I couldn’t give them one--they finally accepted the address of Century Plaza.”

“I’m not surprised they were suspicious,” Black said. “The banks didn’t get where they are now by trusting anybody. Now tell me, why the hundred grand in cash in a bag?”

“I’m through trusting banks,” Beckie said. “If they ever freeze me out again, I’ll at least have bus fare.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit dangerous to carry a hundred thousand dollars around in a straw purse?”

“Maybe,” Beckie said. “But Mr. Boopers will be on top of it--and I also have my gun.”

Black frowned, not from displeasure, but more from the effort to keep her mouth from simply gaping. “The real issue is,” Black said, “how does it make you feel accepting a gift like that from a man you only met yesterday?”

“What can I say,” Beckie said. “I needed lipstick and foundation.”

Beckie--having purchased a new dark-blue Mercedes SL-600 Roadster convertible, the Black Diamond Edition complete with hands-free telephone, plus a six-thousand cubic-centimeter 48-valve V-12 engine and a one-button electric top--which she’d put down to feel the warming April breeze on her way to open a new account and deposit her check before her appointment with Doctor Black in her office high up in the World Savings building at Wilshire and Barrington--was searching her feelings with the Doctor’s help trying to make sense of the recent events of which some had befallen her and of which she’d in turn befallen some.

“The Roadster has a satellite to tell me exactly where I am,” she said. “The problem is, where I am on the planet seems to have nothing to do with where I am in my head.”

“When you accepted the gift, did you feel any loss of integrity?” Black said.

“Not at that moment,” Beckie said. “The truth is, I had already lost my integrity. Just moments before, I had made a decision to cave in to the pressure Bernie was applying. I was going to have my lawyer attempt to negotiate a flat fee and get the whole thing over with. But now that I have five million dollars in my new money market account, less of course, the hundred-and-sixty-thou for the car, and a few bucks for my lipstick and foundation, I think that I’ve actually had my integrity restored. But I learned a lesson.”

“What lesson was that?” Black asked.

“I learned that in some ways, as regards my relationship to Bernie, I’m a wimp. I thought I had more backbone than I did. It took Bernie only two days to cave me in. I guess I’m really a weak person--maybe that’s why I grabbed the five million dollars.”

“Giving in has a heavy price tag,” Black said. “It can take a toll on your self image.”

“I’m starting to have a real sense of shame,” Beckie said. “These last two days have been crazy. I’ve been thinking of my mother a lot--she was a woman of iron. If any man had tried to give her five million dollars, she would have torn the check in half. My mother used to tell me over and over that my soul isn’t for sale.”

“Did you sell your soul just now?” Black said. “Did you sell it for five million dollars?”

Beckie thought this over. “It’s just that I was under such inhuman pressure,” she said.

“I’ll answer the question for you,” Black said. “You did not sell your soul. If my understanding was correct, the money was given freely to you by a friend with no expectation of repayment, or favors of any kind in return. The amount of the gift is not important.”

“But I was caving in to Bernie, and now I’m not,” Beckie said.

“You hadn’t caved in to Bernie,” Black said. “You were only entertaining the thought. You had yet to perform the action of caving. Actually, if you think about it, you had made what may have been a very wise choice. You’d decided to settle for a small amount in exchange for your freedom. You were giving up a lifetime of court battles in exchange for a chance to live your new, passionate existence. In my opinion, you weren’t caving in, you were affirming yourself to be someone to whom a price tag could not be assigned.”

“You’re right,” Beckie said. “Besides, it was a totally no-win situation. I had little choice but to try to negotiate a small settlement and get the thing over with.”

“So where do things stand now,” Black said. “Now that you’re financially independent?”

“Where it stands now,” Beckie said, “is that I’ve scheduled a meeting with my new lawyer, Lauren Shane over in Century City--we’re going to discuss our strategy for the meeting with Bernie’s lawyers--to tell you the truth, I’m not ready to go through all that legal claptrap. The truth is, I’m so worn out by all these things, I’d prefer to take the day off and simply recuperate.

“Why don’t you?”

“You know? I think I will. I’ll pop in to see Lauren for a minute, but from here, I’m canceling whatever Bernie had prepared for me and taking my dog to the beach. I want to see if Mr. Boopers will eat a corn dog. Tonight, I’m attending a charity function with Huntington downtown, and that will pretty much finish up my day.”

“I’m going to suggest that we continue to meet every day for awhile,” Black said.

“That’s funny,” Beckie said. “Because I was thinking of cutting back to once a week. I mean, what’s there to discuss? The crisis is more or less over.”

Black smiled. “We need to work through your anger,” she said.

“But Doctor Black, I’m not angry.”

“Anger has many disguises,” Black said. “Two days ago, I was talking to a woman who was ready to commit murder-suicide after her husband walked out on her. Now I’m talking to the same woman who’s taken a lover and tells me everything’s just fine. I can’t just let that go. I can’t just scratch you behind the ears and flatter you.”

“You know, that really irritates me,” Beckie said. “I’ve just gone through a whirlwind and come out on top, and I don’t appreciate having my past thrown back in my face the way you just did.”

“Does it make you angry?” Black said.

“To tell you the truth, I’m sick of this whole head-shrinking routine you’re playing with me. I was fine until I walked in here. When I walk in here, I feel like I’m here because everybody expects me to be here, not because I need to be here. As far as blowing Bernie away, after what he did to me, it would have been the least he deserved! Do you know what he did with my car? The car that he stole from me? He gave it to his secretary! You don’t think I have a right to be angry over that? What am I supposed to do--just smile and say, Oh, that’s okay, Bernie, dear, you go ahead and have your fun? Let me tell you something, Doctor--the real reason I canceled the meeting with Bernie’s lawyers today is because if I see that fat little toad, and have to listen to some slime ball in a five-thousand-dollar Italian suit tell me what I can and can’t do with my own money, which Bernie stole from me, I don’t know what I might do--the honest truth is, I don’t trust myself enough not to blow Bernie away right then and there!”

The room was silent for a few moments.

“If I were in your shoes,” Black said. “I wouldn’t enter a legal office full of snakes armed with only a handgun and four bullets. I myself would toss in a grenade and take out the entire stinking nest.”

“Heh-heh-heh-heh-heh,” Beckie chortled.

The two women smiled, the smiles connecting into an energy pathway which fired up their faces into full-blown grins. The laughter came, then, flowing and free, from the deep spaces seldom touched by anything else as Black and Beckie, flopped back, mouths open and bellies shaking, allowed the pureness of the event to fill them in cleansing waves, until at last their spirits connected with something greater than themselves, a something which understood energy and release, a something which delighted in resistance to injustice, and the fragging of evil men, a something which flowed for a very long time into, and through, the two women, empowered, as they’d just become, with the glories of their newfound sisterhood.

They laughed on and on for the longest time, preferring the place it took them to the one they’d just left.

Chapter 27

“Do you have a shopping service?” Beckie asked the concierge.

“Yes of course,” the concierge said. “Shall I call them for you?”

“No, just tell them yourself,” Beckie said. “I’m in need of absolutely everything--and I mean everything. Here’s the list--I’ll be back in my room this afternoon, and I’ll need everything by then. In particular, I’d like her to make sure she picks up that fabulous pair of silver python mules I saw on display in one of the shops down the hall.”

The lobby of the Century Plaza Hotel-a massive structure with a tower commanding impressive views of the ocean and all of Los Angeles on the Avenue of the Stars in Century City, which had begun its useful life, as had many thing in Los Angeles, on the location of a former back lot of a Movie studio--where Beckie had stopped in to book an outrageously posh Tower suite before going on her merry way to the beach--was bustling from the mid-week energies generated by the various conferences and conventions. Beckie, with her distinctive platinum cut matched by an even more distinctive black-eye, drew more than a few glances from the visiting corporate drones who flitted here and there through the lobby on their way to a day of captivity in some subterranean hive, where they received, along with a buffet lunch, any and all necessary reprogramming deemed necessary by the under lieutenants of the current Corporate Mindset.

“Excuse me,” the concierge said. “But one of the items on your list is a box of 50 cartridges of Winchester .38 Special ammunition...I believe the note specifies a half-jacketed hollowpoint tip. Is this some kind of a joke?”

“Hey, I appreciate that you guys are into gun control, especially since you just turned the entire 30th floor into the Ronald Reagan suite, but let’s just say Senator Feinstein and I don’t share the same values as regards personal ownership of a handgun,” Beckie said.

Having visited her room and changed appropriately into a pair of pretty, printed peg-leggers and a simple pink nylon Tee for her afternoon at the beach, Beckie headed across the massively constructed concrete bunker which surrounded the Plaza and which was flanked by the Shuman Theater and the ABC entertainment center--along with a bunch of high-end yuppie drinking establishments--and soon was headed upward via high-speed elevator into the northernmost of the landmark, triangular-shaped Twin Towers to the twenty-fifth floor, which brought her to quickly to Lauren Shane’s impressive corner office.

“Bernie’s lawyers want to see us at 2 P.M.,” Lauren said. “They’re in the tower next door, on the 31st floor. He’s got a high-powered firm representing him. The founding partner was a real animal. Back in the late 70’s, the guy got a break when he represented a certain famous late show host’s wife. The late-show host was so impressed by the fleecing he received at the animal’s hands, he hired him to “do to his business competitors what had just been done to him”. Anyway, this original animal/lawyer who fleeced the late show host retired to his lair recently, but he somehow replicated younger versions of himself who continue the tradition, and who are about to attempt to come down on us like a bad case of plague.”

“Cancel the meeting,” Beckie said.

“Say again?” Lauren said.

“I’m not dancing to Bernie’s tune anymore--I just got bailed out by a rescuing angel. Bernie thinks he’s going to squash me like a bug. He thinks he can shoot my dog and climb over my fence and go through all my garbage, the way he’s done to his business competition over the years. Well, he’s wrong.”

“I’m not sure we should start delaying tactics,” Lauren said. “It may be viewed unfavorably in the future by the judge who will see you as being uncooperative.”

“There’s something I want you to do,” Beckie said. “I want you to hire the best private investigator you can find and I want you to find out everything you can about the co-op Argon Tools is forming. Secondly, I want to know everything there is to know about four other people who may or may not have anything to do with any of this. I want credit reports, bank activity, travel destinations--the works. I want everything that’s legal--and otherwise--to obtain. And I want all this information by tomorrow morning.”

“You should think over what you’re asking,” Lauren said. “You need to be aware that you’re possibly in what we call “court shock”--you’re making an emotional response to the stripping of your financial and property rights.”

“You’re darn right,” Beckie said. “This is an emotional response to my husband’s actions, which have shown no regard for my life whatsoever. I’m on a wave of fury, and I’m going to ride it all the way to the shore.”

“I have an excellent investigative agency,” Lauren said. “I’m assuming, when you said you’d been bailed out by an angel, that you have sufficient wherewithal to cover the costs?”

Beckie pulled out her temporary money market checkbook. “Here’s a check for five-hundred grand,” she said. “Let me know when that runs out. We’ll meet again tomorrow and go over what you found out.”

“And the names of the four people you want investigated?” Lauren said.

“There’s a chick named Nolene,” Beckie said, “I don’t know her last name, but she used to work with Bernie as a mistress-slash-office manager and she’s probably driving around in my old silver Roadster. For all I know, she still works there. The other three I want checked out are Bernie’s brother in law, Ira and his wife Leah.”

“You suspect your in-laws?”

“I started thinking,” Beckie said. “We had dinner recently and at no time did either of those two encourage me to contact Bernie or seek a reconciliation. I think that’s abnormal--also, he’d moved in with them and they didn’t tell me about it--I had to force the information out of them.”

“Okay,” Lauren said. “You said you wanted four people checked out, in addition to Bernie. So far, Nolene, Ira and Leah make three. Who’s the fourth?”

“Huntington,” Beckie said.

“Huntington?” Lauren said.

“I may be dumb, but I’m not stupid,” Beckie said. “The man just wrote me a check for five million dollars with no strings attached. There’s only three possible reasons he would have done it. One, because he’s in love with me, two, because he’s insane, or three, because, by some bizarre turning of events, he’s somehow connected to my Divorce proceedings. When he gave me the check, he told me that I was free to dump my past baggage and leave everything to Bernie--after I thought about it, it kind of smelled of a payoff. I’m praying I’m wrong--I don’t really believe Huntington is involved, but I need to make sure.”

Lauren removed her glasses and stood before the west-facing window, where the Pacific Ocean glittered in the sparkling sunshine. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it,” she said.

“Sure it is,” Beckie said. “On the surface, that is--from up here, you can’t see the sharks.”

“But that doesn’t mean they’re not there,” Lauren said.

Chapter 28

“It’s a good thing you’re so tiny,” Beckie said. “It makes it a lot easier to violate the No Dogs rule.”

Mr. Boopers, hidden in the straw purse, showed no inclination to report the unjust violation of the law which found him on the Santa Monica pier. Perhaps he’d succumbed to bribery, being as how he was certainly enjoying the corn dog he’d been given to keep him busy where he sat at the bottom of the purse on top of the bag holding the hundred grand while Beckie strolled to the end of the pier, past the arcade and motley assortment of enterprises ranging from street artists who painted ocean scenes on tiny mirrors, to a Mexican restaurant where patrons could be seen enjoying traditional south of the border fare along with, of course the ubiquitous, blue-green margaritas, themselves the color of the sea over which they were sipped, and which sent waves of entirely another sort through the minds of those who sipped them.

Away to the south, another in an endless string of Jumbo jets departed from Los Angeles International, giving rise within her to an urge to just up and chuck it all, and depart for some part of the world in which Argon Tools and its subsequent merging with whatever hydra-headed consortium was thus far unknown.

Her life was trashed--that much she knew. The reality that her husband could, by proxy, hand her a piece of paper and start in motion a process whereby her worth as a wife could be decided by a judge was somehow repulsive, especially when it would be in a court where the judge--considered by some to be as a god--was most likely a god for hire by the right people--a player who could be counted on to lay the cards down at the right time and in the right way and thus seal her fate behind the scenes.

She leaned against the rail, enjoying the feel of the breeze on her face, intrigued by the fisher people, always present, who dropped their lines and made their catches with the absolute faith of a Saint that they’d be rewarded for their meager attempts to fool a hungry fish or two. The edge of the western world was a great place to think--a place where one’s soul could face any problem, drawing strength as it did so from the incredible energies imparted from the surrounding depths. Where a troubled mind could drop a line to God and perhaps reel in a good idea or two.

In the long run, Beckie knew, it would be the unwritten rules of the road which determined her outcome in Divorce Court. Of course, she could take her money and run--Huntington’s generosity had seen to that. She had no obligation to brawl at length with Bernie’s lawyers, to become embroiled in a case which would cost so much and take so long it would bankrupt her a second time.

She knew she’d made a major mistake--for twenty-nine years, she’d allowed her husband to control the money supply. Now, when her marriage was at its end, she realized that she had no idea who her husband really was. Had Bernie, over the course of many years, managed to hide, or conceal assets from her? Was the man who shot guard dogs and rooted through dumpsters the kind of man you could trust to suddenly stand up and reveal all to an ex-wife’s plea for discovery of assets?

Mr. Boopers thrust his head out of her purse, a surprisingly long tongue protruding from his pointy snout, the better to cleanse the remnants of his corn dog with.

“It’s a man’s world, Mr. Boopers,” she said. “You men can spend our money, sell our houses and steal our jewelry and our clothes. A woman born in America today can look forward to a lifetime of being financially dependent on men, one way or the other.”

She finished the last of her corn dog, careful to nibble away the tiny circle of flesh stuck to the stick, before reeling in her spirit and beginning the return walk to the parking lot.

“In a pigs eye, Mr. Boopers,” she said. “In a pig’s eye.”

Chapter 29

“Bernie has been so upset,” Leah said. “This morning, when he left here, I think I saw a tear in his eye.”

“He’s not upset,” Beckie said. “Troglodytes don’t have emotions. He was crying because I canceled my appointment to meet with his lawyers. He was hoping to enjoy the sight of them having me for lunch. You know he cut off my bank account and credit cards and left me without resources.”

Beckie, on the hands-free, having cut her trip to the beach short, was high-tailing up the 405 to the Valley, taking advantage of her new cell phone to call Leah in Agoura.

“What will you do?” Leah asked. “You can’t exist without money.”

“I’ll think of something,” Beckie said, preferring to suspend the flow of information pending hearing from the newly-hired investigator who was, even as they spoke, digging up all of Leah’s life history to date.

“I’ll throw Bernie out,” Leah said. “You can stay with us and use my car. Do you need me to pick you up somewhere?”

“Thanks, Leah,” Beckie said. “I’ll manage. Listen, Leah. The reason I’m calling is I need to ask you a question. I ask this not out of disrespect, but out of my love for you, and out of our twenty-nine years of close friendship.”

“Ask me anything,” Leah said.

“Leah,” Beckie said. “Are you or Ira in any way connected to what Bernie is trying to do to me? I want a truthful answer--if you are, tell me now--don’t wait for me to find out on my own. If you lie to me, and I find out, you’ll be sorry.”

There was a slight pause. “Beckie, you know better than to ask me that,” Leah said. “We’re best friends, remember?”

“Thanks Leah,” Beckie said. “I hope you’ll forgive me. But let’s face it--Ira and Bernie are blood--and you’re Ira’s wife. I had to ask. I’m under a lot of stress. There’s just so much I don’t understand. I guess I’m getting a little paranoid.”

“It’s okay, doll,” Leah said. “Call me if you need anything at all.”

Beckie punched the gas to take the hill which divided the Valley from West Los Angeles. Leah was lying to her. Beckie could feel it. The pause before she’d answered the question had been just a fraction too long.

“Good-bye, Leah,” Beckie said.

She left the freeway and made her way up Sepulveda before turning down Saticoy and into the Argon Tools parking lot. It was there--her old Roadster--parked right beside Bernie’s silver Jag. So much for Ira and Leah’s bull about Bernie ending the affair--that was just a lie to keep her from looking too closely at Nolene. Bernie and Nolene weren’t even trying to hide it. She checked the rounds in her gun, and added a fifth bullet. It was time. She could walk right in and execute Bernie and if she hustled, she could make a plane for someplace before anybody recovered enough to catch her. She left the Roadster idling and ran up the walkway and through the front door. The place was deserted, save for her husband, whom she could hear shouting at somebody over the speakerphone in his corner office. The door behind the reception area leading to the warehouse opened and Nolene walked in, a diet Pepsi clutched in her hand. Beckie had to give Bernie credit--Nolene was a beautiful girl, slender--no hint of pregnancy--with long dark hair and impossibly bud-like lips set beneath an uptilted nose that lent a spoiled-brat cast to her otherwise foxy face.

Nolene stopped dead and her face paled, her eyes lowered. Beckie realized suddenly what Nolene must be seeing--an angry woman with a shaved head and a black eye, holding a small stainless steel pistol with combat grips.

“He took everything,” Beckie said. “The house, my car, my clothes, my pots and pans, my credit cards and my cash. You should think about what he did to me. You’re about the same age I was when he married me. He thinks he can go back and start over, but he can’t.”

Nolene’s face had grown increasingly frightened and she seemed to shrink somehow, as though looking for a place somewhere in the air around her in which to evaporate.

“God only knows, I probably wouldn’t have asked him for all that much,” Beckie said. “Just the basics. Just enough to keep me going until I could have started a new life. God only knows, he could have left me a little. When I married Bernie, it was back in the days when a woman was brought up to believe that they shouldn’t achieve too much. We were expected to mainly be a good little housewife. Working outside the home wasn’t encouraged--our men didn’t want their women to be too independent. But you’re probably different than I was--you probably have no sense of guilt for doing what you’re doing--you probably don’t think there’s anything wrong with having another woman’s husband. But let me tell you, it hurts me, what you’ve done--it hurt me so much I had to start seeing a therapist--she says I need to work on my rage problem--she says that I’m likely to kill you and my husband before this is all over unless I attend therapy every day.”

Nolene dropped her Pepsi and made a quick, crab-like move for the warehouse door.

Beckie raised the gun. Bernie was still shouting at somebody on the phone.

Chapter 30

“I must have snapped,” Beckie said. “But I realized something--I don’t have what it takes to kill someone just because they’ve hurt me. I had Nolene in my sights, but I couldn’t squeeze the trigger. I let her get away.”

“They may try to have you arrested,” Lauren said. “You could be charged with brandishing a weapon. I don’t have to tell you what this will do to your character assessment in court.”

Beckie, heading back to the Valley was peremptorily advising Lauren of her incident at the warehouse, wherein she’d nearly lost it and re-formed the divorce proceedings into a much more literal war where the death toll of innocents might have become a deciding factor in the division of assets.

“I’m thinking I’m going to walk away from all this,” Beckie said. “Perhaps Huntington was right--I should grant Bernie’s wishes as they stand and leave the playing field for good.”

“I’m not going to minimize what you did,” Lauren said, “but in reality, you didn’t fire your gun, you merely brandished it, and you didn’t verbally threaten anyone with it. It wasn’t actually pointed at anything. And you do have a permit to carry it.”

“It was stupid what I did,” Beckie said. “I suppose I could wind up going to jail.”

“If it comes up, we’ll deal with it,” Lauren said. “I’m not a criminal attorney, but we’ve got somebody who handles those kinds of cases for us, and she’s excellent. We won’t leave you hanging.”

“I don’t want to be stuck in this thing forever,” Beckie said. “I nearly killed someone a few minutes ago. I have no choice but to take myself out of this nightmare. I’m calling off the dogs. Just find out what Bernie wants and I’ll comply. I don’t trust myself to make it through this thing in one piece. Today I nearly took a life and risked losing my own. What if Bernie had come out and seen me with the gun? Bernie is a dangerous man--a gun fanatic--he’s got a carry permit and he always has his nine-millimeter on his belt. What if the two of us had wound up busting caps at one another? This entire episode could have become fodder for Channel 5.”

“How did a guy like Bernie get a concealed carry permit?” Lauren said. “They’re almost impossible to get.”

“We helped the founder of the Beverly Hills Gun Club get his start,” Beckie said. “The founder used to serve on the State parole board--he had enough clout to get Bernie and me a permit in exchange for Bernie’s contribution of startup capital to the Gun Club. There’s a bunch of us who got permits from the guy when we chipped in.”

“You’re in a lot of fear,” Lauren said. “The fear of abandonment and financial insecurity runs deep in all of us. We all feel it. Some experts believe it’s encoded in our genes. In your case, it would seem the fear is profound. In some ways, you walking in there with a gun was your way of showing your husband just what a personal crisis he’s put you in--in a strange way, it’s as though you were trying to break through to him.”

“I nearly broke through his skull with a hollowpoint bullet,” Beckie said. “I’m starting to freak out. My hands are still shaking. I don’t think we should talk about this anymore--I know I’m taking the coward’s way out, but I don’t care--I want you to put an end to the divorce as soon as possible.”

“You’re in a crisis,” Lauren said. “It’s a time of immense emotional upheaval--I’ll do as you ask--but only after you sleep on it--ask me again this same time tomorrow.”

“Fair enough,” Beckie said. “I’ll give it one more day.”

“By the way,” Lauren said. “I’m starting to receive some information from the investigators, do you want an update?”

“Okay,” Beckie said.

“You may be glad to hear that Huntington is absolutely in the clear,” Lauren said. “Of course, I knew that all along, but the agency has given him a clean bill of health.”

“That’s a relief,” Beckie said.

“And may I say something else,” Lauren said, “woman to woman?”

“Of course,” Beckie said.

“I’ve known Huntington for many years, so when I say this, I hope you’ll appreciate it’s value--I’ve never seen him so happy in the entire time I’ve known him. Beckie, I think you’re the cause of that happiness.”

“Wow,” Beckie said. “It’s a big jump from brandishing a weapon at someone you dislike to hearing news like that.”

“Sometimes it takes a crisis to provide an opportunity for growth,” Lauren said. “Good-bye, Beckie.”

Beckie came out of cyberspace to find she’d negotiated the traffic-crammed route from the Valley to Century City unconsciously, as though somebody else had been driving while she explored the slippery slopes and low crevasses of her inner realms, a terrain with which she was becoming increasingly familiar and a place she wasn’t sure she liked all that much. It was with relief that she headed for her hotel suite and her rendezvous with a long hot bath and careful preparations which, if not interrupted by determined police intent on taking her to jail, would prepare her for the upcoming evening soiree ala charity upon the arm of one Huntington whom, the experts said, was real--at least on paper, which was more than she could say of herself, or anyone else she knew at that point, excepting the aforementioned Mr. Boopers, who was by the very fashion of him, a creature of perfection and not given to sweating out the small stuff of feelings of abandonment or urges to kill.

Chapter 31

“I’m having a Beefeater martini, a drink which I mixed myself with ingredients from my wet bar,” Beckie said, “while I finish soaking in this incredibly huge marble tub, into which I’ve put a lot of bath fizzies, and from which I can see the sparkling pre-sunset lights of downtown. By the time you pick me up, I may be too relaxed to move--you may have to simply sling me over your shoulder.”

“L.A. is a playful place,” Huntington said. “I doubt if anybody would say a thing if a man in smart evening wear traipsed through their hotel lobby with his woman in tow as you suggest.”

Beckie, on the phone to Huntington, arranging the details of her pickup by him prior to the charity dinner, was winding down from a hard day of emotional clashing with her present, eclectically unstable world of uncertain relationships and even more uncertain places and things. The rich appointments of the three-room suite--trapped out as it was by a recent remodeling coup by the new owners--in designer fabrics and warm fruit woods, invited one, if one chose--and could afford the tariff--to take a complete break from the rigors of divorcing, asset stripping, hunting and gathering and just being a dues-paying member of the pain-in-the-tail It Takes A Village life in general.

Huntington arrived at her door on schedule, just as she was putting the finishing touches on her makeup, going with a light application of Chanel Pure Frost shimmer powder across her bare shoulders to offset the subdued Creme Soda lipstick combined with a Pink Ice eye color on the left eye, it having not bruised after all, and, after much self-discussion, having elected to leave the blackened right eye unretouched rather than attempt to somehow disguise a thing that would only wind up looking even more ludicrous.

When she opened the door, she was struck immediately, as she always was, by how good-looking he was. His gaze at this, their first meeting since earlier that morning, was intense, and stayed that way until she responded, not with a further invitation to enter her suite, but with an embrace of such vigor that the two staggered into the hall and stood for a moment locked in a kiss of such force it seemed nothing could break it.

“Whew,” she finally said, when out of sheer physical necessity each had been forced to either stand back or collapse in a heap. “I wasn’t quite prepared for the shock of that. I’m sure my blushing face looks hideous with the swelling around my eye.”

Huntington laughed softly. “With all due respect,” he said, “I find you irresistible in that little black dress.” His gaze continued its direct and frank appraisal of her, to the point where she backed away and busied herself by gathering up her new mink wrap and purse--a tiny bag which matched perfectly the stiletto-heeled silver mules located earlier by her and purchased for her by the shopping service.

“I’m leaving Mr. Boopers here,” she said. “He’s just had a big plate of broiled salmon, with the skin on, and now he’s going to spend the rest of the night locked in the guest bathroom on one of the Plaza’s thick luxurious white robes. I just hope he doesn’t bark his tiny head off after we leave.”

“He’ll probably sleep off the salmon until dawn,” Huntington laughed.

The shiny black stretch Mercedes limo which Huntington had arranged for in lieu of self-driving, fitted perfectly into the prestigious scheme of things at both ends of their event, pulling away from the Plaza in regal elegance and transporting them, per Huntington’s directions, via the long slow route along Wilshire Boulevard through the heart of the Miracle Mile and beyond, during which time they each enjoyed several glasses of excellent champagne, until, at last entering the stony, polished heights of the downtown canyons of the rich and ultra rich, they next found themselves inside the massive Washington Mutual high-rise, speeding skyward on a succession of high speed elevators to the reception on the 60th floor of the building, a building once the tallest in the area, which occupied a sight where once a stream wandered over a path and dogs lay on the path without moving for hours, a sight where Indians hoed vegetable gardens and well-horsed Californios discussed land grants over shots of fine Spanish port, a sight where all that was gone now and where, courtesy of the mighty structure erected by the conquerors of all these people, the spectacular views of the city through the floor-to-ceiling plate glass gave the beholder a sense of being high up in the central core, if such a thing existed, of the Heavenly Jerusalem itself, whereby your lofty place in said holy core conferred upon you the benefit of eternal protection from the strivings and dangers which routinely awaited the mere mortals of the lower realms upon which you gazed.

The room hosting the dinner was set with the usual overdone and elaborately plated starched linen rounds, the personally engraved place holder with Beckie’s name on it pushing back any sense of non-inclusion she might normally have felt in the presence of such a group, to wit, the top donors of a major metropolitan charity, donors who channeled millions annually to the variety of worthy causees which clamored at their gates, donors who--unlike the vast majority of the financially unwashed who worked on the concrete plantation of the mighty city--could rightfully consider themselves to be the owners of the plantation, with the privileges attendant to such a position--these modern day rich, the heads of the piled-up storehouses of communications energies, oil reserves, food supplies, and government bureaucracies, and who were alarmingly similar in their style of dress and their casual elegance, their practiced humility, and the frank gleam in their eyes which psychiatrists might, in persons of lesser degree, perhaps classify as slightly manic--these individuals gathered here in this modern super storehouse of the world’s money, these mighty people whose one unspoken rule was to never discuss the stuff publicly--either how much they had of it, or how much they controlled of it--these individuals all, to the last man and woman, universally recognized Huntington as a fellow and equal, the lot of them unflinching and pleased at the introduction of her, Beckie, his date.

As Huntington and Beckie, taking a breather after the many introductions, stood before the massive window, listening to the string quartet and feeling the gentle rocking of the powerful high rise on its earthquake rollers, the sensation leaving them with a childish sense of giddiness, Beckie raised her flute of champagne to Huntington and together they toasted the moment.

“Pick me up,” she said.

He looked puzzled.

“Pick me up,” she repeated. “Take me in your arms in front of all these people.”

He did so, and as he swept her off her feet and lifted her to him, the room broke out in good natured applause as the focus of the group shifted their way. Their peerage surrounded them and the city revolved below them, as though all were suitably pressed into reverence in the presence of something divinely sublime.

“Propose to me, if you will,” she said.

Again, his face registered the puzzled look of a man hopelessly out of his depths.

“Huntington,” she said. “This morning you wrote me a check for five million dollars, at which I was impressed, albeit somewhat suspicious--but tonight I’ve gone beyond that. Tonight I want to show the world that you’ve swept me off my feet. Now that you’ve done that, the least you can do is propose.”

“Marry me,” he said, a little too loudly, perhaps because of too much champagne or nervousness, or both, in any event catching the ear of the assemblage at which point the entire floor fell into a hushed silence.

“Yes,” she said. The word echoed off the glass.

“Yes?” he said. “As in, Yes, You’ll Marry Me--or as in Yes, You’ll Think About It?”

“I’ll marry you,” she said. “I don’t need to think about it. Whoever said emotions had to make sense. We’ll never have another moment like this--not in this life. So I’m saying yes--I, Beckie, give you, Huntington, the power to enter my life forever--the power to love me, to wound me, to heal me, to be faithful to me or to abandon me. I just want you to remember one thing about me before you take me to the altar.”

The room became a hushed space into which all eternity could have easily been stuffed, with room left over, a space waiting to hear the one thing about her.

“Tell me,” he said hoarsely. “Tell me what to remember about you.”

“If you ever decide to leave me, just remember,” she said. “--I’m not good at good-byes.”

Chapter 32

“We have to find a way to stay in total control of our emotions,” he said.

“Interesting,” she said.

Beckie and Huntington, having returned to the Plaza after a long and celebratory evening during which a great deal of wine had been offered in good-natured toasting on their behalf, the result of which both were more than a little toasted themselves, and as a precaution against further excesses of a different nature, had agreed not to part company at the door of her suite, but instead in the lobby of the great hotel, where they were even now seated comfortably together upon the new and fine furniture placed there by the recent and thoughtful new management, enjoying as a nightcap a small thimble of Drambuie before saying their good-byes.

“It’s complicated,” Huntington said. “I’m Catholic, and I’m not sure the Church would approve of my proposing tonight to a woman who’s already married, albeit you are in the throes of a divorce.”

“It’s not complicated,” Beckie said. “Tomorrow--or should I say later today--it’s already tomorrow, isn’t it? Anyway, later today, you can call your priest and get a rundown on the technical aspects of putting together an officially sanctioned Church marriage--but you’re right--we have to keep our emotions from getting the better of us--it’s been a long time since I’ve been to Catechism, but I’m fairly certain nothing’s changed--we’re still required to have a “look but don’t touch” policy until we’re married.”

“Nothing’s changed,” he said.

“And why should it?” Beckie said. “Look what happened to me--I married outside the church, and against my parents’ wishes--and here I am, under siege by my husband even as we speak.”

“I know we’ve got a long road to the altar,” Huntington said. “But I’m sure we can speed up your divorce proceedings if we instruct Lauren to put the pedal to the metal.”

“I’ll tell her to give Bernie whatever he wants,” Beckie said, “just as long as he agrees not to delay the process. But I’m not sure how the Church is going to look at me getting married again so soon after my divorce.”

“You’ll have to get your marriage to Bernie annulled,” he said. “And then they’ll make us go through a six-month marriage prep course. It’s no big deal.”

“There’s something else I haven’t told you,” Beckie said. “Yesterday I went to the warehouse and pulled a gun on Bernie’s girlfriend. I won’t go into details.”

“I’m a virgin,” Huntington said.

Her admission and his admission collided mid-rink, leaving the two of them flattened in the middle of the conversation.

“You’re thirty-seven years old, an extremely handsome, but wealthy bachelor who has a pad at the beach,” Beckie said. “Yet you claim to be still in possession of your virginity. I’m trying to do the math, but I can’t made it add up.”

“Did you kill his girlfriend?” he said.

“I chickened out,” Beckie said. “I thought I had the guts, but something deep down inside me made me freeze. Once a Catholic always a Catholic. Now you’re going to explain what you just said, because when you said it, my dream bubble popped--my first thought was, Oh No, There’s Something Wrong With Him.”

“Right,” he said. “Look, before I explain, could I ask that you not tell anyone of this conversation?”

“Who would I tell?” Beckie said.

“Okay,” he said. “When I was a kid, I had a dream of growing up to be a priest. When I was doing my Young Fogy thing in High School and in College, my friends and I made a vow to remain chaste and celibate until marriage. I myself had decided to remain chaste and celibate for life, what with my desire to enter the priesthood. There was just one problem--my Father--he was very much against me, his only son, becoming a priest. Father finally gave in to my wishes, but he made me promise to finish B-school first. I had to honor his wishes, and somewhere during my stay at Harvard, my dream of the priesthood somehow faded away from my heart, and I went to work on the Street instead. But after I got there, and I saw the wholesale immorality being played out around me, I surrounded myself with my religion. I kept myself apart from the indulgent life of your average trader.”

“Oh,” Beckie said. “I think I’m starting to get the picture--you were a big player on Wall Street, but your conscience could never square it, and suddenly you left it all behind to hang out at the beach. You’ve been doing some soul-searching, haven’t you? You were thinking about your calling again?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been searching my heart for my true vocation in life.”

“Then one moonlit night, a slightly drunk older married lady walked up to you in a bar and propositioned you and your vocation went out the window.”

“Beckie, it isn’t like that,” he said.

Beckie stood up, the tears welling up in her eyes.

“We could go round and round about this,” she said. “But I believe there are certain mysteries in life that nobody should interfere with. I’m a Catholic. I can’t say I’m a very strong one, having married outside the faith and lived a life apart from the church for the past twenty-nine years. But I’m still a Catholic and one thing I know better than to do is interfere with someone who’s being called by God.”

“Beckie, wait,” he said. “The moment I saw you, I knew God didn’t want me to be a priest. Beckie, please wait!”

“No, Huntington,” she said. “I can’t wait.”

She walked away from him, not trusting herself to look back.

“Good-bye, Huntington,” she whispered softly.

Chapter 33

“Dr. Black’s exchange,” the voice said.

“It’s Beckie,” she said. “I realize that no man is ever exactly Mr. Right--but this guy was rich, and handsome--he was even a virgin. But it’s never enough, is it? I’ll never be allowed to feel good about myself, will I?”

“Hold please,” the voice said.

“Beckie?” Black’s voice, thick with sleep.

“Huntington is going to be a priest,” Beckie said. “Last night, when I accepted his proposal, I had no idea--now I’ve lost him forever. All I’m left with is his crummy five million.”

“Where are you?” Black said.

“In my room at the Century Plaza,” she said. “I’m here alone--except for Mr. Boopers, of course.”

“It’s 4 o’clock,” Black said. “I don’t normally do this, but do you jog?”

“Sorry,” Beckie said.

“Then put on something you can ride a bike in while I jog,” Black said. “I’ll be by in forty-five minutes. I’ll want coffee when I get there. Tell them to make it fresh ground.”

Beckie hung up the phone and rummaged through the piles of shopping bags piled on the couch in her sitting room--yes, the workout clothes she’d requested were there--a nice pair of Reeboks and some sweats. She ordered coffee from room service, changed into her sweats and sat before the window, watching the pre-dawn show begin along Santa Monica Boulevard with the first gleamings of the ever-increasing headlights which would transform the lanes into a ribbon of light in another couple of hours.

There was a knock on the door. The room service waitperson arrived and artfully arranged the silver carafe and coffee service on her table by the window, accepted a generous tip, and left smartly. A moment later, another knock on the door. Believing it to be room service returning, or perhaps Dr. Black arriving early, her heart skipped a beat when she saw who it was--Bernie, his big square face hanging a bit slack, albeit his upper brow furrowed with tension, looking exhausted, and a bit drunk, his dark blue suit rumpled, as though it had been slept in.

“That’s some shiner,” he said. “Your boyfriend give that to you?”

Not waiting to be invited in, he simply pushed past her, walked to the guest bathroom door and twisted the handle.

“The door’s locked,” he said. “Somebody in there? Your new boyfriend, maybe?”

“My dog’s in there,” she said. “The door’s locked to keep the cleaning people from annoying him.”

“You never liked dogs,” he said. He flopped on the couch, looking around, adding up the sum of the existence she’d managed to acquire.

“Nice suite,” he said. “I haven’t seen these rooms since the Towel heads took over.”

“How did you find me here?” she said.

“I’ve been having you followed,” he said. His jacket fell open, revealing his nine-millimeter. Beckie realized she’d left her own gun in the straw bag across the room.

“I could use some of that coffee,” he said.

She nearly poured him a cup, then, realizing she’d fallen into shock and was simply moving forward under automatic pilot, caught hold of herself and moved back towards the door.

“Get it yourself,” she said.

“Why not?” he said, pouring himself a cup and adding cream and sugar from the service, after which he helped himself to a miniature brandy from the mini-fridge, which he uncapped and poured into the steaming brew. “It’s the New Millennium,” he said. “Not many women do it all anymore--most of them barely manage to make it to work on time, let alone manage to keep the house clean. But being a housewife nowadays doesn’t mean all that much--there’s no exams or previous experience required to get the job. There’s no way to measure the performance of a housewife in terms of how fast things get done, or how much of it. There’s no time clock.”

“You had me followed?” she said. “You’ve been spying on me?”

“I have,” he said. “And I must say it’s been interesting. I should add that was some stunt you pulled on Nolene yesterday, the way you walked in and pointed your gun at her--It made her sick; I had to send her home--she thought she was a goner. It really freaked her out. Did your boyfriend put you up to it?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Beckie said. Her defense of her actions shamed her--she wanted to be screaming at him, holding open the door and demanding loudly that he leave and never come back, while at the same time cursing and reviling him for his evil actions of the past six months and recent days. But everything was happening as if to someone else. It wasn’t she, Beckie, who was responding like such a frightened wimp. It was someone she was dreaming.

“Boyfriend, toy, whatever,” Bernie said. “I guess spending all night at a guy’s beach house doesn’t mean all that much anymore to the women of today--or maybe he didn’t have what it takes to be your boyfriend?”

“I’m not sure my lawyer would want us to be talking together like this,” she said.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “I’m sure she wouldn’t. I heard all about your fancy woman lawyer from my attorney. Apparently your lawyer has quite a reputation on the West Side. You’re pulling out all the stops, aren’t you--picking a lawyer so vicious even my pit bull of an attorney is worried.”

“This is all just a big game to you, isn’t it?” Beckie said. “You haven’t given a single thought to what I must be going through. You’re getting all that sympathy from Ira and Leah, acting like the poor little hurt husband.”

“I am the poor little hurt husband,” he said. “I just spent the last twenty-nine years of my life with a cold wife who gave me no children. If anybody should be hurt, here, it’s me.”

“You’re going to kill me,” she said. “That’s why you came here, isn’t it?”

Bernie set down his coffee and opened his jacket further, showing her the gun, it’s polished chrome housing presenting to her eyes the prospect of the crisp, efficient delivery of a violent, messy death. “Is that what you think?” he said. “You think I came here to kill you?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Beckie said.

The light beyond the window was changing to what would have been the welcome familiarity of the dawn under normal circumstances, but to Beckie it seemed that the newly heralded Spring day was a harbinger of evil--the thought that she might be seeing the light for the last time was terribly sad, somehow. That her life was going to end soon, here in this hotel room at the hands of the drunken man she’d been a wife to for twenty-nine years was almost unbearable emotionally, so much so that her emotions could not rise, could not play out, could only whirl, faster and faster at her core, until all that was left was the spinning of herself--of everything she used to be, was now, and might have become-- into a smooth, hard ball of fear in the center of her stomach.

“You look a little pale,” he said, rising and taking out his gun.

Chapter 34

“Don’t be scared,” Bernie said. “I’m not here to traumatize you--not the way you did yesterday to Nolene.”

He held the gun away from her and ejected the clip before racking the slide and ejecting the extra bullet in the chamber. The gun now empty, he pocketed the clip and spare bullet before returning the piece to his holster.

“Why did you do it?” Beckie said.

“Do what?” Bernie said.

“Why did you just hit me with the divorce out of the blue--why did you try to take everything away from me?”

“I blew up,” he said. “I was out of control for a little while. Everything was too much for me. When I started seeing Nolene, I discovered a new world of passion I’d never known before--but you know me--I’m Jewish--I don’t have to tell you the guilt I was under. And the merger has been murder--we lost our bank last week and had to take in another one, a big Japanese bank, the kind your mother should have warned you about.”

“You kept it all to yourself,” Beckie said. “You shut me out.”

“I shut you out because of Nolene,” Bernie said. “I was torn in two--she was going to have my baby--she touched a part of me that was dead and made it alive again.”

“We could have worked it out,” Beckie said. “Maybe we could have still had a child--there’s been so many advances...I would have tried for you.”

“I went off the deep end,” Bernie said. “I wasn’t myself. I guess you might say I was a little out of my mind. I got in over my head with Nolene and it just snowballed from there.”

“But why did you try to destroy me financially?” Beckie said.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I feel bad about it--but my lawyers told me that was the way I had to go. I was just following counselor’s orders.”

“You know, Bernie, I really didn’t need any of this in my life. Is that what you think I deserved just because I never bore you any children? I realize now I never knew you. You were never the angry type--you were always somebody I could depend on. But suddenly all that changed. It was like you went through a doorway into another world--it was like I suddenly no longer existed. When you’d come home at night, it was as though you really weren’t there.”

“I’ve been up all night thinking about us,” Bernie said. “I’ve gone over everything a thousand times. I know my behavior has been wrong. It’s just that for these past twenty-nine years, I was carrying the whole world on my shoulders, trying to solve everybody’s problems all the time, always putting myself on the back burner--well, I guess I finally cracked. When Nolene came into my life, I guess I tried to use her to make up for all that I’d missed. At first, I tried to break it off, but instead I just kept getting in deeper and deeper. She came to me one day and said she thought she might be pregnant and at that moment, we both decided we wanted to have the child.”

“Is she pregnant?”

“As it turned out, no,” he said. “It was just a false alarm.”

“Do you love her? Do you still want her to have your baby?”

He walked to the window and stared out at the city below them.

“I want us to patch things up,” he said. “I got caught up in something that was too big for me to handle, but I’ve never stopped loving you. I’m dropping the divorce--I want you to come home--I’ll do whatever you want.”

He turned to her, the tears running down his face and dripping from the lenses of his thick glasses. He knelt down, his head bowed, his arms outstretched.

“I know you don’t love me the way I love you,” he said. “I know you never will. But I’m reconciled to that. I know I can never fully make up to you for what I’ve done--but please let me try. Beckie, I’m begging you--please don’t throw away our twenty-nine years together. Please take me back. I want to come home.”

“We’re not the same two people we were,” Beckie said. “I’ve changed and so have you.”

“We can start slow,” he said. “I’m not saying we have to go right back to playing house together. Perhaps we’ll just work on being friends again--do you remember what that felt like? We can take walks on the beach the way we used to. Perhaps we can even take a holiday together, go to Vegas, or Paris, or someplace.”

“What about Nolene?” Beckie said.

“I’ve told her everything,” he said. “She knows I’m trying to work it out with you. She’s upset, but she’s agreed to bow out quietly if you agree to try and save the marriage.”

“That’s big of her,” Beckie said.

“Hey, Beckie, it’s me,” Bernie said. “We’ve been through our share of rough times in the past. We can get through this. I won’t rush you--you can have your own timetable to make a decision--that is, unless you don’t love me enough any more to try. If that’s the case, if you love someone else, then I need you to tell me.”

Beckie was in a fog, her emotions running wild and blind in the wake of Bernie’s misguided, off-base attempt at reconciliation. They’d both been off in left field, he discovering his passions and she discovering hers, both encountering a fair amount of guilt and fear in the process until the whole thing had turned into a nightmare between them. He’d finally gotten around to the big issue--was there anybody else in her life? True, the trust between herself and Bernie had dissolved, but he appeared willing to go to great lengths to try being loving again--she was boxed in by the pressure of twenty-nine years, by the enormous power of the feeling that if somebody loved her enough to humble themselves before her, and if that somebody else happened to be the man you’d been married to for twenty-nine years, then she had no choice but to try and attend to the business of repairing and righting the wrongs.

“We’re both emotional cripples,” she said. “If we try again, there are no guarantees.”

“Then you’ll try?” he said. “There’s nobody else?”

She walked to the window. The city was awake now. Any minute, the desk would call and announce Dr. Black’s arrival. Bernie remained on his knees, his face twisted into a parody of humiliation and imbalanced desires, the very sincerity of his actions leaving her wobbly, like a top about to go out of control.

“Okay, you win,” Beckie said. “We can try again. There’s nobody else.”

Chapter 35

“Bernie was a golden child, no question,” Beckie said. “His father came here after World War II and worked his way up from kitchen helper to head chef. He never wanted Bernie to suffer what he did, so he handed Bernie the world on a silver platter--but somehow, Bernie likewise turned out to be a hard worker like his dad.”

“There’s a down side to such an existence,” Black said. “Kids who are spoiled often grow up believing that all they have to do to get what they want is to ask. And that’s exactly what happened when Bernie showed up on your doorstep this morning--he asked, and you complied.”

Beckie and Black were making fair progress down the shoreline bike path which ran from the southern side of the Marina Del Rey channel all the way to the Redondo Beach Pier, a distance of about ten miles, of which Black planned to complete approximately half before turning back at the Smokestacks, an energy nexus with three tall stacks which were visible for miles around, the compound surrounding them of which housed the necessary onshore pumps to suck dry the massive offshore tankers, hooked up as they were to a bib about a half mile out. Beckie, riding the bike Black had brought with her, rode along side Black, who ran with an experienced, relaxed conversational gait, sweating easily and unafraid to snort or spit as the occasion required, with no loss of grace. The morning was overcast with a light breeze which frothed the wind-broken waves and spoiled the surf.

“I had a feeling of disorientation when he asked me to start over,” Beckie said. “I was probably in shock because of my breakup with Huntington. I found out that I don’t know either man like I thought I did. I guess I caved to the pressure of twenty-nine years. Are you going to tell me I made a mistake?”

“I’m your therapist,” Black said. “It’s my job to help you decide those sorts of things for yourself. The real issue here is--are you going to be able to resolve your underlying desire to experience passion again with your desire to rebuild your marriage with Bernie, a relationship which has become increasingly distant over the years?”

“If I was smart,” Beckie said, “I’d leave Bernie and go on my own--but I feel weak. When I was cut off from Bernie, even though I hated him for doing it, the feelings of abandonment were almost unbearable. I was facing those feelings again after learning of Huntington’s calling to the priesthood. Right then, Bernie showed up and got on his knees.”

“We’re tribal animals,” Black said. “None of us handles being cut off from support and affection well.”

“The best I’m going to be able to do,” Beckie said, “is try out the marriage one day at a time. At least I’ve become a member of WE--I won’t be alone like I was.”

“How do you feel about going home?” Black said. “Obviously, you’ll be returning to your marriage bed this evening--any problems with that?”

“Well, this is going to sound strange,” Beckie said. “But tonight I’ll be alone. Bernie’s leaving for Japan today to meet with some honchos at some Japanese Bank about the upcoming merger. I won’t be seeing him for at least a week.”

“I feel sorry for the Japanese,” Black said.

“How so?” Beckie said.

“By all accounts,” Black said. “it appears that Bernie’s a master manipulator. He waltzes in, restores his marriage and the next thing you know he’s headed for Japan.”

“That’s certainly true,” Beckie said. “But I maneuvered a few things out of him as well--among which was a check for eight-hundred grand.”

“That’s a tidy sum,” Black said. “Dare I ask why?”

“I’m going to pay Huntington back the five million he gave me,” Beckie said. “I needed the eight hundred grand to make up the shortfall.”

“And Bernie wrote you a check just like that?” Black said.

Beckie coasted up alongside Black and smiled.

“He never batted an eyelash,” she said.

“Our doctor-patient time is up,” Black said, as they reached the smokestacks, the mighty engines of which were roaring like a workshop in hell as the crude oil was transferred from the offshore tanker. Los Angeles, city of cars as it was, drank a lot of crude, and the sound of its guzzling, accompanied by the belch of thick black smoke into the fresh sea air, was nothing less than obscene. Black turned around and started the return jog back to the Marina.

“Our time is up?” Beckie said.

“We’re done analyzing your life for the moment,” Black said. “For the rest of the morning, which I hope includes you buying me a huge breakfast someplace, you and I are going to forget our troubles and live our lives as a couple of girlfriends out enjoying each other’s company.”

“But Dr. Black, isn’t that against some kind of rule for a therapist to be a friend to her patient?”

“It’s rules like that which have everybody all screwed up,” Black said. “What if God had such a rule?”

Beckie smiled at her newfound friend as together they ran and rode down the winding path through the endlessly varied scenarios of planes taking off and ships passing by, most of which, unlike herself, knew where they were going and why.

Chapter 36

She’d enjoyed a superior breakfast of hot thick Belgian waffles at the hotel with Dr. Black and upon returning to her room found the note slipped under the door, expressively written in a nice fountain pen script across a sheet of paper, the expensive kind, with the Crane watermark.

My Darling Beckie,

I’m writing to say that I love you. I’m so confused and depressed right now. I still want you. I’ve wanted you from the moment you ordered the Banana Banshee.

I am your slave--held captive by your charm, your beauty, and your ability to “walk the nose” of life even in the face of adversity. I want to be your Mickey Dora and for you to be my “ham sandwich” as I hang-ten on the nose of this world.

The fact that we met in a bar was not a bad thing to me--rather it was important to me because it showed me the power of God to accomplish his will no matter where we are. The time we spent together I will always remember. Your decision to break it off was a noble one--I realize you’re doing this for my own good--and, although deeply saddened, I love you for it.

I have not given up hope. I’m sending you a present. After you receive the present, you will hear from me a final time, to ask you, as Regis likes to say, “Is that your final answer?” If I don’t hear from you, I’ll know that it is over and I will remain respectfully out of your life forever.

Love always, Huntington.

After she was able to stop the tears from flowing sufficiently to see again, Beckie picked up the phone and called the desk and arranged to have any gift which arrived for her in the coming days forwarded by special messenger to her home, to which she prepared to return, having instructed the hotel to likewise package up all her recent purchases and deliver them to her.

She then sat down at her desk and wrote a check on her money market account for four million, two hundred thousand dollars, endorsed over her own check from Bernie for the eight-hundred grand she’d received from him, stuffed the checks into an envelope addressed to Huntington at the house on the Strand, gathered up Mr. Boopers and her straw bag containing her gun and the sack filled with one-hundred grand in cash, and departed the room, leaving the envelope containing the checks at the desk to be hand-delivered to Huntington by a bonded, secure delivery company, her last and final act of the morning before her Mercedes Roadster was pulled around, upon which she climbed behind the wheel and left behind, perhaps forever, her passions, and headed for home, a place, she knew, she might never truly find again.

She was back on Wilshire and nearly to her turnoff when she took a call on the hands-free from Lauren.

“I’ve got a lot of material from the agency,” Lauren said. “We need to go over it very carefully. It may figure prominently into our strategy.”

“Not anymore,” Beckie said. “The divorce is off. I’m back with Bernie.”

“Oh?” Lauren said.

“As of about 5 A.M. this morning,” Beckie said.

“Wow,” Lauren said. “Talk about volatility. I’ve been glancing through the agency’s findings--are you sure you don’t want to go over them with me before you make such a big decision?”

“I’m sure,” Beckie said. “The big decision was made twenty-nine years ago in Las Vegas when I promised to love, honor and obey until death did I part--no matter how rigorous such a vow might be to keep, or no matter how much of a guinea pig I might become.”

“Where shall I messenger all this information?” Lauren said. “It won’t hurt you to take a look at the findings--that’s my opinion as a friend, not as your lawyer, since I assume you’ve just fired me.”

“I’ll be home in a few minutes,” Beckie said. “You can send it to me there. I’m going to bed--just have them go around back and leave it on the stoop.”

“I wish you luck,” Lauren said. “Call me if you need me.”

“Thanks, Lauren,” Beckie said. “You can send your final accounting to my husband’s accountant at the warehouse. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You’re a great lawyer.”

“Don’t think of me as a lawyer,” she said, “but as a friend.”

Beckie turned off Wilshire and cruised slowly down her street. It all seemed the same and yet smaller somehow, as though the neighborhood had suffered some kind of shrinkage in the prior 48 hours. She pulled into the driveway and shut off the motor before removing Mr. Boopers from his lair in the purse and dropping him onto the small, ornamental lawn. Something was missing--with a start, she realized what it was--her fountain. Somebody’d managed, in her absence, to rip it off.

Chapter 37

She awoke at 3 P.M. feeling drained, as though somebody’d come in while she’d slept and opened the petcock which allowed her bodily fluids to escape. Her mouth was covered with a patchy fur and her eyes were filled with sand. Fifteen minutes later, after a needle-hot shower, her teeth carefully brushed, and a half-cup of microwaved instant coffee consumed, she felt almost human.

She checked the back stoop--Lauren’s package was there, a thick folio of documents with a five-page, closely typed summary prepared by the investigative agency. She wandered back to the living room and felt a pang--there, in the ashtray on the coffee table lay the remains of the two stogies she and Huntington had enjoyed together on their star-crossed first meeting. She clipped and lit a fresh cigar in his memory, enjoying the first few puffs in between sips of a decent Tawny Port. Her thoughts wouldn’t come together into any logical order about anything. Pacing about for a moment, she finally abandoned her feet in favor of sliding deep into the cushions of the overstuffed leather couch, where she fought to keep her emotions from veering out of control on the curves of her anguish.

She pressed the TV remote--nothing much on--Rosie O’Donnell wading through one of her endless self-promos as Hollywood’s Best Friend--Jenny Jones, her inane smile focused on a couple of gross, lower-percentile humanoids announcing their setting of a new record in moral lows.

She was lonely. The time unraveled minute by minute, as though in no hurry to proceed with bringing the future into the present. She checked her palms--they were cold and clammy. In spite of the fine Spring weather, she was shivering slightly. The phone rang. Leah.

“He doesn’t deserve you back,” Leah said. “But I’m glad--not for you--but for me. Dinner tonight?”

“Only if you let me pay,” Beckie said. “But can you come into town? I’ve got just enough energy to go maybe someplace local before I sock myself in with an old movie and a decent bottle of scotch.”

“I’ll come in if I can stay over,” Leah said.

“Sure,” Beckie said.

“Beckie? Are you all right?” Leah said.

“I’m just wondering if I answered the questions correctly,” Beckie said. “You know which ones I mean. The first question is, Is It Better To Leave? The second question is, Is It Better To Stay? I chose to stay. I wonder if I chose correctly.”

“It’ll take time,” Leah said. “What Bernie put you through was a sin--the main thing is, you need to give yourselves both a chance to get to know each other again. You’ve got to give it time.”

“We talked a little bit about my having a baby,” Beckie said. “They have the technology to do wonders for a woman my age.”

“There’s no rush,” Leah said. “Bernie has a lot of groveling to do first--don’t let him get away with taking you for granted.”

“We may try Paris when he gets back from Japan.”

“Paris could do wonders for you both. My best tip? Don’t be too considerate to him for awhile--play hurt for as long as you can milk it.”

“That won’t be hard,” Beckie said. “Because I won’t be playing.”

“I’ll see you around 7,” Leah said.

She had a few hours to kill before Leah got there. She set aside the stogie and the port and opened her glass hutch to examine the variety of ceramic figurines on display. Center-most was a statue of the Blessed Virgin, her right foot pressing firmly on the head of the snake, whose twisted, sin-warped coils covered the blighted earth at the Virgin’s feet. She took the statue from the hutch, setting it atop the fireplace mantle before kneeling and making the sign of the cross.

“It’s been a long time, Blessed Mother,” she said. She wondered if she had the right to just start in praying without making some small act of penance first, but decided that in the long run, even a small something with sincerity was better than the twenty-nine years of nothing she’d accomplished thus far.

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” she began. She’d say a rosary in memory of Huntington--a rosary dedicated to helping him find his true vocation in life.

“Blessed art thou among women,” she said. The doorbell rang. She hurried to answer it. A delivery man with a clipboard, his mini-truck with its camper shell parked behind the Roadster. Her stomach knotted at the sight of the object protruding from the open back window of the camper shell.

The Robert August surfboard.

She instructed the man to bring the board inside, to the living room, where he carefully laid it out across the arms of the big leather easy chair before accepting a generous cash tip and a couple of the Macanudo cigars, after favorably commenting upon the ripely scented air of the room’s interior. After she was alone, she worked up the courage to run her hands along the surfboard’s rails, as if by so doing, she could resurrect, somehow, a tangible memory of the man to whom, only a day ago, she’d first given her true passion in the form of an explosive kiss. Her hands reached the end of their journey along the rails and came upon the discovery which broke her down to her knees, convulsed with sobs for that which could never be, for what was once alive, and now fading to a distant memory.

Huntington had waxed the nose.

Chapter 38

“I wanted him,” Beckie said. “When he lifted me up in front of all those people, and I could see the entire city spread out below us like a jeweled carpet, I wanted him more than life itself. I wanted him deeply, and forever--and when he proposed to me, I felt a completeness I’ve never known before. But now, it’s over and done. I’m back with Bernie. He called me from the plane just before you came by. We’re definitely doing Paris when he gets back from Japan.”

“You did the right thing,” Leah said. “I know it can’t be easy on you, coming back the way you did, but in time, you’ll adjust and be glad you didn’t throw away your marriage. And if its passion you two need, well--you’re going to Paris in the Spring--what more can I say?”

Having made the short hop up Wilshire to Westwood Village--a decaying pocket of upscale shopping urbane which had declined markedly since the advent of the more successful Third Street Promenade--which Beckie, this night, was trying to avoid--the two friends impulsively took a table at Eurochow--a splashy place resembling, from the outside, a lunatic’s back lot fashioning of the Dome of the Mosque--their table for two being far enough away from the large communal table to afford some privacy, but close enough to the 25-foot marble, light-emitting obelisk to risk being crushed by the thing should an impromptu earthquake decide to shake the place.

Beckie, finding her appetite somewhat grief impaired, picked apart a somewhat unappetizingly gluey Veal ravioli.

“I don’t know why we eat here and pay these prices,” Leah said, examining minutely a sad, greasy pork sparerib. “You can find better Chinese at any mall.”

“We’re here because they have valet parking and otherwise there is no parking in Westwood--there hasn’t been for years,” Beckie said. “The prices are so high because it’s in a historic building. I admit it’s really just a tourist trap, the way everything in L.A. seems to be going these days--this isn’t the real Mr. Chow’s anyway, it’s a sort of a fake one--the young Hollywood set still eats at Chow’s original place in Beverly Hills. But to be fair about the food, you’ve got to admit you can’t get fresh lychee nuts at the mall.”

“There’s rumors they’re putting in a Gelson’s in the Village later next year,” Leah said, referring to a supermarket legendary for its shelves laden with upscale, overpriced gourmet items. “You’ll be able to get your Lychee nuts there without the hassle of a forty-five minute wait for a table.”

“I might as well face it,” Beckie said. “My heart is broken--nothing’s going to taste good ever again. I just can’t get over the feeling that I’ve failed, somehow, in some very important way. Maybe I shouldn’t have given in to Bernie so easily--it’s just starting to dawn on me what he did to me--the man has been seeing another woman for the past six months. How could I have simply surrendered to him just because he’s through with her and wants me back?”

“It doesn’t make you a wimp,” Leah said. “There’s no need to beat yourself up for what you decided--remember, it was you who decided what to do, not Bernie--you’re holding all the cards. As far as his affair with Nolene goes, I know it’s hard for you to stomach that, but we often have to bend a little and make compromises.”

“I feel dirty about being with Bernie again,” Beckie said. “When I walked into the house, the whole place felt dirty to me--I needed a nap, but I couldn’t bring myself to lie down on the bed--instead, I slept on the couch.”

“It takes time,” Leah said. “You feel violated by what Bernie did. That’s why you two need Paris--you need time to walk and talk and cry together--you need time to heal.”

Beckie sipped her wine, an oily red which had been served too warm. “Ugh,” she said. “Forget the Lychee nuts--we’re getting out of here.”

“Maybe we can stop by Baskin-Robbins on the way home,” Leah said. “I think maybe some of their Rocky Road will clear the taste of this place out of your system.”

“If I’d had any backbone,” Beckie said. “I wouldn’t be where I am today. Last night, in Huntington’s arms, I felt like a whole person--I was on top of the world. Tonight, I feel like I’m sitting in solitary confinement awaiting execution.”

“Just stop at 31 Flavors,” Leah said.

The big Roadster shot beneath the massive Wilshire/405 Freeway underpass and wound it’s way past the palm-studded park-like grounds of the VA Hospital--a reminder to all that life in the lap of luxury often came with a price--before plunging into the morass of clamoring high-rises and upscale strip malls of the eastern section of Santa Monica wherein one might find, if nothing to satisfy the soul itself, at least the answer to many things concerning touching, seeing, tasting, smelling, and feeling--things which in their own right had to be satisfied, and usually were in Los Angeles--by any means available.

“This whole thing’s really taken its toll,” Beckie said, wheeling into the requested parking lot of the three-story strip mall where the best ice cream on the planet was sold.

“You’ll bounce back,” Leah said.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Beckie said. “Maybe I’m spending too much time feeling sorry for myself.”

“Sometimes,” Leah replied, “whenever I’m down about myself, I’ve found that all it takes is a dish of Rocky Road to get things started in the other direction.”

They headed into the brightly lit store to negotiate the purchase of said directions, finding themselves in good company, as they did so, with a lot of other people who obviously had come to the same conclusion regarding the best and fastest way to obtain a sure sense of equilibrium.

“What’ll it be?” the server said.

“I wish I knew,” Beckie said. “I really wish I knew.”

“Sometimes it’s hard to decide,” he said.

“That’s truer than you know,” she said.

Chapter 39

“I’m sending you home,” Beckie said. “I can’t do the old-movies and popcorn routine tonight.”

“I understand,” Leah said. “You need to collect yourself--you’ve been under a lot of pressure.”

The ladies were finishing up their Rocky Road, having elected to do so while standing on the sidewalk in front of the store to take advantage of the distractions of lights and people moving in and around the various levels of the tiny tri-level strip on Wilshire Boulevard, a habit held my many Angelenos, who, when in doubt, unlike their country cousins in the rural regions to the north, could always simply step outside to avoid their loneliness by watching the passing parade.

“You’ll be okay alone?” Leah said.

“I have Mr. Boopers,” Beckie said. “He’s more company than most.”

They returned to the house and Leah bid her good-byes before setting a course for Agoura. Upon entering the house, and while playfully batting at an overjoyed Mr. Boopers with her foot, mimicking an excitement he obviously felt but she did not, Beckie noticed once again a dry, empty smell, as though the house was no longer fresh, and had decided to return unto the dust a bit earlier than anybody had expected. Likewise, the place seemed dark, and Beckie, on an impulse, as though to offset the darkness within her soul, made the rounds, turning on every light in the place until the interior resembled more a movie set than a home. This accomplished, she furnished herself with a square tumbler of Bailey’s on ice, the choice of chocolate liqueur being made to further the intrusion of chocolate into her veins, the better to attempt the suppression of the dark mood she was currently falling under. It remained but to move the Robert August board to a leaning position on the wall beside the living room entryway before finding a comfortable spot on the leather couch whereupon she clipped and lit yet another Macanudo bomber in Huntington’s honor and blew a single, sad ring into the center of the brightly lit room, the ring hovering over the heavy glass-topped coffee table before breaking up and fading like the last of her hopes.

To try and close the gap between accepting Bernie’s offer to start their marriage over again and really accepting, inside herself, the starting over of the ruptured bond between them, she quaffed the Bailey’s quickly and poured another, this time mixing in a shot of vodka into the liqueur to further power the chocolate to new levels, at which point she felt the beginnings of release deep down in her guts and sat back to await some sort of peace, however temporary, from the gloom inside her.

The statuette of Mary atop the fireplace mantle caught her eye, and she remembered her attempt to say the rosary earlier, an effort cut short by the arrival of the Robert August board. Not bothering this time to kneel, nor to extinguish her cigar, she made the sign of the cross and started gamely back in.

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” she said.

The phone rang. She stretched to pick up the receiver.

“You bitch,” the voice said. “You’ve ruined me.” Bernie’s voice--badly slurred, perhaps from the effects of too much rice wine or whatever it was they drank in Japan. Brought to her clearly, without a trace of trans-oceanic fog by the miracle of satellite technology.

His words, delivered point blank into her right ear canal, rocked her backwards onto the couch.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen the papers,” he said. “You’re front page news with your society boy, Huntington--the two of you posing like Tarzan and Jane in front of every important financier in the world--did you plan that little stunt to purposely destroy me, or were you just being your usual fat stupid self? Whatever it was you did, you did it good. The Jap bankers just threw the L.A. Times in my face and laughed me out of their office. Needless to say, they weren’t impressed with my ability to lead the consortium--apparently--according to them--I can’t even control my own wife.”

Beckie idly rubbed her swollen right eye as the hole she’d dug for herself was slowly filled in with further poisonous accusations and epithets which spewed from Bernie’s mouth with a venom any Western Diamondback would have envied.

“Bernie!” she finally shrieked.

There was a pause--her shout across the oceans had contained sufficient power, if not to kill, at least to stun.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he said.

“I have just two words for you, Bernie,” she said. “Just two words, and then I’m hanging up the phone.”

“I’m listening,” he said.

There were a lot of things she could’ve said, things which perhaps she was expected to say, or things which, in the combative environment she currently found herself in, she could have said and it would be understood why she said them, but what she finally elected to say was lost on him, and was something he’d have had to get up a lot earlier in the morning than he did to fully understand. But to her, what she said, said it all.

“Surf’s up,” she said.

Chapter 40

The picture was on the front page of the Times’ Business Section. Just seeing herself caught up in Huntington’s arms brought her close to hyperventilation. That had been, she realized, The Moment--the one her entire life had brought her to--the one which made people swear in no uncertain terms that there was a God, and that God knew what He was doing.

The caption and the text of the article mentioned them both by name. The Japanese venture capitalists had--no doubt as a result of their routine and exhaustive background checks of all supplicants seeking from them a pipeline of free-flowing yen--easily made the connection between her name and Bernie’s--them not being the sort of persons anyone could call stupid by any stretch. Thus, the sight of Bernie’s wife on the front page of the Business Section of the L.A. Times, in the arms of another wealthy man, accompanied by a caption announcing their engagement, reduced irreparably by their own estimation the required measure of confidence they’d need in Bernie to loan him money enough to head up a consortium. They’d then undoubtedly dumped Bernie out on his flaming red ears. To wit, Bernie wasn’t going to get the bread he needed to launch his lifetime dream of being the King of the Tools.

In one fell swoop into Huntington’s arms, she’d trashed Bernie’s dreams of becoming wealthy beyond measure at the head of a tool consortium. At the thought of Huntington, she wanted to simply run out into the night screaming his name in all directions, letting the world know how one woman felt about him.

She wouldn’t go to Huntington straightaway--nor would she call him tonight. If she did, she was certain, it would result in the two of them dropping whatever they were doing and coming together in an embrace out of which would most certainly arise the very sin Huntington was trying to avoid, and had avoided thus far, for a lifetime, preferring instead to save himself for the consummation of the sacrament of marriage, should that be God’s will, or for the priesthood, should he be led, finally, in that direction.

It was clear to her, ever since she’d received the initial love letter from him and later, the Robert August surfboard, that Huntington’s feelings for her were real--real enough to be a sign from God that his true vocation would be found in marriage. However, having received the note and the surfboard too late--after she’d vowed to Bernie to attempt the necessary repairs on their ruptured union, she’d been forced to deny her passion for Huntington, to forego the kind of happiness she’d heretofore never thought possible, in order to serve the twin masters of marital duty and obligation, with their attendant driving forces of guilt, lovelessness, compromise and humiliation--forces masquerading under the guise of a noble self-sacrifice for ideals which, when tested, evaporated like the morning dew.

“Dr. Black’s exchange,” the voice said.

“It’s me, Beckie,” she said. “Bernie was only using me to look good to the Japanese Investors--when I got the surfboard, I didn’t run to Huntington because I’d already renewed my vows, but now that it’s all over the papers, and Bernie has been discredited with the Venture Capitalists, Bernie’s showing his true colors again--the marriage is over and Huntington is free to choose me over the priesthood.”

“Hold please,” the exchange said.

“Beckie?” Dr. Black’s voice. A little annoyed, the bizarre background noise suggesting Black was right in the middle of a round of watching Regis sweat a male contestant who believed that a million dollars would square his position in the universe just a tad truer than it was before.

“Bernie’s through with me,” Beckie said. “He was only using me. When he was trying to put his consortium together, he divorced me so he could pledge all our assets, but when his main bank dropped him he had to turn to some high-rolling Japanese investors--apparently, they have a thing about Principle’s in the deal living honorable lives or something, and when they saw me in the papers with Huntington, they told Bernie to go out and do hara-kiri. I’m free. I’m trying not to call Huntington because I think our relief and passion might lead to something we both want to wait for.”

“Wait a minute,” Black said. There was a significant pause, during which Beckie could hear the wah-wah-wah of the show’s surreal, anxiety inspiring refrain.

“I can’t believe it,” Black said. “The guy just blew the $200 dollar question--everybody knows it’s Little Boy Blue who blows his horn, not Little Jack Horner! What an idiot! Is there no hope for this world?”

“Dr. Black, did you hear anything I just said?” Beckie said.

“Yeah,” Black said. “You’ve got a toxic husband--what’re you going to do about it?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me,” Beckie said.

“Remember that shark?” Black said. “The one we saw biting the head off that seal at the pier?”

“How could I forget?” Beckie said.

“Do that,” Black said, and hung up.

Beckie considered this advice while she relit her cigar. Black had seemed annoyed, obviously more interested in returning to her game show than working with a patient. To console herself for the way Black had rudely hung up on her, she removed a few cubes from the bin in the fridge and crushed them in a steel pot with a heavy marble rolling pin reserved for the purpose before half-filling the first jelly glass she could grab with the crushed ice and couple of ounces of a nice clean single malt scotch. It was really the only beverage that went with a good cigar.

Back in the living room, she emptied out the contents of the package Lauren had messengered to her and idly leafed through the investigative agency’s information on Bernie, Ira and Leah. The information quickly shocked her--although it did not specifically make the connections the data presented, much of the information, by its very existence, was absolutely damaging to all three parties--she was no financial wizard, but she needed no accountant to confirm something she had but mildly suspicioned a day before--as regarded the complete stripping of all assets from her--Bernie, Ira and Leah were all in it together. And for the oldest possible reason: pure and simple greed--they’d pooled their assets to pledge their way into the consortium and thus share in the spoils together--all without so much as a “howdy-do” to her.

She reached into the straw purse and took out her gun. Leah and Ira would be home by now--it would only take a bullet apiece in their case--neither one of them were in what anyone would call great physical shape. That would leave three for Bernie, which she’d deliver personally when he arrived back at his silver Jag which even now sat waiting for him in the long term parking at LAX. By the time it all got sorted out, she’d be calling Huntington from a nice safe little non-extradition treaty country, the kind of place that still put the little parasols in the drink.

The statue of Our Lady caught her eye once again. Our Lady had watched the brutal butchering of her precious Son without retaliating. Beckie put the gun back in the bag. Perhaps the enlightened people were right. Violence was bad karma.

“Okay,” she said to the Virgin, this time deciding to kneel before starting in, for the third time on her as-yet incomplete saying of the rosary.

“Hail Mary, full of grace,” she said.

There was a knock at the door.

Chapter 41

In L.A. nobody opens the front door at night. Beckie peeked first through the curtain which allowed her a view of the wide front porch and front yard area. Parked in the driveway directly behind the Roadster was a black Ford Expedition. The man on the porch, likewise dressed in black, was nobody she knew, but he looked like Central Castings idea of a hit man. Taking the gun from her handbag, she approached the front door warily and spoke to her visitor through the intercom.

“Yes,” she squawked.

“Beckie?” he said. He knew her by her first name--which could be either good or bad.

“What is it?” she said.

“I’m a friend of Huntington’s--I’ve got a message for you.”

Her mind flashed back to the note she’d received from Huntington. What with the tri-party conspiracy so recently launched by her husband, and what with the venting of his considerable rage all the way from Japan, Beckie was not in a mood to trust.

“What’s the message?” she said.

“He told me to drop by and ask you for your “final answer”.

She recalled Huntington’s love letter. After you receive the present, you will hear from me a final time, to ask you, as Regis likes to say, “Is that your final answer?”

Beckie opened the door to find a middle-aged man in a backwards collar--a priest.

“I’m Father Larry,” he said. “I drove all the way out here from Tarzana--may I come in?”

Later, after Father had enjoyed a cup of fresh-brewed coffee--during which time he’d had a chance to hear Beckie’s story--the two spent a few minutes throwing a white plastic ball back and forth, a game which delighted Mr. Boopers to the point where he ran himself into a ragged, wheezing frenzy.

“That’s a real feel-good pooch you have there,” Father said.

“Mr. Boopers saved my life,” Beckie said. “I at least owe him a meal and a place to sleep for the remainder of his life. But I admit I’m starting to like him just a little.”

“He’s got a big heart for one so tiny,” Father said. “I’m surprised the little fellow didn’t bark when I knocked.”

“He’s a weird dog,” Beckie said. “He’s a lousy watchdog, but he’s got a fair measure of courage--the other night, he barked at a Great White over in Paradise Cove.”

“Maybe he was born near the gulf where there’s a lot of sharks,” Father said.

“So you’re Huntington’s priest,” she said, tired of the chit-chat and desiring to move the subject area a little closer to the affairs of her heart.

“I’m just a priest who happens to be a friend,” he said. “Huntington and I go back aways. We became acquainted during my tenure with Saint Pat’s in New York.”

“You know, Father,” Beckie said. “When I saw you standing on the porch, I didn’t know but what you might have been a hit man sent here by my husband. I was very afraid.”

“I’ll admit I was a little nervous myself,” he said, “what with you standing there with the gun in your hand. And the way you had every light in the house on, as though you were some sort of lunatic--I’d begun to wonder if this wasn’t one of those moments which, when you add up all the little details, spells out the last scene at the end of your life. I thought for sure God was getting to roll the final credits. I almost expected to hear the music start to play.”

“You want to know if I still want to marry Huntington,” Beckie said. “The answer is Yes, but I’ve waited to tell him out of fear that if we’re alone together, we’ll be unable to control ourselves--we’ve got a certain chemistry together. And I may as well say, it concerned me to think I’d be stealing someone away from their true vocation as a Catholic priest.”

“You’re a Catholic?” Father said.

“Oh,” she said. “I was afraid you’d ask me that--I was raised a Catholic, but I married outside the church. I haven’t been up for Communion for twenty-nine years. That’s another thing that bothers me--Huntington and I want each other--but is that enough? We’re completely different people--he’s an active Catholic and I’m not, and he’s young enough to have children, and I’m forty-nine--for me, it would be a real stretch to bear him a child--and I mean a real stretch. Plus, he’s never been married before, and I come with a lot of baggage. I’m not even free to be married! You know, Father, this is an unholy tangle--I think, deep down, that’s why I’m afraid it won’t work. I fear that on some level, I’ll just be using Huntington to escape my problems with my present husband. What do you think, Father? Should I reach out to Huntington, or should I stay away? It would probably be better for him if I stayed away. Father, before I can give you my final answer, I need your advice. I need to make sure that, in spite of my best intentions, I’m not guilty of simply acting out the role of the scarlet woman who is diverting a holy man from his destiny.”

“My advice to you is to give no final answer,” Father said.

“But Father, I thought you came here to get my final answer,” she said.

“You’re not ready to give it,” he said. “For you to make a commitment of this magnitude at such a time in your life would hurt you more than help you. You’ve asked me my advice, that’s it.”

“But what will I do? Huntington is waiting.”

“Let him wait,” Father said. “You’ll have to risk it--if you truly love him, you’ll stay away from him until you’ve searched your heart, reconciled your present marriage one way or the other, and reunited yourself with the Church once again.”

“But what if Huntington interprets my refusal to give him an answer as a rejection and enters the priesthood? I’ll lose him forever.”

“Then you’ll lose him,” Father said. “But nothing is forever, except our life with God.”

“Father, I’m lost,” Beckie said. “I don’t know what to do. What if Huntington can’t wait for me?”

“There’s only one thing to do in a case like this,” Father said. “Trust God.”

“But Father--I can’t!”

“Why not?” he said. “Everything else you’ve trusted in up to now has been a bust. What choice do you have? Now if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s time for me to go.” He handed her a card. “Call me if you need me,” he said.

Beckie found herself confronting that awful place inside herself everybody superficially referred to as being alone--a place surprisingly easy to find in spite of the ten million souls surrounding her, a place where seeing life clearly was difficult due to an absence of inner light, a place where feeling anything at all was a matter, not of emotional discharge and release, but of finding her way in the dark, guided only by the rough edges of past regrets. Shouldering her disappointments, she wandered one last time through the trackless wasteland of the place she used to call home, turning off the lights one-by-one before at last collapsing on the couch under the weight of the darkness which pressed her inexorably downward into a troubled, but dreamless sleep.

Chapter 42

“Exactly how fast can you knock it all down and haul it all away,” Beckie said to the man with the big belly holding the clipboard.

“Once we get the necessary permits,” he said. “The whole thing’ll take maybe four or five hours.”

“How soon can you get started, assuming you’ll earn a sizable bonus for completing the job today?”

“We have a man in the City Planning Office that’ll have the permit to us in maybe half an hour,” he said. “We do the permit process over the Internet. We could start after that--of course, you still have to move all the furniture out--how soon will the moving people be finished?”

“There won’t be any moving people,” she said. “The job I’m requesting includes the removal of all the contents of the house, as well as the house itself.”

The man rubbed the top of his head. “That sounds a little crazy, lady,” he said. “You just want us to scoop all your furniture along with the house and dump it someplace?”

“You’re missing the whole point,” she said. “Which is how much money you’re going to make if you get on the stick and get it done before 5 o’clock tonight.”

“Okay, lady,” he said. “By 5 o’clock tonight, this lot will be scraped clean as a whistle.”

“Leave the trees,” she said.

Beckie, after a troubled sleep, awoke angry and went straight to the Yellow Pages, locating quickly a company specializing in urban demolition and who, for a fair price, would remove forever from the face of the earth the house she and Bernie had shared together for twenty-nine years, along with its furniture and other appointments, said price including the complete removal of the large swimming pool and the filling in of the hole.

That bit of business concluded, she returned Mr. Boopers to his place in the straw carryall, emptied the contents of the bedroom wall safe into the same, grabbed, as an afterthought, the small statuette of the Virgin which sat upon her fireplace mantle, and proceeded to her Mercedes SL-600 Desert Silver Black Diamond Edition Convertible V-12 Roadster, which now had the top down and from the rear deck of which protruded absurdly the black surfboard, its tail fin waving proudly, said board which was previously manufactured from a block of polyurethane foam by Jacobs sometime during the 60’s surfing craze and which had once belonged to the legendary Robert August--the very same board he’d taken on his travels around the world in search of the perfect wave, the very same board of which she’d been introduced to on the day Mickey Dora, her first big crush, had enjoyed an exceptional day hanging ten at Malibu, the same board upon which, during a recent encounter with a very imperfect wave, was responsibly wholly for the swollen bridge of Beckie’s nose and the blackening of her right eye, said injury occurring to her nose after her attempt to ride its nose and hang five on the unwaxed, and therefore impossibly slippery surface of that nose, the nose which Huntington had waxed that she might never slip again.

On the hands-free, she managed to raise Lauren.

“Lauren,” she said. “Do you recall what Bernie did to me the other day? The seizure of my assets, the freezing of my bank accounts, and the stealing of my car, all in the name of Divorce?”

“Yes,” Lauren said.

“Bernie’s on his way back from Japan,” Beckie said. “But before he sets foot on U.S. soil, I want you to do the same back to him. That gives you maybe most of today, but not much more than that. How soon can you get started?”

“I’ve started,” Lauren said. “Call me later and I’ll give you a progress report.”

“There’s one more thing,” Beckie said. “I want you to deliver a message to Huntington for me--it’s very important that you tell him it’s my final answer. For personal reasons, I won’t be contacting him for awhile.”

“What’s the message?” Lauren said.

“Mickey Dora’s ham sandwich,” Beckie said.

“That’s the message?” Lauren said. “Mickey Dora’s ham sandwich?”

“He’ll understand,” Beckie said.

Chapter 43

“I’ll need five men, women, or any combination of the two, armed,” Beckie said. “Have them meet me in the Argon Tools parking lot in an hour.”

Beckie, on her way out to the Valley, taking advantage of the morning rush hour slowdown to transact some business on the hands-free and thus further bring about meaningful change in her life, had just placed her order for the armed guards from the security agency who’d done the bang-up job researching Bernie, Ira and Leah. She’d need the intimidation factor if things got sticky at the warehouse, but she felt confident she could enact the further changes she had planned.

She pulled into the parking lot just as the van load of guards was unloading--a motley crew of three men and two women, clad in the requisite cop-like uniforms with wide leather belts sporting, in addition to the sidearm, a variety of other paraphernalia pertaining to enhancing the submission factor among any who dared resist them.

Another sight greeted her eyes, a sight not wholly unexpected--her former Roadster, the one presumably given to Nolene as payment for her sins, the one in which she’d flung her wedding ring but a few days before, parked in the executive space next to the walkway, the deep metallic silver paint sparkling in the bright April sun, proving that Solomon’s complaint was still true--there was nothing new under the sun.

With introductions with the guards out of the way, and her absolute authority being established with them by the presentation of a variety of documents taken earlier from the home safe, Beckie paused first by Nolene’s silver Roadster, fishing in her bag and producing a set of duplicate keys, whereupon she disalarmed the vehicle before handing the keys to a guard.

“Some of this is going to seem a bit irregular, at first,” she said. “But rest assured, if everybody does their job correctly and as ordered, I’m paying each of you a bonus of one-thousand dollars--in cash--unreported to your agency--at the end of the day--If any one of you doesn’t feel comfortable with anything I ask, you’re free to go, but you’ll forfeit the thousand.”

At the mention of a thousand in cash, she had their undivided attention.

“Our first order of business today,” she said--pointing to the largest guard in the group--“is for you to drive this roadster around to the back of the warehouse and burn it to the ground.”

“Burn the car,” he said--a statement, not a question.

“It’s my car,” Beckie said. “I can drive it, sell it, or burn it. I prefer it burned--just do it safely. Join us inside when that’s completed. While he’s doing that, I need two more of you to round up everybody in the warehouse and bring them to the front office for a meeting. There should be about twenty-five people back there. If there’s any trucks unloading, order the drivers to leave the premises immediately.”

She entered the office. About five people were present, all of whom she knew, including Nolene, who was at present occupied in the act of preparing herself a cup of coffee, which she nearly spilled at the sight of Beckie leading the charge.

“Escort that woman off the grounds,” Beckie said, pointing the finger at Nolene--”and don’t let her back in under any circumstances.”

To say that Nolene had a personal problem with being summarily and without further discussion removed from the premises by an armed guard was an understatement, and all persons present were treated to many familiar phrases which described with some degree of accuracy exactly what they all could do with certain things. During this brief hurling of angry invectives, not only were many of the familiar stock phrases used, but those within earshot also were introduced to a number of descriptions of things that could be done with things that were new to everybody, these new possibilities having just been invented as they were, in the heat of the moment.

Five minutes after the expulsion of Nolene, the staff being gathered, or rather packed together by the guards at a spot near the entrance, Beckie called the meeting to order.

“As many of you may or may not know,” she said. “Argon Tools is a closely held partnership. I have here in my hand the official Joint Partnership Agreement which states that in the event one partner--whom all of you know as Bernie, my husband--is out of the country, that I am, as the Acting Partner, duly empowered to transact any and all business on behalf of the Company. Since Bernie is currently en route her from Japan and is therefore out of the country, as Acting Partner, my first action is to announce that each of you will receive in your next paycheck a bonus in the amount of five-thousand dollars. Now I must inform you that I am suspending all business of the company for the remainder of the day. Each of you will have 5 minutes to gather your personal belongings and vacate the premises--you’ll all be paid double time for today. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Applause and whistles filled the air as the group filed out, many smiling and laughing at the unexpected cessation of their labors accompanied by the unexpected bonus of what, for most of them, amounted to a 20% increase in their annual wages. Not to mention an extra day’s pay. Beckie retained from the departing personnel one elderly gentleman, the company’s in-house accountant, Art Rivas. “Not you, Art,” she said. “Grab us two coffees and meet me in Bernie’s office.”

Beckie turned to the assembled guards. “For the next 24 hours, I want absolutely no one to be allowed inside this building without my written permission.”

“Beckie,” Art said. “I don’t mind telling you this is most irregular.”

“Tell me something else I don’t know, Art,” she said. “And before you answer, you should know that I value honesty above all else. You should also know that if my keen ears detect the sour note of falsehood coming from your lips, you’ll be out the door for good before this coffee cools.”

“What do you want to know?” he said.

“First,” Beckie said, “to your knowledge, has my husband squirreled away any assets under anybody else’s name--such as his Lolita, who is now, even at this moment, on foot in a bad part of town?”

“Well,” Art said. “It may be he has, but I’m just the accountant here, not his personal financier.”

“Art,” she said. “Either you are going to tell me the truth right now, or I’m going to bring in an army of accountants who are going to back-track through, and analyze every shred of paper in this place, right down to the stuff you wipe your derriere on--do you understand what I’m saying? And if even one account looks funny, I’m going to personally bleed you dry in Civil Court for the rest of your life.”

“He has a number of accounts setup with Nolene,” Art said. “As well as with Ira, his brother, and his sister-in-law, Leah. The three of them were going to serve as chief officers of their arm of the consortium.”

“Second question,” she said. “What’s your estimate of the book value of the company as it stands today, and has the business been compromised in any way by debt during the past six months of merger negotiations?”

“The merger negotiations were never completed,” he said, “so there was never any debt incurred. Now, as to the book value, do you want the figure to include good will?”

“Everything,” she said. “Good Will is important in a long running business like this one. But I must caution you--if I think you’re lying--if I think you’re jiving me with the public books while keeping the real numbers secret--I may just shoot you.” Beckie reached into her straw bag and pulled her gun. “This is known as brandishing a weapon,” she said. “It’s a crime in this city. Don’t make me guilty of anything else.”

“You wouldn’t shoot me,” he said.

Beckie thumbed back the hammer, the resultant turning of the cylinders filled with the lethal hollowpoints a sight Art watched with some fascination as the blood drained from his face.

“There’s two sets of books,” he said. “Bernie skims the over-the-counter sales. The cash register never rings after 2 P.M.”

“Thank you,” Beckie said. “Now--what’s your best estimate of value.”

“Argon Tools, in my opinion, has a conservative book value of approximately ten million dollars, based upon our last two years’ performance and our current inventory. That’s if we sold it as a business--if we simply liquidated the business, I’d have to say it’s worth about half that much. If you don’t believe me, I can show you the latest Balance Sheet. I should add that I’m basing the ten million figure on the projected revenues associated with the recent five-year contract we signed with Home Depot for the Western States region--actually it was that contract that was the springboard for the consortium interest.”

“How long have you worked here, Art?” Beckie said.

“I started in 1980,” he said. “Back in the good old days, you remember--it was just you, me, and Bernie. He was still delivering tools to the local stores in his van every afternoon, but it was starting to grow to the point where he needed to be on the phone all the time.”

“I remember the good old days all too well,” Beckie said. “In all that twenty years, has working for Argon Tools ever made you rich? Can you retire comfortably right now?”

“I’ve done all right,” Art said. “But you know how it is, what with inflation and all. I can’t say if I retired tomorrow I could continue living in L.A. I might have to move to a lesser economic area, such as Fresno or someplace, where the heat and the mosquitoes keep housing prices down.”

Beckie scribbled a figure on a piece of paper and passed it over to Art.

“Take a look at that figure,” she said. “What do you see?”

“It says five dollars,” Art said.

“I’m selling you the business,” Beckie said. “As Acting President, I have full authority to do so.”

“This is crazy,” he said. “Nobody can buy a ten million dollar business for only five bucks.”

“Of course you realize that buying the business also means absorbing whatever debt exists,” she said.

“Sure,” he said. “But we’ve never had much debt--you should know that.”

“There’s two conditions to this sale,” she said. “You can never hire Bernie to work for you in any capacity whatever, not even janitor--and the same goes for his girlfriend.”

“This is still crazy,” he said.

“You just got very lucky,” Beckie said. “If you decide not to buy, I’m going to call the Western Region Manager for Home Depot and sell her the entire net assets for the five bucks of which we are now speaking. Now--I’m going to leave the room. I have to make a phone call. When I return, I want your answer--if the answer is no, I’ll expect you to be off the grounds within 1 minute of that answer. If your answer is yes, you will stay at your post. My lawyer will messenger to you by 2 P.M. all necessary documents to record the sale.”

“Excuse me, Beckie,” Art said, fumbling in his pocket and producing a small orange vial, from which he uncapped and extracted a small white pill, which he placed under his tongue. “Too many meals off the roach coach,” he said.

Beckie left the room and dialed Lauren. “He’s got hidden accounts with Nolene, Ira and Leah,” Beckie said. “I’m selling the business in his absence to the controller, a guy named Art Rivas. There’s two conditions--that he’ll never employ Bernie or Nolene. He’ll be calling you in about two minutes to set up the documents--can you have everything ready to record the sale by early this afternoon?”

“Can do,” Lauren said. “By the way, I’ve already located all the joint accounts with Nolene and had them frozen. I’m working on Ira and Leah as we speak--you should know that their home is highly leveraged with a note to the Tool business. I think Bernie took the loan out on their house to come up with the money to buy in to the proposed consortium.”

“If we call the note due,” Beckie said, “will it force them out of that overstuffed home in their gated Agoura Hills colony?”

“Most certainly,” Lauren said. “Unless they can come up with three million bucks in the next ninety days.”

“Make that part of the sale,” Beckie said. “The three of them conspired against me. Leah was the go-between to keep me from getting suspicious. Have the Demand Notice delivered to their door by an armed guard. Let’s see how they feel about being squeezed. Last, but not least, I’m going to be unavailable for awhile--I don’t know how long--I need you to arrange to receive my mail and settle all my affairs--I’ll sign a power of attorney or whatever you need. Whatever estate I’ve got coming once the divorce proceedings are final, I want you to fully liquidate and divide the proceeds--send half to Catholic Charities directly and half to the United Way.”

“You go, girl!” Lauren said.

Beckie called over the smallest guard, a young woman about as wide as she was tall.

“I’m sending you to the airport,” Beckie said. “Here’s a couple of hundred dollars for expenses and the pink slip and a set of keys to a silver Jaguar--it’ll be in the long term parking near the Japan Airlines terminal. I want you to cab over to LAX and take the Jag out of long term parking, after which I want you to park the car in front of a biker bar or similar establishment and leave it there with the pink slip on the dash, the windows down, and the keys in the ignition. When that’s done, report back here--you can keep the change on whatever you don’t spend.”

The guard, who’d witnessed the immolation of the hundred and sixty grand silver Roadster, allowed an involuntary snicker to penetrate the space between them.

“What’s so funny?” Beckie said.

“Your husband should have thought twice before giving you that black eye,” she said.

“He didn’t give me anything,” Beckie said. “I got hit by a surfboard.”

“Yes ma’am,” she said. Again, the snicker.

“Stop with the snickering and get moving,” Beckie said.

Art Rivas emerged from the office, as Beckie had predicted, about two minutes after she’d left him there.

“You decide yet, Art?” she said.

He handed her a five dollar bill. “What’s to decide?” he said.

“Call this number,” Beckie said. “My legal counsel will step you through the paperwork, including the transferring of the operating accounts. Congratulations--now you don’t have to retire in Fresno.”

“Beckie,” Art said.

“Yes?” she said.

“Godspeed,” he said.

Beckie took a last look around at the familiar office, the whereabouts of which she’d spent the better part of twenty-nine years of her lackluster, but secure existence. She’d never noticed how tired the place looked, with its gray walls and curtainless windows.

“Tell me Art,” she said. “When’s the last time this joint’s been painted?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Not as long as I’ve been here, that’s for sure.”

“Paint it white,” she said, turning on her heel and heading for the door.

Chapter 44

“When you first pulled in to the parking lot, I thought you’d come by to invite me to go surfing,” Father Larry said. “What with the board sticking out of the back like that.”

“I hope you don’t mind returning the board to Huntington for me,” Beckie said.

“That’s no problem,” Father said. “What concerns me is your request for assistance to enter a convent. The decision to enter religious life isn’t one made lightly.”

“I’ve made up my mind,” Beckie said. “I’ve spent a lifetime in the selfish pursuit of my own happiness--I failed. Now it’s time to try another direction--my therapist tried to tell me that I needed more compassion in my life--I’ve decided I want to work with the orphans in Mexico or India or someplace.”

Beckie and Father Larry sat in his office in the Rectory of Our Lady of Grace which occupied a prominent Ventura Boulevard corner at the base of the Encino Foothills.

“You’re a wealthy woman,” Father said. “With all the responsibilities attendant. And you’re still married.”

“This morning I instructed my attorney to file for divorce,” Beckie said. “After it’s settled, I’m transferring everything to charity.”

“Religious life isn’t something you choose,” he said. “It’s something that chooses you. It seems that only a day or so ago, your life was called in another direction. What about Huntington?”

“Huntington always dreamed of belonging to the Catholic priesthood,” she said. “If I become a nun, I’ll at least feel that we’re connected, if not physically, at least spiritually.”

“There’s an excellent vocational discernment program at a place called Our Lady of the Snows in Belleville, Illinois--that’s just across the river from St. Louis. My advice is to spend some time there and give God a chance to speak to your heart.”

“I haven’t been to confession since I was a child,” Beckie said. “Will you hear my confession now?”

Father Larry led her through the ritual.

“Thank you, Father,” she said. She reached into her straw bag and pulled out a wriggling Mr. Boopers. “Father, I was wondering, as a favor to me, could you find a suitable home for Mr. Boopers?”

“My own dog died a few months back,” Father Larry said. “Do you mind if I keep him for myself?”

“I’d be glad if you did--just remember--he hates chalupas.”

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out her gun. “And also, Father, I don’t think I’ll be needing this anymore.”

She flipped open the stainless steel chamber and ejected the bullets before placing it on is desk, along with the box of 50 cartridges she’d been keeping in reserve.

“And here’s something to make up for the money I never gave to the Church all those years,” she said, handing him the bag containing the hundred grand in cash.

“Let me count this and write out a receipt,” he said.

“You can count it later,” she said. “Forward the receipt to my attorney. Her name is Lauren Shane, in Century City.”

“Are you sure?” Father said.

“I’ve got to be going,” she said, rising. “Thanks a lot Father. Take good care of Mr. Boopers--he saved my life once.”

The early afternoon was hazy, the warm Spring air creating the necessary hydrothermality required for a Stage 2 smog alert. Downtown, at the bus station, the smell of diesel exhaust from the massive bus engines was choking as she parked her Mercedes in the lot. She laid the pink slip on the dash and tossed the keys on the front seat. As an afterthought, she tossed the empty straw purse into the back before making her way into the terminal and up to the ticket counter.

“How much for a one-way to Belleville, Illinois?” she said.

“Sixty-two dollars,” the clerk said.

Beckie opened her purse and examined the contents.

“I’ve got just enough,” she said.

“You’re crying,” he said.

“It’s only the smog,” she said.

Epilogue

There was nobody on the bus. The driver kept getting on and off and talking with a supervisor on the platform. While her eyes were on the driver, a single passenger boarded. Huntington.

"I bought all the seats," he said. "So it is only you and me."

The driver boarded and said, "Where to?"

"Nowhere for now," Huntington replied. "Just get us out of town."

The driver blasted the horn a couple of times to avoid crushing anything behind him and smoothly backed out. Soon they were racing down the Ventura Freeway to somewhere beyond the smog, a place perhaps where sand and sea came together, a place where two human beings would live out their destiny.

Beckie looked into Huntington's eyes, his return gaze like a perfect wave breaking cleanly across the interior of her soul.

“Huntington,” she said.

In his hand was a white chrysanthemum.

The End

M. M. Wilshire

cityofangelsdreams@comcast.net

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All That Was Happy