Mike, Mike & Me Page 14

  “You threw water balloons out the window on people’s heads as they walked by down on the street?”

  “What? No!”

  “Oh. Because I was thinking we should do that later. People would thank us. It’s a freaking heat wave out there. Look at me.”

  I looked at her. She was flushed, her face shiny with sweat, her hair plastered to her head in a frighteningly limp do.

  “You need a cold drink,” I said. “And I need to tell you what I did.”

  “What did you do?” She followed me into the kitchen, which was barely big enough for both of us, the groceries and the open refrigerator door.

  “I just told Mike I’d go out with him tonight.” At her blank look, I clarified. “Mike. The guy I met at the airport.”

  “Business-card Mike? Cute, available Mike?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “This is so not fair,” she said, shaking her head as she sidestepped past me to reach for a glass. “I haven’t had a date in months. You have a boyfriend and a date.”

  “Do you not see why that’s a problem, Valerie?”

  She turned on the cold water. “I’d kill to have a problem like that.”

  I have to admit, I was getting a little sick of her downplaying all of my troubles. It wasn’t as though my life was perfect. I had plenty of problems—excess weight and a lackluster love life just happened not to be among them. Sometimes Valerie acted as though those were the only two issues that warranted sympathy.

  Still, she was my only available sounding board, so I told her what had happened with Mike just now on the phone.

  “I’d show up in your place if I didn’t have to work tonight,” she said, sounding half-serious.

  “You’re working on a Saturday night?”

  “I’m baby-sitting. How pathetic is that?”

  Pretty pathetic, I had to admit. My problems suddenly didn’t seem quite as pressing.

  Valerie, ever the good sport, suggested, “Maybe you should call him back and tell him you can’t go, then.”

  “What would I say?”

  “You’d say ‘something suddenly came up.’ It worked for Marcia Brady.”

  “No, it didn’t. It backfired on her, remember? Doug dumped her when he saw her bruised nose.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I gave her a look. “It’s Brady trivia, Valerie.”

  Meaning, I was the Grand Poobah of seventies sitcoms.

  Valerie shrugged. “Well, I guess you’ll have to just go on this date then, won’t you?”

  I guessed that I would.

  The truth was, I secretly wanted to. There was nothing worse than staying home alone on a summertime Saturday night. I knew that for a fact, as I had done it one too many times lately.

  So Mike and I met at a piano bar on Second Avenue in the East Fifties, according to plan. My plan. That neighborhood was no-man’s land—not on my turf, not on his. We’d be forced to go our separate ways in order to get home at the end of the evening. There would be no awkward sharing of cabs.

  Plus, a piano bar meant that if conversation lagged after I told Mike that he seemed to have the wrong idea about us, we could focus on other things. Like chiming in on a rousing if off-key rendition of “My Favorite Things.”

  The whole way over to the piano bar, I forced myself to think about Mike. My Mike. I made an effort to relive the moments we’d shared over the past few days.

  The unexpected laughs, the unexpected tenderness.

  The “proper goodbye” he always insisted on—a well-worn euphemism for the lovemaking that would have to last until we were together again.

  The way he’d wistfully kissed me “one last time” about a dozen times at the airport and told me that he loved me.

  I blocked out our one argument, the one we’d had in bed that first night before we went to sleep. I could chalk that up to jet lag on his part; to being overtired and cranky on mine. By the light of day, things were back to normal between us, and as long as we carefully avoided the topic of our future—which we did from that point on—we got along fine.

  “I promise you we’ll work things out,” he’d said at the airport, just before he walked down the jetway. “Just trust me, Beau. Okay?”

  I did trust him. Really, I did. I knew in my heart that he wasn’t going to throw away everything we had for some stupid research job out West.

  His third interview with the software place in New York had gone really well. All we had to do now was wait to hear from them. If they offered the job—and I had to think that they would—he wouldn’t refuse it. I knew in my heart that he wouldn’t.

  Even though he hadn’t come right out and said it.

  So if I listened to my heart, and I fully intended to do that, it was pretty clear that my future was with Mike. All we had to do was work out the details.

  Oh, and all I had to do was cut this other Mike loose. I decided to think of him as a pesky fly that kept buzzing around.

  But when I saw him waiting for me at the bar, he didn’t look like a pesky fly.

  He looked like Johnny Depp. Better than Johnny Depp, even. I swear my knees went weak.

  Don’t get me wrong. My Mike was good-looking, too. But this Mike had something else. Some extra…I don’t know. Some extra something. Maybe it was sex appeal. Maybe it was bad-boy magnetism. Maybe it was just that he was off-limits and I knew it.

  Whatever the case, the second I spotted him, I knew I was in trouble.

  He was Johnny Depp.

  He was Lloyd Dobler hoisting a boom box and I was the helplessly smitten Diane Court.

  He was trouble with a capital T that rhymes with B that stands for Beau. And Betrothed. Which I was not. Which meant that I was technically free to share a glass of wine with anyone I pleased.

  Still, I should have insisted that we sit at the bar. The bar was big and crowded and impersonal.

  But I didn’t insist. That’s probably because I was far too busy reminding myself that I wasn’t doing anything wrong—and all right, admiring his ass—to notice that he was leading me into temptation, by way of the darkest corner in the joint.

  We sat at a table for two that was secluded and cozy and bathed in candlelight.

  Blame it on the candlelight.

  Blame it on the wine.

  Or blame it on the fact that I had no willpower whatsoever when it came to those dimples.

  When he leaned forward and kissed me halfway through the evening, I let him.

  In fact, I kissed him back.

  Looking back now on that night, I don’t remember what we talked about, specifically. Only that it wasn’t about my not seeing him again.

  I’m pleased to report that I didn’t go home with him after the wine—not just one glass, but three.

  Nor did I allow him to come home with me.

  Not that night.

  But I kissed him.

  Not just once.

  I kissed him so many times I lost count, beginning at the table and ending on the street just before I went home in a cab.

  Looking back at that night, what strikes me now is that a kiss can be so profound when you’re twenty-four. More profound than anything—except, perhaps, for childbirth—can ever be, later in life.

  A kiss, one kiss, can change everything in an instant.

  That was how it started with us. In the moment Mike’s lips touched mine, everything changed. I know it sounds crazy, but I knew in that moment that nothing about my life would ever be the same.

  I, Beau, the golden girl who had been born under a lucky star and always got what she wanted, had come to a major crossroads.

  I was torn between two men for the first time in my life.

  But I never dreamed that it wouldn’t be the last.

  nineteen

  The present

  I wasn’t going to tell Mike that I was coming down to Florida.

  Yeah. Just like I wasn’t going to answer the phone back in the summer of ’89. Or meet business-card Mike t
o go out for a glass of wine on a steamy summer Saturday night. Or kiss somebody who wasn’t my boyfriend. Or—

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  The point is, I can’t always be trusted to do the right thing. Not even now, as a responsible adult.

  Which, if you haven’t figured it out by now, is my way of admitting that I do wind up mentioning to Mike, via e-mail, that I just so happen to be flying down to Florida with the kids for a few days next week.

  I’d be lying if I told you that I have any intention of leaving it at that.

  I won’t pretend that I’m surprised when he e-mails me immediately, asking if we can see each other for lunch or something.

  It’s the or something that scares the hell out of me.

  I’ll be in staying in Clearwater Beach. Where do you live? I type, with hands trembling so badly it takes me three tries to hit the question mark.

  I’m in West Palm Beach, comes the quick reply. I can drive over to see you.

  Isn’t that a little out of your way? I return, reminding myself that I can hardly go around inviting strange men to show up on my in-laws’ doorstep. Even if I tell them he’s an old friend, they might be suspicious. And they’ll probably feel compelled to mention it to Mike.

  I shudder at the thought of my husband calling to check on me and the kids, and his mother saying, “Beau? No, she’s not here. She went out on a date.”

  Still…

  It’s not out of my way, Mike insists. I don’t have anything else to do. How should I get in touch with you? Do you have a cell phone?

  Of course I do. Doesn’t everyone?

  But I can’t bring myself to give him the number. That would feel duplicitous, even if I’m not technically doing anything wrong.

  Unless you consider e-mailing an old boyfriend—and, all right, making plans to meet—wrong.

  I have to draw the line at giving him my cell-phone number, though. Maybe because my husband is working so damn hard to make enough money to pay all of our bills, including that one.

  I’ll be hard to reach while I’m down there, I write back to Mike. Why don’t you just tell me when and where to meet you and I’ll see you then?

  That makes the most sense. Never mind that it smacks of An Affair to Remember.

  This isn’t an affair. Remember?

  Me, too. Only sometimes, I forget.

  All right, Mike responds after a few nerve-racking moments of waiting. I’ll see you on Tuesday at noon in the garden level at the bottom of the grand staircase at the Don CeSar.

  The grand staircase?

  Forget An Affair to Remember.

  This is starting to remind me of Titanic.

  Hoping that isn’t an omen, I respond, What is the Don CeSar?

  You’ve never heard of the Don?

  Never.

  LOL Trust me. You’ll find it. See you Tuesday.

  I do find it, and sooner than Tuesday…thanks to Google.

  It isn’t a restaurant, as I’d assumed.

  No, the Don CeSar is a hotel.

  Not just any hotel.

  A sprawling, world-class resort hotel. It’s also pink.

  Trust me. You’ll find it.

  Yes, I found it.

  But I don’t trust him.

  Or maybe I don’t trust myself.

  At the airport, Mike kisses me and the boys goodbye about twenty times each.

  “I hate that we’re going without you,” I tell him, watching him take a tissue from his pocket to mop a mixture of Zwieback crumbs and drool from Tyler’s chin.

  “I hate that you’re going without me, too,” he says, looking around for someplace to deposit the tissue.

  I take it from him and tuck it into the pocket of my khaki shorts, saying, “Maybe we shouldn’t go.”

  The sharp-eared boys at my feet cry out in dismay.

  “Don’t worry, you’re going,” Mike assures them. “You’re going to have a great time.”

  He directs that last part mostly to me.

  “I know we will,” I tell him. “It’s just…”

  It’s just that you’re pretty much delivering me to the doorstep of the man who almost stole me away from you.

  “I know what it is. Come on, Babs. Don’t feel guilty about leaving the kids with my parents and going off by yourself. You deserve a break. I want you to have fun. Go shopping, go to lunch, treat yourself to a massage….”

  A massage.

  The word triggers an erotic memory.

  I have to remind myself that he means a massage from a professional masseuse, not from an old lover.

  “I’m thirsty,” Josh whines. “I want juice.”

  “You’ll get something to drink on the plane.”

  “Juice?”

  “Whatever you want.”

  “I want juice.”

  “You can have juice. All right, you all have to get down to the gate now,” Mike says, checking his watch.

  “I hate all these stupid airport restrictions,” I tell him. “I wish you could come to the gate with us.”

  “Mom, you said stupid,” Mikey pipes up at my elbow.

  “That’s a bad word,” Josh chimes in. “But shit is a badder one. Mommy said shit the other day.”

  “Joshua!” Mike says sternly.

  “I didn’t say it. Mommy did. I was just—”

  “Listen to me.” Mike squats so that he’s at eye level with the two older boys. “You are both going to behave yourselves on this trip. You aren’t going to give Mommy a hard time. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” they say in unison.

  “This is Mommy’s vacation, too. Do you understand?”

  Another simultaneous “Yes, Daddy,” followed by a tacked-on “I’m thirsty” from Josh.

  “You can get something to drink on the plane,” I remind him, digging through my purse to make sure I have the Benadryl that should knock all three kids out by the time we’re ready to board.

  Mike plants more kisses on the boys’ cheeks, then stands and looks at me. “You’re good to go, Babs. Have a great time.”

  I nod, unable to speak. I want to tell him that I love him, that he’s the best husband and daddy in the world, but I can’t force the words past the sudden lump of emotion in my throat.

  The next thing I know, I’m juggling three kids, an umbrella stroller and too many carry-on bags through security. Mikey is frightened by the in-depth search and the metal-detecting wands, Josh is proclaiming his thirst to me, the security guards and our fellow travelers and Tyler is crying uncontrollably.

  It takes a good five minutes for me to reassemble our bags, get my belt and jewelry and everyone’s shoes back on, and locate a pacifier to stick into Tyler’s mouth.

  When at last I turn to wave a final goodbye at Mike, who was watching from the other side of the glass partition, I can’t find him in the crowd.

  I search for what feels like a long time, until the boys begin tugging at my arms.

  With a sigh, I turn away and propel my herd toward the gate.

  “I’m thirsty,” Josh informs me for the millionth time.

  “Why are you so thirsty?”

  “I think it was all that popcorn.”

  “All what popcorn?”

  He looks at me as though I’ve just asked him what his name is. “The popcorn from my pockets, Mom.”

  “He put popcorn in his pockets before we left home so he could have a snack in the car,” Mikey says helpfully.

  “Yeah, only I didn’t remember to put juice in my pockets and now I’m thirsty.”

  Through clenched teeth, I say, “When we get on the plane you can get—”

  “I bet they have juice in there.” Josh points.

  I look in that direction and spot the airport bar, where unencumbered adults are sipping cocktails.

  Instant memory trigger, so intense that I stop short to stare.

  The place has been remodeled, probably more than once in the past fifteen years. But an airport bar is a
n airport bar, and this one has tremendous significance for me.

  “Can we get juice in there?” Josh persists.

  “No!” I say sharply—so sharply that a startled Tyler spits out his pacifier and begins howling.

  “What’s wrong, Mommy?” Mikey asks, sounding worried.

  “Nothing, sweetie…come on, let’s get on the plane. They have lots of juice on the plane,” I add as Josh opens his mouth to protest.

  I’ve been an unofficial single mom for less than ten minutes and already I know that it would never be an option.

  There is no way…absolutely no way…that I’m going to put my marriage at risk by having anything more than lunch with Mike in Florida.

  If I’m the least bit tempted, all I have to do is walk away.

  It isn’t that simple, Beau. You couldn’t walk away fifteen years ago.

  Yes, I could. Ultimately, I did.

  But not without a struggle.

  Well, everything is different now. I’m married. I didn’t take those vows lightly. For better for worse, for richer for poorer, till death do us part.

  The safest thing for me to do is just not show up to meet Mike at the Don CeSar.

  Safe, yes.

  But also rude.

  No, I have to go.

  We’ll just have a nice, platonic lunch and go our separate ways, I promise myself. Lunch, and nothing more.

  No matter what.

  twenty

  The past

  “What, exactly, are you doing, Beau?” Gaile demanded, materializing in the especially small kitchenette adjacent to the J-squared soundstage, where a show was in progress.

  “I’m making a pot of tea for Rob and Fab,” I told her, pouring steaming water over the special blend of exotic herbs Milli Vanilli’s road manager had given me a few minutes earlier, just before they went onstage to perform. “It helps to keep them from straining their voices.”

  “Not that,” Gaile said impatiently. “When I checked to make sure everyone in the audience was wearing their sombreros, I spotted him sitting up front in one of the reserved seats.”