The Book of Someday Part 16

As AnnaLee is entering the darkened living room and switching on the lights, the hope that Jack might finally find a way to earn a decent living is tantalizing her to the point of torment. It's eleven-thirty and she's roaming the house. Wide awake, too unsettled to sleep.

She's thinking about Mrs. Jahn's gala; worried that Jack, at the last minute, will retreat into his sh.e.l.l and refuse to attend.

While she's trying to come up with a way to keep Jack on track, AnnaLee is crossing the room, and going to the fireplace. Where the only thing on the mantle is the blue-and-white porcelain. The vase that, in its singleness, is the symbol of her difficulty with Jack. She needs to put it away-somewhere where she doesn't have to look at it.

As she's taking the porcelain from the mantle, she is recalling the heart-wrenching day when she sold its mate. She's remembering Mrs. w.a.n.g saying, "No honor in a man who look at a woman for his support."

Hearing that comment had made AnnaLee hideously embarra.s.sed. For herself, and for Jack. And later that day when the full loss of the vase, her mother's wedding present, finally hit-AnnaLee had briefly wished she'd never met Jack.

And now, in remembering that, she's letting herself wonder, What would a life without Jack have been like? Would it have been better? What if some other doctor had been on duty that night in Brooklyn? And Jack and I never even saw each other? How would my life have turned out? If I'd come home, here, to Glen Cove to recuperate instead of- She is suddenly thinking of Bella.

Without Jack there would be no Bella.

AnnaLee knows that her musings are pointless. She has nothing, really, to wonder about. Bella is AnnaLee's life. Jack, with all his flaws, is AnnaLee's love. Her story has been written; there is no alternate version.

After putting the porcelain vase into a cabinet beside the fireplace, and just before turning off the light, AnnaLee pauses to straighten a painting near the wall switch.

When she leaves the darkened living room, she's worrying about the party, about it being a costume affair; worrying about finding a way to get Jack to willingly attend; worrying about money, and the fact that property taxes will soon be due.

It isn't until she's halfway down the hall, fretfully wandering through the house again, that AnnaLee is recalling what she did just before she left the living room-her absentminded straightening of a painting. The portrait of a beautiful young woman in a silver dress and pearl-b.u.t.ton shoes.

The straightening of that portrait was a small, seemingly insignificant gesture. And yet, in thinking about it now, AnnaLee is finding an unexpected glimmer of inspiration.

Livvi.

Rolling Hills Estates, California ~ 2012.

The amount of time that has pa.s.sed since Andrew lifted Grace from Livvi's bed and carried her out of Livvi's house has been short and profoundly significant. Two months. In which Livvi has discovered how conflicted her feelings about Andrew are-and how essential and all-encompa.s.sing her love for Grace is.

There have been moments in the past eight weeks when Livvi was convinced she never wanted to see Andrew again. There have been other moments when she desired him so much she was on fire. And there hasn't been an instant when she wasn't missing Grace. When she wasn't loving her, and concerned about her-longing to be with her.

Now, after several days of phone calls, and late-into-the-afternoon lunches, and sweet lovemaking, and promises that there will be no more lies-no more secrets-Livvi is in Andrew's silver Mercedes. Entering the countrified splendor of a community tucked between the Pacific Coast Highway and the Pacific Ocean. A green and glorious place called Rolling Hills Estates.

The road Livvi and Andrew are traveling-the entire length of it-is bordered by a whitewashed, split-rail fence. Inside the fence is a bridle path lined with a colonnade of pepper trees. The leaves on the trees are slender, light green: the branches are willowy, slowly lifting and falling on the ebb and flow of the breeze. Beneath the trees, soft earth is being turned under the cantering hooves of pa.s.sing horses. Making the bridle path look like a ribbon of brown velvet.

"It's beautiful here," Livvi murmurs.

"Yeah. It was a great spot to grow up in." Andrew's right hand is resting, lightly, on Livvi's thigh. He has been in physical contact with Livvi, caressing her, touching her, for the entirety of their drive, as if he's trying to keep this fragile new beginning from slipping out of his grasp.

"And Palos Verdes is only a couple of intersections away-isn't that right?" Livvi asks. Palos Verdes is the neighboring town, the home of Andrew's wife. The allegedly frail creature who has threatened suicide if Andrew leaves her. The woman Livvi is so curious about-and jealous of-and unsettled by.

At Livvi's mention of Palos Verdes, Andrew shoots her a wary, questioning glance.

She looks away-turns her attention to watching a girl and boy galloping a pair of perfectly matched Palominos along the bridle path.

Livvi is rattled. Worried about her complicated relationship with Andrew and the volatile situation with Andrew's wife. Nervous about meeting Andrew's mother and father for the first time. And wildly anxious to be reunited with Grace, who is with Andrew's parents, waiting for Andrew and Livvi to pick her up.

Andrew has slowed the car to a stop, preparing to make a turn onto a side street. "You're sure you're okay with this?" he's asking.

Livvi's heart is pounding-shaking her in her seat. She's terrified. But she will do whatever it takes to see Grace, to hold Grace in her arms again. Which is why Livvi's response is: "Of course I'm okay."

She's having a hard time keeping her voice steady. "This is what we agreed to. The new 'us.' No more secrets. Everybody knows everybody. I'm ready to know, and be known."

Andrew has completed the turn, and his hand, the hand that has been on Livvi's thigh, is now restlessly moving from the steering wheel to his knee, then to the car's control panel. Roaming the b.u.t.tons: agitated. Shuffling the music, jumping from one song to another.

"We won't stay long," he says. "I told them we're planning to say h.e.l.lo-pick up Grace-and leave."

Andrew has angled the car onto the ap.r.o.n of an iron-gated driveway paved in fawn-colored bricks. He's leaning out of the driver's-side window, entering a code into a keypad embedded in a stone pillar.

Livvi's attention is riveted on the house, which is at the far end of the winding driveway, on the other side of the gates.

She is looking at a home with towering windows set into pale stone walls. A palace. Its ma.s.sive roof gleaming in the sun-like a work of art tiled in blue-gray slate. A magnificent French chateau that should be crowning a hilltop in Provence.

Livvi's pounding heart-is pounding harder. She isn't ready for this. She has never flown first cla.s.s. Or shopped at Neiman Marcus. Or been to a spa. Before going away to college, she'd never ever been inside a restaurant.

She feels so insignificant. So inadequate. It's actually making her dizzy, and sick.

The towering iron gates are swinging open, while Andrew is telling her: "We're going to make this work."

"It's okay," she's saying. "I'm fine." Her voice is thin and small.

"I'm not talking just about today, just about meeting my parents. I'm talking about us. You and me. We're going to make it work."

Livvi lowers the car's pa.s.senger-side window. She's quietly gasping for air.

After Andrew has parked the car not far from the mansion's front doors, he reaches for Livvi and turns her toward him, very tenderly. "Olivia, listen to me. The way I handled the situation with Grace-not letting you know about her-was stupid. I've apologized for it. I've learned from it. I'll never do anything like that to you again. From now on my life will be an open book. You have my word on that."

"Andrew, I..." Livvi can't finish her thought. She is clattering with anxiety.

He kisses her. Then says: "I love you. I don't want to be without you."

While Andrew is opening his door and coming around the car to open Livvi's, her attention has gone back to the house. She's picturing the people who live here. Imagining that Andrew's parents will be like their home-imposing and regal, larger than life. She's also recalling what Andrew has said about their relationship with his wife-that they're deeply fond of her, extremely protective.

And as Andrew opens the pa.s.senger door-Livvi says: "Maybe I'll wait in the car."

The look in Andrew's eyes is impossible for Livvi to decipher. It could be disappointment or, perhaps, relief. All he says is: "I won't be gone long."

While she's watching Andrew walk away and head toward the mansion-the extraordinary place that was his boyhood home-she's seeing how seamlessly he fits here. How beautiful he is; how at ease with his world. Every movement directed and purposeful.

Andrew is at the door of the mansion now, pausing to look over his shoulder at Livvi, mouthing the words, "I love you."

It's making Livvi want, just for a little while, to push away all the nagging doubts; all the places Andrew has taken her where there are gaps and unanswered questions.

And with the soft ocean breeze flowing into the car, and the late September sun warming her shoulders, Livvi is closing her eyes. Willing her thoughts into the other places-the lovely places she has gone with Andrew.

...she's in Canada. Waking up to singing waiters and a Paddington Bear. To a birthday that Andrew has filled with wonder.

...she's in San Francisco, the night before Easter. Laughing uncontrollably. At Andrew. He's wearing rabbit-patterned boxer shorts and a bow-tie while he's dancing alongside a pair of music-box bunnies, to a silly version of "Tiptoe through the Tulips."

...she's in Flintridge on a June morning. Hand-in-hand with Andrew. They're flying off the diving board of his pool. Cannonballing into the water. Shouting and giggling like teenagers.

...she's in bed, early this morning. In her little guesthouse in Pasadena. Cradled in Andrew's arms. She and Andrew are talking, and telling jokes, and making love. Easily. Endlessly. Until the sun is pushing its way into the noontime sky. Their conversation is about how winter will soon be here; she's whispering to Andrew, "I've always wanted to be in a real winter, in the mountains, with snow and hot chocolate and a fireplace."

Andrew is announcing, "We'll do a winter trip. In December. We'll go to Colorado. Aspen. I'll teach you how to ski."

Then she's saying, "David is lining up a December speaking engagement for me at a literary luncheon in New York." And she knows, even as she's mentioning it, that if it conflicts with Andrew's plans, she'll decline the invitation.

She's laying her head against Andrew's chest, murmuring, "I'm going to Aspen. I'm going to learn to ski, that's amazing."

While Andrew is promising, "Amazing is how it will always be for us. And more than that, it'll be-"

A war zone.

A war zone is what Livvi has been dropped into-surrounded, suddenly, by earsplitting noise. The grating din of an engine being raced and tires squealing.

A car-which seems to have come out of nowhere-is rocketing up the driveway. Like a bullet. Aiming directly for Andrew's Mercedes.

Livvi is staring into the rearview mirror, bracing for the collision, certain that she's going to die. Then the car, a brand-new BMW, slams to a stop-inches away from the Mercedes' back b.u.mper.

Livvi screams. With relief. And fright. The BMW's horn is blaring. Being held in a prolonged, piercing a.s.sault.

In the rearview mirror, Livvi is seeing the driver of the BMW. A woman whose platinum hair is framing her features like a silvery cloud. There are tears pouring down her face, which is contorted with rage.

The woman is shrieking-the sounds of her shrieks lost in the blare of the horn. Her mouth is shaping the word "wh.o.r.e." She is alternately backing up and then revving the BMW. As if getting ready to plow full-speed into the Mercedes-and into Livvi.

Livvi is afraid of staying in the car and being hit-and she's afraid to get out and risk being run down. She has turned away from the rearview mirror and is looking over her shoulder at the woman in the BMW. Realizing that it's Andrew's wife-the vengeful, black lightning stick-figure that was in Grace's drawing.

Out of the corner of her eye Livvi is catching sight of rapid movement-two people running past the Mercedes, hurrying toward the BMW. Andrew. And a tall, slim woman: older, dressed entirely in red.

The blare of the BMW's horn is inexplicably getting louder. The door beside Livvi, the pa.s.senger door of Andrew's Mercedes, has been yanked open. Someone is taking hold of Livvi's arm, saying: "Let me get you out of here."

While Livvi is scrambling out of the Mercedes, the BMW is careening backward down the driveway, swerving madly, barely missing a collision with the gate pillars-shooting out into the street, skidding to a stop.

The tall, older woman in red is shouting at Andrew: "Go after her, G.o.ddammit! You're the cause of all this unhappiness. You're the only one who can fix it."

Livvi is being hustled along a brick path at the side of the house, by a man in his midthirties, wearing a long-sleeved plaid shirt and khaki pants. He's slightly pigeon-toed, a little pudgy, and has Andrew's marvelous dark hair and steel-gray eyes.

As they're rounding the corner of the house, he's glancing back toward the driveway. "I'll show you some of the sights, keep you out of the line of fire," he's telling Livvi. "It may be a while before things calm down. This is the family that put the 'psycho' in psycho-drama."

He stops and gives a comically courteous little bow. "I'm James. I'm in town visiting the lord and lady of the manor, they're my parents. I teach math in a high school in Long Beach, and I'm Andrew's kid brother."

Livvi is aware of who James is, Andrew has mentioned him, but she's too shaken up to say anything more than: "I'm Livvi. I'm-"

"You're the reason for all the fireworks." James says. "Trust me, everybody here knows who you are. You've been the sole topic of my mother's conversation for weeks-by the way, you just met her back there in the driveway-she was the one in red. Anyway, you've been the source of much agita."

The path they are on is sloping sharply downward. Livvi is struggling to keep her footing-and struggling to understand what's happening. She's not sure where she's going, or why Andrew's brother has offered her his protection.

"I'm figuring you can probably guess what agita means." James's tone is apologetic. "It's Italian slang for heartburn, misery. Andrew and I grew up with it. My mother is Bronx Italian."

In the midst of her confusion, Livvi is gasping in surprise. Not at what James has said, but at the scene that has just come into view: a spectacular, European-style horse barn with tan and gray stone walls. It has a steeply pitched slate roof and a wide, arched entry. And beyond the barn is a paddock where the gra.s.s is emerald green. Beyond the paddock is an astounding, panoramic view of the Pacific Ocean.

"As you can see, my mother married money," James says. "Dad's loaded. Used to be the go-to guy for cardiac surgery on the west coast."

Livvi is trying to come to terms with of all of this. The opulence. The craziness in the driveway. And the dawning realization of what James has just told her. About the agita. About being actively disliked by Andrew's mother. A woman who hasn't even waited to meet Livvi before deciding she doesn't like her.

"Am I a source of agita for your father too?" she asks.

"Maybe. Probably. I don't know. He isn't easy to read."

Livvi is in a whirl of confusion.

"What about you?" she asks. "Why are you being so nice to me?" The words have come out sounding vaguely snippy. For an instant Livvi doesn't understand why-then realizes that, in addition to being hurt, she's angry. And jealous. Angry that it's a stranger, not Andrew, who's at her side in the midst of this mayhem. And jealous because Andrew is at his mother's side-and quite possibly his wife's.

And Livvi tells James: "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude. It's just that I don't know any of you and I don't know, really, what any of you know about me. I don't know what Andrew has told you. All I do know is that your parents don't like me-and I'm not welcome here. I guess, based on that information, it seems a little odd that you're trying so hard to be nice to me."

A blush is sweeping across James's face, as if he's been insulted or embarra.s.sed.

"I better go," he says. "There's something I need to take care of."

Livvi suspects she has hurt him-that wasn't her intention.

While she's watching James disappear into the interior of the barn, Livvi is trying to think of how to apologize. She's also experiencing a sudden sense of being terribly vulnerable-exposed to view from every one of the mansion's rear windows.

Within seconds Livvi is running toward the barn's entryway.

What she finds on the other side of that entry is wondrous. A set of wide-planked, pale gray walkways arranged in the shape of an enormous cross. Lining the walkways are horse stalls. Spotlessly clean. Paneled in varnished wood the color of toffee, and fitted with gleaming black hinges and grates. The barn's support pillars and roof beams, and its vaulted ceiling, have been recently painted. They're the color of fresh milk.

In the open area in the center of the barn, a Latino man who's short and muscular is saddling a skittish horse that's enormous and mahogany brown.

James is calling to the man, saying: "You can put him back in his stall, Carlos. I think my mother's riding plans just got cancelled."

The ma.s.sive horse is snorting and shuddering-rearing up, scissoring the air with its hooves, pulling hard on the ropes tethering it to the barn wall. Livvi is nervously backing away.

"He's just showing off," James says. "Offer him a carrot and he's as docile as a puppy. All bark and no bite."

"Really?" Livvi asks.

"No. But he can't get loose, can't hurt you." James gives Livvi a smile. "I just wanted you to know you were safe."

Livvi returns the smile, appreciating the kindness he's showing her. She feels a little calmer now, less frantic.