The Douglas Kennedy Collection #2 Page 9

  As I was beginning to discover, life on Fleck’s Caribbean retreat was played according to a money-no-object set of rules.

  I sat forward again in the desk chair and punched out a fast e-mail to Sally:

  Darling,

  Greetings from the nouveau riche land of Oz. This place is both wonderful and absurd. It’s the high-rent version of “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.” I have to admit it: the guy’s got taste . . . but after just a half hour here, I’m already thinking: there’s something deeply skewed about having everything you want. Of course, just to let us know who’s got the ultimate upper hand in life, Fleck is not in situ just at the moment. Instead, he’s playing Hemingway and chasing some big white fish somewhere, leaving yours truly to cool his heels here. I don’t know whether to be affronted or to simply consider this the ultimate freebie. For the moment, I’ve decided to adopt the second mind-set, and do useful, hyperactive things like work on my tan and catch up on my sleep. I only wish I was catching up on my sleep in bed next to you. I can be reached directly at 0704.555.8660. Please call when you manage to find a moment’s break in the chariot race. Knowing you, I’m certain you’ve worked out a strategy that will see you through this little crisis. You’re smarter than smart, after all.

  I love you. And I wish you were here.

  David

  I sent the e-mail. Then I picked up the phone and called my daughter in Sausalito. My ex-wife answered the phone. She was as friendly as usual.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said tonelessly.

  “That’s right, it’s me. And how are you?”

  “What does that matter?”

  “Look, Lucy, I don’t blame you for still being pissed with me . . . but isn’t there a statute of limitations for this kind of thing?”

  “No. And I don’t like being palsy with assholes.”

  “Fine, fine, have it your way. The conversation’s closed. May I speak to my daughter, please?”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because it’s Wednesday evening—and if you were a responsible parent, you would remember that on Wednesday evening your daughter has ballet class.”

  “I am a responsible parent.”

  “I am not even going to go there.”

  “Fine by me. Now I’m going to give you a number where I’m staying in the Caribbean . . .”

  “My, my, how well you treat that Princeton slut . . .”

  My hand tightened around the phone.

  “I’m not going to dignify that reprehensible comment with an answer. But if you want to know the truth . . .”

  “Not particularly.”

  “Then just take the number and ask Caitlin to call me back.”

  “Why does she need to call you when you’re seeing her the day after tomorrow?”

  My anxiety level—already high, courtesy of this warm, cordial conversation—jumped a notch or two.

  “What are you talking about?” I said. “I’m not due a visit until two weeks from Friday.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me you fucking forgot . . .”

  “Forgot what?”

  “Forgot that, as agreed between us, you’d be taking Caitlin this weekend because I’m going away to a conference . . .”

  Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. She was right. And this was not going to be pretty.

  “Hang on . . . when did we discuss this? Six, eight weeks ago?”

  “Don’t try to play that ‘it was so long ago’ amnesia card with me.”

  “But it’s the truth.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “What can I say—except a major mea maxima culpa.”

  “Not accepted. Anyway, a deal’s a deal—so you’ve got to be back here in thirty-six hours.”

  “Sorry, but that’s not possible.”

  “David—you are coming back, as agreed.”

  “I wish I could, but . . .”

  “Don’t fuck with me here . . .”

  “I am about five thousand miles from you. I have business to do here. I cannot leave.”

  “If you don’t do this . . .”

  “I’m sure you can fly your sister down from Portland. Or hire a nanny for the weekend. And yes, I will pick up the tab.”

  “You really are the most selfish pig in history.”

  “You are entitled to your opinion, Lucy. Now here’s my number out here . . .”

  “We don’t want your number. Because I doubt if Caitlin will want to speak with you.”

  “That’s for her to decide.”

  “You killed her sense of security the day you walked out. And, I promise you, she’ll end up hating you for it.”

  I said nothing, as the phone was shaking in my hand. Finally Lucy spoke again.

  “I’m really going to get you back for this.”

  And she hung up.

  I put down the phone. I put my head in my hands. I felt an appalling wave of guilt.

  But I still wasn’t going to rush back across the continent, just so Lucy could attend a conference for a day and a half. Yes, the matter had slipped my mind. But Jesus, it was nearly two months since she’d mentioned it. And it wasn’t as if I had ever missed any of my designated weekends with Caitlin. On the contrary, she’d been asking to spend more time with Sally and myself in LA. So much for her I doubt she’ll want to speak with you crap. Lucy’s sense of grievance knew no frontiers. As far as she was concerned, I was Mr. Bad Guy—and though I might have acted selfishly by deciding to have an affair, she would never confront her own structural weaknesses that helped push our marriage over the edge (or, at least, that’s what I was told by the therapist I saw during the divorce).

  Another knock at the door. I shouted, “Come in.” Meg arrived, wheeling in an elegant stainless steel cart. I came downstairs. My dozen oysters were accompanied by a basket of brown bread and a small green salad. The bottle of Gewürztraminer was in a clear Plexiglas cooler.

  “Here it is,” she said. “How ’bout I set it up on the balcony? You can catch the last of the sunset.”

  “Sounds fine to me.”

  She opened the French doors off the living room. I found myself staring at a blood orange sun turning liquid and trickling slowly into the darkened waters of the Caribbean Sea.

  I slumped into a chair on the balcony and tried to block out the jumble of emotions I was feeling in the wake of that vitriol-charged phone call with Lucy. I must have been radiating stress, because as soon as she finished setting up the table, Meg said, “You look like you could use a drink.”

  “How right you are.”

  As she uncorked the wine, I asked, “What’s Mr. Barra been getting up to?”

  “He’s been on the phone nonstop. And he’s been shouting all the time.”

  “Please tell him I’ve gone to bed early tonight,” I said, thinking that I really couldn’t take another dose of Bobby today.

  “You’ve got it.”

  She uncorked the wine. She poured a tiny amount into the long fluted glass.

  “Off you go,” she said cheerfully.

  I lifted the glass. I did all the standard operating stuff: swirling the wine, giving it a good sniff, and then letting just the smallest drop touch my tongue. Immediately I felt something close to a high-class electrical charge. It tasted so damn good.

  “That really works,” I said. But it should, at $275 a bottle.

  “Glad to hear it,” she said, filling the glass. “Anything else I can get you?”

  “Nothing at all . . . but thanks for everything.”

  “Hey, it’s all part of the service. Just pick up the phone anytime you need anything.”

  “You’re spoiling me.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  I raised my glass. I looked out at the waning sun’s final meltdown. I took a deep breath and caught that frangipani and eucalyptus aroma that announces life in the tropics. I sipped the absurdly expensive, absurdly wonderful wine. And I said, “You know, I really do think I could get used
to all this.”

  FIVE

  I SLEPT LIKE THE dead and woke with that curious elation that accompanies nine comatose hours of rest. Propping myself up against the pillows, I realized just how piano-wire taut I had been ever since my breakthrough and its resulting cataclysms. Success is supposed to simplify your life. Inevitably, it complicates it further—and perhaps we need the complications, the intrigues, the fresh strivings for even greater success. Once we’ve achieved what we’ve always wanted, we suddenly discover a new need, a new sense of something lacking. And so we travail on, in search of this new accomplishment, this new change of life, in the hope that, this time, the sense of contentment will be permanent . . . even if it means upending everything else we’ve built up over the years.

  But then, when you’ve reached this new plateau of achievement, you find yourself wondering: can you sustain all this now? Might it slip away from you? Or—worse yet—might you tire of it all and discover that what you had in the past was actually what you wanted all along?

  I snapped out of my melancholic reverie, reminding myself that—in the words of that well-known Hollywood insider, Marcus Aurelius—change is nature’s delight. And most guys I know (especially writers) would sell their mothers to be in my position right now. Particularly when I was able to press a button to raise a blind, behind which lay the azure blue of a Caribbean morning. Or when I could lift the phone and have anything I wanted sent to my room.

  And then there was the pleasant discovery that Bobby Barra had suddenly left town in a hurry.

  I found out this little piece of information when I finally forced myself out of bed to use the bathroom and noticed an envelope pushed under my door. I opened it and discovered the following scrawled note:

  Asshole,

  I was going to ring you last night, but Meg said you’d already gone to bed with your teddy bear. Anyway, five minutes after we arrived yesterday word came from Wall Street that the chairman of some new armaments outfit due to IPO next week had just been indicted by the Fed for everything from embezzlement and fraud to sodomizing a dachshund. Anyway, as luck would have it, my associates and I have around $30 million riding on this IPO, which means that I have to hightail it to New York right away and play fireman before the entire fucking deal goes up in smoke.

  Which, in turn, means that you will be denied my company for the next couple of days. I’m certain you’re heartbroken, bereft, and popping champagne corks as you read this. We seem to have gotten on each other’s wick yesterday. Of course, you were totally in the wrong. Of course, I also hope that we’re still friends.

  Enjoy the island. You’re a complete jerk if you don’t. I’ll try to get back here in a couple of days—by which time Herr Host should be back with all the minnows he’s snagged.

  Go easy. You really do look like shit—so a couple of days in the sun should make you look less shitty.

  Later,

  Bobby

  I couldn’t help but smile. Bobby really knew how to reel in his friends just when they were about to permanently write him off.

  Breakfast arrived, accompanied by a bottle of 1991 Cristal.

  “Drink as much or as little as you want,” said Meg, setting up the plates on my balcony.

  I actually drank two glasses, and ate the plate of tropical fruit, and sampled the basket of exotic muffins, and drank the coffee. I listened to Grieg’s Lyric Pieces for piano as I ate, discovering that there was a discreet speaker built into the balcony wall. The sun was at full wattage. The mercury seemed to be in the mid-eighties. And, bar a quick check of my e-mail, there was nothing on the agenda for today—except sitting in the sun.

  I regretted my decision to go online. Because the morning’s communiqués from cyberspace were anything but cheery. First came a strident missive from Sally:

  David,

  I was surprised and hurt by your description of my current imbroglio at Fox as nothing more than a “little crisis.” I am fighting for my professional life right now, and what I need more than anything is your support. Instead, you were patronizing, and I was so incredibly disappointed by your response. I so want to know that I have your confidence and your love.

  I have to fly to New York this morning. Don’t try to buzz me, but do send me an e-mail. I want to believe that this is all just a bad call on your part.

  Sally

  I read her e-mail twice, stunned by her complete misinterpretation of my words. I went into my AOL filing cabinet and reread my e-mail of the previous night, trying to figure out how the hell she could have taken offense. After all, all I’d written was:

  Knowing you, I’m certain you’ve worked out a strategy that will see you through this little crisis. You’re smarter than smart, after all . . .

  Oh, I get it. She hated the idea that I would consider her battle royal to be little—whereas my attempted implication was that, in the great scheme of things, this crisis would eventually seem like small beer.

  Jesus Christ, talk about touchy. But I was in a no-win position here, and I knew it. To date, Sally and I had had that rare thing: a relationship free of misunderstandings. I certainly didn’t want this to be the first. So, knowing that she would not react well if I told her, “You totally misread my meaning,” I decided it was best to fall on my sword. Because if there was one thing that many long years of marriage had taught me, it was this: if you want to sweeten the atmosphere after a disagreement, it’s always best to admit you were wrong . . . even if you think you were right.

  So I clicked on the Reply button and wrote:

  Darling,

  The last thing in the world I want to do is upset you. The last thing in the world I think is that anything you do is little. All I meant was you’re so brilliant at anything you tackle that this crisis—though large right now—would eventually be regarded in the future as small, because you’ll manage to work it out so well. My fault was not expressing this sentiment clearly. I realize I’ve hurt you. And I now feel awful.

  You know I think you are wonderful. You know you have my complete love and support for everything and anything you do. I am so damn sorry that my inappropriate choice of words sparked this misunderstanding. Please forgive me.

  I love you,

  David

  All right, I was groveling a bit. But I knew that, for all her professional stridency, Sally had a most permeable ego—and one that needed constant bolstering. More to the point, at this early stage of our relationship, stability was all. I repeated my mantra of the past few days: She’s under extreme pressure. Asking her the time of day right now would probably be misinterpreted. But she will calm down when the situation calms down.

  Or, at least, that’s what I was banking on.

  Once I dispatched that e-mail, I turned to the next one. It was from Lucy, which essentially was straight out of the “Fuck You, Strong Letter Follows” school of communication:

  David:

  You will be pleased to know that Caitlin was in a flood of tears yesterday when I told her that you wouldn’t be coming this weekend. Congratulations. You’ve broken her heart again.

  I have managed to convince Marge to fly down from Portland to look after Caitlin for the two nights I will be away. However, she could only find a Business Class ticket at the last moment, and she must also put Dido and Aeneas in the local cattery for the weekend—and the total cost, including airfare, comes to $803.45. I will expect a check from you imminently.

  I think your behavior on this occasion underlines everything I’ve felt about you since you became acquainted with that bitch goddess called success: you are completely motivated by self-interest. And what I said to you last night on the phone still holds: I will get you back for this.

  Lucy

  Instantly I reached for the phone and punched in some numbers. I glanced at my watch: 10:14 a.m. in the islands, 7:14 a.m. on the Coast. With any luck, Caitlin wouldn’t have left for school yet.

  My luck held. Better still, my daughter answered herself. And she sound
ed thrilled to speak to me.

  “Daddy!” she said happily.

  “Hey kiddo,” I said. “Everything okay?”

  “I’m going to be an angel in our Easter play at school.”

  “You’re already an angel.”

  “I’m not an angel. I’m Caitlin Armitage.”

  I laughed.

  “I’m sorry I’m not coming this weekend.”

  “But this weekend Auntie Marge is coming to stay with me. But her cats have to go to a cat hotel.”

  “So you’re not angry at me?”

  “You’re coming next week, right?”

  “Without fail, Caitlin. I promise.”

  “And can I stay in your hotel with you?”

  “Absolutely. We’ll do whatever you want all weekend.”

  “And will you bring me a present?”

  “I promise. Now can I talk to Mommy?”

  “Okay . . . but as long as you don’t fight.”

  I sucked in my breath.

  “We’ll try not to, sweetie.”

  “I miss you, Daddy.”

  “I miss you too.”

  A pause. Then I could hear the phone being handed over. There was a long silence, which Lucy finally broke.

  “So, what do you want to talk about?” she asked.

  “She really sounded devastated, Lucy. I mean, totally gutted.”

  “I have nothing to say to you . . .”

  “Fine by me. I don’t really want to talk to you either. But don’t you ever try to lie to me about her emotional state again. And I warn you, if you try to turn her against me . . .”

  The line went dead as Lucy slammed down the phone. So much for a mature, adult exchange of views. But, at least, I did feel so damn relieved that Caitlin hadn’t at all been distressed by my inability to make it up to see her this weekend. The issue of Aunt Marge and her $803 weekend tariff was another matter. Marge was a circumferentially challenged New Age goof who lived by herself with her beloved cats and her crystals and her recordings of Nepalese goat chants in her one-bedroom ashram. I will say this for her—she did have a good heart. And she adored her only niece, which made me happy. But eight hundred bucks to cart her size 42 waist down to San Francisco . . . not to mention providing five-star accommodation for her precious feline friends (who the hell christens a pair of cats Dido and Aeneas?). Anyway, I knew that, like it or not, I’d have to fork over the dough—just as I also knew that Swami Marge was probably going to pocket half the $800. But I wasn’t going to argue. I had already effectively won the argument with Lucy. Just to hear Caitlin tell me she missed me wiped out all of the morning’s accumulated angst and put me in a good mood again. And now I had an entire Caribbean island to myself.