So her days weren't busy, but neither were her nights. Although both Lucy and Sari continued to show up faithfully at the Sunday morning knitting circle, once the evening rolled around, they almost always had plans with their new boyfriends. They often invited her to join them, but Kathleen had never much liked being the odd man out, despite—or because of—all her childhood experience in that role.
Getting a boyfriend of her own would have solved that problem, but since the whole Kevin thing Kathleen hadn't felt much like going out to bars and meeting new guys. Sometimes at night she remembered that she might have been married at this moment—would have been, if her friends hadn't interceded—and her heart would start pounding with fear. It wasn't the thought of marriage itself that was so scary—just the realization that, left on her own, she was capable of making such a hugely bad decision. How could she have come that close to marrying Kevin, when now she didn't even miss him? She felt that, for the moment at least, she should avoid putting herself in the position of making more mistakes.
So she spent her days sleeping late, running until she was worn out, napping, grabbing something to eat, then knitting for hours in front of Sam's TV set, whether he was home or not. Her choice of project echoed her newfound sobriety: she was knitting a fisherman-style throw made out of an expensive brown cashmere mix.
She hadn't intended to make something so uncharacteristic, had, in fact, gone to the yarn store with the intention of knitting herself a little glittery evening bag with lots of fluffy fringe on top, but she had seen the yarn piled up in a barrel and the sight and touch of it had called to her in some weird way and she had leafed through all of the yarn books and magazines at the store until she found a pattern that seemed right for it. It had cost a fortune, but she wasn't spending money on going out, so she figured she could spring for it.
The growing afghan felt warm and soft as it piled up on her lap. She frequently admired how well the color went with Sam's den and thought that maybe she would just leave it there when she was finished—for her own use, of course. She spent a lot of time there.
The afghan was one more element to add to the general comfort and coziness of Sam's den, and Kathleen almost always found herself lingering there on long dark winter evenings, watching TV—turning the volume down or off when Sam was around, since he would only join her there if he could work— and on equally long Sunday afternoons, when she'd lie on the sofa lazily skimming the Style and Art sections of the newspaper while Sam read all the business articles sitting upright in the leather armchair. At some point they would realize they were hungry, and Sam would go into the kitchen, where a half an hour later the smell of garlic or roasting chicken would reach out and pull Kathleen in there with him to chop up vegetables or set the table or do something equally unchallenging and basic that he would still accuse her of somehow botching up and insist on redoing himself.
One late afternoon, early in February, Kathleen let herself into Sam's apartment. He wasn't back from work yet. She foraged through his cabinets, found a bag of pistachios and a bottle of iced tea, took her provisions into the den, and turned on the TV. There wasn't anything good on, but she had nothing else to do, so she stayed where she was, cracking pistachios and dropping their shells on the shiny dark wood coffee table, while she flipped aimlessly through the channels.
She intended to clean up the mess she'd made, but the drone of the changing channels made her sleepy, and she snuggled down into the length of the sofa, thinking she'd just rest a few minutes before getting a towel.
She woke up when Sam came into the den. “I thought I heard the TV,” he said. He flicked on the lights. It had grown dark while she slept.
“Hi,” she said hoarsely, blinking and pushing herself into a sitting position. “What time is it?”
“Seven-thirty.” He looked down at her. “Were you asleep?”
“I’m not sure. But it was five-thirty just a few seconds ago, so maybe.” She yawned.
His eyes fell on the coffee table. “Oh, for Christ's sake, Kathleen,” he said. “There are shells everywhere.”
“I’ll clean it up.” She arched her back in a big stretch that ended with a grunt of pleasure. “I’m hungry. What are we having for dinner?”
“You're on your own tonight,” he said. “I’m heading out in a few minutes. You can stay if you want to, but you'll have to cook for yourself. I think there's some pasta left from last night.”
“Where are you going?”
“A Thai restaurant in Santa Monica.”
“Can I come with you?”
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m meeting people.”
“Who?”
“Patricia and a couple of her friends.”
Kathleen made a face. “Oh, come on.”
“Come on what?”
“Don't go out with her.” She was sort of joking, but sort of not. She really didn't want him to go. She wanted him to stay there with her like he usually did. His going out felt like a betrayal.
“I can't cook you dinner every night, Kathleen,” he said. He adjusted his right sleeve cuff minutely. “Much as I’d like to spend all my free time waiting on you hand and foot, I do occasionally like to broaden my horizons.”
“I don't care about the food.” She stood up. “I’m just saying you shouldn't keep going out with Patricia.”
“Why not? I enjoy her company. And it gets me out.”
She took a step toward him. “But don't you think it's time you moved on?”
“’Moved on?”
“To still be clinging to your ex-wife …” She shook her head.
“Come on, Sam. I’ve never seen you with anyone else. But you're not that old.”
“Thank you.”
“You know what I mean.” Her hair had fallen into her eyes, and she shoved a couple of strands behind her ears with fingers that twitched with a sudden nervousness. “You're still in the game. Or could be if you tried. It's time you found someone new, put some excitement into your life.”
“I like that you're giving me advice about my love life,” Sam said, unsmiling. “You sure you're an expert on how to do it right?”
“I never said I was an expert, but at least I know how to move on.”
“You only know how to move on,” he said. “From what I’ve seen.
Their eyes met directly for the first time, and Kathleen said, “Don't knock it until you've tried it.”
“It's time for you to go.” She had never heard his voice unsteady before. “I have to finish getting ready.”
“No, you don't,” she said. “Stay with me tonight, Sam.” She came closer, a little scared of him, but confident in her youth and her beauty and the strength of her long arms and legs. They'd never failed her before.
He didn't retreat, but he didn't welcome her, either, just held his ground. “Go away, Kathleen. Before you ruin everything.”
She laughed a little. “I’m not going to ruin anything. This is a good idea. It'll be fun.”
“Go away,” he said again and when she kept advancing on him he turned away from her.
She caught at his arm. She was almost his height and when she made him face her, their eyes were at a level. “What are you afraid of?”
There was a pause. Then: “Losing this” he said quietly. “Not having you here to mess up my place and watch TV.”
Her heart suddenly thumped. “That's important to you?”
“Maybe,” he said in a voice so low she could barely hear him.
She drew closer, close enough that she could feel the heat of his body near her skin. She was only wearing shorts and a tank top, and she was cold, but he would be warm against her, she knew. “You won't lose anything,” she said. “This will be even better. I promise.” She caught him around the neck and put her mouth against his. It felt wrong—like she was breaking the rules.
She liked that feeling.
He responded the way she knew he would, his mouth first closed and uncertain against hers and then final
ly giving in to her insistence. She opened her eyes just in time to see him close his, and triumph flashed through her. She pressed herself against him.
But then he was pulling back, away from her. He pushed her to arm's distance. “I just can't help wondering,” he said, “whether I left a bank statement lying open around here recently.”
“What?”
“I’m talking about you figuring out that I’m as rich as Kevin Porter.”
She thought he was joking. She laughed a little. “Nothing wrong with that,” she said and reached for him again.
This time, there was real anger in the shove he gave her. “Jesus Christ, Kathleen, what kind of an idiot do you think I am?”
She stumbled but caught herself against the back of a chair.“What are you talking about?”
“You really expect me to believe that a beautiful girl twenty years my junior with no income who's already told me she's on the make—” He stopped and shook his head hard, like he was getting rid of something buzzing around it. “You really expect me to believe that she—that you—have anything but money on your mind?”
“It's not like that,” she said. Horrified. “I’m not like that.”
“The hell you're not,” he said. “You lay on that sofa, right there—what was it, three months ago, four months ago?—and you told me you were exactly that way. Did you think I’d forget? Or were you just thinking that I’m so old and pathetic I wouldn't care? That I’d just be grateful for whatever I got from you? Even if I had to pay for it?”
“Stop it,” she said. “You know I wasn't thinking anything like that.”
“I can't promise you Tiffany necklaces,” he said. “Or whatever else it is you might be hoping for.” “I don't care about that stuff—”
“I’ve always been reluctant to buy myself a girlfriend. There are better investments.”
“You are an idiot,” Kathleen said, struggling to find her voice and her balance and something to say that would throw it all back at him. “But not the way you think. You're an idiot because you don't even see that this is for real, that I mean it—”
“I’m the idiot?” he said. “You're the one who had to ruin everything, even after I warned you not to.”
“You've ruined everything, not me.”
“We can at least agree that we're done here,” he said. “Say goodbye, Kathleen. And get the hell out of my apartment.”
“With pleasure,” she said and fled.
Back downstairs, her only thought was that she had to get out, had to move, had to do something—anything—to stop thinking about what had just happened. She threw on a jacket and running shoes and left the apartment.
When the elevator door opened, Sam was inside, wearing an overcoat. So he had just calmly continued to get ready to go out, even after all that. It made her hate him.
Their eyes met and Kathleen took a step back, but the elevator man was waiting and gestured her in impatiently. So she lifted her chin and walked in without a word, turning her back on Sam and staring blindly at the display of floor numbers.
They descended to the lobby in silence. Even the elevator man didn't bother announcing their arrival as he sometimes did, just pulled the doors open and signaled her out. Sam stayed on for the parking level.
As she stepped out of the elevator, she heard Sam say, “Kathleen.”
“What?” She turned slightly toward him but kept her head averted.
“It's already dark out. Are you going running?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“Keep to well-lit places, will you?”
She didn't bother to respond to that, just walked out.
But it made her furious that he would pretend he cared about her safety—after having made her feel like a piece of shit just a few minutes earlier—and that fury kept her pounding along the pavement for several miles, miles during which blocks and buildings passed in a blur and she didn't even think she had a destination, didn't know where she was or where she was going, until she looked up and realized she was on Sari's block and had been heading there all that time, her feet apparently knowing what it took her brain a few minutes longer to process—that she needed a friend to comfort her.
Fortunately Sari was home from work, getting ready to go over to Jason's house. She immediately called him to cancel their plans. Three hours, a bottle of wine, and a few tears later, Kathleen was able to fall asleep on the floor of Sari's apartment. But the hurt waited patiently all night for her to wake up and was there to greet her in the morning.
II
One day at the end of February, Sari stopped by her parents’ house to ask her mother if she could throw a small brunch for her friends there on the following Sunday. “My apartment's too small to have more than one or two people over,” she said. “And I’ve been wanting to do this for a while. I’ll do all the work and clean up afterward. All you'll have to do is sit and eat.”
“I’m not sure if all that commotion will be good for your brother,” Eloise said.
“There won't be that many of us,” Sari said. “And he can always go into the other room to watch TV if he feels overwhelmed.”
“It'll be fun,” said Jason, who had come with her.
“Will you be there?” Eloise said.
“Of course,” he said. “I go wherever Sari goes. Plus it's always a pleasure coming to see you. And I make a mean mimosa, Eloise. Just wait till you try it.”
Eloise smiled and gave in.
The second they were in the car, Sari said to Jason, “You should be ashamed of yourself. ‘It's such a pleasure seeing you and I make a mean mimosa.’ You manipulative little—”
“You love that I can get your mother to do whatever I want.”
“I’m counting on it,” she said with a grin, and he leaned over and kissed the grin right off her face and made it go down deep where it meant something.
So a week later there they were at Sari's house—the three knitting friends and David Lee and Jason and Zack. Sari had brought all the food—fruit, bagels and muffins, and, of course, champagne and orange juice to make mimosas—and they all lingered at the table for a while, lazily chatting, except for Sari's dad, who had disappeared into the bedroom as soon as he was done eating, and Charlie, who ate a couple of bagels and then went to watch TV.
“How are your sisters doing, Kathleen?” Eloise asked. “The twins?” She was on her best behavior, playing the gracious hostess.
“They're okay,” Kathleen said. “They had kind of a big fight recently, but they're doing better now. For a while, they weren't even talking to each other. They're back to talking now, which is a good thing since they're in preproduction on a new movie, but they're not the friends they used to be.”
“So they're going to keep working together?” Lucy asked.
“They don't have a choice,” Kathleen said. “They're a gimmick. Which means they're stuck together, no matter how much they might come to hate each other.”
“That's the most depressing thing I’ve ever heard,” David said.
“Tell me about it,” Kathleen said. “In the end, I may be the lucky one of us three—I mean, I may not be famous, but at least I’m my own person.”
“Says the girl who's going back to work for her sisters,” Lucy said.
“Yeah, I know,” Kathleen said with a sigh. “I ran out of options. And money.”
“What kind of work will you be doing for them?” David asked.
“Same as I used to,” Kathleen said. “Sort of in-house assistant to their PR person. You know, planning parties and making phone calls and stuff. It was actually kind of fun. Best job I ever had.”
“You've only ever had two jobs,” Lucy said.
“Yeah, and this one was the better one.”
“Are you all moved out of your apartment yet?” Sari asked, looking up. She was holding Zack on her lap, trying to get him to taste a slice of melon.
“Sort of. I’m basically
living at the McMansion these days, but I still have some stuff over at the apartment.”
“You should go get it,” Sari said. “Time to just be done with that place and everything that goes with it.”
“I know. I just can't seem to get myself over there.” Their eyes met. “I’ll do it,” Kathleen said. “Soon.” She balled up her napkin and dropped it on the table. “Excuse me.” She rose from the table and left the room.
Jason said, “May I pour you another mimosa, Eloise?”
“Thank you, darling.” She held her glass out to him. “You were right, by the way. These are absolutely delicious.”
There was a giggle from the other side of the table and they all turned. Sari was playing a game with Zack—she'd offer him a grape, and then, when he'd open his mouth to eat it, she'd pull it away and pretend to put it in her own mouth. Zack found it all hysterically funny. It was hard to watch them and not smile. So they all smiled and then Lucy said, “Oh, hey, did I tell you guys we're looking at houses?”
“Wow.” Sari stopped playing for a moment, her hand paused in midair. “You can afford a house?”
“Not to buy—just to rent. We want a yard so we can get dogs.”
“Dogs?” Jason repeated. “Plural?”
“Two of them. Preferably siblings from the same litter. So they'll have company even if we have to work late.”
“Don't you have three cats already?” Sari said. “Every time I talk to you, it's like, ‘Got another one.’ I’m going to start sneezing just at the sight of you pretty soon.” Zack tugged at her hand and pulled it toward him, pretending he was going to eat the grape, then shoved the hand back in the direction of Sari's mouth. She laughed and said, “Good playing, Zack.”
Her mother said, “Sari's always had bad allergies.”
“Well, allergies aside, as far as I’m concerned you can't have too many pets,” Lucy said.
“Yeah, you can,” Sari said.