Happily Ever After? Page 5

  “You mean he wants to see a therapist? That’s not so ba—”

  Lynette cut me off. “No, no. He wants to, you know.” Lynette looked tortured. “You know. It’s awful. He wants to, he wants us to … swing. You know. Sex. With another … Lord help me … with another couple.”

  I wanted to say, That’s what you’re simpering about? You want to hear awful? I’ll give you awful. How much time have you got? But what I said instead was, “Oh, Lynette. I can see that you’re really upset about this. I’m so sorry.” She blew her nose hard and started crying again. “But I’m sure you will get through this. Come on. You guys seem so happy together.”

  Lynette rolled her eyes. “Curtis thinks I’m a loser in bed. Deadwood.”

  “Did he actually say that?”

  “No, but I can tell. He’s always turning up with these sex books. Always trying to get me into some weird position. I can’t believe I’m telling you this. I feel so humiliated.”

  I tried to tell Lynette that it’s okay to experiment with positions, and lots of people entertain wild fantasies. I suggested that Curtis might drop the swinging idea if she were more open to exploring new techniques in bed.

  “Yeah, like the princess and donkey idea? Or the priest and the cheerleader?”

  “What?” I asked her.

  “Those are just a few of Curtis’s sexual fantasies. I could list more, believe me. The aristocrat and the trollop. The cow and the milkmaid. He’s got dozens of them.”

  “Okay. Well, would it kill you to play along?”

  “Yes, actually.” Lynette looked at me directly. “It would. And it would kill my love for him.”

  “How serious is he about hooking up with another couple?” I asked.

  “Very serious. They’re coming tonight. For drinks after dinner. To meet us.”

  Apparently, Curtis had done his research. He found a couple through the “alternative lifestyle” section in the classified ads. They are nonsmokers, free of sexually transmitted diseases, and relatively new to the swinging lifestyle. They stated in their ad that they wanted to have “safe and gentle fun with a sexually adventurous couple.”

  “Can you imagine?” She was crying again. “How could he do this to me? I don’t understand it. I thought we had a good marriage.” She pulled another tissue from the calico case. Her nose was raw.

  “Lynette. Just tell him to forget it. Call him at work right now. Tell him to cancel. This is crazy. He’s got to have more respect for you than that. You’re his wife.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I already agreed to it. Just to shut him up. He’s been nagging me to do this for over a year. I figured, he’ll meet them and realize what a sick idea this is, and it will be over and we can go back to being normal.” She wiped her eyes.

  “Valerie, I want you to do me a favor.”

  “Anything, Lynette.”

  “I want you to be there. Tonight.”

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 9, later

  I dug out the old baby monitor and set it up on Pete’s nightstand, leaving him with clear instructions to call out immediately if he needed me. I got him settled down for the night and walked over to Lynette’s. Even though Lynette’s house is just a few feet from mine, it felt odd and disorienting to leave him home alone, but I didn’t think I’d be gone more than a half hour or so, and I wasn’t.

  Lynette’s husband looked mortified when he saw me at the door. He obviously wasn’t expecting me. He started to say something but Lynette jumped in. “Oh, Valerie, what a surprise. Come on in!”

  Curtis glared at his wife. “Honey, our guests will be here any minute.”

  “I’d like Val to stay,” Lynette said, glaring back at him. “Just for a few minutes.” Curtis was wearing navy blue Dockers and a forest green cardigan over a creamy yellow tennis shirt. He had arranged his light brown hair to cover his bald spot.

  “What’s the game plan?” I whispered to Lynette as Curtis prepared a distinctly unappetizing plate of cubed cheese and salami. Clearly Lynette had no hand in the food preparation.

  “I just want you to be here with me. They’re not going to try any hanky-panky if you’re here,” Lynette said. She looked jaundiced and weary. I don’t think I’d ever seen her without makeup.

  “Where’s Hunter?” I asked.

  “At my in-laws.”

  “Does Curtis know that I know?” I asked.

  “I told him you knew everything,” Lynette said. “He just about shit in his pants. Excuse my French.” (I’ve often wondered how French people feel about this phrase and whether they say excuse my English whenever they swear.)

  The doorbell rang and we both jumped. Curtis sprinted to the door. Lynette grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard. I heard a man’s boisterous greeting. “Well, howdy!”

  “Howdy yourself,” Curtis answered congenially. “Welcome to our humble abode. Mi casa es su casa.”

  “And I’ll take the taco supremo with extra hot sauce!” came the rowdy response, followed by a woman’s giggling. Lynette stared miserably at me as Curtis led the couple toward the living room. I held the baby monitor to my ear and heard Pete snoring lightly. I couldn’t bring myself to turn around. I desperately wanted to escape. “This is my wife, Lynette,” I heard Curtis say. “And our neighbor, who was just about to leave.”

  “Hey, no hurry. The more the merrier!” His was a big, friendly, burly voice, hers was high and mild and tittering. My chest clenched as I realized that the voices were familiar to me. I forced myself to face them. Jesus. It was Melanie and Wade Rosen. I hadn’t seen them since Roger and I met them for coffee at Starbucks in February.

  “Well I’ll be gosh darned! Valerie! Lookee here, Mel. It’s Valerie!” Wade was wearing a black cowboy hat, snakeskin boots, and a Cubs sweatshirt pulled tight over his formidable gut. Melanie wore a bright red dress and black suede boots.

  I was obviously more embarrassed than either of these two. “Wade. Melanie. I don’t know what to say!”

  “Don’t say anything, sweetheart, just take off your clothes,” said Wade. “Heck, when Mel and I started talking about this swinging stuff, you and Roger were on our short list, you know.”

  Melanie elbowed her husband. “Ho-ney, cut it out. I think you’re embarrassing Valerie. You’ve got to forgive him, Val. He had half a beer before we left the house and it went straight to his head.”

  I saw the tormented expression on Lynette’s face and knew I couldn’t leave without accomplishing something. “Hey, Mel, I don’t believe you’ve ever seen my house, have you?”

  Melanie looked confused but wanted to be obliging. “No, I haven’t. Not since you guys moved out to suburbia.”

  “Oh, why don’t you walk me over. I’m just next door. I’d love to get your opinion on window treatments.”

  “Right now?” Melanie asked.

  “Please.” I reached out and grabbed her hand. “It’ll only take a minute.”

  As soon as I got her out of the house, I quickly explained that Lynette was violently opposed to swinging. “She did look a little terrified,” Melanie admitted. “To be perfectly honest, I got bad vibes as soon as we walked in.”

  “Look,” I told her. “I know you guys are sexual adventurers, and it’s none of my business. But wouldn’t it be more fun if all parties involved were, you know, into it? I can’t imagine that you’d have a good time if you knew Lynette was doing it because her husband coerced her.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Melanie said. “It would be awful. I’d never be able to relax.” She leaned toward me. “This was all Wade’s idea, you know. He took the classified ad out as a joke. I never thought we’d get this far. We got seventeen responses. And the more we talked to other couples, the more we wanted to give it a try. It’s all in good fun, you know. Consenting adults and all that.” We were standing outside my door. “Now how about those window treatments?”

  “Huh
?” I asked.

  “What are you thinking. Drapes? Café curtains? Roman shades?”

  “I don’t need window treatments, Mel.”

  She stared at me, then knocked her fist against her head. “Duh. Now I get it.” She smiled. “Don’t you worry about your friend, Valerie. We won’t do anything unless she’s one hundred percent comfortable. Okay?”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  I watched Melanie’s plump posterior as she waddled back to Lynette’s house.

  When I got back to my house I checked on Pete. He had gone to sleep with the lights on and his Frog and Toad tape still going in the boom box. I drew the covers up to his chin and kissed him on his damp forehead. He stirred and stared at me with a glossy, absent look. He smiled, murmured something incomprehensible, and closed his eyes. He looked so soft and sweet, and I was so exhausted, I climbed into bed beside him, wrapped an arm around him, and listened to his soft snoring. Just as I was drifting off to sleep, I heard the phone ring. I dragged myself out of Pete’s warm bed and ran into Roger’s ex-study.

  “Hello?”

  “I hear congratulations are in order,” came the husky response.

  “I suppose they are, Diana.”

  “If it’s not too late, I’d love to stop by to congratulate you in person.”

  “Actually, I was just going to bed.”

  “Perfect!” she said.

  “What?”

  “It was a joke, Valerie Ryan. A joke.”

  I told Diana she could stop by later in the week. And then I lay in bed for a long time before finally falling asleep. The phone rang again. It was 11:45.

  “I’m sorry to call so late. Did I wake you?” It was Omar.

  “Yeah. Sort of. It’s okay. What’s up?”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you all day. I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news. Which do you want first?”

  “The bad news.” I sat up on my elbows and waited and listened to Omar taking a deep breath.

  “Your ex-husband lost plenty of money on his tech stocks. And his art investments haven’t been so hot either.”

  “Meaning … ?”

  “Meaning, you’re not getting quite as much as we’d originally calculated.”

  “Meaning … ?” I held my breath.

  “Meaning you’re worth sixty-three million, one hundred seventy nine thousand, five hundred sixteen dollars. And twenty-four cents.”

  I started to laugh, and then I was crying.

  “Val, are you okay?”

  “Am I okay? Are you kidding? Six months ago I was reading books like The Frugal Fanatic for tips on recycling old bra straps and today I’m worth sixty-three million dollars. I’m more than okay, Omar. I’m rich.” I wiped my eyes. “Hey, if that’s the bad news, what’s the good news?”

  “Have you checked your bank account lately?”

  “No, not lately,” I answered.

  “Your money is in. Ahead of schedule. I guess Mr. Sloan wasn’t taking any chances.”

  My head was tingling. Did it really matter whether I received a hundred million or sixty million? Either way, I wouldn’t have been turning my old bra straps into luggage bungee cords. I was rich.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 10

  At 7:30 this morning, Wade and Melanie Rosen’s car was still in Lynette’s driveway.

  June 11

  I saw Lynette at the curb this morning, retrieving the newspaper. I called out to her but apparently she didn’t hear me. I started walking toward her but she scurried into the house. I phoned her, but got the answering machine.

  Today I saw a bumper sticker that read, “I’m not getting older, I’m getting blonder.” Suddenly, I wanted to be blond. I had to be blond. I will be blond. And not just any shade of blond, but platinum. I called Lauren at Boku. I was in luck. She’d just had a cancellation. She could take me on Monday at 9:15. Yes! I can’t wait!

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 12

  I dropped Pete off at a sitter and raced to Boku. “You sure you want to do this?” Lauren asked, running her fingers through my hair. “You really want to get rid of this gorgeous red?” Lauren—whose last name I don’t know despite the fact that she’s been my stylist for three years—raked her fingers through my hair and looked doubtfully at my reflection.

  “I’m positive,” I assured her. I told her that I was ready for a big change. Coloring my hair would be safer and easier to reverse than cosmetic surgery. My hair was now nearly to my waist. I’d have long, sexy blond hair. I was absolutely ready for this.

  “Okay, then,” she said, apparently convinced. “Let’s get started.” She draped a silver vinyl cape around me. “You’ll make a pretty blond, Valerie. And I can tell you from personal experience, blonds really do have more fun.” Lauren’s own platinum was pulled back into a loose chignon. Another blond stylist chimed in: “You’ll never have to open another door for yourself.”

  Then another piped up, “And you’ll never spend another Saturday night waiting by the phone.”

  I stared at myself in the mirror. Oh, I was so ready for this. But three hours later, as Lauren blow-dried my newly blond hair, I knew that something had gone horribly wrong. I glimpsed in the mirror for the first time (I had refused to look until she was entirely done) and saw myself—at age ninety. The hair wasn’t platinum, it wasn’t blond. It was white. I looked like a cross between Barbara Bush and Albert Einstein. My hair had somehow quadrupled in volume. Terrified, I reached up to touch it. It wasn’t hair. It was hay. I wanted to vomit.

  “What the hell happened?” I whispered, commanding myself not to cry.

  “I don’t know,” Lauren said, staring at my head. “I don’t know.” She attempted to pull a comb through the hair and I heard it crackle like twigs on a bonfire.

  I told her to change it back. Immediately. “I am not leaving this place until my hair is red and normal again. Do you understand?”

  “Okay. Okay.” Everyone was staring now, all the other stylists, all the women in all the chairs, the receptionists, the boyfriends, the UPS guy, the manicurist, the massage therapist. The woman in the chair next to me whispered, “It’ll be okay. She’ll fix it. Don’t worry.”

  An hour later, as Lauren rinsed the dye from my hair, I asked her, “How does it look?” I was afraid to look in the mirror.

  “Well … it is darker.”

  I sat up and stared into the mirror. My hair was now the color of the bridesmaid dress I wore to my sister Teresa’s wedding.

  Mauve.

  I felt my stomach lurch. It was almost 3 P.M. I called Pete’s sitter and asked her to keep him until I got there. Lauren glopped on some more dye and stuck me under the dryer. An hour later, my hair was the color of a dirty penny. I ran my fingers through it. My hair came out in wads. Wads and wads and wads of dirty-penny-colored hair, as resilient as cotton candy. I started to cry.

  “I don’t know what to say,” Lauren whispered, shaking her head. “I am so sorry, Val.”

  I was sobbing now and I didn’t care who was watching. “I’ve got to get out of here. Now.”

  Lauren gave me some kind of industrial strength conditioner and a plastic cap. She instructed me to put the conditioner on my hair for an hour a day. “Your hair should be back to normal by Wednesday,” she told me.

  I knew it was bullshit but I took the conditioner and the cap anyway.

  It is now 11:17 P.M. and I’ve had the conditioner on my head for six hours. I’m praying that tomorrow my hair will be stronger. I don’t even care what color it is. I just don’t want to lose my hair.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 13

  When I woke up this morning, the plastic cap was filled with hair. The conditioner hadn’t helped. I touched my head tentatively. My hair felt like wet wool but was still as weak as cotton candy. I had flashbacks of the hours I spent in Lauren’s chair, the way I looked when I caught the first glimpse of myself
in the mirror, the way my hair felt when I reached up to touch it. I started to cry again. I couldn’t let Pete see me this way. I put on a baseball cap and pulled out the phone book. I found Jan Wilson’s number. Jan had a salon in her basement. She was famous for resurrecting ruined hair. I heard about her through one of the Mushroomheads.

  It was 7:15 A.M. I was crying when she answered the phone. I apologized for calling so early and, in between sobs, spilled out my sorry story. She took pity on me and agreed to see me at 8:15. I roused Pete, took him to Lynette’s, and sped over to Jan’s house.

  She walked around me, examining my hair. She tugged at it and it came off in her fingers. She examined it some more. “Honey, your hair is dead,” Jan finally pronounced. “There’s nothing we can do now but cut it off.” She tugged at it again. “I think we can save about a half inch off the scalp. It’s going to be short.” I started sobbing again and Jan kneaded my shoulders. “I know. I know,” she murmured.

  “Just do it,” I told her. “Just cut it off.”

  Twenty minutes later, I looked like a chemo patient. All the money in the world couldn’t get my hair back.

  I staggered out of Jan’s salon and drove to the bagel shop for a cup of coffee. I was dumping sugar into my cup when someone came up behind me.

  “Could it really be? Valerie Ryan?”

  It was Michael Avila. Just my luck. “Yup,” I said, turning slowly to face him. “It’s really me. The hairless wonder.”

  He stared at my head. “I love it.” He seemed sincere. “I think you look beautiful.”

  “You do?”

  He was still staring, now at my mouth. “Uh-huh.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t lie.” He was looking into my eyes now. “Where have you been?”

  “In court.” I told him that I’d finalized the divorce settlement.

  “Actually, I’ve heard. Congratulations.”

  “Thanks. How did you know?”

  “It’s a small town. News travels fast.”

  Michael’s pager trilled. He checked the screen. “Crap. I’ve got to run.” He looked sad. “Any chance I can take you out this weekend? To celebrate?”