Edgy

By Deirdra Baldwin

Money matters disrupt a Hollywood power-couple’s ability to carry on, and so they compensate. Annette Jensen resurrects an old affair with a singer and buries herself in her daunting music industry career. Ever the daydreamer, her lawyer husband contemplates revenge and finds himself becoming inextricably tangled with the mafia. Set in LA and New York, amid the personal landscape of the industrious, and a fringe of disaffected characters living on the edge, this often touching, occasionally funny, and ultimately compelling novel barrels toward an unexpected resolution. EDGY offers an excellent window into the realm of folly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deirdra Baldwin
• Release date: Sep 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301997275

Deirdra Baldwin

Deirdra Baldwin’s previous books include Gathering Time, Emerging Detail, Inside Outside, Excuse, and Totemic, which were small collections of poems published by regional literary presses. Her individual poems have appeared in literary magazines including Ploughshares and New Directions. She has written more than forty articles for the net, which range from practical to satirical subjects, and is the writer, producer, and director of the satirical audio series, Eddie de Taos, which can be found at jokeandsnarkbar.com. She was a finalist for the prestigious Discovery Award for young poets very early in her career, was a founder of the small press Word Works, and is a recipient of two Wurlitzer Fellowships for excellence in writing. She was granted by the National Endowment for the Arts as a poet in Maryland, Virginia, and Washington, D.C. Edgy is the first novel.

Book preview

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Harvey Nasserman had been right about the room. It was jammed with well-heeled types whose lives were filled with indefensible pleasures. A fragrance of garlic and tomato permeated the air, along with the thumping pulse of body warmth and whoosh of waitresses cruising through a swinging door into the kitchen. Frenetic bursts of chatter and laughter washed over them as they forded the sea of eager bodies. What amazed corporate lawyer Ash Jensen, not normally a man about town, was that so many had found their way without a clue. There wasn’t a sign, not even a lousy street address on the nameless Manhattan bistro. He felt privileged, honored by the fact that his colleague had gone to the trouble of persuading him to come.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t a half hour before Ash Jensen found himself alone at the bar, because Harvey had honed in on some broad and was now flouting his status over her table and titillating her friends. To be fair, the girl had pressed her way in between himself and Harvey, exuding a stale cloud of perfume and sweat; but before she could order her whiskey sour, Nasserman had tapped into her personal history, which history was delivered up in a Greek accent no less. Nasserman had invited him to join the party, but the girlfriends were chunky, dough-faced, and generally unremarkable, and Jensen wasn’t about to get involved. He’d been raised on a southern Alabama dirt farm, and any reminder of the simple things left him cold. Besides, he much preferred drinking alone to playing Nasserman's foil.

So he figured he would wait quietly until his friend came to his senses, and in the meantime tipped his second scotch on the rocks. He had ordered the strong, old, peaty Glenfarclas, a departure from his usual choice, and it was ripping through him like a sharp rock. When some muscle-mouth at the other end of the bar whistled through his teeth, Jensen naturally turned around to look. The impetus was a skinny fashion victim in a thigh-high black cocktail suit. He felt his eyelids droop, and the booze break over him in a first big, wide wave.

The woman stopped cold for a moment, then strode boldly up to the bar, employing the deliberate manner that women used to show they hadn’t been cowed by circumstance. Slowly she gravitated toward Ash Jensen, and then hovered in an ambivalent fix, eyeballing the empty barstool beside his. Jensen smiled up at her; and after a moment, she eased her bony bottom onto the stool, plopped her Prada bag down on the bar, and remained private while the two of them adjusted to the additional human content.

When the bartender appeared, she ordered off the wine list, and later gripping the stem firmly with her maroon fingernails, lifted the rim to her small plump mouth and swirled the wine past her tongue before she swallowed.

I take it you're alone, he remarked, being attentive but not solicitous, in the soft southern way he had seen better men behave. He perused her overly blushed cheeks and her small round breasts, which were spanned by a brocade suit jacket that puckered slightly.

She was a package.

Suddenly she broke into an insinuating grin that unnerved him.

I know you. You're Annette Jensen's husband! I thought you looked familiar, but I can't for the life of me remember your name.

Ashford… Ash… I'm sorry, but I don't recognize you at all, which I’m terribly embarrassed to have to admit. Were we formally introduced?

When he wanted most to be free, life blindsided him like a dog. Normally he made it a point to steer clear of his wife's acquaintances, mostly because their calculating behaviors left much to be desired -- for example, real friends and acquaintances. They were all in the business, and they had no interest in anyone who wasn’t. In fact, there was no pretense; their eyes glazed over. He’d been walked away from in mid-sentence. The business was what they called the entertainment industry.

Of course, it was at a party Los Angeles. I remember it exactly, even if you don’t. It was at one of the independent studios, at a wrap party. The network, it was CBS, maybe NBC, bought the pilot and six episodes, and then pulled it after two. I’m the one who invited you. I’m Susan Ansbach. Your wife and I are good friends.

You’re from Los Angeles? He watched her go on tilt, as she calculated how much of what she had said had been heard.

Just like you. Do you remember now? It was a couple of Septembers ago.

He vaguely recalled being subjected to a consumptively dreary affair that had occurred on an empty sound stage, a stark environment with lighting that made everyone look grimy. A mantle of gloom had slumped over the proceedings. If the haunted faces in the room reflected anything as they stood their solitary grounds, it was their rueful contempt at being among those not quite important enough to be their peers; a consuming and ethereal narcissism.

Now in dread of being sucked in by Susan’s spidery vortex, Jensen made a conscious choice to survive by masking his distaste. He could see the round tops of her breasts, and above them, though hardened by intensity and focus, by what people liked to call a passion, a pretty face; or maybe it was only a mildly attractive face.

So you were the one who roped us in, he said.

I have to plead guilty, counselor, she laughed.

I may not be able to forgive you.

Her slightly manic laughter struck a familiar discord; and for an instant, Jensen actually remembered her. She had been heavier by a good fifteen pounds. She looked better now, thin, disciplined, and somewhat repentant. She was so small that her feet didn’t even touch the ground, not even with a pair of high heels.

His wife’s mother, Frieda, liked to say that a woman could never be thin or rich enough. His mother never said anything like that, no words even close to that. She hadn’t been a presence, but instead had skirted along the edges of other people. The thin idea was a part of life in California that he had come to accept. He liked the angular, hard bodies of women, the way their clothes draped them, the tiny portions on their plates. His wife was like that, so much more feminine than those southern girls, who rolled past puberty into amplitude, women whose asses protruded like classic car fenders. In California, an attractive body was almost as important as the car you drove.

He watched as Susan polished off her wine, her wiry little body absorbing alcohol, like a humming bird, nectar. Suddenly she leaned right into him as if they were intimates.

"Ash, let me ask you something a little strange; and please don’t take this the wrong way. Do you know anybody here, any regulars?"

He inhaled the musky perfume, which hovered around her earrings, the softness of her hair falling against his cheek, and twitched involuntarily.

"I know my friend, Harvey. But I don’t know that you’d consider him a regular. He’s a New Yorker, who prides himself on discovering the new places. This is one of his finds."

His glance found Nasserman, who was dangling an arm over the Greek girl's shoulder, stroking her long dark hair and laughing. Jensen felt a fresh wave of personal disappointment. Nasserman was on all the time, like a big lunging St. Bernard. It was obvious he was making headway. He was like that, not only with the ladies, but with his precious New York City law firm. The fact that he was married never seemed to get in his way. He never traveled thousands of miles from home only to run into the one someone who knew his wife.

I was told that this is a mafia hangout, said Susan, scanning for a reaction and grinning. She nicked her head toward the darkest section of the restaurant, and then nodded knowingly.

Jensen felt uncomfortable.

I believe Harvey mentioned that, he said, glancing over the crowd of patrons standing several deep at the bar. It wasn’t true, but he didn’t want to give her an advantage. He felt a momentary contempt for her foolish romanticism.

Susan stared at him, and then made some internal decision that caused her to sit up straight. I'm looking for money. I’m a film producer. That's why I'm here.

Her eyes flashed with a hopeless brilliance, and Jensen thought of that famous photograph of Geronimo, and of the savagery contained there, and of the world that couldn’t offer an equal measure of any ingredient.

No kidding, said Jensen, bobbing with what he hoped would resemble appreciation. His resident skeptic couldn't believe this was happening to him.

Susan spent a difficult moment trying to re-cross her legs under the bar.

Some gallant part stumbled forward to reassure her. Unfortunately that impulse was short lived and soon replaced by a more perverse urge.

That's right. I incorporated my production company. I have connections with actors, agents, music industry execs, so there’s no problem putting together a package. I have a solid, small-budget project, and I just need the five million bucks.

Jensen wondered for a moment how she might have responded to a list of car parts, after market pistol barrels and cartridges, or the fiduciary responsibilities of limited partnerships during dissolution. But she was totally oblivious, unable to anchor her excitement. Her brown eyes shone bright as glass; the whites were pure white.

"Gee, that sounds positive.

She signaled the bartender, pushing both of their glasses forward.

The feeling of being extraneous reminded Jensen of home.

The bartender poured the wine and another glorious, smoky Glenfarclas; and then hustled off down the bar. In the conversational lull, Jensen had allowed the crowded room to surge over him like music. There were prolonged squalls of laughter and loud talk. He certainly had no desire to probe the depths of Susan Ansbach’s career, and she didn’t seem to think or talk about anything else. Then out of the blue, she drew a contorted breath and began to deliver up her movie pitch, a memorized artifact so truncated and so speedily delivered as to be almost without meaning; and she did this despite the fact that he waved his open palms in her face, and muttered shit under his breath. The truth was that he didn't care for movies, especially chick flicks that involved masks, trellises, or a premise about making a wish.

Once she had finished her recitation, Susan laughed with pleasure, claiming that she hadn’t been sure she could get through the whole thing. He had difficulty recovering his composure. The experience had resembled outright humiliation. The moment between them was rocky. When Susan saw he wasn’t going to comment, she shrugged, and said she had needed the practice. She tipped her glass toward him and took a huge swallow.

The good thing was that in the wake of this assault, she returned to earth. They drank a couple more rounds apiece, discussing the perfect martini and the stock market like normal people. They joked about what it took to catch a cab in New York and about the ambivalent feelings New Yorkers had for the cars they left behind. His sense of relief was palpable. It dawned on him that Harvey and the Greek coven had ordered dinner, because a tiny, brown-haired waitress with a nice figure suddenly planted a large platter of steamed clams on their table; and they all dug in, Nasserman and the Greek girl with an unbridled enthusiasm that suggested they were good candidates for sack time later in the evening. Jensen was starting to get pretty hungry himself. He figured he would end up eating alone if he didn't get with the program, besides Susan Ansbach had begun making promising gestures, pushing her hair back from her ears so that her earrings would show and fingering a necklace of black stones. Her lipstick had worn off, and she looked increasingly human.

I'm sorry. I haven't been a gentleman. Do you suppose you could see your way clear to being my guest for dinner; that is if you’re not planning something else tonight?

I'd love to, Susan said, her face brightening. You're a doll for inviting me!

She reached over and squeezed his arm.

Her hand was small, but full of juice. Her eyes glittered. They were ringed with dark lashes and heavy brows. The idea that she might sport one of those high rising, dark bushes caught in his throat and made it difficult to speak.

But she had moved past him, and was pointing across the room toward a table surrounded by heavy-set Italian men. "Now those guys over there are definitely candidates. Could I just walk up out of the blue and say, ‘Hey, I'm going to make you an offer?’

Have some mercy on me. I’m just a poor southern boy who can't think because he’s absolutely starving.

Me too, she agreed. Oh my god, there's a table.

She flew off her stool and was, once again, out of control. She broke through the crowd that had gathered ten deep around the bar, and set out across the large dining room, toward a table for two that had been abandoned by an elderly Italian couple.

Jensen trailed behind her in the collected haze of four stiff drinks, ruing the proximity of the formidable Italians, and once again spotting the tasty waitress. Up close the waitress was even lovelier than he had imagined, with tidy, olive skin that seemed packed with delicious intentions. She had a blue collar confidence in her ability to provide service, handed them menus, and took their order with refreshing calm. Not wishing to miss out on any advantage that would have been accorded to him, had he chosen to hang out with Nasserman, Jensen insisted they start out with the steamed clams. Then he and Susan settled on an antipasto, followed by veal scaloppini and a penne pesto.

Across the aisle, the burly Italians busily shoveled in slabs of white pizza, ladled on fresh marinara sauce from a side dish. A mound of stuffed artichokes stood at the ready. As they ate, they talked food enthusiastically, using a mixture of Italian and English. Susan was fixated upon their every word and gesture. Suddenly it dawned on Jensen that she was trying to insinuate herself into their conversation through a series of facial expressions and grunts.

So how well do you know my wife? he inserted.

Annoyed at being distracted, she screwed up her forehead as if she were trying to remember; and then plucking a piece of Italian bread from the basket, started to laugh at some private joke. The good looking waitress suddenly rushed up to their table, slammed the tray down in between them, and began checking the ticket against their order. Jensen removed the lid on the platter to make sure there were clams and not mussels. Seeing his concern, the waitress mocked him with a frown; and he felt himself grinning up at her drunkenly.

Well enough to know she listens to her mother, said Susan, putting the bread down. That I know.

That dish is hot so you have to be careful, cautioned the waitress. Your antipasto is going to come up pretty quick, so you better get moving on these or you'll throw off my timing!"

He barely had noted that her name tag read Tina, before she flew off toward the kitchen again, material rustling and her rump jiggling under a black skirt. He was still engaged by the scent of food, perfume, and sweat that trailed behind her, when he suddenly became aware that Susan Ansbach was watching him with renewed interest. He smiled with what he hoped was an enigmatic expression, and then pushed a clam onto his plate.

So what does Mother tell her? he queried.

"To do what her grandparents did and convert her portfolio into a trust for her son. As you know, her ex-husband put everything up his nose. The only thing my mother ever told me was to marry a doctor, and that was a real disaster."

Of course, a good daughter does what her mother tells her, said Jensen, his skin prickling with fire. Then he stuffed bread into his mouth and added, Of course, a good daughter doesn’t want to jeopardize her inheritance.

Of course she doesn’t.

A doctor, huh?

Not only a doctor, an Otoe-laryngologist.

He picked up a clam, pulled the meat out into his mouth, and slurped the buttery juice. He needed something in his mouth. His thoughts were racing over him like ants. The portfolio was going into a trust for a five- year-old boy. It had just never occurred to him that his plans could be short-circuited, that her parents could be so unfeeling they wouldn’t even consider him. He had married into a fortune, but it didn’t matter because he was going to be locked out of it by a pile of papers and a signature. The money he and Annette made working was nothing beside it. He felt a sharp pang in his stomach.

So we eat, said Susan, lifting up a shell and slurping her clam.

A drop of butter slid down her chin onto the table cloth, where it left a wet mark. She dabbed at it with her napkin. Jensen took another clam and burned his mouth on the shell. Still he plopped the clam onto his tongue, amazed that it could taste so delectable, that his senses could take that in while his mind churned like whitewater. He reached for another, sucking it down into the rocky void at the pit of his stomach.

How did Annette come to talk to you about that? he asked quietly.

We were discussing financial instruments. I wanted to know about trust restrictions, in terms of liquidity, for my business. I occasionally pump her for information, because you know…she's from money.

True. Does she tell you to consult a lawyer?

Sure, but she's got her family lawyer, and their associated accounting firm, with thirty years of experience, sitting on retainer. Everything's tidy. While I, on the other hand, have to work my way through a chorus of frogs that want to get paid for doing nothing. Not to be insulting to your profession, but it isn't easy.

Believe me, I understand.

What's the matter? You have a funny look on your face. Did I say something?

Don’t be silly. It’s just that we haven’t talked about it for a while. You know, things come and go. So, how far along is the process?

I know she paid for the trust paperwork, because she complained about the huge set up cost, plus the monthly rate increase.

The antipasto arrived, along with two salad plates.

Jensen could see through the waitress’s nylon blouse to the bra straps that sat beside those of a pink camisole. He focused on them, as she doled out the veal and pasta. After marking her check, she looked up.

If you need anything let me know, she instructed, and winked at him. "You look like you might need something. As you probably noticed, this chef is a speeding bullet. But he's also fantastic! This is going to be the best dinner you've ever eaten."

Is that a promise? asked Susan.

Absolutely! answered the waitress. She wrote an order for another round of drinks, before she took off like a streak toward the kitchen.

Jensen pretended to smile, but his facial muscles were leaden.

I feel like I've opened my big mouth, said Susan her eye make-up weeping beneath her lower lashes, like darkness creeping into the cradle of a moon.

Ash Jensen didn't remember anything that happened beyond that moment, until he found himself pitching drunkenly through the people-clotted restaurant, banging open the men’s room door, and throwing up in the sink. Afterward he rinsed his face with cold water, and gazed into the mirror. Burrowed into the grey milk of his skin, his eyelids were puffy and red, the pale hazel eyes bloodshot. His face was so much flat texture, his small, neat nose, a dull row upon row of pores. In truth, nothing about him stood out, except that weak part he had tried so very hard to excise, that useless, flat-faced boy who stood at the edge of the world and watched, but couldn't quite make out what he was seeing, that rube that listened to other people’s words as they marched over him, important words, meaningless words. A yellow-white line rimmed his lips so that they seemed to float away from his face. He blotted his eyes with a paper towel and fixed on the cleft below his nose, made prominent by the smudge of stubble. He observed his fresh haircut and the layer of fuzz on his hands, as he dried them. His fingernails were clean, equal in length; they had been manicured two days earlier. He couldn't decide whether looking like hell was the result of heaving his guts or learning how his wife was going to betray him.

He began to wipe out the sink methodically, using paper towels. When that was finished, he tied off the plastic trash can liner so that there would be no odor, and cracked a window to air the room. Then suddenly his face was streaked and wet again. He was sobbing. He felt like he'd split in the center, like the ache inside was going to kill him. It was the same strange physical reaction he had had when Madeline, his first wife, had walked out, the same terrible sense of deadening certainty. When he could wrench himself out from under the strain of it, he rinsed his face again and dried off once more. He would keep it from happening this time, he promised himself. There would be no betrayal. He could find a way to control the situation.

He returned to the table, embarrassed at having been gone for such a long time, but the loquacious producer didn't seem to have noticed. He figured she was probably skunk drunk too. She was happily prattling to one of the Italian goombas. The other men at the big table were silent, but looking around at what had been their deadpan faces, Ash Jensen could read some amusement. He sat down quietly, subdued by a washed-out peace, drained of any edge he might have harbored earlier. He tried nibbling on a chunk of bread and did all right. The veal went down and a small amount of pasta.

Susan looked over at him momentarily, patted his hand, and then immediately resumed her conversation with the all-important godfathers. When the dark and hairy band of Mafiosi finally sighed, pushed back their chairs, and stood up to leave, Susan kept on chattering to anyone among them who showed the slightest inclination to listen. One of the men finally opened his wallet and took out a couple of business cards. He shoved one into Susan’s outstretched hand and suggested she call him.

Then with a sympathetic grimace, he presented the other business card to Jensen.

Ash Jensen took it, smiled weakly in thanks, and slipped it into his wallet. He watched as the men paraded en masse out through the restaurant, generating a great buzz of interest. In front of the bar, they paused for a ceremonial handshake with one another, and then they were gone.

It looked as if Susan had made her mafia connection.

Chapter 2

Heart pumping, Annette Jensen raced out of the studio. Her fragile five-year-old was due to board a jet plane that afternoon so that he could spend time with his father in Pittsburgh. While living in Los Angeles, her ex-husband had distanced himself from their little family. He had taken to calling himself an actor’s actor and one of the disaffected while drinking boilermakers and doing drugs. And then, he had gone home. The court ordered rigmarole he had managed to orchestrate, precipitated in her such a foul spirit. Over the years, fear and pain had settled into an odd sense of displacement, as if a series of still frames had been inserted into time.

She knew it was a type of mourning, but it hampered her ability to deal with the imposed visitation schedule. She would forget the details, and any desperate or diligent effort to master them would collide with an oddly euphoric bliss, as if bliss were simply inverted anxiety. Everything about her situation made it clear that life was complicated. She wanted Corey to know his father, but she was afraid he might relapse.

Through the Jaguar’s windshield, she watched plumes of vapor rise and drift off toward the mountains. Before long, the pavement had resumed its dull cadet gray. The car sped over a pile of silvery-green eucalyptus leaves that crumpled like paper. But they were odorless against the smell of exhaust fumes. She thought about moving away, but the city had worked its way under her skin, like chiggers in summer camp. She was used to the precarious hills that could spontaneously burst into flame, to the polyglot cacophony, to friendships fired by need and quickly felled by change, and to the economic miracles that transformed people's lives overnight. The desire for miracles was contagious--a fresh wound that everyone shared.

She noticed her neighbor’s grey cat hiding amid overarching scrubs of fiery geraniums, and knew there would be no sudden change in her own life. Her job paid very well and it was challenging. Besides, her husband had a corporate law career to consider. He had struggled to connect with a prestigious firm. They were as committed to Los Angeles as any couple could be, even without a mortgage or hot tub payments.

Something was bothering Ash lately, and now she wondered if it might be related to work. He was knotted up with some nameless worry, and moody. He didn’t share his problems, but then he never had to discover how difficult it could be to find someone willing to listen.

She brushed back the strands of hair that had been tickling her nose. The new cut was short, and red or blonde depending on her hairdresser's mood, but lately red. Her hairdresser was very decisive and very expensive. Annette Jensen needed a trendy image, especially in her position. She thought about work and blanched. Being cheerful was the best defense, but it wasn’t really her strong suit. Sometimes there seemed little to rely on, beside her mother’s high cheekbones.

The sun poked out from behind the clouds, causing leafy branches overhanging the road to dapple the shiny gray hood. Feeling momentarily elated to be on her way, Annette popped on her sunglasses, and slid open the sunroof, but too soon the disastrous morning reasserted itself.

Her handsome, Afro-American co-worker, Phil Grand, loved and admired to distraction, had done nothing to avert the crisis. They had equal responsibility as Vice-Presidents, Artists and Repertoire Department, Rhythm and Blues Division. But good old Phil had played her like a game of poker. Annette had checked her indignation, since it would have been suicide to blow up again. Instead she had blamed her personal life.

In return, Grand had discounted her feelings.

"Don't be talking trash, Annette. Saying you have anxieties, which you then bring into your professional arena, makes you sound like a junior high slacker. Why aren’t you working these things through?"

"Maybe because there are too many things happening right now… Frankly, I don’t have time to sort through a pile of dung to look for the freaking pony."

He had been amused, but she had wondered if she’d be able to confide in him in the future. Perched on the desk, his long legs extended under perfectly creased trousers, his expensive shoes featuring prominently, he looked like a page from GQ magazine. Worse, he owned the relaxed disposition that matched his elegance. He could deliver an insult or a compliment with the same well-meaning sincerity. He was fun to be with, but their positions had them in competition.

Annette considered the other problematic male in her life, her husband, and pinpointed the timing of her current domestic difficulties. Ash had been, more or less, a pill ever since he gotten back from New York.

She turned onto Ramona Drive, checked her watch. She had just about the right amount of time. Nestled amid five acres of palm trees, deep green beds of ivy and periwinkle, blue agaves, lavender lantana, and clusters of heavenly bamboo, sat her chalk-white, terra cotta roofed Spanish Colonial family home. Crowned by a huge porch, it over-shadowed the neighboring houses. It had been a gift from her parents, when they retired to a more modest place in Florida, and it was one of the big seductions to remaining in Southern California.

Despite the walls and gardens, which marked the property boundaries, there were some unwalled areas on the perimeter. That would be unsatisfactory if the property were put on the market. People expected an impediment to trespassers. Plus, there was an eyesore next door, a small, blue-gray imitation California craftsman with flaking trim, a crumbling driveway, and a gaping crack in the foundation from an earthquake.

Suddenly, she saw her neighbor and felt panicked. The negligent homeowner, Dave Arnold, was exercising his car washing obsession and blocking her driveway. She pulled her car into position, and after struggling with the power window buttons, and lowering the back window by mistake, she hollered out in his direction.

Dave, can you please move the Corvette? I have things to do. I have to leave again, shortly.

Dave Arnold extracted himself from his perch at the wheel well, and ambled slowly toward her, his forehead screwed into a deep ditto of vexation. He twisted his rag into a ball and then wrung it out.

She offered him a helpless shrug.

I'll be done in twenty minutes, he insisted, his mouth like two slices of ham.

"But I need to pull in now," Annette explained as if addressing a child.

But you’re home early. he said. Maybe you could be patient, because I’m in the middle of a big job here.

I have an idea. Why don't you work in your own driveway?

"For your information, I need shade so that my vehicle won't streak. Get a grip! Haven't you ever waxed a car? No, you probably haven’t," he snorted.

I’m sorry, but I have to make a flight, so could you cut me a little slack, please?

She pushed the button that rolled her car window up and watched him digest the concept. Stiffening with adolescent resignation, he gathered up his sponge, cloths, polish, and bucket. He carried them to the curb, and then lumbered back to his classic Corvette, released the brake, and pushed the car forward until it cleared her driveway. Once he had concluded the activity, he turned and arms akimbo, glared at her. She thought about what Ash had said, that his synapses had been blocked by the ingestion of too much protein powder.

She shook her head in disbelief, remembered the mail, and headed toward the mailbox. Off in the distance, a lawnmower sounded. She knew it couldn't be a leaf-blower, because the city had had passed an ordinance banning them. Or perhaps it was a leaf-blower, she decided, because any entrepreneur, who tossed a flyer in a baggy weighted with a stone over your wall, wasn’t really up on city regulations. Her thoughts fell back upon Phil Grand and his comments about corporate restructuring, nettling her anew. The newly whitened daylight, her words, and the immediate future, fused into a festering headache.

If it all tumbles down, I'll be history too, and I'm not losing it, he insisted.

You're not the token white girl, Phil. You wouldn't be history, she blurted. You’re the mirror of every high level executive in this company. This place is like one long soul picnic. Half of every other discussion is about greens and trotters.

Nobody holds being white against you. The VIPs look for your perspective. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t have hired you in the first place. Don’t let Ritchie Burns interfere with your goals. Know your priority.

That would be my kid. He’s flying east this afternoon, and I’ve got to get out of here.

She had leapt up then, and headed for the door.

You're going to stick me with the mess you made?

It was more a joke than a genuine protest, but she felt forced to retaliate. You didn’t exactly volley for the lead, so let’s not complain.

His eyes narrowed, and then as inevitable as a waxing moon, his pleasant expression returned. His lips were parted and his eyes were wide open. He was always letting go in a healthy way, always easy, always revealing a certain luminescence in his physicality.

She felt as if she had been denied a leg to stand on, dismayed that he could still bestow upon her his unerring kindness. Worse, he took unmistakable pleasure in the accomplishment. Though she loved him dearly, the memory of it galled her.

She picked out the envelopes, along with copies of Architectural Digest and Buzz, closed the mailbox, and started for the car. Suddenly she felt her foot sink down into something squishy. Jumping back, she looked down and saw that it was only a sponge, but inadvertently she had overturned a can of car polish. The milky liquid was washing over the curb and down into the hose water stream. She bent over to pick it up, and heard a loud abrupt thud. Looking up, she watched a five gallon container of water roll toward her. Before she could adjust, it slammed against her leg, knocking her off her feet. She went down, landing hard on her bottom. Mysteriously, her wrist was throbbing, though she couldn’t remember having reached out to stop the fall. She looked up in confusion. Dave Arnold was peering down, his mouth squeezed into a strained pucker. The container was still rolling. He hustled after it and plunked it down on its base, then turned back toward her and raised his hands in protest.

Oh no! he said. It’s not my fault.

What are you doing! she demanded.

He looked flustered. That polish is forty-five dollars a bottle. I could have saved it, but now there's nothing left. It’s all down the drain.

My god, Dave, that hurt, she protested, feeling a sense of doom descend over her.

It was an accident, okay? I lost my grip, when I saw my shit going down into the sewer. Accidents happen. That’s why they call them accidents. Then he added with a laugh, Boy, you don't have much body consciousness. You went over like a bowling pin.

She reached out for the scattered envelopes, amid sprigs of periwinkle. Dave Arnold extended his bulging forearm, but she ignored it. He hoisted her aloft anyway. She brushed off her skirt, mumbled thanks before she could think better of it, and watched his eyes glitter with amusement. Without another comment, he hefted the huge water bottle back onto his shoulder, and trotted off over her yard toward his own.

I would have let you finish, but I couldn’t, not today, she called out. She was still angry, but he was a neighbor, and she didn’t want trouble with him in the future.

That’s okay. I’m sorry too, he called back with attitude.

She concluded that any overture was pathetic, because he was hopeless. Once again, the high-pitched whir of a distant leaf-blower sounded. Blushing, soaked in perspiration, and feeling physically weak, she climbed back into the car.

Closing the heavy, carved wooden door behind her, she sealed in the quiet. She was running late now. She felt guilty about having left work so abruptly, about having failed Phil Grand on some level, and about having been knocked on her keester. She went into the kitchen, grabbed a banana, and ate it quickly to boost her sugar. It depressed her that the bond with her husband was being threatened by some unforeseen detail that could never quite be articulated or resolved, that their pain seemed cyclical and inevitable.

She ducked into her office and checked her e-mail. There was nothing new from Phil Grand or anyone else at Dome. Voices sounded in the upstairs hallway, the housekeeper Maria’s first, and then Corey’s. She noticed an email from her trust lawyer, which she hadn’t read. He wanted to do lunch and review some papers, and asked her to call his secretary to set up the appointment. Oddly, that email had already been opened.

Chapter 3

Le Chardon was one of the more prestigious restaurants in town, and her husband’s favorite, but Annette found it too traditional. It had a decor of dark wood and sparkling mirrors, tufted napkins that floated on pale blue cloths like tiny whitecaps, and barely audible classical music playing in the background. No one raised a voice or hazarded more than a mechanical laugh. It was the formal place where grandmothers were feted for eightieth birthdays. Annette glanced through the big square windows to the near empty sidewalk. The last of the traffic was slogging toward home along the boulevard. Ash was late and she was growing impatient. She had already updated her schedule in the Blackberry, and she couldn’t think of another thing that needed to be done, or that could be done. She would have tried him on the cell phone, except that it was so wildly inappropriate in the context.

When he finally arrived, he approached the reservation desk rather