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He shook his head. “Three girls is enough.”
“Why haven’t you remarried?” I wasn’t sure if I liked the idea, but my dad wasn’t really meant to live alone. “It’s been almost twenty years.”
“You’re one to talk, with all your boyfriends.” He grabbed lettuce and carrots for a salad. “You’re a female Lothario.”
“I am not.”
“You’re Lotharia.”
“I’m not Lotharia.”
“You break up with every man you date. I can’t imagine Rip’ll last much longer, poor guy.”
“You like him?” Every time Rip met my father, he tried to sell him a new house.
“The question is, do you?”
“He’s funny and smart and wonderful—what’s not to like?”
“You’re not getting VD?” Dad asked.
No, he didn’t mean VD VD. He meant Vague Dissatisfaction. I’d stupidly confessed to him once that I had an acute case of Vague Dissatisfaction. Nothing in particular was wrong, but nothing felt right. It was why I never stuck with things very long. Dad considered it a low-level social disease, which would flare up periodically into unsightly outbreaks: VD. Dad thought he was pretty funny.
I glared. “Everything’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Then give me an onion.”
I gave him an onion, and we let the subject drop. He told university stories over dinner, and when we’d finished, he offered me Oreos for dessert.
“Is it a new package?” I asked.
“Anne, you’ve got to stop this.”
“My diet starts tomorrow.”
“You know what I mean. Your obsession with newness.”
Easy for him to say. With two older sisters, hand-me-downs had been the primary fact of my young life.
Charlotte had a Malibu Barbie with a full wardrobe. Emily had a slightly used Malibu Barbie with two outfits. I had a one-armed, bald Barbie who enjoyed nudist colonies.
Charlotte wore Jordache when it was popular. Emily wore Jordache when it was passable. I wore Jordache when it was passé.
Charlotte learned to drive on a six-year-old VW Rabbit. Emily learned on a seven-year-old VW Rabbit. I learned on a twelve-year-old, rusted-out junker with suspicious stains on the seats and the faint odor of Gruyère.
But all I said to Dad was, “I don’t like stale Oreos is all.”
He lifted his pipe from the ashtray on the kitchen table and packed it with tobacco. “They’re fresh from the factory.”
“Where are they?” I asked, heading toward the pantry.
“Bottom shelf.”
I pulled the half-eaten package from the shelf and forced myself to take one. From the back. The very back. “Not bad.”
Dad looked pleased as he lit up his pipe, and I surreptitiously pulled a brand-new carton of milk from the fridge—ignoring the one which was already open—and poured myself a glass. I’d let him discover that little treat tomorrow.
When I got home, I found a message from Rip. The nights we weren’t together we usually talked before sleep, and lately we’d been discussing moving in together. I’d lived with other men—Doug and Alex, for about twenty minutes each—but always returned to Charlotte’s guest house when things went awry. I wasn’t sure if living with Rip was a good idea. We already worked in the same office, and spending more time together seemed a great way to kill a nice relationship.
I picked up the phone to call him back, but didn’t feel like talking. I was itchy and restless. I switched on the TV. I’d see Rip at work tomorrow.
CHAPTER 05
By ten-thirty the next morning, I knew that Dad’s words had ruined me. I’d been perfectly content and happy—or at least acceptably content and happy—until he’d mentioned my VD. Now I was in the grips of an enormous amorphous ennui.
The job was fine. Rip was great. I didn’t care.
I sulked through the morning, and slipped out for an early liquid lunch. I sipped my peanut-butter-banana-chocolate smoothie and worried. Was I Lotharia? It wasn’t like I cut a huge swath through the male population. I just hadn’t found the right man, and couldn’t quite bring myself to care. Could Rip be the one? Well, his name was Rip, but that’s no worse than Ralph as in Fiennes, even if it is pronounced Rafe.
At least Rip was pronounced Rip. And his personality was as solid as his elocution. Perfect husband material…if only I were looking for a husband. I wasn’t. It’s far easier to have a relationship when you aren’t. The pressure cooker is off. I’ve watched friends with their cookers clamped down tight, the steamer diddly whirling round and round. Every date, every conversation and sexual experience, every misunderstanding, deviant desire, ambition, frustration and inadequacy is added to the pot until the whole thing blows.
I prefer the omelet approach to relationships. You use what few ingredients you have at hand, scramble them in a hot pan, and enjoy. Quick and simple.
Then why was I feeling such discontent?
Back in the office, I did what I always did when side-swiped by dissatisfaction: a little personal research. I’d collected a file of real estate deals I was interested in—my Recent Developments file. From big money resorts to condo conversions to commercial buildings, all the deals I was sure would make me rich, if I actually pursued them. Well, and could afford them. And knew how to be a developer and all.
My file of dreams. I flipped through it, and decided to call about The Hole, one of my recurring dream deals. A block off downtown Santa Barbara, there used to be a residential hotel for old people. But it was on prime real estate, and the old people were considered well past their prime, so some developer kicked everyone out and tore the place down, with assurances that they’d find the seniors new homes and bring prosperity and joy to downtown. Five years later, all they’d brought was The Hole—the great gaping basement of the hotel they’d demolished.
Well, I had some plans for that gaping basement. I dialed.
“I’m calling about the property on the corner of Carrillo and Chapala,” I told the man on the other end. “I’m representing—”
“You’re not representing anyone,” he said. “I recognize your voice.”
So maybe I’d called once too often. But thank God he didn’t know who I was. I’d never given a name.
“Well, if you’d just fax me the information—” I said.
“Are you a broker?”
“Not exactly.”
“You still think it’d be a great place for an indoor driving range?”
“I never said that!” I said. “That was just my way of getting you to talk to me.”
“And this is just my way of talking.” He hung up.
I growled into the phone and flipped through the Recent Developments. Nothing else caught my eye. Maybe it wasn’t a deal I needed. Maybe it was a new job. Rip walked in as I was glowering at the wall. He looked at my face, looked at the Recent Developments file open on my desk, and slipped into his office, closing his door for protection against the gathering clouds.
I guess I really am like Emily sometimes. But sometimes I’m like Charlotte, too. And I wasn’t going to let myself ruin everything. So I opened the door softly and gave him a smile. It was the job I was VDed with, not the man.
He eyed me suspiciously. “What?”
“I was just thinking how much I like your arms.”
“You want your desk moved again? It’s not getting the afternoon sun?”
“My desk is perfect. So is my boss.”
His suspicion grew into wariness. “How did your call go?”
“I’m this close to closing a big downtown deal.”
“Hung up on you again, huh?”
“Yeah. But I’ve got a plan.”
“Let me guess. It involves taking two-hour lunches?”
I waved an airy hand. “Oh, that—my boss is a pushover.”
“That’s not what I heard. I heard he wants to take it out of your hide.”
“He has to catch me first.”
Wren and I had a standing date Wednesday nights. We’d walk Ny at Hendry’s beach, then head up to the Mesa for a burrito before class. I considered stopping at the antiques store before meeting her, but I wasn’t going to be late to pick up some crusty old chamberpot.
“I’m thinking of quitting.” I put the tray of food on our table outside the burrito place: veggie tacos for me, chicken burrito for Wren, and cheese quesadilla for Ny. “Salsa?”
Wren gave me a look as she unwrapped her burrito. “Why?”
“For spice,” I said, tossing Ny’s quesadilla to the ground. He engulfed it.
She gave me another look. “I mean, why quit?”
“Yeah, I know. For spice.”
“Ha-ha.”
“I dunno…I just think it’s time.”
“What would you do instead?”
“You know I never have trouble getting a job.”
“Just keeping one.”
“I’d still be working at Element, if you hadn’t fired me.”
“If I hadn’t fired you,” she said, biting into her burrito. “There wouldn’t be an Element anymore.”
I made a face at her. “I wasn’t that bad.”
“You were worse. You haven’t broken up with Rip, have you?”
“No.”
“Not yet,” she said.
“You sound like my dad.”
“I like your father.”
“Yeah, a little too much. You want to get it on with my dad, don’t you?”
“I’m serious. Rip is great. You don’t deserve him.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Give him a chance, Anne. I know you’re approaching the sell-by date, but—”
“I’m not,” I insisted. “That’s why I want a new job. To preserve the relationship.”
“I thought you got along great at work.”
“Well, aside from the buzzer.” I toyed with my taco, before pushing it away. “God, Wren, I’m just so…bored. With me, with my job. Everything.”
“Here.” She dumped salsa verde on my taco. “A little more spice.”
For some reason, this made me feel better. Maybe because she seemed to be agreeing with me, even if it was only about the taco. We finished our meals and Wren sat back in her chair, replete from her burrito. “Now all I need is a naked woman and fifty pounds of warm mud, and I’ll be good.”
Twenty minutes later, she got more than she asked for. We were in the main room, the drapes pulled tight over the windows, with spotlights on a beautiful naked man, and Wren was up to her elbows in clay. She rolled her sculpture stand closer to mine and dug a big hunk from a bag of terra-cotta.
We’d been attending the Adult Ed clay sculpture class for the past three years. Originally, we’d started because Wren thought it would be a good place to meet sensitive men, and I thought I’d like mucking around with mud. She’d never found a sensitive man—or an insensitive one, for that matter—but we kept coming.
Our patience had finally been rewarded. In three years, we’d only had a handful of male models, and none of them had looked like Mr. Nude America here. There were a dozen students in the class, held at the Schott Center on the upper west side. The sessions usually started with around twenty-five students, but it was fairly late in the season, and we’d dwindled down to the regulars.
I glanced briefly at the model, clinically observing his broad shoulders and washboard stomach, and when I looked away I noticed that Wren had already roughed out his torso. In clay, that is.
“That was fast,” I said.
She glanced at the clock. “You’ve been staring at the poor guy for twenty minutes.”
“I was examining the subject.”
“And drooling.”
