a good deal more than he deserved, but I do hope one day he’ll know the truth and forgive me for what I tried to do for him.
We pull up to a restaurant that has plants hanging from hippie-themed pots along its storefront. Although it’s nearly March, the day is bright and shiny, as usual, and a bevy of gym beauties fill the tables along the sidewalk.
“What time are you leaving for Mexico? Do you need to get back at any particular time?”
“I don’t have a schedule. I was just anxious to get out of your hair. I don’t know. I have this fear that as soon as I get out of here, something will go wrong with the will. Maybe I should just stick this out. It’s not worth the chance of my being stuck here longer.”
“Don’t be silly, Jane. I have plenty of room, and you’re not bothering me. I like the company, and you’re better than a cat. At least you take care of the cat you came with.” She giggles.
We enter the restaurant and someone even thinner than Lindsay (if that’s possible?) seats us at a table near the window and all the other diamond-clad trophy wives in gym gear. “Doesn’t anyone work around here?”
“For a lot of these women, going to the gym is work. They are either actresses or trophy wives, both of which require a certain physique.”
“You say that matter-of-factly. Don’t you find it sad?”
She shrugs. “Of course I do, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Haley could never please her ex-husband, and there isn’t anyone who tried harder. That’s one thing I loved about Ron. We were both very flawed individuals, and we could respect that in each other. I loved him though he was older and drank too much. He loved me though I was flighty, can’t cook for beans, and had to work hard to understand what he did for clients so that I could be of some help to him.”
“You tried, Lindsay. That’s more than I did, so I applaud you for that.” And I do. The more I get to know Lindsay, the more facets I can see in her that are genuine and intelligent. But beautiful people are often charming and put one off their guard. I try to remember this as she orders a breakfast fit for a lumberjack. “I’ll have the gluten-free pancakes with fresh strawberries on top and a side of organic bacon. Oh, and Diet Coke to drink.”
“Organic bacon and Diet Coke?”
“You want that, too?”
I peruse the menu, which has an abundance of adjectives that mean nothing to me. Organic, gluten-free, farm-raised, non-hydrogenated, no GMOs. “I want two eggs, over-easy, with a side of toast,” I say.
“Whole wheat bread all right?”
“Absolutely. Orange juice to drink and a coffee.”
“Fresh-squeezed or flash-frozen?”
“Fresh-squeezed.” I hand her the menu and peer at Lindsay, who is putting her hair into a large, tortoise-shell barrette. “I have to ask: are there chicken sausages which aren’t raised on a farm?”
She giggles. “Look, I save my chemicals for Diet Coke. I want my chickens clean. Better living through chemicals, but not diseases from imported, dirty birds, you know what I’m saying?”
“I haven’t a clue, actually. So what happens when you come to visit me in Mexico and someone in the neighborhood skins their chicken for your dinner? Is that street-raised?” The waitress fills my cup with something dark and cinammon-scented. “This is coffee?”
“Our special blend,” she says with a smile.
“Yum!” I take one sip and have to fight to swallow the bitter liquid.
Lindsay continues, “I’d be thrilled to have Mexican chicken from the streets of Campeche. Are you inviting me?”
“You’re afraid to go to Ensenada. You’re telling me you’re going to take a Mexican airliner all the way to Campeche?”
“No, I’m afraid you’ll go to Ensenada and won’t come back soon, and the probate will drag on ever longer.”
“Ah, so it’s a selfish reason you want me to stay here.” Secretly, I think it’s because she doesn’t want to be alone again,
We pull up to a restaurant that has plants hanging from hippie-themed pots along its storefront. Although it’s nearly March, the day is bright and shiny, as usual, and a bevy of gym beauties fill the tables along the sidewalk.
“What time are you leaving for Mexico? Do you need to get back at any particular time?”
“I don’t have a schedule. I was just anxious to get out of your hair. I don’t know. I have this fear that as soon as I get out of here, something will go wrong with the will. Maybe I should just stick this out. It’s not worth the chance of my being stuck here longer.”
“Don’t be silly, Jane. I have plenty of room, and you’re not bothering me. I like the company, and you’re better than a cat. At least you take care of the cat you came with.” She giggles.
We enter the restaurant and someone even thinner than Lindsay (if that’s possible?) seats us at a table near the window and all the other diamond-clad trophy wives in gym gear. “Doesn’t anyone work around here?”
“For a lot of these women, going to the gym is work. They are either actresses or trophy wives, both of which require a certain physique.”
“You say that matter-of-factly. Don’t you find it sad?”
She shrugs. “Of course I do, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Haley could never please her ex-husband, and there isn’t anyone who tried harder. That’s one thing I loved about Ron. We were both very flawed individuals, and we could respect that in each other. I loved him though he was older and drank too much. He loved me though I was flighty, can’t cook for beans, and had to work hard to understand what he did for clients so that I could be of some help to him.”
“You tried, Lindsay. That’s more than I did, so I applaud you for that.” And I do. The more I get to know Lindsay, the more facets I can see in her that are genuine and intelligent. But beautiful people are often charming and put one off their guard. I try to remember this as she orders a breakfast fit for a lumberjack. “I’ll have the gluten-free pancakes with fresh strawberries on top and a side of organic bacon. Oh, and Diet Coke to drink.”
“Organic bacon and Diet Coke?”
“You want that, too?”
I peruse the menu, which has an abundance of adjectives that mean nothing to me. Organic, gluten-free, farm-raised, non-hydrogenated, no GMOs. “I want two eggs, over-easy, with a side of toast,” I say.
“Whole wheat bread all right?”
“Absolutely. Orange juice to drink and a coffee.”
“Fresh-squeezed or flash-frozen?”
“Fresh-squeezed.” I hand her the menu and peer at Lindsay, who is putting her hair into a large, tortoise-shell barrette. “I have to ask: are there chicken sausages which aren’t raised on a farm?”
She giggles. “Look, I save my chemicals for Diet Coke. I want my chickens clean. Better living through chemicals, but not diseases from imported, dirty birds, you know what I’m saying?”
“I haven’t a clue, actually. So what happens when you come to visit me in Mexico and someone in the neighborhood skins their chicken for your dinner? Is that street-raised?” The waitress fills my cup with something dark and cinammon-scented. “This is coffee?”
“Our special blend,” she says with a smile.
“Yum!” I take one sip and have to fight to swallow the bitter liquid.
Lindsay continues, “I’d be thrilled to have Mexican chicken from the streets of Campeche. Are you inviting me?”
“You’re afraid to go to Ensenada. You’re telling me you’re going to take a Mexican airliner all the way to Campeche?”
“No, I’m afraid you’ll go to Ensenada and won’t come back soon, and the probate will drag on ever longer.”
“Ah, so it’s a selfish reason you want me to stay here.” Secretly, I think it’s because she doesn’t want to be alone again,
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