spilling over with magenta bougainvillea
by his place, Carlotta’s signature.
“Why don’t you make yourself at home?” Janet laughed. Then, “God, Carlotta’s going to think I slept with you, only two weeks
into widowhood.”
“Hardly,” Alan said. “When she bustled through the living room this morning she couldn’t miss my six-foot-two body doubled
up on one of your four-foot-two love seats, and she couldn’t fail to note that your bedroom door was shut and presumably bolted
against this big, bad wolf—big, bad,
aching
wolf,” he grimaced, stretching and rubbing the small of his back.
“My last day in this
auditorium,”
she said, looking back through the French doors at the massive living room littered with boxes, packing scraps, lamps on
the floor, planters at the periphery, and her exquisite pair of Lawson love seats dwarfed in the expanse.
“Let’s get thee to a hotel,” Alan said, “before you start getting melancholy.”
“I can’t wait. I just have to sort out what to bring.”
“You don’t have to bring the world,” he reasoned. “It’s not as if you don’t have the keys to this joint. You
can
come back and pick up a hair dryer, you know.”
“I know. But I don’t
want
to come back.”
“Well, Carlotta will be here, and she can run anything you need over to the bungalow.”
Janet had reserved a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel for a month. Now that the auction was over, she would get out of
this mammoth villa that she had shared with Jack. She had put it on the market, and she would stay at the hotel while she
looked for an apartment for herself and Carlotta, something minimal, until she could get her bearings and figure out where
she wanted to live next. Meanwhile, Carlotta would oversee the big house, clean it up, and get it ready for sale.
Thank God for Carlotta,
she thought.
And thank God for Alan. During the late hours of the auction yesterday she had felt a tremendous letdown, seeing Jack’s things
scrutinized and pawed over, each one eliciting memories, good, bad, and bittersweet. When it was finally, mercifully, over,
she’d walked out of the hall without looking back, Alan at her elbow. He took her to a small restaurant on Beverly Drive,
a low-profile bistro where it was unlikely they would run into friends. The waiter brought drinks, she took one sip, and that’s
when she dissolved into a deluge of tears.
“Go ahead; let it all out,” Alan had urged. “There’s nobody here but us, and you don’t have to worry about your makeup; it’s
all gone anyway. What are you feeling?”
“Nothing,” she’d sobbed. “I just feel…empty.”
“Well, let’s fill you up,” he’d said. “When you’re ready to talk, you’ll talk. Or not. Meantime, let’s order some dinner.”
He’d summoned the waiter and made a show of choosing.This salad or that? A little caviar to start? Why not? Go over the fish entrées, please, he had a woman here he had to feed.
Look at her, he told the waiter; she was actually crying with hunger pains. Janet was blowing her nose and laughing at the
same time.
“Oh, this is attractive,” she’d sniffled. “Give me a minute; I’ll pull my act together—”
“I’m enjoying your act,” he’d said with a smile. “I like
all
your acts…. This one’s good. Oh, splendid, here’s the bread. A little bread for you, no butter, I know….” He broke off half
a roll and extended it to her. “Comfort food,” he said, “good for you.”
He
was good for her, good therapy.
After dinner, they drove back to Sotheby’s to pick up her car. “I’m going to follow you home,” he’d said, and when she protested
that it wasn’t necessary, he said he thought it was. And she did need his bolstering.
When he ushered her back into the big house, she was engulfed by an overwhelming loneliness. In the cavernous living room,
mostly barren now except for a few skeletal pieces and the detritus from the
by his place, Carlotta’s signature.
“Why don’t you make yourself at home?” Janet laughed. Then, “God, Carlotta’s going to think I slept with you, only two weeks
into widowhood.”
“Hardly,” Alan said. “When she bustled through the living room this morning she couldn’t miss my six-foot-two body doubled
up on one of your four-foot-two love seats, and she couldn’t fail to note that your bedroom door was shut and presumably bolted
against this big, bad wolf—big, bad,
aching
wolf,” he grimaced, stretching and rubbing the small of his back.
“My last day in this
auditorium,”
she said, looking back through the French doors at the massive living room littered with boxes, packing scraps, lamps on
the floor, planters at the periphery, and her exquisite pair of Lawson love seats dwarfed in the expanse.
“Let’s get thee to a hotel,” Alan said, “before you start getting melancholy.”
“I can’t wait. I just have to sort out what to bring.”
“You don’t have to bring the world,” he reasoned. “It’s not as if you don’t have the keys to this joint. You
can
come back and pick up a hair dryer, you know.”
“I know. But I don’t
want
to come back.”
“Well, Carlotta will be here, and she can run anything you need over to the bungalow.”
Janet had reserved a bungalow at the Beverly Hills Hotel for a month. Now that the auction was over, she would get out of
this mammoth villa that she had shared with Jack. She had put it on the market, and she would stay at the hotel while she
looked for an apartment for herself and Carlotta, something minimal, until she could get her bearings and figure out where
she wanted to live next. Meanwhile, Carlotta would oversee the big house, clean it up, and get it ready for sale.
Thank God for Carlotta,
she thought.
And thank God for Alan. During the late hours of the auction yesterday she had felt a tremendous letdown, seeing Jack’s things
scrutinized and pawed over, each one eliciting memories, good, bad, and bittersweet. When it was finally, mercifully, over,
she’d walked out of the hall without looking back, Alan at her elbow. He took her to a small restaurant on Beverly Drive,
a low-profile bistro where it was unlikely they would run into friends. The waiter brought drinks, she took one sip, and that’s
when she dissolved into a deluge of tears.
“Go ahead; let it all out,” Alan had urged. “There’s nobody here but us, and you don’t have to worry about your makeup; it’s
all gone anyway. What are you feeling?”
“Nothing,” she’d sobbed. “I just feel…empty.”
“Well, let’s fill you up,” he’d said. “When you’re ready to talk, you’ll talk. Or not. Meantime, let’s order some dinner.”
He’d summoned the waiter and made a show of choosing.This salad or that? A little caviar to start? Why not? Go over the fish entrées, please, he had a woman here he had to feed.
Look at her, he told the waiter; she was actually crying with hunger pains. Janet was blowing her nose and laughing at the
same time.
“Oh, this is attractive,” she’d sniffled. “Give me a minute; I’ll pull my act together—”
“I’m enjoying your act,” he’d said with a smile. “I like
all
your acts…. This one’s good. Oh, splendid, here’s the bread. A little bread for you, no butter, I know….” He broke off half
a roll and extended it to her. “Comfort food,” he said, “good for you.”
He
was good for her, good therapy.
After dinner, they drove back to Sotheby’s to pick up her car. “I’m going to follow you home,” he’d said, and when she protested
that it wasn’t necessary, he said he thought it was. And she did need his bolstering.
When he ushered her back into the big house, she was engulfed by an overwhelming loneliness. In the cavernous living room,
mostly barren now except for a few skeletal pieces and the detritus from the
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