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ON THE HOUSE
When true love goes wrong—a woman's best friend may be her dog. Or—not. Do you think he's dangerous?" "Ron, you mean? Or Cooper? Down, Cooper." I pushed the Lab's massive yellow paw from my bare leg. With a big-eyed look that meant "just this once," he curled up under my bar stool, nose on my sandal. I love Cooper. He's the only one whose feet are bigger than mine, and he might just hate Ron as much as I do. I took a sip of my ill-advised third glass of Shiraz and looked across the bar at Errol. Gave him a "one more" signal. "I know, you mean Ron," I said to Jess. "And no, he's not dangerous. He's just a jerk." "A two-timing, paranoid, self-obsessed moron." Jess was attempting to fish a stubborn green olive from the bottom of her martini glass. Failing, she stabbed it with her little red plastic sword, and held it triumphantly. "If I could do this to Ron the moron, don't think I'd give it a second thought. Head on a pike. Finally. Justice." I stabbed my own sword into the little white straw I'd been fussing with. My napkin was already in shreds. Giving me a patient smile, Errol swept up the shards and placed a new napkin on the battered zinc bar. Followed quickly by another glass of Shiraz. "On the house, Rachel," he said. "Anyone who's had as bad a day as you have. As bad a couple of months. Errol's can provide one more glass of red." "Thanks," I said, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. Errol meant well. And, true, he'd been hearing my Ron-laments for months now. But the phrase makes me wince every time. 'On The House' was our dream agency. The one Ron and I were going to open to make us both real estate millionaires. Competing brokers, we'd met at an open house in Back Bay. Neither of us got the sale, but we got each other. For better, and not long after, for worse. Then much, much worse. Cooper shifted under my stool, probably having some dog dream. My only dream was that I'd never have to set one more toe in divorce court again. At this point, whatever Ron wanted, he could have. All I wanted was out. But out was not in the cards. Tomorrow, we were back in a stifling probate courtroom in downtown Boston. And I knew my return to singlehood was not imminent. "I'm going to be married forever," I lamented into my glass of wine. Whine. "I'm going to be married to the mistake forever. He's like a—" "Leech," Jess offered. My best friend could always find the right word. "It's symbiosis gone all wrong," I agreed. "We used to live for each other. I remember that, don't I? Then suddenly, I was going to work. And he was—" A drift of some floral scent overpowered the bar-fragrance of salted almonds and beer and twists of lemon. I smelled—hair spray? And expensive perfume. And turned to see the Platonic ideal of blondeness slide onto the stool beside me. I scooted closer to Jess, giving the prom queen newcomer all the space she needed. "Well, he told you he was going to work," Jess said. "He kissed you goodbye. And then went back to bed. How were you supposed to know he was blowing off his real estate job? With—what'd he say? Chronic fatigue?" "Chronic fathead," I said, taking the last sip of glass three. "He's got enough energy to sneak around with other women and shop with my credit cards. He's got enough energy to criticize everything I do. He's got enough energy to file for divorce. Moron." Cooper shifted position, stretching out his front paws and almost knocking over my red leather purse. Ron always called him "Klutz." Or "Galoot." Coop did everything a dog could to do to insult him back. Planting mud-streaked paws on his Italian suits. Chewing his shoes. The incident of the sweater drawer. Errol placed another glass in front of me. My brain sent warnings about tomorrow morning and puffy eyes and the harbor-side condo I was showing at the crack of ten. "Back in court," I continued, shaking my head at the relentlessness of it all. My life seemed ruined before it had really begun. "I'm thirty-something. I'm in good shape. My hair is still naturally brownish. My dog likes me. I'm pretty successful, all things considered. And yet I'm—" "Bummed," Jess suggested, clinking glasses. Her hair, scrabbly and almost-maroon, looked somehow hip instead of wacky. She was a good actress, established in local theater. And she could wear those little ankle boots with a short skirt. I'd look like I was in outgrown hand-me-downs. "He really asking you to pay alimony?" Errol put a glass in front of the Prom Queen. Chardonnay, of course. I turned my back on her, just a bit. But I couldn't avoid her face in the lighted expanse of mirror behind Errol. When she raised her glass at my reflection, offering a friendly smile, I managed a noncommittal one in return.. No need to be a bitch just because I'm being taken to the cleaners by a weasel in a prince charming outfit. Whatever. I knew what I meant. Being on glass four now meant my metaphors might be turning unreliable. "Yup. He wants me to pay him. Beyond ridiculous. Wish I could, I don't know. Do something," I said. I used Jess's little sword to stab holes in a cardboard St. Pauli Girl coaster. Right in the milkmaid's nose. Whatever she was. Beer maid. "Like, erase the condo listings from his computer. Change the speed dial phone numbers on his cell phone so whenever he called someone, he'd get someone different." "Funny," Jess agreed, contemplating. "But it wouldn't get you a divorce." True. That was the problem. All I wanted was a divorce. And Ron was doing everything he could to delay it. "Why? Why? Why?" I asked, perhaps more dramatically than necessary. Cooper looked up, his cocoa eyes questioning, making sure I was okay. I blew him a kiss, and he flopped his tail once, understanding. "I realize he ridicules me to cover up his own failures. But he knows he lied. And cheated. And stole." "He's doing it to make you miserable," Jess said. She hooked those little heels over the rail of her stool, facing me. "That's all he has now. That's like his job, you know? He gets up in the morning and thinks of ways to make you miserable." "Well, he's damn good at it," I said to my wine. "I'm miserable." "Last call," Errol said. I looked at my watch. "You're kidding. It's one-thirty on a school night?" "A court night," Jess reminded me. Men are like that." The voice came from behind me. Not a bitter voice, not a sad voice. Just straightforward. Matter of fact. I turned. Jess leaned her elbows on the bar, curving herself to see past me. "I've known too many of them," Prom Queen added. She lifted her almost untouched Chardonnay, toasting me again. Her pale lipstick had not even left a smudge on the polished glass. "And they all want the same thing. Don't they? They all want their own way." Well, that was interesting. Cooper lifted his head, sniffed, and gave her his most adoring look. That was interesting, too. I looked up, catching Errol's eye. He was in classic bartender pose, towel and martini glass. He shrugged. "Last call," he said. *** "Do you think she's dangerous?" Jess moved a stack of magazines with her foot, making room on my just-dusted coffee table for her legs. She leaned back against the puffy navy cushions of my couch, staring at the ceiling. I swatted Jess's feet back to the floor, replacing them with a casual, but thoughtful display of cheese and crackers. Prom Queen's name turned out to be Camilla Ayers. She was on the way. And she was offering an interesting proposition. "No," I said. "Camilla's got a genius plan. And in a little while, we're going to find out if it can work." Cooper snuffled towards the brie. I pointed sternly, an 'I am the master, you are the dog' gesture to indicate that cheese was people food. Cooper pretended to be confused, the way he always does when I give a command. Most often, he does just the opposite of what I say. It wasn't my usual Saturday afternoon. But yesterday had been my usual Friday. Court, arguments, and Ron's histrionics. He was representing himself after he'd refused to pay his original lawyer. Typical Ron: the rules don't apply to him. Oh, he was out of money. Oh, he was too sick to work. Oh, "the defendant" should give him alimony. Oh, she got the dog just to drive him crazy. It was all I could do not to leap out of my rickety wooden chair. I couldn't believe the Judge stood for it. Sat for it. But she did. And Ron got yet another continuance. How could I have made such a life-ruining mistake? I'd longed for a husband. A partner. Maybe even a baby. But Ron soon decided everything wrong in his life was my fault. And never let me forget it. I looked towards my front door, even though there's no way to see who's walking up the front path. I'm on the top floor, and you have to buzz to get through the main entrance. No buzz yet. "Don't you think it's genius?" I said, looking to Jess for reassurance. "I mean, I'm not hiring her to kill him. It's not like she's some FBI agent, entrapping me into a sting. And there are no hidden cameras here. It's my own apartment." Jess swiped a Sociable through the brie, using one finger to cut her gooey cheese away from the white triangle. "There are no real hired killers," she said, licking her finger. "They're all FBI agents. I've never understood why people don't realize that. I mean, don't they read the paper?" "Probably not," I replied. For the millionth time, I made sure I had pulled out everything Camilla said she needed. Family photos. Wedding and vacation pictures. Memories now so poisoned she could keep them all forever, far as I was concerned. But she said she needed anything that could give her insight into Ron's background. "How do you suppose she'll do it?" Cooper leaped up, tail flailing, paws scrabbling on the hardwood floor, yipping like an over-wound toy.. As the snare of the bell hit our human ears, Cooper jumped up against the front door, his pudgy yellow paws leaving even more marks on the painted metal. Stretched out, nose to tail, he was taller than I was... "Down, Cooper," I said, for the millionth time. He didn't care. "Down." "Here we go," I said to Jess. "Your funeral," Jess replied. ***** Sitting cross-legged on my couch, listening to the best idea I'd ever heard, I briefly wondered if Camilla Ayers was some angel sent by a heretofore unknown society for the protection of cruelty to wronged women. A revenging angel. "So I'll tell him," she said, finishing up her 'proposal.' "No sex with me until he's absolutely divorced. Signed on the dotted line, no more continuances, no more court dates, you out of his life forever. Believe me, you'll soon be rid of him." "You think it'll work?" Looking at her effortless blonde hair, her no-makeup make-up, her toned biceps and graceful ankles, it was easy to imagine her getting anything she wanted. From men at least. Even Cooper was smitten, staring at her as if she were a morsel of bacon, placing his nose protectively near her delicately pink toes. I mulled Camilla's idea. Brilliant, but certainly a little out there. "He's a jerk," Jess said. "He's a manipulative, megalomaniacal, selfish—jerk. My vote? If Camilla does her thing, he'll be toast. Jell-O. Mincemeat." Cooper lifted his eyebrows towards Jess at the mention of meat. But he didn't leave his post. Camilla nodded, one lock of blond falling across her brown eyes. And by brown, I mean molten chocolate. Everything about her was delicious. I had to admit, I could see how it might work. "It'll work," Camilla said. "It's worked every time." "You mean you've—?" I said. "You mean it's a—?" Jess said at the same time. Camilla held up a hand. "Let's just see what we have here," she said, stopping our speculation. She turned a few pages in one leather-bound photo album. "Wedding took place at a ski resort? So he skis?" I nodded. "Double black diamond." "School? Family relationships? How does he get along with his mother? Does he have sisters? Do you have his bank records? What's his favorite food? Was he married before?" By the time we'd finished, all the brie and crackers were gone. We'd given up tea for Chardonnay. Least I could do. And plan Get-Ron was underway. My divorce was going to happen. I was convinced. What's more, Camilla had promised I could watch. ***** "Over there, behind the palm tree," I whispered, though I didn't need to, pointing Jess in the right direction. We were positioned on stools at the bar in Larissa, the chicest restaurant in town. Three tables behind us, reflected perfectly in mirror view, were Angel Camilla and Devil Ron. "Why do men always fall for the hair flipping thing?" Jess whispered, too. "Who cares," I said. We were dolled up in wigs from Jess's costume stash, Burberry scarves, and fake glasses. Camilla had promised she'd make sure he didn't see us, but Jess insisted we take precautions. "Look at him. He's literally drooling." I felt happy for the first time in months. Camilla was in full flirt mode. Laughing, touching Ron's hand, twirling her hair. She was probably talking about skiing and having a younger brother. And loving Italian food and watching the World Cup. Just like Ron. Oh, what a coincidence. He was a goner. And there was nothing illegal about it. The whole point was that she wasn't going to sleep with him. So it wasn't like she was a hooker, or even an escort. She was just on a date. Acting. Not a woman alive who hasn't done exactly the same thing. And no one was getting hurt. Except Ron. Who deserved it. And he would just be as angry as I was. Welcome to my world, I silently telegraphed across the room. How could I have thought he loved me? I'd made a huge miscalculation. He'd made me miserable. Now it was my turn. I could ruin his life. Just long enough to get free of him. "Is it creepy that you're not paying her?" Jess asked. She adjusted her plaid silk scarf. "Or would it be creepier if you did pay?" I had to admit that had been nagging at me too. When I'd asked, hesitantly, about 'reimbursement,' Camilla had smiled, waving me off. "It's on the house," she'd said. *** "You're lucky to be out of his life, I must say." Camilla's voice crackled through my cell phone. "Why?" I asked, almost shrugging. I had Cooper on his leash, a cloth carryall of groceries over one shoulder, my purse over the other. We were walking home from the grocery in the quiet May twilight, one of those wonderful Boston evenings where the fragrance of the harbor smells like salt and sun, and summer is more than a promise. Nothing Camilla could say could ruin my night. Our plan was working. And soon I would be single again. "He doesn't like you very much," Camilla said. Her voice, even over the phone, was gentle and tentative. "I mean, did you have some quilts your grandmother made?" "Gran's quilts?' I said, alarms suddenly going off in my head. "Yes, they're treasures. Made from her wedding dress. And her mother's. They're in my wooden chest, in the guest bedroom. In tissue paper." "They're not, I'm afraid," Camilla said. "Ron told me he sold them. Your wedding china, too. He left the carton marked 'china' in the storage locker, he told me. And he was quite gleeful when he told me he'd packed it with old paperbacks and taped it up again. Said he wished he could be there when you opened it." Tears came to my eyes, blurring the brownstones and Cooper and the emerging moon. I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Cooper sat, looking up at me, inquiring. Two twenty-somethings, all earbuds and miniskirts and pushing-the-season tank tops looked at me scathingly as they passed. "He's crazy," I whispered. "Maybe," Camilla agreed. "What did you do to him, anyway?" "Nothing." I could hear the anguish in my own voice. I'd thought about this very question, endlessly. Was it the building I sold? He said, 'out from under him'? That I was more successful than he was? Suddenly, nothing I had done was right. He even hated Cooper, a squirming birthday present I'd chosen to charm him. First, Ron had gotten quiet. Then mean. Not physically mean, but still. I never felt quite safe. "Nothing." "Well, it's almost over," Camilla said. "He's hooked. I'm sure of it." **** I slit open the long white envelope, slowly, carefully, as if what was inside was so important I didn't want to risk ripping the paper. I pulled out a kitchen chair and sat at my little table by the sliding glass doors to the deck. Carefully drawing a folded piece of white paper from the envelope, I took a deep breath. And flapped open the top. Then the bottom. Decreed this twenty-ninth day of May, it began. In the middle, a lot of legalese that meant no alimony, no payments from the "defendant" to the "plaintiff" no obligations, no connections, no ties, no nothing. The condo was all mine. And by the power vested in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, the document ended, this divorce is final. All the blood rushed to my face, then rushed out again. I looked out my doors into the crayon blue sky and greeting card white clouds. I looked again at my third finger left hand, as if to reassure myself. Single, single, single. Thank you, Camilla. There was just one scene left to play out. And it was going to be even more satisfying than this life-changing piece of paper. *** I pulled a little black wheelie suitcase behind me, just to make sure I blended into the hubbub of Logan airport. I could have pretended to be meeting someone rather than going away, but somehow the suitcase was a comforting addition to my disguise. I smiled, like a cartoon cat, licking my chops as I walked to the pod of white plastic seats just outside the Starbucks in Terminal B. Camilla had suggested the nearby currency exchange booth would provide a good cover for me to watch the final episode of this soap opera. And suddenly, now that I was no longer an actor in it, it was my favorite show. Baseball cap, fake brown ponytail courtesy of Jess's stash, big Jackie O sunglasses and a Life is Good sweatshirt. I was a fashion mess. But this evening wasn't about looking good, it was about feeling good. And I was about to feel great. Jess had wanted to come with me. I almost said yes. In the end, we decided it was too risky. Camilla and I had planned to meet at my place after it was over. She would return my stuff. And we would say goodbye. I'd gotten her a little present, a silver bracelet from Tiffany, as a thank you gift. Nothing could be reward enough for saving my life. But jewelry is always a start. Five-fifteen is a busy time in terminal B. All the day-tripping New York moguls flying between Boston and the Big Apple are walking purposefully towards the gates. Then there he was, pulling a black wheelie of his own, and looking rendezvous-ready in jeans, a starched pale blue shirt, loafers with no socks. Sunglasses perched on his sandy hair. I had the tiniest flurry of the-Ron-I-used-to know. Which was instantly erased by the Ron-I-do-know. I put the Boston Globe in front of my face. Ron looked right past me, searching the streams of travelers for, I knew, the woman of his dreams. Dream on, Buster. I know what you don't. She's not showing up. There's no trip to Bermuda. No pink sand, no long-awaited night in a pink-pillowed canopy bed in the ultra-glamorous Breezewoods. Was it unworthy of me to gloat? Sitting hidden behind the newspaper, I stared at the words, unseeing. Maybe this had gone too far. He'd fallen for Camilla's scheme. Our scheme. Maybe it should be enough for me just to know that. I should just live my life, Ron-free, without actually needing watch his heart get broken. I would get over the whole thing, in time. And though he had broken my heart, it wasn't fatal. It would be closure, Jess had told me. I supposed so. I inched down the paper, just enough to see him plop down in a white chair, drawing his suitcase closer. He looked at his watch. Looked up. And looked at his watch again. He adjusted the sunglasses on this head. Retied the sweater around his neck. Took a newspaper out of the side pocket of his wheelie. Mr. Heartthrob. I looked at my watch, too. Camilla wasn't really late. Yet. I was well-hidden behind the currency exchange. I was out of view. I put the newspaper in my lap and brazenly watched the show. Some of the fight went out of me as I saw Ron's composure disintegrate. As the time ticked by, he stood, craning his neck at the oncoming stream of passengers. He checked his watch. I stopped counting how many times he took out his cell phone. I stopped counting how many times he punched in numbers, becoming increasingly concerned. He stopped a blue-uniformed state police officer, pointing to his watch, waving his arms, obviously asking him something. The officer shook his head, shrugging. The officer looked at Ron's suitcase. And then whatever the officer said made Ron look even angrier. Ron suddenly looked down at his hand. Turning his back on the cop, he flipped open the phone he was holding. As he listened, I watched his face morph from relief, to shock, to anger. His face twisted. He said something, then slammed the phone closed. By that time, anger hardly described it. I guess she had told him the truth. Enough of it at least. Camilla—had she given him her real name?—was not going to appear. Game, set and match. **** Camilla was late. I felt like Ron, looking at my watch, checking my phone for messages. Calling her cell. I wasn't angry. But I sure was concerned. I looked out over the railing of my deck as if I could see someone coming. I knew I couldn't. The water beyond Boston Harbor was nicely visible, but straight down, it was just parking lot. Ron had insisted we didn't need the expensive all-water view unit. Cooper wagged his tail as if it were just another spring night, poking his nose through the wooden slats of the deck's waist-high redwood fence. Seagulls dived and swooped, lining up along the rooftop of the condo across the way. Red and green lights blinked in the sky, planes taking off and landing in the distance. Planes Ron and Camilla would not be on. I had to smile, remembering. I knew Camilla wasn't in Bermuda. So where was she? "You were coming at nine-thirty, right? " I continued my latest message, leaning my backside against the rail. "It's ten. I'm a bit worried about you. Like I said, it was great. But call me." I called Jess on my landline, keeping my cell open for Camilla. Jess was probably at rehearsal, I knew, and had to keep her cell off. I left her a message anyway. While Cooper single-mindedly wolfed down his dinner back in the kitchen, I picked up the robin's-egg blue box with the white satin ribbon, and moved Camilla's gift, two glasses, and a cooler of Chardonnay to the little table on the deck. I pulled out the cork and poured a glass, toasting myself. Why not? My condo. My life back. The balance was resumed. When my front door opened, it took me a second to understand. In one hand, Ron was holding his key. In Ron's other hand—was Camilla's hand. They were in matching pale blue sweaters, Camilla's tight and not quite meeting the waist of her white slacks. Her high heels were ridiculous. Camilla and Ron were both smiling. "How?" I began. I edged away from them, farther out onto the deck. My mind was racing. Calculating. "What the hell—?" "Hey, Rach," he said, giving me the twinkle I used to crave. Then he leaned down, and kissed Camilla on that spun-sugar hair. "We didn't want to leave without saying goodbye. Our flight to Bermuda leaves in two hours." "But she told me—you were supposed to—" I looked at the little box with the bracelet inside. Then at Camilla. And then my brain went into lockdown. "You got what you wanted, didn't you? The divorce?" Ron asked. "And now I have what I wanted." "But—" I kept edging away, as far from him as I could. Ron took three steps toward me, little Camilla glued to his side. "You thought you were so clever," he said. "Concocting your little scheme to humiliate me. Cammie and I would roar with laughter at you. Every night. I couldn't believe you fell for it. You were never clever, Rach. You were boring and predictable. And a dupe to the last moment." He draped one arm over Camilla's shoulder, his fingers grazing her chest. She turned toward him. I could almost hear her purr. And then she looked at me. "Thanks for the china," she said. I opened my mouth to say something. Anything. But my brain was chaos and my heart was certainly about to stop. "Is that wine for us?" Camilla unwound herself and gestured at the glass. She stopped, fluttered her lashes. "And that little box for me?" Without waiting for an answer, she crossed to the table and picked up the box. My brain kicked in. That night in the restaurant. They hadn't been faking. It was all real. "No," I croaked, barely a whisper. She pulled the white ribbon. "No!" I yelled. Then threw my glass of wine. Straight at Ron. It missed, shattering onto the hardwood floor behind him. Ron laughed, dodging a splash of Chardonnay. In the airport. It had all been a ruse. "Just to, just to, make me miserable?" I was hissing, teeth clenched, everything clenched. Camilla backed away, leaning against the deck railing, her laughter pealing. "I truly didn't think you'd fall for it," she said. "It's kind of funny, really, if you think about it." She laughed again. Ron laughed too, deep and happy, moving toward her as if drawn into her orbit. I whirled to face him; hate, horror, and humiliation twisting my stomach. My vision was a blur. A yellow blur. Cooper. Thrilled and befuddled by adoration, he thundered from the kitchen. He must have heard Camilla laughing. And, even at dinnertime, could not resist her. With a final leap, he jumped, delirious with joy. Paws on the pale blue sweater. Another wine glass flew. Hers, almost in slow motion, arcing into the air above the parking lot. "Down, Cooper!" I yelled. And then Camilla was gone. Her glass smashed onto the concrete. Cooper poked his nose through the slats of the deck's low fence, wuffling. Confused. Ron was silent. We both looked down. Five floors below, right between two yellow lines of the concrete parking lot, Camilla was a rag doll. A very dead rag doll. "Oh—no." My voice refused to work, rasping out in a whisper. I clutched the railing, woozy. A lone seagull wheeled and disappeared into the night. Ron was still staring straight down, his hands clamped onto the railing. "You—" he began. Ron was going to blame me? No. No. Never again. "No." I said, shaking my head. "You. You killed her." Suddenly, the world made sense. My turn. A swell of power filled my chest, and somehow my words came easily. "You pushed her, Ron. When you found out she had led you on. Duped you. When you found out I'd asked her to humiliate you. To make you miserable. Now I have to call the police." Maybe Ron said "no." Maybe Ron denied it. He was certainly talking. Nonstop. But I wasn't listening. And I didn't care what he said. "Guess Bermuda's out," I said, skritching Cooper behind one ear. "At least Massachusetts doesn't have the death penalty." "You wouldn't." My ex-husband's eyes narrowed. I wondered why I'd ever thought he was handsome. "You couldn't." There was a twist in his voice. An edge I'd never heard before. It was fear. And humiliation. He was miserable. And finally, I wasn't. "Jess knows about the plan. So does Errol. I'm sure they'll be happy to tell it all to the police." I turned from the fence, away from Ron and away from Camilla and away from the still-baffled Cooper, whose cold nose was worrying my leg. "Now I have to call 911." By the time the police arrive, I'll have decided what to tell them. But Ron doesn't have to know that. Quite yet. "And Ron? Remember, I can testify against you, too, you know?" I pushed nine, then one, then paused, gesturing with the receiver. "Now that we're not married anymore."
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