CHAPTER 3

Colette

Everyone was saddled with a crazy family. Mine was no exception. In my family, we had an intense relationship with food. And we either were, or wanted to be, artists. Me, I was in the closet. Literally. My creations were draped on hangers, and when I was lucky, on willing bodies. Not that they weren’t literary.

My family treated me like the baby. Not only was I the third daughter and youngest daughter, but I was also smaller than my siblings. I had fewer memories of my mother not being sick, of a time when my father was happy. I put some distance between my life and my family’s, a distance that could be measured in miles, yards, inches, even. This was an accomplishment I held up to the world and to myself like a golden chalice. Not smug, exactly, but . . . okay, smug. And we all knew nature abhorred an uppity creature who thought she could climb out of her particular bog. Evolution took centuries for a reason.

I was driving home from work in my tan Honda Civic. This was California. Except for me, everyone had a tan, even my car. The sun was setting at the end of what had been a glorious October day. From my crappy car, I had a million-dollar view of the shadowy blue mountains on one side, and the very rim of the earth where the sky fell into the sun-sprinkled ocean on the other. I loved taking the long, slow way home over Mount Soledad, avoiding the rodeo of harried drivers on cell phones that swarmed the freeway at rush hour. I couldn’t remember the first time I’d heard that Southern California was laid back. This was the most stressed out place I’d ever lived. Not that I’d lived in that many.

My favorite time of day was when the light shifted. So, I felt good, approaching happy. I should have known better than to allow eau de joy to drizzle into my heart. I should have been striving for something more, something better. I taught French as an adjunct, one of the underpaid drones who did the bulk of undergrad teaching in universities coast to coast. It sounded fine in French, professeur adjoint, but without a contract, it was like living with one hand reaching for the HELP WANTED sign at the local Trader Joe’s. Living atop a precipice was fine in your twenties, though I’d always been subject to vertigo. At thirty-two, it was time to move to lower, more solid ground. Or so I’d been told. Over and over.

Right now, the job was good enough. Better than good enough. It freed me up to spin my own dream. I fiddled with the dial, cutting off the latest KPBS sig alert. The Clash was wailing “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” on an eighties oldies station. My sisters had worshipped the group as teenagers, and, at the time, I’d worshipped my sisters, so I settled in for a bit of nostalgia, though why anyone with a past as whacked as mine should feel nostalgia baffled me. What I really loved was sixties pop. That it was before my time was beside the point.

My family was artistic. It was expected of us the way other families expected their children to go into the family business or attend a certain college. I was supposed to have been the writer in the family. Even now, Daddy was disappointed that I hadn’t pounded out the Great American Novel. But that was his dream. And Gali’s secret one. But I did write. Words were key to my art. I used to dabble in painting and sculpture, anything three-dimensional with texture and color, flailing around till I hit the right note. Until the day I stumbled upon my one true joy. I made clothes. Not from patterns. I designed them, bringing together different fabrics and stones, glitter and buttons, combining natural and man-made materials.

And each piece contained a story or part of one. Literally. I stitched parts of stories, some my own, or some by authors I loved, or some I took from others, into the clothes. I’d just put the final touches on Gali’s Christmas present: a swooping cocktail dress in midnight blue silk, with purple velvet pockets, with an off-the-shoulder neckline and asymmetrical hem shot through with the opening of Dinesen’s “Babette’s Feast” hand-sewn in gold thread.

This weekend would be devoted to Jacqueline’s Christmas gift. It had to be superb and dramatic, yet a little wounded, like her. Maybe a cape with trailing feathers, dyed in brilliant colors contrasting with something modern, trashy and man-made like plastic or rubber. I’d use the lyrics to one of her favorite operas. Definitely something in Italian. I was leaning toward Puccini.

For my brother Art, I’d decided on a simple white shirt with snippets of On the Road stitched throughout. Or maybe something less obvious.

If Jacqueline was the voice of the family and Gali its heart, I was the brain. I had a double master’s in French and English literature. Everyone thought I’d become a writer. Even me. But once I’d discovered I needed texture with my words, there was no turning back.

The ringing of my cell phone cut into my thoughts. It was my friend Sonya.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Terrible. Farley, he has the strep throat this week and I know I’m going to catch it.”

“Is he better?” Farley, at six, was Sonya’s middle child.

“Busy busy. I need to know if we still good for Saturday night.” Her rolling Russian r’s trilled over the phone.

I’d forgotten we’d made plans to go out. Girls’ night out. Wayne never minded. He’d go out with his surfer friends. Or they’d come over and play cards or watch a game or something.

“Sure.” I made a right turn down Soledad Road.

“I made reservations at Mexican place Annick loves.”

“Sounds good.”

“Colette. We have decided that you must stop this crazy business about the food. What do the Americans call it? Intervention.”

“Mmm.” I could be very articulate when I chose.

“Is okay. We have all eaten there. Is good, I promise.”

I did have this weird thing about food. I couldn’t eat something if I didn’t know where it came from or how it was prepared. Wayne said I should have been Jewish. But it went even beyond kosher. And it was getting worse. I couldn’t eat in restaurants or at most parties. Nothing prepackaged or prepared too long in advance. It was getting so I could only eat what I prepared myself and only if it came from certain stores. Unless Gali was cooking but, unfortunately, she didn’t swoop down from the sky with her magic pots and spoons to cook for me very often.

“I can always join you for a drink,” I said. My aversion didn’t carry over to alcohol. This saved my social life. Sort of.

“Seven-thirty, yes? And you will eat something.”

My phone beeped. I’d forgotten to charge it, again. “My phone’s about had it. I’ll call you back from a land line, okay?”

“Not too late—” but my phone cut her off.

I had wanted to call Wayne to tell him I was on my way home, but no matter. I loved coming home to him. He was the only person who knew my secrets and faults, and bought me flowers anyway. I knew that whatever he did, I would always forgive him. I had already forgiven the unforgivable. Besides, I now got why he’d left me stranded at the altar, though at the time I felt like pulling a gun from my bouquet and putting a bullet through my head. Good thing florists didn’t slip firearms among the blooms and ferns. Joining him out here in California—where the smell of jasmine made my body melt—was the right thing for us. Far from my family. My dead mother. And his living one.

I turned into my street and started the quest for a parking space. The search for the Holy Grail was nothing compared to finding a parking space in Pacific Beach, California, after six p.m. on a Friday. People came from all over San Diego to drink at the bars whose number was only rivaled by the grains of sand on the beach. I was late for a good reason, though. I’d been chatting with Chantal, the head of the French department. My heart lurched as I remembered the spoils of our conversation.

This was going to make Wayne so happy.

I couldn’t help grinning as I parallel-parked my car in a space just that second vacated by a shiny blue VW Beetle—the car I’d been longing for. After all, I lived in California and I, too, wanted to place fresh flowers in that little vase. It had to be an omen that I was taking the place of my dream car. Not to mention that nothing beat executing a perfect parallel parking on the first try. I felt competent, in control. Go-nowhere job or no, today I was Superwoman.

I grabbed my purse and NPR canvas book bag from the passenger seat, got out of the car, and went around the back to take a look. A measly five inches from the curb. I strode up the sidewalk, my four-inch heels echoing on the pavement. I couldn’t wait to change out of my work clothes and into something that felt more like me.

I turned up the walkway leading to our place, a tiny yellow bungalow nestled in the backyard of a main house, which, here in PB, was known as a unit. My fingers scrambled to find the keys that inevitably played hide-and-seek with the objects in my bag until they finally hooked into the key ring. I pulled them out, together with a crinkled receipt from Whole Foods and an aging Altoid that had grown a winter coat of fuzz and grit. I threw the latter back inside with lofty intentions of cleaning out my purse sometime this weekend. I removed a cream-colored envelope from the bag and stuck the corner between my teeth, careful not to get it wet. It was the first thing Wayne needed to see. The content of this envelope had power. I felt like Santa.

For the past six—no, seven—weeks, ever since he was laid off from his high-tech job with the Sands Corporation, I’d find him laid out on the couch, wearing board shorts and old T-shirts, in front of a Friends rerun. Today was Friday, so he’d be holding a bottle of Pacifico beer. A ripped-open bag of those organic potato chips he loved would be balanced on his stomach. Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays, it was Diet Coke and carrot sticks with natural ranch dressing, Thursdays he switched to light beer, because he liked to watch his carb intake, and organic whole wheat crackers seasoned with sea salt.

Weekends, all bets were off, wine, tequila, vodka with Oreos, Ben & Jerry’s, whatever. At least he was keeping to a schedule. And he still washed his hair, though shaving had become iffy. He didn’t have much of a beard, so what grew on his face was sparse and sad. I was glad my father wasn’t around to witness this.

But things were about to take a turn for the better. I liked to pride myself on my intuition, though seeing that I had none made it tough. The oblivious one, carrying on like a madwoman, that was me. Loath as I was to admit it, I confused intuition and wishful thinking.

But this was a sure thing. The CEO of OrangeCom, Wayne’s dream company, was going to be honored at a huge university shindig. Buildings, the new library, even the coffee shop were named after him. They would probably end up renaming the whole university. But as long as the great Mark Jasper ended up being our personal benefactor, I didn’t care. And what a coup, that I, a lowly adjunct toiling in the trenches, a nobody, had wrangled, by sheer will and charm, an invitation to the bash.

Wayne was always talking about the whiz-kid turned creative entrepreneur, hero of a high-tech California fairy tale, a legend in Wayne’s world of beeps and wires and strings of numbers. Mark Jasper was rich, successful, attractive, married to a thin, dark-haired beauty, his former personal assistant, with the requisite two gorgeous kids and they were all living happily ever after in a mansion in the hills of La Jolla overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The stuff of turn-of-the-twenty-first-century fairy tales. And Wayne’s dream was to meet his King Arthur and join the Round Table.

I hurried around the garage to the path leading to our bungalow, holding my keys in one hand and the envelope with the invitation in the other. Today, the cheery yellow paint with white trim, made even brighter with the Halloween lights we’d put up last weekend and that Wayne had hooked up to a timer so they’d flick on at sunset, suited my mood. I could smell the ocean and the breeze felt cool against my hot cheeks. I shoved the key in the lock. Wayne always locked the door, even when he was home, a habit, one of the few, that I found irritating, just as irritating as he found my habit of never locking any door.

And if this party didn’t work out, I thought, mentally placating a potential force in the universe that might want to shake up my plans just for fun, we’d make it anyway. We could go somewhere else, a fresh start in a fresh place, maybe a bit more affordable than San Diego. I wasn’t married to California. I wasn’t married at all. Not yet. I didn’t even have a contract. We could go anywhere. Anywhere but back home.

Besides, I loved snow.

We were going to be fine.

The main thing is that I have a boyfriend waiting for me, I thought, as the door finally gave way and swung open. I looked from one side of the room to the other.

He was not on the couch watching TV. There wasn’t even a TV to watch nor a couch to watch it on. The sound system was gone, all the electronics, the bulk of the CDs, his surfboard. The Persian rug, a gift from his mother, all gone. The gaps were everywhere.

God, was it a burglar? A murderer? A murglerer? Was he still here? Would I find Wayne bleeding in the bathtub? I froze and listened for some sound, some noise to indicate human life, ready to bolt.

Whoever it was left my favorite chair, an oversized faded-chintz affair. The Halloween decorations still dotted the room, a hideous ceramic pumpkin, a gift from our landlady, was now in the corner on the floor, no longer on the round bistro table that had held it up until this morning. The little witch doll I’d made years ago and pulled out every Halloween was gone.

What kind of nutcase would steal someone’s doll?

The dining table was still there, surrounded by its army of four folding chairs, bought on sale at IKEA. Candles were clumped together on the table, a half-melted wax bouquet of gold, ochre, and burnt orange.

I couldn’t move, couldn’t talk. I barely took a breath. Then I spied it on the table, propped up against a fat orange candle, illuminated only by the light of the streetlamp streaming through the window. An envelope. White, not cream like the one I clutched in my sweaty hand. I didn’t want to know, but I did. This was not the work of a burglar. Time hiccuped and my breath was stuck somewhere below my ribcage. This must be what it feels like to drown, I thought. I felt dizzy . . . knew I should move, sit down, close the door, at least.

After what felt like hours but couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, I closed the door, dropped my bags, and went to the table. I was shaking. I threw the now-crumpled cream envelope with the invitation on its surface and read my name typed on the white rectangle. Colette, perfectly centered, something I strived for in life. It could have been the title of a short story: “Colette, Perfectly Centered.” It was the kind of envelope we used to pay bills; security envelopes they were called. Just a dumb, cheap, functional, self-adhesive piece of paper folded and glued to hold words. Words that could pay debts, bring a smile, keep ordinary life going, or knife a dream.

I couldn’t bring myself to open it. Instead, without switching on the lights, I went to the refrigerator and pulled open the door. The chilled air made my skin feel clammy as the light cast spooky shadows around the room. I kicked off my heels and stood on the cold tiles in my bare feet.

He’d taken the beer. Every last bottle. Even the high-carb stuff. Even that bottle of Chimay that Jean-Pierre, a Belgian friend of mine, had given us and we’d been hoarding. I grabbed a half-empty bottle of cheap Chardonnay, which I normally avoided because it invariably made my head pound thus nullifying any sweet oblivion the alcohol could bring. Tonight, it would have to do. My head was already throbbing.

I turned on the recessed light beneath the cabinet and, after finding a glass and three ibuprofen, drowned them in a gulp. I couldn’t for the life of me remember which painkiller you were supposed to avoid when drinking. I refilled my glass and dragged a stool over to the refrigerator, climbed up, and opened the cupboard above it. I groped behind the vases and old phone books until I found what I was looking for. My stash. I stepped down from the stool with my pack of Lucky Strike lights and the beautiful gold lighter Gali had given me for my eighteenth birthday, when we both smoked like fiends.

Glass in hand, I went back outside, sat on the steps, and lit up. The smoke cleared my head at first, then made me dizzy. I was thankful, grateful for the deadly pull away from the horror I was going to have to live through. Again. As the smoke disappeared into the starry sky, I willed the whole situation to do the same. Just dissipate in a cloud of smoke. That’s why there were still so many smokers around, I was sure. We wanted our problems to behave like the smoke, even if it killed us.

After my second cigarette and second full glass of wine, I went back inside, my head spinning. I wet the butts under the faucet to make sure they were completely out and threw them in the trash. A compulsive self-preservationist with a death wish, me in a nutshell.

I scouted around for something else to drink and came up with a full bottle of Porto. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have bothered with the cheap Chard. I carried a wineglass full of the thick, sweet wine back to the living room then collapsed in my armchair. I stared out the window at the twinkly orange lights we had strung up last weekend, my mind numbing like an abscessed tooth at the dentist’s after a shot of Novocain.

The envelope was leering at me.

“Shut up!” I said.

He owed me more than a typewritten Dear Jane letter. He could, should, would talk to me, dammit!

I reached for the phone we kept on the side table and realized they were both gone. Selfish bastard. How did he expect me to have a complete breakdown without a phone or a TV? The haze in my mind cleared and I remembered the glory of cellular communications. One more gulp of Porto . . . was the glass already empty? . . . this stuff was like lemonade. I needed—no wanted—more. Sugar was good for shock, my mother used to tell me. Of course, she was referring to chocolate. Should pick some up. Godiva liqueur.

After refilling my glass, I went back out and got my phone from the car. I plugged it in and pressed one on the speed dial.

Two rings and a charming voice: Wayne Harper-Jones is not available to take your call and is not accepting messages at this time.

I ripped the jack out of the phone.

 

By the time Sunday afternoon rolled around, I hadn’t talked to a soul and I’d been out all of once, in a perfect breakdown uniform of pajama bottoms, a baggy T-shirt—I would have worn one of Wayne’s but he hadn’t left a scrap of clothing—and flip-flops, with dark glasses not quite big enough to cover the circles under my swollen eyes and my hair sticking out like a time-traveling punk rocker. I’d left the house briefly on Saturday morning to buy groceries. I loaded up on wine and food at Trader Joe’s. And cigarettes at the 7-Eleven. Now, only the food was left.

Dumped, deserted, deleted. Most of the bad stuff that happened to you started with the letter d.

Divorced.

Diseased.

Dead.

I could go on, but why bother. I wondered if this was how my father felt when Maman died. Only worse.

I plugged the charger into my cell. I had eight missed calls.

Two from Sonya. Six from Gali. Zero from Wayne Harper-Jones. . .

Six calls from my sister?

 

I hung up. Christmas with my father? Impossible. Even more so than usual. For now, though, it was better to let Gali believe I was coming. I looked down at myself. My sweats were stretched out and looked tired. I needed a shower. I had to get cleaned up, do something, call someone. Someone other than my sister. On my way to the bathroom I spotted my bed and crawled in, rolled on my side, pulled my knees to my chest, and yanked the duvet over me. Only the tip of my nose was exposed. Just for a few minutes. Then, I’d get up.

I stared at an oil painting of a harbor done in shades of blue and gray hanging on the wall opposite my bed. A gift from my father. I remembered him restoring it in his little studio off the dining room. Originally a sunroom, it had the best light in the house. I would peek at him from the doorjamb and he seemed at peace when he was working on a canvas, the smell of solvents, special soaps, and varnish clinging to the air. The colors blurred and I closed my eyes.

When I woke up, the sun was high in the sky. Time to get it over with. I walked the eleven steps from the bedroom to the living room. The envelope was still there. Smug. Waiting for me to open it. Knowing I would.

I slid my thumb under the flap and felt a slice of pain. Blood filled a fine slit in the skin of my thumb. I sucked the blood out of the paper cut, then carefully removed the white sheet of recycled printer paper from its nest. I knew what it was going to say before I read the words, yet, I was curious. I forced my eyes to focus. Blood dotted the sheet.

 

Colette, baby—

Can’t do this. It’s not you, it’s me. Sorry, babe.

Bye

W.

 

He hadn’t even signed it with a pen. Just plain Arial on recycled paper.

I wondered which TV show he’d swiped the “It’s not you, it’s me” from. Not really his usual style. I held the bloodstained note and sat on one of the chairs, waiting for it. The pain. Last time it was excruciating. I waited. But nothing.

I jumped to my feet, crumpling the letter into a ball, then threw it as hard as I could against the wall.

“Shithead stupid fuck!”

It barely made a sound as it bounced off the wall and fell to the floor, weak, ineffectual.

For the rest of the day, I went through the motions of what could pass for life. I showered, put on leggings and a red-and-purple paisley dress—an outfit that usually made me feel better—and went to the laundry room off the garage. Evelyn, my landlady, had worked out a schedule. The main house got the washer-dryer during the week and tenants had it on weekends. I did laundry, sitting outside at the wrought-iron table, beneath a striped parasol. I went over my preps for tomorrow and finished marking student papers.

I needed a story. No one could know. I couldn’t live through the shame another time. All the pity. Everyone knowing I’d failed. Again. I could still picture Daddy’s face as my sisters ushered me away from the church.

When Wayne and I had started going out in high school, I couldn’t believe my luck. Neither could anyone else. He was the hottest guy in our junior class. Athletic and smart; every guy wanted to be his friend, every girl had a crush on him. Me included. It was weird that both Jacqueline and Art didn’t like him. Gali was just happy that I was happy. When he asked me out, it had felt like a miracle. To the rest of the class, too. I wasn’t exactly A-list. The only A’s in my life were my grades and my cup size. In the crook of his arm, I became visible for the first time. The others in the popular crowd had no choice but to accept me, some more grudgingly than others. Especially Tracy Harris, the head cheerleader, who’d earmarked him for herself. I knew she’d just as soon suffocate me with her pom-poms than befriend me, but she did put up a good show. At least in front of the others. I didn’t care. I had Wayne and the rest was just icing. Not even, just the decorations on the icing.

We both went to Shippensburg, though I’d won a scholarship to Bryn Mawr. Daddy still hadn’t forgiven me for passing up a blue-chip education for a boyfriend, even if he was from an old Main Line family.

But Wayne was my life. My sun.

The first time it happened, we were supposed to go to the shore for a weekend. It was the summer between our freshman and sophomore years at college. We were both working to save money—me in a boutique owned by one of Tante Sola’s friends and him as a lifeguard at the Shady Oaks Country Club. I was having a hard time putting money into my account because my thirty percent employee discount was a siren’s call. I would snatch up different pieces of clothing, and on days when Wayne was working and I wasn’t, I made them into something else.

We both had the weekend before July Fourth off. I’d packed my bag with a couple of bathing suits, sundresses I’d concocted, shorts, and about a gallon of sunblock. My mother had always said that she and I were children of the North, the sun was not a friend to our skin. “There are so many better things to do than lie like a crêpe getting brown on one side, then the next,” she’d tell me. But as a teenager and even into college, forgoing the Jersey shore would have been like tossing an anvil through the fabric of my social life.

I was sitting on the porch swing rereading Colette’s Claudine books, my packed weekender at my feet.

He never showed.

He’d quit his job. His mother, Eleanor, told me he had to get away. She was willing to bankroll his trip as well as the expenses for school in the coming year. “He has his entire life to work. He is young, time for fun, for foolishness. Poor thing, didn’t he tell you he was leaving?”

“Must have slipped my mind,” I’d mumbled before fleeing the look in her cool blue eyes. “Mine,” said the look, “he’s mine.”

In the fall, back in school, it was as if it had never happened. He’d swept me up in his golden aura.

“I had to be on my own for a while. If I saw you, I wouldn’t have had the strength to leave. Didn’t my mother give you my note?”

I shook my head but no longer cared. He was back and he wanted me.

The second time was the day of our wedding—the happiest day in a young woman’s life, I’d been assured by everyone and everything from bridal magazines to the manicurist, caterer, and every person I’d come across and who’d spotted the diamond on my ring finger.

Left at the altar, poor lamb.

Jacqueline and Gali saved me from the walk of shame and whisked me away to hide in Gali’s house. Together they watched over me until Jacqueline had to go back to Belgium.

I sleepwalked through the next four years. I got a teaching job and a car. I lived with my sister and only came alive with Elly, who was just a baby at the time.

Then, one March day, I received a postcard from San Diego of two bikini-clad bottle blondes with weirdly large breasts. On the back, he’d written:

Come to me, babe. I’m sorry. Will explain all. Love you.

W.

 

And there was a phone number.

Against a wall of family shock, I packed and grabbed the money in what had been my honeymoon fund, took my sewing machine, quit my job, put my life into my Honda Civic, and crossed the country.

That had happened five years ago.

How did time slip by so fast? I’d thought that surely by now . . . I shook my head. The dryer was buzzing. I fluffed and folded, then went back inside.

 

“Yeah, his mother’s sick. It is lucky that he isn’t working right now. No really, Sonya, I’m fine. Don’t come over, okay? The house is a disaster.” True enough, I thought, looking at the depleted space. “Thanks. See you on campus tomorrow. Yes, coffee at eleven. Great.”

I knew he’d come back to me. He always did. But in the meantime—and yes, time could certainly be mean—how was I going to survive? I took stock over a cup of tea.

My job gave me no benefits so I had to be careful not to get sick or hurt. On the plus side, I still had a good chunk of money stashed in savings, though it had shrunk a bit since Wayne lost his job. I checked my account online.

Empty.

I checked again.

Zero.

He’d taken my money. My money.

Nothing left.

I looked at my empty cup and fought an urge to fill it to the brim with vodka. I grabbed my phone and called Val.

“You up for a drink?” Val was my best friend and was famous for her disastrous romantic life. One loser after another.

“Always.”

“The usual?”

“See you in twenty.”

I could do this. I’d polish my story on Val. She was always so happy in spite of her string of lousy relationships. Something about being Irish, I guessed. I threw on a clean pair of jeans, my Camus T-shirt, and put on a bit of mascara and lip gloss. I should eat something. Later. I’d eat later. I’d figure this out. I could get a loan. A second job. But not tonight. Tonight was a night for soaking wounds in wine.

 

A soft click awakened me. I was still more than a bit drunk. What time was it? I looked for the alarm clock, but then I remembered that it, too, was gone. I listened, keeping still, my fingers clutching the covers.

Very light steps, barely perceptible, but my sense of hearing had always been highly developed. A gift I didn’t know what to do with. It had never come in handy.

Wayne? But why would he pussyfoot around? Unless he’d left something and wanted to sneak in and grab it without my knowing he was here. Ha! He’d forgotten about my hearing.

I pushed the covers aside, ready for a fight, then froze. Maybe an angry, tearful confrontation wasn’t the best tactic. But what? Just lie here and pretend I didn’t hear him? Tempting. But what more could he want to take? I’d stay calm. Be charming. Throw him off guard.

And demand my money back, said a small voice in my head.

Funny. Be funny. He loved it when I made him laugh. Sadly, I was not in one of my more jocular moods. My head was thick with too much Pinot and the dull ache of dehydration was surfacing.

I heard a drawer slide open.

Maybe charming, funny, and naked?

I got out of bed and took a deep breath to dispel the fog in my head. Shouldn’t have had that last glass of wine. I blinked several times till I felt steady. Well, steadier. I’d play it by ear. I could always whip off my pajamas in a grandstand gesture.

I padded to the main room and groped for the light switch.

Then, my heart shuddered to a stop.

In front of me, blinking like the proverbial deer caught in headlights, was the most gorgeous man I’d probably ever seen. His glossy hair fell back in dark waves, framing a face of such classic beauty I wanted to paint him. Forget that I hadn’t painted in so long I’d have to hit the art supply store in a big way and wearing pajamas to boot. His body, in black jeans and a tight black T-shirt, was lithe with those lean muscles that didn’t come from a gym and his skin was the color of melted butterscotch. And his elegant fingers were riffling through one of my kitchen drawers. Actually, the light stopped him in mid-riffle, his hazel eyes wide. Brazilian?

I swiveled and bolted for the front door, my heart pounding in my ears. My ankle twisted, sending me sprawling. Cursing myself for drinking so much, I scrambled to my feet and swayed like a sapling in a strong wind.

“Sc-scusi!”

He placed a gentle hand on my arm, I pulled away, wrenched open the front door, stumbled out into the night. I felt strong hands on my shoulders holding me back. I opened my mouth to scream, but he pulled me to him with one arm and covered my mouth with his hand, muffling any noise I attempted. He turned me around to face him.

“Scusi,” he repeated.

Italian. And polite. I should have known. Only the Italians are intimate enough with beauty to grow humans as glorious as this. Instinctively, I curled my fingers into my palms, to hide my bitten fingernails. Was no one actually from San Diego? This place was like a colony.

“If I take my hand, you will not scream, yes?”

I widened my eyes at him and nodded.

“I will not hurt. I think no one is at the house.” He lifted his hand just an inch from my mouth. I took a deep breath.

“At home.” Now I was correcting his grammar? I quieted my inner language teacher and stared at his eyes. I believed him about not hurting me. Probably because he was just so beautiful I wanted to believe. Unexpected beauty can screw with your brain cells. Whichever ones were left after all those I’d murdered with wine tonight.

“Si.”

“What . . . Who . . . ?” I was so articulate. It was a gift.

“Scusi. I am Dante. Dante di Lucca.” He inclined his lovely head.

“Nice to meet you, Dante. Could you tell me what you were doing in my kitchen?” That level of beauty was disarming. I couldn’t believe he was dangerous. He looked as if he’d lost his way. On his way to where, via my kitchen, was an excellent question.

“Ah, si, scusi. Let us go back inside and I will explain.” He waved his arm in a classic “after you” gesture. For some reason, in part due to my lingering inebriety, I went back in. If they found my bloody body on the floor of the living room, Wayne would be sorry. Dante followed me and held out one of the folding chairs. I sat.

I loved really nice manners. Especially in today’s world. And in SoCal to boot.

“I come to”—he looked down, making a face—“to rob.”

“To rub?” Was this some new nocturnal cleaning service?

“To rob. Sono un ladro. I am a thief.” It rolled off his tongue like poetry.

Despite all the sleep I’d been getting this weekend, exhaustion fell over me. I snapped.

“Well, Dante. If you can find something worth taking, be my guest. Might I suggest my laptop and, uh, my cell phone. Please leave the sewing machine, you won’t get much for it. I’m going to bed.” I stalked back to the bedroom, concentrating on walking in a straight line, and crawled under my covers.

He followed me, looking horrified. “Ma tu sei matta! You are crazy. Someone could steal your identità.”

“If anyone wants it, they are welcome. I certainly haven’t had much luck with it.” Might be refreshing to become someone else.

I sat up, though. Seemed the proper thing to do when a gorgeous Italian burglar was in my bedroom in the middle of the night lecturing me on identity theft. Okay. I was dreaming. This wasn’t happening. Maybe I should start cutting down on the wine for real.

His gaze alighted on Maman’s Hermès scarf, draped over my dressmaker’s dummy.

I shook my head at my apparition. “It’s a gift. From my mother. She . . . died.”

His gaze snapped back to mine. “La tua mamma! Povera bambina. Me too I am orphan from my mother.”

I was now bonding with an imaginary gorgeous Italian burglar over the deaths of our mothers.

“You’re the nicest, and one of the more creative, dreams I’ve ever had. But if you’ll excuse me. I have to work tomorrow and need sleep.”

“Aspetta un’attimo. You do not look good.”

“Gee, thanks.” Of course, next to him, who looked good? I couldn’t believe I was being insulted by a figment of my imagination.

“No, you look not in good form.”

“Healthy?”

“Si, not healthy. Too pale. You stay here. I have a wonderful idea. I go cook. Food always make life more beautiful. Not normal to want to give away identità.”

I heard him banging away in my kitchen dusting off my pots and pans. He was singing softly. He made a lot of noise for an apparition. Maybe he was real.

I got up, pulled on my silk Anna Karenina wrap, slipping my phone into the pocket just in case, and headed for the kitchen. The room hadn’t seen this much excitement since I’d painted it two summers back.

“I know the stove works, but I can’t vouch for the oven, it’s a bit dicey at best.”

“Che bella,” he said, admiring my robe, touching the fabric lightly. “So, what is wrong. Why so sad?”

“Well . . .” The whole situation was so weird, so otherworldly, that I found myself spilling the story. He listened without interrupting, all the while, cooking, setting the table, rummaging through the fridge, till at last he set a plate of the most luscious-looking eggs I’d ever seen in front of me.

“Frittata con zucchini. Mangia.”

I hadn’t realized that I had the makings of frittata con zucchini in my fridge. I was impressed with myself. Gali would be proud.

“I’m not really hungry.”

“Yes. You are hungry. I can see it. Mangia!”

I took a tentative bite. It was good. It was very good, in fact. Before I realized what I was doing, I finished off my plate of eggs. He served me seconds and I ate that, too. I felt as if I hadn’t eaten anything this good, this necessary, in years.

“Do you have wine?”

I nodded toward the half-empty bottle on the counter.

“This”—he held up the bottle—“is not wine. It’s vinagre. Not even to cook. It is not dignified enough to touch food.” I was too embarrassed at my choice of wine, selected for thrift rather than quality, to utter a word of protest.

He poured the wine down the sink, then filled our glasses with ice cubes and bottled water. “And so?” he prompted.

“And so he pretty much took everything. Even all the money in my savings.”

He shook his head with disgust. “No morality. This Wayne, he is a pig, si?”

I nodded. “Si.” I knew I’d change my mind at some point. I always did. But right now, that was exactly how I felt.

“What about you?” I asked. “What’s your story? I know you lost your mother. And you’re an amazing cook. How did you . . . break into the field of burglary?”

“Domani. Tomorrow I come back and we eat and talk and I tell you my story. Va bene?”

“Si.” My Italian was getting a workout tonight. Curiosity trumped any lingering anxiety about entertaining a burglar.

“You go back to sleep. I clean up.”

Obediently I stood, feeling much more steady. There could be something to this whole feeding-yourself thing.

“Aspetta!”

I stopped.

“What is your name?”

“Colette. People call me Coco.”

“Bello! Nicoletta. Yes? I call you Nico. Ciao, Nico.”

“Ciao.”

 

The next morning, I could have sworn that I’d dreamed the whole episode. I’d been drinking, after all. But when I got to the kitchen to make my coffee, a faint odor, not really an odor, more the memory of an odor, clung to the air. Last night’s dishes were washed and neatly stacked on the drainboard with a bright orange dishtowel draped over them.

The rest of the day was a blur. I acted out the motions of my normal life, teaching and smiling, convincingly, I hoped, pretending to eat, probably less convincingly.

By the time I got home, I knew I would never see him again. Not a bad thing, considering he was a felon. Could you be a felon if you hadn’t been convicted? I’d have to check.

On the off chance that he would be back, I’d stopped at Whole Foods and bought a bottle of Gavi di Gavi and a Santa Cristina. The wine buyer recommended both.

If he didn’t come, at least I had two really nice bottles of wine for my dashed hopes. I showered and dressed in jeans and my Breakfast at Tiffany’s sweater. I reclined on the bed propped up by pillows, since there was no more couch, feeling a bit decadent and rereading Pride and Prejudice. I set it aside, in the mood for something a bit more cynical, and picked up the latest Amélie Nothomb instead. Now this woman would never believe in love.

I got an urge to smoke. I rose and grabbed my pack and lighter from the jumble drawer in the kitchen. No need to hide them now that Wayne was gone. I stepped outside and sat on the steps. It was chilly but the cool air felt nice.

I smoked for a bit. I’d better not let myself get addicted again. Too hard to quit. I stubbed the cigarette out on the sole of my shoe and headed back in.

“Ciao, Nico!”

I turned, one hand on the doorknob. “Hi.” He came. I stared at him. He was carrying a bag of groceries from Trader Joe’s. He smiled and nodded toward the door.

“Oh yes. Sorry. Come in.” Where were my manners? There was a certain etiquette to entertaining burglars.

“Grazie.”

Today, he wore a white shirt that brought out the honeyed hue of his skin, and jeans. I guess all black was his work wardrobe. He deposited the bag on the table as I went to the sink to run the cigarette butt under the tap and dispose of it.

“Many people in Europe smoke. Here you are rare,” he said.

“I’m rare all right. But you . . .”

“No. I promise my mamma that I would smoke never.”

“I guess you didn’t promise not to steal, huh?”

The look that swept through his eyes made me wince. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“No, you are right.” He turned and, his back to me, unpacked the groceries. “Real food.”

I saw pasta and vegetables, olive oil, garlic, and cheese. He pulled out a bottle of wine. I picked it up and read the label. “Barolo.”

“Si. It is good. You will like.”

“I bought some too.” I showed him the two bottles.

His eyes widened with delight. I’ve never seen a grown-up whose features could be so transformed by simple joy, like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Sei brava!”

I felt as if he were painting me with warm chocolate. I should buy great wine more often.

He opened the bottle of white and breathed in the odor, held it in, then exhaled with satisfaction. My skin prickled. He poured two glasses, handed me one, then raised his glass. I matched his gesture.

“Bella Nico. To you.”

I tried to think of something spiffy in return. “Cheers.” Brilliant. I was brilliant. He was going to be bowled over by my sharp wit and unparalleled repartee.

The wine was cold and crisp, like a dip in a cool pool of water on a hot day.

I almost gasped. “This is wonderful.”

“Buono, si.” He handed me a few carrots. “You cut.”

“Sure.” I began to chop while he washed tomatoes and flat-leaf parsley.

“So you want to know my story. Why I am here in San Diego, in such a strange . . . profession.”

I nodded, though suddenly I wasn’t sure I wanted reality to put a crack through this blissful moment.

“First, I am from Ravenna. Do you know it?”

“No.” I picked up a carrot and began to peel it.

“It is a small city, on the Adriatico, beautiful.”

“From what I’ve seen of Italy, it’s all beautiful.”

“You have been to Italia?” He was chopping an onion and blinked several times.

“A few times, a long time ago. Verona—” I threw the carrot peelings in the trash and start slicing them. I should invest in a better knife.

“Per vedere la Casa di Giullietta.”

“Yes, Juliet’s house. But you are from Ravenna?” I prodded, curiosity getting the better of my reluctance to have this fairy-tale moment smashed.

He nodded. “Babbo, my father, was a good man. A sad man, but good. He never, how you say, recuperate?”

“Got over . . .”

“Got over the death of my mother.”

I knew all too well what that was like. I had a sudden flash of my sad, gray father.

“Allora, my brother, he is very serious—study all the time. He is a doctor, very good, very brilliant.” He finished with the onions and ran his hands under cold water. “To stop the stinging,” he said. “My sister, Gabriella, is married and has three children. Always wanted to be a mother and is a fantastic mamma.”

“And you,” I prompted.

“Ah, si. Me.” He flashed a smile. “I play. I joke. My father gives me money. I spend it all on nothing. Last year, I win green card lottery. He gives me money again and tells me that this is the last time. No more. He says, ‘Make a life. Promise me.’ So I come to America and try to open a restaurant. I find a partner who has concept, si?”

“Yes.” I finished the carrots and gave him my full attention.

“I know food, but I don’t know business. I think it is enough, but no. We spend money on consiglieri—to give advice—for to start a business. They take and take, for permits and licenses and taxes. The money is gone and so is my partner. I have been, come se dice, conned.”

“Oh Dante, I’m so sorry.” I wanted to reach out and touch him, but I didn’t dare.

“I cannot go home to Italy like this. No money, no job, no new life . . . niente. So I become a burglar, like in American movies. I steal a little, small expensive things. I know quality.”

I got that from the way he’d eyed my Hermès scarf last night.

“When I get enough, I go to Las Vegas. I make more.” He picked up his glass and took a sip of wine.

“Wow.” I lost myself in thought. “Can’t you get back at these consiglieri? You could try to get your money back legally.”

“They are professional. They disappear. I need lawyer. But with no money . . .”

“No lawyer. I get it.” The only lawyer I knew was Leo, my brother-in-law. Maybe he knew someone in California who did pro bono. But I couldn’t begin to imagine explaining to my sister and her husband why I was trying to help a thief even if he was Italian and gorgeous and had been conned. Not to mention that I’d have to explain about Wayne.

“Can’t you just get a ticket and go home? It’s not your fault you were swindled.”

“Impossible. It would kill Babbo. He would not believe. I must go home a success.” He crushed a garlic clove with the flat of the knife.

I raised my glass. “Some people really suck!”

He burst out laughing and clinked his glass against mine. “But when the food is good and the wine exceptional, we eat and drink and get strong for life, yes?”

“Yes,” I said to make him happy.

 

I didn’t teach on Tuesdays so I spent a lot of time at my sewing machine working on Jacqueline’s Christmas gift. The project took me to a different mental space. I no longer noticed the bareness of my surroundings. I allowed Dante to slip in and out of my mind like water rippling over pebbles.

Around noon I stopped to make coffee. I stretched, wondering if he’d be back tonight. I couldn’t help hoping. Why? I had people to call. I could go out. I sighed and returned to my table, stitching and sewing. The machine whirred, its familiar rhythm a comfort. I stopped for dinner, a bit of leftover pasta and a glass of the Barolo. I really should call Val or Sonya or any of the group. But the only person I wanted to talk to, outside of Wayne, was Dante.

 

Wednesday morning as I was driving to work, Chantal, the head of my department, called inviting me to lunch. I always looked forward to seeing her. She was one of those people who made others feel smarter and better than they actually were. Or maybe we were better around her. Her aura invited it.

After my two morning classes, I headed over to the café, my feet crunching through the brittle eucalyptus leaves that layered the path. The Santa Ana winds were blowing hot and dry and the sky had turned acrylic blue. Tempers flared in this weather, weird stuff always seemed to happen. Even in my sleeveless yellow cotton shift and lace-up espadrilles, I was too hot.

I nabbed a table near the window and sipped San Pellegrino, grading compositions until Chantal breezed in looking crisp and cool. She personified France. Her look was chic, but not in the clichéd fifties way most Americans picture French women. She was totally fashionable, hip, and pulled together. All her students worshipped her and she was personally responsible for many a student year abroad. I wondered what it would be like to be her just for a day. Live fully “bien dans ma peau,” at home in my own skin.

Her body was slender, but not skinny, and she ate everything, even dessert. I didn’t really know how she did it. It always seemed such an elegant way to live—not going off on dietary tangents where entire food groups were criminalized and banished on the altar of slim. I was far from fat, but I didn’t eat like she did either.

Today, she wore a long, sleeveless cream sweater belted over wide-legged black pants, several long gold chains draped around her neck, and her dark hair brushed back from her face. There was even something quintessentially French about her eyes. Something I couldn’t describe but that lived on the outer corners, between the eyelids and the laugh lines. She kissed me on both cheeks before taking a seat and pouring herself a glass of Pellegrino.

“What I’d really enjoy today is a glass of crisp dry wine, but all I need to do is show up in class with alcohol on my breath and the rumors . . .” She made a fluttering gesture with her hands.

“Not to mention that the campus is dry, so . . .” I raised my eyebrows.

“They would have visions of me sneaking whisky from a flask in my drawer.” She leaned back in her chair.

“No one could picture you doing that,” I said.

“You’d be surprised at what people will believe.” Her smile was wide.

Our lunch arrived. Chantal was having a ham and brie baguette with a small green salad on the side. I chose the garden salad with dressing on the side.

She picked up her sandwich then set it down again with a sigh. “I have some bad news.”

I looked at her and nodded.

“The university policy of giving teaching jobs to grad students rather than to experienced professionals is not a good one.” She looked me straight in the eye. “This year I have three grad students who want to teach.”

“Which means next trimester, I’m out of a job.”

“I’m so sorry.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger. “I have spoken to the dean, but the policy stands.”

“So . . . Martin?” Martin was my colleague, also an adjunct in my department.

“Has more seniority and”—she looked down—“children.”

“I get it.” I crossed my arms and looked out the window at the branches of the eucalyptus trees swaying in the wind. I could smell Chantal’s perfume, light and fresh like an ocean breeze.

“Oh, Colette. I hate to do this to you. Perhaps it is only temporary and next fall I will be able to have you back. Je suis désolée.” She took a bite of her baguette and made a face. “Too salty. I don’t seem to have an appetite today anyway.”

“It’s hot.” At least for once I had a good excuse for not touching my food. Usually I skewered a lettuce leaf and gestured with it before putting my fork down, discreetly removing it from the tines before spearing a tomato or cucumber, and starting the whole dance again. I didn’t know where these vegetables were from, or who’d washed and prepared them.

Chantal’s brow was furrowed. “And you do know that it is you and Martin who must train them.”

“Yes.” Which totally sucked. Until the end of the trimester, the grad student trainees, who were stealing my job, would be sitting in on my classes taking notes to familiarize themselves with the material.

She shook her head and pressed her lips together. I hated seeing her look so distraught so I forced myself to brighten.

“It’s okay, I’ll be fine.” She looked up and I flashed her a smile. I had six weeks. My checks would stop just in time for Christmas. Oh goody. Christmas in Pennsylvania, sitting around the table with Daddy, having to explain that, not only had I been dumped again, but I was out of a job. The impending joy was almost too much to bear. My back was stiff. I rolled my shoulders to loosen the muscles, but it didn’t help. And the Santa Anas had given me a headache.

So, how had this happened in less than a week? No boyfriend, no job, no savings, no furniture, even. Oh, and no Dante either. Even my gorgeous Italian burglar had abandoned me. Nevertheless, I waited for him, with a good bottle of wine I could no longer afford, for the next two nights. On the third, I gave up, drank the wine, and went to bed.