Going Home Page 5

  “That’s better.” I gave my dowager’s approval and all was well.

  “Okay, Sam. Call me Uncle Chris. Sound okay to you?”

  “I like that better. Uncle Crits. That’s good.” She nodded thoughtfully and then smiled and offered him the last of her potato chips.

  “Thanks, Sam. How about a piggyback ride back to my truck?”

  “Yes! Yes!” She hopped on his back and grabbed him around the neck and off we went. I carried the beach towels and a happy heart and we were on our way to a merry day.

  We stopped at the house to feed Chris a tuna fish sandwich, send Samantha to the john, comb my hair, and collect a few odds and ends of gear, like Sam’s teddy bear and a bottle of wine to take to the park. And then we loaded ourselves into the cab of Chris’s truck and headed for the park. We found the horse paddock there and took rides on two rather tired brown horses. Sam rode with Chris and he told her a modified version of our riding on the beach the day of the shooting and swimming from one beach to the other with the horse. Sam thought it sounded wonderful. And on hearing it again so did I.

  Then we went to the Japanese tea garden and munched strange little cookies and drank tea. And after that we lay on the grass in the botanical garden till five. Sam played with her teddy bear, Chris and I drank the bottle of wine, we played tag and hide and seek, and it was a glorious day. We hated to go home but it was getting cold.

  “How would you like a home-cooked meal, Mr. Matthews? Pot luck.”

  “Can you cook?” He seemed to be weighing the invitation and I was momentarily reminded of Joe’s warning. Maybe he had something else to do.

  “I can sort of cook. But if you’re going to be picky you can go to hell.”

  “Thanks a lot. I’d rather eat at your house than do that. If that’s the choice, I’ll come to dinner.” He nodded his head sagely and Sam let out a delighted whoop which said everything I felt.

  We picked up some groceries at the supermarket, and Chris gave Sam her bath when we got home while I made spaghetti and meat sauce and a giant salad.

  Chris and Sam came out of the bathroom hand in hand. She looked terribly pleased about something and I figured maybe they’d faked the bath. But what the hell? No one ever died of a little dirt.

  “Hey, Gill . . . you’ve got a problem with the dinner.” He was speaking to me in an undertone and I wondered what was wrong.

  “What is it?”

  “There are worms in the meat sauce . . . but don’t tell Sam.”

  “Worms? Where?” I practically screamed the words. Worms? Never mind upsetting Sam, the very idea made me feel sick.

  He nodded his head again, reached into the bowl with a fork, and came up with a long slithering piece of spaghetti. “Take a look at that. That’s the biggest worm I’ve ever seen.”

  “Oh you ass. That’s a spaghetti.” As if he didn’t know.

  “It is? No kidding?” The boyish smile happened all over his face as he said it, and I could have hit him with my frying pan.

  “Worms my ass. Now, everybody, let’s eat dinner.”

  “Gillian!” His face froze into a look that reminded me of my father and cracked me up. The three of us sat down at the table. And chaos reigned for the duration of the meal, until Sam went to bed and the dishes were done.

  It was a far cry from the evening I’d spent at the crazy Art Directors’ Ball the night before with Joe. It was a happy time for all three of us. And Joe Tramino’s warning be damned. There was nothing wrong with Chris Matthews. He had his own style, he liked to play jokes and indulge in pranks, he had an enchanting childish side that made me think he was more Sam’s friend than mine, but he was a good man, and I could only see happy days ahead.

  “Can I take you two to the beach tomorrow?” He was sprawled out on the couch, drinking wine and waiting for me to finish in the kitchen.

  “Sure. That sounds like fun. Stinson?” Our eyes met for a long moment as we both remembered what had happened there.

  “Yes, Stinson . . . and Gill, maybe there’s something you want to know. There’s this girl I live with . . . is that okay?”

  5

  The revelation that Chris was living with someone had come as something of a shock. The possibility that he was had crossed my mind the first day, but I had shoved the thought away. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want him to have anyone else. He said she wasn’t terribly important to him. Not to worry. He would work it out. And he had said it all with such ease that I knew he would. I trusted him.

  He spent the night at my place and was a good sport about moving from my bed to the couch before Sam got up. I didn’t think she ought to know. Not yet. It was too soon.

  We left for Stinson Beach at ten after an enormous breakfast of French toast and scrambled eggs and bacon. And we packed a picnic lunch for the beach. It was another glorious day, and this time when we got to the beach I was a little sorry to see that there were people on it. It wasn’t just ours. Sam sped off to play with some children down by the water and Chris and I were left alone.

  “Does it make a difference to you, Gill?” I knew what he meant the minute he asked.

  “About your roommate?” He nodded. “Yes and no. It’s sort of a pain in the ass, and I’m jealous. But I’ll leave it to you. If she’s not all that important to you, I guess it won’t make much difference. What are you going to do about her?” That was the key.

  “Oh, she’ll go. She’s just a hippie chick I took in last winter. She was out of money, and she’s very young, and I thought I’d give her a hand.”

  “More than that, I suspect.” I was beginning to feel sour about it. She was taking on flesh. She was a real live girl. And she lived with Chris.

  “Hey . . . you really are jealous. Cool it, baby. She’ll go. And I’m not in love with her, if that’s what you want to know.”

  “Does she have a nice body?” . . . Oh shit. . . .

  “Yes, but so do you, so come off it. There’s only one girl who’s ever really meant anything to me, and she doesn’t anymore, so you’re home free.”

  “Who’s she?” I wanted to know everything.

  “A Eurasian girl I lived with a long time ago. Marilyn Lee. But she’s in Honolulu now. Far, far from here.”

  “Do you think she’ll come back?” I was feeling paranoid.

  “Do you think you’ll shut up? Besides, I’m in love with your daughter. So get off my back. As a mother-in-law you’re tremendous. Type-cast for the role.” I slammed him with a fistful of sand aimed at his chest and he pinned me to the sand and kissed me.

  “Whatcha doing, Mommy? Is Uncle Crits playing a game with you? I wanna play too.” She lay down on the sand and nuzzled her head in with ours.

  “It’s called artificial respiration and only grownups can play. Go make me a sand horse.” Sam thought that was a terrific idea and our game didn’t look like much fun to her anyway, so she went back down the beach to her friends while we laughed and watched her go.

  “You’re good with kids, Chris. It makes me wonder if you have any of your own.”

  “That’s a hell of a left-handed question, Gill. No, I don’t. My own would freak me out.”

  “Why?” It seemed funny. He was so good with Sam.

  “Responsibility. I’m allergic to it. Come on, I’ll race you to the water.” He did, and I beat him by half an inch, which won me an earnest dunking in the chilly surf . . . allergic to responsibility, eh? Okay. Sorry I asked.

  “Is anybody interested in Chinese dinner?” We were rounding the hair-raising bends in the road home from Stinson Beach and everyone was in a good mood. Sam had played all afternoon and Chris and I had talked film. He was crazy about his work, his eyes lit up with passion when he spoke of it. And I envied him that. Being a stylist just doesn’t work up the same kind of emotion. All you do is add your own touches to someone else’s work. Like his work. He was doing all the creating.

  The invitation to Chinese dinner was well-received, and Sam was thrilled at
the sights of Chinatown when we got there. Many of the buildings were made to look like pagodas and the streets were lined with shops filled with fascinating junk. The smell of incense was heavy in the air, and there were tiny, tinkling bells over every doorway.

  “Do you like Chinese food, Gill?”

  “I love it.” It seemed funny that he didn’t know. I expected him to know everything. It felt as though we had been together for years.

  The three of us wrestled over chicken foo yong, sweet and sour pork, shrimp fried in batter, sharks’ fin sauté, fried rice, fortune cookies, and tea. And at the end of the meal I felt as though I were going to explode. Chris looked as though he felt about the same, and Sam went to sleep at the table.

  “We’re some group,” he said. I giggled as he looked around and threw up his hands. “I was expecting the last fortune cookie to tell me I’d turn into an egg roll by morning. I feel like one.”

  “Me too. Let’s go home.” I saw a funny look in his eyes as I said it, but he didn’t say anything, so I didn’t speak. The moment passed.

  “I want to show you something pretty before we go back. Sam can sleep in the truck. I’ll carry her.” We walked slowly to the parking lot where Chris had left the truck and I was sorry Sam couldn’t get one last view of the wonders of Chinatown, but there’d be other times.

  “Where are we going?” He was driving west up Broadway, and we had just crossed Van Ness Avenue and were entering one of the better residential districts.

  “You’ll see.”

  We drove all the way up Broadway to the intersection of Divisadero and then he stopped and made a right turn. We stood on the crest of the hill and looked at the bay and the mountains on the other side, and it was splendid. Everything was terribly quiet and heartbreakingly beautiful. The glory of San Francisco was ours.

  He put the truck in low gear and we rolled quietly down the hill toward the bay, past the rows of important-looking, well-kept houses in Pacific Heights, until we reached the cheesy flamboyance of Lombard Street and I was sorry it was over.

  We drove into the Marina district and I knew he was taking us home.

  “Don’t look so sad. It’s not over yet.”

  “It’s not?” I was pleased.

  He drove along the docks and then parked next to the Yacht Club.

  “Let’s get out. Sam’s sound asleep. We can sit out here for a bit.” We walked out into the cool night air and looked across the bay at the view. The water was lapping at the narrow rim of beach and it made a pleasant sound. It was the most peaceful moment of the day and it was lovely. We sat on the low retaining wall, dangling our feet and looking outward, and there was nothing left to say. It was all right there. And I didn’t feel alone anymore.

  “Gill . . .” He seemed to hesitate as he looked out across the bay.

  “Yes?”

  “I think I’m in love with you. That’s a hell of a way to say it, but I think I am.”

  “I think I am too. And don’t worry how you say it, it’s nice to hear.”

  “You may be sorry that you love me one day.” He looked at me earnestly in the dark as he said it.

  “I doubt that. I know what I’m doing. And I think I know what you are. I love you, Chris.” He leaned over gently and took me in his arms and kissed me, and then we smiled at each other in the dark. All was well with the world.

  We drove the few blocks to my house in silence and he lifted Sam gently out of the truck, took her inside, and put her down on her bed. And then he looked at me for a long moment and left the room.

  “What’s bugging you, Chris?” We were standing in the living room and I could tell he had something on his mind.

  “I’m going back to my place tonight. And don’t try to make me feel guilty about it. Ever. Do you understand that? Never, Gill, never . . . and besides, you couldn’t anyway.” I started to answer him, but he was gone. There had been a strange fire in his eyes as he said those words to me . . . and then he was gone.

  6

  Monday was a horrifically busy day. I got a super job from an advertising agency that had never used me before and I spent the entire day getting accessories for the shooting of some textile ads the following day. It was fun work and I kept busy bouncing in and out of boutiques and department stores looking for jewelry, shoes in the right sizes, handbags, hats, and great odds and ends. All a stylist really needs is taste, imagination, and good, strong legs. You have to run around a lot.

  The art director of the agency took me to lunch at Ernie’s and it was fun to see the chic people come and go. He was a man of about forty-five, was recently divorced, and had the worst case of the hots I’d seen on anybody yet. He kept trying to talk me into coffee and brandy at his apartment after lunch, on Telegraph Hill where he had a terrific view. . . . Come on, baby, are you kidding? I had work to do. And I had Chris.

  My last stop of the day was at I. Magnin’s fur shop, and I had a ball picking out sable capes, ermine throws, mink this, and leopard that. They would work well with the textiles, and it was a lovely, luxurious feeling to be picking out furs, practically by the gross.

  Sam had been parked with the neighbors again for the afternoon and she was visibly annoyed at me when I swept in in good spirits and a new black wool dress that I’d bought at Magnin’s on the way out. I was feeling chic and successful, like the people I’d seen at Ernie’s at lunch.

  “Is that a new dress, Mommy?”

  “Yes, do you like it?”

  “No. It’s black.” Tough, Sam, I like it. But I knew she was mad that I’d been busy all day and hadn’t been able to take her to the beach. But this was a big job. Two days for four hundred dollars.

  “Come on, Sam. I’ll cook dinner and you can tell me about your day.”

  “Well, it was miberatzil.”

  “Miserable? As bad as all that?” But suddenly she had taken off towards the house like a shot. And then I saw why. Chris was in front of the house, all cleaned up, the shaggy blond hair immaculately clean, and a fresh pair of jeans, and he was carrying an armful of flowers.

  “Wow! How pretty.”

  “So are you, Gill. Listen . . . I was lousy to you last night and I’m sorry. Really, really sorry. We’ll have a nice night tonight, and . . .”

  “Relax. I had a nice night last night and the night before. Everything’s okay, Chris. I understand. It’s okay.”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t understand.” I had forgotten that Sam was in our midst and she was looking confused.

  “Nothing, Sam. Go wash your hands. I’ll cook dinner.”

  “No, you won’t, Gill. I’m taking you out. Get a sitter.”

  “Now?”

  “Now. I’ll make the peace with Sam.” He pointed at the phone and then left the room to talk to Sam.

  He had come through . . . flowers and all. And he was right, he had been kind of lousy. But not very. He had only told me that he was living with someone, which was honest, and he had gone home to sleep, which hurt, but he had to go home sometime. The funny thing was that I really did understand, and I knew he didn’t mean to hurt me.

  I called the sitter and she agreed to come by in half an hour. But there was still Sam to contend with. I wasn’t so sure Chris could snow her. Maybe me, but not her. I put his flowers in a vase and waited for her to emerge. It didn’t take long.

  “Uncle Crits says you’re going out. But I guess it’s okay. He said you worked hard all day, and something like that. You can go out, Mommy.”

  “Thanks, Sam.” I wasn’t so sure I was pleased with getting permission from a child three feet tall, but it was best that she wasn’t mad about it, whatever he’d told her. Then, Chris took charge of me, and it struck me again how nice it was to have a man in the house.

  “Now, you go get dressed. Put on something beautiful and sexy and I’m going to show you off. And wear your hair down. And by the way, Mrs. Forrester,” he lowered his voice and whispered in my ear as I walked by, “I’m so goddam in love with
you I can hardly think straight. You’re wrecking me.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” I planted a kiss on his mouth and practically floated into my room, where I dressed to the sounds of Chris neighing like a horse and Sam playing an ardent cowboy scene. It was nice to hear them, and I felt great.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Dinner on Clay Street. The competition is giving a party. But I’ve got something I want to say to you first.” What now? He stopped the truck, pulled over to the side of the street, and turned to me with a funny look, then he took me in his arms and kissed me so hard it hurt. “You look fantastic. I said dress sexy, I didn’t say make me drool for crissake.”

  “Flatterer.” But I was pleased. I had worn a green and gold Indian shirt a la hippie, and tight black velvet pants with black suede boots. My hair was down, as per his orders, and I had nothing on under the shirt. And it seemed to be effective. Chris looked absolutely lecherous as we drove along.

  The party was given by a San Francisco filmmaker who had made a recent hit with a film about drugs, and he was giving a party to celebrate in his brand new house. When we arrived, there were easily two hundred people roaming in the empty house to the sound of a wailing blues singer that was coming at us seemingly from all over the house. That seemed to be the only thing the new tenants had set up. The stereo. There was no furniture, nothing on the walls. The only decorations were the people, and they were exceedingly ornamental, all young, and nice to look at, in the style of Chris. There were girls in hippie shirts and skin-tight jeans with electric-looking hair and Bambi eyes, and long-haired boys in the same kind of clothes. Almost everyone was stoned and the smell of grass hung heavy in the air.

  The house itself was a large bastardized Victorian, with a huge, sweeping staircase that seemed to soar toward a skylight miles above. There were people draped all over the banisters in earnest conversation, or necking heavily. It looked just like the parties I’d heard were typical of San Francisco but had never seen.