The room instills a zenlike calm in me, even considering the fact that I’m possibly meeting my ninety-year-old lover.
I exhale and decide to go for one hundred percent honesty. How else am I going to get to the bottom of everything? “I’m so sorry, Frederick. Do you know me? I’m having trouble remembering things.”
He laughs. “You’re so funny, sweetheart.”
Fuck. I am having an affair with this geezer. I flash a panicked look at Max.
Frederick sets down his crossword puzzle. “What do you think of that latest painting from Jeric? I think it might be too obvious. I hate obvious themes.”
I’m still staring at him. Am I an artist having an affair with this guy? I can’t fit that in with everything else I’ve learned.
“Lauren, did you hear me?”
I don’t respond. I just can’t.
“Lauren?”
Max says, “Who do you think this woman is, Mr. Montcalm?”
Frederick looks at him, totally baffled. “My wife, of course.”
Oh great. I’ve literally sought out an Alzheimer’s patient to help me figure out who I am. #figures.
I glance at a framed picture of a middle-aged woman with blond hair and a yoga body. That must be Lauren.
I point to the picture and whisper to Max, “There’s the woman who must have tried to murder me.” All of that inner peace must have exploded out of her in a fit of violent rage. I think that happens more often than people are willing to admit. It takes a lot of bottled-up rage to hold a side plank for a minute.
“So you have no clue who I am?” I repeat.
“Would you turn on the television, Lauren? I want to watch that show with all the cooking and the British accents.” There’s an edge to his voice now, like he’s sick of Lauren not acting enough like Lauren.
I bet Lauren is out spending Frederick’s money and talking to a lawyer about inheritance law in between yoga headstands.
While Max chats with Frederick about modern art and his wife, I decide to give myself a tour of the house I might have been gunning for. It’s all contemporary California living, a sleek, sexy house with an open-concept floor plan for entertaining beautiful people. The side of the house facing the ocean is floor-to-ceiling glass that takes advantage of the view. Modern art pieces accent what little wall space there is. It’s beautiful, but if you look straight down, it’s almost as if you could tumble down the cliff the house is suspended above. I think it’s a view that could cost you your life.26
On an expanse of white wall facing the ocean in the dining area, there’s a painting that draws me in. It’s all blues and greens, the color of tropical water. A dark shape lurks below the surface. Not the typical hint of a shark. This looks like the outline of a woman with her dress billowing around her. She’s drowning, I think. A placard below the painting identifies it as Artist at Seashore by Lauren Montcalm.
While I fixate on the drowning woman, my head starts to feel weird and I lean against the wall and slowly sink to the floor. When I shut my eyes against the pain in my head, I see Lauren. She’s standing in front of the window overlooking the Pacific. The blue and green painting is in the background.
“Mia, what are you doing here?” She’s upset with me.
“I need money.”
“You need to stay away.”
Lauren Montcalm…Why did I need money from her? Was it a payoff to walk away and leave her marriage undisturbed? Am I an extortionist trying to get as much money as possible from a nice lady who does yoga and paints pictures of drowning women that represent how she feels being married to a ninety-year-old man?
Am I a mean slut?
There’s a martini shaker and a bottle of gin in the corner of the room. I might not know who I am but I know what to do with the shaker. I throw together a martini as if I’ve done it a million times, probably while entertaining all those billionaires drinking cocktails on The Good Life. Frederick pipes up from the corner. “Do I hear you making a drink, darling? Would you make me one, too?”
“Of course dear,” I say like I’m in an old Hollywood movie, wearing my satin day dress. That seems to be Frederick’s reality, at least based on the way he talks to Lauren.
Poor Lauren.
I carry three martinis on a silver tray to the cozy seating area Frederick seems to prefer. It’s on the side of the house that faces the driveway and, in my opinion, preferable. “Frederick?” I say, handing him a glass. He takes it and says, “To us.”
“To us,” I echo as I lift my glass. Whoever the hell us is.
Max silently takes the third martini. I think he gets that it’s better for me to play along with Frederick’s delusion right now.
Frederick takes a few sips and starts to doze off again. Max wanders freely while I glance back at the picture of Lauren. I hate to say it but she looks like she can take me. I should probably exercise in addition to avoiding meat.
Max and I finish our martinis and leave them on the tray for the housekeeper, who’s nowhere to be seen. Before we let ourselves out, I take a last glance at the Pacific, which is spread out before us looking like the $10,000-per-square-foot view that it is. I can’t imagine trying to steal that man from his wife, but so far, betting against myself seems to be a winning strategy.
“Max, I remembered something. I’ve been to this house before.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” I lie. “I just saw Lauren in the house. She was mad at me, but I don’t know why.” I don’t want to tell him I was asking for money.
“Hmm. Sometimes recovered memories aren’t true. A lot of times, if someone suggests something, you can actually have a vision of that memory, but it’s only because of the suggestion.”
I nod.
“Just like when you think you remember events from your childhood that happened to a brother or sister because you’ve heard the story. That guy at the art museum might have unintentionally planted that memory.”
“That sounds smart.”
“You probably set up Frederick and Lauren or went to a party at their house, if anything.”
I love how Max doesn’t want to think the worst of me. It warms my heart. Thinking the best of myself is getting harder. I could easily believe that I was using so many people, that I was sleeping my way to the top, that I was associating with known criminals. And I haven’t even told Max everything. I can’t give up Max’s good opinion. If I can only be the woman he thinks I am…
“You want to drive, Max?” What red-blooded American man doesn’t want to drive a red Ferrari down a coastal highway? I owe him at least that.