“Should I consider that a proposal?” she teased, as she smiled through her tears.

“Absolutely… but not exclusively … sorry, I'd still have to sleep with boys … and I wouldn't tell you about it… but you could definitely assume we're not exclusive. Would that do?”

“Where do I sign up?”

They both laughed, and Bix shook his head. He liked talking to her. She felt almost like a sister to him. “I told you Chandler was no good.”

“I knew you'd say that eventually. But he talked such a good game. He told me he hadn't felt this way in fourteen years. What was that all about?”

“Snowing you. Guys like that say anything that works. When you meet the real thing, you'll know it. He wasn't.”

“Apparently.”

They wrapped up for the night, and felt closer to each other for the admissions they'd made, she about her mistake in getting involved with Chandler, and he about Steven having HIV. It had lightened some of the burden for him, as well as for her. And when Paris got home, she called Meg. And much to her mother's chagrin, Meg was in tears.

“What happened? Did you and Anthony have a fight?”

“I guess you could call it that. I found out that he's seeing some other girl. She's not even a girl. She's a woman. She's some big producer, and he's been sleeping with her for weeks.” His ambition had gotten him in the end. Another one with no integrity. But in his case, Paris wasn't surprised, nor was Meg. She had known who and what he was. She just hoped he would hang around for a while. He had lasted about as long as Chandler—six weeks.

“I'm sorry, sweetheart. Chandler is out of the picture too.” And then she had an idea. “Do you want to come home this weekend?” Her furniture had arrived the month before, and it felt like home to her now. The house was looking great.

“What happened with Chandler?” Meg asked as she blew her nose.

“Same idea. I didn't ask if we were exclusive. I didn't know I was supposed to.”

“That happened to me in college,” Meg said wisely. “You always have to ask.”

“How come no one ever told me?”

“You didn't need to know. Now you do. Next time, ask. And if they say no, hit the door. In fact, make it a deal breaker going in.”

“Will you negotiate my next contract for me?” Paris teased her.

“Sure.” And then Meg sighed. “Doesn't this just suck? I wonder if I'm ever going to meet anyone decent. Probably not down here.” She sounded discouraged, even at twenty-four. That wasn't good news to Paris. She was turning forty-seven in May.

“They don't seem to be much better here.”

“Or anywhere else. My friends in New York meet the same guys. They're all players or liars, or commitment phobics. And when you meet a really nice guy, he tells you he's gay. I give up.”

“Not at your age. The right one will come along, for you, if not for me. I'm not sure I care. I'm too old.”

“Don't be stupid, Mom. You're still young. And you look great. Maybe I will come home this weekend. I'm depressed.”

“Me too. We can sit in bed and eat ice cream together, and watch TV.”

“I can't wait.”

Paris picked her up at the airport on Friday night, and she didn't have to work all weekend. They did exactly what they said they were going to do. They sat in bed and hugged each other, and watched old movies on TV. Neither of them got dressed or combed their hair, or put on makeup, and they loved it, and Wim came over for lunch on Sunday, and looked startled when he saw them both. Fortunately, he had come alone.

“Are you two sick?” he asked, surprised. “You look like shit,” he told his sister.

“I know,” she said, grinning at him. She had had a great weekend hanging out with their mother.

“We had a mental health weekend,” Paris explained.

“What's that?”

“We watched old movies and cried and stayed in bed, and bashed boys. My boyfriend cheated on me.” Meg gave him the details.

“That's a bummer,” he said sympathetically.

“What about you?” Meg asked, as Paris handed each of them a cup of soup, and sat down on the couch. She loved being with them. “Are you going out with any cute girls?”

“Dozens of them,” he said proudly. “We had a contest in the dorm, to see how many of them we could each get. I had twelve in two weeks,” he said, looking innocent, and his sister looked like she was going to throw something at him.

“You are a pig. That is the most disgusting thing I've ever heard. Christ, with all the shit guys loose in the world, we don't need you to turn into one too. Get real.”

“What do you expect me to do? Get married freshman year? I'm a kid.” He was all innocence and good humor.

“Then be a decent one, for God's sake,” Meg scolded him, as Paris approved. “Be a nice guy, who treats women with kindness and respect. The world needs more nice guys like you.”

“I don't want to be a nice guy yet. I want to have some fun.”

“Not at someone else's expense, I hope, Wim,” Paris chided him. “People have a responsibility to each other, to treat each other well.”

“Yeah, I know. But sometimes you just have to be a little funky. You can't be responsible all the time.”

“Yes, you can,” his sister insisted. “Start now. You're nearly nineteen years old.” His birthday was two days after his mother's in May. “It's never too early to be a decent man. I'm counting on you, Wim.”

“Do I have to?” he asked, as he finished his soup. His mother and sister both seemed to be in a weird mood.

“Yes, you do,” Paris said. “Because if you aren't, you're going to hurt someone one day.” And in spite of herself, she was thinking of their father as she said it. It went over Wim's head, but Meg understood.





Chapter 21




Paris didn't even think about dating after she broke up with Chandler. As May rolled around, they had a thousand details to take care of for the weddings they were doing in June. There were seven. And Meg flew up for the night to celebrate her birthday with her, and then flew back on a six A.M. plane. It was a sweet thing to do. Bix had given her a cake in the office, and a lovely turquoise cashmere stole. He said it would look fabulous on a black dress. And two days later she drove over to Berkeley to celebrate Wim's birthday with him. It was a busy month.

But the anniversary of the day Peter had left her was a hard one for her. She woke up with a bleak feeling, and remembered instantly what date it was. She was quiet and solemn all day. Bix asked her about it finally, and she told him what it was. And when she got home from work, she went to bed and cried. A lot of good things had happened to her in the last year, but if anyone had asked, or given her a magic wand, all she would have wanted, in an instant, was to have Peter back. No questions asked. Her life was forever changed, and not always for the best. But some nice things had happened too. The move to San Francisco, the house she was living in, and the job that had been her salvation, thanks to Bix, his friendship and Steven's. There were a lot of things she was grateful for. But she still missed Peter terribly, and was beginning to suspect she always would. It was just the way it was. She no longer expected anyone to fill that void, and didn't imagine that they could. She was relieved when she fell asleep finally, and the hideous day was over at last.

It was a few days afterward when Sydney Harrington called. She'd had an idea. She had an old friend coming into town, and she wanted to give a little dinner party for him. But her real reason for calling was that she said she wanted to introduce him to Paris first. He lived in Santa Fe, and was an artist. Sydney said he was a lovely man, and if nothing else, Paris would enjoy him. He was a sculptor, and worked in clay.

Paris tried to be polite about it, but she was noticeably vague. And finally, after Sydney rhapsodized endlessly, she agreed to meet them for lunch. She felt she owed Sydney one for recommending her for the job nearly four months before. And Sydney was a sensible, intelligent woman, with a fine mind, sound judgment, and good taste. How bad could her friend be?

Paris mentioned it to Bix that afternoon, and he laughed and rolled his eyes.

“Do you know something I don't?” she asked, looking worried.

“No. But you know how I feel about blind dates. One of my favorites was the eighty-two-year-old man who was dropped off for lunch with me by his nurse. I was twenty-six at the time, and the friend who'd set me up thought I would put a little spark back in his life. I would have, except the poor old guy just sat there and drooled. He could hardly talk, and I burst into tears when I left. But there were others that were worse.”

“You're not encouraging me,” Paris said, looking unnerved. “I couldn't get out of it. Sydney twisted my arm. He's an old friend of hers.”

“We're all blind about our friends. Where does this guy live?”

“Santa Fe. He's an artist.”

“Forget it. He's geographically undesirable. What are you going to do with a guy in Santa Fe, even if he's great?”

“How did I get myself into this?” Paris complained. “Three months ago I said I'd never date. Now I've become cannon fodder for visiting artists, and God knows who else. What am I going to do?”

“Go to lunch with the guy. It'll make Sydney happy. And we're going to kill her in June with all these weddings.” She was catering five of them, and making a hell of a lot of money.

But when the day of the blind date came, Paris was tired and in a rotten mood. Her blow dryer had short-circuited and nearly set the house on fire. Her car had broken down on the way to work. And she was coming down with a cold.

“Can't I just commit suicide and forget lunch?” she asked Bix. She had waited an hour for AAA. They'd had an emergency on the bridge.

“No. You promised Sydney. Be nice.”

“You go, and tell him you're me.”

“That would be cute.” He laughed at her. “You got yourself into this, now go play.”

They had agreed to meet at a Mexican restaurant, which was four blocks away, and Paris didn't even like Mexican food. And when she got there Sydney was waiting at a table. Her friend was parking the car. He must have parked it in another county, because it was another half-hour before he showed up. And when he came through the door wearing an Indian poncho and a cowboy hat, he seemed to be staggering, and Paris thought he was drunk. Sydney was quick to explain.

“He has a problem with his ears. It affects his balance. He's a really great guy.” Paris smiled wanly as he approached, and he smiled at her hesitantly and sat down. He took the cowboy hat off and set it down on a chair, and as he did, Paris couldn't help noticing that he looked like he had ten years of clay under his nails. But there was no denying, he was an interesting-looking man. He looked almost Native American himself, but said he wasn't when she asked. He said he hated them, and they were the scourge of Santa Fe.

“They're all drunks,” he said, as Paris recoiled. And after that he went on a tirade about blacks. He somehow forgot to mention Jews. He managed to make racial slurs on just about everyone else, including their Mexican waiter, which the man heard, and he turned around to give all three of them an evil look. Paris was sure he would spit in their food, and she didn't blame him a bit.

“So, Sydney tells me you're an artist,” Paris managed to say sweetly, trying not to worry about the waiter and their food. But she had to get through this somehow. It was not going to be easy, and all respect for Sydney's judgment had vanished when the man appeared.

“I brought you some pictures of my work,” he said proudly. His name was William Weinstein, which may have explained why he left Jews off his hate list. He had been born in Brooklyn, and moved to Santa Fe ten years before. He took an envelope out of his pocket, rifled through some pictures, and handed them to Paris. They were ten-foot phallic symbols made of clay. The man had penises on the brain.

“It's very interesting work,” Paris said, pretending to be impressed. “Do you use live models?” she asked more in jest, and he nodded.

“Actually, I use my own.” He thought that hysterically funny and laughed so hard he almost coughed himself to death. Along with the clay under his nails, enough of it to create another sculpture, his fingers were stained with nicotine. “Do you like to ride?”

“Yes, but I haven't in a long time. Do you?”

“Yes, I do. I have a ranch, you ought to come down. We have no electricity and no plumbing. It's a two-day ride to my ranch.”

“That must make it very hard to get in or out.”