Chapter Thirteen
Patrick reclined fully on the orange cushion of his chaise to let the sun properly do its thing; the gentle breeze and the smell of sunscreen and the searing heat all made him miss Palm Springs. He was tickled by the memory of it; in the five years since he’d moved to New York, he had been back only once to clean out his house before the closing. There was no point, he thought at the time, in looking back, when so much of his life—Emory, his new show, the kids—was about moving forward. He embraced life as a New Yorker. So he was surprised now to find himself feeling oddly nostalgic. Palm Springs is where you went to do nothing; New York was a place to do everything. But as the sun hit his face and he felt warmth radiate through his skin, he wondered if he might not have overcorrected. There was value in doing nothing from time to time, even if it was not meant to be a way of life. And yes, he had been to the Hamptons a handful of times and twice to Fire Island, but those were like New York Lite, more than they were like Palm Springs.
He relaxed into the memory of meeting Emory for the first time in Palm Springs, their first real conversation in his own lounge chairs, much like these, except blue. But Emory quickly slipped from his thoughts as a cold shadow fell across his face. He opened one eye to find Maisie standing over him.
“Here.” She held out two lemons, perfectly halved, two pieces in each hand.
“Where did you get those?” Clara asked, looking up from her book, Women Talking by Miriam Toews. His sister had been occupying the chair beside him so quietly he’d almost forgotten she was there. Grant was on the far side of Clara, playing a game on Maisie’s phone under a towel Patrick had placed over him, as if to calm him like a macaw in a cage with a blanket.
“I nicked them from a centerpiece in the lobby.” Patrick had sent Maisie to the half-moon-shaped bar under the nearby awning to have them halved.
“You nicked them. Who are you, Madonna? You were in England for five minutes and suddenly you’re Oliver Twist?”
Patrick sat up and placed his feet on the ground, curling his bare toes in the warm sand, surprised to find it was not the warm concrete of a pool deck in Palm Springs.
“Did you see the nightly rates for these rooms?” Clara asked. “I’d argue who’s robbing whom.”
Patrick motioned for Maisie to sit in front of him. “Did you tell them to send over a spritz?”
“Ooh, a spritz sounds divine,” Clara said, as if Aperol were a religious experience. Patrick waved until he caught the bartender’s attention and held up two fingers, pointing to himself and Clara.
“Are you done being the language police?” Maisie asked, annoyed, wondering what to do next with the lemons.
Clara motioned for her to come closer and ran a lemon wedge over streaks of Maisie’s hair. “Clara-all,” she said, pleased.
“Are you trying to put your spin on Clairol?” Patrick’s face soured as if he had just bit into one of the lemons; he wished people would leave the jokes to him. “Did you put on sunscreen?” he asked his niece as she tilted her face up toward the sun.
“Duh,” she replied as Patrick took the lemon from Clara and continued as she had shown. “I don’t want to end up wrinkled like you.” He playfully yanked at a chunk of her hair in retaliation. “Ow.” Maisie shot him a look over her shoulder.
“Sorry. Snarl.” Another crack at his age; they were starting to pile up.
A deep, throaty laugh drew his attention and he watched as Palmina and her ladies-in-waiting claimed four chairs a few rows in front of them, clad in stylish one-piece sheath swimsuits that might have looked more at home on Esther Williams than this pack of les-butants. “The bathing costumes,” Patrick muttered, as if it were all too much.
Clara’s instinct was to counter Patrick’s every criticism with a compliment. “She has such an infectious laugh.”
“Infectious like you could catch a disease.” Patrick dropped the lemon he was holding and it landed face down in the sand. Clara shot him a look—Serves you right—before returning to her book.
Maisie looked down at the lemon wedge now covered in sand. “Maybe I should have Palmina do this.”
Patrick yanked her hair again. “Bite your tongue.” He reached for a clean piece of lemon.
“In fact, maybe I should have Palmina do everything.”
“What do you mean, everything?”
“Stop this charade of a wedding!”
Patrick disagreed; Palmina was not right for the job. “She’s Livia’s sister. What’s she going to do?”
Maisie looked over her shoulder judgmentally. “Well, you’re not focused. Ever since we got here you’ve been in your own little world. Shopping for ascots. Mooning over Emory.”
“I’m not mooning!”
Maisie turned back around and focused straight out at the lake. She wore a modest bikini top—a far cry from the rash-guard shirts she would wear to swim in Palm Springs—and her hair was now halfway down her back. She’s growing up too fast, Patrick thought. But maybe she had a point. He wondered if there wasn’t some underlying resentment between the Italian sisters. A bride should have attendants, not a maid of honor, and the fact that Palmina traveled with a retinue of them seemed disrespectful—like showing up to the wedding itself in a white dress. And she didn’t appear at all impressed with the festivities so far, unlike her parents, who were thrilled with every lush detail. She seemed like both a member of her family and her own satellite, with a unique orbit, like his own. “Palmina can’t do everything.”
“She can do a lot,” Maisie said admiringly.
A man in a Speedo walked by in his quest for an empty chair, chest hair glistening with sweat, and Patrick was surprised to see Clara’s head turn along with his own. Mooning over Emory. He was doing no such thing.
“Oof,” Clara said when the man was safely out of earshot. “I haven’t been that attracted to a man since...”
“Last night?” Patrick asked before she could finish.
“WHAT?” Clara feigned innocence.
“I saw you at dinner. Flirting with everyone. You’ve been absolutely feral since you’ve arrived.”
Clara swatted him with her book before relenting. “And so what if I am? I am a woman in my prime. And weddings are an excellent place to meet men.”
Grant mumbled something from beneath his towel.
“Oh look, the parakeet is awake.”
Clara reached over and plucked the towel off Grant. “What, sweetheart?”
“Can I get a smoothie?”
“What are you doing under there?” Patrick interjected, not entirely trusting the boy to his own devices. “You’re not trying to get one off again, are you?”
Clara spun, horrified. “PATRICK.”
“Moles,” Patrick explained. “He picks at his moles.”
“I’m playing a game.”
“Does the game involve picking at your moles?”
“NO,” Grant held firm.
“Say ‘smoothie’ like you used to.”
“Stop.”
“Thmoothie,” Patrick imitated, to his own delight.
“You’re making fun of me!” Grant protested before crawling back under his towel.
“I promise you, I’m not. You’re both growing up too fast, that’s all.”
The bartender approached with their Aperol spritzes; the drinks perfectly matched the cushions and umbrellas in color. Patrick carefully placed the cocktails on the little table between them.
“Can we get something blended and nonalcoholic?” Patrick asked, indicating Maisie and the lump under the towel.
“Sì, signore, signorina.”
Patrick made a visor with his hands and squinted as the young man returned to the bar. His white polo shirt concealed broad shoulders and his orange shorts had a five-inch inseam max—the perfect length on a man.
“And you have the nerve to call me feral,” Clara said.
“You’re crazy,” Patrick replied, but he could not take his eyes off their bartender.
Maisie turned her head so that Patrick could streak her hair on the side. “My friend Audra Brackett said you shouldn’t call people crazy. It’s ableist.”
“Your friend Audra Brackett is right,” Clara said, and raised her eyebrows at Patrick from behind her sunglasses, challenging him to disagree.
Patrick wanted to lecture them both on the difference between hostile enemies and imperfect friends, but he knew when he was outgunned. “Tell Audra Brackett I’ll try to do better.”
Clara propped her chair into an upright position and layered fresh suntan lotion onto her arms. “I’d like to meet a noble person. Greg shouldn’t have all the fun. A noble gentleman, in my case. I could be a, what do you call it? A maharaja.”
“A marchesa,” Maisie corrected.
“One of those. I’ll have time to learn the lingo after we meet. But I deserve a secure retirement.”
“Maybe you can Anna Nicole Smith Cousin Geppetto.” Patrick ran his fingers through Maisie’s hair to squeeze out any excess lemon juice. “Okay, now go lie in the sun and wait for your blended virgin beverage. But not near me because you smell like furniture polish.”
“Can’t you just say ‘smoothie,’ like a normal person?” Maisie griped.
Patrick reached for his spritz. “Calling some people normal suggests that others are abnormal and that’s ableist, too.” He grinned like the Cheshire cat.
Maisie pursed her lips and glared at her uncle until he gave her a little nudge and she returned to her chair on the far side of Grant.
Palmina stood, blocking his water view. She stretched, arching her back and launching her surprisingly ample breasts toward the sun. She waved at Maisie, who was fanning her damp hair across the back of her lounger. She then turned to her merry band of androids and muttered something in garbled Italian, which Patrick couldn’t quite make out, save for the word madre—mother. Of course he gave it the worst possible translation: It’s good that after tomorrow this girl will have a mother. And Maisie thought she was a better ally in this matter?
“Look at her,” Patrick scowled. “Preening like Gina Lollobrigida.”
Clara followed Patrick’s gaze. “Do you know she ran for parliament?” she asked, reapplying sunscreen to her legs.
Patrick looked down over his sunglasses and mouthed, Palmina? in shock.
“No. Gina Lollobrigida. And she ran again for the Italian senate at the age of ninety-five.”
Patrick stared blankly, unsure what that had to do with the price of cannoli.
“You say very dismissive things about women. That’s all.”
“I do not!” Patrick kicked at the towel underneath him, in part to straighten it, in part tantrum. It felt like everyone was coming for him today. “I just said it because it’s a funny name.” Patrick repeated the name to be certain. “Gina Lollobrigida. Come on!”
Clara stirred her drink with the straw. “Don’t worry. It’s not just you. There’s a casual misogyny among gay men, I’ve discovered.”
“Oh, you’ve discovered. Suddenly you’re Nellie Bly?”
“There you go again!” Clara set down the drink and dropped her tube of sunscreen into her bag. “That’s why you don’t like Palmina. You think having female friends is beneath you.”
“I have female friends!” Patrick tried his best to think of them in this moment, but his mind drew a blank.
“And don’t say Sara,” Clara said in a hushed tone, as not to draw the children’s attention. “She doesn’t count.”
“Cassie!” Patrick blurted triumphantly. “I have Cassie.”
“She works for you!”
“That doesn’t mean we aren’t friends.”
Clara shook her head. “All I’m saying is I know you think you’re funny, but sometimes women are more than punch lines—they’re people of great substance.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. “Oh-kay, Pot.”
Clara adjusted her sunglasses on her face, then leaned back in her chair, exasperated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Patrick did his best to imitate his sister’s voice. “I’m going to go have brunch with my gays.”
Grant popped his head out from under his towel and said, “Guncle Rule number one: Brunch is awesome.”
Patrick stifled a laugh and placed his left index finger on his nose and pointed to Grant with his right. He loved a good callback, and that one went all the way back to when their relationship began.
“Is that supposed to be me?” Clara brushed the hair from her face. The colorist Patrick sent her to was doing wonders; his rates were higher than the cost of a few lemons, but to cover gray you needed more magic than a whole lemon tree could conjure.
“It’s literally a direct quote. Gay people are people, not things, and they certainly aren’t yours.” Clara had a solid point—there was, at times, a casual misogyny among gay men—and Patrick could have very well thanked her for addressing it and moved on. But he and Clara had been getting on so well of late, he almost missed the times when they would spar; they’d had, after all, a lifetime of practice.
Clara stared at him for a moment and then laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“I was almost going to say that I missed this.” She waved her finger between the two of them so that it was clear she was referencing their old dynamic.
“Speaking of missing. Have you seen the kids?”
Clara motioned to the two seats next to them. Maisie and Grant were right there.
“Not those kids. Darren’s kids. Your kids.” Clara was stepmother to two grown boys that belonged to her ex. She’d remained close with them, even as her marriage to their father fell apart.
“They’re coming to stay with me for a week when we get back.” She looked at Patrick, genuinely touched that he’d asked. “They’re both so busy with their own lives now. College and everything. Both have internships this summer. I miss them.” Clara went back to work rubbing sunscreen on her legs, which still had white streaks. “I need a man to do this for me.” She looked up and down the short beach for one she could enlist, but the few men who dotted the landscape were either too young, in a “You’re trying to seduce me, Mrs. Robinson” kind of way, or too occupied with women far younger than Clara. Not spying a suitable option, she glanced back toward the bar, where two smoothies were being placed on a tray. “Maybe the bartender could help me.”
“Back off,” Patrick hissed, forcefully enough that he surprised himself, and they laughed.
Patrick reclined again in his chair and closed his eyes. It was so much easier to attend to the kids with a partner. With Clara there he felt free to relax and trust that someone would pick up the slack. He could let his guard down if they walked toward the water or went to talk to other kids, and he suddenly had great sympathy for his brother, Greg. Yes she was beautiful and yes she was wealthy, but could this also be part of Livia’s appeal? Having someone around that allowed Greg the luxury of exhaling, to not have to be on guard all the time? “Do you think we’ve done enough for Greg these past five years?” They’d done a lot for the kids, and maybe that was the same thing. But Patrick was now curious if perhaps it wasn’t.
“I think we have,” Clara replied. And then she wondered, “Should we have done more?”
Patrick was too focused on Palmina to answer. He watched from behind his sunglasses as she and her friends handed a stack of fashion magazines back and forth.
“Remember how you used to steal my fashion magazines?” Clara reminisced. “I’ll bet you and she could be good friends.”
People like Clara assumed lesbians and gay men were natural allies, and while they were, on some things—for instance, their basic human rights—they also had very little in common. Gay men were gay, but they were still men, and all men worshipped at the altar of masculinity. It’s just that straight men almost always wanted to be it, whereas gay men were equally happy underneath or on top of it. Gay men and straight women shared an attraction to men, and in that they had a mutual interest. But lesbians weren’t men, and they didn’t need men, and thus were the rare demographic Patrick couldn’t readily charm. He’d met his match in lesbians. Especially this Palmina.
“You just don’t like that the kids are enchanted with her the way they used to be enchanted with you,” Clara charged.
“Used to be,” Patrick sneered. Then he dragged Grant down to the floating pool docked in the lake and they disported in the water like dolphins until the kids’ smoothies arrived, just to prove that was not true.