Dirty Scoundrel(4)

     



 

I stare, unable to believe what I'm hearing. My Clay said this? "I . . .  know that he was going to take a job with his father this summer," I  say, though it's hard to speak around the knot in my throat. "But I  thought . . ."

"Oh, he said he'd marry you, but he made it quite clear that if you went to college, it would be over."

What the hell? Does Clay really want me sitting around twiddling my  thumbs, waiting to have his babies? I did want to go to college but  wanted to discuss where with Clay first, hoping it could be someplace  near where he'd be. How could Clay make me choose? Crap, it was even  worse than that-he chose for me!

When my father nudges the envelope toward me again, I pick it up. I feel  numb. I don't even recall applying to Stanford, so one of his  assistants must have done this. Not surprising, given that my dad has a  crew to run everything in his life. He doesn't like to be alone. I gaze  down at the letter, the words blurring before my eyes.

Everything feels like it's dying. All the things I'd hoped for, all the  joyful dreams I'd made-they'd all involved Clay. Surely . . . surely I  have more ambition than that? More than just being some guy's wife?

Or is that all that I truly want? I'm so confused. I don't know what to think anymore. "He's never said . . ."

"My darling, why would he? I learned this the hard way in Hollywood-the  more options you give someone, the less likely they are to take the one  that you want them to take. The best way to get someone to do what you  want is to give them as few options as possible. You never offer your  leading man four scripts. You offer him the one you want him to take and  go from there."

"This isn't Hollywood, Dad," I say bitterly.

"That's where you're wrong. Everything in this world is run like Hollywood. It's a game of who you know and what face you wear."

I bite back my retort and clutch the Stanford letter desperately in my  hand. Is he right? Is this what Clay wanted? To trap me into a marriage  so I'd stay at home and have kids and just . . . hang around and cook  him dinners? Yesterday, I wouldn't have even minded if he'd said that!  But to give me no other options, like I can't make my own mind up? That  hurts me deeply. "I need some time to think, Dad."

"Of course. Take all the time you need, and then when you're ready,  we'll talk Stanford." As I stand, he turns his chair a little and holds a  hand out to me. That's what Dad does-he doesn't hug-he just takes my  hand and squeezes it. I know my Dad loves me in his weird, eccentric  way, but right now I really, really need a hug.

Clay would hug me.

The thought hurts so much that I break into a sob.

"Now, now," my father says in a soothing voice. "Trust your daddy to know what's good for you."

I nod through my tears. Dad may want us all to dance to his weird little  tune, but I know he'd want what's best for me. I give him a teary-eyed  smile, and then when I can't hold it in any longer, I rush up to my  room, tears blurring my vision. I can't bear it. It hurts too much. I  curl up on my bed and bawl my eyes out, and I don't even get up when  Jenny, the maid, slips in and places my phone on my desk. What do I need  a phone for anymore? Clay's the only person I ever want to talk to.  He's my only friend and my boyfriend-everyone else in this stupid town  hates me.

And now it seems that Clay-my sweet, loving, handsome Clay-thinks I should just stay home and be his little woman.

Maybe . . . maybe I should go to Stanford.

I cry until someone comes and knocks on my door an hour later. "Miss  Natalie?" It's Jenny, the maid. "There's someone at the front door for  you."

"Tell them to go away," I call out, sniffing.

"I told him you were unavailable but he says he won't leave." Her muffled voice is worried. "Should I call the police?"

I fling myself off the bed, suddenly furious. I know exactly who's  waiting at the door, and how dare he think he can come over here and  just try to smooth things over after dropping that bomb in a  conversation with my father? Stay home with him? What about what I want?  Did he never stop and think that maybe he should ask me how I feel? I  storm past a bewildered Jenny and down the stairs, heading for the  carved double doors that lead to our covered front porch.

When I fling them open, sure enough, Clay Price is standing there.

His hands are stuffed in his pockets and he's wearing an oversized dress  shirt that's now wrinkled, and his hair-always a bit wild and  unkempt-flies about his head. "We need to talk," he says in a flat  voice. His face is blank. That's the thing with Clay Price. He never  shows you what he's really thinking.         

     



 

My back goes up. "I don't think there's anything to say," I tell him icily.

"So it's true, then? You're gonna go off to Stanford?"

He sounds pissed. Good, I'm pissed, too. I'm hurt and angry that he'd  think my opinion matters so little that he could decide my future for  me. "I just might," I say lightly. "What, you think I should stay here  and marry you?"

The moment I say it, it feels like a mistake. The knot in my throat  increases, and I can see him visibly flinch as the words come out. And  I'm surprised, because it seems like for the first time, Clay looks  vulnerable.

"No," he says softly. "I guess not." He puts a pair of fingers to his  forehead and gives me a mock salute. "Have a nice life. I'm heading to  West Texas with my pop."

"Bye," I tell him in a flat tone. "I'm going to Stanford." And I turn around and slam the door behind me.

The moment I do, I burst into tears again.



Hours later, I'm all cried out. I realize we've both been acting  childish and I want to talk to him. Maybe we can work things out. Maybe I  can make him see that my education is important, and what I want is  just as important as what he wants. Maybe we can still get married and I  can go to college part-time while we make a home together. Sniffling, I  pick up my phone to text him even though it's late.

All I know is that I love him and I don't want this to be the end between us.

Before I can hit the "Send" button, there's an urgent knock at my  bedroom door. "Natalie?" It's not Jenny, but my stepmom, Johanna.  "Natalie, open up! It's your father! There's something wrong with him!"

My father? Oh no. He's old, but he's still so vibrant that it doesn't  seem like he'll ever age like normal people. This can't be happening. I  rush to the door to find Johanna's teary face. "What is it?" I blurt  out, racing past her toward their bedroom.

"I think he's having a heart attack!" she wails in my ear.

Texting Clay is completely forgotten.





Chapter Three



Present



Natalie

I know it's going to be a bad day when I wake up to find my dad standing over my bed.

I sit up, rubbing my eyes, and glance at the alarm clock. Five in the morning. "Dad?"

"Where's the cat?" he asks. "I heard it meowing."

Biting back my sigh, I get out of bed and put on my slippers. "There's no cat, Dad."

"Of course there's a cat, Jenny. I gave it to you for Christmas.  Remember? You said you wanted a cat and I paid one of Frankie's friends  to bring you one."

"Right," I say, since it's better than arguing with Dad. I'm not Jenny,  first of all-that's the maid we had who retired over six years ago. And  I'm betting "Frankie" was Frank Sinatra. At any rate, there's never been  a cat in all of my twenty-five years. "I'll go find it. You go back to  bed, okay?"

My father continues to argue with "Jenny" about the cat as I take him  gently by the arm and lead him back to his room. Even though he  protests, I help him back into his bed and tuck the covers around him  like he's a child. This is a typical "bad" morning for us, though lately  they've been becoming more the norm. He holds my hand, mumbling about  the cat for a bit longer until he falls back asleep, and then I'm able  to tiptoe away . . .

Right into a warm puddle on the floor.

Oh no. Because that's how I wanted to start the day-stepping in pee.

But my father can't help it. He's eighty-seven now and his Hollywood  looks have gone. His shoulders are hunched, part of his face is still  slack after his stroke, and his dementia has been worse every year. It's  a long fall for someone as proud as Chap Weston, so I do my best to  make things easy for him. Not that he knows who I am most of the time.  He's lost in memories, and I can't hold it against him if he can't hold  his bladder. So I get towels and clean it up, then wash my feet before  getting dressed and heading downstairs to start the day. I'm not going  to let this morning's episode with my father depress me, even though  it's obvious he's getting worse.

One crisis at a time.

I make myself a cup of coffee in a Chap Weston souvenir mug, choke down a  cold Pop-Tart, and gaze at one of the posters on the wall as I eat  breakfast. This one's from one of my dad's biggest hits in 1952-a  musical about sailors in a submarine. His handsome, strong form is in  the center of the photo, with a cute girl clinging to his arm. No wonder  my dad likes to live in the past.