The Muffia (16 page)

Chapter 23

The sliding entrance doors swished open with a ding, and I spotted a cute older woman being pushed toward Kiki and me in a wheelchair. The woman—wearing black and with her hair cut in a chic style—had that pert, defiant look of the cancer fighter.

Letting my eyes drift higher to whoever was pushing the chair, I saw that it was Cullen—as in Babeland/Fleshlight/Andalucia Cullen. He’d spotted me, too, and was smiling broadly, just as handsome as I remembered.

“Hi, there,” he said, taking his hands off the wheelchair and standing up to his full height. I hadn’t remembered him being over six feet but, then again, I’d been wearing heels and a power suit when we’d met, and now I was clad in sweats and flip-flops. He had on a light blue linen shirt that wrinkled and draped tastefully and, though he probably hadn’t put a lot of thought into his appearance, he looked great—far better than I did, that's for sure.

“Hi,” I said, glancing at the woman in the wheelchair who suddenly didn’t seem quite so cute. This had to be his mother. She was a smaller, shrunken version of him and, to me, didn’t look sick at all. She was staring at me with a distinctly hostile expression. I couldn’t make out her ancestry any better than I could her son’s—Italian, maybe, or Spanish? She had a head of thick black hair and eyebrows to match. I wondered what kind of cancer a woman with hair like that could possibly have. Then I realized she was wearing a wig.

My hands went to my own head, attempting to adjust my own fine, fragile hair into something bordering on a style. I think I’ve mentioned that I consider my hair to be my worst feature, requiring a lot of daily attention and
product
in order to create the illusion I had hair at all—and I didn’t even have cancer. That day it was particularly wispy and I remember wishing I were wearing a hat.

We stood there—except the woman in the wheelchair, obviously—for a couple of uncomfortable seconds, Kiki looking at me oddly while the woman in the chair glared at Cullen, waiting for an explanation.

“This is my mother. Mom, this is Madelyn. She’s a lawyer.”

“What do we need a lawyer for?” the woman snapped. “I’m sick. I need a doctor.”

“She’s not
our
lawyer, Mom. She’s just
a
lawyer.”

“More of a mediator at this point, actually,” I said, hoping to clarify.

“I don’t believe in meditation,” said Cullen’s mom.

Kiki’s eyes opened wide, I believe in an effort to tell me there was no point in discussing anything with this one.

“This is Kiki,” I said. “She’s one of the women in the book club I told you about.”

“Right, I remember. The
Muffia
.”

Mom cleared her throat loudly, again turning around to glare at Cullen. She reminded me of an overacting vaudeville performer from another era, mugging and grimacing in exaggerated style. The only thing she didn’t do to show her displeasure was use hand gestures.

“Well,” he said, “I guess I should check her in, but let’s get together.”

I found myself nodding. “Yes. I’d like that.”

“Psshaww,” said his mom. Really.

“Still have my card?” Cullen asked.

“I do.” And I did.
Of course I did, though after meeting Udi, I might have tossed it like so much garbage.
I didn’t, however, tell him that I had been thinking of calling. I remembered really enjoying the time we’d spent with each other, despite the fact I’d been slightly embarrassed that he’d used the opportunity of my purring Aphroditty to start a conversation. I’d actually thought about him quite a bit before I’d met Udi (B.U.), but after I met Udi (A.U.), I was consumed with Udi, even if things with Cullen might have ultimately worked out better. Of course, at this point I
know
things would have worked out better. Cullen was still alive, after all.

Here fate had thrown us together again—in a cancer hospital, no less. I hoped it wasn’t a bad omen; certainly it was no worse than Babeland.

He turned and, over his shoulder, mouthed, “Call me.”

“Very good-looking,” Kiki whispered in my ear as we watched him roll his mom toward reception. “And he loves his mom. That’s nice to see.”

She was giving me a very non-Kiki expression. In fact, Kiki seemed to be breaking through at least some of whatever had been bothering her. She seemed more content, somehow. And that day she was looking and acting less like the grown-up married Kiki and more like the Kiki I’d known fifteen years ago. She was wearing her hair kinky and wild—the way she’d worn it before she’d met Saul—and her clothes were less conservative.
Deliciously Disturbed
had worked some kinda magic on her after all. I just couldn’t tell what it was yet.

“You realize that he’s the one I met in the vibrator store,” I told her, no longer too concerned she might give me a lecture on safe sex.

She nodded then turned to face me when Cullen and his mother rounded a corner, out of sight. “I think I can forgive him that.”

Chapter 24

“Good to see you again,” Cullen said when we met up one afternoon several days later for coffee.

“Yes,” I agreed. “Though seeing you at the hospital was a little jarring, particularly after meeting the way we did.”

“Mmm, I see what you mean—sex and cancer don’t naturally go together. Then again, why shouldn’t cancer patients have sex?” he asked. “My mother has a vibrator—not the fancy one you have, but I’m sure it gets the job done.”

Good for her.
Everyone should stay sexually active, I thought. We’d all be happier.

“I was hoping you would call me,” he went on. “I thought we had a nice connection that day in the Andalucia.” Cullen, now in a dark blue version of the light blue shirt he’d been wearing at the hospital, lifted his cup to his lips.

“We did,” I said, trying not to smile too provocatively.

We
had
had a connection, but so much had happened since then, not the least of which was the death of a lover with whom I’d shared an even deeper connection.

Also: Vicki’s lump had come back negative; Kiki had told Saul she wanted a trial separation and for him to respect her decision to go to church now and then; Jelicka had put together several more wild scenarios as to how Udi had met his end; Sarah had miscarried (which was sad but probably a good thing, since she didn’t know who the father was); Paige was being stalked by a tennis dad whom she admitted leading on; Rachel was full-on into her new series of paintings entitled “Nude Men Without Faces”; and Lauren, even though she hadn’t lost any weight, had started to consistently wear mini-skirts and high-heeled boots in marked contrast from her previous customary attire of baggy, though trendy, sweats made in countries that didn’t treat their workers well. The book, and all that it had awakened in us, was still having positive effects.

All that and I’d forgotten just how easy the rapport had been with Cullen.

“It was a
nice
surprise getting your call,” he said, taking another sip of his chai latte. “You look pretty today.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” I found myself saying.
Lame.

I did look pretty good. On this particular day I wore fashionable jeans and a jacket borrowed from my navy blue power suit with a lacey, form-fitting blouse peeking out. Necklaces of different lengths completed the look. Though I was dressed for success of any kind, I was not yet over Udi, so
flirting
for success really wasn’t on my mind. Still, I saw no harm in looking good while picking Cullen’s brain about Jelicka’s scenario regarding Udi’s early demise.

We were in Peet’s Coffee on Sunset Boulevard, across from Book Soup. I’d nixed meeting him at the Andalucia out of fear we might end up in the same booth, necking and groping each other as we had that day after Babeland—not that I wouldn’t have considered that under different circumstances. I just didn’t want Cullen thinking we’d pick right up where we left off.

Luckily, I had the excuse that I needed to go to Book Soup to get the book for the next Muff gathering at Paige’s—
We Need To Talk About Kevin
, a depressing-sounding novel told from the perspective of the mother of a bad seed who grows up to be one of those school shooters like Dylan Kleibold and his gun-crazy friend who shot up Columbine High School and forever tainted the flower the school was named after.  I was also sort of hoping Book Soup Steve might make an appearance.

“How’s your mom?” I asked, stirring the whipped cream into my mocha.

“Well, other than having cancer, she’s fine. She’s still very much my mom, you know? That hasn’t changed.”

“But she’s hanging in there?”

“Oh, yeah. Plays with the vibrator, eats a lot, listens in on my phone calls, tells me what to do—you know, same old Mom.” He smiled. “She’s not that bad, really.”

“How did you end up taking care of her?”

Cullen put down his cup.  “She showed up one day and hasn’t left. Now she says she’s going to die soon so there’s no point in spending the money on air fare to get anywhere and she might as well die here.”

I wondered if Cullen’s mom’s surprise arrival in Los Angeles had anything to do with his girlfriend leaving. I didn’t ask, but I couldn’t imagine it was much fun sharing a duplex in West Hollywood with the mother of your grown boyfriend. I’d also gotten a glimpse of her character that day in the cancer ward—a hundred miles of rough terrain.

“I’m not sure what I should say.”

He shrugged. “Nothing
to
say. She’s my mother and there’s really no one else to take care of her.”

“Well, it’s great of you to do it. Not everyone would.”

“Onto more interesting things. How did it go with your Babeland purchases?”

I felt my cheeks flush. I could actually feel the color—more accurately blood— rush to my face. “Good. How about yours?”

“Fine. One night Mom fell asleep on the couch watching
Terms of Endearment
. I got the thing out . . . both things I guess, and gave ’em a try. The Fleshlight was—well, you know, it feels all right, but it’s still just a metal-encased collection of silicone and I was aware of that the entire time. Difficult to clean if you want to know the truth.”

“I would think.”

What had been easy before now felt awkward. I still found him attractive, but the magic had morphed and we were now decidedly mortal beings—no longer each others’ temporary sexual fantasy. We also sort of knew too much about each other——TMI, as they say. At any rate, I knew a lot about him
and
his mother. But a lot of what I knew wasn’t sexy, and I had the melancholic thought that the magic between us had gone.

“What are you working on now? How’s the new book coming?” I asked, taking another consoling sip of cafe mocha.

He gave me his lovely smile again.  “Quite well, I think. Thanks for asking.”

“So it’s going to work—this new erotic detective genre you wanted to invent?”

He shrugged. “I have no idea. There’s nothing like it on the shelves, but that could be because people have tried it and tanked.”

I put my coffee down. “I read in the
New York Times Book Review
that erotica of all kinds is supposed to be very big right now. My book club loved the one we read.”

“Well, that’s positive.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin and with it his mood seemed to go a few shades darker. “If I can’t make it work, I’ll probably pack Mom up and go back to Portland.”

“Why would you give up so easily? It takes some people years to write their first novel.” I sensed my opportunity had arrived to segue into my most pressing question.  “You know,” I said, letting it hang there a second, “it’s actually your new erotic detective genre that I wanted to talk to you about.”

“And I thought you called because you wanted me.”

He was giving me that suggestive expression again and I felt myself make an effort to get turned on.
But I couldn’t have sex with Cullen so soon after Udi had expired
in flagrante
. Could I?

Gathering myself, I stared into my mocha, though I doubt he was fooled. Luckily I’m told I’m quite skilled at hiding my emotions when I mediate.

“You’ve done research, right?” I asked, once I’d recovered my cool. “Criminal databases, FBI protocols, security checks, global positioning systems?”

“Yes. Hours’ worth, days’ worth—possibly months’ worth. Why?”

His mind was now off Mom, and he was genuinely intrigued with where I might be going with this.

“So, I have this story and I’d like to pitch it to you. You know—see if you think it’s plausible.”

“Do you want me to sign a release, just in case it’s a great idea and I end up writing a bestseller?”

“I’m a lawyer, remember? Forget the fact that ideas aren’t protectable.”

“That’s sexy,” he said, mocking me. He was returning to the playful guy I’d met at the Java Joint. “Ok, I’ll shut up. Go.”

“It starts with a woman who’s reading a very sexy book . . .”

I told him the whole thing, using this other “woman” as the central character. I told him about her reading a book that got her libido going, meeting the guy at a party, the great sex they had, the guy’s potential Mossad connections, the untimely death—and the possibility that the death was not from natural causes. I told him about the woman's “friend” and a group of thugs who, though they said they were from an airline, had really been sent to get the body, and how the woman had become suspicious and now had to find out the truth because the cover-up could involve a threat to national security. Through the entire story he nodded and cocked his head with interest.

“What do you think?” I asked when I’d concluded.

He tapped his tapered fingers on the table.

“I like it,” he said after a few seconds. “I could buy all that happening. And it’s fun and silly—like
Sex and The City
meets
The Women’s Murder Club
.”

“I hope I told it well,” I went on. “It just sort of came to me, you know? Maybe it was the sexy book we read and then, of course, I met you and the idea of detective fiction was running around my brain. I couldn’t actually
write
it. But you know,
you
could.” The sun was streaming in through Peet’s windows, but it wasn’t the sun, so much as the telling of the story, that was making me perspire. I blotted my brow as demurely as I could with a napkin.

His eyes narrowed and he studied me. It was the first time I felt that the sexual element of our interaction was not a factor. He was weighing what I’d said along with how I’d said it. Though I sort of missed the sexual undercurrent, it was nice that he was taking me seriously.

“I could . . . ,” he mused, still assessing me, which made me want to fidget. “Why’d you pitch me that story if you weren’t going to write or produce it yourself? This is Hollywood.”

I shrugged. “And that means . . . what?”

“It means you don’t just give a good story away. Didn’t you tell me you have a friend who’s a talent agent? Yes, you did tell me that. She was supposed to meet you at Babeland to help you shop for a vibrator.”

“Shhhh. Not so loud.”

“Sorry.”

I really like it when a guy can apologize and make me believe him. “Accepted. Anyway, ideas are a dime a thousand. It’s all about the execution.”

“Of course . . . but I still feel like you’re leaving something out.” He sat back scrutinizing me.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’re leaving something out.”

“I’m not. It’s just a story that sort of landed on my lap. I thought you might need one. New writer, new genre and all.”

“Very generous.” He wasn’t buying it. “You called me and drove in from—where was it? Agoura? To meet up and tell me this story?”

“Not just that. It’s . . .”

It wasn’t just that, of course. I liked Cullen and he was an attractive guy. But the main reason I was meeting with him was I wanted to run Jelicka’s idea by him. He was objective, or someone whom I
thought
was objective. And I needed an unbiased, undramatic opinion to help me decide what to do.  After all, it might be dangerous.

“I’d consider writing it, but there’s just one thing—” He stopped and took my hand. “This woman in the story—she’s you, right? I mean, you’re the one who read the sexy book. In fact, I think you told me about it.”

I didn’t want to look at him. He’d seen right through me. I had to treat him like a party in a mediation. “I did read a sexy book. That’s true.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

I looked down and noticed my hands
were
shaking. I clasped them together on the table in front of me to steady them. Then he put his own hands on top of mine. They provided cool comfort and strength.

“For all I know,” he went on almost wistfully, “when I met you, you were already reading that racy book. If that friend’s philandering husband hadn’t come into the wine bar, you and I might have gotten together, but instead—and I’m not saying anything about what happened was wrong—but
instead
, you went to this
other
friend’s dinner party and met a sexy Israeli spy and the rest, including the spy, is history.”

Cullen was no pile o’rocks. That’s why I’d liked him in the first place. And he was funny. But it was clear I wasn’t going to get anything past him.

“You’re right,” I said, staring into his welcoming eyes. “
I’m
the woman. But timing’s everything, right? I don’t know why Nate walked in that evening, but he did.”

Cullen sat back, pensive, taking his hands from mine.

“What was his name? This Mossad guy?”

“Udi.”

Cullen nodded.

“He had another name, but we’re not sure what it was.”

He looked up at me as if considering his options. “So as things turned out, you didn’t need to get that Rabbit after all.”

“Well, I didn’t
need
it. I mean, when I met Udi  . . .”
How to get out of this?
I took a breath to regroup. “It's a nice thing to have.”