When Angels Cry Read online

  When the three of us got home from the hospital and she wasn’t back yet, we sat in the living room waiting for her. She looked radiant when she came through the door. Her hair glistened and had been slightly teased at the crown, giving her added lift. Normally my mother’s hair was a mousy blonde, but that day it looked like spun gold. She was wearing a new white eyelet dress with tiny pearl buttons down the front. She must have gone to see her friend Sue, who worked in cosmetics at Saks, because her face was freshly made up. Standing in our hallway, she looked like an angel. It didn’t take her long to evaluate the situation before her. With her smile still intact, she cautiously asked “What’s wrong?”

  My father stood up and began to walk over to her. I saw her eyes dart around the room like a wolf counting her pups . . . and then it sunk in . . .

  “Where is Rachel?” . . . She asked in a low, slow voice, as if she already knew, and then collapsed into my father’s outstretched arms.

  “Oh God . . . Oh God!” she cried. Her body seemed to ache with pain as her sobs became louder and louder.

  As I watched her I thought, “This is what it must look like when angels cry.”

  I don’t remember anyone really speaking about what happened for a long time in our home. Henry and I always felt responsible for what had happened that day. And Rachel’s death profoundly changed our parents’ lives forever.

  Driving into the driveway of Stone Manor Hotel, I realized I had avoided the place just as my parents had done since that fateful anniversary. It was difficult even to think about the place. We had celebrated birthdays here. We even had a Christmas Eve dinner here, and Santa stopped at the table. Rachel had asked him for a diary with a key. I wanted a doll that peed herself! Little did any of us know she would not live to see another Christmas. My parents not only never returned to the restaurant, but they never acknowledged their anniversary again.

  I hadn’t eaten anything all day. The thought of peanut butter had been tempting. But this restaurant served the best rib eye steak. My stomach growled, thinking about it. When I entered the handsome foyer, I felt strangely at home. Everything looked as it had for years. I veered off to the right toward the restaurant. As I walked through the lounge with the crackling fireplace, I heard someone say, “Is that little Sarah O’Malley?”

  I turned to scan all the female, martini-drinking clones in the lounge and settled on Jocelyn Beckett. As usual, she was strikingly put together. At the age of seventy, she could pass for fifty. She looked better than I did! She walked toward me, her delicate ankles teetering on stilettos. I was thoroughly impressed. I hadn’t worn heels in years!

  “Hello, Jocelyn,” I said as she approached.

  “How’s your dear mother?” She asked, shaking her head. Obviously, she had heard that my mother had lost her marbles.

  “She’s okay, thank you. You look great.” I changed the subject.

  “Divorce suits me!” She laughed.

  I had heard about the Beckett divorce. My mother had described it as nasty.

  “Obviously it suits you,” I responded. “How’s Marie?” Marie was Jocelyn’s and Robert’s first child. She and I had grown up together.

  “She’s terrific. Three kids. Great husband. Beautiful home!” I tried not to appear as jealous as I really was.

  “And you remember my son, Terry? Well, he’s running Robert’s firm now,” she said proudly.

  Terry was eleven years younger than Marie. When we were teens, he would insist on driving us mad. In fact, when he was five years old, he walked in on Marie and me kissing. Both of us were virgins at fifteen and proud of it, but we wanted to have a little action. Rather than look to a pock-faced boy with dirty fingernails, we felt confident in each other’s good hygiene. So we turned to one another for a little spice. To this day I think Marie was the best kisser I ever had.

  Terry immediately ran to Jocelyn and told her we were kissing. Thank the Lord, she didn’t believe him. Instead, she washed his mouth out with soap and made him say ten Hail Mary’s in front of Marie and me.

  Looking at Jocelyn, I could see that nothing had really changed about her. She still resembled a Stepford wife, only a little drunker.

  “I’m excited to read the new book, Sarah,” she winked. “I saw you on The Today Show last week!”

  “Thank you Jocelyn. I’m excited to read it, too,” I said, knowing how far behind I was with this one.

  I excused myself and found the hostess, who sat me at a small table by the window. I promptly ordered a Pinot Noir and opened my Tumi laptop case. I checked my computer to see if I had any e-mails . . . nothing. Not even a word from either of my kids. I figured no one needed anything. I pulled up the pages of the new book I had just mentioned to Jocelyn. I was calling it: “Tequila Sunrise Nights.”

  Maddie Keeler, a forty-year-old woman, takes a trip to Cabo San Lucas, after her husband leaves her for a twenty-year-old Cuban cabana boy. After sixteen years of marriage and two kids, she has her first vacation alone. Before too long, she meets Paul Rodriguez, the hotel manager, a beautiful six foot three Mexican with green eyes and a ten and a half inch appendage.

  This book was taking way too long to write according to my agent. My publishers expected two books a year from me since my books had hit the best-seller list for a long time, they counted on me to deliver. And I was really late with book number two! And we were coming to the end of the year. Everyone knew that my life was falling apart. My husband had shacked up with his bimbo girlfriend. My seventeen-year-old daughter left to go to college. My recently divorced twenty-eight-year-old daughter had another miscarriage. And I just discovered that my mother needs to be committed to the looney bin! I’m amazed that I can string two words together at all!

  None of that matters. They were still on me to “Get it done.”

  I began to read the last few lines I had written just a few days before . . .

  With spasmodic ecstasy, her loins seemed to dance an internal meringue.

  God this is awful!! I thought, reading it back to myself. After all, how many times can you describe hot sex? Especially if you aren’t having any yourself?

  His skilled tongue danced around her erect nipples making them so hard it was almost too much to bear. But she had never had a lover so unselfish, so concerned for her desires to be fulfilled. He slowly moved down toward her clean shaven mound, flicking his tongue ever so lightly . . . .

  “Pardon me, would you like to see a menu?”

  I jumped and looked up to see Mr. Abercrombie and Fitch standing before me. He looked as if he had stepped out of the pages of the catalogue and was lost. I responded in an extremely sophisticated manner. “Huh?” was all I could manage to get out.

  “Would you care to look at a menu or do you know what you might want?” he asked.

  “Oh yes, I know what I want,” I said while thinking, “Do they serve you for dinner?” Did I say that out loud?

  He smiled as though he knew exactly what I was thinking. I was never good at hiding my feelings.

  “Rib eye, medium and fries, please.” I said without making eye contact.

  “Good choice.” He smiled and took off.

  I watched his butt as he walked away . . . probably gay, I figured. I stuck my nose back into my own business. It wasn’t too long before I heard my name called again. Only this time by a deeper, sexy voice. I looked up to see another young, handsome man, this time a cross between J. Crew and Boy’s with Harleys.

  “It’s me, Terry. Terry Beckett. Marie’s brother . . .”

  “Oh, my God,” I said starting to rise.

  “Please, don’t get up.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “I just heard you were here. I came to pick up my very intoxicated mother.”

  I smiled and asked him to sit down for a minute. He was charming, funny. Needless to say, my steak arrived as we were talking. There is no way to look ladylike when you’re ravenous and have a huge chunk of meat in front of you. It didn’t really matter. I mean, this was “Stinky T
erry.” The little boy who always had his finger up his nose.

  He didn’t stay long. He was worried that his mother would be face down in her baked Alaska by now. As he stood, I asked him to please give my love to Marie.

  “Should I kiss her for you, too?” He smiled.

  “You so don’t remember that time.”

  “Which time are you referring to? I remember quite a few times over the years.” He raised his eyebrows.

  I felt my skin turning the color of my wine.

  “Don’t be embarrassed,” he said. “I was just jealous that it was Marie and not me!” With that, he turned and left. I felt an unusual tingle between my legs. Something I hadn’t felt in a long time. I was certain that I resembled that of the Cheshire Cat. A large grin was plastered across my face.

  My G.Q. waiter asked if everything was okay. I told him I was fine.

  “Did your boyfriend leave?” he asked.

  “Boyfriend?” I snorted. “No . . . no, not a boyfriend. Well, yes a friend . . . an old friend. He’s the brother of a close friend . . .” Why was I rambling? Thank God he didn’t say your son!

  “Good . . . so you’re single?” he asked rather boldly.

  “Ahh . . . yes,” I stammered. This was really the first time I not only acknowledged being single, but realized that I actually was.

  “Very good,” he said, sauntering away.

  “I have T-shirts older than you,” I thought as that feeling between my legs got stronger.

  I am considered an attractive woman, maybe even pretty, in some circles. I am finally comfortable with my five foot seven inch frame. I hated being tall in school. The boys were always so much shorter. What’s up with that? But being tall suited me now. Only recently did I become a redhead again. I was a dull blonde, like my mother. After the divorce, I wanted to feel differently, and look differently.

  He lived down the darkest, longest driveway. Even though the moon was full, I could barely tell where I was going. How did I get talked into giving him a ride home? Three glasses of wine and the complimentary dessert wine would be the answer to that question. I learned his name was Dwight. He mentioned he did some modeling here and there. He was thirty and looked twenty. And here I was with him in my car, in front of his house.

  It’s all a blur. His cock was in my mouth before I realized that it was. Within moments, I was standing in his kitchen and he hoisted me up onto the counter had my panties down, my skirt up, and his pants down, and he was thrusting the best tool I could remember having inside me. Mind you, it had been a while since anything other than a tampon had been there.

  We went from room to room. From the kitchen, to the top of the washing machine, to the couch, then the recliner. I had forgotten what young male stamina was. Remember, I was at least fifteen years older than he, and my body wasn’t in the kind of shape it had been, even a year ago! My nipples used to look toward the heavens. Now they look more like Marty Feldman’s eyeballs. One stares off to the left and the other seems to be looking at my shoes. But Dwight kept telling me how beautiful and sexy I was, how he preferred older women and that I was hotter than anyone he had been with.

  “Flattery will get you a blow job,” I thought.

  We finally ended up in his bed where he curled himself around me, like a newborn fawn, and fell into a deep sleep. It was simultaneously charming and alarming. When I slowly began to get up, he caught my arm.

  “Don’t go,” he moaned.

  “I have to . . . my mother will be worried! God, that sounded so highschool.”

  We both giggled. I leaned in for a small good night kiss, which ended up involving that tongue again and oh my . . . if he wasn’t hard again.

  I woke up the next morning in his bed.

  My waiter!

  Chapter Two

  Inducted Into The Hall Of Blame

  I crept as quietly as I could into the house. It was only six A.M. Roosters I know are still sleeping! But not Olivia Mancuso O’Malley. Nope . . . not my mother. I should’ve known. I remembered my first real date.

  At sixteen, I was finally allowed to go alone to the movies with a boy. Jeremy Dion. He was eighteen, but we didn’t tell my parents that. We went to the drive-in movies in his bright yellow, hatchback car. Naturally, we didn’t tell them that either. He pulled his car into the parking space backwards, with the rear of the car facing the screen, so we could “watch” the movie lying down. Smooth, huh? He had a whole set up in the back of his car. He opened the hatchback and put down blankets and pillows. A huge bong had its own seat in the back, too. Even though Jeremy was a pock-faced boy, the sort that Marie and I warned each other about, he actually was very sweet and funny, and I was very horny. I knew what I was in for that night, and I was totally prepared. At least I thought I was.

  When Jeremy started to kiss me, I became acutely aware that he was wearing Aqua Velva. I recognized the fragrance, because it was the same aftershave my grandfather wore. Apparently, Jeremy bathed in it. It was disconcerting, to say the least. As Jeremy plunged his tongue deeper into my mouth, all I could see before me was Grandpa Reginald. It didn’t take long before Jeremy was exploring what was under my blouse. At sixteen, I was considered small busted. I was not as endowed as most of my friends. And I also had boy hips. What I wouldn’t do to have that all now! At the time I felt unwomanly. Definitely not sexy.

  Even now, I am still considered thin. My breasts are still too small for my frame, and my tiny waist disappeared after my second daughter, Lily was born. These days I spend way too much money trying to get rid of the gray hairs. Another reason I’m a red head at the moment. No middleman. I buy a box, smear on the goo and in minutes I’m good to go. Back then, though, I was definitely a blonde. Jeremy’s favorite. And this night I was the blonde of choice.

  We lit up his bong. I was sufficiently stoned after a few hits. I just hoped that I wouldn’t start to laugh uncontrollably for no apparent reason. As soon as Jeremy was high, he mounted me as if I were a bitch in heat. Okay, at that point I was. We began rolling around. He on top of me. Me on top of him.

  I could feel how hard he was through his button fly jeans. His erection caught me off guard. Until that point, I had never had a hard penis between my legs. When Marie and I fooled around, there was never penetration. A lot of rubbing and tongues but nothing like this! I could’ve cared less that his breath smelled like pizza, that he was panting and drooling like a bloodhound, and that he reeked of my grandpa. I just knew that he had to be inside me quick!

  I began tugging at his pants, he with mine. The sounds he made convinced me that if I didn’t get him soon, his tidy whities would be the recipient of what I wanted so badly. When he finally thrust himself inside me, I screamed. I was not prepared for the searing pain that I felt. Something about my scream got him even more riled up, and he came before I knew what had happened. To make matters worse, all I could hear in my head was “Is that all there is?” The song stayed in my head for about three days. I felt totally used and abused, but I realized that I had experienced some rite of passage. I was no longer a little girl. I felt that I could conquer the world. I was woman!

  • • •

  As I quietly let myself into my mother’s house, after my night with Dwight, I relived that night with Jeremy. My mother was sitting in the same wingback chair with the same expression on her face. She had been up all night waiting for me. “Where were you all night?” she growled.

  I thought about telling her to jump in the lake. I’m a middle aged, divorced woman . . . but that would be too mean. I just said “None of your business!”

  She stood and glared at me. I excused myself, saying that I had to shower, and headed for the stairs.

  She stopped me in my tracks about half way up. “Just wait till I tell your father you were out all night, young lady.”

  I turned to face her, and realized for the first time what was really happening to my mother. She looked so frail standing there. So hurt. It was as if I were sixteen again . . . f
or both of us.

  “Oh, Mom . . .” was all I could say as I walked back down the stairs toward her. I wrapped her in my arms and felt her body let down. I think if I hadn’t been holding her, she would have disintegrated. She began to cry softly at first and then she sobbed. Her body jerked and rocked in my arms.

  As I held her firmly, tears welled up in my own eyes. This was only the second time I had seen my mother cry like this. The first time was after she had learned about Rachel. I wondered why she would be crying that way now.

  “It was you . . .” she said ever so faintly, “you and Henry.” She continued to sob.

  “What about us, Mom?” I asked, still holding her up.

  “She wouldn’t be dead if it wasn’t for the two of you!” She released herself from my grip and walked away.

  I stood, frozen, stunned. After all these years, there it was. She blamed my brother and me for Rachel’s death. It wasn’t bad enough that he and I had blamed ourselves almost our entire lives. Now it was out in the open. However delusional she was, the picture was very clear.

  It was my turn. I collapsed in a heap on the floor. I couldn’t believe that I had that much bottled inside of me. I must have been on the hallway floor crying for half an hour. My entire body felt like putty. Now I knew where I stood in this family. How I was viewed by the one person I tried to please my whole life. There it was. I was a murderer.

  • • •

  It rained that day. It rained so hard the driver had the windshield wipers going full tilt. The sound reminded me of a heartbeat Da Thump, da thump, da thump, da thump. Our outfits matched. Henry wore overall shorts, and I was dressed in a jumper dress. They were black and had silver embossed fleur de lys on the bibs. I felt so grown up to be wearing black. We were never allowed to wear black. I was pleased with my brand new, black patent leather Mary Janes. I couldn’t stop looking at them so shiny and new, with the smallest of heels. Yes, a heel.