Killer Summer

go back to work, which was ironic since he was the one who’d encouraged me to leave my job. Maybe he sensed my unhappiness. Not surprising, since I complained often enough. But if my lack of direction in life left me lethargic, it spurred Tom into action. First he suggested I come to work for him at Luxe, but the last thing I wanted to do was spend my days shuffling along in his shadow. I already did enough of that at home. He talked to friends in various industries, but the job offers were few and far between, and when they came, they were usually administrative, which made sense, since that was the only kind of job I had ever held during my not-very-glamorous and short-lived career in the music business. Then he started bringing home bulletins from the local colleges, believing a few courses might help me better define my dreams.

But as I flipped through course catalogs, I realized that I didn’t have any dreams. Not anymore.

I also learned something about Tom during my malaise. And that was that he was at his happiest when he thought he could help. I started to understand all that passion he had shown me when we first met. Back then, I had been a glorified secretary on a meager salary and Tom was the white knight come to save me. He had been my hero then, and now, I realized, he was trying to be my hero again.

I loved him for trying. And hated myself a little more. I had never seen myself as a damsel in distress, but there I was, the disillusioned housewife with no more prospects and even less ambition than I’d had years ago.

Of course, it wasn’t Tom’s fault my life was nowhere. Though I sometimes wondered: If I hadn’t been surrounded by the comfort and security he provided, might I have done something more than master the art of a making a respectable creme brulee?

But it wasn’t Tom who saved me this time around; it was Amanda.

Amanda had managed to finally get married, though Donnie Havens wasn’t the prince she’d once looked for. When they first met, he hardly made enough to support himself, much less a wife and family. But he seemed to really love Amanda, so much so that he mortgaged the tiny house they bought on Long Island at least twice to give her everything he thought she needed. Still, she seemed happy enough—or at least around me she acted like she had it all. Maybe she did. Like me, she never had children, though she said it was because she was devoted to her career. I might have been jealous of her ambition, except that I sometimes wondered if she hung on to that job simply because Donnie couldn’t afford to give her the lifestyle she desired on his own.

Still, I was grateful Amanda did keep her job. Especially since she helped me land a position with a client of hers, a small record label in need of a marketing assistant. And though it was hard, at age thirty-four, to find myself taking orders from a boss who was half my age, I did a good job at Global Records for the seven or so months I was there. At least I thought so. But my boss, Lewis, didn’t seem to agree. Or he got tired of arguing with me over our differences about how to run the marketing department. Lewis said I was “out of it.” But really, what did he know? Rock and roll was here to stay, not like that derivative mix of pop and dance music Global Records was trying to push.

There were other jobs, too. Mostly in promotions (it was the only thing of value on my resume) or selling ad space. But the one thing that became clearer and clearer to me was that I was unfit for a workforce that catered to a demographic I had lost touch with.

So I gave up, believing I no longer had what it took. Not the courage. Or the will.

I was washed up by thirty-six. Not even my therapist could convince me otherwise. Nor all those self-help books I read.

No, there was only one thing, it seemed, that kept me from sinking completely into the black hole my life had become. And that was the much lauded serenity of Valium.

Chapter Eighteen

Zoe

Stalking and other stupid people tricks

Why wasn’t he answering?

I looked up from where I sat on the bench, cell phone clamped to my ear, studying Adelaide Gibson as she stood chatting with three of her cronies in the Washington Square Park dog run.

Clearly, they weren’t ready to start filming yet. I wondered if the rest of the people she had invited to the dog run today were even going to show up. I certainly hoped so, considering Adelaide’s two pals here had only racked up five dogs between them. All King Charles spaniels, oddly enough. Maybe Adelaide should start a club. Didn’t she know anybody who owned a mutt? Or even a good, old-fashioned beagle, for chrissakes?

My call rolled over into voice mail, as it had done the six other times I’d called. “Hi, this is Myles. Leave a message.” Beeeeeep.

I hung up, just as I had done the last six times. Yes, I needed to speak to Myles, but I definitely didn’t need to speak to his voice mail. I wasn’t sure he would call me back, considering the way I’d treated him the last time I had seen him. I had tried to find him again on the beach, roaming up and down it no less than ten times before I left Fire Island on Monday. But I hadn’t run into him. And even if I had known where his beach house was located, I certainly couldn’t go there. Especially since Ms. Bikini U.S.A. was shacking up with him.

Now my only hope was to catch him on the