All That Was Happy Read Online Free Page B

spray of the waves,
aided by a stiff offshore breeze, reaching her face even from her
sheltered position behind the restaurant, had inspired her to open
her trunk and pull out a heavy windbreaker and, as an afterthought,
a large straw beach bag before she’d proceeded into the comfortable
square archeology of the restaurant, a popular place, not known for
its food, but rather for being where it was, which was on a
beach-access portion of the Malibu coastline, beach access being a
rare thing, as most of it had been purloined previously from the
public by the rich and famous--who inhabited their Herodian lairs
strewn like golden dominoes along the beach--and whom the public
generally adored and therefore allowed them their slight indulgence
of stealing a bit of beach.
    Black, extending her hand in invitation to
Beckie to join them in the restaurant booth, introduced two
women--Scotia and Betty.
    “ The tradition started last Fall,”
Betty--a well-appointed, matronly type--said, “when a few of us in
the group decided that we needed to take at least one night each
week and devote it to something more important than watching our
husbands act out their rage fantasies on Monday Night Football, or
worse, massage their greed glands while watching Regis Philbin and
his geek parade insult the nation’s intelligence. We start with
drinks and dinner and, weather permitting, we take a nice stroll on
the beach after--which I think we’ll do tonight, albeit it’s a bit
windy. As everybody here knows, I always go wading after dinner, no
matter how cold or windy it is--it’s my way of challenging the
universe, or something. But anyway, we’re glad you’re here--I think
you’ll find the food here is decent, and the conversation’s wide
open--no holds barred.”
    “ I’m glad I came,” Beckie said. “I
haven’t had anything to eat all day--I probably wouldn’t have--I
can’t really enjoy eating when I’m alone.”
    “ I feel like a good scotch and a decent
steak,” Beckie said to the waitperson. “Load the potato, oil the
salad, burn the T-bone and rock the scotch.”
    “ Beckie just got served her divorce
papers,” Black explained to the other two ladies in the booth. The
women eyed Beckie attentively, their faces suffused with a loving
support that put a lump in Beckie’s throat. “After which,” Black
added, “she tried to commit suicide.”
    Beckie had to give the group credit--nobody
flinched.
    “ Beckie, perhaps you’d like to share
your story with the group,” Black said.
    The waitperson materialized, slapped down a
napkin before offloading a tall, sweating scotch, along with a
simple tossed salad. Beckie sipped carefully, feeling the burn,
almost not daring to speak.
    “ My husband Bernie is the worst person
in California,” she said. “After twenty-nine years of marriage,
with no warning, he had me served with divorce papers. The only
sign something was coming was his failure to kiss me good-bye
before he set off to work this morning. I just found out that he’s
having a baby with his hot young Irish-Hispanic office
manager.”
    This admission, which would, by any normal
standard, be a real conversation stopper, instead solicited various
comforting cooing responses from the women assembled, the effect of
which caused Beckie’s tears to flow freely.
    “ I just don’t think twenty-nine years
should be written off like that,” she cried. “It isn’t fair--I gave
my entire life to him. What was I to him? Just somebody to help him
with his laundry and keep the books at his business until he was
rich enough to dump me and rob the cradle?”
    “ Stop insulting yourself like that,”
Scotia said. “Why do you automatically label yourself a loser just
because someone else, who happens to be your husband, behaves like
an idiot? Going through a divorce doesn’t make you a loser--you
don’t have to get off the planet just because somebody tells you to
shove off--you have just as much right to be here as