Spring Romance: NINE Happily Ever Afters

by Tessa Bailey

  “That does sound like my Henry,” she says, almost to herself.

  “I never felt safe with Joe. Why did I stay with him for so long? How could I not see this coming?”

  She just looks at me, and I can see she is really fighting her desire to say We told you so.

  She struggles. She loses.

  “We told you so! About a hundred times! Look, Chloe, I’m not going to say Joe didn’t love you at all. I’m sure he did, in a way. But it was just all about him! His convenience. His rules. His fun. And you bent over backwards for years to please him! What the hell was he doing in that conference room?” Her hands are in the air, flailing and gesticulating like she’s conducting the Boston Pops with her pent-up emotions.

  I stare into my glass.

  “He was doing the same thing to me that he’s been doing to Marcy, his wife. Cheating.”

  I guess it really is that simple.

  “All these years, he said he was on the verge of a divorce. God, Jemma. I have to rethink three years of my life,” I gasp.

  “Oh, honey.” Jemma shifts from outrage to compassion.

  “He wasn’t ever going to get a divorce, was he?” I ask, although I know the answer.

  “Of course not. Give up Marcy’s money? Lose the country club membership? Never going to happen.” I regret telling her those little details about Joe. I feel so stupid.

  We sit in silence, sipping our wine.

  “What about this new guy?” she asks. “Not married?”

  “No idea, but he wasn’t wearing a ring.”

  “Let’s Google him—where’s your computer?”

  I pull it out and flip it open.

  Nick Grafton, I type.

  Page after page of entries come up:

  Nick Grafton, Funeral Director.

  Nick Grafton, Marathon Runner.

  Nick Grafton, Hollywood Stunt Man.

  “Not an unusual name, I guess. It would take hours to sort through this—days, even. But look, here’s his picture.”

  “Wow.” Jemma’s impressed, her voice drops low. “Look for a wife, keep scrolling.”

  There are several group shots, obviously taken at public events, but nothing conclusive. Never the same woman twice.

  And he’s not smiling in a single photo.

  I refill our glasses.

  “The only thing that really matters now is the baby. Li is due in eight weeks.” We’re in the safety zone. Crossing thirty weeks, according to the doctor, means that even with a preterm birth, the baby should be fine.

  “Think it might be time to buy a few baby things?” Jem asks gently. “Just some basics? A bassinet, maybe? Some clothes? Some little t-shirts or whatever babies wear?”

  “It seems too much like tempting fate. What if something goes wrong? So much could still go wrong. Li is just a teenager. She’s homeless. Who knows what that first trimester was like. She didn’t get medical care until the fourth month. And she can still change her mind. I’m not going to have a peaceful moment until the final papers are signed. And it’s going to be an open adoption. Now I have to worry about this fiasco with Joe becoming public knowledge.”

  “It’ll be fine,” she says.

  “And last week I was supposed to meet her for an ultrasound. Went to the clinic. Waited for two hours. She no-showed, then texted a bunch of apologies that night.” I frown into my drink. “I hope she’s safe. I hope they’re both safe.”

  “It won’t go wrong,” she reassures me. “In two months or so you are going to have a tiny new person here to take care of and love every day. Everything’s going to change, forever. You won’t even remember that you ever knew a guy named Joe Blow.”

  “Don’t call him…” I start, but give up. The name fits.

  Joe Blow.

  Chapter Seven

  Nick

  Maman says she is coming for my fall concert.

  The text arrives like any other text, resting in my phone, and only now have I seen it. Something in my chest snaps, like a toothpick pressed too hard on the ends, breaking unevenly.

  Leaving the possibility for splinters.

  Great, I lie, texting back to my daughter Amelie. A dual major in music and computer science, Amelie managed to thrill both her parents by juggling the impossible. This is her senior year, and she has a solo concert. My ex-wife and the mother of my children, Simone, has missed every single other concert in this child’s life.

  The fact that Amelie has a chance for a spot at Juilliard and Eastman has piqued Simone’s interest. Status is like a bat signal for her. To fly all the way from Paris and force herself to spend time in the U.S. is all about bragging rights.

  She is coming without Rolf, a second text reads.

  I nearly drop the phone.

  Great, I text again, this time telling the truth.

  He’s such an ass, Amelie adds.

  “He is such an ass,” I grumble aloud, surprising myself with my own voice. With my youngest, Jean-Marc, off to NYU for his early start this summer for his freshman year, and twin daughters here in Boston at their respective colleges working on campus before their senior year, the kitchen is quiet.

  Too quiet.

  My index finger goes numb and I look down, finding purple fingertips and bulging forearm veins. I’m gripping the granite countertop edge so hard, I might snap it in two.

  Daddy? Are you there? Are you okay? Don’t make me resort to calling, Amelie types.

  I chuckle. God forbid they use their phones for actual calls.

  Fine. Just beat up a guy at work today. Typical day at the office.

  I press Send and start to make a shot of espresso.

  “One,” I count aloud. “Two. Three. Four.”

  Ring!

  Huh. I should beat people up more often.

  “Daddy!” It’s Amelie, breathless and intense. “You beat someone up? Was it over a woman?”

  Kind of.

  “No. Just a drunk jerk who came into a meeting and tried to harass a woman at a presentation.”

  “You’re a hero!”

  I haven’t heard that tone of admiration in her voice since I scored tickets to a One Direction concert a few years ago, before she declared Harry Stiles “so yesterday.”

  “If you say so,” I reply, laughing.

  “Tell me everything. Elodie is going to be so jealous that I got the story first!”

  Twins. Life with twins means that everything is a competition.

  “Nothing special. Chloe’s ex-boyfriend sent her flowers and was drunk when he insisted on seeing her, and—”

  “Chloe? I love her name! What’s she like?”

  Hold on. This conversation just shifted from Daddy the Hero to Chloe in three seconds.

  “She’s fine. Smart. Sophisticated. One hell of a presenter.”

  “I don’t mean that! I mean—is she your type?”

  “Amelie!”

  “What?”

  “She’s a work colleague.”

  “Oh.” She sighs. “That means she’s old and ugly.”

  “Hardly,” I mutter, then wince. Oops.

  “Oooo, you like her!”

  “Honey, that’s not how this works.”

  “Actually, it is how this works. You like someone. You say something. You kiss them. You spend time with them. And then Daddy, when a man and a woman lust after each other very much, he goes to the drugstore and buys condoms, and—”

  “Cut it out, kiddo.” I let the edge in my voice stay.

  She goes silent. “Fine. Topic change. Maman left Rolf.”

  I stop breathing.

  “What?”

  “She’s divorcing him. Says he’s boring.”

  Where have I heard that before?

  Beep.

  “Hang on, Amelie. Someone’s on the other line.”

  Click.

  “I heard my dad is a hero!” Elodie crows into the phone.

  “Two children speaking to me at the same time on an actual phone. Has the zombie apoca
lypse begun?”

  She sighs. “I wish it would. Then I wouldn’t need to finish this political cartooning paper that’s due tomorrow.”

  “Political cartooning? That’s an actual course?” Summer school offers strange choices.

  “Yes. I thought it would be a blow-off, but the professor actually expects us to take it seriously and talk about imagery and know political history!”

  Her outrage makes me laugh. “How dare he expect you to analyze? And learn! Oh, the humanity!”

  “Daddy,” she growls. “Who’s Chloe?”

  “How do you know about Chloe?”

  “So she is your new crush!” Elodie squeals. “Now I owe Amelie five dollars.”

  “You two are betting on…me?”

  “Just your sex life.”

  “Uh…”

  “Blame Jean-Marc. He started it. Said as soon as he moved out you’d turn the condo into a shag pad.”

  “A what?”

  “A sex den.”

  I am not having this conversation.

  “I can’t wait to tell him you’re beating up your competitors for women at work!”

  “That’s me. Nick Grafton, cage fighter.”

  Beep.

  “Hang on. Your sister’s on the other line.”

  Click.

  “Did you drop me for Elodie? Not fair. I had the scoop first. And Maman wants to stay with us.”

  Us means here, in my townhouse, which means spending days with my ex-wife who left me when the twins were five and Jean-Marc was barely three.

  Because I was boring.

  I would sympathize with Rolf if he hadn’t been the person she left me for.

  “Why does she want to stay here? She’s never stayed with us before.” Ever. Once a year, by legal agreement, she had the kids for three weeks in the summer. I always flew them there, spent two days in a hotel, and flew back, gutted, hoping they would adjust.

  They always did.

  Me, on the other hand…

  “I don’t know!” she chirps. “But it’ll be nice to have both of my parents at an event for once.”

  And gutted again.

  “Right,” I say faintly, swallowing a suddenly dry mouth. “We’ll figure it all out.”

  “I’m so happy to hear you’re dating, Daddy!”

  “I’m not dating!”

  “If you say so… Love you! Gotta get on the T!”

  Click.

  I switch back to Elodie. Gone.

  And then I look at my texts.

  Three requests for money.

  One from each kid.

  I set my phone down, shake my head, and pick out tonight’s date.

  Pinot Noir, or a nice Flemish red sour ale?

  Black Sails or The Wire?

  Twenty minutes later, a sandwich and a beer in front of me, I pick my poison and settle in for a night of binge watching.

  By the second sex scene in Black Sails, I’m twitching, unable to stop thinking about Chloe, the piles of roses outside her office, the horrified look on her face when that sonofabitch came barreling down the hallway, screaming her name.

  How instinct kicked in.

  And I kicked his ass.

  “Not bad for an old man, as the kids would say,” I mutter with a sigh, going into the kitchen for another beer. I grab my phone off the counter and flip through my contacts. I added Chloe in there on a lark, right after her presentation, a number I’d planned to give my admin to set up a next meeting.

  It’s not an Anterdec corporate number that Chloe gave me. Looks like her personal cell phone.

  Huh.

  * * *

  Chloe

  When my alarm goes off at six a.m., I know it’s time to get up. My meeting with Nick Grafton is today. I’ve been awake since four, when I woke to find Mink covering my face, fur tickling my nose.

  Mink. My living, purring fur coat. My cat.

  I tried so hard to hold on to sleep, blissful unconsciousness. General anesthesia.

  My brain, however, wanted to watch a slideshow:

  The mystery shop report. Who highlighted all those pages?

  Me, at the market, shopping for treats for Joe.

  Me, in the ladies’ room, primping a treat for Joe.

  Joe, getting treated. By someone else.

  I have read that it’s essentially impossible to think of nothing, but I tried. I visualized grey. The O shade.

  Quite right. Impossible. I started running through the alphabet backwards.

  Z Y X… W… not as easy as you would think, right?

  …P O…

  N… Nick Grafton in my office doorway, somehow familiar. Starched white shirt. The scent of Bay Rhum when he caught me. If masculine has a scent, it’s Bay Rhum.

  …M L K…

  J… Joe, red-faced and drunk, Nick’s arm around his neck. Pathetic. I wish I could un-see this.

  …D C…

  B… Baby. Baby coming soon. Life will change, forever. Am I ready? I think so. But is anyone ever ready? Maybe I’m too ready—what if Li changes her mind? Should I buy diapers, baby clothes, a crib? Would I be tempting fate? So far I just have an infant car seat. If this doesn’t happen, I can just put it in the closet. Way far back in the closet where I can’t see it.

  Li is so young. Old enough to get pregnant but far too young to be a mother. In so many ways, she’s really still a baby herself. She’s been forced into a situation with no possible happy ending—at least not for her. Her tragedy will make my dream come true. Can I help make some of her dreams come true in return? She wants to be an esthetician, told me the day I met her on the gO Spa. Can I find a scholarship for her? Create one?

  A… Anterdec. Meeting today with Nick Grafton. Okay. This is better. This I can handle. What to wear?

  I am representing O. I visualize grey again. Dove grey suit of raw silk, seamed to fit my body perfectly, never too tight or too loose. High heels, but not too spiky. And most importantly, a necklace of glass Os, linked together with silver.

  And for today’s secret power, rose silk cheeky panties that lace up the back. Matching bustier. Grey thigh highs in fine mesh.

  On the outside, chic and understated. Underneath, intimate pleasure.

  I am O.

  * * *

  Nick’s admin shows me into his office. At least, I guess that’s where I am, but I’m not sure, because this room is all about the view. Who needs artwork when you have a wall of glass above Boston Harbor, bright blue water glittering in the sun? Sailboats are gliding along, and planes are taking off and landing from Logan Airport.

  “How do you get anything done?” I ask, walking straight to the window. “I would just stare outside all day.”

  “I try to focus on what’s right in front of me,” he answers quietly. I turn around.

  He’s looking at me with a small smile. Behind him, on the wall, is a huge silver-leaf painting by Raphael Jaimes-Branger. It must be six feet high.

  “Gorgeous!” I breathe.

  Nick doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Oh, yes.”

  Then he turns to the painting. “I’ve been collecting Raphael for years. I love the way he blends traditional and modern art into something of its own. And he works here in Boston.”

  “The silver-leaf catches the light,” I add.

  “Beauty all around me,” Nick says, and gestures toward a small table. “Let’s see what beautiful ideas you’ve brought for O’s brand.”

  Opening my portfolio cases, I display packaging mock-ups for a limited line of O cosmetics. I describe a line of private-label scents for women, men, and the home—the First Space. I present sketches and samples of French cotton T shirts and embossed Italian leather tote bags, all bearing visually related and recognizable designs based on our simple and elegant O.

  But best of all is the jewelry. The necklace I am wearing, the glass chain of Os, is the centerpiece.

  “This is where we break through our wall, and take O out to the retail world. Each special piece of this
high-end jewelry collection is designed to represent our brand subtly but clearly. Club members will want to wear the jewelry, and chic shoppers will want to belong to the club. Here’s how a full-page print ad in Vogue might look.”

  I hand Nick an ad layout, featuring a photograph of my necklace on the curve of a woman’s neck and shoulders, the glass reflecting light and shadow on beautiful matte skin. Our fingers brush against each other, the electricity palpable. He studies the ad, his eyes moving to my neck, then back to the ad again.

  My design team has been working on this presentation non-stop for ten days, including nights and weekends.

  “Chloe, this is much more than I expected. I’m going to see if I can pull Amanda Warrick in to take a look at all this. She’s about to become Anterdec’s assistant marketing director. Our departments work together closely. If she thinks this has merit, we’ll take it to the finance team and see what we’re looking at for start-up costs.”

  He gets up and goes out, leaving the slightest whiff of Bay Rhum behind him. I look around the office for the first time.

  This small, round meeting table and four chairs, two upholstered chairs in front of his desk, your typical big mahogany partners’ desk. All very nice, but other than the paintings on the walls, everything looks pretty standard-issue. A long, low cabinet behind his desk, covered with framed photographs.

  I really, really want to get up and study those photos. From here, across the room, they all appear to be photos of teenagers.

  Someday I’ll have a teenager. Will we share shoes and secrets? Or will she stay out too late and not text me and not answer her phone and frighten me to death and…?

  Stop, Chloe, just stop.

  Nick seems to have a boy and a girl. Or two girls? Twins? A number of mountaintop skiing group shots, action photos of lacrosse players. One of those professionally-posed beach portraits in black and white, all three kids in white polo shirts and khaki shorts.

  If there’s a wife in his life, she’s not on display.

  Please let there be no wife.

  Nick comes back in, with Amanda, and we shake hands. That little bell goes off in my head again. The day I gave the O tour to Amanda and the older blonde woman who was with her, the one who was so enthusiastic about some of the entertainment…

  Amanda’s about to say something, her eyes warm and pleasant, but I speak first.