by Tessa Bailey
“I’m not talking about this.”
“We worry about you.” They share another one of those looks. Something in my chest tightens and loosens at the same time.
“Why would you worry about me?”
“Because we love you.”
I clear my throat, which has suddenly become thick with confusion.
“And because you really need to get laid.”
“Elodie.” I say her name low and slow. That used to be enough to get her to stop doing whatever she was doing that broke the rules.
“What? It’s true,” chimes in Amelie.
“Chloe!” Elodie exclaims, snapping her fingers, giving Amelie a conspirator’s look. “That was her name. The woman Dad saved from her drunk, half-crazed boyfriend.”
“Ex-boyfriend.”
Four evaluative eyes land on me.
“See? You totally like her,” Elodie declares.
“She’s a work colleague. I don’t date women at work.”
“You don’t date women at all,” Elodie shoots back.
They share another look.
“Does that mean you date men?” Amelie asks, her voice soft with compassion. “Because if you’ve been afraid to tell us, we’re fine with—”
“As relieved as I am to know you’re open-minded, no—I don’t date men.”
“Maybe he’s asexual,” Elodie says at the exact moment that the washing machine buzzes. Cycle over. Has this conversation really lasted that long?
No. Those were my clothes.
“Go!” I hiss to Amelie, who sprints down the hall while I step in Elodie’s way.
“Daddy! Now I’ll only get one load in!”
“Payback.”
“For telling the truth?” Her eyes turn into deep brown triangles, challenging and calculating. Before I can give her a wise response, the storm passes and she is aloof. Untouched.
Chloe. Now that her name has been invoked, I find myself completely overwhelmed by the image of that smile. Her poise. The ramrod-straight posture and the confidence that she holds, as if the world is hers to open. I’ve spent so many years pushing aside opportunities that I knew would just lead down blind alleys, dead ends, and into relationships that would cause more pain than they alleviated. The kids came first.
Always.
Amelie comes back, the distinct sound of the washer filling in the background a taunt aimed at her twin. “Who are you texting?” she asks Elodie.
Who is holding my phone.
I snatch it back to find the text function open to Chloe’s name.
“You started to write a text to her?” I choke out. Sure enough, there are the words Would u like 2
“We have to make sure someone takes care of you in your old age,” Elodie huffs.
“First of all, I’m not exactly old. I’m in my early forties, kid. Second, I would never abbreviate words like you and to.” I’m not sure which offends me more: being called old, or the grammar hack.
“I would never actually text her,” Elodie says with an impish smile. “I just wanted to get you to think about it. You already set up the perfect meet-cute.”
“Meet-cute?”
“You rescued her from her creepy stalker drunk ex, Dad!” Amelie exclaims. Now she’s fishing through my pantry, taking cans of my favorite soup and stuffing them in her backpack. Don’t universities feed their students any more? How much am I paying for room and board so my kids can come home and pilfer?
“That’s, like, you’re like Bruce Wayne.”
“What?” I ask Elodie.
“You know. Nick Grafton by day, superhero by night.”
“Right.” A memory from work hits me. “They call me Focus Man!”
Withering looks radiate from both of them.
“That is so not a sexy superhero name, Dad,” Amelie says, shaking her head sadly.
“That’s the best he can come up with,” Elodie adds, giving Amelie a sigh. “He really needs our help.”
“Do not!” I protest.
“Do too!”
They’re in stereo.
“Text her! Ask her out for a work dinner. Do it. Do something,” Amelie urges.
I am not taking dating advice from my daughters.
I am not.
But I am smart enough to realize they’re on to something.
I type, I think we should have another meeting.
And hit Send to the sound of twin squeals.
* * *
Chloe
Jemma gets up from the counter and opens my refrigerator. She refills both our wine glasses. To the brim. And these are balloon glasses.
I raise one eyebrow.
“Saves a trip,” she says. “We’re going to drink it anyway, why get up twice?”
Right. I am comfortable now. Soft grey leggings with tiny ruffles on the hem, and my black cashmere hoodie. I stretch my legs out and admire my pedicure: Over the Taupe, my favorite polish. Goes with everything. Just like the rosé wine.
“You never went back to work after that lunch meeting with Nick?” she asks.
“We just walked around the city all afternoon, talking. About everything. He cancelled his afternoon appointment, said he was in meetings about a new branding initiative for an Anterdec property.”
“You walked all afternoon in four-inch heels?” Jemma asks skeptically.
“We stopped a lot. Benches. Cafés. A wine bar.”
“And talked about the O brand?” She is still skeptical.
“Well, not exactly. We talked about what happened with Joe. And we talked about Nick’s job, and his kids. And his ex-wife. She abandoned them all and went back to France. Can you believe that? But it sounds like she still shows up for the kids. Sometimes. When it suits her.”
“Did you tell him?” I know what she’s really asking.
“Yes, I told him about the baby. A little bit.”
“And?”
“He didn’t say much, just listened. He asked if I had family nearby, or close friends.” I look at Jem and my eyes fill up. “I said yes to friends.”
The front door opens and Henry comes in.
“Damn, it smells good in here,” he announces.
Since nothing is cooking, he either means perfume or the faint scent of alcohol.
His arms are full of brown bags. I get up and help him unload. Take-out sushi and three bottles of wine. Red, white, and prosecco. I love bubbles.
I love Henry.
“Jessica Coffin says I will only eat Happy Meals for the rest of my life,” I inform them.
“That’s ridiculous,” Henry says, handing out soy sauce. “What does she know? There’s Chuck E. Cheese, and pizza, and in about twelve years, you can try a real restaurant if you go at five o’clock.”
I try to stab him with a chopstick but he’s too fast.
I hate Henry.
“So where were you all day yesterday?” he asks me. “Explaining massagasms to the board of directors?”
“Kinda,” Jemma answers for me. “One at a time. Starting with Nick Grafton.”
“The guy who put Joe Blow in a chokehold?” Henry’s confused.
“Don’t call him Joe Blow,” I say automatically.
Henry puts a spicy tuna roll in his mouth and smiles.
Jem and I exchange a look. “See that box over there, honey?” she asks him. “It’s a car seat. Could you finish your sushi and go install it in Chloe’s backseat? Or you could just take your container of sushi with you and go now?”
My text pings.
I think we should have another meeting.
I don’t recognize the number, but this can only be one person. Henry and Jem are staring at me.
“I think it’s Nick,” I whisper.
“He can’t hear you,” Henry whispers back.
Another text bubble appears on the screen.
Does Friday work?
“It’s just a work question,” I say. Why do I feel a little disappointed? Of course it’s just a work question. I report
to him now. What else could it be?
Sure, I type back.
Three dots tell me something’s coming soon. I wish I were coming soon.
Great. Pick you up at 7.
Wordlessly, I hand the phone to Jemma. She reads it and whispers, “Oh my god, Chloe! A Friday night dinner? That’s not business!”
“Why are we whispering?” Henry whispers. We ignore him.
Three more dots.
Do you like Mexican?
* * *
Nick
“What’s she say, Dad?”
“She says dot dot dot.”
“DAD!” Elodie grabs the phone out of my hands and watches with the intensity of a Pats fan watching Brady shout “Omaha!”
Which is not a bad analogy, all things considered.
“SEE!” Elodie screams.
“See what?”
She shoves the phone in my face.
Ah. Not “see.”
Sí.
Chloe said yes.
“She said yes!” Elodie and Amelie start screaming and jumping in the air, as if I’d just won something on a game show, or caught a foul ball at Fenway.
My heart is imitating them, silently.
“I am done talking about this,” I say, mustering my air of authority.
“It’s not like we’re going to ask you any details. I mean, EWWWWWW,” Elodie declares.
“We’ll make sure we don’t stop by for food or laundry on Friday night, though,” Amelie announces, winking at me.
“But I do have to come and do laundry for my big trip,” Elodie says to herself.
A sharp inhale from Elodie makes me turn and look.
“What if you date a woman who wants kids?”
“I have kids.” I’m confused by this statement.
“I mean more kids.” They share bright-eyed excitement at the thought. Where is their brother? Jean-Marc is the cynic in the family. He’s also my only kid who doesn’t live in Boston right now, which automatically makes him my favorite. Three in college at the same time.
The job at Anterdec needs to be solid.
And here I am, asking a colleague out for dinner, and possibly jeopardizing it. Someone who is adopting a baby in the next few months.
“I have plenty of kids. Don’t need more.”
“Be upfront, Dad. Don’t string her along.”
“It’s a business dinner,” I growl.
“Let’s go pick out what he’s going to wear on his date!” Elodie shouts, as she sprints down the hall. Amelie darts into my bedroom as I watch her sister double back, turn off the washer, take out the sopping clothes and load her own in.
That one is going to be a lawyer some day, folklore major be damned.
Chapter Nine
Chloe
Friday night. After a week packed with three bachelorette parties, two divorce celebrations, one widow party (yes, we were surprised, but freedom comes in many forms) and a state elevator inspection that took more of my time than it should have, here I am, ready for Nick.
A blue and white pencil skirt in a diamond pattern. White T shirt. Silver hoop earrings, and lots of bracelets. Wedge sandals, which were a good choice because the sidewalks in this neighborhood are uneven brick. Nick holds my arm when I wobble. I love these sidewalks. All sidewalks should be made like these. Wobbling is good.
We decide on an outside table, and order Margaritas. It’s a beautiful mid-summer night, warm but not humid, and the sun is still out, the July nights still long and festive. Boston’s not usually known for its authentic Mexican food, but this place is supposed to be changing that.
“One more good meal before you start your life sentence of chicken nuggets?” Nick smiles.
“Even if Jessica’s right about that, it will be worth it,” I say seriously. “I want this baby so much, Nick, and I’ve waited so long for her. Anyway, I am never feeding my child a Happy Meal. Ever. She is only going to eat organic food, and I am going to make everything myself, so I will know exactly what she’s getting.”
“Well, that’s admirable, Chloe.” He looks… amused? “Any other plans?”
“No big plastic toys,” I answer. “Just natural materials like wood and paper and cloth. And not too many toys. I want her to use her imagination. Be creative. And no princesses.”
“No plastic,” Nick repeats. “No princesses.”
“Right,” I say.
“You are really just very beautiful,” he says, as if that follows.
I look into his smiling blue-green eyes. “Did you have, um, basic…principles for, you know, raising your kids?” I stammer.
He bursts out laughing. “Yes. Absolutely. Life vests on boats. Helmets on bikes and skis. Stay off the roof.”
“No, seriously,” I say. “You must have had some ideas?”
“Any ideas that we may have had about children went out the window pretty quickly,” he says. “We had three babies in twenty-five months, and we were practically kids ourselves. Then, when I became the only parent on the scene, the kids were three and five. I just wanted to keep them busy every minute, so they wouldn’t notice their mom was gone.” He makes a face. “I actually thought that was possible.”
“That must have been torture.” I want to hear more, but I don’t want to cause him pain.
“Well, it kept me busy, too,” he says slowly. “I didn’t want to notice she was gone, either.”
He signals the server for another round, and points to the empty basket of chips. More, please. More of everything.
I lean forward on my elbows, waiting.
“She went back to France, you know. Simone, my wife. Ex-wife. She said she wanted the man she married. She wanted a lover, not a daddy. And it turned out, she’d found him.”
“What does that mean?”
“She had reconnected with her lover from university days at the Sorbonne. He ‘saw her as a woman.’ Not a mother.”
“Oh Nick.”
He shrugs. “It was a long time ago.”
“She left her children.” I can’t quite make sense of it. I’ve devoted years to finding a child to love, and she walked away from hers.
He looks self-conscious. “Let’s talk about something happy. Let’s talk about you.”
Two more rounds of margaritas, one bowl of guacamole, and a very large platter of fajitas later, Nick asks for the check.
We’ve learned a little more about each other. He loves bluegrass and cowboy songs (go figure). He speaks fluent French (not surprising). He has done an ocean crossing, can explain Fermat’s Theorem (it was wasted on me), and has run for town office (he lost). He is deathly afraid of alligators. Somewhere around margarita number three, I discovered that he lost his virginity at age seventeen, to the neighbors’ Spanish nanny. This resulted in a lifelong love of olives.
In return, I shared my deep love for the color white in all its many variations, my obsession with Miles Davis, and my entire bucket list, including the part about backpacking in Patagonia. Before margarita number four he stops, begging off to be able to drive, but I keep going. So it’s possible that I may have told him (oh dear god) about the Power Underwear Theory.
Do you think I might be just the tiniest bit… drunk? Because that would not be good.
Margarita number five was delicious. I had them leave off the salt. Self-control is important.
“So,” he starts. “Other than my little brother Charlie and Joe Blow, there must be men in your life. How about that tall, naked guy who was holding you up outside your office? The redhead.” His smile fades.
“Henry? Oh my God, no! He and his wife are my best friends.” Is it me, or does he look a little bit relieved?
“Have you ever been married?” he asks.
“And don’t call him Joe Blow,” I add. “No, never been married. Before Joe, I dated someone for five years, but he got a great job offer and moved to New York, and my job was here. We tried to make it work long distance for about six months, but we both wanted more than that. I
want to wake up with someone. I want to come home at night and tell someone about my day, hear about theirs. Go grocery shopping. Have a life.” I pause. “Raise a family.”
Am I oversharing? Too late to worry about that, I guess.
“I miss that,” he says softly. “Even after all this time.”
“Why haven’t you remarried?” I ask.
He’s quiet.
“After Simone left, I was in survival mode. I had all I could do to manage breakfast, lunch, and dinner, never mind soccer games and piano lessons. Although,” he smiles ruefully, “I had plenty of offers of help from female friends. All kinds of help.”
“I’ll bet you did,” I smile back. “Did you accept any?”
“No,” he shakes his head. “I wasn’t going to let any woman near us again. And when the girls got older, they were pretty protective of their turf.” He starts to laugh. “Once I had a weekend guest, an old friend who lives in Chicago. The girls went into the guest room on a reconnaissance mission. They were about ten at the time. Just as my friend and I were sitting down to a candlelit dinner, Elodie and Amelie came down the stairs.”
“This doesn’t sound good,” I say, but I’m smiling.
“It wasn’t good. But it was pretty funny. They were each wearing one of her silk nightgowns. And high heels. Lipstick. They must have sprayed an entire bottle of her perfume on each other. They were giggling so hard they could barely stand up.”
“Oh no—what happened?”
“Let’s just say my friend didn’t see the humor. And those nightgowns just didn’t seem very sexy anymore.”
“Hard to be a dad and a date at the same time?” I ask.
“Very. But they’re off at college now. All of them. It’s a whole new world.”
“A new world for me, too, but I’m just at the beginning.”
Nick looks at me thoughtfully.
And signals for the check.
* * *
There is considerably more wobbling on the way back to his car, but I think the walk does me good. By the time the black Range Rover comes into view, most of the margaritas have worn off. Anticipation has not. My breath quickens, all my senses suddenly acute. The press of his fingers against my spine as he guides me. The brush of his hip against mine as we turn. How his hair curls at the collar, like it’s cozying up. The light whiff of Bay Rhum that makes me want to nuzzle his neck.