Changes

by Judith Arnold

  ***

  She made arrangements with the car rental company to drop off her car at one of the company’s Boston outlets, then drove south to the city, her suitcase filled with clothes for her laundry hamper and the precious, bubble-wrapped Tiffany lamps wedged into the back seat. As soon as she reached her South End building, she transferred the lamps to her own car, which she kept parked in a neighborhood garage one long block from her building, and then dropped the rental car off and settled the bill. She walked back to her building, wheeling her suitcase behind her. Lugging it up the stairs to her third-floor walk-up, she thought about how nice it had been to have Peter carry it down the stairs for her when they’d departed for Brogan’s Point last Saturday.

  Not nice enough to justify remaining engaged to him, though. She was strong. She could carry her own suitcase.

  She took a moment to appreciate the welcome familiarity of her apartment once she’d unlocked the multiple locks and let herself inside. It was small—a great room with a kitchen, a bedroom and a bathroom—but sun-filled and comfortable. She’d furnished it herself, arranging an assortment of old cast-offs from her parents that had been accumulating dust in their basement, and inexpensive new pieces she’d purchased online. Peter had groused about her having bought chintzy, do-it-yourself junk and he’d refused to help her assemble the occasional tables and breakfast bar stools. Fortunately, the instructions had been pretty straightforward, and a helpful neighbor from across the hall had let her borrow his toolbox. And somehow, by adding an interesting vase here and hanging a framed sepia photograph there, she’d managed to tie the entire room together. Even Peter had grudgingly admitted that her apartment looked good, although he never let her forget how cheap her coffee table was.

  She moved through the great room to the bedroom, where she emptied her suitcase into the laundry hamper and repacked the suitcase with clean garments. She paused to water the potted philodendrons along the window sill—hardy plants, they required blessedly little attention—and then left the apartment, bolting all the locks behind her. On her way down the stairs, she sighed, not from the weight of her suitcase but from the realization that Peter might never have occasion to criticize her low-priced furniture again.

  She rolled her suitcase down the street to the garage, locked it in the trunk of her Saab, and pointed her car toward Back Bay, where Shomback-Sawyer’s main office was located. She was able to find a parking space not too far from the front door. The lamps weighed less than her suitcase, and she didn’t have to lug them up or down a flight of stairs. She entered the showroom and headed straight for the elevator.

  She had phoned James Sawyer that morning before leaving Brogan’s Point, and he was expecting her. His face brightened as she swept into his office with the lamps. “Here, let me help you with that,” he said, hastening across his office and easing the carton from her hands.

  James was tall and thin, with a narrow face and a hooked nose. Diana thought he resembled a male version of Olive Oyl. He dressed in a prim, prissy style, favoring suspenders and bowties and wing-tipped shoes. Looking at him, and knowing he was one of the founders and named partners of a successful antiques business in an antiques-crazy city, one would never guess that he was known around town for sponsoring auctions to raise money for homeless shelters, soup kitchens and early childhood education programs. He was stern and his personality was as dry as overcooked toast, but within his bony chest he had a generous heart.

  He set the box down gently on his desk—a flame mahogany partner’s desk dating back to about 1920, a bit fussy for Diana’s taste but a beautiful specimen. In fact, James’s entire office was filled with beautiful, if slightly fussy, pieces: the leather wing-back chair with its lion’s-claw feet, the ornate hunt-board, the burgundy brocade drapes flanking the windows, the elaborately patterned Persian rug. James’s office décor was as fussy as he was. Today’s bowtie, Diana noted, appeared to be silk and featured a pattern of birds so closely woven together they might have been an Escher print.

  “Genuine Tiffany?” he asked, gingerly removing the bubble-wrap from the lamps and looking for their official stamps and numbers. “Oh, my. Very nice.”

  “We’ll need to have the wiring and switches checked,” Diana said. “Given how cheap the price was, I didn’t want to take the time to check that at the shop where I bought them. I just wanted to grab them and run.”

  “Not a problem.” He lifted one, admiring it from different angles. “Very, very nice.”

  “I have the documentation for the purchase,” Diana continued, pulling the receipt from her purse.

  Usually, James was as fussy about paperwork as about everything else. But he didn’t even glance at the slip of paper Diana handed him. He tossed it onto his desk and turned to face her. She realized with a start that his uncharacteristically glowing expression was a reaction not to the lamps but to her. “Look at you!”

  She did, glancing down at her jeans—clean but ordinary—and her ribbed sweater and wool jacket. Her hair was probably a bit mussed. She’d been unable to pat it into place when she’d entered the building, because she’d been burdened with the carton containing the lamps. Nor had she taken the time to apply any make-up at her apartment.

  It occurred to her that James might disapprove of her casual appearance. But she wasn’t planning to spend the day at the office, and he knew that. He was aware that she would be heading back to Brogan’s Point today. She needed to be there early tomorrow morning, before the truck arrived to pack up and move the contents of that humble Cape Cod house full of goodies.

  She lifted her gaze to James’s face and saw he was beaming. “You look so robust, Diana! So invigorated.”

  “Well, I’ve had a good couple of days.” She was referring to her antiques finds. Everything else about the past few days had been turbulent, to say the least.

  “I heard it in your voice on the phone,” James said. “And now I’m seeing it. You’ve changed.”

  Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes, she thought, suppressing a bemused smile. “In what way?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. You just seem…more alive, somehow. Whatever it is, it suits you.”

  “Thank you.”

  James grinned. “So you’ll be up there tomorrow for the big move?”

  “Yes. I’d also like to do some more exploring in the area. I feel like there’s more to be discovered up on the North Shore. Is that okay with you?”

  “If your big purchase yesterday pans out, yes, of course, it’s okay with me.”

  Diana and James exchanged a few more pleasantries before she said goodbye and left his office. In the elevator descending to the ground floor, she allowed herself a moment to savor his approval and his compliments. Did she really look more alive? Did she feel more alive? Could a single song have made such a difference in her life?

  Apparently, it had.

  Yet her smile faded as she reflected the final stop of her trip to Boston. Peter would also notice that she’d changed, but he wouldn’t be pleased by the change. The next hour of her life was not going to be anywhere near as much fun as the past hour had been.

  The receptionist recognized Diana as she entered the complex of offices that housed the equity firm where Peter worked. The reception area was sleekly designed and modern, with glass walls, streamlined leather seating, and Rothko and Klee paintings on the walls. Not prints—originals. The firm was awash in money.

  “Hi, Diana,” the receptionist said. She was younger than Diana and model-gorgeous in a snug-fitting knit dress with an asymmetrical neckline, her make-up impeccable, every hair in place. “Is Peter expecting you?”

  “No,” Diana said, not bothering to add that Peter was certainly not expecting what she’d come here to tell him.

  The receptionist’s eyes glittered. “You’re surprising him! How nice. Let me see if he’s in his office.” She pressed one perfectly manicured hand to her temple, holding her tiny ear piece in place,
and tapped a few buttons on her high-tech console. “Peter?” she murmured. “Guess who’s here? Diana!” She probably would have liked to toss a fistful of silver confetti into the air, just to celebrate this wonderful surprise.

  The receptionist’s joy stoked Diana’s sense of dread. This was not going to be a confetti-worthy encounter. It was going to be awful. Maybe she should leave, right now. Maybe she should rethink everything. She and Peter had been a couple forever—or at least, they’d been destined to be a couple forever. Everyone wanted it. Everyone believed they were fated to be together.

  But that was before Diana had heard the song. Before she had changed.

  The receptionist exchanged a few more words with Peter, then released her ear and smiled at Diana. “He’ll be with you shortly,” she reported. “He’s on a conference call.”

  If he were on a conference call, Diana thought, how could he have chatted with the receptionist? Wouldn’t his phone line be tied up?

  Diana suspected that he wasn’t on a conference call at all. He’d asked the receptionist to lie for him. He probably wanted Diana to cool her heels for a while before he granted her an audience with him. He was angry with her, and so be it. He was going to be a lot angrier with her once she ended their engagement.

  She returned the receptionist’s smile and took a seat on one of the leather sofas. Waiting for Peter to summon her gave her a chance to rethink what she was doing. Was breaking up with him a huge mistake? Was the disappointment her decision would cause her parents and Peter’s worth the satisfaction the decision gave her? Was she truly satisfied? What if she floundered on her own? What if she got lonely? What if her days in Brogan’s Point were a vacation from reality, and reality—the life she was intended to live—was here, in Boston, at Peter’s side?

  If ever she needed to talk to her sister, it was now. She and Serena had never been close. Serena had been the rebellious Simms daughter, the one who had never given a damn what their parents wanted. She’d dropped out of college and moved to London, where she worked as a shop clerk by day and hung out with punk rockers at night. She’d cut her hair short and spiky and gotten a tattoo of a rose on her left shoulder. Diana hadn’t seen her in a year, but Serena posted photos on her various social media pages. Viewing the pictures of Serena’s hairdo and the tat, Diana had been alternately appalled and amused.

  Serena had always been wild. To compensate, Diana had always been obedient. Their parents would not have survived two wayward daughters. The more defiant Serena was, the more well-behaved Diana felt she had to be. Someone had to be the good girl in the family.

  At times, Diana had envied Serena. How liberating it must be not to care! Yet Diana knew there were benefits to remaining in her parents’ good graces. They doted on her, praised her, made her feel loved. As a second child, the younger sister of a bold, beautiful drama queen, Diana had always felt kind of insecure and deficient. She lacked Serena’s courage and flair. She lacked her certainty. But at least she had her parents’ approval.

  If she broke up with Peter, she would likely sacrifice their approval. Was she ready for that?

  The receptionist had swiveled her chair to her computer and was busily tapping away on her keyboard. No sign of Peter.

  Diana pulled out her cell phone. It was evening in London, probably an hour or so past dinner. Who knew if Serena was out clubbing or at home in bed—quite possibly not alone? Diana tapped in a text: I’m breaking up with Peter. Then she hit the send button. Somehow, putting it in writing and sending it to Serena helped to solidify her decision.

  Another ten minutes passed. Diana checked her emails, relived her meeting with James in her mind, stared at the Rothko painting on the wall facing her and thought about how glad she was to be working with antiques rather than ugly modern art. All those slashes and blotches of black—the painting was truly depressing.

  Finally, the receptionist called over to her. “Peter will see you now,” she said, rising and beckoning Diana to follow her. Although Diana knew the way to Peter’s office, she also knew that no one was allowed to wander unescorted through the maze of offices where staggeringly huge financial transactions took place and rich associates grew richer.

  The thick carpet muffled Diana’s footsteps. She and the receptionist passed a few glass-enclosed rooms filled with busy-looking people and flickering flat-screen monitors, and finally reached Peter’s office. That he had a private office with a window so early in his career reflected his trading and management successes, as well as the simple fact that he was Peter. He got what he wanted. People deferred to him.

  His office door was open, and the receptionist gestured that Diana should go in. Peter was seated behind his desk, but he rose as she crossed the threshold. His expression darkened. He clearly wasn’t thrilled to see her.

  Or maybe his scowl wasn’t a response to seeing her. It was a response to her attire. “You’re wearing jeans,” he said.

  She took a second to recover. “Yes, I am.”

  “You look like a slob. Who wears jeans to work? Besides laborers, of course. And slobs.”

  Oh, for God’s sake. “No one at Shomback-Sawyer seemed to mind,” she retorted.

  “They’re probably just happy you’re back home, where you belong. As happy as I am,” Peter remembered to add. He circled his desk to her side and gave her a polite kiss on the cheek. “You’re all done with that Brogan’s Point nonsense, I assume. I’d like to put a deposit down on the Newport place—”

  “Peter.” She eased back a step and took a deep breath. “Brogan’s Point is not nonsense. And no, I don’t want you to put a deposit down on the Newport Place.”

  “You really like that inn better? It’s pretty, I’ll grant you that. But the town, the surrounding environment…”

  “Peter.” Another deep breath. “We aren’t getting married. There or in Newport, or anywhere else.”

  He frowned, although he looked less angry than incredulous. “Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m not being silly.” She dug through her purse until she found the diamond ring, carefully wrapped in a tissue. “I’ve thought long and hard about this, and I really think we should call off the wedding.”

  “You haven’t thought long or hard about anything. Three days ago, we were discussing menus for the reception.”

  She conceded silently that three days wasn’t very long. But she’d thought hard. More than thought, she’d felt. She’d listened to her gut and her heart. She couldn’t expect Peter to understand that, and she didn’t even try to explain. “I’m sorry, Peter, but…I mean, it’s not that I don’t love you. We’ve been friends forever. We’ve grown up together. But I just don’t think we should get married.”

  “You just don’t think at all,” he snapped.

  A frisson of anger shot up her spine, surprising her. She never got angry. Peter was the angry person in their relationship. She was the peacekeeper, the soother, the calmer of waters.

  Not at the moment. “That’s a nasty thing to say. I do think, and now I’m finally thinking about what’s right for me instead of what’s right for everyone else. Kind of a first for me, I’ll admit.”

  “Bullshit.” The word sounded particularly crude coming from Peter’s refined lips. “What’s right for you is to marry me, raise a family with me, live a life of ease and grace with me. What’s right for you is to fulfill your dreams—”

  “Your dreams, maybe. My parents’ dreams. Not mine. Do you even know what my dreams are?”

  “Do you?” His voice carried a sneer.

  More anger spun through her, fierce and electrifying. She handed him the tissue-wrapped ring and stepped toward the door. “Right now, my dream is to leave this office.”

  He shocked her by snagging her arm, his fingers closing around her wrist like a manacle. “Don’t you dare walk out of this office,” he said, his tone now dangerously hushed. “You can’t do this to me. To us. I love you, Diana. I’ve always been good to y
ou—and good for you. Do not walk away from what we have.”

  His words touched her. Yet whatever affection and need they carried was belied by the painful grip of his hand, and by the fact that he was issuing an edict. She felt less like his equal than like a recalcitrant child about to run into the street, being held back by her father. Peter might be able to convince himself that he was denying her escape in order to save her life. But he couldn’t convince her.

  “Let go of me,” she said, quietly but firmly.

  “I don’t want you to make the biggest mistake of your life.”

  “That makes two of us,” she said, wriggling her arm until, at last, his fingers relented on her.

  She fled through the door, not looking back to see if he was following her. Outside his office, she slowed her pace from a run to a brisk walk so as not to draw attention to herself. She didn’t want to humiliate him. He could tell his colleagues that his engagement was off when he was ready to. The last thing either of them needed or wanted was a scene.

  She kept walking, sparing a swift nod for the receptionist before she left the office. Not until she’d stepped into the elevator and the door whisked shut did she let out a breath. She was shaking, she realized. Her vision blurred with tears, but through the blur she was able to see the red marks Peter’s hand had left on her wrist.

  Her purse was shaking, too—or, more accurately, vibrating. She lifted the flap and pulled out her phone. The message light blinked. She tapped the screen and a text from Serena appeared:

  Halleluiah!

  Through her tears, Diana smiled.