I always wanted to ask Jeannie what it was like to be divorced. “To be the child of divorced parents,” my mother corrected. “To be the product of a broken home.” But I never did. “It would be rude,” my mother said. “Just don’t say anything. Pretend nothing is wrong.”
It seemed to me in those days that Jeannie was happy. I wanted her to be happy. But I never knew what she felt. Jeannie and her mother moved to Los Angeles at the end of the school year to be closer to Jeannie’s maternal grandparents. I never saw her after that.
“Do the kids spend every weekend with the father?” I said, thinking of that little blue suitcase. Thinking of Doug Spears. Did he have children? “Are you ever going to get away to the Cape or the Vineyard alone together?”
“And then there are the holidays.” JoAnne raised an eyebrow and sipped her wine.
Communal groan.
“Does he have the kids for Thanksgiving?” Maggie counted off the questions on her fingers. “Does his wife? What about Christmas? Summer vacation? Spring break? When do the kids see the grandparents?”
“Some people take the kids from their first marriage along on their honeymoon,” Abby said. “With the second spouse, I mean. That’s kind of sweet.”
“That’s kind of sick.”
“And then there’s the depression,” Maggie noted seriously. “Even the laziest, most incidental father gets all weepy and blue on a holiday when he can’t see his kids. There’s a guy who teaches in my department who’s absolutely unbearable from mid-November through mid-January. ’Tis the season to make everybody around him as miserable as he is.”
“Too true,” JoAnne said. “I once dated a guy who, by his own admission, never gave a shit about his kids’ school plays and stuff. Then when his wife left him, he couldn’t get enough of the kids. Went to every piddling little first-grade nonevent and ninth grade basketball game. Basically drove his family crazy, showing up all over the place, suddenly Mr. Dad.”
“Guilt,” I pronounced.
“Or transference,” Maggie wondered. “Like being with the kids might get the wife back.”
“He couldn’t have been a very nice man if he didn’t care about his own children,” Abby said, as if the thought had just that second occurred to her.
JoAnne smiled falsely. “I figured that out. Eventually. Point is, girls, dating a parent is a bad deal.”
“You know, joining a convent is looking better and better,” I mumbled. “How bad could it be? Except for the shoes. The shoes are horrendous.”
“Maybe becoming a lesbian,” JoAnne said. “Which, from what I hear, might turn out to be pretty much the same thing as joining a convent.”
“Or just swearing off relationships altogether,” I said now, inspired. Depressed. “Just having sex every once in a while. Every time you get in the mood. You know, keep the juices flowing.”
JoAnne rolled her eyes.
“Well, sex is good for you,” I said. “It’s healthy.”
“That’s not why I like it,” JoAnne said.
“Or just holding out for your soul mate,” Abby said. “Even if he takes forever to show up,” she added gloomily.
“Well, ladies,” Maggie said, over the idiots’ fresh bout of whooping, “another fun Saturday night has just come to a crashing end.”
Okay. Sometimes staying home alone on a Saturday night is the best thing to do after all.
Chapter Six
It was late January when it happened. I met Doug Spears again, again in the presence of colleagues.
Hank McQueen, an account manager at EastWind, and I had signed up for an all-day presentation/seminar called “Going for the Jugular: Guerilla Marketing for the New Millenium,” given by The Saturn Group. Lunch—a meal sure to include rubber chicken—in one of the hotel’s dining rooms would break up the day. Generally speaking, I’m not a big fan of such seminars, but in this case, the topic interested me greatly. Hank, I think, just wanted some time out of the office.
Before the seminar got under way, the participants gathered in a smallish, carpeted room for coffee and muffins. I skipped the rather anemic-looking muffins and went for the rather weak-looking coffee. Hank was shoving a blueberry muffin into his mouth when ...
I coughed, recovered, patted my mouth with a napkin. Doug Spears was standing not three feet from Hank, his back to me. But not for long.
Doug Spears turned, saw me, and smiled a slow smile.
Suddenly, I felt extremely self-conscious, glad I’d worn a skirt that day, stupidly angry that I’d not taken more time with my hair that morning.
A guy with Doug spotted Hank, then he and Doug moved closer through the crowd.
“Hank, how’s it going?”
Hank introduced me to the guy. A second later, I’d forgotten his name. Doug and Hank nodded, murmuring the greeting of men who’d met briefly before.
The guy then turned to Doug.
“Doug, do you know Erin Weston of EastWind Communications?”
“Yes, we’ve met,” he said and that particular smile was back, the one that said, “I know what you’re thinking and I’m thinking it, too.” He extended his hand—the one without the wedding ring—and I took it for the requisite handshake. It was brief and unusual except for the last second when we released our grip and Doug let a finger trail across my palm in a way that was most definitely unbusinesslike.
Unless I’d imagined it. Doug didn’t meet my eye, immediately turned away, and in a perfectly neutral voice spoke to his colleague.
I felt unaccountably embarrassed and extremely turned on.
I don’t remember what topic was discussed and at the time was only half aware of what was being said. I know I nodded wisely once or twice and am pretty sure I said, “Exactly” at least once. All that was happening for me then was Doug. He was the content and the context of that ten-minute chance meeting of colleagues. His face was the visual; the tone of his voice the audio.
Doug Spears, I thought later, is a huge and hugely powerful magnet and I am a pile of tiny, silvery iron filings, completely helpless against his command. A tired simile, maybe, but an accurate one.
At lunch, Doug sat with his colleagues from Trident and some other guys—all men—from another big firm. Hank and I sat with a few people we knew from our work with nonprofits, as well as with several junior-level creative staff from a company so small it made EastWind look awesome. Doug was at the cool kids’ table. We were the dorks. Because cool kids don’t mess with dorks, there was no chance for another interaction. Though I glanced his way a few times, I never saw Doug glance in mine.
Which doesn’t mean he hasn’t been glancing at you, Romance tittered.
Oh, get a life, Erin, Reason snapped.
At the end of the seminar, long after Doug and his group had left the hotel, I worked up the nerve to mention him to Hank. Curiosity was eating me up inside. Maybe Hank knew something heartening about his personal life. Like, maybe Doug Spears was getting a divorce.
“So, who is that Doug Spears guy, anyway?” I said, gathering my things busily. “He’s new, isn’t he? At Trident, I mean.”
Hank shook his head. “I don’t know much about him. I mean I read an article about him and his former company, but that was a few years ago. Word is he’s a hot shot, but beyond that ... Couldn’t tell you. He’s way out of my league.”
“Huh,” I said. Wrong person to ask, obviously. I’d have to ask another woman. Women are far better at gathering personal information than men. But now the problem was this: The last thing I needed was for my hoped-for informant to question my motives for questioning her. The word that I had a major attraction to Doug Spears must not get out.
This would require finesse. Or a great deal of luck.
Which is what I got when I asked Hank to wait for me while I visted the ladies’ room on the way out of the hotel.
The stalls were all empty. Two women stood at the sinks, reapplying their makeup. They stopped talking, glanced at me, then back at the mirror
s. I entered the far stall. The women resumed their conversation.
“Kathy says he’s a tough boss, but fair. I wish my boss were fair. Jeez.”
A laugh. “I wouldn’t care if he were tough and totally unfair. Doug Spears is hot.”
Hello.
“And married. And has two kids. Taylor and Courtney. Can you imagine how cute they must be?”
“Yes. Their father is totally hot.”
“You have a one-track mind.”
“So?”
“So, what would you do, come on to your boss? Anyway, who says he cheats? Kathy says he’s very devoted to his family.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s very devoted to his wife, does it?”
“Ugh. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
A moment later I heard the door to the ladies’ room shut. I sat there longer than necessary, afraid to let anyone catch a glimpse of my burning face.
Chapter Seven
February, Boston
February in Boston is without a doubt the ugliest and therefore most depressing month of the year. It makes even usually optimistic, even-tempered types despair of ever again feeling the warmth of the sun against their skin.
February breeds discontent.
Erin—Roberto went back to his wife. For the best as Julio was becoming v. jealous. Did you take my Hermes scarf? Can’t find it, plse send. M.
We four met for dinner at Franklin Café. No one was wearing a party dress. I was, however, wearing my mother’s Hermes scarf. The one she had given to me before she left the country. The one she was not getting back.
Two women about our age sat two tables away. Franklin Café is small and wasn’t crowded that night, so we could easily hear their conversation, such as it was. One had just gotten engaged and was waxing poetic about the enormous rock on her finger. The other was alternately squealing and sighing.
Thankfully, they’d gone by the time our appetizers arrived.
“I don’t know why so many women in their thirties are so hung up on getting married,” JoAnne said irritably. “I, for one, am having a fine time dating a variety of men. My social life is full and totally under my command.”
“Well, bully for you,” I said gloomily. “No, really.”
“Leave me out of this discussion,” Maggie said. “I’m fine on my own. At least for now.”
“What about you, Abigail?” JoAnne asked. “A special man in your life?”
Abby groaned. “I so wish not! Has anyone ever had a much younger guy have a crush on them?”
“What’s much younger?” Maggie asked.
“Um, sixteen.”
“What are you doing with your free time that you’re meeting sixteen-year-old boys?” I said. “Or maybe I don’t want to know.”
“Please, Erin! He’s an intern at the BSO. His mom’s on the board so I assume she got him the job. He comes by after school two days a week and sort of files and staples and things.”
“And he’s fallen in love with you?”
“It’s just so embarrassing! He looks at me with those ... those ...”
“Big puppy dog eyes?” JoAnne suggested.
“No. With that pimply face and I just want to scream, ‘Ew! Don’t look at me!’”
“You could leave a tube of Clearasil on his desk.” JoAnne, again.
“Don’t be mean,” Abby said. “I really don’t know what to do. He’s so sweet and so young and I really don’t want to hurt his feelings but ...”
“But he’s making you feel uncomfortable in your workplace?” Maggie asked. “Are you afraid of him?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that. I mean, Mrs. Rogers is on the board of directors and she’s one tough cookie. I can’t imagine Pierce having the nerve to step out of line with a woman.” Abby seemed to hesitate. “Okay, I’m going to show you something but promise me you won’t laugh, okay?”
“I can’t do that,” JoAnne said, already grinning. “Show at your own risk.”
Abby sighed and took a folded piece of pink paper from her slim leather purse. “He gave this to me today, just before I left to meet you guys.”
“What did he say!” I cried.
“Nothing. Well, I think he mumbled something, or maybe it was more like a mutter. Anyway, I couldn’t make out any words. He just shoved this at me, kept his head down, made some noises, and ran off to the men’s room. It was heartbreaking.”
“I wonder if he threw up.” JoAnne.
“Let me see, Abby.” I put out my hand and Abby gave me the pink paper. “Should I read it out loud?”
Abby sighed again. “Oh, okay, you might as well.”
“Okay.” I sat up straighter, cleared my throat. “Here we go.”
Abigail
You are like an angel
with bright, shiny wings.
You are like so many,
many things.
Like my favorite cereal, Fruit Loops
And a bright sunny day.
I will tell all who want the scoop
To them I will say,
Abigail is like the moon
All bright and shiny.
To her my heart I give
Utherwise, I canot live.
“Can puberty be terminal?” I said to JoAnne, wiping my eyes. “I mean, could this poor kid die of it?”
“In my considered opinion, yes.”
Maggie reached for the paper. “Hmm. Needs some help with spelling, too.”
Abby looked miserable.
“You could talk to his mother about his crush,” I said to Abby. “Maybe she could, I don’t know, talk to him about his behavior being inappropriate in the office.”
“How humiliating for poor Pierce! He’d know I said something to her. He’d quit immediately.”
“Maybe his mother won’t let him quit,” Maggie said. “Maybe she’ll think it would be a good lesson for him to have to face Abby every day ...”
“A good punishment, you mean. That would be so cruel.” Abby considered. “But knowing Mrs. Rogers, not unlikely.”
“I say the way to get little Pierce to lose interest is have a date pick you up early one day. Confront him with a real man.” JoAnne nodded sagely.
“No.” I had a better idea. “What Abby needs to do is introduce Pierce to a nice sixteen-year-old girl. She needs to show him she’s too old for him.”
“Hey!”
“Well, you are, you know.”
“Maybe Pierce should just grow out of his crush all by himself without anyone interfering,” Maggie suggested. “These things don’t last long. Usually.”
“Well,” Abby said suddenly, “something had better change because I’m tired of people in the office laughing at me. Everyone thinks it’s a big fat joke. I need to be taken seriously!”
“At least you have a date for Valentine’s Day,” JoAnne said slyly.
Abby put her head in her hands and sighed.
I’d long thought that Valentine’s Day should be banned from the face of the Earth. At the very least, it should be ignored by the unmarried. Unless, of course, you have a boyfriend with whom you are madly in love and who is truly, madly and deeply in love with you. And prepared to offer you a big-ass diamond ring.
Or, unless you were JoAnne Chiofalo and claimed not to give a crap about Valentine’s Day in the first place.
Not that I was bitter or anything. It’s just that I was facing yet another Valentine’s Day without that special someone. Without even a jerk-off temporary boyfriend. And, of course, without Doug Spears.
The morning passed quietly. Just before noon, the receptionist buzzed my line.
The receptionist’s voice was singsongy. “Eriiiiiiiin ...”
I rolled my eyes. What now?
“Yes, Heather?”
“There’s something out here for youuuuuuu.”
Probably a summons, I thought, sighing and getting up from my chair. What could I have done to deserve having to appear in court? Or maybe—oh, no, please don’t let it be my mother!
>
Now the question was to go running toward the reception area, arms wide, or dash back into my office and lock the door behind me.
No good. The door didn’t lock from the inside.
Shit.
I walked on past private offices, then the kitchen and listened closely but heard no voice from the reception area but Heather’s. Well, she had said “something” not “someone,” I reminded myself. A person’s not a thing... .
Three or four more steps and I’d be around the bend and face-to-face with ...
A reception area empty but for the top of Heather’s head peeking out from behind a massive bouquet of red roses arranged with ferns and baby’s breath in a cut crystal vase.
“These are for youuuuu!” Heather came dashing out from behind her desk and grabbed my arm. “Aren’t they gorgeous!”
Yes, they certainly were. But who ... ?
“Who brought them?” I asked.
Heather shrugged. “Some guy from a florist. He said they were for Erin Weston. Go ahead and read the card! Aren’t you curious?”
I looked at Heather. Did everyone at EastWind Communications know I wasn’t involved in a serious relationship? That my receiving flowers on Valentine’s Day was an unexpected event?
I glanced at the hall down which I’d come. Heather had been beating the drums. Heads were peering out of offices, faces were expectant.
Jeez. Casually, I pulled the small white envelope from a plastic stalk tucked into the arrangement.
“This is so exciting!”
Yes, it was. And private. I turned away from Heather and slipped the card partway from the envelope. And felt as if I were going to be sick. And faint. Maybe both.
“Well?” Heather prompted.
I tried so hard to keep the grin from my face I felt it morph into a grimace. “Oh, they’re from my dad,” I said brightly. Amazing how easily the lie came to my lips. “Sorry to disappoint you.”
All along the hall, heads withdrew into offices. Heather looked deeply confused.
“Oh. Well, that’s sooooooo nice,” she said, in a voice that smacked undeniably of pity. “He must be a real sweetheart.”
Living Single Page 5