Living Single

by Holly Chamberlin

  “Does it matter?” I asked. “She’s happy with Jan.”

  “Besides, who would decide, ‘Oh, I think I’ll live in a homosexual relationship’ just for the hell of it?” JoAnne added. “Who would choose to be reviled? Living gay isn’t easy.”

  “Easier than it used to be, thank God. In some places, anyway.”

  “True.”

  “I still wonder ... Maybe Maggie got so turned off by lousy men she, you know, turned gay. Meaning she’s not really gay-gay but just fell in love with a woman because—because the woman isn’t a man and Maggie hasn’t been in love in a long time and she wanted to be.”

  JoAnne and I sat in stunned silence. But not for long.

  “Okay,” I said, “why I’m even responding to that is beyond me, but, if I understand what you’re saying—and I am not so sure I do—Maggie’s being with Jan is just another version of girlfriends being substitutes for men. You’re saying that if Maggie got a better offer from a man, she wouldn’t need Jan.”

  Abby considered. “Well ... yeah.”

  “Please,” I begged, “please don’t let her hear you say that, okay?”

  “So, Abby,” JoAnne said, “have you ever been attracted to a woman?”

  “Me!” she squealed. “No, of course not!”

  “Even when you couldn’t find a guy to go out with?” I said. “Or when some guy treated you really badly?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. I’m all confused. No women.”

  “Well, that destroys your theory that women fall in love with women because they’re sick of men, doesn’t it?”

  Abby shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  JoAnne grinned.

  “Fine. This conversation never happened. Agreed?”

  Abby nodded.

  I said, “What conversation?”

  Chapter Forty-nine

  October, Boston

  October in Boston—in all of New England, really—is magical. There’s a good reason we northeasterners brag about our brilliant foliage, bright blue skies, and chill, crisp air. There’s a good reason early autumn, especially, is the most popular time of the year for L.L. Bean-clad tourists to invade Boston. October is the season of high Romance.

  Erin—glad John is with someone; why no details? hope she doesn’t hurt him; he’s a good man. does she have money? have you considered a dating srvc? yr. not getting any younger. Marie

  Perfect Partners, Inc. had done its job. Finally. At least, they’d introduced JoAnne to one Peter Leonard. I was curious to hear more.

  JoAnne and I went shopping at Filene’s.

  “So, what’s going on with this Leonard fellow?” I asked.

  “I really like him,” JoAnne said simply.

  “That’s great.” Unless he’s a shit, I added silently. Was the new JoAnne as perceptive as the old?

  Doubtful, Reason said. Once you let your heart have a say, perception and discrimination get all screwed up.

  Romance cried, That’s not fair!

  Reason chuckled slyly.

  “He’s just, I don’t know.”

  Point proven, Reason crowed.

  “What does he do for a living?” I asked, as we stepped down into the Basement.

  “Oh, he’s something or other at Fidelity. Something with money. He says he loves his job.”

  “That’s—good. And? What else?”

  “Well, he’s very good-looking, in a kind of Robert Redford way. A young Robert Redford.”

  “I thought you didn’t go for blondes,” I teased.

  “That was back when I was superficial. When I was dating just to get laid. It’s different when you date for a relationship. The specifics like hair color don’t matter anymore. As much.”

  The guru had spoken. I wonder if they’d sold her that line at Perfect Partners, Inc.

  “So, how many times have you seen him?” I asked.

  “We had dinner twice and we went to the movies last Sunday afternoon.” JoAnne smiled like she had a juicy secret. Then: “We shared a popcorn.”

  I hesitated. The precancer scare JoAnne probably would have been implying something sexual by “shared a popcorn.” But the postcancer scare JoAnne—I just didn’t know.

  “A jumbo size.”

  Okay.

  “Er, do you mean you—uh, had sex?”

  JoAnne looked up from the blouse she was regarding and frowned.

  “No. I mean we shared a jumbo size popcorn. Really, Erin, sometimes your mind is in the sewer.”

  Better than it being in the clouds, I replied silently.

  “Perfect Partners suggests you date at least four times before doing anything sexual. Holding off a bit has been proven to be good for a budding relationship.”

  Uh huh. This was JoAnne Chiofalo talking?

  “Well, I hope it works out for you,” I said.

  JoAnne smiled. “Me, too. Hey, look at this cute sweater! And it’s only $11.99.”

  Since when do you use the word “cute,” I wanted to ask, but I kept my mouth shut.

  One late afternoon in mid-October, I called my father for brief instructions on how to fix a constantly flushing toilet.

  He rattled off something about jiggling this and poking that. Something was up. Dad’s instructions were usually quite clear and precise.

  “Are you okay?” I said. “You sound distracted.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Just busy. So, anything else new?”

  “Uh, no,” I said, a whir of tension beginning in my gut.

  “Okay. I really have to go, Erin. I’m sorry. Enjoy the weekend.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Dad. You, too.”

  I hung up and felt the room spin.

  Dad knew. The truth hit me hard. My father knew that I was having an affair with a married man.

  How I leapt to this conclusion from our brief, nonspecific—nay, innocent—conversation is indicative of my emotional state at that time. My emotional state was not good.

  Within minutes I was sunk in a pit of paranoia.

  I felt exposed. I felt naked and shivery in a completely negative way.

  How could I ever face my father again? Now he’d have to live with the ugly fact of both his wife—former wife—and his daughter being in some ways adulterers, home wreckers, heartbreakers.

  I jumped up from the couch and began to pace. Fuzzer turned his back to me.

  And how could my best friend have betrayed my confidence, I raged silently. But I knew exactly how. The vault didn’t lock properly when it came to women, their men, and secrets about the women’s friends. I myself had told an asshole or two something I shouldn’t have about a female friend’s woes. Why? Had I thought that revealing JoAnne’s yeast infection or Maggie’s financial troubles would bring intimacy to the relationship? Stupid. Especially when my friends had asked me not to repeat their secrets to anyone, particularly the Sideshow Bobs and Fat Bastards we’d all dated, however briefly.

  Still, I wanted to know. I wanted to hear from Abby herself what had happened. I dialed Abby’s number.

  “Hi. It’s Erin. Are you alone?”

  She said she was.

  “Abby?” My voice shook, I could hear it. “Will you answer me honestly?”

  “Of course, Erin.”

  “Did you tell my father about me and Doug?”

  “No! You told me not to. You told me you didn’t want him to worry about you. Remember, Erin?”

  “So—he doesn’t know?”

  “Well, he never said anything to me about knowing. And if he does know, he didn’t hear it from me. Erin, why are you asking me this? It’s insulting. You know I don’t break my promises.”

  My relief was enormous. At least Abby was a good person, even if I wasn’t.

  “I’m sorry, Abby, I’m sorry. It’s just ... Oh God, I can’t even explain. I thought ... I’m sorry. I’m being paranoid. Sometimes this whole thing is just so hard.”

  “Erin? Will you answer me honestly?”

  I laugh
ed. Bitterly. “I’ll try. I haven’t been on great terms with honesty lately.”

  “Are you happy?”

  “What’s happy?” Maybe I could joke my way out of this disastrous conversation.

  “Happy is happy, don’t be a jerk,” Abby snapped. “Just answer the question.”

  In all my years of friendship with Abby, I’d never heard her really angry. I felt chastened. Even my friends were becoming disappointed in me. If I were no longer someone my friends respected, who was I? What was I?

  But if I answered honestly it would mean I had to do something I didn’t think I had the strength—or the desire—to do. Yet. And if I lied ...

  “No,” I said. “I’m not happy.”

  But I was about to be.

  Chapter Fifty

  It had been a busy morning. Clients needed hand-holding, Heather, the receptionist, was out sick, and Hank needed help on a brochure he was writing. By noon, I was whacked. When the phone rang I cursed. Sure to be another problem, I thought.

  “Erin Weston.”

  “What are you doing this weekend?”

  I relaxed. Doug.

  “I don’t know. The usual. Why?”

  “How would you like to run away to Vermont with me?”

  “Don’t tease me, Doug.”

  “I’m not teasing. We’d leave Friday after work and drive home late Sunday afternoon. I found a quiet, very private little B & B on the net and—well, I made a reservation so you have to say yes.”

  I was too stunned to speak.

  “Erin?”

  “Oh, God, of course I’ll go! How ...”

  “Good. Look, I have a meeting. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Okay,” I said. “Bye.”

  I hung up the phone and sat there grinning like the Cheshire cat. A very happy Cheshire cat. A Cheshire cat with a big fat belly full of cream.

  It was unbelievable. Honestly, I don’t remember ever having been so excited. The prospect of spending a weekend with Doug—Friday evening through late Sunday afternoon—was stunning. I never learned how he’d managed to arrange it at home. I assumed he’d told Carol he was going somewhere on business, but when I asked him later, he smiled and said nothing.

  It didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was happening. Or would happen if disaster didn’t strike, if Tyler or Courtney didn’t get sick, if I didn’t have to run off to a funeral in an Unnamed South American Country, if ... if Doug didn’t change his mind and decide the risk was too great.

  That way lies madness, Romance said, voice a-flutter. Just think happy thoughts!

  I did, or tried to. That evening I packed and it only took three hours to choose the perfect Vermont autumn weekend ensembles, including, of course, a pair of suede pants for day and a slim-fitting wool crepe dress, just in case. I still hadn’t told anyone about the trip—something about jinxing it all. But by the next morning I had to tell someone or burst. I called Abby from the office. She was suitably excited and promised to feed Fuzzer and get my mail. I left a purposefully nonchalant voice mail at JoAnne’s office and a more honestly emotional message on Maggie’s home machine.

  It occurred to me then that in the course of casual conversation my father might ask Abby if I had plans for the weekend. What would she say? For the obvious reasons I’d asked all my friends not to tell my father I was involved with a married man. And then I’d panicked and accused Abby of breaking her promise of secrecy. But she hadn’t broken her promise, and so far, the secret had held. When Dad had asked me if I was dating anyone new or special, I’d lied and said no.

  But with my going away for the weekend with Doug ... I quickly called Abby again at the BSO. I didn’t want to bother her so much at work but if I left a message on her home machine I ran the risk of Dad’s overhearing the message. Ditto, home e-mail. Who knew how much John and Abby shared?

  Covering your butt has become second nature to you, Erin, Reason drawled. How nice.

  Reason could be awfully judgmental at times.

  Abby picked up on the second ring.

  “Abby? It’s me again. I ... I, uh, have a situation.”

  Long story short: While Abby claimed she didn’t have a big problem keeping my relationship with Doug a secret from my father, she did have a smallish problem keeping my weekend whereabouts a secret. Something about an active lie versus a lie of omission.

  And, of course, it probably didn’t help that I’d recently accused her of breaking her word.

  “What if there’s an emergency?” she asked. “What if John needs to get in touch with you? I’ll have to tell him I knew all along where you were and then I’ll look like a horrible person. Lying destroys a relationship, Erin.”

  She had a point. In the end I apologized for having asked her to lie for me. It was agreed that if Dad asked if Abby knew what I was doing for the weekend she would be as honest as she felt comfortable being at the moment. It was all I could rightly ask of her. Now I just had to pray that Dad was so smitten with Abby that all thoughts of me fled from his head the moment he saw her.

  Strange what we wind up wishing for, isn’t it?

  Friday morning dawned cold, bright, and clear—classic mid-October weather, with a promise of a very chilly night.

  I got through the workday with only half my usual focus. That bothered me for about a minute, then guilt went out the window. I was going away for the weekend with the man I adored.

  Adoration was not too strong a word to describe my feelings for Doug Spears.

  In spite of our troubles and my increasingly angry response to the Situation, I wanted to be with Doug and no other man.

  Inexplicable, Reason muttered.

  Yes, true love is an enigma, Romance replied.

  I saw the weekend in Vermont as a turn for the better, as a gesture from Doug toward a happier future—and a more secure one. I didn’t even consider the possibility that it might be a last hurrah. For the moment, unbelievably, Negativity was dormant.

  We’d met at the parking garage under the Prudential Center and as far as either of us could tell, no friend or colleague had seen us. Doug was driving the 2000 Lexus I’d seen before, his usual commuting car. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask why he hadn’t arranged to borrow a company car since he’d probably told Carol he was going away on business, when the absurdity of that question stopped me cold. Lies upon deceit upon secrecy.

  I tried to pull my thoughts back to the moment. Thus far, everything had gone smoothly. Too smoothly? Maybe Doug and I were just tempting fate by escaping this way... .

  Stop it, Erin, I commanded my unruly brain. Just enjoy this time alone while you can.

  Yes, Erin, Romance advised, savor every single moment. “Happy?” Doug asked, lowering the volume on the blues station.

  “Yes,” I said.

  This was only the second time Doug and I had been in a car together—other than a cab, of course—something so mundane, exactly the kind of activity we were largely denied by our status as illicit lovers. It struck me that there was romance in everything, if you chose to see it.

  Doug’s hand on the wheel and stick shift, his foot depressing the gas pedal and brake, his slight squint of concentration—every normal action and gesture had enormous allure. Doug was the sexiest man on Earth.

  While we drove I indulged in fantasies of domestic bliss.

  I was Doug’s wife, sitting in my proper place at my husband’s side. I was Mrs. Erin Spears, choosing a china pattern, selecting fabric for the living room’s custom-made draperies, being a gracious hostess to Doug’s colleagues. I was a loving companion, caring for Doug when he had the flu, checking in on his parents weekly, supporting his decision to leave his job and open his own firm again. I was ...

  Enough with the fantasizing, Erin, Romance counseled. Come back to the present and experience each and every moment.

  Romance was right. The life that had been playing through my head wasn’t real, it wasn’t truth. Reality was Doug and me, alone together,
driving toward a lovely weekend in Vermont. Truth was that we were in love.

  I told myself that it was all I knew and all I needed to know.

  As we got closer to our destination, my thoughts focused on the idea of actually sleeping with Doug—eyes closed, breathing slow and even ... It was something I’d never hoped for and now, facing the actuality, I was thrumming with anticipation.

  Was he a spooner? Did he sleep like a mummy, all tight and straight? Did he—God forbid—snore? It didn’t matter. There was so much to learn and that prospect was exciting.

  True intimacy was what I was seeking, after all.

  Sleeping with someone new—spending the night, I should say—had always been uncomfortable for me. It usually took several weeks before I could manage some serious shut-eye, especially if we were at his apartment. Those were lonely nights, staring at the ceiling, counting cracks, cringing at night noises no woman certainly would want a guy to hear. At least in my apartment I had Fuzzer to keep me company. At least in my apartment I didn’t feel—creepy.

  Somehow, I knew things would be different with Doug. I knew that I would sleep comfortably and soundly. I knew that I would be safe.

  Doug parked in the leaf-strewn yard before the B & B. It was a classic Vermont-style house, a bed and breakfast right out of an issue of Martha Stewart Living, two stories tall, white with black shutters, two chimneys promising fireplaces. On the front door hung a large wreath made of some sort of bramble, decorated with pine boughs and little red apples. In each of the windows stood a small electric candle, burning brightly in the chill dark night.

  A small desk was set in the foyer. Behind it sat a robust woman of about sixty.

  “Oh, yes, you must be Mr. and Mrs. Spears,” she said, then introduced herself as half of the owning partners. Mrs. Nelson’s wedding ring sat tight on her finger, clearly unremoved for ages, solid and permanent.

  My own ring finger felt horribly naked.

  “Yes, that’s us,” Doug said smoothly and signed his name to the register.