“Oh, it’s far too early to tell. She might have no romantic interest in me at all. But if she does, Marilyn and I stand a better chance of making a relationship work for the long haul. She’s in her late forties or early fifties, I’d say. She’s been married and has a son who’s now in college. Our experiences are at least similar. We’re compatible, Erin, or we could be. Truly compatible. And that’s what most of marriage comes down to. Compatibilty. Being comfortable just sitting in the same room together. It’s something I never really felt with Abby.”
“Why did you go out with her, then?” I challenged.
Dad laughed. “Well, for one, she liked me. Do you know how flattering it was to find a thirty-two-year-old woman interested in me, especially after my wife had left me so unceremoniously? And, as I said before, Abby’s charming and pretty and ... Well, she gave my ego a much-needed boost. She helped bring me alive again. And I’ll forever be thankful to her for that.”
“You know you’re going to break her heart. You do know that.”
“I know. But it won’t be broken for long.”
“How do you know about Abby’s heart? How do you know anything about her?” I said angrily.
Dad replied calmly. “Mark my words, Erin, before long Abby will see that we weren’t meant to be. Abby told me she always wanted a family of her own. Suddenly, she’s willing to give up that important life goal for me? No. Abby deserves to have that family. She’ll make a fine mother and I can’t deprive her of that experience.”
“Isn’t it her choice to make, whether or not she wants to have kids?” I asked stubbornly.
“Believe me,” he said almost sternly, “if Abby and I married she’d come to resent me. I’ve seen a similar thing happen with one of my colleagues. He grabbed at the chance to be married to a beautiful, much younger woman, without regard for his own emotional needs—or hers—and it’s a disaster. He’s getting a divorce and he’s a mess over it. Erin, nothing’s for certain, but with a decision as important as choosing a life partner, you have to read the signs. You have to try to be smart. I have to try to be smart for me and for Abby. What I want is a companion and a wife. What Abby wants right now is a father. She’ll get over that, but not if I stick around.”
Well, what could I say to all that?
Who was I to tell my father he was making a huge mistake, dumping Abby? First, deep down, beneath the shock, I didn’t really believe his leaving her was a mistake. And I was proud of him for being a real gentleman. Second, I wasn’t exactly batting a thousand in the romance department, was I? Sex, sure. Commitment, zero.
“Do you want another glass of wine?” Dad’s voice was gentle. “I’ve also got some cheese and crackers I could put out.”
I nodded. “Okay. Thanks,” I said and to my own ears my voice sounded like that of a little girl who’d just been scolded for naughtiness.
Dad stood and headed for the kitchen.
Well, I thought, leaning back into the chair, it looked like I wasn’t the only one not getting a piece of important jewelry any time soon.
E—thinking of sending card to yr father, just to say hi. gets lonely sometimes. how’s it going with him and that woman? M.
The end came a few days later. Abby called me on her cell phone, sobbing. She said she had just left work. I told her to go home immediately. I told her I’d be right there.
I knew what had happened, though Abby hadn’t made much sense through her tears.
When I arrived, Abby’s apartment door was ajar. I entered cautiously.
“Abby?”
She was curled up on the couch, a box of tissues at her side. Her hair was wild, as if she’d flung herself onto the couch and rolled in grief. Her face was red and puffy.
“Your door was open,” I said softly. “You have to be more careful.”
“I don’t care.”
“What happened?” Suddenly, I felt terribly creepy, pretending to be all innocent. Why hadn’t I warned her? I sat next to her on the couch.
“John broke up with me at lunch today,” she said, and the words brought more tears.
“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.”
And Dad, I thought, how did you expect her to get through the afternoon at work after dumping her at lunch! Not very considerate.
“It’s all your fault, Erin!” Abby blurted. “You told your father to break up with me! How could you! You know how I feel about him!”
Why had I come, if only to be attacked? I’d come because my best friend had been dumped by a guy she was in love with. Duty called.
I put my hand on her shoulder. “Abby, I swear, I had nothing to do with it!”
“You never wanted us to be together ...”
“In the beginning, yes, but, Abby, I was fine with it after a while, you know that. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry ... I’m so angry at him ...”
Which was true and not true.
“Oh, what am I going to do, Erin?”
“You’re going to feel awful for a while,” I said. “And then you’re going to be fine, Abby. I promise.”
“At least you don’t break your promises to me.”
“Did John?” I asked, wanting very much to hear her side of the story.
Abby lowered her eyes. “No,” she said in a soft, low voice. “It’s just ... just that it hurts ... Oh, Erin I love him ... I thought he was my soul mate.”
And that was the end of the talking that night. A box of tissues and a half gallon of chocolate fudge ice cream later, Abby fell asleep on the couch and I went home, locking the door behind me.
It had been a long night.
Chapter Fifty-nine
Thanksgiving. Thursday, November 24. It was not a memorable day. And because of its very lack of memorability, I’ll never forget it.
I spent the day with my father at his apartment. We watched part of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade—in silence. When Santa came gliding along in his magnificent sleigh, a few tears slipped down my cheeks. Dad was tactful enough not to comment.
Neither of us was much in the mood for cooking so we’d ordered a fairly traditional meal from Savenors. At three o’clock we heated up the turkey roulade, and made Bloody Marys. Food and then a buttery Chardonnay eased some of the tension and softened some of the sadness and we talked. But by five o’clock we’d run out of small chat and I packed up my share of the leftovers—including some for Fuzzer—and went home. Dad and Marilyn were getting together briefly that evening, if she got home from her parents’ assisted living center at a reasonable hour. I was going to bed.
Of course, the first thing I did when I got home was check my answering machine. No messages.
You hadn’t really expected Doug to call on Thanksgiving, had you? Reason asked. Come on, Erin. It’s more of a family day than Christmas.
Maybe that was the reason Abby hadn’t called, either, I thought gloomily. She’d gone home to the Walkers in Lincoln—her true family, not the Westons, who’d betrayed her. Romance in its tragic mode was just dying to take hold and I didn’t have the energy to put up a good fight.
Yes, you do, Reason said. Snap out of it, Erin.
Reason was right. Here I was moping around while Maggie and Jan were devoting their Thanksgiving to helping the guests at the WLP have a wonderful meal. They’d been baking at home for days and had signed on as volunteers for both the breakfast and lunch shifts... . Why hadn’t I offered my time or other support, I wondered. True, neither had outright asked but I could have volunteered. There and then I made a decision to ask Maggie how I could get involved at Christmastime. Wasn’t it always said that the best way to forget about your own problems was to do something about the problems of others? And what were my problems compared to hunger, poverty, and homelessness?
Even JoAnne had spent her time more usefully than I had that Thanksgiving. She’d flown to California to spend the holiday weekend with her brother and his fiancée. She hadn’t seen Robert in almost ten years, but true to her word about making some serious life changes, she’d p
icked up the phone and tracked down her only living relative. I hoped she was having a good time. I hoped she wasn’t storming her way back to Boston, convinced she’d made a huge mistake in caring.
E—won’t contact yr father if you think it bad idea. glad all’s well with his relationship. really. oh—happy turkey day. must be off—have a rendezvous. Mom
Turns out my worry was for naught. JoAnne got back from LA the Sunday after Thanksgiving. We met briefly for a drink at Brasserie Jo. Much like an authentic French bistro, the bar offered free hard-boiled eggs and olives for nibbling. I was a particular fan of the eggs. None of my friends seemed to understand or share my passion.
“How was the trip?” I asked when we’d taken two stools at the bar and ordered. A glass of Macon-Lugny for me; a Cosmopolitan for JoAnne.
“Let me put it this way, honey. LA is not my kind of town.”
“Did you think it would be?”
“Not really. It was more like my suspicions were confirmed.”
“So, how was it spending time with Robert?”
JoAnne considered. “Interesting. He calls himself Bobby now, by the way. My mother refused to use nicknames for us so I guess this is his way of rebelling, of distancing himself from his past.”
“Yeah, changing his name and moving to the opposite coast. Pass me an egg?”
She did, with a grimace. “And becoming engaged to a woman born and raised in Israel. On a kibbutz, no less.”
“You’re kidding. Pass me the salt.”
She did, with raised eyebrows. “Oh, no, I’m not. Bobby’s converting for her. My brother the Jew. It’s a good thing my parents didn’t live to see this day.”
“Is she nice, his fiancée?”
“Oh, Rachel’s lovely. Probably the best thing that ever happened to my brother.”
“So, you’ll see them again?”
JoAnne sipped thoughtfully. “Someday. Not soon and not often, I imagine.”
“But you don’t regret the visit?” I said, hopefully.
“Not at all. Robert—excuse me, Bobby—and I will never be superclose, but at least now the ice is broken. I’ll be invited to the wedding and I’ll go. You know.”
I did, kind of, know.
“Sometimes I still wish I had a brother or sister,” I said.
JoAnne grinned. “You have me, honey. Isn’t that enough?”
Actually, yeah. It was.
“To us,” I said, raising my glass.
“To us. And to the East Coast!”
“Care for an egg?” I asked.
“Who are you, Cool Hand Luke? No, thanks. But I will take another Cosmopolitan. And ask you a question. How’s it going with Doug?”
“You don’t have to ask,” I said. “I know you don’t like my seeing him.”
“I asked because I want to know. I might not like the guy but I do like you.”
I laughed feebly. Truth was, I’d been wanting to talk to someone about what was happening—or not happening—between Doug and me. But I hadn’t wanted to burden Abby with my pain; she had enough of her own to contend with. And Maggie’s current state of bliss shouldn’t, I believed, be marred by my personal misery. Of course, Dad was out. And Damion wanted only to say, “Leave the asshole now.”
That left JoAnne, next to Damion, the friend who felt most strongly that I was ruining my life by seeing Doug Spears.
Better than no one, Reason said. Besides, she was right there.
“Well,” I said, accepting my second glass of wine from the bartender as JoAnne took her Cosmopolitan, “the truth is, things haven’t been so good lately.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah.”
I explained that Doug’s reaction to my refusing the job offer at Trident had been less than supportive.
“Are you happy with your decision?” she asked.
“Absolutely.”
“So, that’s what’s important. He’s just being a man, all pissy because he didn’t get his way. Because his little sex slave won’t be at his beck and call, just down the hallway.”
“You’re harsh, you know that?” I said, but a similar, uncomfortable thought had occurred to me.
“Sorry.”
I shrugged. “It’s okay. Anyway, it hasn’t been getting better. In fact, the more time passes, the more—I don’t know—the more distant Doug becomes. It’s like I’ve disappointed him or something. Or like ...”
Banish the thought... .
“What?” JoAnne urged. “It’s like what?”
“Like ... like he’s tired of me now.”
JoAnne frowned.
“The sex is suffering.”
“Oh, yeah,” I admitted. “I hardly see him anymore, you know, for—personal stuff. And ... When we do get together, it’s ...”
“Not as exciting as it used to be?”
I rubbed my temples. How had it come to this? How had the intensity of our erotic relationship suddenly become so ...
“It’s not the same. It’s just—sex. It’s not as intense.”
It almost feels—boring, I added silently.
“That’s got to be tough,” JoAnne said and the note of sympathy in her voice was real. “After all, I’ve said it before, you two are pretty much all about sex.”
In the past, I’d angrily rejected JoAnne’s assessment of my relationship with Doug. Now, I was beginning to think that all along she’d seen my life much more clearly than I had.
What were Doug and I without wild, clandestine, sinful sex? Were we even friends? Had we ever been more than two randy adults with a little time on their hands to indulge in our guilty pleasures?
“Erin?”
I startled.
“Oh, sorry,” I said. “I was just thinking.”
JoAnne looked at me closely.
“Let’s change the topic, okay?”
I smiled wanly.
“Okay.”
Chapter Sixty
December, Boston
December in Boston can be magical. The month dawned very cold and bright; snow held off until just days before Christmas. And as much as I fear falling on ice, I do love to see snow for Christmas.
But back to the start of that month.
Attending an industry function, especially a fancy-dress ball, was not my favorite way to pass the time. But a few times a year it was important that I attend—important for my career to be seen and to see, to talk and to compare notes. In the past, I’d certainly never dreaded a function. At the very least there was usually shrimp and champagne on ice.
Now, facing the Society for Marketing Arts and Sciences annual Christmas ball, I was a wreck. Doug would be there, he had to be. And with him, his wife. No one came alone to the ball. I had asked Damion to be my escort and he’d agreed. No one would mistake us for a romantic couple, but that hardly mattered. People had been known to drag a brother or sister along for the night.
The event was on Saturday night. On Thursday morning, Doug called at the office, ostensibly on a matter of business, though since my refusing the job at Trident, he’d ceased to ask for my advice on client matters. What he really wanted to talk about was the SMAS ball. He wanted me not to go.
After a quick greeting, Doug got right to the point.
“The ball is this Saturday.”
“I know. I’m bringing Damion. My friend.”
“I’ll be bringing Carol.”
“So I figured.”
“It will be awkward.”
For whom, I wondered. For you? For me? For Carol? Who did Doug care about in this situation?
“Uh, huh,” I agreed eloquently.
“It’s probably not as important for you to be there as it would have been if you’d taken the position at Trident,” he said.
Ah ha. So it wasn’t me Doug was concerned about at all. I was insulted—and angry.
“So, you don’t want me to be there?”
Doug laughed derisively. “Why in God’s name would I want you to be there? I want you to stay home, far,
far away. But I know you won’t.”
“I can’t,” I answered. “It’s an important event. I need to be seen there. EastWind Communications needs my representation. I’m not going to hurt you or to cause a scene. You must know that.”
“Erin, I don’t know anything about you, anymore. Not after you strung me along with the Trident job and then rejected me.”
“It,” I snapped. “I rejected a job, not you.” But inside I knew that to Doug, my refusal to take the job had meant my refusal to bring myself further under his control. Yes, in a way I had rejected Doug by turning down Trident’s offer.
“Whatever. The point is, I can’t read you anymore. Maybe I never could. I thought you were someone I could trust.”
I gasped. “I don’t believe this!” I cried. “I never lied to you, not once. I never said I would take the job. I only said I would consider it.”
“That’s how you see it,” Doug said coldly.
“Are you breaking up with me?” I said finally, ears buzzing, fingers tight on the receiver. Wishing he would say yes. Wishing he would say no.
There was a moment of silence. Two moments. Then: “Of course not. You’re always so overdramatic, Erin. I’ll see you at the Park Plaza.”
And he was gone.
For obvious reasons, my heart was not into preparing for the big event. Still, I had a reputation to sustain for looking perfectly put-together and at the same time stand out—a difficult balance to achieve. Where heart failed, instinct and training stepped into the breech.
First step: Go shopping. Any woman who cares at all about clothes will tell you that an event of any sort requires something new. The same long, silk, taupe skirt can appear twice in one season when worn first with a fitted, black suede jacket with mandarin collar, and second, with a brown satin, ruffled, to-the-waist jacket. Shoes, bag, jewelry, and hairstyle change appropriately, of course.
As depressed as I felt, the act of shopping—of being in the Copley Mall amidst early holiday shoppers—finally lifted my spirits. It’s the energy of shopping I love, the sense of abandon, and the sense of hope that with a perfect new velvet jacket will come the perfect new life. New York City may be the ultimate shopper’s paradise, but trust me: Retail therapy is alive and well in Boston.
Living Single Page 30