by Mae Wood
“Grady’s being a dick? That’s not like him. A little standoffish sometimes, but that’s like teenager normal. He’s never been awful.”
“He’s beyond awful.”
“What happened?”
I covered my face with both my hands, closed my eyes, and confessed my non-sin. “I spent the night at Thomas’s place last week and Grady was supposed to be at his dad’s, but apparently he changed his mind because when I came home he was there and he called me a slut and I slapped him and we’re in a huge fight and Bert found out—” My sobs drown out my ability to form any more word.
“Oh, sweetie,” Diana said, her arms wrapping around me until my breathing got under control.
“Better?” she asked releasing me and perching on the top of her desk. I nodded and blew my nose with a tissue she offered. “How was the cannoli?”
I couldn’t fight the smile on my face and a rough laugh burst from me. “All of that, and you want to know about the cannoli?”
“Hell, yes, I do. The rest is easy to deal with. One, it’s not Bert’s business. Two, if one of my kids said that to me, things wouldn’t be pretty either. Three, you had the cannoli and I’m just so happy for you.”
“Cannoli was good. Really good,” I answered, looking down at the tissue in my hand and biting back the smile. The cannoli had been that good.
“Nuh, uh,” she tutted. “I wasn’t finished. Four, you saw him again? That’s the fourth time in less than a week?”
“Five,” I said, holding up my right hand and twiddling all of my fingers.
“Excuse me while I jump up and down a bit.” And I couldn’t fight off the smile and laughter from seeing the very sophisticated and collected Dr. Diana Mordasini bouncing around her office in a white lab coat, bright pink dress, and four inch heels.
“Stop, stop,” I begged her, as she began clapping. “Really, it’s not that big of a deal.”
“Oh, I beg to differ. It’s a huge deal. You’ve been one and done forever. And I totally get credit for setting y’all up.” The bouncing stopped, her eyes got wide. “O-M-G! You’re going to get married!”
“Whoa, whoa.” I jumped up from my chair, index finger pointed at her. “You can stop right there. That isn’t happening. Cannoli yes, but we’re not getting married.”
“You say that like you’re so sure, but no man sees a woman five times in a week unless he’s that into her.”
“I am sure,” I said, taking a serious tone. “He told me that he’s not getting married again.”
“Wait,” she said, her radiant smile fading. “He told you that he’s not getting married again and you’re still seeing him?”
“Yes, he told me that and why would that be a deal breaker? I’m not going to marry again. Objectively, I had a pretty good thing going in my marriage and it didn’t work.”
“Objectively? Really, Amy?” Her voice rising with every word. “Objectively?”
“Yeah, I’m mean, you know Bert. He’s a good guy. Handsome, well educated, good dad, not a cheater, has money. There isn’t a box he doesn’t tick.”
“Yours! Oh my God, Amy!” she yelled, turning her head to the ceiling in frustration. Returning her eyes to me, she continued in a forceful tone. “He didn’t tick your box. And that’s the only box that matters. There isn’t anything objective about love. It’s entirely subjective. There isn’t any explaining it. It’s not rational. It’s irrational.”
“But—”
Diana held up a hand and cut off my protest. “And five dates in a week with lots of cannoli tells me that it isn’t rational for either of you. And that makes me so happy.”
When her latest round of clapping and bouncing stopped, I began. “May I speak now?”
“Sure, but I’m going to call you on your bullshit.”
“Fine, but I’m not bullshitting you. I’m not getting married again.”
“I need you to do one little thing—don’t make rules about what you’re going to do or not going to do. Can you just enjoy whatever you’ve got going on with Thomas? Because clearly you really like the guy and, get this—no matter how much your crazy friend-slash-business partner wants you to have a wedding so she has an excuse to buy her kids fancy outfits and have some incredible pictures taken of them—you deserve to be happy.”
I looked away from her and toward the window, wanting the conversation to end. Because I was happy. But the bit she implied? The bit about me needing a man to be happy? That I wasn’t sure of.
“Grady still going camping the week after the Fourth of July?” Thomas asked as the 1960s Oceans Eleven’s opening credits danced on the TV screen in my den on Friday night.
“Yeah, he’ll be in Arkansas for the week,” I said as I poured little dishes of soy sauce and scooped wasabi into them. Something that made Bert cringe, made Thomas happy. No, it wasn’t authentic to make a slurry of soy sauce and wasabi, but it tasted good and Thomas was more than fine with my grocery store sushi.
“Good. I’ve got New Orleans booked,” he said, popping a piece of a California roll into his mouth.
“You were serious about New Orleans?” I asked, my chopsticks paused over the Pink Dragon roll.
“Yeah,” he said after he swallowed. “I mean, we talked about it. I marked it off on my calendar and it’s all set up except for flights because I don’t know what name is on your ID.”
I hadn’t been to New Orleans in ages, and a weekend away with Thomas sounded good. I didn’t hesitate in answering. “Amy Graden Forsythe. Nothing tricky about it.” I popped a piece of sushi into my mouth.
“Good. I’ll get that booked tomorrow. And while I’m doing that, do you have plans for the Fourth?”
“I thought you were going to Chicago to hang out with your kids.”
“I am. And I’d like you to come,” he said waving his chopsticks around before settling on a piece and throwing a big smile my way.
“Really?” I asked, picking up my glass of wine. Me going out on a little weekend away with him was about a million steps below introducing me to his kids.
“Yeah. It’ll be good,” he said. “Last year we met up in Denver. This year it’s Chicago. Basically, it’s wherever I can get my kids to agree to fly to for a long weekend. And the promise of good food and a nice hotel.”
“You don’t think it’s too soon?” I asked, setting my worry out there. I put my wine glass down and began twisting my hair into a braid, needing to busy my hands in order to calm my mind.
“No, it’s not.” Another charming smile, lighting up his entire face.
I cocked my head and crossed my arms across my chest, challenging him without words to think about what he was saying. “We’ve known each other less than a month.”
“That’s not a reason,” he said pointedly. “And I’ve met Grady.”
“And we shouldn’t fight about this because I’ll be in Connecticut for the Fourth anyway. Going to see family,” I said, leaving out that I was going up to see my dad like I always did on the Fourth and dragging Grady with me, even to my mom’s grave. I reclaimed my wine glass and took a sip. “But New Orleans sounds great. I love that city. I haven’t been there in years. And,” I said, exhaling. “My birthday is that weekend.”
“Excellent. We’ll make it extra special. Want more?” he said, holding up the bottle of wine towards my glass.
Extending my hand, I answered his question with a nod and I let him pour me a second glass. “New Orleans is special enough. It’s just I don’t want it to come up somehow and you feel badly that you didn’t know. I only know when yours is because when I looked at your chart, I noticed your birthday is two months before mine. May eleventh and July eleventh.”
“I’m glad you told me.” His hand landed on my knee with a firm squeeze. “Because we are going to make it extra special. Thirty-nine only happens once. I’ve already got us a table at Dooky Chase’s for the Friday night dinner, but if you’re not really into authentic Creole, we can change that up. Arnaud’s for the next
night. The B and B has breakfasts, and we can forage around the city for lunch and drinks. Sound like a plan?”
“That sounds really great,” I said honestly, enjoying his happy smile at my answer. A smile that crinkled around his blue eyes. “Hot that time of year, but really great.”
“Good,” he said, giving my knee a strong single pat. “Now let’s eat this literal boatload of sushi and watch the Rat Pack try to steal some cash.”
26
Thomas
The headhunter had set up the conference call for Monday, and I told Ava I was going to run some errands and then work remotely, but instead I went straight home in order to take the call with Chester.
While I waited for the call, I puttered around my kitchen, boiling water and dropping tea bags into a tall glass pitcher. Laurie used to make me sun tea. She’d put a pitcher filled with fresh cool water and tea bags on the glass table in our backyard in the morning and by the time I was ready to take a break from my gardening, it would be ready for me to enjoy. I wondered if Amy knew how to make sun tea, but then I caught myself. Because that wasn’t fair. She wasn’t Laurie. And I’d told her as much the other day and it clearly had been weighing on her. I liked that she wasn’t Laurie. There was only one Laurie. A man can only get that lucky once in his life.
Caught up in my thoughts, I nearly missed the call I was waiting for, but I answered it just before it went to voicemail. “Thomas Popov,” I said, pushing everything else out of my head. I wanted to land this gig and I’d have to bring my A game.
The call went well, and I rolled my shoulders and shook the tension from my arms. No big surprises. Just a get-to-know-you chat, and while I’d say that Chester wouldn’t be my first choice in a dinner companion, he didn’t seem awful. But I couldn’t get a firm feel for him or how we’d get along. No matter how tempting the position was, I wasn’t going to spend my time working for a jackass.
A flick of my wrist and I realized that I’d talked with him longer than I expected. I hustled out the door, snagging my gym bag and yoga mat. I needed to find my balance.
27
Amy
“She tell you she has a boyfriend?” Grady asked, hefting his weekend bag onto his shoulder.
“Oh, a gentleman caller?” teased my dad, winking as he gave me another hug in baggage claim.
“He’s just a friend,” I said, trying to downplay whatever was going on between me and Thomas. As far as Pop knew, there’d been Bert and a few high school boyfriends. I hadn’t breathed a word of me going on any date to him ever. In fact, the first time he met Bert in person was the Thanksgiving before Grady was born, when Bert’s position in my life was fixed.
“A friend she stays with,” muttered Grady.
“Grady!” I screeched.
“Going with suitor, then,” said my dad, picking up my duffle and slinging it over his shoulder. “Let’s head on. The picnic starts in a couple of hours and we’re not missing it.”
I climbed in the back of my dad’s Lexus, ceding Grady the front because he needed the legroom. After we dropped our bags at the condo my dad had downsized into a few years ago, we headed to the yacht club.
‘Yacht club’ stirs up images of bow-tied waitstaff and sprawling lawns leading from an impressive clubhouse to the water, but that wasn’t the club we belonged to. In true New England fashion, the clubhouse was clapboard and, above all, functional. It’s hard to put on airs with a drop tile ceiling in the restaurant and wood paneling in the bar. This was for sailors. And my dad was one of them. People often wrongly assumed that Grady got his love of the water from his super-star swimmer dad, but that wasn’t true. It was his Graden family genetics at work.
“We taking her out today?” I called from the backseat, hoping the answer would be yes. Floss was my dad’s second child. He mooned over her and, when he sold the house, he moved closer to her, not to me. At first that stung a little, but there wasn’t any big water to be had near Memphis. He and I would cross that bridge again when the time came even though he was nudging me toward moving back with every phone call.
“Planning on it after the picnic, if you guys are up for it.”
“You know it, Pop,” I answered. “I didn’t come all this way to stay on shore and just look at boats.”
We pulled up at the club and shuffled in, laden down with a picnic basket and blankets and a cooler full of drinks. The club grilled hotdogs but the rest was potluck by tradition.
That’s how I’d learned to make my mom’s strawberry rhubarb pie. Dad and I didn’t want to go to the picnic that year, but Mom had insisted. She’d also insisted that I make a pie and bring it. It was runny when her best friend cut into it. But Mrs. Lennick cooed over it, saying I’d done well and she’d tell my mom and if I could make this pie at fourteen then I had a gift. Mom passed away two days after the picnic. I’m not sure if Mrs. Lennick ever told her about my pie, but I’d kept baking them every year. The only time I stepped into the kitchen to really cook was to bake pies at the Fourth and for Thanksgiving. My ex had tried to convince me to make real pie crust, but Mom used Pillsbury and so did I. With my pie in its keeper, once again having miraculously survived the flight, I trailed my two men up the walk.
Hugs and handshakes and welcomes, and claps on the back to Grady, we settled down on the small patch of lawn with our plates overflowing. Grady inhaled his food and soon took off to ready the boat.
“Gonna make me ask?”
“About what?” I said, turning my fork to its side to scrape up the last of the pie from the paper plate.
“This man you’re seeing.”
I put the plate down and weighted it with my Diet Coke can before looking at my dad.
“He’s nice,” I said, readjusting my baseball cap and looking out at the boats in the sound.
“Well, that’s a start,” Dad said with a laugh on his face, his cheeks dimpling in a big smile. Even though under the hat and sunglasses I couldn’t see his eyes, I knew they were happy.
“He’s older. Just turned fifty-three. Is a hospital administrator. Three grown kids. Lost his wife in a car accident some years back.”
“Excellent résumé, but not what I’m asking.”
“He’s nice, Dad. That’s all I can really say about it.”
He nodded and for once I was glad to have a reticent New Englander for a father.
“How’s Grady taking you seeing someone?”
“So far? Pretty good,” I lied. “I’ve been keeping them apart, pretty much. Grady was a complete jackass to Thomas the first couple of times they met. He’s toned that down a notch and now Grady ignores him.”
“And how’s Thomas taking that?”
“Pretty good, I’d say. His kids are a little older. His son is in medical school and then his twin daughters are twenty, so he’s been through the moody teenager thing.”
“Fair enough, I suppose.” He laughed. “You ready for him to head off to college next year?”
“Is anyone every ready for that?” I mused.
“You were ready to go. And I was ready to let you. You’ll get there. Thought any more about moving home? I’m either closing up my practice or I’m selling it to you for a crisp hundred-dollar bill.”
“Pop,” I cautioned, drawing the sound out. “We’ve talked about this. Memphis is Grady’s home. Once he’s settled in school, we’ll talk about it again.”
“I can’t keep a practice going on the chance that you’ll take it over from me. You need to make a decision this year. I’m ready to retire. And I’d love to have you home, Amy.”
“I know. And I’d love to be here,” I said, sweeping my arm out to take in the bay. And it wasn’t just for the water, but I owed my dad more than I could ever begin to repay. My teenage years, Grady, guidance in setting up my own practice, my divorce. I’d given him a hell of a ride over the years, but we’d always be in our own little mutual admiration society. The two of us against the world, expanded to three the moment I’d told him about Grady. And I w
anted to be near him.
I watched him scan the horizon, gauging the clouds in the distance, assessing whether we’d be able to take Floss out. I didn’t care if we had to motor or if there was a rough chop. I was getting out on the water today.
“You remember Evie Lennick?” he asked, his eyes still on the water.
“Of course.” My mom’s best friend. The woman who would take me shopping for bras and underwear and made sure I had an actual hairdo for prom rather than my normal braid. In a million years I’d never forget Mrs. Lennick or her late husband.
“I’ve been having dinner with her for a couple of years now.”
“I didn’t know that,” I said, and I may not have known about the dinners, but then I knew where this conversation was headed and I cut to the chase. “You serious about her?”
“What would you think about that?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think as long as you’re happy.”
“Shouldn’t matter what Grady thinks or what I think then.”
Out on the water, Grady at the wheel with Pop by him, pointing out the channels and lanes, we sailed. And I let them have that time, puttering around in the boat together.
After adjusting rigging at Skipper Grady’s instruction, like any good crewman, I sat back and texted Bert.
Me: When Grady’s camping, I’m going out of town.
The response was quick.
Bert: Cool. Where to?
Me: New Orleans.
Bert: Meauxbar.
And that’s my ex. Not asking where I was staying, who I was going with, but dishing up restaurant advice. And I had no doubt it was good advice. And I knew for certain I wouldn’t take it.