Alas, riding his bike and blogging about it did not pay Harvey’s bills. He had a peripatetic career history of half a dozen office jobs in the last ten years. From what Alicia and Carla had dug up, he’d worked at a marketing company (the job he’d had when Robin met him), a public relations company, an ad agency (which Alicia had never heard of), a headhunter firm, the headquarters of a clothing retail store. As of two years ago, he’d been a store manager at the Union Square Barnes & Noble. Bikes and books. That was his life. And babes, too, most likely young hard-bodied athletic women.
Robin marveled at how many fans/friends had left comments on his posts. Where had all those buddies been on New Year’s Eve at the turn of the century? Hadn’t he said he was new to New York? Or had Robin just remembered it that way? Had he acquired pals at his jobs? He’d effortlessly befriended her in three minutes. Perhaps establishing connections was a particular talent of his, one Robin sorely lacked. And what about maintaining contacts? He got divorced after only two years of marriage. What was the story there? He hadn’t appeared to have found a replacement for his ex. Perhaps women bonded easily with Harvey as a friend—but only a friend.
It would be ridiculous to think that she would again connect with him romantically, if she could even call their millennial hump romantic. She’d scurried out of his place into the dark night like a fat rat. Did he remember her at all? And there was the little matter of not informing him that he had a daughter. Whenever she thought of Harvey over the years, Robin assumed he’d be grateful for his ignorance. But, having gotten superficially acquainted with the guy online, she suspected he might’ve enjoyed being a part of Stephanie’s life, taught her to ride a bike—which Robin had never done. He’d missed a lot, to be sure. How much more of Stephanie’s life would he miss? That was all up to Robin.
Telling no one—not even Alicia, Bess, and Carla, who asked her repeatedly, “Have you read the stuff?” “When are you going to call him?” “What’s your plan?”—Robin decided to act. She just had to get a look at him, if for the sole purpose of satisfying her curiosity.
It was mid-December, two weeks before Christmas. Robin took the number four train from Brooklyn Heights to Union Square station in Manhattan. The Barnes & Noble on 17th Street was a downtown oasis. Four floors, miles of aisles of books. Robin had been inside the haven a dozen times during Harvey’s tenure as store manager there. She’d never seen him. Or, if she had, she hadn’t recognized him. Maybe if she’d crashed into him and landed on top in a straddle, his face would’ve rung some bells.
She pushed through the doors, her throat dry and cheeks cold (December had turned nasty). She moseyed around the front tables, picking up a book here and there but not really looking at them. Her eyes were up, darting around the store, scanning for people with name tags on their shirts. Pre-Christmas, the store was frustratingly packed with customers, making her mission more difficult. Robin chastised herself for coming at midday, lunchtime. She should have known this was the shopping rush hour.
Milling around the information desk on the first floor, finding no one who resembled Harvey Wilson, in shape and gender, she took the elevator to the second floor. A lap from teen fiction to biographies proved futile. She checked the third floor. Zilch. Not a sign of Harvey at the fourth-floor help desk either.
What now? Her friends’ Google reconnaissance had been far more successful than her surveillance. Grumpy and feeling like she’d wasted her time (and let herself get overexcited with the thrill of the hunt), Robin decided to drown her disappointment in espresso. She got on line at the top floor café.
The line was, of course, endless, which Robin always took as a personal insult. She eavesdropped on the man and woman in front of her. From the back, he was tall, broad, dark-haired, and annoyingly chatty. The woman was petite, so young she was actually green—a chlorine blonde—and just as loquacious as the guy. They talked at the same time, not listening to each other as their words tumbled forth, making no sense but a lot of noise. When the girl turned profile, Robin noticed her Bluetooth earpiece. The guy also turned to look at the baked goods in the display case, and Robin saw his earpiece. They weren’t talking to each other at all, but into their gizmos. This was modern life. Too many people in a too-small space, moving at a crawl toward meaningless short-term gratification, disinterested in those around them. Everyone here, on line, in the store, in this frigging city, was totally oblivious.
Robin exhaled and then thought, “I’m old.” When had it happened? She was only thirty-seven, but she was just as haggard, angry, bitter, and bloodthirsty as Madame Defarge.
Would espresso help or hurt the sudden onset of rage? Did she really want it? Just as it was her turn to order, Robin decided to leave, save her dollars and sanity, and get the hell out of there. She turned around, zipped out of the café, and got on the elevator going down. On the next level, a trio of men stood on the metal plate where the elevator ended, literally blocking people as they tried to step off. Yet another example, thought Robin, of the epidemic inconsideration. Nothing pissed her off like idiots selfishly blocking the flow of human traffic. Robin often heard herself mutter “Move it!” to kids at Brownstone who loitered in the middle of a busy stairwell or hovered in doorways, forcing other students to push through the clogged space. It was all about movement, this city, and when morons gummed up the works, Robin’s temper sizzled.
“Get out of the fucking way,” she seethed at the trio of men as she approached, actually checking one of them in the arm as she nudged her way around them.
He glared at her, his eyes narrow, angry, and Robin enjoyed the reaction. But then it changed. His eyes went wide, surprised, suspicious, doubtful, and then back to good, clean anger.
“Melanie Wilkes,” he said to her.
In a flash of recall, Robin remembered that she’d used that name the night she met and bedded Harvey Wilson, the very man fuming at her right now. She hadn’t recognized him without his helmet.
“Back from the plantation?” he asked.
The other two men—customers? co-workers?—drifted away. “I’m sorry,” said Robin, wondering why and what she was apologizing for.
“You are the woman I think you are?” he asked. “New Year’s Eve 1999?”
She couldn’t help blushing. Harvey was very direct—and confrontational. “Yes, I remember you. I’m a little surprised you recognized me.”
A woman with shopping bags stepped off the elevator and said, “Pardon me, you’re in the way.”
Robin snapped, “Mind your own business.”
Harvey frowned, and took Robin by the elbow, leading her three steps away. He said, “You do look different. But I never forget a face.”
“My face was a lot rounder then.”
“Same face,” he said. “The eyes are colder.”
Ouch. “It is December,” she said.
He would have none of her banter. “Why Melanie Wilkes?” he asked. “Because you were gone with the wind?”
Exactly, Robin thought. Her little joke-to-self. Heh. “No one who knew me back then recognizes me now. And we were … together … only that one night.”
“Partial night,” he said.
Robin was flummoxed by his bitterness. She’d assumed that, if she found him and he remembered her, he’d be embarrassed by her making contact. Or confused. Or flattered. But angry? She’d done him a favor by sneaking out. Like he’d want to wake up next to the biggest (literally) mistake of his sexual life? “It seemed polite to let myself out,” she said. “Really, I’m shocked you remember me.”
“You remember me,” he said.
Well, he was the father of her child. Looking at Harvey Wilson now, she could see the obvious resemblance to Stephanie. He’d given her daughter the full lips, the diamond-shaped face, the inquisitive brow. Stephanie was a beautiful girl, and her father was a handsome man. Solidly built. Good genes. Robin was glad to see this tall healthy male in front of her, knowing instinctually that he was physically sound and healt
hy with clear skin, bright hazel eyes, thick dark hair. The relief of his strong presence, knowing that Stephanie had inherited it, made Robin’s eyes moist. She rubbed them as if adjusting her vision.
She blinked at him a few times, and said, “You look well.”
Harvey nodded. “You’ve lost weight?”
She chuckled at the remark. The gross understatement might’ve been a dig, but it was too mild to inflict damage. Robin said, “Pound or two,” and tried to move the conversation forward. “Tell me about you”—she made a show of reading his name tag—“Harvey. What’ve you been doing all this time?”
“Working,” he said.
“Married?” she asked, even though she knew he wasn’t.
“Was,” he said, “to another woman who lied.”
Oh, Gawd, thought Robin. Stephanie’s father was a hostile misogynist. She had to laugh at her ridiculous fantasy that Harvey Wilson would turn out to be kind and gentle and step seamlessly into their lives, filling an assortment of empty holes.
Okay, she thought, I came to get a good look, and I’ve done that. “Nice to see you again, Harvey,” she said. “Let’s do it again in another decade.”
“Just tell me your real name,” he said. “I tried to find you, you know. Back then.”
“Robin Stern,” she replied, not seeing the harm. Her name was common enough—the Jewish equivalent of Jane Smith. He’d never find her, no matter how vigorous his Googling. Besides, why would he come looking? There was nothing here. Robin held out her hand to shake good-bye. It had taken five minutes to satisfy ten-plus years of doubt. She was confident she’d done the right thing, keeping Stephanie to herself.
“He what?” shrieked Robin.
“He’s a blogger. He blogs. And you are excellent material,” said Alicia, inspecting her cards. They were at Carla’s black lacquered table, laden with the same oily supermarket antipasti platter as last time.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this the half second after you saw it?”
“Why didn’t you tell us you went to see him?” replied Alicia.
“Yes, Robin,” said Carla, peeking at her cards. “It’s not like you to withhold information. Any information. The details about your last bowel movement, for example.”
As if these women had any clue what Robin withheld or divulged. The assumed familiarity at their committee meetings was starting to bug her. “You’ve all read his post?” she asked. Robin had stopped visiting his blog after their run-in. No point, she figured.
Bess coughed, recovered, and said, “I haven’t seen it.”
“You’re not over that cold yet?” asked Carla, examining Bess across the table, doing the physician once-over twice. “It’s been a month.”
“This is a new one,” said Bess, waving off the concern. “Four kids. It’s like this all winter. We take turns being sick.”
“I must see what Harvey wrote about me,” said Robin, standing. “Take me to the nearest computer, now.”
“We’re in the middle of a hand,” said Carla. “And I’m going to win it. So please sit down. You can read it later.”
“Did you feel attracted to him?” said Alicia, vicarious excitement seeking.
“It’s always sex with you. Sex or no sex,” said Robin to the celibate brunette, who, now that she considered it, was looking considerably less frumpy tonight. A-line skirt? Clingy silk blouse? High-heeled booties? Alicia was verging on chic. And, dear God, was she wearing blush, too, or was it a natural glow? Perhaps Robin wasn’t the only one among them keeping secrets. “How’s Tim lately?” she asked. “And that guy in your office. What’s his name again? Shark?”
“It’s Finn,” said Alicia, “and he’s fine. Raise five.”
“Reraise ten,” said Carla.
“Fold,” said Robin. “While you guys finish the hand, let me quickly check my email. The computer is …?”
Carla, the evening’s host, said, “In my bedroom, and you are not going up there. The boys are doing homework and I don’t want them bothered.”
Robin longingly gazed at the stairs from her seat at Carla’s dining room table. Looking up, she saw the two boys on the landing up top, their heads leaning over the banister to spy on the women. Robin made eye contact with Zeke, her daughter’s classmate, and winked. The boy giggled and ducked out of sight.
Bess said, “I fold, too.” The blonde reached into her leather purse, rooting around until she found her iPhone. She said, “I’ve got Internet. Urban off road, right?”
Alicia said, “Do a dramatic reading.”
Bess laughed. “I don’t want to embarrass Robin,” she said, and then sneezed. Even spewing mucus, she was prettily dainty.
“Why the hell not?” asked Carla.
“She said ‘hell.’ First you let me open a bottle of wine in the house and now you’re cursing?” said Robin to her host. “Next thing you know, it’s shooting heroin.”
“Shhh,” said Carla, instinctively leaning forward to peer up the stairs. She caught a glimpse of movement, and a flicker of alarm crossed Carla’s strong features. “Boys!” she boomed, loud enough to make Robin flinch. The kids didn’t wait for instructions. The sound of scampering feet from the floor above put them in their rooms, doors closed.
Alicia dealt the river card. Carla raised and won the hand with a jack-high flush. The host was on fire tonight. “Another winner for the Black Queen,” she said, raking in the chips. To Bess, Carla directed, “Okay, let’s hear it. And make it good.”
“I would prefer to read it myself, in private,” said Robin.
“Too bad,” said Carla, and gestured for Bess to go ahead.
The blonde nodded and squinted at the tiny iPhone screen. “I can’t see anything anymore.” Holding the gadget at arm’s reach, she adjusted her vision. “Why are these screens so small?”
“For Christ’s sake!” blasted Robin. “Give me that thing!”
Bess held her off, laughing, sneezing.
Alicia, in the scuffle, grabbed the iPhone and said, “I’ll read it. Ahem. Here we go: urban off-road biker blog, entry dated three days ago. ‘I’m sure all of you are dying to hear about the 20K in Central Park last weekend, and I’ll get right to it. But first, a brief recount of my dip into the weird this week: a chance run-in with a one-night stand from my past. I was helping some customers at the store and this redhead barrels into me, ranting about blocking the aisle, flying elbows. Subtle? Like a frying pan to the skull. I was reminded of the night I met this woman, how she plowed through a crowd of a hundred thousand in Times Square like it was human butter. So there she was, glaring at me, nostrils flaring. Despite a change in her appearance, I recognized her. She’d lost a lot of weight. Too much. Skinny on her looked old, hard, and bitchy. Last time I’d seen her, she was naked in my bed, soft and sweet, postorgasmic.’ ”
“Postorgasmic?” shrieked Robin. “That’s a lie!”
The women laughed (insensitive wenches!). Bess asked, “ ‘Postorgasmic’ bugs you, but you’re okay with ‘old, hard, and bitchy’?”
Robin shrugged, “Except for ‘old.’ ”
Alicia continued. “ ‘We acknowledged our first (and only) meeting, and I asked her how she’s been. Then she bit my freaking head off! Like I was the one who sneaked off in the middle of the night without an explanation or apology. I immediately made assumptions about how the last decade had treated her. I know it’s wrong to assume. I could have tried to confirm my theories. But it would’ve been rude to ask her, ‘Exactly how long has that broom been shoved up your ass?’ ”
Laughter again from the committee members. Robin said, “It didn’t go down like this at all. He’s twisting the encounter for comic effect. And he’s anally fixated.”
Carla said, “Well, you would know.”
All four women tittered at that. “Keep reading,” said Robin.
Alicia said, “That’s pretty much it. Just a parting shot: ‘Can’t believe I’d pined for this woman for an embarrassingly long time. The book on h
er? Officially closed.’ ”
“So he liked me fat,” said Robin. “I was always suspicious of the chubby-chasers. I hated being the object of a fetish.”
Bess said, “I know what you mean. A lot of men have a thing for blondes.”
“Oh, shut up, please,” said Robin. “If liking blondes makes you a perv, then every man alive is a fetishist.” She took a long draw from her glass.
Alicia said, “Fetishist. Sounds like inferior quality goat cheese.”
Carla started shuffling and dealing the cards. “The correct term is ‘paraphiliac.’ And I think what Harvey wrote was nice.”
Robin nearly choked on her wine. “He portrayed me as a raving witch.”
“Who rides her broom in a very interesting way,” added Alicia.
Bess said, “I agree with Carla. He had a real thing for you. He was hurt when you left in the middle of the night. I don’t get chubby-chaser from the way he wrote about you. A man could describe any woman as soft and sweet. Soft isn’t secret code for fat. The guy recognized you ten years and two hundred pounds later. He liked you, you ditched him, he’s still pissed about it.”
“Which makes him insane and pathetic,” said Robin.
“Is that a step up or down from the guys you’re used to dating?” asked Alicia.
The truth was, Robin hadn’t been on a date in months. She was simply too angry at the world these days to be open to anyone. She wasn’t even interested in anonymous sex with a stranger. “I got an email last night from a guy I dated back in September,” she said, looking at her cards. “We had dinner at the Heights Cafe, walked on the Promenade. Talked. It was all very bland and tiring. I said I’d do him anyway. He turned me down—then. Four months later, he wants to know if the offer is still good.”
Robin shook her head and sighed. When she looked up, she noticed that all three woman’s eyes were on her, examining her expression, trying to take her emotional temperature. The sympathy was almost unbearable.
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