The Best of Friends

by Sara James

  Running away from reality, from Richmond back to Manhattan, I felt Sara’s voice drift over me. I was trying not to concentrate on her questions, just focus on the reassurance in her voice. But the more she probed, the deeper I sank into the couch in her office. The rich maroon fabric was enveloping, a perfect embrace for my desire to simply fall asleep and have someone wake me up when it was all over. But Sara was relentless in her questions.

  “What do you want?”

  “What will make you happy?”

  “What is so wrong with waiting?”

  “Do you love him?” That was the $64,000 question. I wondered if she was acting as a reporter, a friend, or a shrink.

  When Nad arrived in Richmond, we sought out Sara’s father for advice. A professor and an ordained minister as well as an extremely kind man, Dr. James was supposed to marry us in two days. Walking through a blaze of autumn leaves to the door of the Jameses’ house, Nad and I drifted apart, each lost in our own thoughts. Dr. James must have sensed this because after greeting us warmly, he asked to speak to each of us privately. While Nad waited in another room, I talked to Sara’s father in hushed tones about my feelings and my fears, whether I could possibly vow to make my divided life permanent. With the same warm, intelligent spark in his eye that I’d always seen in Sara, he told me many things, but the words I clung to were: “It is okay to try.” This simple message, delivered so sincerely and without any sense of judgment, made me feel as though I’d been pardoned. Instead of being handed a life sentence, I’d been given permission to love Nad as best I could. I didn’t know what he said to Nad, but less than forty-eight hours later, Nad was brave enough to stand beside Dr. James and in front of the mantel in my parents’ living room and wait for me to walk down the aisle.

  As the harpist played, as Beth’s son and my godson Trent lifted the end of my heavy Victorian veil, I felt blinded by details. I saw the band of wax flowers and lace that ran the full length of my satin dress. I saw Beth, my matron of honor, waiting downstairs, smiling reassuringly at Nad. Saw my mother, my Grandmother Hall, and two great-aunts, Ise and Virginia, the surviving matriarchs in a family of women who had nurtured me and my sisters, sitting quietly on the sofa. As I edged down the stairs, closer to the living room, I saw my sisters. Tish stood hand in hand with her wonderful boyfriend Mark and smiled. Marsha, who would play for us later, held her guitar, and Dona held Maggie, my precious six-week-old niece.

  My closest friends were there. Kristy, who at nine months pregnant had convinced her doctor and her husband, Gordon, that she could make the drive from Tennessee to Virginia for my wedding, since no airline would be crazy enough to take her. Every three hours throughout their ten-hour journey, Gordon had stopped the car and waited while Kristy stretched her legs. Standing against the banister, Kristy looked beautiful and amazingly rested. I caught a glimpse of Stacy, whose friendship had outlasted tennis, as well as changes in boyfriends, continents, and careers. She and her fiancé, Ian, had just arrived from Los Angeles, suntanned and radiant. And there was Sara, with a tall, dark, handsome man standing behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. She knew better than anyone what it had taken to get to this point, smiled up at me, ready to run with me if I fled or toast Nad and me if I stayed.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I took my father’s arm and saw his brothers, my uncles Harry, Darryl, and Ralph, who must have been remembering when they too held their daughters’ arms, perhaps supporting themselves as much as their girls as they made that symbolic walk down the aisle. I knew that along the way they silently vowed that no matter how much they liked the young men waiting for them, they would never give their daughters away. Candles glowed. The harpist played. Nearby, Nad stood tall, flanked by his family. With dark hair and dark eyes, their physical connection was obvious, but it was their deep feelings for one another that bound them most completely. I thought of Nad’s sisters, Mel and Gin, and their families back in South Africa and knew how much they longed to be with us today. Tim, Nad’s brother, best friend, and best man, was here, standing shoulder to shoulder with Nad. I spied Tim’s beautiful wife, Megan, who was so much fun and so true that I couldn’t have handpicked a better sister-in-law. Then I saw Nad’s parents, Bob and Laura. Dressed in an ethnic print, Laura brought a fresh touch of Africa to our wedding while Bob brought along his trusted Rolleiflex camera, ready to document the moment when their youngest son said, “I do.” Nad smiled. He looked so handsome in his tuxedo, so sure in his love for me and, even now, in my love for him.

  The ceremony was brief. Afterward there were toasts, congratulations, kisses, and handshakes. Champagne flowed, and along with the rushing sound of laughter, Marsha’s guitar, Dr. James’s trumpet, and the harpist’s fluid music filled my parents’ home. I finally relaxed. I’d made a vow to try and I would keep it. From the beginning, when Nad had swabbed my bleeding nose on the gravel plains in the desert, he’d nurtured our relationship, treating it and me with respect and love. With his help we would work this out.

  I moved from group to group, bending down to speak in Aunt Ise’s ear, sitting for a while with my Grandmother Hall, and finally meeting the handsome man by Sara’s side, a man in some ways I felt I already knew, her Australian boyfriend, Andrew. He’d just flown in from Tokyo, suddenly immersed in Sara’s parents and my enormous family, but he seemed unfazed. He was funny and relaxed, but as he and Nad fell into easy banter, I remained guarded. If I could shield myself from his charms, perhaps I could protect Sara from having her heart torn in half. But standing with Sara and Andrew, laughing as they laughed, feeling the electricity between them, I couldn’t help but worry that this New York–Tokyo relationship was destined for heartache; that the schizophrenic nature of wanting to be on two continents at once that had haunted me would soon haunt Sara.

  18

  SARA (1995–1996)

  SARA, CAN YOU get me another drink?” I poured Ginger another glass of Moët, eyeing the level of the bottle with alarm. Champagne might be the nectar of celebration, but it was obvious she didn’t taste anything except anxiety and dread. How had it come to this? She was dressed the part of the radiant bride—the vintage gown of ivory silk, antique lace veil glowing against her golden hair. But Ginger’s brow was puckered, her smile forced. “Is everyone there?”

  For a moment I had a weird premonition that if I said no, she might hike up her train and climb out the window. As if she hoped that out there in the dark a stranger would be waiting to steal her away.

  “Yes. And Dad’s ready, too.”

  I didn’t recognize my friend in the role of Damsel in Distress. She was thirty-four years old and marrying a man she’d lived with for five years. Nad was smart, caring, and funny. Not to mention an elephant-darting, rhino-wrangling pilot. I exchanged a worried glance with Beth, our mutual high school friend and Ginger’s matron of honor.

  “Ginger, you look beautiful, and wait till you see Nad. He looks so handsome. I bet this is the first time you’ve seen him wear a tie!” My weak joke prompted the barest upturn in her lips, but it was time for me to head downstairs. I gave her one last hug and promised, “You’ll be fine.” I wondered if I was lying or just trying to hope her into happiness. Given the knot in my stomach, I could only imagine the one in hers. Clearly, reinventing your life wasn’t easy, especially when you opted to marry the man around the world instead of the boy next door.

  Ginger’s turmoil over reconciling two continents, two lives—family here, work there, love there, friends here—was painful to witness. Did she hanker for the romance of the new as opposed to the dependability of the known? I could relate to that. Was it that she feared trusting her heart to any man? We both knew that a love which seemed certain could prove false. Or was it the endless horizon of forever?

  I’d asked countless questions hoping to help her figure it out, to no avail. Perhaps I hadn’t asked the right ones. Or maybe I’d asked too many, should have just sat quietly and listened. Only weeks later would I acknowledge the obv
ious. This wasn’t about what I had or hadn’t done, wasn’t a question of how good a friend I was. Ginger wasn’t entirely sure herself what had prompted this crisis and would have to figure things out on her own.

  THE IDEA THAT there was nothing I could do ran counter to my personality and to my working model of friendship. When times were bad, I believed the best friend’s job was to be a marine—storm the beach, brave the sniper fire, rescue your buddy. The job of Wait and See left me frustrated. Frustrated because I wanted my friend to be happy. Frustrated because that was beyond my control. And frustrated because Ginger’s cataclysmic ambivalence made me worry about the path I was taking.

  What exactly did I think I was doing with an Australian beau nine years my junior who’d moved to Japan? A beau whose ultimate goal was to return to Australia, probably to one of the picturesque towns in Victoria, near where he’d grown up? How opposite could you get from working for the network in the largest U.S. city? I’d looked at Andrew, bending over to talk to Ginger’s grandmother. He had also looked handsome that night, so good you’d never know he’d just gotten off a long-haul flight. During that visit he’d charmed both Ginger’s family and mine, including my mom’s mother, reigning matriarch of the Marple clan, Grannykins. But I had promised myself after my marriage broke up that I would learn from my mistakes, take my time the second go-round. And I wasn’t sure I’d done that. Like Ginger, I clearly had a weakness for a man with a passport and an accent. But that didn’t mean I had to marry him.

  “SO YOU TWO’LL be next, I’ll bet!” said one of Andrew’s many relatives with a broad wink a few weeks later, as we left the quaint but steamy church in the beach town of Cairns, in far north Australia. It was Boxing Day, the day after Christmas, and Andrew’s brother Trevor had just tied the knot with a lovely young woman named Helen.

  “You never know!” I responded playfully, then tried to duck out of the family photo. To no avail. The entire rambunctious Butcher clan was on hand, and Andrew’s mum, dad, and sisters Chrissie and Kate, as well as a host of tall, tanned aunties, uncles, and cousins, were as warm and welcoming as any visiting Yank could wish. Of course it only made me feel my predicament more acutely. Just what were we doing? Increasingly, it felt like acting in a charade.

  Afterward Andrew and I escaped to the nearby Tablelands, where I rented a horse and galloped through the tropical rain forest, emerging wet and laughing but none the wiser. On New Year’s Eve we had an early dinner, then watched a crowd of raucous locals howl in 1996.

  But as much fun as we were having, I couldn’t see where we were going. And I didn’t want to repeat the mistake I’d made in my first marriage of hoping that if I ignored unpleasant facts, they’d simply go away.

  “What are we doing, anyway?” I asked.

  “Having fun. Or we were. But we aren’t so much anymore, are we?” Andrew met my gaze with a level one of his own. When my amusing boyfriend got serious and remote, I felt his appeal more keenly.

  I braced, took the plunge. “Not so much. It’s too hard, you being in Tokyo—”

  “—you being in New York—”

  “You need to have fun, be young and single, date around—”

  “We both need to have fun—”

  “It could never work.”

  “Exactly.”

  And then, because it was such a mutual, friendly, and thoroughly ludicrous conversation, we both burst out laughing.

  “So we feel exactly the same way?” I said cautiously.

  “Apparently.” Andrew’s smile got even broader.

  “What a relief!”

  “I agree.”

  I settled down to work out the terms of the treaty. “Now, I’m guessing we shouldn’t keep in touch. That would be foolish, wouldn’t it?”

  Andrew amended, “We’ll give it a few weeks off, see how we go. Maybe we’ll talk occasionally.”

  “I’m not sure. Next thing you know, you’ll date some gorgeous Japanese woman and I don’t want to know about it.”

  Andrew’s smile got broader. “What of it? You’ll be dating Yanks, so fair’s fair. But okay, if that’s the way you want it, so be it.”

  Then he leaned in to seal the deal with a kiss. “But there’s no reason not to enjoy the next few days before you get back on that plane for New York.”

  “HAVE SOME MORE champagne,” urged the handsome blue-eyed former marine and devout vegetarian thirty years my senior. Once again I was celebrating, but this time I wasn’t toasting a bride and groom but reveling in my official promotion to correspondent at NBC Dateline. The new title came with a bigger salary and an office with a view of the Rockefeller Plaza skating rink.

  “Are you pleased, Sara?” pressed my dinner companion and agent, Stuart Witt. “A job on a network magazine show, filling in on Today. Not bad for thirty-four. And you’re not upset about that Australian guy, right?”

  “Stu, I’m thrilled. And being single was my choice. Well, mutual.”

  “Good. What’s wrong with the men here? You dating?”

  “I’ve been out a bit. No one special.”

  “You’re a jogger. Join the New York Running Club, do the marathon.”

  My agent as yenta—I wasn’t ready for it. “Look, Stu, you’re the marathoner, not me. I’ll be all right, don’t worry. I’m enjoying being single.”

  And I was. When I looked back on just three years before, it was hard to believe the married woman with the stately home and the shaggy dog in a New Jersey suburb had been me. While it felt strange to be single—as even before my marriage I’d usually seemed to go from boyfriend to boyfriend—I was increasingly grateful that my ex-husband had forced a split, which liberated us both.

  As for work, my new contract afforded me the chance to purchase a home of my own, an apartment on the city’s Upper East Side. New friends like Dateline producer Andi Gitow and Nightly producer Susan Morris salvaged my decorating disasters, and with the apartment freshly sponge-painted, with flowers resting on the piano and a tiny table and chairs on the terrace, it was time to invite friends and colleagues over for a house-warming party.

  Better yet, Ginger was in the U.S. for a few weeks and arrived in New York carrying a small suitcase and a large Virginia ham. I was relieved to see that her woebegone expression had disappeared and that her infectious laugh was back. She seemed like herself again. When I tentatively asked about Nad, she replied, “It’s going much better than I had expected,” with a smile before changing the subject by retrieving my to-do list. “Now what’s next?” I had asked enough questions on her last visit; this time, I would wait and let her tell me more when she was ready.

  On a warm, brilliant night, wearing a cool pair of cropped white pants and a sleeveless mint green silk shirt, I looked around to see my living room filled with pals new and old. I still smile when I remember the sight of an old UVA pal, Ward Johnson, in animated conversation with a journalist I’d met through Andrew, Pilita Clark, not to mention the circle of puppy-eyed would-be suitors crowding around Dateline correspondent Elizabeth Vargas. Another mutual friend of Ginger’s and mine had designed the quirky invitations to the party. Glenn Zagoren quickly made friends with everyone else in the room, too, inviting many of them to his traditional Turkey Bowl party. The laughing and dancing lasted until the wee hours of the morning.

  “Can we call it Ginger’s Room?” said my friend as she made the bed in the guest room and prepared to leave.

  “It’s yours anytime,” I replied as I hugged her good-bye. But on that occasion when Ginger left, while I missed her company as much as ever, I no longer felt disoriented and desolate on my own. Sipping a cup of coffee on my terrace on the eighteenth floor, I surveyed the city, wide and noisy and full of promise. I had no one to support but myself. I had great friends who were also single, excellent company for movies or theater or dinner, even trips. On weekends I could run or lounge in bed and read. I could throw my clothes on the floor, drip on the carpet, squeeze the toothpaste in the middle, and leave half-fill
ed teacups strewn everywhere. I could let the food in the fridge turn radioactive. There was always delivery. Or spend a night out on the town. I was free to date anyone I wanted. I went out with a dotcom guy. A couple of lawyers. My friend Ann Curry even played matchmaker, setting me up on a blind date. It resulted in a few enjoyable evenings at the theater and more than a few questions from Katie, Matt, Al, and Ann herself on the set of Today. But there were no headlines, nothing serious. And that was fine with me.

  Mostly, I just traveled. And loved it. Loved the airport, with all those beautiful planes dressed up in their team colors, from stately British Airways to the rambunctious upstarts. I’d flown so often that I’d earned “gold” status on three airlines and platinum on a fourth and could usually upgrade to first class, where I would read the research packet the producer had supplied about the latest story I was about to cover. Then I’d arrive in an often unfamiliar city and settle into a Hertz car, figuring out where the trunk latch was hidden and whether the gas tank was on the left or the right, before driving to an interview. And at the police station or attorney’s office or university or home, I’d sit down in a room that had been transformed into a television studio for the kind of frank chat you never have with a stranger. Except on TV.

  And at the end of what was always a long day, I’d drive to the hotel and open the blinds to check out a vista glittering with streetlights. And if it wasn’t too late, I’d have dinner with the producer and crew downstairs or in a nearby restaurant or else cuddle up with a book and room service, enjoying the solitude, enjoying eating whatever I wanted with no one to comment. And then I’d fly back to New York, trying to wangle a seat on the left side of the aircraft if we were landing at LaGuardia for the first glimpse of Gotham, that neon Welcome Home.