3
There’s nothing to make you feel common like parking in down-town Palo Alto. There aren’t many parking places, and they are all filled with Mercedes and BMWs. I’m too cheap to pay for valet, so I’m schlepping up the street in my heels, thinking it would have been easier to walk from home. There’s a November chill in the air. It’s only about sixty degrees or so, but with the ocean to the left and the bay to the right, the moist air seeps into your bones. I am wearing this great white wool nautical coat, and I feel like a million, even if I am unwilling to part with five dollars for parking.
Il Fornaio is a bit “yesterday” in Palo Alto, but Hans is well-known here and likes to sit at his table, drinking an entire bottle of wine while conducting business. He’s not married any longer. He left his wife for the nanny of his two children and I can’t fathom the switch, because Sophia, the nanny, is the dimmest bulb I have ever come into acquaintance with. She makes Fran Drescher’s version look like Einstein. Yes, Sophia is extremely beautiful, but so was Hans’s wife, and she also possessed a brain. Sophia doesn’t drive and spends her day calling Hans to tell him they need cereal or milk or bonbons. Since Hans does everything on speakerphone, it’s a surreal moment when you learn that your CEO is out of toilet paper. Kind of an I don’t want to go there place.
Now, I’m sure you’re thinking Hans is a total jerk. And he is, technically speaking. But he possesses this charm that is all-encompassing and spans the limits of time and race. I’ve seen women sixty-plus swoon over him, as well as twentysomethings. When he speaks, he silences everyone around him, and you find yourself drawn in with an unexplainable desire and a ridiculous giggle.
I, myself, knowing he left his wife for the nanny, still find him utterly entrancing, which is so unlike me, being the “good girl.” I am aware of this frailty, so I steer clear of him as much as possible. He’s the male version of the adulteress in Proverbs 7, and he could rip you away from all you know to be true in a matter of moments. He looks like Mikhail Baryshnikov in younger days, and probably has the same type of reputation. Not a great feature in your boss. So I ask my friends for a lot of prayer and try to stay on guard.
I arrive at the restaurant parched and a glowing a bit, which is a nice way of saying I’m hot and sweaty. Even in the cool November weather, my trek up University Avenue has taken its toll, and I’d rip off my wool coat in a second, were it not for my pride in its appearance. The maître d’ is dressed in a black suit, with an attitude, unaware that his spot is no longer hip among those who care about such things.
“I’m here for Hans Kerchner.”
“Ah yes, but of course. He’s at his regular table. Right this way.” Grabbing a leather-bound menu, the maître d’ leads me to the back of the restaurant near the fireplace. Just what I need: warmth. I take off my coat reluctantly, and the maître d’ runs off with it. I watch it go, like a friend leaving for the mission field.
When I appear, Hans stands up. The fireplace is glowing behind the table, and it highlights the wine bottle, which is already half empty. “Ashley, you look lovely.”
“Won’t Sophia be joining us tonight?” I like to remind him about Sophia whenever I get the chance.
“She has no interest in discussing technology,” he replies in his harsh German accent. “She’s home watching her favorite dating show.”
“Yes, Joe Millionaire is on tonight.” I smile, letting Hans know I’d like to be home watching bad reality television too. Hans starts to fill my glass with wine, and I place my hand over the edge. “I don’t drink, remember?”
“Of course, you drink. Everyone drinks. Red wine is . . .” he pats his chest, “good for the heart, you know.”
“No, thank you. It gives me indigestion.” Now there’s an attractive excuse, but it works. He puts the bottle back on the table. The waiter comes by and I order a Diet Coke. “Listen Hans, I know you’re very excited about this new patent, so let’s get down to it. I can do some research tonight at home, and sketch out a patent request tomorrow. We can get moving on it by the end of the week if you think it’s that big. There’s no sense in waiting when you’re onto something.”
Hans shakes his head. “You Americans are always so business-oriented. We Europeans, we like to enjoy our lives first. We don’t even begin to talk about business without a good meal in our stomach.”
Which is probably how you fell into life with the nanny. “I don’t mean to be rude, Hans, but I like to arrange my schedule. I like to know what’s going to happen, and what needs to happen. It’s just my nature to keep a very orderly calendar.”
“See? That is what I mean. You Americans try to control everything when you really have no say in the matter. Fate always takes precedence.”
“I don’t believe in fate.” I smooth the linen tablecloth in front of me. Fate says you had no choice about sleeping with the babysitter. “When you believe in fate, you can rationalize anything, so I don’t believe in fate.”
Hans just shakes his head. “You’re so practical.” That’s really the last thing I am. Maybe compared to Hans, but really, no. He continues, “I’d like this whole product ready before Comdex next year. Meaning I want the product done, and the patent secured. This one has potential to get our company a P/E ratio and to up our stock rating.”
“Not a problem on my end.” I smile. Comdex isn’t until September. That’s nearly a year, I think with glee. My glee, as usual, is shortlived.
Hans pours himself another glass of wine. “I’m flying out to Taiwan next week to work on the prototype. I’d need you to accompany me. We leave on the Tuesday flight.”
Hans flags down the waiter. “We’ll start with two Caesar salads.”
My skin immediately feels clammy. All I can think about is Doris Day with Cary Grant in That Touch of Mink, when he carries her off to be his mistress. It doesn’t matter if nothing happens. Everyone will think something has happened anyway. And as one who has worked hard, both for my job and my good-girl reputation, I can’t afford this.
Cary Grant had nothing on Hans. Cary Grant was an image, Hans is the real thing—suave, debonair, and all those things that create a good movie icon. It’s been one month since I got this job, and my world already feels like it’s spinning out of control.
“Tuesday?” I shake my head, willing any excuse to come into my mind. Any excuse. “My fiancé and I are meeting with our minister next Tuesday for our premarital counseling.” I close my eyes, and clamp my teeth onto my lower lip. Not only did I lie, I lied about a minister meeting with me. That’s like double jeopardy: the lightning round, literally.
Hans sits back in his chair. “You’re getting married?”
I smile rather than lie again. I’m remembering that Bible story where Abraham tells everyone Sarah is his sister. Didn’t work for him, but I’m still hoping for better results. Maybe God will have mercy on me.
“Well, I’ll have to meet the lucky fellow. Why don’t you bring him over to the house this weekend? Sophia makes a mean lasagna, and she’s always saying we never do anything socially. It will give her a chance to show off her talents.” At the word talents, my eyebrows shoot up, but I can’t say why exactly.
The rest of dinner is a blur. I know I looked at the schematics. I know I thought out the patent process, but I can’t remember anything else except that by the time I leave the restaurant I have a fake fiancé and a dinner date for Saturday night. I think about explaining my situation calmly to Seth, and having him play along. But how Christian would that be, getting him to lie too?
Seth didn’t like the fact that Hans and I were having dinner in the first place. Not to mention that marriage is a sticky subject at the moment. Now if I ask him to lie to save me humiliation, which I caused for myself, it’s more than over. The last nine months are probably regrettable to him. The question is, do I care?
I make my way up the busy street to a coffee shop and dial my cell phone. “Brea?” I can hardly hear the sound of my voice over the noise of burring
espresso machines and the chattering patrons.
“What’s the matter, Ashley? Brea sounds groggy, probably from going to sleep at eight, which is what she’s been doing since Miles and his two o’clock feedings have entered her life. “What time is it?”
“It’s ten o’clock.”
“What’s the matter? Are you okay? You didn’t get arrested again, did you?” she asks, making reference to one particular afternoon of my life that I’d just as soon forget.
“Hans wants me to go to Taipei with him on Tuesday.”
Brea’s grogginess disappears. “Well, you’re not going, Ashley. He’s a German Colin Farrell, and I think we both know what that means!” I can hear Miles begin to sputter, and it dawns on me that I’ve woken him up too. Great.
“Oh Brea, I’m sorry! I didn’t even think about the time.” I sigh and continue. “Anyway, no, I’m not going. But I needed an excuse so I kinda told him I was meeting with my fiancé and the preacher Tuesday.”
She’s quiet for a while, but now Miles is crying. Then I hear John. “Brea, who are you talking to?”
She muffles the phone. “It’s Ashley.”
He groans.
“Brea, did you hear me?” I ask.
“I heard you,” Brea sighs. “Ashley, no job is worth this. You’re lying now? I’ve known you to do a lot of things, but never to be dishonest. If anything, you’re too honest. Brutally so. What’s your boss going to say when you show up alone?”
“Hopefully, I won’t have to. Seth is my boyfriend, Brea. It probably won’t ever come up that we’re getting married. It might remind Sophia that Hans won’t marry her, and he’s not going to have that. Besides, I ought to be able to ask Seth this favor without feeling fear.” But of course, I do have fear and a lot of it.
“Are we talking about the same Seth?”
Now all my fears overflow at once. “You don’t think he’s ever going to marry me, either. Do you?” She doesn’t answer and I continue. “Kay wants me to buy half her house, Brea. I looked for six months to find this job. I can’t let Hands run me off in the first month. Maybe Kay will pretend she’s my fiancée.” The idea grosses me out completely, of course, but it’s not that uncommon here in California these days. Besides, I’m desperate.
“You can’t spend your life running from Hans, either, Ash. You’ve got to stand firm. Don’t let fear control your actions. Don’t you always say that to me?”
“Um, no. That must have been your other best friend.” Call waiting beeps. “My phone’s ringing. Listen, I’m sorry for waking you all up. I forget you’re on Murder She Wrote time over there.”
Brea clicks her tongue. “You didn’t wake us up. I just fell asleep on the couch watching a movie.”
“Love you, kiss that baby, and pray for me. I need it!” I press the button. “Ashley here.”
“Ashley, it’s Seth. Are you done with dinner?”
My heart is pounding, I feel so guilty. Do I tell Seth what I did? Or let him live under the illusion that I am a high-powered patent attorney, not a bimbo hired by the German George Clooney who coats his silken words with honey, and has the unique ability to force me to fly across the ocean with him.
“I’m done,” I answer, hoping I’m not being prophetic here.
“I have something for you. I’m going to pick it up on Tuesday and I want us to celebrate. Are you up for it?”
My princess-cut ring! I exhale deeply. My princess-cut ring is finally here! Let the heavens rejoice. I am not going to be an old maid! “Of course I’m up to it, Seth. You name the place and time. I’ll be there with bells on.” And a very naked ring finger. Then guilt takes over. “I need to tell you something I did.”
“You can tell me tomorrow. In the meantime, my place, Friday night, at seven.” He actually sounds giddy, and I begin to remember all I saw in him in the first place. His straightforward way of looking at life. His nature to get things done. I inhale deeply while falling for him all over again.
“Should I wear anything special?” I answer happily, my smile plastered for the world to see. How on earth will I wait until Friday? Of course, I’ll need at least three days to practice my surprised look in the mirror. And I’ll have to get a facial. And I’ll have to get a new dress. Something slinky, that isn’t too showy, but lets him know he’s not going to regret marrying me. Not for one moment!
“You always look great, Ashley. I’ll love whatever you pick.” He makes a kissing sound into the phone, and I bite my lip like an eighth grader with new lip gloss.
“I can’t wait, Seth.”
“Me either. I’ve waited a long time for this. The thought process has almost been agonizing, but the time has come.”
Now mentally, I’m thinking about how to tell him about our “engagement” dinner at my boss’s house. Technically, I’m not supposed to know about the ring. “Seth, if you aren’t busy, my boss wants to entertain us on Saturday night. Do you think we might be free?”
“Why not? It’s about time I met this Hans, anyway. He sure is doing a lot for your company’s stock, and I’m anxious to see his plan for the long haul.”
I’m anxious to see your plan for the long haul. I can’t help but smile. And I hope it’s set in platinum.
4
Ashley, did you lose this?” Seth, dressed in an Armani tuxedo, holds up a Marc Jacobs pump. It’s red-and-black striped. “It will fit you, won’t it?”
Ashley is breathless with anticipation and nibbles on her lower lip to fight the bubbling pressure of the moment. “I . . . I don’t know. If it’s mine, I mean. Where did you find it?”
“I found it on my steps last night. Try it, Ashley. There’s only one way for us to know . . .” Seth’s brilliant blue gaze meets hers, and Ashley swoons to the rich tapestry chaise behind her. “The woman who fits this shoe is meant to be mine. Somehow, I just know it.” In his other hand, Seth lifts a dazzling princess-cut canary diamond. “Will you marry me, Ashley?”
Ashley can’t remove her eyes from the pump. “Where’s the other one?”
“What do you mean, Ashley?”
“I mean, where’s the other shoe?”
“This pump is a Marc Jacobs original. Custom made for my wife! It’s just symbolic, not really meant for wear.”
“Surely Marc didn’t make just one shoe. There must be another around here somewhere. Symbolic or not, one shoe just doesn’t make sense.” Ashley rises up from the chaise looking frantically about her.
“The ring, Ashley.” Seth holds the ring out toward her, but she places her foot into the size-9 pump and twists her ankle about. “So it is yours. Ashley, did you hear me? Will you—”
“I want the other one, Seth! Where is the other shoe?”
“I don’t know, Ashley. It doesn’t matter where the other shoe is. Do you want to be my wife, or don’t you?”
“Well, I do. But I want this shoe, too! Is that so wrong?”
“Ashley, wake up! You’re having a nightmare.” Kay is shaking me. And I am aware, with distinct displeasure, that I’ve spent the night on the sofa with a spiked heel clutched tightly against my chest. I’m too old to spend the night on the sofa, and I feel every curvature, every imprint of the Pottery Barn special in my hindquarters, not to mention the little divot from the pump.
“Kay, what’s going on? What time is it?” I roll over and rub the kink out of my neck, tossing the shoe on the floor.
“It’s seven. You need to get up or you’ll be late for work.”
My laptop is sitting open on the coffee table. “I worked all night,” I explain, as much for myself as Kay.
“I hope your boss appreciates your hard work. I thought these hours went the way of the dot-com implosion.” Kay is setting out her Thanksgiving tchotchkes.
There’s a new chill in the air, signaling that fall is here. But not really. Not until Kay brings out the ceramic turkeys, the wax, leaf-shaped candles, and the inevitable cornucopia filled with tiny, colorful gourds. Kay’s candles are really the onl
y fall leaves we see in the Bay Area. This is California: evergreen country. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. Your boss called this morning. Said you left your coat at the restaurant, and he’ll bring it to you at work.”
“My coat. I forgot all about it. That ought to tell you how the evening went.”
“Truly. When you bought that coat, I thought you’d be buried in it, and for the price, you probably should be.” Kay smirks and crosses her arms for a brief moment. Kay and I couldn’t be more different. The last time she bought a coat was when those Michelin-man goose- down numbers were in, oh, about 1978 or so. It’s that pale, sickly navy color that we wore in grade school, but out she goes to work in it every day like she’s mushing the dogs to her office. Kay loves that down coat. You have to admire her loyalty.
“What did you do last night?” I ask while stretching and feeling every one of my thirty-one years.
“Besides answering Miss Popularity’s phone, you mean?” Kay dusts off a pilgrim salt-and-pepper set.
“Do you want me to get my own line? I keep asking, and you keep saying it’s a waste.”
“No, I’m just giving you a hard time because I know it bugs you. Arin’s back in town, by the way. She wanted to know how things were going, and to say thank you for leading her old beau to the Lord.”
“Arin’s back?” Panic. Arin, the size-2 diva/missionary that Seth once had a crush on. Somehow I sense that he could be in danger of falling for her all over again, if given the slightest opportunity.
“Yep. Arin’s back.”
“Does Seth know she’s back?”
“How would I know that?”
“Well, what did Arin say exactly?”
“That she was back in town. That she’d talked to Kevin, or Dr. Novak, as I like to call him,” Kay announces in a soap-opera tone. “And that she wants to get together with you.”
“Did you tell her about Seth and me?”
“What’s to tell?”
What indeed? “Is she still so thin?”
“I couldn’t see her on the phone, Ashley. I imagine she’s still thin, she was telling me about all the kayaking she did up the river in Costa Rica, and that she learned to balance a jug of water on her head.”
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