Love, Accidentally

by Sarah Pekkanen

  Cate swallowed hard. The last time her mother had come up, they’d wandered through MoMA and gotten manicures and feasted on chicken Caesar salads and a carafe of Chardonnay. Her mother had refused Cate’s offers to take her bedroom and insisted on spending the night on the love seat, claiming it was perfectly comfortable, though at brunch the next morning she kept rubbing the side of her neck. It had been lovely, but it had also been a month ago. No, less than a month. Three weeks ago.

  Cate stood up, knocking the newspaper off her lap and onto the floor. Agitation crept into her body as she began to pace. “I’m not sure yet what my plans are,” she lied. “I might need to go out of town for a story.”

  She could feel her mother’s disappointment, thick and heavy as a gray fog creeping over the phone line. She’d always reveled in the way her mom had waited to greet her after school, or was available to drive her to an activity at a moment’s notice, knowing that not every mother was like this, that she was lucky. What Cate hadn’t foreseen was that, in living for her family, her mother had failed to create a life of her own. Now that everyone was gone, it was as if her mother was trying to cling to Cate to keep herself from falling into the gaping hole created by their absences.

  “Maybe in another couple weeks?” Cate suggested. “I’ll call you when I get to the office and double-check my calendar.”

  “Of course,” her mother said.

  “What book are you thinking about getting?” Cate asked as she walked over to the kitchen counter. A sheet of paper was propped up against the toaster. Cate picked it up and began to read.

  “The club chose To Kill a Mockingbird. We’re rereading classics for the next few months,” her mom was saying, but her voice faded into a buzz in Cate’s ear.

  The note was from Naomi. She was moving out, heading to Europe for a year to model. She was leaving in two weeks.

  “Shit!” the word escaped from Cate’s mouth.

  “What’s wrong? Honey, are you hurt?”

  She never stopped being a mother; it was equal parts comforting and annoying.

  “No, no, just a note from Naomi. She’s—” Cate cut herself off, as abruptly as if she’d snatched up a knife from the butcher block and sliced away the end of her own sentence. A terrible thought flashed through her mind: What if her mother offered to take Naomi’s place? She could almost hear the conversation unfolding. Her mother had gotten plenty of money in the divorce settlement, and her house was already paid off. The rent wouldn’t pose any problem for her; then she could pop up to New York all the time, split her time between the city and Philly—she wouldn’t be imposing on Cate’s roommates, and she’d love the chance to see more museums, to stroll through the busy streets. To cook dinner, and wait for Cate to come home.

  It was worse than the air being forced from her lungs during the final sprint of her run; Cate was suffocating. Her mother wouldn’t really suggest something like that, would she?

  She just might.

  “Naomi’s just complaining about the mess we left in the kitchen. No big deal,” Cate lied, crumpling up the note in her hand. “Typical roommate stuff.”

  “I see.”

  Was it her imagination, or did her mother know she wasn’t telling the truth?

  “Mom? Can I call you back later? I need to hop in the shower.”

  “Of course, honey.” The musical voice brought back a million memories: a cool washcloth on her forehead whenever she’d had a fever; the way her mother changed out of jeans and into a nice dress for her school conferences; homemade yellow cakes with chocolate icing served for breakfast on birthdays.

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Did you hear the Johnsons sold their house and are going to assisted living?” her mother said. “They got a really nice unit. Two bedrooms.”

  This is an old-person conversation and you’re not old! Cate wanted to shout. At sixty-one, you should take salsa classes! Travel to Portugal with a girlfriend! Learn to play poker!

  Guilt and frustration and love: Those were the steady bass notes in her dance with her mother.

  Cate wound down the conversation and stripped off her T-shirt as she headed for the shower. Suddenly she couldn’t bear to get clean, to wash away her sweat and grime. Reading the paper no longer held appeal; she’d head into the office and try to make a dent in her workload.

  Cate forced herself to stop thinking about the lonely day stretching ahead of her mother and concentrate on work. The polygamy piece, for example. Cate had envisioned one woman’s story about what it was like to be in such an unorthodox relationship, but Sam, the writer, had bloated it with statistics and facts. It was informative, which was good. But it wasn’t compelling, which would be its death knell.

  The problem was, Sam was a senior staff member. He’d penned many cover stories for the magazine. Critiquing his work would be delicate. Maybe Cate should leave in some statistics. After all, he had far more experience than she did.

  Did other editors question themselves this way?

  Cate turned on the cold water tap and shivered as she forced herself to endure the icy spray, hoping it would wash away her turbulent feelings.

  WHO KNEW APPLE martinis had so many calories? Renee thought as she rolled over in bed and burrowed deeper under the covers.

  Renee had been about to order her favorite drink at the bar they’d gone to the previous night to celebrate Bonnie’s new job—but then she noticed the menus had been changed; they now, somewhat sadistically, listed calorie contents. Which meant her usual Friday night fare—a few appletinis, a handful of chips and guac, maybe a fried wonton or a nibble of whatever appetizer was being passed around the table—added up to thirteen hundred calories. Ignorance wasn’t just bliss; it also had a second job as cellulite’s partner in crime.

  What she’d regularly consumed, without even really tasting, between 7:00 p.m. and midnight was now her calorie allotment for the entire day. Renee pulled herself out of bed with a sigh, slipped on Lycra pants and a T-shirt, and laced up her old Nikes. Renee hated exercise, but she was going for a walk. She’d put in two miles a day, and by next month, she’d be up to three.

  She lifted her head at the sound of a soft tap on her bedroom door.

  “Come in,” she called.

  “Hey there.” It was Cate, looking bright-eyed and together as if she’d been up for hours—which, come to think of it, she probably had. Her straight, shiny hair was down around her shoulders, her high cheekbones were defined by a rose-colored blush, and she wore a mint green top with dark Seven jeans.

  “I’m heading into the office,” Cate said.

  On a Saturday? Renee thought. The forecast was calling for an unseasonably warm, sunny day—possibly the last one before fall clamped its chilly grip on Manhattan. But maybe that was why Cate had won the promotion. Renee worked long hours—everyone at the magazine did—but she’d have to stretch them out even further now that she was vying for the beauty editor job.

  “There’s fresh coffee in case you want some,” Cate continued.

  “Ooh, I want,” Renee said. “Thanks.”

  Cate hovered in the doorway. “And there’s some bad news. Naomi’s moving out.”

  Renee rubbed a hand across her forehead and flopped backward onto her bed. “Oh, no. I mean, she’s obnoxious, but at least we never see her.”

  Cate nodded. “I know. We’ll figure something out, okay? Sorry to start your morning like this.”

  “Not your fault.”

  Cate turned to leave, and Renee called, “Cate? Don’t forget about Trey’s party tonight. Do you want to come with me?”

  Cate hesitated. “I think so. Can we meet back here at eight? We could grab a cab together.”

  “Sure,” Renee said.

  She stood up and went into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face and sweep her hair into a ponytail. She glanced at the scale, debating whether to risk ruining her morning by stepping on it. It hadn’t been like this in her early twenties—she could binge on pizza and beer, and t
he next morning her stomach was flat, her skin and eyes clear. She’d never been a skinny girl, but no one would dream of calling her fat. She’d played field hockey and softball in high school, and had been at her thinnest then, a size 8. But ever since she’d passed twenty-five, she swore her metabolism had slowed to a crawl, as abruptly as if it had been whipping down a highway and had hit a traffic snarl. She’d put on sixteen pounds in the last few years, a slow, insidious creep, despite the fact that her eating habits hadn’t changed all that much. It was scary to think about the trend and what it foreshadowed.

  She’d been so careful last night. She’d nursed a single vodka tonic, then justified the lemon shooters someone else had bought for the table to toast Bonnie as being celebratory. She’d passed the gooey, cheesy bowl of crab dip to the woman sitting next to her without dipping a single crostini into it.

  She stepped onto the scale, and saw her restraint hadn’t been rewarded. But at least the number hadn’t nudged up another tick—which was especially important, because she was going to see Trey tonight.

  Renee hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it for the past week. When the e-mail had popped up in her in-box—Stop by for a few drinks next Saturday night—she’d actually felt her heart thud against her rib cage, until she saw it was also addressed to dozens of other people. Still, she’d saved it for the thrill of seeing his name on her computer screen. She’d waited two days, then typed back, Sounds great. I’ll try to make it!

  Casual. She had to be casual this time.

  She wondered if it could be a sign: After all, she’d met Trey at another party, just a few months earlier. She’d known who he was, of course, but that was the first time they’d ever talked. Renee leaned against the sink while she brushed her teeth and thought back to that night, when, in a room full of women, Trey had noticed her.

  That entire day had seemed laced with magic, from the moment Renee had woken up. She’d taken a long, hot shower—miraculously, the temperature had remained consistent—then had wandered out to run errands and stumbled across a beautiful leather purse in the window of a thrift shop, marked down to just thirty dollars. Who cared if it had a big purple ink stain on the lining? No one would ever see.

  A block later, her new purse on her shoulder, she’d passed by a farmers’ market and impulsively decided to wander among the stalls. The sun had warmed her bare arms as she inhaled the scents of wildflowers and artisanal cheeses and freshly baked bread studded with rosemary. She’d accepted a sample of watermelon from a vendor, closing her eyes as she bit into the crisp triangle of fruit. Impulsively, she’d pulled out her cell phone and dialed Jennifer, one of the few female staff writers for The Great Beyond. Jennifer was hosting the potluck party that evening.

  “Can I bring anything tonight?” Renee had asked.

  “Oh, just a bottle of wine,” Jennifer had said.

  “No, let me bring something good,” Renee had said. “I love to cook.”

  “Maybe onion dip?” Jennifer had suggested.

  Renee had laughed. “I’ll think of something.”

  Renee had roamed around the farmers’ market, filling her arms with a slim bunch of parsley, organic chicken breasts, some freshly churned butter, and a few vegetables with flecks of earth still clinging to them; then she’d hurried home. She’d spent the afternoon rolling out crust and dredging chicken in flour and slicing carrots into coins, losing herself in the rhythms. Other people sought out yoga or meditation, but Renee found the same experience in cooking: It transported her to a better place.

  She’d rejected two crusts—deciding, Goldilocks-like, that one was too hard and one was too soft—before crimping the edges of a perfect one, and finally slipped her potpie into the oven. Before she’d even finished getting dressed, a mouthwatering smell had seeped into her bedroom. Even Naomi had stopped doing leg lifts and wandered over to peer in the oven.

  When Renee had arrived at the party, she’d put her still-warm potpie on a kitchen counter and wandered away. Not ten minutes later, she’d heard a voice boom across the apartment: “I have to meet the woman who cooked this.”

  She’d known who the deep voice belonged to, known it was her potpie, even before she turned around and saw Jennifer raise a finger to point her out to Trey.

  “I’m Trey Watkins,” he’d said as he swallowed up the space between them with four big steps. He was holding an empty plate; not even a crumb remained. “And I’d like to propose.”

  Renee had tossed back her head and laughed. She’d sipped a glass of wine while getting ready for the party, and she knew her cheeks were flushed pink and her hair, which misbehaved about as often as a two-year-old on a sugar high, had been tamed into submission by a flat iron.

  “Will cooking potpies be part of my marital duties?” she’d asked Trey.

  “Every single night,” he’d said, looking right into her eyes.

  She’d laughed again as she felt a tingle low in her belly, and then—miracle of miracles—Trey hadn’t walked away. He’d stayed next to her, chatting, for twenty minutes. When he finally did leave, her phone number was tucked in his pocket.

  “Oh, honey,” Jennifer had said, materializing next to Renee and shaking her head. “Be careful.”

  “Why?” Renee had asked, unable to stop watching Trey. Just as she’d suspected, the view was every bit as good from the rear.

  “Because he’s a nice enough guy, but he’s a serial dater. And because you’re looking at him the way he was looking at your potpie.”

  “So he dates a lot?” Renee had asked.

  “He just broke up with a model. God, was she high maintenance,” Jennifer had said.

  “A high-maintenance model? How shocking.” Renee had taken a sip of her drink as her eyes flitted toward Trey again. “Maybe that explains it.”

  “Explains what?” Jennifer had asked.

  “Why he asked me out. I guess he wanted something different.”

  She’d gone out with Trey three times. Their first two dates were amazing, but the third one—well, even now, months later, the thought of what had transpired that night made Renee shut her eyes tightly and her face grow hot. But maybe enough time had passed that the images had blurred in Trey’s mind, even though space had only sharpened them in Renee’s. She’d seen him around the building dozens of times since then, and she’d been brisk but friendly, masking the fact that her insides were swooping down like she was on a roller coaster. Once she’d even gone over to the cafeteria table where he was sitting with a few other people she knew, plopped down with her coffee, and chatted a bit before getting up to leave—making sure she exited before Trey did.

  I can do this, she was trying to show him. I can be casual. Give me another chance.

  She’d been planning for this party from the moment she got the invitation. Yesterday afternoon, Renee had gone into the fashion closet at the office—they called it a closet, but it was more of a series of connecting rooms conjured out of the wildest fantasies of Sarah Jessica Parker—and borrowed an outfit. Anyone who worked for the magazine could sign out clothes, down to shoes and a belt, in case of a wardrobe emergency, but Renee never had before; even though it was an open policy, she was too low on the totem pole and it would’ve raised eyebrows if she’d taken advantage of it too frequently. She’d timed it strategically: She borrowed the outfit late on Friday afternoon, which meant she could wear it during the weekend, to Trey’s party.

  She’d had to wander past the racks and racks of size 2s and 4s—reluctantly sliding her hand along a slim cranberry-colored skirt made out of fine leather and a creamy silk halter-necked dress—before hitting the meager collection of 12s. She’d finally settled on a V-neck shirt with bell sleeves in a deep ruby color, worn by Renée Zellweger for a cover shoot after she’d put on weight for her last movie. The material was forgiving, and it highlighted her cleavage. The black skirt that went with the top was simple and well-constructed, with a little fishtail swirl.

  Now Renee finished brushing
her teeth and stared in the mirror as she reminded herself of her priorities for the party: Don’t eat or drink too much. Make Trey want to date her again. And don’t stain Renée Zellweger’s outfit.

  There was one other thing she really needed to tackle today. She’d delayed it far too long. Renee walked back into her bedroom and reached into her purse, her fingers closing around the blue letter with Becca’s e-mail address. She opened her laptop and stared at the blank screen. I’m so excited to meet you! she typed into a new e-mail. She looked down at the words and slowly backspaced over them.

  Renee had been an only child. Was she still one, since Becca had grown up in a different household and her father hadn’t known of her existence? It was so strange to think they’d be tied together for the rest of their lives—had been all along, really, even though neither woman was aware of the bond. They might meet and realize they had nothing in common—or worse, they might not even like each other.

  Becca was also a reminder that her parents’ marriage wasn’t ideal, that it had facets and hidden nooks Renee knew nothing about. Of course, that wasn’t Becca’s fault, Renee thought, suddenly wondering if Becca had a stepfather. She imagined her half sister wondering about her father, missing him at holidays and birthdays, and suddenly the words flowed out easily onto the screen: Thanks so much for your note. I’m really glad you reached out, and I’d like to meet you, too. A visit to New York sounds good. But only if you let me pay for half the cost of the trip!

  She sent a silent apology to her beleaguered bank account, wrote a few more lines, then added her cell phone number at the bottom. She hit Send before she lost her nerve, then went into the kitchen to eat an apple before her walk. As she leaned against the counter to stretch her calves, she noticed a piece of paper propped against the fruit bowl. It looked like someone had crumpled it up, then smoothed it back out. It was from Naomi, who, at the age of twenty-three, still dotted her i’s with little hearts.