Happily Ever After?

by Debra Kent

  “Sure,” I told him. “Call me.”

  “You got it.” And with that, the handsome detective was gone. Maybe my hair wasn’t so bad after all. I didn’t feel bald anymore, I felt sassy and edgy and chic. But Michael never called me. I’m trying not to think about it.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 14

  I called Lynette today. I had to know what the Rosens’ car was doing in front of her house on Saturday morning. She finally admitted that Wade and Melanie had spent the night. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “Lynette, what happened?”

  There was a long pause. “Sex happened,” she said, then giggled.

  “Excuse me?” I was sure I’d heard wrong.

  “Sex happened,” she repeated. “And it was incredible.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I’m not kidding. Melanie and Wade were incredible. Funny, happy, sweet. We had a little wine, then a little more, then Wade offered to give me a back rub and Melanie started kissing me and Curt was kissing me and the next thing I knew, we were all in the guest room. In the bed. Naked.”

  I didn’t know what to say. “Is this something you plan to do on a regular basis?” I knew I sounded judgmental.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe.”

  Michael Avila still hasn’t called.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 15

  He didn’t call me today, either. I knew he was lying about liking my hair.

  June 16

  I feel vindicated!

  I just heard through my new friend Donna Gold who heard from one of the Mushroomheads that C.J. Patterson pulled her kid off Jerry Johansen’s team. No details, but it had something to do with “inappropriate behavior.” On the assumption that C.J. doesn’t despise me anymore, I called and left a message on her machine.

  “Call me if you want to talk about any of this business with Coach Johansen.”

  She hasn’t called yet.

  Neither has Michael Avila.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 16, later

  I found a message on my machine today. Three words. “You’re a bitch.” A woman’s voice. I didn’t recognize it. I replayed the message again. I held my ear against the answering machine. I checked Caller I.D. The call that came in at 9:20 was marked “blocked.”

  The phone rang and I snatched it up at once. “What do you want?” I snapped.

  “Hey, baby. Calm down. It’s just me.” It was Diana.

  “Oh. Diana.” I let out a long breath.

  “I’m coming over,” she said. “I’m stopping at Provence for takeout. How does mushroom pâté sound to you?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have much of an appetite, Diana. Can I get a rain check on this?”

  “Absolutely not. I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes. We’re going to celebrate.”

  Diana arrived with a bottle of sparkling cider and a brown shopping bag from Provence, a tiny take-out place on Union where the counter help is haughty and a loaf of bread costs six dollars. Her mouth dropped open as she noticed my hacked-away hair. “Does this mean what I think it means?”

  “No, I’m not dressing up as Peter Pan for Halloween,” I answered. “And I’m too fat to be a Holocaust victim.”

  “You silly goose.” Diana reached out to run her palm over my crew cut. “I mean, does this new hair signal a shift in, shall we say, your romantic inclinations?”

  “Am I suddenly a lesbian? No.”

  “Pity.” Diana shucked off her shoes and padded ahead to the dining room in perfectly pedicured feet. She unpacked a crusty baguette, mushroom pâté, tortellini, and two dense slices of chocolate torte. “Incidentally, Valerie, you’re not fat. You’re delicious.” She pinched my ass. I swatted her hand away. I still don’t understand why Diana plays with me this way; surely there are enough gay women in this town to keep her busy.

  Diana moved through my kitchen quickly, pulling out plates and wineglasses, silverware and napkins. She knew exactly where to find everything and I remembered with a shudder how she had insinuated herself into our family as Roger’s “research assistant.” “Tell me the truth, Diana,” I started.

  “Of course, darling,” she said, batting her eyelashes at me. “What is it?”

  “When you were working with Roger, were you actually working?”

  “Umm …” She slid the pâté onto a plate and licked her finger. “Yes. Sort of.” She looked at me. “Roger didn’t have a lot of work for me. But he knew I needed a job. Mostly we just talked. The more he talked, the less I liked him. He bitched about you. Bragged about his latest conquests. Talked stocks.” She plopped the tortellini into a bowl. “That’s how I knew about the gold. Roger loved talking about money. And he loved spending it on everyone but you.”

  I was surprised to feel my eyes sting with tears. Diana looked at my face. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. You’re still tenderhearted.” She brightened. “Hey. Look who’s crying now. Your ex is still in the slammer and he doesn’t have a pot to piss in.”

  “How do you know he’s still in jail?”

  “He called me, the jerk. He asked me to bail him out. I told him forget it. I told him that he should sit there and think about the mistakes he’d made and get right with his Higher Power.” Diana grinned at me and poked me with her toe.

  She told me that Roger couldn’t pull his bail money together. His father wouldn’t bail him out. None of his siblings would help either. And once he gets out in a week or two, he’ll be homeless and without a job. He’s not trained to do anything except sponge off his parents, and it’s unlikely he’ll score big with another play. He can’t even get himself hired to teach because of Alyssa’s sexual harassment charges. Diana thinks he’ll probably move back in with his parents. “What a loser,” she said, spearing a tortellini with her fork and popping it into her mouth. “Wait! I almost forgot.”

  She topped off my glass and then her own, then raised it toward me. “A toast to Valerie Ryan. The sweetest, sexiest, and wealthiest woman I know. You deserve everything you want and more, baby. Here’s to you.” She clinked her glass against mine and took a sip. I gulped down my cider, wishing it was wine. “So tell me,” she asked, “what are you worth these days?”

  I took another sip, stalling. “Oh, a few million bucks, I guess.”

  “How many is a few, pray tell?”

  “Sixty-three million dollars. Give or take.”

  “Wooo-eeee!” Diana slapped the table. “So what are you going to do with all that money?” Diana asked. I told her I had no definite plans, but would probably buy a winter house somewhere warm and quiet. She offered to serve as a financial consultant. I told her I’d pass.

  “I understand completely,” she said, wiping her mouth. “It’s not like I’ve got a sterling reputation. If you need help, the offer stands. And when you buy that house, promise you’ll invite me.”

  I looked at Diana. Her dark hair framed a heart-shaped face and tumbled down around her shoulders. She wore stretch khaki pants that accentuated her flat belly and long, lithe thighs. Her black ribbed turtleneck clung to her slim arms and jutting breasts. She was pushing forty but had the wild beauty of a teenage boy. I fleetingly imagined what it might be like, being with her. I thought of Lynette and the Rosens. I squeezed my eyes shut and willed the images away.

  “You know,” she began, and I had the eerie feeling that she was reading my mind. “It’s not so bad on the other side. You ought to try it.”

  “Huh?”

  “Haven’t you had enough of men by now?”

  I tried to explain to Diana that I didn’t think sexual orientation was a choice, that I have always been interested in men, that even after Roger I am willing to try my luck with men again. “In fact, there’s someone I’ve got my eye on right now,” I said. “He’s tall and strong and nice and cute—and single.” Thinking of Michael made me feel happy and giddy. I wanted to talk
about him.

  “Is that right?” Diana asked, restraining a frown. “And who is this Prince Charming that has you so captivated?”

  “His name is Michael and he’s a cop.”

  “Michael Avila?” Diana asked, her eyes popping wide.

  “You know him?”

  “Not exactly. But I know of him.” She looked away. “Ready for dessert?” She stood up and started clearing the plates.

  I grabbed her by the elbow. “Get back here,” I demanded. “What do you know about Michael Avila?”

  Diana threw up her hands. “Nothing. Nothing. I mean, I know he’s a bachelor. I know he’s a detective. I’ve seen him around and I know he’s mighty handsome.”

  “You know a lot. What else do you know?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Come on, Diana. Don’t bullshit me. Is he a psycho?”

  “No.”

  “Is he a philanderer?”

  “No.” “Is he a liar? A serial killer? A rapist?” “No, no, no!” Diana spun around. “Look. I really don’t know him. I’m sure he’s a great guy.” She grabbed her glass and tilted it toward me. “I’m sure you’ll make a lovely couple. But I’m still hoping you’ll change your mind about men. I would never hurt you, Valerie. And I give the best back rubs.”

  “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “Never say die.” She grinned. “That’s my motto.”

  After Diana left, I realized she’d succeeded in distracting me from our conversation about Michael Avila. I wondered what she knew about him. It makes me sick to think it might be something bad. In the meantime, I await his call.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 18

  Will wonders never cease? C.J. Patterson called me to apologize. She admitted that I was right about Big Head Johansen and begged my forgiveness. She told me that the coach had quit the team, quit his job, and moved with his family to Wyoming. Then she invited me to her house for tea Wednesday afternoon. I accepted the invitation, then wondered what the hell I could possibly talk to C.J. Patterson about for two hours.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 19

  I met with Nancy Cooperman, a financial advisor with Barlowe Associates. Omar had recommended her, said that her clients include Bruce and Babs Alexander (they own half the county), Elgin Wiley (he owns the other half), and Marcus Osten (owns most of the McDonald’s franchises in this part of the country). I still can’t believe that I’m now part of this elite club. Nancy sketched out an elaborate but sensible plan, and all but guaranteed that she would double my money in eight to ten years.

  I told her I wanted to buy a summer house and she suggested Figure Eight Island on Cape Fear in Wilmington, North Carolina. I never heard of it. Nancy said she’d have a realty directory sent to me at once. What service!

  Saw Michael Avila at the bagel place. He was leaving as I walked in. He awkwardly apologized for not calling, said he’s been swamped with work. He told me again how much he loved my short hair. I did not believe him this time.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 20

  C.J. Patterson doesn’t really want to be my friend.

  I figured this out after I had started on my second chocolate chip scone. She asked if I’d consider making a twenty-five-thousand-dollar donation to the hospital foundation. She said that my name would appear on a brass plaque by the reception area. “It’s an investment in our community,” C.J. intoned, “an expression of your commitment to the health and well-being of our precious community. It’s a legacy that will live on forever, a legacy for your children, and your children’s children.”

  I’d done enough fund-raising for the Center to know that you don’t just flat-out ask someone to donate $25,000. You cultivate them. You shmooze them. You ask them to join the board, or a committee. This kind of cultivation can take months, even years. And when the moment is right, you absolutely do not send someone like C.J. Patterson to “make the ask.” It’s an art, a science, as profound as a marriage proposal, as delicate as a butterfly wing. Two weeks ago, C.J. Patterson was calling me names. She wasn’t a friend. She wasn’t even someone I respected. And once I realized that it wasn’t my company she wanted but my money, I knew I had to leave. I stuffed the rest of the scone into my mouth and washed it down with lukewarm strawberry tea.

  “Thanks for having me, C.J.,” I told her as I gathered my jacket and bag. “Delicious scones. You’ll have to give me the recipe.” I didn’t say anything about a donation. I left the hospital brochure on her coffee table. When I told my mother what had happened, she said I’d better get used to it.

  Michael left a message on my machine. He has two tickets for the ballet this Saturday and wondered whether I’d like to join him. I called back and left a message on his machine. “Absolutely!” I said, a little too enthusiastically, I fear.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 21

  I was just getting into the shower when the phone rang.

  “Don’t hang up.” The voice was small, thin, male.

  “Who is this?”

  “You’ve forgotten me already, have you?”

  It was Roger. His voice was so choked and shrunken I would have never guessed it belonged to my arrogant ex-husband.

  “What do you want?”

  “I wouldn’t be asking you this if I weren’t desperate,” he began, and I knew the rest.

  “No, Roger,” I interrupted. “I won’t bail you out.”

  “Wait! Hear me out. Please. I beg you.”

  Anger rose like bile in the back of my throat. There was so much I wanted to say. Instead, I hung up the phone and disconnected the wire from the wall.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 22

  I started the day at the mall, and ended with a Jeep full of shopping bags. I don’t care if my body is less than perfect. It still deserves to be adorned.

  It’s been so long since I’ve dated that I decided I needed a refresher course. I went to the library in search of helpful hints for newly single women and found The Ten Commandments of Dating. I vaguely remembered that this book was met with considerable criticism when it first appeared, and as I flipped through its pages, I understood why.

  Commandment Three: When he finally calls, tell him you’re unavailable.

  Commandment Seven: If he leaves a message on your machine, don’t return his call for forty-eight hours.

  Commandment Nine: Don’t even consider having sex until you’ve dated at least a year.

  Is this author deranged? Does anyone actually follow these commandments? What’s the point of waiting a year to have sex? Why would anyone cancel a date with someone they actually like? I was mystified. Yet oddly intrigued. I took the book home and plan to read it tonight.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 22, later

  Hunter is signed up for the second session at the Gibson Prep School camp and now Pete wants to go too. Actually, it’s not really a camp, not in the traditional sense. There’s no pool or playground, no hiking or arts and crafts. It’s more like summer school without grades or tests. There are two classes a day with an hour break for lunch. Hunter is taking a class on the Civil War, and another on the Vikings.

  I called the camp but the secretary insisted that there were no openings. I offered to pay double the fee. She put me on hold, returned five minutes later, and told me that she could, in fact, make an exception, given my willingness to compensate the camp appropriately.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  June 23

  I wish I could freeze this feeling forever.

  It is 12:09 A.M. I have been with Michael Avila for six utterly transcendent hours. I’m too wary to say I’m in love, but I’m definitely enchanted.

  Even with all my new clothes, I couldn’t find anything formal enough for the ballet. I finally settled on a long black skirt, cream-colore
d embroidered top, short black velvet jacket. Michael looked sleek and delicious in a jet-black tux.

  Michael gave me a bouquet of pastel roses, Asiatic lilies, and alstroemeria, and when I went to hug him, he kissed me on the cheek and it felt soft and warm. He told me that I looked even prettier with short hair, that it brought out the green in my eyes. I felt pretty under his gaze. I felt tall and slim and attractive and special and sparkly.

  I think he was expecting to meet Pete, but I’d arranged for Pete to sleep at Drew Steuben’s house. (Pete had begged me to let him stay with Hunter, but I’m still feeling icky about Lynette and Curtis.)

  We started the evening at Bellamy’s and I took it as a rather romantic choice, since this was where we had our first date, the one my mother had engineered. Though pricey, the food at Bellamy’s is consistently good and is prepared by actual trained grown-ups— noteworthy in a town where most restaurants are staffed by college kids whose culinary repertoire is limited to “three minutes on full power.”

  Michael suggested we order two dishes to share, another happy signal. Roger hated sharing food. He thought it was unhygienic. We started with a bottle of Möet Et Chandon and appetizers: sauteed almonds and marinated roasted olives (yum!), then moved to the chicken fricassee with ginger, scallions, sweet peppers, onions, and shiitake mushrooms (sublime), and gnocchi with wild mushrooms, truffles, and scallions (perfect). For dessert, one crème brûlée, two spoons (his choice, above my protestations that I needed to watch my weight).

  By 8 P.M. we were settled into our plum-colored velvet seats at the Performing Arts Center. Appalachian Suite, I learned from the program, focuses on a younger pioneer couple in early-nineteenth-century Pennsylvania. Composed by Aaron Copland for Martha Graham, the music was strong and optimistic. The program included a quote from Martha Graham, who wrote that the Appalachian Suite “is essentially the coming of new life. It has to do with growing things.” She said that spring was the loveliest but also the saddest time. I thought about the coming of my new life, the growing of a new relationship. I was enchanted by the loveliness of this moment with Michael, but I was also sad. Was I grieving for what I’d lost? Or because I suspected that happiness would always elude me, that even this budding relationship was doomed?