Happily Ever After?

by Debra Kent

  He sat inches away at the table beside mine. I tried not to stare. He had curly honey-colored hair, as thick as a boy’s, though I’d peg him at about forty-three, maybe a bit older. His skin was deeply bronzed and the hair on his arms was bleached to the palest blond, nearly white, like a lifeguard’s. He wore a softly faded indigo T-shirt and loose black cotton pants; he was built like someone whose living depended on a well-muscled body—a construction worker, maybe, or a farmer. There were laugh lines around eyes as blue as the Pacific, giving him a perpetual expression of delight, even when his face was in repose. There was intelligence in his eyes, and kindness, but also behind that, ferocity. His nose was prominent but not ungainly, his lips were generous. His teeth were bright and straight and there was a sexy little gap between the top front two. He had large, capable-looking hands and no wedding band, but I detected the slightest indentation around his ring finger where a wedding band might have been, a long time ago.

  He caught me staring and smiled. He stood up to refill his cup and asked if I’d like more coffee. By that point I’d had enough caffeine to propel me through the ceiling. I said, “I’d love some.” When he bent to take my cup I could smell his skin and it was fresh and clean, like rainwater. When he returned to his seat, the most bizarre feeling came over me. I felt I’d always known him, as if we were married in another life, as if there were a thread already linking us, fine as silk and resilient as a spider’s web. The only thing we had between us was a smile, and yet I felt serene and happy and completely connected to this stranger.

  I must be losing my mind.

  He gestured toward Pete’s book. “Ahhh, the great King Arthur,” he said. He leaned closer and squinted at the page. “And, yes, there is his lovely Guinevere.” He looked at me and I thought my head would combust.

  Pete, who is normally reserved around strangers, looked up and smiled. “Do you like King Arthur?”

  The man returned the smile. “Doesn’t everyone?” He wiped a dab of cream cheese off his beautiful bottom lip. “After all, he did pull the sword from the stone when he was just a pip like you. Not even the strongest knight in the kingdom could accomplish such a feat.”

  Pete beamed at him, and though I’d just resolved to take a sabbatical from men, I felt I had to know his name and maybe, God willing, he would ask for my phone number. I wondered if he was thinking the same thing, because his eyes met mine and he started to open his mouth … and then Pete tugged my hand AND SAID HE HAD TO PEE! I rushed him to the bathroom, where pee turned into a more complicated ordeal (apparently his bagel and chocolate milk didn’t exactly agree with him), and by the time I got out of the bathroom the adorable man with the British or South African accent was gone!

  It figures.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  September 1

  Well, I’ve taken the first step. I called Nancy Cooperman at Barlowe Associates and asked her to investigate the possibility of buying the Center. She wasn’t especially encouraging. “There are better ways to spend your money,” she said. “I can think of a dozen ways to maximize your return on investment, but buying the Center isn’t one of them.” I wanted to tell Nancy that this was about revenge, not return on investment. She wouldn’t understand, so I kept it to myself.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “But there are a lot of good people doing fine work there, and it would be a shame if they had to shut down just because they’re strapped for cash.”

  Nancy didn’t say anything at first, and I imagine she was weighing her options. If she acquiesced, she wouldn’t be doing her job. But if she argued the point, she might lose me and all my money. It was a tricky situation and she’d have to handle me delicately, which she did.

  “You have a point,” she said. “Let me nose around and see what I can find out. Give me a few days, okay?”

  “Fine, but I don’t want to drag this out. I want to move quickly, before another buyer gets there before me,” I said. While most of my crazy impulses become less attractive as time passes (buying a miniature horse, learning to speak Japanese, buying a fondue set, starting a day care center, dying my hair black), I’m more eager than ever to buy the Center. True, I don’t know anything about operating a practice of that size (of any size, actually), but surely I can find the right people to help me.

  “Nancy?”

  “Yes, Valerie?”

  “Please don’t let anyone know you’re working for me. Keep my name out of it. You’ve got my power of attorney, and as far as anyone’s concerned, you’re the only one they need to know right now.”

  “I understand,” Nancy said. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I know something.”

  September 4

  Roger wants to see Pete this Saturday. I was hoping he’d be one of those absentee fathers you hear about on radio shows, the jerks who forget their kids’ birthdays and call a couple of times a year if at all.

  What a horrible thing to write! My son should have a father who remembers his birthdays and calls every day, not once a year. But in order for Roger to remain involved in Pete’s life, he must remain involved in my life too, which makes me feel claustrophobic.

  I told Roger about the Tiger Cub camping trip, and suggested he save his visitation for that weekend. He was ecstatic until I mentioned that one of my male friends would have to supervise. “What kind of bullshit is this, Valerie?” he jabbed. “You think I’m going to try to kidnap my own kid?”

  “I have no idea what you plan on doing with Peter,” I said.

  “Oh, now it’s Peter?” he mimicked. “When did you start calling him Peter?”

  “I don’t have time for this, Roger.”

  “No. Really. Just tell me. When did Pete become Peter? Was that your idea? Or did that jackass Bill Stropp person suggest it?”

  How the hell did he know about Bill Stropp??? “Roger,” I said, trying to sound light and detached, “One of the great advantages of divorce is that I don’t have to fight with you anymore. So if you’ll excuse me, I need to go.”

  “Look. I’m sorry. I don’t want to fight. This is hard for me, too, you know.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Please. Let me take Pete camping without the … supervision. Please. You can trust me, Val.”

  “I’ve got to go,” I said, and hung up quickly, before he could squeeze another word in.

  If being married to Roger was hard, being divorced from him may be even harder.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  September 9

  Michael Avila has agreed to accompany Pete on the Tiger Cubs camping trip. Now I have two weeks to develop some sort of relationship between them. I’ve invited Michael for dinner tonight. He asked if he could bring a date. I guess he’s still convinced he can will himself to be heterosexual. Good luck, is all I can say.

  Nancy Cooperman called to say that she talked to Tom France, general counsel for the Center. She told him about her anonymous client who is considering acquiring the Center and he seemed intrigued. He already had the prospectus from the last, albeit failed, negotiations with the hospital. I’ll have a formal prospectus in my hands next week. “The asking price is about a million and a half,” Nancy said.

  “That’s all? Are you sure?” Maybe I’ve already been jaded by my new wealth, but $1.5 million just didn’t sound like a lot of money for a whole mental health practice.

  “Well, I suppose I could convince them to take more,” she said. It took a moment to realize she was being facetious.

  I want to tell Dale but I’ve promised myself I won’t tell a soul, not even my mother. If Cadence knows I’m behind this takeover, this deal is dead.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  September 10

  Dinner with Michael went nicely. He came bearing Pokémon cards (including the apparently rare second edition hologram Alakazam card) and won Pete’s heart. His date for the evening was Lorinda, a plump school-teacher with bright blue eyes and
a hearty laugh. She looked more like a beloved great-aunt than a girlfriend. They made an amiable, if bizarre-looking, couple.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  September 11

  One of the tortures of being a parent, I’ve decided, is suffering through all the crap you thought you left behind. It’s like some cruel karmic trick; just when you think you’ve transcended the teasing and rejection and humiliation (and math homework), your kid starts suffering through it himself, and when he suffers, you suffer. Whatever distance you may have gained growing older quickly narrows to a hair’s breadth and you are transported right back there, back to grade school, back to the time Sharon Finley said you had the ugliest hair in second grade and, no, you can’t play tetherball with her and Lisa Morgenstern because they’re in a club and the club is called The Cool Girls Club and everyone is invited to join except Valerie Ryan because she has ugly hair.

  And so you try your best to be wise and comforting when your kid comes home crying, but what you really want to say is, Just give me that brat’s name and I will track him down and beat him within an inch of his life.

  Pete came home in tears today. Apparently, Gregory James Martindale is having a serious birthday party— magician, clowns, ponies—and that little BASTARD invited EVERYBODY in class except for Pete. Gregory handed out his invitations IN SCHOOL, which isn’t even ALLOWED, and for the rest of the day the kids were in an absolute frenzy.

  To make matters worse, the Martindales’ house is within spitting distance from ours; their backyard borders the creek behind our house, just east of Bill’s property. When the trees become bare, we can see clearly into their yard. I’ll have to make sure we’re away that day.

  When Pete came home crying. I wanted to cry along with him. Then I got mad. What kind of parents would allow this? I’d sooner cancel my party than allow Pete to deliberately reject one particular child. Then I realized why Pete had been excluded.

  Gregory and Pete both play forward in soccer, but Greg never gets much time on the field because, frankly, he’s a bit of a klutz. In fact, I’d asked Coach to give him more time on the field. This is a kids’ league, for God’s sake. Everyone deserves to play.

  He listened politely, then said, “Soccer is serious business in this town. If you’re looking for something less competitive, you could always sign Pete up for art classes or something. But that would be a shame, because your son is a damn good player. So why don’t you just sit back and enjoy watching him play, and leave the coaching to me, okay?”

  Last month the team played the Cougars, the best team in the league. Whoever won would advance to the countywide championship. Greg warmed the bench, as usual, while Pete played, and he played well. Near the end of the game, Coach decided to give Greg a chance, then yanked him out after two minutes and put Pete back in. Kippy was screaming and Greg Sr., who supposedly was a varsity basketball star in college, looked like he might rip the coach’s head off.

  And then Pete scored the winning goal and the crowd roared. The parents flooded the field and surrounded Pete, who was flushed with pride. My boy was a hero, while Gregory James had blown his big chance. I felt terrible for Greg.

  After the game, I tried to say something to Kippy but she just glared at me while Greg Jr. repeatedly smashed his fist against the bleachers and wiped the tears off his face. I stupidly encouraged Pete to go over and talk to him, and he tried, but Greg spun around and waved his fist menacingly at Pete. “Go away,” the boy screamed. “You suck!”

  Greg Sr. marched over and put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “It’s not your fault,” he said, loud enough for me to hear. “Coach feels sorry for Pete ’cause he comes from a broken home. He doesn’t have a dad to play with him like you do.”

  I felt a knot of rage rise in my throat. “Excuse me?” I yelled. “What did you just say?”

  He never turned around, but muttered, “You heard me.”

  I tried to be conciliatory. I caught up with him. “Look,” I started. “I know this has to be painful for you, and I’m sorry about that, but—”

  “Sorry?” he cut me off. “What do you have to be sorry about? Your kid is the biggest hog on the field! He’s ruining it for everyone else!”

  I wanted to say, Your kid’s a lame-ass, and that’s why Coach won’t put him in! But as I stared at this sputtering, red-faced, hulking ex-jock, I knew the conversation was over. Diplomacy was a waste of time and hurling back insults would probably get me killed. So I took Pete’s hand and walked away.

  First I called Lynette to make sure there really was a party. Yes, she said, Greg was having a party, and yes, there would be clowns, a pony, and a magician. Lynette had already heard that Pete was the only kid in the class who didn’t get an invitation. “Poor little guy,” she clucked sympathetically. “Hunter told me Greg made quite a scene handing out those darned invitations. He would never have gotten away with it if they hadn’t had a sub today.” Okay. That explains why Greg was allowed to pass out invitations during class time. Substitute teachers tend to be clueless, and also overly acquiescent.

  I miraculously found the school directory in the kitchen drawer, which, in one of my organizing moods, I’d designated for phone books, and called Kippy Martindale. I’d hoped to convince her to reconsider. Pete was a mess. Surely we could put that silly soccer incident behind us and encourage the boys to be friends. But she wouldn’t hear it. “I’m sorry, Valerie,” she said, “but Gregory was very clear about this. He doesn’t want Pete at his party. And I can’t say that I blame him.”

  I swallowed hard. How I wished I could reach through the phone and strangle that woman. “Fine,” I said. I hung up. I looked at Pete’s hopeful face. “I’m sorry, sweetie,” I told him. “I tried, but Greg and his mom aren’t being very nice right now.”

  Pete wiped his eyes. “It’s okay, Mom.”

  “Hey,” I said, rubbing his back and wondering what it would cost to buy Pete a pony, “maybe we can do something fun that day, just you and me. Where would you like to go? You name it.” Pete started crying again, and with every heave of his bony chest I imagined smashing Kippy Martindale’s highlighted head into the wall.

  Spent all morning in Bill Stropp’s bed, where he fed me strawberries and told me he’d decided to move out west to be closer to his kids. I wasn’t devastated. I wasn’t even sad. Somehow I always knew that Bill Stropp would be transitory and celestial, like an angel.

  I told him I was going to take a karate class. He wrapped his hand around my biceps and squeezed. “Mmmmm …” he said. “You’re going to be a toughie. I like that.” He traced a finger across my lips and then kissed me, a deep and long kiss that made every nerve ending come alive. We had sex for the third time, lazily, playfully. I’m not even sure I came, but it didn’t matter, because I felt so good, sleepy and warm and free. We both fell asleep, and when I woke up I kissed him for the last time. He would be moving and it was time for me to move on.

  The second best thing that came of my morning with Bill (sex being the first) was a solution to the Gregory James Martindale birthday party problem. “Here’s what you do,” he said, pulling his jeans on. He wasn’t wearing underwear, and this small detail reminded me why I’ve enjoyed knowing Bill Stropp these past few months. “Give Pete his own party.”

  “But it’s not his birthday,” I said.

  “So what? Give him a party just for the hell of it,” he said. In fact, have Pete’s party on the same day, but make it noon to three. So what if the Martindales rent a couple of clowns and some loser pony. You hire the whole freakin’ circus. Pete invites everyone in class, except Greg Martindale, who can watch Pete’s kickass party from his backyard. How does that sound?”

  I told him it sounded juvenile, but I secretly thought it was a wickedly delicious idea. “You don’t like this kid very much, do you?” I asked.

  “I caught him throwing rocks at my dog. I think he’s a mean little bastard.”

  As I pulled out of Bill’s drivew
ay, I glanced at the Martindales’ house, a white Cape Cod with black shutters and a small guest house at the side, designed to look like a stable. Then I saw her. Kippy Martindale. Standing at an upstairs window behind gauzy white curtains. She was watching me. Through binoculars! Now I realized how Roger knew about Bill. Kippy, hateful, vengeful, and bitter, must have told him! But why? Because of a stupid soccer game? Or did she have another reason for hating me?

  I don’t have time to figure this out. I’ve got a party to plan!

  ’Til next time,

  V

  September 12

  Maybe money can’t buy you love, but I’ve discovered that most everything else has a price tag. I called Alexi Chen at Perfect Parties in Chicago; I’d read about her in People magazine. Chen’s clients are celebrities and urban aristocrats, not unemployed suburban soccer moms. Not surprisingly, she wasn’t particularly solicitous when I called. Then I uttered those four magic words—Money Is No Object—and suddenly Alexi Chen was my best friend, chatty and interested and eager to please.

  Alex assured me that she’d have some “smashing” ideas by Monday, and if I was willing to pay, the short deadline wouldn’t be a problem. “Listen, Val,” she said, as if she’d known me her whole life, “remember a certain concert that was canceled due to the singer’s sudden illness? She wasn’t ill. She was working for me. I paid her twice her fee at the Garden to sing at Stevie Spielberg’s New Year’s Eve party!”

  Stevie Spielberg? I love it.

  I can’t wait to tell Pete. And, I’ve got to admit, I’m even more anxious for Pete to tell Gregory James Martindale that he’s not invited to the mother of all parties.

  ’Til next time,

  V

  September 13

  I changed my mind. It would be small-minded and immature to exclude Greg Martindale. I’ve got to sacrifice my vindictive impulses and make the responsible choice: the brat will get an invitation.