Bombshell

by Lynda Curnyn

  I turned to look at him, too. And for a moment, when I took in that handsome face, saw the way he looked up and smiled at Lori, I almost wanted to take back my warm affirmation of her choice. She was young, yes, but I had been just as young once. Who knew if she’d ever find a man she loved like that again?

  After all, a man you could truly love wasn’t so easy to find.

  As if she read my mind, Lori looked at me again. “It’s not like we’ll never see each other again. In fact, we’re planning on some time together next summer in London. And then there are school breaks….”

  I smiled, somewhat ruefully, though I hoped she didn’t notice.

  Maybe it would work. Who really could tell about these things?

  Since I certainly couldn’t, I decided to give myself over to another power: Stolichnaya. And it seemed to work. Two martinis later, I was, conceivably, the belle of the ball. I spoke to everyone who was anyone—with the exception of Michael, of course. But I felt him watching me—and why shouldn’t he? I was charming as hell, chatting up everyone from the pinch-faced research assistant from R & D to the Director of Northeast Sales. Which was probably why I felt so damn vulnerable the moment I found myself on the edge of the dance floor alone, after disentangling myself from Roland Barlow, an R&D researcher who’d had one too many himself.

  Fortunately, when you wear a dress like the one I had on tonight, you didn’t stay lonely for long.

  “Grace Noonan, my God, you get more and more gorgeous every year.”

  “Ross, how are you?” I said, suddenly finding myself inexplicably delighted to be in the presence of Ross Davenport, aka Corporate Lech. Thrice-divorced and suspiciously tan in the dead of winter, Ross couldn’t let a Christmas party go by without making his annual pass at me. He was the kind of guy who kept the party going long after they’d booted us out of the rented space, usually dragging his fellow rabble-rousers out for more drinks and mayhem. I wasn’t normally among that group, though tonight I was feeling a bit like a good-time girl myself. And maybe it was all those martinis swimming in my system, but Ross, who was a handsome man despite his Long Island accent and lack of finesse, was looking quite delectable in his fresh-from-the-cleaners blue suit.

  “I’m doing much better now, thank you very much,” he said, meandering closer now that I hadn’t given him my usual curt blow-off.

  “You’re looking well,” I said, studying his tanned features and faded blue eyes. Could that tan be from time spent outdoors? I knew, from previous party chat, that he liked to fish. Men did that in winter, right? Maybe he wasn’t a tanning-bed buffoon, but an outdoorsy sort.

  That I could work with. “So how’s life on Long Island?” I said, beginning the banter.

  “Life is great, Grace,” he replied, beaming a set of teeth at me that looked suspiciously white, considering that I knew him to be a chain smoker. “You ought to come out some time. I’ll take you out on the boat,” he said with touch of pride. There’s nothing like having a good car, a good house and a good boat to make you the King of the Burbs. I’m sure Ross was a hot property out there, judging by the number of wives who had hooked themselves to his speedboat, hoping to zip off into the sunset with him.

  Maybe I could be happy zipping off into the sunset with someone like Ross, I tried to persuade myself. Simple. Uncomplicated. And, I thought, remembering the three kids he had spawned with two of those wives, in…working order.

  And just as I was envisioning a version of myself that was liposuctioned, lighter-haired and somewhat more fuzzy-headed from the drinking I imagined I’d have even more time and more reason to do, that prince of yesteryear stepped into my line of vision, which I was trying with difficulty to focus on Ross.

  “Grace,” Michael said, with a nod and a look into my eyes that said he was questioning my sanity at the moment. “Ross,” he said, slapping his number-one plant manager on the back. He knew how to play with the little guys. And the somewhat bigger girls…

  “Hey, Michael, my man,” Ross replied, slurring his words in a way that said he would never make it as far as Michael, and not only because he wasn’t a Dubrow.

  Then, in a move that surprised me even more than the way Ross was visibly gawking at my breasts in his boss’s presence, Michael reached for my hand, gently leading me out of the corner Ross had boxed me into. “Mind if I steal this pretty lady for a dance?”

  Flabbergasted, Ross threw his hands up in the air, as if disavowing all claim to me. “Hey, no problem,” he said, stepping back to make room as Michael led me to the dance floor.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Michael said, once he’d pulled me into his arms.

  “Hello to you, too,” I replied, staring into those blue eyes and realizing how much I had missed them.

  “Grace, you know what I mean,” he said, smiling in spite of his admonishments. “Ross is a nice guy and all, but when it comes to women—” He grimaced. “You deserve better than that.”

  I do, I thought, warming, in spite of myself, to the feel of Michael’s arms around me. Though I hated myself for it, I felt myself being drawn in all over again, this time by the wave of protectiveness he was showing me. I caught myself in time. “Yes, I do deserve better,” I replied gamely, giving him a look that clearly questioned whether he was it. “How’s Courtney?” I said, so tartly I was almost embarrassed.

  “Grace, I wanted to call you so many times….”

  “Call me? For what purpose?”

  “Well, to talk to you about—”

  I started to pull away, but his grip tightened. Not wanting to make a scene—not wanting anyone, least of all Michael, to get wind of the sudden emotion gaining ground within me—I swayed back into him again, feeling that same old electric zing when his groin made contact with my thigh.

  God, this was madness. What a bastard he was. “Tell me what, exactly? That we weren’t going to fuck anymore? I had already made that decision.”

  “Grace—”

  “Oh wait, I know. You wanted to let me know that there had been a change in corporate policy. That you can’t fuck employees anymore, but you can marry them….”

  “Gracie—”

  “Don’t Gracie me,” I said. “I’m not yours to play with anymore.”

  He sighed, letting his grip go loose on me. “You know you’ll always have a place in my heart, Grace.”

  That little statement made me even more furious. “Which place, exactly?” I queried coolly. “Left ventricle or right? Or maybe you’ll let me have the aortic valve, if I promise to stay real quiet and not clog the system—”

  “Grace, you don’t understand.”

  “No, Michael, that’s where you’re wrong,” I replied, finally disentangling myself from his hold. “I understand you perfectly now.”

  I couldn’t go home, I realized as the cab speeded uptown. Not alone anyway. Not when I was this drunk. The thought of sharing those walls with the weight of everything I was feeling was almost too much to bear. I felt desperate for human companionship—someone, anyone, to let me know that everything was okay. That I was okay.

  I pulled out my cell, but the moment I had it in hand, I simply stared at it. Who would I call, exactly? Bad Billy? I supposed I could call Billy. He wasn’t one to hold a grudge, especially if he stood to gain a little booty.

  But the minute that thought arose came another: If I was looking for booty, why not go with the best?

  “Make a right here,” I found myself practically shouting to the cabbie when I looked up and realized we were at W. 80th Street. Jonathan’s block.

  The cabbie muttered something unintelligible. I was sure if I understood Arabic, it might have offended me. But I didn’t care. I knew what I wanted now. Or more precisely, whom.

  I glanced down at myself, noting the way my breasts rose most becomingly out of the red sheath, my skin looking positively shimmery in the dim light of the cab.

  I smiled. And I was going to get him, too. Because if nothing else, I knew Jonathan
desired me.

  Once I stood outside of his building, feeling every inch a vamp in my red dress and stilettos and ready to make my mark, I suddenly wondered what the hell had hit me.

  I couldn’t just ring his doorbell for booty. Because I was sure there was something in the Booty Call Rulebook that said you couldn’t turn a boyfriend into a…booty call.

  He had been just as much a boyfriend as Billy had been back in the day, the demon voice argued back, at least in terms of our length of tenure as an actual couple.

  But as I gazed up at the single light that burned in the window, imagining Jonathan sitting quietly in his living room with a book, his solitude complete, the specter of all that had come between us rose up before me again. No, Jonathan was no Billy.

  I had never been in love with Billy. And I was sure now, as I stared up at that window, longing for that man behind the glass, that love was what I had felt for Jonathan….

  “Grace?”

  I nearly jumped into the air at the sound of my name, then was pathetically glad I hadn’t, seeing as I was teetering on four-inch stilettos and way too many martinis.

  I turned, startled, to find Dr. Somerfield himself, strolling down the sidewalk toward me.

  “Jonathan,” I breathed, unbelievably glad to see him. God, he looked adorable, the thick collar of a deep brown turtleneck peeking out of his long dark overcoat and deepening the color of his eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked, stopping before me and gazing at me rather curiously.

  And why wouldn’t he be looking at me like that, standing in front of his apartment and gazing at his window like a bitch in heat? Suddenly I felt foolish, and desperate for a way to save face, I blurted out, “I, uh, I was just on my way to…to Zabar’s,” I said, latching onto the first excuse I could come up with. Yes, Zabar’s. It was in between our apartments. Granted, it wasn’t technically necessary for me to walk down W. 80th Street to get to it, but it was conceivable.

  I saw that he was smiling at me now. “Do you always go grocery shopping in a ball gown?”

  If I were the type of woman to blush, I would have gone red to the roots of my hair. Perhaps it was the alcohol in my system that kept me stabilized—or at least kept me in the kind of whirling state of mind that made anything possible.

  “Well, you know—new dress, new shoes,” I said, scrambling desperately to hang on to the ledge I had perched on. “I thought I’d break them in while I was at it. You know, it’s not easy to spend a whole evening in a getup like this without a…a trial run,” I finished, realizing I was now dangling off that ledge, and looking pretty ridiculous, too.

  His smile faltered, and he looked at his watch. “It’s ten o’clock, Grace. I hate to break it to you, but I think Zabar’s is closed.”

  And with that one sentence, I was undone. “Right,” I whispered, dropping my gaze to the sidewalk, as if I might find a crack in the pavement to slither into. Then, maybe because I saw no such escape, I finally came clean. Sort of. “The truth is, I just needed…to get out.” Yes, that had been true, I thought, remembering how I had rushed out of the Waldorf as if it were on fire. Trying to escape the menacing loneliness I had felt in the midst of all those people after my showdown with Michael.

  I looked up at Jonathan then, and saw something in his eyes that said he understood. It was almost too much to bear, that recognition. I felt suddenly, achingly vulnerable. “Well, I should go….” I began.

  “Do you want to come inside?” he asked, studying my eyes again.

  If only you knew, I thought, embarrassed about everything that had brought me to his doorstep tonight. “No, I…I should go,” I repeated, backing away.

  “Let me walk you,” he said.

  “Oh, no, that’s fine.” I backed away even farther, feeling more shaky with every step I took. Then, like a savior in the night, a cab came rolling down the street. “It’s too cold to…to walk,” I explained, and with a hurried good-night, I flagged down the taxi and nearly leaped inside.

  And just in time, too. Because, much to my surprise—and my horror—I realized I was crying.

  My phone was ringing when I walked into my apartment, and the sound sobered me. Who could be calling me? I wondered. Jonathan? It had to be Jonathan. He must have sensed my state of distress, and now—noble soul that he was—he was calling to offer me comfort. He was so good. Too good, I thought, my hand closing over the receiver before I could even collect myself.

  “Grace!” came my mother’s voice, sounding surprisingly strong considering how far away she was. “We’re just heading out to Versailles for the day and thought we’d check in. How are you, darling?”

  It was the simplest of questions, and usually I was fully prepared to give the simplest of answers, but suddenly I found myself choking out around the sob in my throat, “I’m not so great….”

  “Gracie, sweetheart, what’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  “Nothing really,” I said, struggling to get a hold of myself. It was true, nothing had happened. Not between me and Jonathan. Or me and Michael, for that matter. In truth, nothing ever really happened, I realized, suddenly seeing the fruits of every effort I had made over the past few years as just that: a whole heap of nothing. Not even the glimmer of hope about my campaign idea that Dianne had given me last night could save me now.

  A tidal wave of feeling crashed over me, and suddenly I was crying in a way I could not control. Or hide.

  “Oh, God, Grace, are you hurt? Please. Oh, Tom, something has happened to Grace.”

  Then, before I could stop myself—or before they hung up and called the nearest New York hospital to send an ambulance to carry me away—I told her everything. And not the everything I thought I was going to tell her.

  No, what I told my mother about was Kristina. How I had finally learned the startling truth behind all those months of silence. How she was gone…

  “Oh, Grace,” my mother replied, her own voice filled with tears now. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner? My God, what you’ve been handling. And all alone!”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you….” I began.

  “You’re sorry,” my mother said, her voice breaking. “I feel terrible that you felt…you felt you couldn’t talk to us. Oh, Grace, we always raised you to be so independent. Maybe that was a mistake.”

  Now I felt guilty. “No, no. It wasn’t that,” I said. “You’ve always been the best, Mom. I just…I just thought I was okay.”

  I heard her muffle the phone as she asked my father a question. “Grace, we’re going to call the airline right now and book the next flight to New York.”

  “No!” I said, realizing I had done exactly what I hadn’t wanted to do. Ruined their first real vacation in years. “I want you to stay. Celebrate your anniversary, like you planned.”

  “Please! Grace, we want to be there for you.”

  I felt myself soften inside at her words, and fearing I would burst into tears again, I said, “No, please. I would feel really bad if you did that. And I feel better now. Much better.” I realized that I did. I hadn’t even understood what a burden I had been carrying until I unloaded it. Until my mother showed she was more than capable of bearing the weight. I wondered now why I hadn’t trusted that.

  “Well, we’re flying through New York on our way back. And we’re coming to see you!”

  “You are?” I asked. “Didn’t you fly through Houston on your way to Paris?”

  “We’ll just change the ticket!” she said.

  I frowned. “Mom, that could cost you a small fortune….”

  “What do I care?” she cried. “You’re my daughter! I’d do anything for you!”

  I felt myself smile, now that she had confirmed what I had always known deep down inside but had been so unwilling to test. That she really loved me. And would be there for me. No matter what.

  21

  “You can’t bottle happiness, but with the right attitude, you sure can bring it on.”

 
—Grace Noonan

  There is nothing like the sight of my apartment awash in candlelight. Which is exactly why, on Christmas Eve, I pulled out every single candle I owned—a considerable collection. Candles littered my dining table and lined every windowsill, sending soothing light all around the room and creating an atmosphere that was, in a word, romantic.

  Or would have been, had I not been all alone.

  But I was used to being alone on Christmas Eve. And nevertheless, I had always considered it the most romantic holiday of all. Maybe because my parents had been married so soon afterward, I thought, imagining them in Paris, about to share their long-awaited celebration of their life together and feeling inexplicably glad that they were.

  Because it made everything seem possible again. That you could love like that, could share a life with someone worth celebrating, even after so many years.

  I guess that’s what had always made Christmas Eve so romantic for me anyway. The sense of anticipation. The hope…

  And, of course, the food. Yes, I had foregone the annual Christmas Eve dinner at the DiFranco house, knowing I would spend the day with them tomorrow along with Angie and Justin. But that didn’t mean I had to give up the Italian tradition I had grown up with, as the adopted member of their family.

  I was making a seafood marinara, taught to me by Nonnie herself, when I was sixteen. It had been a while since I tested the recipe, but judging by the amount of calamari, shrimp and mussels I’d tossed in, I couldn’t really go wrong.

  So I gave the sauce a final stir, turning down the heat to let it simmer. Then, taking the glass of wine I had poured myself, I headed into the kitchen to wrap my gifts.

  Another indulgence, I thought, kneeling next to the pile of presents on my living room floor and pulling out the boxes of paper and ribbon I had picked up at Kate’s Paperie. I had spent almost as much on the gift wrap as I had on my mother’s cashmere sweater, I realized, as I pulled out a pretty gold and purple sheet.