Loves Me, Loves Me Not

by Libby Malin

  I grab my bag and lug it into the second bedroom, a sparsely decorated room (as if anything in Henry’s house is even moderately decorated—it all looks like he ordered it right off the displays in furniture shops but left the geegaws behind—no pictures, no art, no whimsical window treatments.) A queen-size bed, matching teakwood dresser, chair. The closet is empty except for extra blankets on a shelf and a box with old sweaters and pants.

  I’m exhausted. It’s just as well I’m sleeping in here. Who knows what trouble I’d get into in Henry’s bed? A gal has to sleep sometime.

  The next day, Henry sends me flowers—a tasteful arrangement of yellow lilies with a card that says “Glad you decided to stay. All my love, Henry.”

  Yellow lilies mean “falsehood.”

  They might as well be the crystal ball I was hankering for. Now, instead of wondering about his other babes, I get to experience them up close and personal.

  But let me back up and explain our living arrangements first.

  The morning after our first night together as co-habitees, Henry wakes up, fixes a mean pot of coffee and heads off to work before I even know what day it is. When I finally awaken around nine, I splurge on a taxi to retrieve my things from Wendy’s place and spend the morning talking about her plans.

  She is dressed in a pink chenille bathrobe, her legs under her on her navy sofa, petting Trixie. I fix Wendy some breakfast—toast and coffee.

  “You should get legal protection,” I tell her.

  “Why?” She sips at the coffee and nibbles halfheartedly on the toast. Her face is milky white and I suspect she was throwing up before I arrived.

  “You never know with schmucks like Sam. He might decide down the road that he wants to be involved in junior’s life after you’ve gone to the trouble of raising the little tyke.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call him that.”

  “A tyke?”

  “No. A schmuck.” She puts the half-eaten toast aside and wraps both hands around the mug. “If Sam’s a schmuck, what does that make me? An idiot for falling for him?”

  Yes! I want to scream. It’s temporary idiocy, like temporary insanity. There’s a cure! But it requires hard work and discipline—maybe I need to devise a flash-card system with photos of Sam on rectangles of stiff paper, and train Wendy to say “schmuck,” “louse” or “jackass” as I hold up each one. That has to be the answer.

  I keep these observations to myself. Instead, I say, “Okay, but if Sam isn’t good to you, he wouldn’t be good to your kid.”

  “Honey, I don’t think I need to worry about Sam being anything to this kid. As far as he’s concerned, it could be someone else’s.” She says it coldly with no hurt. Score one for Wendy.

  “You mean…?”

  “Yup. He asked me how he could be sure it was his.”

  “The…” Oops. Can’t say that. But inwardly I shout it—the schmuck! The Czar of Schmucks!

  “But when you were together,” I say, redirecting my thoughts, “he never had any doubts, did he?” Huh! As if it matters.

  “Not that I know of.” She stretches out her long legs and yawns. “I don’t care. I’m getting past it.”

  I know that’s only partially true. I know she’ll have moments of backsliding where she’ll wish he would call and she’ll be tempted to call him. Maybe it will happen when she hears the baby’s heartbeat for the first time, or maybe it will come when she’s lonely and afraid one night, or when some great-looking guy starts making eyes at her and she realizes that she’ll have to tell him she’s “with child” before she can get involved. Then she’ll get all teary-eyed and just want to be loved and reach out for what she thought was love in the past.

  “If you ever need to talk, don’t hesitate to call me, Wen.” I clear her plate away, wash the dishes in her sink, wipe down her counters and generally straighten her living room. Since I didn’t really unpack when I “moved in” on Thursday, I only need to bring my suitcases to the foyer to “move out.”

  “You’re a sweetheart, Ame. But you’ve got Henry now. Which, by the way, is fantastic.” She leans on her elbow on the back of the sofa, looking into the hazy skyline. Heat has descended on the city as summer gets ready to roll in. It’s mid-May but Baltimore will heat up and cool down this time of year like a broken thermostat.

  “I don’t know if I’d call it fantastic,” I tell her, “but it’s definitely convenient.”

  She gives me a good-natured scowl. “Henry is promising material. Don’t let the past color the future.”

  “It’s not like I expect all my boyfriends to die on me, you know,” I say defensively.

  “That’s not what I mean. I know you still hurt—you’d be crazy if you didn’t. Don’t let that hurt keep you from appreciating something good, even if it’s something different from what you had with Rick.”

  I pretend to busy myself checking the latches on my suitcase. “Call anytime if you need me, Wen. Middle of the night. Wee hours. Anytime.”

  She looks at me and smiles. “Thanks.” Then she gets up and stretches with her arms above her head. Her robe falls open a hair, revealing her clingy satin spaghetti-strap nightie, one I’m sure she bought with Sam in mind. It shows off the outline of her abdomen. Wendy is going to be one of those pregnant women who glows. If I ever get pregnant, I’m sure I’ll be one that bloats.

  “I’ll get dressed and drive you back,” she offers. “You can’t lug Trixie there in a taxi. Besides, I’d like to see Henry’s place. It will be fun.”

  It does turn out to be fun. Henry’s condo is nothing to sneeze at and she’s suitably impressed. When I drag my bags into the spare bedroom, though, she stands in the hallway with her mouth open and eyes wide.

  “Why are you putting your stuff in here?” she asks.

  “Because it will be neater this way.”

  “You mean he doesn’t have room in his closet for your stuff?”

  “No, I mean I’m not sure just where this relationship is going. He offered to take me in while I get on my feet. I thought that if I had my own room, it would be more like a business relationship.”

  Wendy laughs out loud, a quick bark of a laugh. Even though it’s at my expense, I’m glad to hear it.

  “Amy,” she says as if she’s talking to a child, “that has to be the silliest thing I ever heard. The man treats you well, is sympathetic, is unattached and has given you no reason whatsoever to suspect him of anything but good intentions—”

  I snort but she disregards me and continues.

  “Henry cares for you. It’s nice. It’s comfortable. It’s sweet. Why can’t you just accept that? It’s pretty damn good.”

  I suppose after you’ve been with Sam the Schmuck even the smallest sign of affection can be interpreted in grand terms. Henry might care for me, but where on his “care” scale do I show up? Between his job and the sailboat he wants to own? Or am I even that high up on his “enjoy life” agenda?

  “It’s only been two weeks. I’m still getting to know him. I want to be cautious,” I explain. “Come on, help me find a place for Trixie’s litter box.

  We wander around the condo and ultimately decide the litter box should go inside the door to the laundry. I had suggested inside Henry’s closet but Wendy just rolled her eyes at that and moved on.

  “You could really do some nice things with this place,” she says, sitting at the kitchen table and looking around. “It’s kind of empty and cold now.”

  “You want some cheese and crackers?” I ask, opening the refrigerator. That’s about all Henry has in there—some French cheese, a quart of milk and a tomato.

  “I should be going. Doctor’s appointment at one.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?” I offer again.

  Standing, she smiles. “Nope. I’ll be okay. I’m getting used to the idea.” She pulls her purse onto her shoulder and slides her sunglasses on her face. “I’ll call you later and tell you how it goes.”

  “I’ll be waiting. Don�
�t forget—call anytime.”

  After she leaves, I sit at Henry’s kitchen table, circling some want ads in Sunday’s paper, and making a to-do list to aid my job-hunting strategies.

  The condo development is quiet since everyone who lives in it probably works all day, and for a few moments I start to worry that I might miss some important news so I turn on CNN in the living room and watch an audience of folks give opinions on subjects they know little about.

  Later I watch the Baby Story on TLC, and get all misty-eyed thinking of Wendy going through labor and delivery in about eight months’ time. Finally, I half doze through Trading Spaces where some New York designer makes a mess of a clueless suburban couple’s dining room, putting dried eggshells on the walls and plastic wrap on the ceiling. Hmm…maybe if I ever get mad at Henry I could do that to his dining room.

  At five, I wander into the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee, wondering if I should get something for dinner or if Henry has plans for us.

  By six, I’m on my fourth cup of coffee and I have an epiphany. I am in one of my cotton sundresses. It has a small floral print. The very kind of print you can imagine on what used to be called “housecoats”—the kind of robelike things our grandmothers used to wear around the house.

  Yes, I have already become Henry’s “little woman”! In less than twenty-four hours! And like the little woman, I wait. And wait and wait and wait. When he doesn’t show up by eight, I walk to a nearby deli and grab a turkey sandwich, only eating half of it. My dry, angry throat can’t swallow it easily.

  Henry eventually appears; it’s nearly nine o’clock and I’m feeling like my mother with a thousand resentful questions straining to pop out. Through gritted teeth I ask him if he’s had anything to eat.

  He tells me he had dinner with a prospective client and that he’d tried to call me but I wasn’t in, and he goes to the fridge for some bottled water.

  Then I ask who the client is. And he tells me “Diana Malvani.” Ah, yes. Diana. One of the flower babes.

  So as revenge, I tell him I thought it would be best to keep this move-in thing a businesslike arrangement.

  “What do you mean?” he asks, staring at me over the water. He looks mighty fine tonight in a tired sort of way. His white shirt is wrinkled, his tie askew. He looks like he needs a hug. I restrain myself. It isn’t hard.

  “I don’t think I should be a kept woman,” I say, and add a little laugh to lighten the mood. It does not resonate, so I move on. “And we’ve hardly known each other, so I thought it would be best if I took over that spare bedroom.”

  I had planned on saying this in a “so there” kind of voice that would communicate instantly that if he expects a deeper relationship he should speak now or forever hold his peace.

  But he says nothing, so I continue to babble on, improvising. Not a good thing with me. I get into trouble when I do this. Remembering how I wanted to help out around Gina’s house to pay her back for room and board, I hear myself telling Henry that I will do things like “fix dinner, clean and grocery shop to earn my keep.”

  Why don’t I just hang one of those decorative flags by the door while I’m at it—something with daisies and sunflowers embroidered on it, and oh yeah, maybe the message “Little woman and proud of it.”

  If I expect my offer to move into the spare bedroom to force him to his knees sobbing for me to sleep with him every night, I am sorely disappointed. In fact, I have miscalculated big time. And I should have known better. Henry Castle is a poker-faced lawyer. He’s used to not letting people know how he feels. So no emotion registers on his wide sexy face except maybe—if his lip twitching upward a hair on the right side of his face is any indication—amusement.

  “Okay,” he says. He opens the freezer, doesn’t see anything he wants, and closes it again.

  “I have an account at Atlantic Food Mart,” he announces. “You’ll get back on your feet soon. Don’t worry.” He punches me in the arm like a buddy after a big win on the soccer field.

  Thus ends our conversation. Henry heads to the bathroom and I head to “my” room. A few minutes later, I hear the television blaring in his room and I want to go watch it with him but don’t want to be the first one to seek the other out.

  Willpower is not my strong suit, though. I think of a question to ask him so I poke my face into his room.

  “Why don’t you make a grocery list and I’ll go tomorrow. You’re kind of low on things,” I say, standing in the doorway. He’s leaning back on his bed, legs crossed at the ankles, hands behind his head, his shirt unbuttoned.

  “Sounds good.”

  “Whatcha watching?”

  “Just flipping.” He lands on an old Law and Order.

  “I love that show.” I drift into the room and sit next to him. He stays on that channel and we watch the show together and then we’re in bed together and he’s got his arm around me. Just call me “LW” for short.

  The phone rings and I answer it, being careful to say “Castle residence.” It’s Wendy. The first thing she does is apologize for not calling earlier.

  “I had to go to the drugstore after the doctor’s, then I bought some groceries and came home and took a long nap,” she says. She sounds happy. Not trying-to-make-the-best-of-it happy, but really happy.

  When Henry realizes the call is for me, he gets up and goes into the kitchen.

  “So, how did it go?” I ask.

  “It was great,” she says with excitement in her voice. “He told me everything looks good and he gave me some pamphlets to read and a prescription for vitamins. And while I was at the drugstore I bought this neat book on pregnancy and what to expect. I only have to go to the doctor’s once a month until the end and then it will be every week. I’ll have a sonogram next time and some other tests.”

  “Wow. That’s wonderful.” It really is. I’m not lying. I remember the baby show I watched that afternoon and how the women on it were so excited but surrounded by loved ones—including the father. Wendy won’t have that.

  “Do you want me to be your coach?” I ask. “You know—Lamaze?”

  “I haven’t even thought about that, but yeah, I was going to mention it. If it’s not too much trouble.”

  “No trouble at all! It will be good practice for me. Gina wants to get pregnant, you know.” But Gina has Fred and as soon as I say Gina’s name, I realize that Wendy doesn’t need to hear about a couple going through this together, and I realize that Wendy’s probably thinking the same thing and I don’t want to squelch her joy so I rack my brain trying to think of something else to say.

  “Just let me know the schedule,” I quickly add. “Since I’ll probably still be out of work, I’m sure anything will be okay!” I mean this to sound self-deprecating but instead it comes off as self-pitying. Try again.

  “You’ll have to come over for dinner one night—with Henry and me.” Ah, here I’m on safer ground—the turf of the “little woman.” I’m beginning to wonder if I missed the name of this condo development and if “Stepford” is in the title; I’m beginning to get an itch to join a gardening club.

  Wendy chats some more, actually reading a few passages from her pamphlets about what the baby’s development is like during the first couple months. Her elation warms me. Shortly afterward I get off the phone and Henry returns to the room. My previous ire has evaporated.

  “Everything okay with her?” he asks, coming back to bed.

  “Yeah. Just great, in fact. She’s doing really, really well.”

  He puts his arm around me again and we watch some more TV, like an old married couple with time-tested habits. And I don’t go back to “my” room. Instead, I stay with him all night. Like sleeping over, except I live in the same condo. So much for my business arrangement and safeguarding my heart.

  chapter 15

  Holly: Domestic happiness

  It probably won’t surprise you to know that I was never a “go-getter.” While I found my work at the Gelman Agency very fulfilling, I di
dn’t see myself working there indefinitely. The problem was, I wasn’t sure where I saw myself working indefinitely. Right before my first Christmas with Rick, the Gelman Agency laid off some employees. I’ve never understood why companies wait until before the holidays to lay people off. It seems so Dickensian. As a junior staffer, I was afraid my name would be added to the list. Rick thought my worries were unfounded. And even if I was let go, he said, he’d support me until I found something else. Maybe it was the cozy holiday spirit, or the fact this was my first Christmas with him, but the prospect of being a Domestic Goddess started to appeal to me, and made me want to appear on that layoff list. When it was clear Gelman was keeping me, I was disappointed.

  I am beginning to think this will be my “Summer of Henry.”

  Sometimes I sleep in “my” bed. Most of the time I sleep in Henry’s. I keep my things in the spare room, though, which becomes a symbol, to me at least, of the fact that our lives are still separate, not blended in the way my life was with Rick’s.

  Maybe moving in with Henry generates good luck, though, because within two weeks I snag a job. I can hardly believe it. It was so easy I should have been suspicious right away, but I was in a state of blind euphoria, finally getting something I wanted and needed with little effort. I thought the tide had changed and my planets were aligned. I thought maybe Tess had gone on vacation.

  Speaking of Tess, my new job entails driving past her apartment every day. In fact, it entails driving out to the country from whence I came. I used to drive into the city for a job. Now I do the opposite. Life is funny.

  Here’s how it happened—remember that college’s PR opening I called about? In a panic about my future, I phone the college from the flower shop a week after moving in with Henry. Eureka! They are just getting ready to post the job, and the secretary very helpfully reads me the job description over the phone. Assistant public relations director is the title, and I begin to think that “assistant” is just my speed right now as I jump back into the real employment pool. I burble on about my credentials and the secretary is so impressed, she says, “You know, they want to fill this right away. Let me put you through to my boss.” And before you can say “too good to be true,” I have an interview scheduled for that afternoon.