“I couldn’t help but hear what you were talking about on the phone. About not having any plans for Thanksgiving,” Helen said sympathetically.
Since Helen was one of the only co-workers I could stand, I tried not to get annoyed at her for eavesdropping. Besides, it sort of went along with the cubicle territory—you could always hear everything that everyone around you was doing, whether you wanted to or not. I dreamed of someday having an office with a door . . . it didn’t even have to have a window. Just a nice converted broom closet, or maybe even a desk nestled in next to a leaky hot-water heater would suit me fine.
“Oh, it’s okay,” I said. “My parents just made other plans, but I hadn’t really counted on traveling to see them anyway.”
“Well, you’re certainly welcome to spend the holiday with my family,” Helen said.
I was so touched. And people say that New Yorkers are cold and heartless. I could just imagine what Helen’s family was like—large and warm and boisterous. They probably even had a tradition of everyone going around the table and saying what they were thankful for, and of drying out the wishbone for the kids to snap between them later. Thanksgiving dinner would be something out of a Hallmark Hall of Fame television movie—succulent golden turkeys and piles of mashed potatoes and homemade pumpkin pies, all served on Grandmother’s china alongside the good linens. Just the thought of being part of something so warm, so familial made my eyes tear up, and I was just about to accept in a fit of nostalgia, when Helen continued.
“It’s a tradition in my family that every year someone brings a lost lamb to Thanksgiving dinner—that’s what we call people who don’t have anywhere else to spend the holiday. It makes the holiday so much more special for us. It usually works out . . . well, except for one year, when my son Joe brought home what he thought was a homeless vet but the man turned out to be a schizophrenic who’d just escaped from a mental institution. He tried to hold my sister-in-law hostage with a turkey baster, so we had to call the police to come and take him away, poor fellow,” Helen said thoughtfully. “But other than that, it’s usually worked out well. And everyone would be so glad to have you. We were worried that no one had found a lost lamb to join us this year.”
The idea of being Helen’s family’s pet “lost lamb” was so humiliating that all thoughts of the Norman Rockwell dinner scene immediately vanished. Was this how pathetic my life had become, that I was now getting the same pity invitations as turkey-baster-wielding lunatics?
“Um, actually, that sounds very nice, but I think my next-door neighbor is having people over for dinner, and he did ask me first,” I lied.
“Oh,” Helen said, clearly disappointed that she wasn’t going to be able to fulfill her lost-lamb quota with me. “Well, if you change your mind, the invitation is always open.”
“Thanks,” I said.
I was still stewing over my parents’ apparent indifference that evening when Jack called. We’d fallen into a pattern where he called me nearly every night at seven p.m., my time. If either of us couldn’t make this phone “date,” we’d let the other know by e-mail earlier in the day. It was remarkable how quickly we’d managed to stumble into a routine, almost like a real couple. Not that we were a couple, of course . . . I knew it was ridiculous to even think of whatever this was in those terms.
I told Jack about my parents not including me in their plans, only I was careful to sound lighthearted and not at all like I was sulking over it. I didn’t want him to think that my family was actively avoiding me, thus tipping him off that there was something seriously wrong with me.
“So at thirty-two, I’ve been turned into an orphan. Practically, anyway. Although I guess I shouldn’t complain to you, since you don’t even get to have the holiday off,” I said.
“Yes, England isn’t so big on celebrating American holidays,” Jack said. “But I’m going to be out of town on business that weekend, anyway.”
Hmph. That wasn’t what I’d wanted to hear. I’d half hoped that once Jack heard I didn’t have any plans for Thanksgiving week, he’d repeat his offer to have me come visit him in London. When he didn’t extend the invite, I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. It seemed that no one wanted to spend the holiday with me, other than Helen’s do-gooder family. Somehow the idea of spending a four-day weekend immersed in a bubble bath surrounded by a stack of books didn’t sound nearly as fun when it was my only option.
“Oh? Are you going somewhere fun?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound dejected.
“If you consider talking to French businessmen about a potential merger to be fun,” Jack said. “So you’re going to stay in Manhattan next week, Little Orphan Annie?”
“Oh, sure, laugh at me,” I sighed.
Chapter 10
Robert sent around an e-mail Wednesday after lunch notifying everyone that in light of the Thanksgiving holiday, the Sassy Seniors offices would be closing down at four p.m.
Oh, gee, a whole hour earlier. What a prince, I thought. I knew the only reason Robert was letting us go even a little early was because he had to catch a train out of the city (I just happened to overhear him telling this to Barbara while I was hiding behind a ficus tree eavesdropping on them in the hopes of gleaning some information about the year-end bonuses).
I couldn’t help but feel a little lonely as everyone else was hustling around, gathering their coats and bags, eager to get home to their turkeys and families. I was going home to an empty apartment. At least Max and Daphne would be around for most of the weekend, although they were going to spend Thanksgiving Day at Max’s grandmother’s house in Connecticut. I made plans to hang out with them when they returned to the city.
“I’d invite you to go with us, but I like you far too much to subject you to my family,” Max had told me. “Besides, it’s going to be bad enough as it is. My grandmother isn’t going to let us leave until we’ve nailed down a date for the wedding.”
“Wedding? Did you propose to Daphne and neglect to tell me about it?” I’d asked.
“Funny you should mention it, but no,” Max said gloomily. “But the lack of a proposal isn’t about to stop the women in my family from planning the wedding anyway. They view my opposition to it as just another detail to be ironed out, along with selecting the caterer and whether roses should be used in the centerpieces.”
I left the office and rode the subway home to my Morningside Heights apartment. My address was not glamorous, but it was one of the only places in New York where I could afford to live without a roommate. The downside to this affordable real estate was that my block was also home to a wide variety of miscreants, lunatics, and perverts (pretty much my parents’ worst nightmare when I first announced I was moving to New York right out of college). I’d often wondered if there was some kind of a Twilight Zone–like beacon planted in the middle of my street that draws all of the crazies to it, because day or night the place was teeming with everything from the batty-but-harmless souls who shuffled around in their bedroom slippers mumbling to themselves, to the wing nuts who were convinced that the mother ship was going to land any day, making it incumbent on them to convert as many people to the cause as possible. Particularly with the latter, I normally try not to make eye contact as I walk by, fearing that it will just antagonize them. Tonight I wasn’t so lucky.
“Hey, pretty lady,” a male voice called out. I ignored my admirer—past experience taught me that if I did glance at him, I’d be rewarded with the sight of a dirty, smelly pervert masturbating into a Styrofoam coffee cup—and instead I got out my keys, so I could both let myself into my building quickly and, if needed, use them as a weapon to poke a potential assailant’s eye out.
“Hey,” he called out again.
I hustled up the short flight of stairs leading to the front door of my building, and fumbled with my keys as I unlocked the door. But that brief instant where I couldn’t seem to get my key in the door was just enough time for the man to come up behind me and grab my arm.
&n
bsp; I’d never really thought much about getting mugged—up until now, I’d lived a remarkably crime-free life in New York. I guess it’s the one benefit of being Amazon-sized; the rapists and thieves would prefer to pick on someone smaller and weaker than themselves, rather than risk tangling with someone they couldn’t be sure wasn’t a man in drag. So now that I was finally facing real danger, on my very own doorstep with its hand on my arm, I was amazed at how quickly my fight-or-flight impulse geared up. My heart was racing, and I could feel the heat of my blood pumping through my body. With a burst of adrenaline, I quickly reached into my purse and pulled out the stun gun my father had given me for Christmas the previous year.
“Don’t touch me!” I shrieked, and I wheeled around, ready to confront my attacker. As I turned, I held out the stun gun and pressed it against the arm gripping mine. Then, holding my breath and praying that the weapon would actually work, I squeezed the button, sending 100,000 volts of electricity into his woman-molester body.
“Oof,” the man said, and promptly fell over.
It was actually quite thrilling. I’d never gotten into a real physical fight with anyone before—unless you count the time my sister bit me when we were children—and the fact that I’d not only survived but emerged victorious was terribly exciting. I wouldn’t mind getting mugged more often if I could lay them all on the ground like this one. Maybe I’d even take a course in judo, so that I could learn to do battle with my bare hands. It would be a good stress reliever, even better than yoga. I was just about ready to run into my building, when I glanced down to make sure that my attacker was too debilitated to follow me.
“Oh shit,” I whispered, the blood draining from my face.
I’d been so busy concentrating on zapping the man that I hadn’t bothered to look at his face before I pressed the button on my stun gun . . . which was a big, big mistake. For the person who was lying crumpled on the filthy stairway, his body twitching as he struggled to get up, wasn’t a dirty, slimy sex pervert, after all. It was Jack.
“I am so, so sorry,” I said, for about the hundredth time. I’d managed to get Jack up to my apartment, slowly helping him up the four flights of stairs, and once inside, I’d propped him up on my sofa. Once I made sure he was comfortable (well, as comfortable as one can be after suffering through such an assault), I hovered over him, a glass of water and bottle of aspirin in hand, which is about the sum total of my nursing skills. I’d already tried to talk Jack into going to the hospital to make sure I hadn’t done any permanent damage, but he insisted that once he got a chance to rest up for a bit, he’d be fine.
“I thought you’d be happy to see me,” Jack said hoarsely. I couldn’t tell if he was joking, since he was still shaken from the electric shock I’d given him.
“What are you doing here?” I asked desperately. “Why didn’t you call me? If I’d known you were going to be waiting for me, I wouldn’t have zapped you.”
“I wanted to surprise you. Which I obviously succeeded in doing,” Jack said wryly.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeated. “I can’t believe I did that to you.”
“Yeah, it wasn’t the reaction I was hoping for. But really, Claire, don’t worry. I’ll be fine. My muscles are already starting to unclench.”
“But what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in France,” I wailed.
“I didn’t want to leave you alone over the holiday.” Jack pointed toward a crumpled white paper bag that he’d been holding when I zapped him. “I brought turkey sandwiches and pumpkin cookies,” he said.
“Oh,” I said miserably. It was such a sweet gesture, and look what he’d gotten for his troubles.
I sat down next to him on the couch and held out my feeble first-aid supplies. Jack refused the aspirin, but he did take the water. Once he’d taken a long sip and handed me the glass back with an unsteady hand, he finally managed a feeble smile.
“Can I at least have a kiss hello?” he asked.
I leaned over and kissed him, and then sat back, putting one hand on the side of his cheek. Jack didn’t look like someone who had just gotten off of an international flight. His cheeks were clean-shaven, and his clothes looked freshly pressed. But I wouldn’t have cared if he showed up raggedy and rumpled and in desperate need of a shower. In fact, I was absurdly glad to see him.
“I’m going to throw out that damned stun gun,” I said. “I didn’t want it in the first place, but my father insisted, and look what happened. Clearly, I’m not to be trusted with weapons.”
“No, no, don’t do that. What if I had been an attacker? I’m glad you have it, glad you have a way of keeping yourself safe,” he said.
Which was actually kind of nice to hear. Because of my size and general demeanor, I’m not the kind of woman that men tend to worry about. No one ever rushes to put jackets over my shoulder lest I catch a chill, or insists on opening doors for me. Everyone always assumes that I can take care of myself. Which, of course, I can. But I think that every woman has at least a teeny, tiny part of her that likes being protected and worried about, whether or not we’re willing to admit it.
Jack made a quick recovery from his electroshock—although it was a full hour before his hands stopped twitching—and the rest of the weekend went without a hitch. Well, it was better than that . . . it was incredible. Having in the past only spent the holidays with my tense, jaw-clenched family, in part or in whole, it was the first completely relaxing, enjoyable, stress-free Thanksgiving I’d ever had. It turned out that the turkey sandwiches were just a snack; for Thanksgiving dinner, Jack had made reservations for us at Daniel’s (I just love a man who doesn’t expect me to cook for him—lacking a Y chromosome does not automatically make one Betty Crocker), where we had a delicious and romantic meal in the quiet elegance of the dining room.
For the rest of the weekend, Jack and I did a lot of cheesy touristy stuff, which I probably should have been embarrassed about if I hadn’t been enjoying myself so much. We went shopping in Chinatown, where I bought a ruffled red umbrella and a pair of silver mesh beaded slides. We strolled through the Museum of Natural History and looked at dinosaur bones. We went for a long walk through Central Park, our hands linked together in a comfortably familiar way. We ate hot dogs at Gray’s Papaya, and lasagna in Little Italy. We even went ice skating in Rockefeller Center—I couldn’t resist—although, actually, it sounds more romantic than it really is, particularly if, like me, you have a tendency to wipe out every two minutes. Since I was clutching Jack’s arm in order to stay upright, every time I fell down I managed to take him with me, falling down onto the cold, hard ice in a tangle of arms and legs.
Jack and I seemed to fit together with remarkable ease, just as we had in London. We made each other laugh, and stayed up late every night talking about everything and nothing, from the serious to the ridiculous. We made love frequently—sometimes slowly and decadently, other times at a more frenzied pitch. Jack had made reservations to stay at the Essex House Hotel—it was where he’d freshened up on his first afternoon in the city, right before I zapped him—but after that he spent every night at my apartment, saying he preferred it to the sterility of yet another hotel. In fact, he was a little wistful as he said it, and I got the feeling that there was something he was brooding about, although I didn’t push at it. If I had to guess, I’d have said he was homesick for the U.S.
Besides, I liked having him in my apartment. My favorite part of the weekend was when we spent Sunday morning just lounging around, wearing sweats, munching on bagels smeared with honey-walnut cream cheese and reading the paper. In fact, the whole weekend was so perfect, it weirded me out. I kept waiting for something to go wrong, for Jack to reveal that he was a bigamist or that he had a foot fetish. But he just kept on being great and wonderful and, other than accidentally knocking my Philosophy Coloring Book into the toilet, absolutely perfect.
The only hitch came when Max and Daphne popped over on Friday afternoon. They’d just taken the train back from Conne
cticut, and when I opened my door, they came bursting into my apartment, laughing and chattering.
“Two whole days, and my father only made fun of my job once,” Max said. His father was one of those starched-collar, manly-man types, and didn’t consider fashion photography to be an appropriate career for his male heir. “My mom stayed reasonably sober, my grandmother managed to keep her tongue in check, and my sister and her brat kids were a no-show. All in all, it went as well as could be expected.”
Daphne rolled her eyes and shook her red curls out of a brimmed corduroy cap. “Don’t listen to him. His family is awesome. They actually hang out together, playing board games and talking and stuff. Like those perfect families on TV sitcoms.”
“Yeah, well, they try to keep their satanic sacrifices under wraps when guests are over,” Max said. “Come on, Claire, we’ve come to rescue you. Come to dinner with us.”
“Yes, come with us,” Daphne chimed in.
Max threw himself on the couch and started to page through my recent issue of Elle. “Did you know that black is the new black?” he asked, lazily flipping through the pages.
“I look terrible in black. I’m too pale, and it makes me look like a witch. Or, I guess I should say ‘Wiccan,’ ” Daphne said, sitting down next to him and leaning over to look at the magazine with him. She glanced up at me. “Are you hungry?”
“Well . . . maybe. But there’s someone I want you to meet first,” I said. Max looked around, perplexed. Jack was in the bedroom—we’d been napping (well, napping among other things) when they’d knocked, so Max was probably wondering if, in a fit of loneliness from spending the holiday alone, I’d begun making up imaginary friends.
Daphne caught on faster, and she elbowed Max. “I think she means a guy,” she whispered, excitedly. Couples, or at least the female half, are always so eager for their single friends to hook up. It’s like they can’t fathom a world where everyone isn’t marching around two-by-two, like the animals boarding Noah’s ark.
True Love (and Other Lies) Page 13