by Jane Green
“At sunset,” Jason added.
I continued. “Right, if they all went down to the beach at sunset, wouldn’t they be meeting each other there?”
“Yeah,” he laughed. “You could never get a parking spot if all of these people were really going to the beach. It’d look more like a football game.”
“Or a mall,” I added. “God, why don’t these people just say they like shopping and football? Clearly, that’s what most people are doing on any given Sunday. Like the guy I saw on one dating website who said he had ‘no time for phonies.’ I saw his picture on another single’s site with a different name and a whole different bio.”
“Are you sure it was the same guy?”
“It was the exact same picture, Jason. Right down to the background of the sun setting on the ocean.”
We laughed until it hit me. This guy was perfect for Prudence. He was genuine, funny, and just an overall nice guy. Not a plethora of great ideas for pop psych books but who cares?
“Jason, do you like art?”
“Do I like art?”
“Yes, do you like art?”
“Who doesn’t like art?” he asked.
I wondered if it was because Jason was Jewish or psychoanalytical that made him answer my questions with his own. “Jason, yes or no. Do you like art? I mean enough to go to museums and galleries and the like?”
“You want to go to a museum?” he asked.
I laughed, feeling relieved with the inexplicable connection I felt with Jason. It wasn’t simply that men from Internet dating sites had lowered my standards. There was something incredibly compelling about Jason. I liked him. Prudence would too. “No, I don’t want to go to a museum. Nothing’s open today anyway,” I said. “But Prudence, my husband’s ex-wife, is a real art lover and I thought if you are too, you might have something in common. Maybe you two could go to an exhibit and see if there’s any chemistry.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Jason said.
“Are you married?” I snapped, remembering Doug Phillips.
“No, I’m not married. I’m very busy, though.”
“So is she!” I said excitedly. “You want an independent woman, right?”
“I’m not sure I want a relationship right now,” Jason dismissed.
My eyes popped wide with delight. “Neither does Prudence! In fact, she’s pretty sure she doesn’t want one. You two would be perfect for each other. You’d hardly ever have to see each other.”
Now it was Jason laughing. “Sounds like my parents.”
“Prudence has all kinds of issues with her parents too, Jason. The two of you could gab for hours dissecting your childhoods—at art museums! Doesn’t this sound perfect?”
“It sounds like a Woody Allen movie,” he said, placing his hand over mine. “To be candid with you, Sarah, the reason I’m here is because you fascinated me.”
What was he saying? Jason was interested in me romantically?
As if he were reading my mind, Jason clarified. “Not that way. But clinically, you fascinate me. You lost your husband and never grieved, and now six years later your life is as tidy as can be, and you’re falling apart. And now I find out that instead of working through this trauma, you’re scurrying around trying to find a new husband for your husband’s ex-wife.”
“She did it first!” I said. “Prudence put an ad in the Village Voice and ‘dated’ dozens of women. She even had a party at an art gallery where she replaced the paintings with blown-up photos of Reilly.”
“And this is the woman you think would be perfect for me?”
I retreated. “Oh, yeah, well, isn’t that cute? I mean, at least she’s not saying she’s totally honest and likes to take walks on the beach. Jason, I don’t see why you’re being so stubborn about this. Can’t you at least meet her? I can set something up very casual. It wouldn’t even be a date. Who knows? It could work out.”
Jason exhaled as if he was working up the courage to say something. “Okay. Tell you what. If I agree to meet Prudence can we talk about Sarah? No more tangents? No more avoiding the subject? You’ll answer all of my questions?”
“You want me to take the couch?” I asked. He nodded. “How long?”
Jason looked at his watch. “One hour.”
“All I have to do is answer your questions?”
“And be totally honest,” he said, winking.
“You want to talk about Rudy?” I asked, my eyes welling with tears.
“I do,” he said softly. “I think it’s time.”
Moments later, tears were rolling down my cheeks despite the fact that we hadn’t even started. This was going to be a tough hour. “I’m sorry,” I said to Jason.
“For what?”
Again with the questions.
“For crying. I really thought I was over this,” I explained.
Jason leaned in to place his hands over mine. “Sarah, how can you be over what you never started?”
Four hours later, I finished my session with Jason. My eyes were swollen with tears. I couldn’t breathe because my nose was so stuffed from crying. And I was exhausted from the physical and emotional drain of sobbing uncontrollably for hours. He was especially interested in my nightmares and had me play the role of every character and object in each. At first, I felt incredibly self-conscious giving voice to the flames that threatened to kill me, but as I did, I realized that Jason was right. Every part of my dream was a part of me. The flames. The firefighter. Even Jason.
All in all, I felt better than I had in months, though. As we stood on the street corner, Jason told me that I was off to a “good start” and urged me to start grief counseling as soon as possible.
“I thought that was grief counseling?!” I said, laughing and crying again. Wasn’t I done?
“Like I said, Sarah, you’re off to a good start,” he said, leaning in to hug me. Our bodies bonded to one another’s, not like lovers, but like lifetime friends who’d recently reconnected after years. I didn’t want to let go.
“You know you have to meet Prudence now, right, Jason?”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Thank you,” I said before turning to go. “I needed to do this.”
“You needed to start this, Sarah.”
“I’ll call you soon!” I said, waving. “Keep an outfit clean and pressed. You have a mission now, and you’ve already chosen to accept it.”
“Merry Christmas, Sarah.”
I blew him a kiss. On my walk home I decided that in addition to enrolling in a poetry class, I would call one of the therapists Jason had referred. Therapy. Poetry. What was next, wearing black and smoking cigarettes?
Chapter Nine
Reilly and Hunter arrived home just as the sun was setting on Christmas night. Cold air rushed in with them and woke me from the hazy Christmas content I felt as I was cooking their favorite meal. As indifferent as Hunter seemed on the phone, when he burst through the door and hugged me, it was clear he’d missed his mommy. My arms wrapped around his down jacket, deflating it until my hands were pressed against his small frame. He smelled like pine trees and the smoke from the wood-burning stove Reilly said was in their cabin. When Hunter pulled off his wool hat, his blond hair stood with static electricity. “Want a candy?” he asked, pulling a handful of red and white swirl buttons from his pocket.
“What smells so good?” Reilly asked, leaning in to kiss me.
“I made lasagna,” I said, smiling. I knew Reilly adored my mother’s recipe where the tomato sauce was left off until the moment before serving.
“What’s the special occasion?” Reilly asked.
“That you’re home,” I answered.
“Aren’t you sweet? Hunter take off your boots in the house!” Reilly shouted to our son, running downstairs. “Grab the bag too, little man.”
“And I made pumpkin cheesecake,” I added.
“Wow, you went all out.”
I lowered my voice and gave him flirty eyes. “I will.”
Reilly’s head snapped up to look at me in surprise. “Sarah Peterson, what has gotten into you today?”
“I don’t know,” I said, with a slight giggle. “The Christmas spirit, I guess.” I wondered if Reilly would misunderstand and think I was suggesting that a romantic evening with his wife was a gift, but thankfully he was not overly sensitive to my comment. I couldn’t tell if he was blushing or if his ski trip had wind whipped his face.
Reilly slapped his hands together and asked if he could help set the table. “We skied a bit this morning so I think Hunter will drop off pretty easily tonight. Could we put a little something in his eggnog just in case?”
The next morning, I woke up and watched Reilly sleeping the way I did after our first night together. The bed was warm, the sky still dark and wind swept past the tree in our yard. Life was good. I thought about my morning with Jason and wondered when I would tell Reilly about my accidental therapy session. How would I explain meeting him? Though we’d been married only a few months, Reilly knew me well enough to know I’d never seek a therapist on my own. I’d shared with him my feeling that therapy was self-indulgent dwelling on the past. I always had disdain for those who couldn’t deal with their problems without the assistance of an outside consultant. Now, I was about to join the ranks of New Yorkers whose Christmas shopping lists included a little something for their analysts.
As it turned out, I had to come clean just hours later. Reilly took a phone call and spent the better part of five minutes giving short responses, like, “I see” and “Hmmm.” It was tough to tell what he was talking about, but I knew it had something to do with me because Reilly darted glances at me and knit his brows. “Well, thanks for the call,” he concluded. “I’ll look into it.”
Reilly hung up the phone and coldly asked if Hunter could go to his friend Stephen’s house for the morning.
“I’d rather he stay home with us,” I replied. “I missed you guys. What’s up? Who was on the phone?”
“It was Bruce Piper from work,” Reilly said.
“Okay,” I said, inviting more. “What did Bruce have to say that requires me to send my son off for a play date?”
“Well, Sarah, it’s not a conversation I want to have with Hunter in the house,” he said, challenging me with his defiant tone.
“Why, what happened? Did something happen at the office? What could’ve gone wrong over Christmas?”
“Sarah,” Reilly said, glancing toward the door that led downstairs.
“Oh, Reilly, come on. Let’s sit at the kitchen table and keep our voices down.”
He sighed and walked to the table, plopping himself onto a chair. Reilly lowered his voice. “Bruce said he saw you yesterday with some guy,” he began. “Said you looked very chummy, hugging on Amsterdam Avenue.”
“Oh,” I said, obviously busted, though not for the crime for which I’d been accused. “That was Jason.”
“I don’t care what his name is, Sarah!” Reilly said sternly. “I’ve been through this already with Prudence and I thought I was pretty clear that I have no tolerance for infidelity.”
“Good,” I said. “Neither do I.”
“So who is this guy groping you?”
“Reilly,” I said, laughing. “Jason was not groping me. He’s a friend. When you told me that you and Hunter weren’t coming home, I called him for breakfast. He was very helpful to me in getting over my holiday blues. Don’t you see how different I am today? I’ve been depressed for a month now, and Jason helped me get over it. Um, start getting over it,” I corrected myself. I held Reilly’s hands in mine. “Honey, I am not cheating on you. Jason is just a friend. A friend whom I want to set up with Prudence, in fact.”
“How come I’ve never heard of him before?”
“Oh, boy,” I sighed. “Look Reilly, I’ve got some explaining to do, but trust me, Jason is a friend, that’s all.” I took a deep breath and explained to him how I had embarked on this crazy scheme to find Prudence a new husband just in case she got any ideas about trying to reconcile. “I feel like an idiot, Reilly, but I felt like I was protecting our marriage by making sure Prudence was busy with another man, when all the while I was really busying myself so I wouldn’t have to deal with the reality that I never grieved for my drunk of a husband, who killed himself and his mistress two nights before Hunter’s first Christmas. I remember how you told me about how Prudence placed an ad to find a new wife for you, and I thought I’d try the same approach. She’s doing quite well on Single in the City.”
“Single in the City?” Reilly said, absorbing all of this as quickly as he could.
“Dot com,” I said, though it came out as more of a question than statement.
“You put Prudence on the Internet?!”
I nodded, embarrassed, anticipating his response.
“And this guy Jason? You found him online?”
“He’s a therapist,” I said sheepishly. “He wasn’t really looking for a date either, so I guess that makes us the two biggest frauds on the Internet, which is no easy thing to do, let me tell you. Anyway, as I said, he’s a therapist and was interested in Rudy’s accident, and I’ve got to tell you, Reilly, I’m actually really glad I found Jason because I feel like a huge weight has been lifted after talking to him. You know me, I would have never gone to a therapist on my own, but judging from how much better I feel after one breakfast, I dare say, I needed one—and still do. Can you please say something?”
“I didn’t know Rudy’s accident was alcohol related,” Reilly said.
“Everything with him was alcohol related, Reilly. Are you mad?”
He smiled. “No, but clearly you are. I still can’t understand why you’d want to find Prudence a new husband.”
“So she wouldn’t come back for you,” I said. “Life is so good with you, Reilly. I was afraid to lose it all, so I decided to find her a new husband.” My eyes welled with tears when I saw Reilly looking so betrayed.
“So you’ve been dating men?” Reilly asked. “How many calls am I going to get from friends who’ve seen you around town with other guys?”
“Only one other,” I said. “And I threw milk at him.”
“How’d that go over?” Reilly asked, his tone softening.
“Not so well,” I said, letting out the slightest laugh.
With that, all of the tension left our home. He got it. He got me. “How did I find the craziest women in New York?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders.
“Just lucky, I guess,” I said. “Are you mad?”
“Honestly, Sarah, I’m a bit sad.”
“Sad?”
“I would’ve liked to have been the one to help you work your way through your holiday depression. I wish you could have confided in me about all of this. We’re supposed to be a team.”
“We are a team, Reilly,” I insisted. “But when one of the players is screwed up, sometimes things don’t go exactly as planned.”
“So I took one for the team?” he said, forgiving.
“Sort of.”
“I guess I’m just happy that you found your way out of this funk, though I’ve got to admit I’m a little jealous that I couldn’t be more helpful. When I asked you to marry me, I wanted to be your everything.”
“Reilly, I need to be my everything.”
“Okay.” He shrugged. “Fair enough. So bring me up to date. You’ve gone on one date, threw milk at him, and met a therapist for yourself?”
“I think he and Prudence might hit it off,” I said hopefully.
“Look, Sarah, you know it’s you I love, don’t you?” I nodded. “You have to know Prudence isn’t a threat to us, right?” I nodded again. “So, how far into this are you? You haven’t set up any parties where you give away mugs with her face on them, have you?”
“Sophie and Gwen want to throw a New Year’s Eve party,” I told him.
“Sophie’s in on this?!” he asked incredulously. “I didn’t know you two were friends.” He sighed as if to g
ive himself a moment to collect his thoughts. “Well, a New Year’s Eve party is out of the question ’cause Prudence always goes to Chad and Daniel’s bash.”
Reilly seemed to slip right into planning mode, contemplating a better night for such an event.
“Reilly, please tell me you’re not mad at me for doing this.”
“Oh, I’m mad all right,” he said. “I’m pissed as hell that you didn’t let me in on this from the beginning. Do you know what that woman put me through with her little I Love Lucy episode of trying to find me a new wife so she could run off with that surfer boy? I only wish I’d thought of this myself. What goes around comes around, Prudence. It’s time for the ex-husband of Prudence to have a little fun.”
Chapter Ten
By the next day, Reilly’s zealousness had subsided a bit, but he was still fully on board. In fact, it was his idea to host a dinner for Sophie, Gwen, and the two of us so we could figure out a way to finagle ourselves an invitation to Chad and Daniel’s New Year’s Eve party.
Sophie accepted the invitation, quickly adding that she’d met someone at a friend’s Christmas dinner whom she thought Prudence might like. Less surprising was the fact that Gwen had also met someone for Prudence. Over the last week, Gwen had transformed herself into a modern-day yenta, approaching men at parties, restaurants—anywhere she happened to be. She had set up three first dates, all of which were tremendously successful.
The following evening as the four of us sipped our wine, Gwen casually announced that she was planning to launch her own matchmaking service in the New Year. Smiling at Sophie and I, she said, “I can’t tell you what fun I’ve had. It’s like I have free license to approach men and ask them out because it’s not for me. It’s been positively liberating not to mention extremely rewarding because I really do have a knack for this. So far, everyone I’ve paired up has hit it off fabulously.”
“What about your career in lunching?” Sophie asked.
“This is the perfect complement to it,” she replied. “Do you have any idea how many people I meet at charity events? Now I have the perfect excuse to introduce myself to New York’s hottest guys.”