Happy Any Day Now
Page 1
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF TOBY DEVENS
HAPPY ANY DAY NOW
“Happy Any Day Now is a charming read for women of any age, especially those who have mothers, fathers, boyfriends, former lovers, or careers. Judith Soo Jin Raphael is unique and also completely like your best friend, facing decisions and doubts with courage and lots of LOL humor. I learned so much from reading this book, and had such fun!”
—Nancy Thayer, author of Summer Breeze and The Hot Flash Club
“A smart, funny novel that explores the midlife angst of Judith Soo Jin Raphael, a half-Korean, half-Jewish classical cellist. Caught between two cultures, two lovers, and an errant father who reenters her life just as her professional and personal lives collide, Judith struggles to accept that what she wants might not truly be what she needs. Fast-paced and witty, with great dialogue and three-dimensional characters, Happy Any Day Now will ring true for many women.”—Cathy Holton, author of Beach Trip
“If you’re looking for smart, upbeat fiction with snappy dialogue and a fun peek into ethnic traditions, Happy Any Day Now is perfect. A lively read that offers an interesting behind-the-scenes look at a symphony orchestra and a midlife heroine who is all grown up but still capable of being comically and poignantly bewildered by life.”—Nancy Martin, author of Little Black Book of Murder
Written by today’s freshest new talents and selected by New American Library, NAL Accent novels touch on subjects close to a woman’s heart, from friendship to family to finding our place in the world. The Conversation Guides included in each book are intended to enrich the individual reading experience, as well as encourage us to explore these topics together—because books, and life, are meant for sharing.
Visit us online at www.penguin.com.
“Judith Raphael is half-Korean and half-Jewish, and full-on fabulous! Toby Devens’s novel is warm, witty, and wonderful.”
—Wendy Wax, author of While We Were Watching Downton Abbey
“Never has a midlife crisis—or actually a perfect storm of them—been treated with such charm, insight, and smart, sardonic humor. Judith Soo Jin Raphael, the heroine of Toby Devens’s engaging new novel, is half-Korean, half-Jewish, and facing her fiftieth birthday, she is carrying enough emotional baggage and family history to last several additional lifetimes. With a deft touch, Devens spins a tale of lost opportunities and rediscovered romance, second chances and second thoughts, family secrets and lasting friendships. Set in the fascinating world of classical music—with all its pressures, rivalries, passions, and loyalties—Devens’s Happy Any Day Now is a virtuoso performance which is bound to win Devens a host of new fans.”
—Liza Gyllenhaal, author of A Place for Us
MY FAVORITE MIDLIFE CRISIS (YET)
“An excellent read! Toby Devens weaves an intricate tale of lust, deceit, divorce, and face-lifts, as her unique protagonist navigates her way.”
—Ben Mezrich, New York Times bestselling author of Sex on the Moon and The Accidental Billionaires
“Zing it on! Toby Devens has created three warm and witty characters that I’d love to have as my friends.”
—Rebecca York, USA Today bestselling author of Shadow of the Moon
“A delicious concoction of delightful characters for whom the best revenge is proving that a woman’s middle years can be rich, ripe, and wickedly funny.”
—Chassie West, Edgar and Anthony award–nominated author of the Leigh Ann Warren Mysteries
“Wickedly funny and wonderfully poignant.”
—Elizabeth Ashtree, author of Into Thin Air
“A wise and witty debut.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Devens tackles meaty topics touching many women’s lives.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Devens’s novel is really about women successful in life, in friends, and in their chosen profession, realizing what’s really important as they reach middle age. Wonderful characters make this humorous and heartwarming tale a pleasure to read.”
—Booklist
“A devastatingly funny, poignant, all too true novel of the ultimate midlife crisis of three best friends as they enter their menopausal years.”
—National Association of Baby Boomer Women
OTHER NOVELS BY TOBY DEVENS
My Favorite Midlife Crisis (Yet)
NAL Accent
Published by the Penguin Group
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New York, New York 10014, USA
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For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.
First published by NAL Accent, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, August 2013
Copyright © Toby Devens, 2013
Conversation Guide copyright © Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Devens, Toby.
Happy any day now/Toby Devens.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-101-61621-5
1. Middle-aged women—Maryland—Baltimore—Fiction.
2. Women musicians—Maryland—Baltimore—Fiction.
3. Self-actualization (Psychology) in middle age—Fiction.
4. Life change events—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3604.E885H37 2013
813'.6—dc23 2013000045
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
Contents
Praise for the Novels of Toby Devens
Also by Toby Devens
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Ch
apter 41
Chapter 42
About the Author
A CONVERSATION WITH TOBY DEVENS
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
For the next generation of strong, talented women—especially Felicia, Sarina, and Elizabeth
Chapter 1
Every five years my mother had her fortune read by Lulu Cho, the owner of the Golden Lotus Massage Club for Men. She didn’t find it strange that the old gods, in their mysterious wisdom, had elected to send their portents through a sex parlor shaman. I thought it was crazy, but it was a Korean thing. It made her happy, no harm done.
Then last year she set me up with Lulu. “My fifty birthday present to you, Judith. Count from birth, you already in fifty year. Time just right for reading.”
Even if Lulu Cho was a true mudang and could really predict the future, I had zero desire to hear what was coming up for the rest of my life. I was just as glad no one had warned me about the past before I had to deal with it.
I protested. My mother insisted. “No argue. Reading is booked. Lulu has policy. No return, no exchange.”
Which is how I came to be sitting in a cramped apartment with a scotch-sipping mudang across from me and my mother next to me, rapping her knuckles nervously on the kitchen table.
I have to admit, I got caught up in it at first, the spooky stuff. I’m half Korean, half Jewish, so I inherited the superstition gene from both sides. When Lulu Cho rang a small brass bell and scattered rice and coins across a lacquered tray, I held my breath. When she chanted in Korean, a thrill ran up my spine. But the spell vaporized when she announced in a dramatic doomsday voice, “Now we begin.”
She’d been reading my mother’s fortune for decades, so I figured she probably knew a lot about me and she’d start with the obvious stuff like any fraud.
The first half of my life had been stormy. “Bad weather, much thunder for little girl. Ten birthday, you be so angry. Heart feel hard like stone.” True . . .
She lifted her glass, took a swig of the Johnnie Walker Red she claimed helped her make potent connections with the spirits, and licked her lips.
“Twenty okay, but thirty birthday not so hot. Love signs crashing.”
She nailed that one. I’d whipped up something of a hurricane for my thirtieth birthday. That was the year I was totally obsessed with marriage and my lack of same or prospects related to. By the year’s end, I stood under the wedding canopy with “Rebound Todd,” regretting it even before the rabbi said the final blessing.
“Forty, very very sad. You feel empty inside,” Lulu said.
On target again. The big four-oh was mainly about my ovaries, specifically their age-related deterioration. The dimming prospect for babies. There was a lot of weeping that birthday.
“Blessed with talent, but cursed with much trouble in past, Judith.” The mudang’s eyes were squinched in concentration. Mine were open and rolling, earning a pinch on the arm from my mother, who hung on to every word.
“Ouch.” I rubbed the spot above my elbow.
“Be nice, Judith.”
I stage-whispered, “Oh, come on, Uhm-mah. You told her all about me. Filled in the details.”
“Not true. Not say one word. She hear all from . . .” Grace pointed upward, ostensibly to heaven, really to apartment 3C.
“Grace tell you the truth,” Lulu pronounced. “And now we look to future. Fifty is pok, good luck. I hope I find good luck for you.” She gave me a quick smile, reached across the table, and took my hand. “Okay. You have love now. More love ahead. Maybe too much love. Bring problems. But”—she squinted—“I think you solve.”
I shrugged. Who needed more love? I already had Geoff Birdsall, six years younger, Australian, hunky, a talented musician who was also very gifted in bed. Our connection was heavy on pleasure, light on commitment. The last thing it brought me was problems.
“Music important. Music in your life until the very end.” I was a cellist with the Maryland Philharmonic Orchestra. My mother bragged about my job to everyone. A no-brainer. “And you never go deaf.” That was reassuring.
She guessed right about my problem with acid reflux and my desire to lose five pounds—like the rest of the known world. And then, right in the middle of forecasting the onset of menopause, Lulu froze, her stare fixed on a spot in the distance.
“What? You see roach?” my mother asked.
The mudang had lapsed into a trance. Maybe thirty seconds went by.
Then, roused by a shudder, Lulu clapped her hands to her head and hissed as if she were speaking for an evil spirit. “Judith, ayyyy.” She called out my name in a thin, high-pitched voice not her own. “Judith!” Her eyes slid to white, then closed.
Cradling her temples in her hands, she rocked back and forth. “Ay, stop the pain. Head split like lightning hit. Worst pain.” She moaned. She cried out as a wild spasm shook her body.
Then, suddenly, all was quiet. She slumped in her chair. Her eyes opened and focused. I figured she was back from the spirit world. The bony finger that had just wiped spittle from her mouth pointed at me. “You listen, Judith. Danger coming close. You have to see doctor soon. Soon as possible. Matter of life and death. Black crows circle round your head. I see—” Her hand shot out to touch my hair.
“No!” My mother toppled the tray with the rice and coins as she stood up. “Reading over. Enough for now. Judith, get up.” Trembling, she reached into her wallet, peeled off five twenties, snatched back two of them, and tossed the rest on the table. “Not worth more. Not worth nothing. Very bad fortune. You should be shamed, Lulu. You are lousy mudang.”
The following week, as I walked to my car after a rehearsal of Verdi’s Requiem, half a block from the musician’s garage I was struck by what neurologists call a thunderclap headache—the worst pain in the history of pain. A minute into the agony, I collapsed with the aneurysm that almost killed me.
Chapter 2
A year later, one week short of the anniversary of my aneurysm and a brilliant Johns Hopkins neurosurgeon saving my life, I made the stupid decision to risk it.
Blame it on spring fever. Or on the cherry blossom trees that were currently turning the dowdiest parts of Baltimore into a pink blaze of glory. The flowers bloomed for a few days of gorgeousness and then faded away. But oh, how they lived when they lived. Maybe they weren’t the best inspiration for making a dangerous decision.
I checked my watch. Ten of two. For the umpteenth time, I skimmed the page ripped from the Goucher College Quarterly that had been slipped under my door by my best friend and neighbor, my favorite lesbian yenta Marti McDowell. The article was titled “Justice Pruitt to Discuss American Elective Process.” Far left, where God knows he’d never have placed himself in real life, was a recent photo of Charlie Pruitt, man of my dreams, man of my sleepless nights.
I’d met Charles Evans Pruitt when I was at the New England Conservatory of Music and he was a student at Harvard Law School. A scholarship kid from Brooklyn and a Brahmin from Manhattan were an unlikely pair, but we were madly in love—okay, I thought it was we; maybe it was only me—for more than two years. Then he told his family about his half-Jewish, half-Korean girlfriend, Judith Soo Jin Raphael, and boom! It was over.
Except not for me, not for a very long time. Keeping a vow to my therapist, I’d forced myself to stop Googling him years ago. Now I stared at his image, searching for landmarks of the Charlie I’d known and loved.
Decked out in his robe, he looked somber and weighty, both judicially and figuratively. He had to have gained twenty pounds since the last time I’d seen him, thin and drawn at our horrible breakup. But the eyes were the same, a brilliant magnetic blue. And his hair was polished silver. He looked like a more distinguished version of the young, irresistible Charlie: smart, pedigreed, and for a second—as the old sad song played in my brain for the first time in decades—totally out of my league.
&nb
sp; A paragraph was devoted to his credentials, dazzling of course: Harvard Law, with honors. Name partner in Pruitt, Bryce and Summerville, LLP, a prestigious Park Avenue law firm, until his appointment thirteen years earlier as a justice on New York State’s highest court, Manhattan branch. And the public was invited to a free lecture at Goucher, Sunday afternoon, two p.m., where he’d be addressing the topic “Pros and Cons of the Electoral College.” Riveting. There was nothing about his personal life in the article, but Marti had scrawled in the margins, “I Googled. He’s divorced.”
I shouldn’t have cared. Charlie was no longer a part of my life, which was infinitely better for that. I was perfectly happy with Geoff. Well, not perfectly, but close. I shouldn’t have come to Goucher. But, of course, in a classic case of heart over head so you land on your ass, here I was approaching the entrance to Kelley Hall, fingers trembling as I jammed the article back into my handbag. Then I heard a jumble of loud young voices and turned to check out what the excitement was all about. That’s when I saw him.
Not his face. In the crush of students who made a walking barrier, protecting him as if he were the Dalai Lama, all that was visible was Charlie’s back. But I’d have known the slope of it anywhere. And underneath the Hickey Freeman suit, I could connect the spatter of freckles below his right shoulder blade into a map of Venezuela. For a second, I was aware of my inability to swallow. Then, amid a flash of silver hair, an angle of jaw, I found spit and he vanished into the lecture hall. His audience drifted in. I waited until the coast was clear, then walked slowly up the steps, as if it were the last mile. On the landing, I halted. This outing was absurd. Charlie might not even remember how special we were, given how time erases life and life erases time.
Then again, he might have bookmarked those excruciating last moments when I’d deliberately dumped his law texts on the floor—the vilest insult I could think of—and mocked his family as a cadre of fascist snobs. Why did I even want to meet him again, this traitor who had snubbed me because my ex so-called father sold lox and my war bride mother had a checkered past? I was starting up so I could stop? Talk about circular reasoning. Talk about bullshit. Turn around and go, for God’s sake!