by Amy Poeppel
In front of the full-length mirror on the back of his door, he dressed in khaki pants and a button-down shirt, deciding to skip the tie. By the time he was ready to head out, his mom was in the kitchen, aggressively wiping down the kitchen counters. “Gross,” she said. “They left food in the refrigerator.”
“The place looks pretty cleaned up to me.”
“I have this urge to remove every trace of them.” She held up a block of cheese—“Dutch Gouda, can you believe it?”—and she threw it in the garbage can.
“Should we perform an exorcism?” he asked.
Disproportionate laughter again. “Are you leaving already?” she asked.
“We’re only here for thirty-six hours,” he said. “Gotta make the most out of it.”
“Take their key,” she said, handing him the key chain that was lying on a note the tenants had left. Bridget sat at the kitchen table to read it. “They say they washed the sheets before they left. Do we believe them?”
“Yes,” Oscar said. “Otherwise we have to strip the beds and do it ourselves. I’ll see you tonight. Text me where we’re having dinner.”
* * *
Instead of going to the subway, Oscar walked to Columbus Avenue and caught a cab going downtown. It was way too hot today for the underground sauna, and he needed to look presentable for his interview. The woman he was meeting worked as a policy advocate for a renewable energy think tank in Tribeca. There was a job for Oscar if he was interested. The problem was, Oscar didn’t want to be interested. “It depends,” he’d told her on the phone. What it depended on, he didn’t say.
Oscar looked out the cab window, happy to be in New York but sad about the prospect of moving back to Manhattan with two big dogs and no Matt; what a depressing change of circumstances that would be. What choice would he have, though, if Matt didn’t take him back? And if Matt chose Jackson, no way could he stay in DC then. It would break his heart.
19
Wearing the same navy wrap dress that she’d worn to her father’s for dinner a few weeks earlier, Bridget stepped out of a cab in front of the Time Warner Center and walked to the Museum of Arts and Design. On the top floor there was a restaurant called, simply, Robert, known for its cocktails and impressive views over Columbus Circle and Central Park. She was early and asked the hostess to seat her at a table where she could see Randall as soon as he walked in; she didn’t want to be taken by surprise.
From her spot by the window, she got her phone out and took a quick picture of the park, feeling like a tourist in her own hometown. She’d been to this restaurant with Sterling last spring to celebrate the release of his new novel. Come to think of it, most of what she and Sterling did together was celebrate Sterling or problem-solve for Sterling or strategize for Sterling. Having had several weeks to analyze the breakup, Bridget had decided that his most unattractive quality was self-absorption that came from a place of weakness. He had a wimpy, needy nature. As she sat there only two tables down from where they’d had dinner together, she wished she’d chosen a different restaurant for this meeting.
She ordered iced tea and sat tapping her freshly manicured nails on the side of the glass as she looked over the menu, trying to keep from fidgeting with her hair.
There was Randall, striding into the room in a light gray suit and tie, looking hurried and humorless. Bridget wondered, as he spotted her, marched over, and shook her hand brusquely, if arranging this lunch had been a mistake. He sat and immediately motioned for their waiter.
“Diet Coke with lime,” he said. And then, to Bridget, “I don’t have much time.”
“Sorry this was so last-minute. I’m only in town for the day.”
“I never heard back from Will about the concert dates,” he said, getting right down to business, “so I assume a reunion with Gavin’s not happening.”
Hearing Gavin’s name made Bridget’s stomach turn. “We’ll see him in August, but he hasn’t agreed to any performances, so do whatever you have to do. And I’m sorry, by the way, for everything.”
“I had a feeling Will was getting ahead of himself,” he said, putting his napkin in his lap and picking up his menu. He looked annoyed. “It’s unfortunate it didn’t work out with Caroline, but I’m starting to think you guys may have dodged a bullet.”
Bridget waited for an explanation of that cryptic remark, but he didn’t go on. She admired his discretion and shrugged. “Let’s consider it a blessing in disguise then.” Sitting straight in her chair, elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of her, she said, “I was hoping we could talk about what’s next, given that—”
“It’s like I told you guys the first time,” Randall said, closing his menu. “There’s nothing I can do for you two without a star violinist. The Caroline thing was a fluke—”
“No,” she said, stopping him, “I’m not asking you to work with us or manage us or anything. Actually, Will and I are considering the possibility of moving on—separately, I mean. Ending the Forsyth Trio, for a while at least. And I’ve never been on my own before, professionally. I was hoping to get your advice on this thing I found.” She got her purse from the back of her chair and pulled out a piece of paper she’d printed at the apartment from the Musical Chairs site. “Not a thing, a listing. A job opportunity. An audition, actually.” She unfolded it, smoothed it with her hand, and handed it to him.
She waited while he read it over.
“Cello number three, London Philharmonic.” He looked up at her. “You’re interested?”
Bridget couldn’t bring herself to answer, so she nodded, shrugged, and shook her head all at once, as if to say, Yeah, but no, who cares, fine, whatever.
“Why are you telling me?”
She took a sip of her tea and cleared her throat. “I was wondering if you know what kind of person they’d be considering for this. Am I overqualified or totally underqualified? It’s the London Philharmonic Orchestra, I know, but I graduated from Juilliard, and I’ve been playing chamber music for the past thirty years in a somewhat well-known trio. And it’s not like I’m auditioning for first chair. But am I all wrong for this? Am I… too old?”
Randall seemed to relax for the first time since he’d sat down. He smiled. “No, you’re not too old. But London? You want to move to London? Why?”
“It’s just a fantasy,” she said, putting her hands in her lap. “A chance to do something new. And it’s not that far away. You hop on a plane, and you’re back in New York in six hours.”
“I could never leave the city,” Randall said. “What about Will?”
“He’ll do his thing.”
He tilted his head. “I assumed you two were…”
“No, we’re just friends. Always have been.”
“Wow,” he said. “You’ve lasted longer than most marriages I know.”
That was certainly true. “We may stay together. But I was online, and this audition jumped out at me. I’m unattached, my kids are grown, and I’ve got a chance to do something new.”
“What does your father think?”
“I haven’t told anyone about this, but I think he’d like the idea of my moving to his hometown. Did you know he’s getting married in a month?”
Randall looked stunned. “At his age? That’s… impressive.”
“You can come to the wedding, if you like,” Bridget said. “Will and I will be playing one of my dad’s pieces.” She didn’t mention Gavin; it was too hard to even say his name out loud. She put her elbows back on the table and got to the point. “Randall, I asked you here to get your brutally honest opinion—”
“Call me Randy.”
“Randy,” she said, preferring the more relaxed version of this man, “would I be a serious candidate for something like this, or will they reject me?”
“I’d say… you have a good shot. You’ll probably be up against people who haven’t had near the level of solo experience you’ve had. Want me to make a call?”
“What do you mean?”
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p; “They might take you more seriously if you’ve got someone calling on your behalf.” The brusque side of his personality made a sudden reappearance as he quickly added, “This wouldn’t mean I’m representing you, I’d just do it as a favor.”
“Thanks,” Bridget said, “but I think I’ll apply on my own and see what happens.” She didn’t want any strings pulled; if getting this job was meant to happen, it would happen.
Randy looked over the paper again. “I know I don’t have to tell you this, but you’ll have to be completely prepared for the audition; if they invite you, they’ll put you through a marathon. So get ready.”
The sound of that warning gave Bridget a restlessness, an urge to practice. How could she best prepare? What schedule of rehearsing would she arrange the rest of her life around? Cello would come first; everything else would come after.
“And let me know how it goes,” Randy said. He leaned back in his chair comfortably. “Hey, Bridget. What would you say if we treated the rest of this lunch as a date?”
Bridget ran her hand through her hair. “Like a date date?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I thought you were in such a hurry.”
“I thought you were after something I couldn’t give you, so I was anticipating an unpleasant interaction.” He smiled at her. “It’s pretty cool you wanted my opinion.”
“I figured you know more about the competition I’ll be facing than anyone.” She sat back as well, feeling like she could relax now, too, enjoying the feeling that came over her at this hint of romance.
“You’re gutsy,” he said.
Faint praise maybe, but she liked it. “Sure,” she said, “I’ll be your lunch date.”
“Should we get a bottle of wine?”
Bridget had nowhere to be and a smart, well-respected, halfway decent-looking guy asking her to drink wine in the middle of the day. “Absolutely.”
* * *
The next afternoon, Oscar offered to drive them back to Connecticut. Bridget, buckled in the passenger seat, could tell that the brief trip to the city had done her a world of good. She was feeling less distracted by her own problems and wanted to have a meaningful conversation on the road.
“What’d you do today?” she asked. He’d been out of the apartment already when she got up that morning, arriving back just before they’d agreed to leave. While she waited for him, Matt called her again, this time from a number that wasn’t in her contacts. When she’d answered and realized it was him, she’d hung up without even letting him speak. Childish, maybe, but she was being protective of Oscar and didn’t want to listen to Matt’s excuses for his inexcusable behavior. But as she pressed the red button, she knew Isabelle wouldn’t have approved of her cutting him off like that. Isabelle was still certain there was hope for the marriage.
He shrugged. “Not much.”
“What’d you have for lunch?” she asked.
“Chipotle.”
“Barbacoa or carnitas?”
“Steak.”
Asking about food had been Bridget’s way of launching into deeper conversations when Oscar was younger and didn’t want to talk about something. Will called it her “lunch launch.” She wasn’t sure it worked anymore now that Oscar was an adult. She wished there was no need to ask him about his future, his marriage, his plans. When they got married, Bridget had hoped that any hard times Oscar had ever suffered, being picked on as a kid, coming out when he was in high school, dealing with his homophobic soccer teammates, were well behind him. She hated to think of his heart being broken, of him losing the love of his life, having been lucky enough to find him.
“Have you talked to Matt?” she asked.
“He left a few messages,” he said flatly.
“Maybe,” she said, “you two should talk about what comes next. Are you thinking couple’s counseling or lawyers or what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, it’s all very sad,” she said.
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“It’s not about me. I just never imagined Matt would be so duplicitous and disloyal.”
“Have you ever seen Jackson?” Oscar said. “He’s the perfect human specimen. He’s a war hero, a lawyer, and a congressman. And he’s gay. Why wouldn’t Matt want to be with him?”
It sounded almost like a defense of Matt’s behavior. “What about me and Will?” Bridget asked. “Will’s handsome and accomplished and straight, and we’re only friends. Why is it so hard for some people to have platonic relationships? And why do so many people think they don’t even exist?”
Oscar drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.
Bridget wondered if she should be encouraging a reconciliation. “I don’t know what you want, or what you’re hoping will happen. But you love him and maybe you should do something bold.” Knowing that Oscar’s impulsivity sometimes got him into trouble, she added, “But not too bold.”
“So, say, getting a tattoo of Matt’s initials on my back, you’re saying that would be a mistake?” he asked.
Bridget laughed hard at that; Oscar could be so funny. “Exactly. But maybe call him when we get home. You have to deal with your marriage eventually, one way or the other. You can’t just walk away.”
“Why not?”
She dropped her smile. “I’ve walked away from problems before, things I didn’t want to face, and believe me, they come back to haunt you— Red light.”
Oscar slammed on the brakes. They didn’t talk much after that.
* * *
It was dark by the time they finally pulled up to the house. So dark that Bridget realized that the power was out. Isabelle and Kevin were sitting on the porch playing cards by candlelight.
“The electric company says there’re no outages in the area,” said Isabelle, “so it’s something here at the house.”
“The electrician’s coming first thing in the morning,” Kevin said.
Bridget had not completely loved being back in her New York apartment, and she felt funny being back at the house so soon, especially in a blackout. She felt in limbo, like she didn’t quite belong anywhere.
She got her phone and turned on the flashlight. “I hope no one minds,” she said, “but I think I’ll turn in.”
As she walked to her room in the dark, she heard Oscar say, “Guess who got weed?” and the three of them cheered.
* * *
Bridget woke up the next morning to find the power was back on. She went to the kitchen and felt a sudden urge to bake something, to have the whole house smell like butter and cinnamon. She looked in the fridge to see what she had to work with and found blueberries and eggs. Flour, baking powder, and sugar in the pantry. She turned on the oven, hoping she could finish a batch of muffins before the power went out again.
The house was getting a “heavy up” of the electrical panel that day (which meant the electrician had arrived at seven in the morning to start messing with the fuse box), and the skylights were being resealed (which meant a friend of Kevin’s was up on her roof). And thanks to Kevin’s barn expert, a slightly graying Yale-educated man named Elliot, she was having four windows torn out of the barn and replaced because, he’d pointed out, the frames had leaked for over a decade and rotted. While the muffins were baking, she went outside to take a look at the progress. As soon as she opened the door and stepped out into another hot, cloudless morning, she heard splashing and saw that Isabelle and Kevin were in bathing suits, wrestling on the floating dock in the middle of the pond. Isabelle was shrieking.
“I wouldn’t do that,” Bridget warned. “I’ve seen a snapping turtle in there, a big one.”
“We’re pulling out the sedge grass, trying to get it under control,” Kevin called back, warding off Isabelle’s attempts to grab his arms. “It can take over your whole pond.” There was a pile of wet, soggy weeds on the dock with them, and Kevin pointed to show Bridget the edge of the pond, where more of the tall grass was growing. As soon as his back was turned, Isabelle pushed him in.
Kevin emerged from the water, shaking his wet hair out of his face, and pulled himself up onto the dock in one easy movement.
Isabelle was laughing, keenly aware that she was going to get pushed in next. “But the snapping turtle,” Isabelle yelled as Kevin picked her up and held her over the water. He didn’t drop her in, setting her back on her feet instead; Bridget found that act to be gentlemanly.
“Hey, Mom,” Isabelle called out. “Did you see the huge package you got yesterday? It’s in the living room.”
Bridget went back inside and saw that Isabelle wasn’t kidding. She pushed the enormous box into the hallway where she sat on the floor with a pair of scissors to open it. Inside were three fancier gift boxes, all embossed with the words “LODENFREY, Seit 1842.” Before Bridget opened the first, she read the enclosed, handwritten note: My dearest Bridget, Here is something special for you to wear to our Hochzeit. Looking forward to seeing you and your sister, to meeting your children, and to being part of Edward’s life, forever. With love, Lottie.
Bridget lifted the lid on the first of the three boxes and pulled back a layer of white paper. Under the tissue was a traditional German dirndl, much like the one Lottie had given her when she was a girl. This one was a beautiful dark gray, intricately embroidered and layered with a navy silk apron. There were fasteners across the bodice that were hand-sewn. The dress was gorgeous, yes. But it looked like a costume. She opened the next box, which contained the same dress but with a forest green apron. And on opening the third, Bridget could not contain her laughter. It held a pair of leather pants, like the kind men wore to the Oktoberfest. The whole family was going to attend Edward’s wedding looking like the Von Trapp Family Singers.