Jill sighed. “I don’t earn enough with my catalogue copy to be able to afford the rent.”
“If you had an office, you might earn more,” Brooke said. “You wouldn’t have the distractions of home. You wouldn’t have the kids and Gordon badgering you and treating you like a cook when you were trying to work.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking.”
“Your kids are old enough to come home to an empty house,” Brooke pointed out. “You could set up shop, get some business cards . . .”
“You’ve got business cards,” Jill said. “And you don’t even have a business. How did you manage that?”
“I made them.” Brooke reached into her purse and pulled out the elegant silver card holder. She handed Brooke one of her cards. It was simple: Brooke Bendel, Party Planner and her phone number. “You can create them on your computer and run them off on your printer, just like mailing labels. Doug picked up a box of card sheets at the local First-Rate. The sheets come in white and cream. I thought cream was more soothing and feminine.”
“They look great,” Jill agreed. She would never have thought of cream as more feminine, but she was used to thinking of colors as edible. Did the white cards look like milk?
“I can give you a couple of sheets and you can make your own cards.”
“What would I do with these cards?”
“Mail them to other catalogue companies, along with a resume. Drum up some business. I don’t know.” Brooke shrugged. “Give them out at parties.”
“You plan the parties, and I’ll give out my cards.”
“Listen to me, giving you business advice. I don’t have an office.”
“If you’re serious about becoming a party planner,” Jill counseled, “you ought to have an office, too.”
Brooke ruminated, running one perfectly manicured finger around the rim of her wineglass. “I’m not sure I’m serious,” she said. “But I’ll admit I had fun with your friend Gloria today.”
“She’s no friend of mine,” Jill muttered, then grinned. “But you were fantastic. You flattened her. And of course you’re serious. You printed cards.”
Brooke smiled hesitantly. “I guess.”
“We could share an office,” Jill blurted out, then reconsidered. Then reconsidered again. If she could share a bottle of Pinot Grigio with Brooke, surely they could share an office. They’d both be working flexible hours, after all. Two desks, a file cabinet, one phone line—they could take each other’s phone calls and pretend to be each other’s secretary. And the whole thing would be a lot more affordable if they split the costs.
Brooke’s smile grew wider. She no longer looked weary. Even the lines framing her eyes—so much fainter than Jill’s, despite her being a year older than Jill, but some things in life simply weren’t fair—seemed to vanish.
“We could,” she said.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Richard stepped out of his car and stared at the front windows of the First-Rate. They were plastered with ads, promos, announcements: a popular brand of dandruff shampoo on sale this week; Halloween candy, fifty percent off; this store will be open until midnight Thursdays and Fridays. Not that he expected a sign displayed in the window reading, “Ruth Bendel is inside,” but it would have been helpful.
She might have already left for the day. He had no idea what her hours were. He could have phoned to let her know he was planning to stop by. But he’d wanted to leave himself an out in case he got queasy the way he had with Shari Bernstein and decided at the last minute not to come.
He locked his car door and assessed his physical state. Nervous, yes, but definitely not queasy. He reminded himself for the dozenth time since leaving his office twenty-five minutes ago that Ruth was still his wife, that she’d been his wife for forty-two years, that he’d slept beside her nearly every night of those forty-two years. And if worse came to worst and he started feeling nauseous, First-Rate sold plenty of over-the-counter gastrointestinal remedies.
If she wasn’t there, at least he’d get a sense of the environment in which she worked. He’d view the place she had chosen over their home and their marriage. He knew she’d moved into an apartment across the street, but he didn’t know which one of the drab brick buildings, with their asphalt parking lots and flat roofs and feeble landscaping, contained her apartment. Perhaps her colleagues knew, but he couldn’t ask them. If he did, they might think he was a stalker, one of those deranged, possessive husbands who inevitably wound up featured in articles about homicide-suicides.
He stooped beside his car to check his reflection in the side-view mirror one final time. Shirt crisp—he’d ironed it last night and carried it to work on a hanger, so it wouldn’t get wrinkled during the course of the day. Silk tie knotted neatly against his throat. Hair combed, although the silver waves drifted stubbornly out of alignment despite his efforts in the bathroom at the hospital before he’d left work, and again before he’d emerged from the car.
He looked . . . well, not great but not awful, either. Ruth had once seen something in him. Perhaps, if he was lucky, she would again.
Shoring up his resolve, he strode down the sidewalk, passing a sandwich joint, a bank branch and a shop that apparently sold only sneakers. Its front window was dark enough to afford him a glimpse of his ghostly reflection. Not awful, he assured himself. Not wretched. If Ruth took one look at him and ran screaming out of the store, it wouldn’t be because of his appearance.
Assuming she was even there.
The First-Rate door opened automatically as he reached it. He stepped inside and caught the first whiff of a familiar smell—a little soapy, a little antiseptic, a little sweet. In fact, it smelled like every other First-Rate he’d ever entered.
Several people in red aprons stood behind the counter. One was a Hispanic-looking woman, another a balding older guy, the third a young punk with stringy hair and something metallic glinting in his eyebrow. A middle-aged woman, also wearing a red apron, worked an elaborate machine behind a separate counter with a sign reading, “One-Hour Foto.” Evidently, the folks who ran First-Rate didn’t know how to spell. Maybe they should call the store “Phirst-Rate.”
No sign of Ruth, not behind the counters, not wandering the aisles. A few customers roamed through the store, either carrying plastic shopping baskets or pushing wheeled carts as they loaded up on Q-tips, cellophane tape and cans of diet milkshake. One whole aisle seemed devoted to Thanksgiving merchandise: paper plates and napkins with harvest scenes printed on them, straw cornucopia baskets and brown candles shaped like turkeys.
Jill had told him she would host Thanksgiving this year. He supposed he’d have to go, although if Ruth wasn’t going to be there he wasn’t sure how much he’d have to give thanks for. His grandchildren, he reminded himself. His children. His daughter Jill, who had volunteered to take over a holiday which had always belonged to Ruth. That couldn’t be easy for her, but the family could always count on Jill to step in and keep things operational.
He realized he was sinking into a melancholy mood and shook it off. He wanted to be in a positive frame of mind when he saw Ruth. If he saw her.
“Can I help you?” the stringy-haired guy behind the counter called to him. He realized he must appear lost and befuddled.
“I’m looking for someone who works here,” he said, scanning the aisle nearest him. It was crammed with sleek, sophisticated bottles of facial cream. So many products designed to make a person’s face look marginally less old than it actually was. He’d bet Shari Bernstein would know what each of those products was and whether it did any good—if she ever stopped yapping about her daughters, her dog and the economies of various African nations.
“I work here,” the young man said.
“No, I mean a specific person. Her name is Ruth Bendel.”
“Oh yeah, Ruth’s here. I think she’s in the back. Hey, Rosita?” he called to the Hispanic woman. “Ruth hasn’t left yet, has she?”
“I think she was tal
king to Francine,” the woman called back.
“She’s talking to Francine,” the young man informed Richard, as if he was supposed to know who Francine was.
“Will she be returning to the store?” he asked.
“Well, she’s in the store,” the kid said. “Francine’s office is in back.”
“Can I go back there?”
The kid gave Richard a measuring look. “Maybe I could help you instead.”
“I highly doubt it.” He measured the kid right back. Tall and thin, with hollow cheeks and clothes that hung loosely from his angular shoulders. Give him a haircut and take that stupid metal thing out of his eyebrow, and he might be a pleasant-looking young man.
The kid pulled himself to his full height. “Who are you?” he asked.
Richard might have been offended, but he actually appreciated the fact that Ruth’s coworkers looked out for her. “I’m her husband,” he said.
“Ah.” The boy resumed his slouching posture. “The famous doctor.”
“I’m not famous,” Richard argued, then decided he sounded too peevish and cleared his throat. “I’d really like to talk to her.”
“She’ll be out soon. She usually checks out around six.” The kid looked at his watch, and Richard looked at his, as well. A few minutes past six.
The kid turned from Richard to a customer waiting to pay for a stack of gossip magazines. She cradled them in her arms as if they were a swaddled infant; Richard could make out People and US Weekly, but there were a bunch more in her stack, the schlockier ones at the bottom of the pile. Was she planning to compare their coverage, absorb all the news and then reach her own conclusion about whether this or that movie star had behaved badly at a party? Or was she perhaps replenishing the reading material in a doctor’s office? Richard and his partners preferred to leave a higher class of magazine around the waiting area for their patients, but according to Gert, the patients generally grabbed People and ignored The New Yorker and Business Week.
He distracted himself by surveying the facial products. Cleansing beads—what the hell were they? Oatmeal he knew about as a way to reduce itching caused by rashes and irritations, but as a beauty aid? Sure, it could make your cholesterol numbers more beautiful, but not if you rubbed it on your skin.
“Richard?” Ruth’s voice—so familiar, so welcome, so unnerving after he’d gone so many weeks without hearing it—floated down the aisle. He glanced in its direction and saw her walking toward him. She had on a coat, and her apron was rolled into a cylinder and tucked under her arm. Her hair was as flyaway as his, and her face . . .
He’d fallen in love with that face more than four decades ago. Not the first time he’d seen her—he’d always been too practical for love-at-first-sight, although he still remembered that evening at the frat house. He’d spotted her among all the other girls from Ithaca College and heard her Boston accent and thought, “That one has possibilities.”
There were many more possibilities now, and some of them weren’t so good. But he loved her face. Now more than ever, he loved it—so much that just seeing her made him feel slightly woozy.
He steadied himself and managed a smile. “Hello, Ruth,” he said, a bit too formally, but what do you say to your wife when you haven’t seen her for a month because she’s walked out on you?
After a moment’s hesitation, she continued down the aisle toward him. “What are you doing here?”
“I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I said I needed to buy some sun block,” he said, reaching for a face cream that boasted 30-SPF.
“This time of year? When did you ever worry about sun block, anyway? I always had to nag you to use it. And you’re the doctor.”
Was she scolding him or just bantering? He couldn’t tell. He let his arm fall away from the shelf and felt the emptiness in his hand. When had he last held hands with her? He wanted to hold her hand now, but he didn’t dare. “Can we talk?” he asked, aware of how ambiguous that question was. She could take it any way she wanted.
“I was about to leave. My shift is up. Come on.” She didn’t seem too angry—he could almost convince himself he saw a hint of a smile crossing her lips—and he followed her down the aisle to the front of the store.
“Hey, Ruth,” the kid Richard had spoken with earlier called out. “Introduce us to your old man.”
“He’s not so old,” Ruth joked. Richard was touched by her defense of him. “Richard, this is my friend Wade Smith. And Rosita Reyes, and Bernie O’Hara. That’s Gina at the film counter. Everyone, this is my husband, Richard Bendel.”
Richard stood stoically while they all gave him a thorough going-over. The balding older guy, Bernie, subjected Richard to a particularly intense inspection. “He doesn’t look like much,” Bernie said. “I still say you should run away with me.”
“Yeah, sure. Let’s check with your wife and see what she says,” Ruth chided, even though she and Bernie were both laughing. Richard didn’t join their laughter. He wanted to punch Bernie in the nose—and he wasn’t a violent man. Instead, he slid his arm around Ruth’s shoulders, staking his claim.
He could barely feel her through the thick insulation of her coat, but he didn’t care. He was holding her. Holding her in a way he hadn’t held her in too long. Just as he couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken her hand in his, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
“We were just leaving,” he said, a general announcement. “Nice meeting you.” He steered Ruth gently toward the door.
“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” Bernie called after them.
Sure I can, Richard thought, but he didn’t want to embarrass Ruth in front of her coworkers, so he kept his mouth shut. He noticed her exchange an enigmatic look with the young kid. What was his name? Something Smith.
Christ. Maybe he was the one she was planning to run away with.
They stepped outside into the chilly evening. “I can take you home,” he offered.
“That’s okay. It’s just across the street.” She halted under the awning of the sneaker shop and turned to face him. “So? What’s up?”
“I was wondering . . .” He felt like the twenty-year-old boy he’d been the first time he’d posed this question to her. “I was wondering if we could go out.”
“Go out? What do you mean?”
“For coffee? Dinner? Whatever you want.”
“A date? You’re asking me on a date?”
“Yes.” He angled his head toward the First-Rate. “Unless you’ve got something going on with that married man in there.”
“Bernie?” She snorted. “Not only is he married, he’s too old. He just likes to flirt.”
“How about the boy with the thing in his eyebrow?”
“Wade? He’s my buddy,” she said fondly. Her smile faded as she appraised Richard. “You look good. Spiffy. What, you’re using the cleaners?”
“Huh?”
“Your shirts. You’re taking them to the cleaners?”
He puffed up with pride. “I’m ironing them myself.”
“No kidding?” She ran her fingers along his collar, as if trying to detect starch. He wasn’t exactly sure what starch was, at least in the context of laundry, so he knew she wouldn’t feel anything except cotton broadcloth.
“I’m doing okay with laundry. Cooking, not so good.” He smiled and fluttered his hand in the air to indicate that his skills in the kitchen were nothing to brag about. He had become a lot less intimidated by the microwave, but . . . God, he missed her pot roast. “What do you say? Dinner out on Saturday night? Any restaurant you choose.”
“Oh, Richard.” She sighed, turned to stare through the adjacent store window at a pair of sneakers that appeared engineered for walking on the moon, then lifted her gaze back to him. He couldn’t read her expression—but then, could he ever? Obviously, she’d been nursing grievances for years, but he’d been too dense to notice. “I don’t know.”
“It doesn’t
have to be dinner. What would you like? A movie? Bowling?”
“Bowling?” She laughed. He hoped that was a good sign.
“Sure. Why not? And ice-cream sundaes afterward.”
“I’d rather go dancing.”
“Dancing. Perfect.” What a lie. He hated dancing. Not that there was anything particularly wrong with it, but he always felt stupid standing in the middle of a crowded floor with his arms around her and shuffling his feet in time to some song he didn’t know or like. She was the music expert, so maybe the whole thing made sense to her. To him, dancing was just a substitute for sex, only sex was a hell of a lot more satisfying. “Where should we go to do that? A ballroom? Or . . .” He realized he had to put some effort into this outing. If she did all the planning, she might resent him. She might feel as if she was stuck cleaning up after him again, and he was trying to prove to her that she didn’t have to do that. He could rinse his damn beard hair out of the sink, and he could figure out where to take her dancing.
“I was thinking, this club in Boston,” she said. “I went there with Wade and his girlfriend—I think she’s his girlfriend, although they’re on-again-off-again. But he’s not smoking at the moment, so I’m hoping they’re on again.”
Wade? The punk behind the counter with the eyebrow thing. “What kind of club?” he asked dubiously, picturing a seedy building full of motorcycle gang members who guzzled cheap whisky and shared a secret handshake.
“A rock club.”
“I thought you liked classical music. What’s his name—Corelli?” That he remembered her favorite composer might win him a couple of points.
“To listen to. Not to dance to.”
“I don’t know about the rock clubs today. And they probably don’t play our music. The Beatles? Grateful Dead?”
“You’re turning into an old fogy,” she scolded, but he sensed a teasing undertone in her voice.
“I’m already an old fogy.” He shrugged bravely. “If you want to go to your friend Wade’s favorite rock club and listen to rap, fine.”
“Dance, not listen. And it’s not rap. They play all kinds of stuff. I don’t know it. I just dance to it.”
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