by Wendy Wax
The all-white kitchen feels cold and sterile. It’s no longer a place where meals are cooked or shared. It’s a place I walk through or heat something up in, where I make my lone cups of coffee.
In the family room, I sit down in the recliner from which Nate watched a succession of ever-thinner, ever-larger televisions and stare unseeing out the French doors to the backyard, where sunlight dapples the magnolia leaves. I catch a faint buzz of a distant lawn mower as my neighbors go about their lives.
There are things I could do. Places I could go. But I sit here in the silent emptiness. I have to do something, change something. Become something. Because if I continue to try to fill this place up by myself, I’m going to snap.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I do the thing I’ve been unable to make myself do. I hit speed dial and wait for Ansley to pick up.
“Hi, Mom. We just got home. Can I call you back a little later? We . . .”
“No.” I say this quickly, before she can hang up. Because if I don’t do this now, I’m afraid I never will. “Hold on. I’m going to add Ethan to the call.”
When I have them both on the line, I dive in before I can lose my nerve. “I just called to let you know that I’ve decided to sell the house. It’s too big. It’s too full of . . . everything. I need to sell it. And I . . . I just wanted to let you know so that you can come back and select whatever you’d like to keep before I put it on the market.”
Silence follows. I warn myself not to overreact. But I’m not remotely prepared for what comes next.
“Oh, no,” Ansley cries. “You can’t do that!”
“Why would you even want to?” Ethan asks. “Dad loved our house. He always said he’d never move, that he’d have to be carried out . . . feetfirst.” His voice falters as he realizes what he’s just said.
I blink back tears as I remember the EMTs pulling the sheet up over Nate’s face. I steady my voice, determined to sound stronger than I feel.
“As horrible as it was to lose him, your father’s gone. But I’m . . . I’m here in this huge house all alone, and it’s . . . I just don’t want to do this anymore.”
“But giving up the house would be like losing him all over again,” Ansley declares. “It would be the end of . . . us.”
“Why are you in such a hurry?” Ethan demands.
“How can you be so selfish?” Ansley adds.
Am I being selfish? Was I wrong to think they’d understand?
Silent tears stream down my face as they berate me. My heart aches in my chest. Their anger is hot and scathing, but it’s their anguish that pierces me to the core. I have loved my children beyond measure since the moment of their birth. I’ve spent my entire adult life cherishing and protecting them. I have always put them and their well-being first. How can I possibly do something that will inflict more pain?
“I’ve got to go.” I can barely get the words past the ball of hurt and disappointment that clogs my throat. “We’ll . . . we’ll talk about this later.”
I hang up quickly, then sit and stare through the scrim of tears. I’ve spent these months living with Nate’s absence, but Ansley and Ethan haven’t processed their loss. Will time help? Do I owe it to them to give them that time? I don’t know how much longer I can stay in this house and on this same path without losing my mind. But if I do move forward, will they forgive me?
My sobs are the only sound that breaks the silence that surrounds me. When the tears finally subside, I call Meena in desperate need of one of her pithy pep talks or at least some sympathy.
“Aww, Jude. I’m really sorry to hear that. Your kids are only thinking of themselves at the moment, and that’s so unfair to you. Life can be so . . . unpredictable.” It’s only when she pauses and takes a shuddering breath that I realize she’s crying, too. “Just when you think you have it figured out . . . things just . . . fall apart.”
“What’s wrong, Meena?” I ask, my own voice faltering. I’ve heard Meena cry maybe two or three times in all the years I’ve known her. “Did something happen to the kids? Or to Stan?”
“No.” She sniffs. “I’m so embarrassed to be crying over something so silly, especially given what you’re dealing with.”
“What is it? Can you tell me on the phone? Or do you want me to come over?” Meena has always been there for me. I don’t know how I would have survived any of what’s happened without her.
“It’s Frank.”
“Oh my God! Was he in an accident? What happened?”
“I don’t know. Everything was so great. We had that wonderful vacation, and he’s been so sweet. I even told him that I was willing to be exclusive. You know, to see how it went.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“I really don’t know. But when I told him I didn’t want to live together, he just . . . ghosted me.”
“He what?”
“He disappeared. He doesn’t answer my emails or respond to my texts. I tried reaching out through his profile on Match, but it’s gone. He’s taken it down.”
Her drama somehow helps distract me from my own, at least for the moment.
“Can’t you go by his house and try to talk to him?”
There’s a silence. “I don’t know where he lives. I’ve never been there.”
“What?” Now I wonder if Frank is married. If Frank is even his real name. He could be anybody.
“He told me he lives in Alpharetta. But like I told you, he has an office here in Buckhead, so we just always made plans around my place. Because there’s so much more to do here in town.”
There’s more sniffling.
“I’m on my way, Meen. I’m coming over and we can talk about it. Make some kind of plan for both of us. And cry on each other’s shoulders.”
“But promise you won’t tell anyone about the Frank thing, okay? Not yet anyway. God, I feel like an imbecile. After raving about online dating and talking everybody into trying it, I feel completely ridiculous.”
Thirty-Two
Jazmine
“You ready, Andretti?”
Rich Hanson has been referring to me as Mario or Andretti ever since I borrowed his car to pick up Maya from tennis. There was a time when this would have irritated the crap out of me, but he says it with such relish that it somehow comes out feeling like a compliment.
He is without a doubt one of the most maddening people I’ve ever known, and given the egos I deal with on a daily basis, and even some of my family members, that’s saying a lot. But it’s hard to be angry with someone who argues with such good humor and remains respectful even in disagreement.
We have argued over virtually every detail involved in purchasing, converting, and staffing the tennis center, as well as its role in the ultimate creation of the StarSports Academy, including the things we agree on. He believes we have to “go big” in terms of facility and amenities, much bigger than I think advisable. And when it comes to identifying and attracting talent in both students and instructors, he’s far more inclined to go after top names than identify lesser-known but equally talented choices.
“You can’t be the best if you don’t have the best,” Rich insists.
“Yes, but I’d rather identify potential and build on it than try to steal existing talent from others.”
“That’s nothing but semantics,” he says with a laugh. “Is it really stealing if someone else’s boyfriend thinks you’re smarter, funnier, and more attractive than the woman he’s with? Should you be judged poorly for being born with more beauty or brains or a better sense of humor and then not hiding those things?”
His eyes twinkle as he looks into mine. The hazel turns a deeper amber, and the green is reduced to flecks, but I’m not sure if this conversation is as personal as it feels.
“I’ve been accused of stealing since I first became an agent, but in a lot of cases I just made mysel
f more attractive than the competition.”
“And how exactly did you do that?” I ask.
“I took a smaller percentage than the other agent was willing to consider. Or I agreed to a sliding fee based on my performance, not theirs. Sometimes I just worked harder to prove myself, sold more convincingly. It’s not so different from what you do. Only people, especially women, don’t trust me as easily as they trust you.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“See? You just don’t want to trust me. You don’t want to believe I could have become successful from working my ass off rather than poaching off others.” His eyes deepen further. The smile remains on his lips, and his tone is light, but I can tell how strongly he feels. “I think it actually bothers you that I’m not the bastard you thought I was.”
I burst out laughing. “You’re assuming I don’t think you’re a bastard anymore. Maybe I’m just better able to deal with you.”
“No.” He searches my eyes as if looking for something. “You are desperately trying to hold on to your dislike. You don’t want to believe I’m a good guy. So, you look for examples of bad behavior.”
“I think you think I think about you way more than I do.”
“Do I?” His grin is infectious. In fact, he uses humor more effectively than almost anyone I know. He’s quick. And opinionated yet able to argue from multiple sides, sometimes all at once.
Dueling with him keeps me on my toes. And although I’m not planning to admit it anytime soon, having to defend my positions and being forced to seriously consider his has helped hone the presentation we’re about to make to Larry in ways I never would have expected.
By the time we settle on the sofa and chairs in Larry’s office that Tuesday after lunch, another choice we hammered out together, finally agreeing it would be more effective than a formal presentation in the conference room, I don’t even need the notes I always have as backup.
“Okay,” Larry says. “Go!”
Without actually planning it, we present as a tag team. I explain our intention to stick with tennis and baseball, with the focus on tennis first, including the role of the Tennis Center. Rich lays out our overall strategy for recruiting staff and coaches and players, but there’s a lot of back-and-forth and filling in with background on how decisions were reached.
We spend a lot of time on why we think this is the moment and the importance of getting started as quickly as possible to prevent IMG from getting a toehold here on our turf.
We summarize, then hand over two possible budgets—one with all the bells and whistles and one that contains compromises—partly because you almost never get everything you want and because the bottom line will ultimately depend on Larry’s enthusiasm for the project. Which based on the size of his smile and the nodding of his head is looking pretty encouraging.
“Jazz brings a lot to the table. You were right about not even attempting anything of this scope without her,” Rich says in closing, startling me not only with the compliment but with the use of the nickname my sister bestowed on me long ago. Every time I think I know exactly who he is, he pulls out some shiny new facet.
“I’m glad you’re finally seeing the light,” Larry replies. “You two are even more impressive when you’re pulling together.”
When we leave Larry’s office, I’m jangling from the whole presentation, the ease of communication, the flow of our pitch, how clearly Larry seemed to get it.
“Did that go as well as I think it did?” I ask as we round the corner, headed, by unspoken agreement (a first!), toward my office.
“Better. It was a beautiful thing. If he doesn’t approve every penny of every bell and whistle, I will be shocked to the very depths of my being.”
“I didn’t realize your ‘being’ was all that deep.” But in truth, he has depths I never expected, and I have never been part of a better, more cohesive experience. I am high on it.
“Very funny. Tear me to shreds if you must, but we definitely need to celebrate. And no, we’re not waiting for a formal approval from Larry. Can I buy you a drink? Unless you need to pick up Maya or something. You could take my car so you can get there and back faster.”
“My dad’s picking her up. She’s spending the night with her grandparents,” I say as we near Erin’s desk. “I am not opposed to a drink. But I’ll do the buying.”
Erin’s eyes are bigger than I’ve ever seen them. They blink in surprise.
“If you’re waiting for me to go all macho or something, you can forget about it,” Rich replies. “You can definitely buy me a drink. Hell, you can buy me two.”
Erin looks between the two of us. “So, it went well?”
“It went better than well,” I say.
“Your boss is a genius. I mean really, she’s that good,” Rich adds.
I drop my files on my desk and grab my purse. “We’re going to celebrate. See you tomorrow.” I can’t seem to stop smiling. “Hold down the fort.”
Rich gives her a salute and links his arm through mine. “Come on, Mario. Time’s a-wasting.”
We decide on Mission + Market because it’s in the next building and are ordering a drink and “bar bites” by 3:20.
“I always wondered what kind of people went drinking at three thirty,” I say as our cocktails arrive.
“Smart people. People who have things to celebrate.” Rich raises his glass to mine.
“We are both of those things, aren’t we?” I say with relish as we clink glasses.
I buy Rich the two drinks I promised, but I’m too busy talking and laughing and arguing to order a second for myself.
When we move to Kaleidoscope on Dresden, close to my home, he insists on reciprocating. I’m sipping a glass of my favorite rosé when I ask the question that’s been on everyone’s mind. “So why did you leave Pinnacle Partners and LA for Atlanta? I mean, I think StarSports is a great agency—Larry’s built something impressive—but it’s pretty small potatoes compared to Pinnacle.”
“It’s a lot simpler and less interesting than all the rumors going around.” His eyes snare mine. “My daughter started at Emory in the fall. She’s a freshman, but a young one.” He hesitates. “And I, uh, know it sounds a little old-fashioned, but I didn’t want to be all the way across the country from her.”
“You have a daughter.”
“I do.”
I try to picture Rich as a father and husband. “You’re not married, though.” It’s a statement and a question.
“No.” Another hesitation. “I was. But . . . no.”
There’s something in his tone that tells me there’s more but warns me not to ask. I try on the idea of Rich Hanson as a concerned and involved father. One who would pick up and move across the country for his daughter. It flies in the face of everything I’ve ever heard or thought about him; it adds another layer of satisfaction to what we accomplished together today. And all that lies ahead.
He leans forward and looks directly into my eyes. It’s clear that he wants to kiss me.
But I’m the one who disregards my normal aversion to public displays of affection and presses my lips to his. It’s my eyes that flutter shut. But I’m not in that kiss alone.
When we pull apart, he looks slightly stunned, exactly how I feel. Without discussion or debate, he pays the bill and follows me home. On the front porch we kiss again. This time our tongues tangle, and I feel the clear, hard pull of desire. I take his hand and lead him inside.
* * *
• • •
Which is how I awake next to a naked Rich Hanson the next morning. Our clothes are strewn across the carpet. The late-morning sun streams through the wood blinds. I go up on one elbow and reach for my phone on the nightstand. It’s almost ten o’clock. “Oh, God!”
“What? What is it?” He sits straight up beside me. Our naked bodies touch.
I ya
nk the comforter up to my neck, which pulls it down below his waist. In this moment, I actually wish I had drunk more so that I could at least pretend that I did not choose to sleep with this man. My colleague. And until so recently, my nemesis.
I shake my head. “I can’t believe we did this.”
He turns to face me. He’s trying not to smile. “But we did. And frankly it was . . . unbelievably fantastic.” He sighs. “I don’t think I can apologize for something I’m pretty sure I’m going to remember to my dying day.”
“But I don’t even like you!” Somehow, I pull the sheet out from under the comforter and stand while wrapping it around me. “I don’t understand how this happened!”
“Well, let’s see,” he says calmly as he gets out of bed, picks up his boxers and pants from the floor, and steps into them. “You kissed me at Kaleidoscope. I saw you home. We kissed again. You invited me in. One thing . . . led to another.” He stands on the opposite side of the bed, bare chested, his hair tousled.
“Oh my God. I can’t believe this.”
“That’s what you kept saying last night. Only you sounded happier about it.”
And, of course, I was. Because while I am shocked at my behavior, I haven’t forgotten how thrilled I was with our collaboration, how great it felt to bowl Larry over, how much I enjoyed celebrating with Rich. How surprised we both were when I kissed him. How eager we both were when I took his hand and led him inside.
It’s the rare man who can make you laugh even while he’s making love to you. The rarest of the rare who understands just how great an aphrodisiac humor can be. The only other man I’ve ever known who got that connection was Xavier.
I shake my head. “I’ve never slept with a client or a colleague. I don’t believe in it. It can lead to complications and . . . misunderstandings.” I look him directly in the eye. “I won’t be another notch in someone’s belt.”