Ground Rules: Rewritten

by Roya Carmen

  I’m not sure if it’s food poisoning or the stomach flu that has been going around at school, but I feel like hell—alternating diarrhea and vomiting, fever, sweating, chills and an out of body sensation.

  Gabe takes a day off work and tries to get food into me, forces me to drink neon blue and green sports drinks. He puts on romantic comedies for me and goes to the corner store to fetch me some trash magazines and Jell-O—it’s the only thing I feel like eating.

  After three days off work, I feel well enough to go in on the Thursday. My sweet kids have all made me cute get-well cards. I pray to the gods to please let me make a full recovery for our trip to NYC.

  I’m so glad I’m well enough for the trip. Thankfully, I’ve recovered from my stomach flu just in time. I’ve spent all Friday night packing for this overnighter—casual wear, dresses for the show, dress jackets, fancy shoes and frilly socks, ribbons and of course, I couldn’t forget Cookie and Bitzy; Chloe’s favorite stuffed dog and Claire’s monkey. I’ve told the girls I had a surprise for them but didn’t want to elaborate further. If they knew, they wouldn’t have gotten a wink of sleep last night.

  Turns out, Gabe is swamped at work. Apparently Hanson & Hersch needs delivery on a bunch of furniture this week for a few of their model suites, and since he’s the one in charge…

  I find the timing of this very curious. And Bridget and Ashton won’t be able to make it either. I can’t help but wonder if this is all really just a “coincidence.”

  Gabe insists he’s fine staying back, but something tells me he’s not being quite honest with me.

  He’s left very early for work this morning and we’re eating a breakfast of toaster waffles and strawberries. I check my watch again. I’ve been checking it about every five minutes. We can’t be late.

  The date nestled in the tiny square on the face of my watch catches my eye. It’s May the eighteenth. It will be a year exactly tomorrow since Weston and I first met. It’s hard to believe. I think back to that night at the snooty restaurant. Me in that pink dress, him in his suit and purple shirt and tie. Part of me knew I would see him again. It made no sense. They were strangers we met by chance. We were from two different worlds, nothing tying us together. But somehow, I knew.

  I’ve got the bags ready and the girls’ outfits sitting at the ends of their beds. Chloe has deduced the obvious—something’s up.

  “Are you going on a trip again, Mommy,” she asks as she digs into her breakfast. “I saw suitcases in your room.”

  A slow smile spreads across my face. “I am actually. I’m going to New York.”

  Sadness washes over her delicate features. She doesn’t say a word. Claire studies me intently, with a most impressive milk moustache. “Are we going to Auntie Gwinnie’s again?”

  A huge smile practically splits my face in two. “No. You girls are coming with me.”

  Chloe bounces off her chair and hops into my arms. “Really?” Claire follows and joins us in a group hug.

  “I never been to New York City before,” Claire chirps. She bounds off me, and hops back to her seat, her golden ringlets bouncing softly on her shoulders. The sight of them, so happy, almost makes me want to cry, and I need to consciously hold back the tears.

  “Why are we going to New York?” Chloe asks, so inquisitive.

  “A friend of mine invited us. A friend of Mommy’s and Daddy’s,” I’m quick to clarify. I need to tread carefully here. I absolutely don’t want Chloe to suspect anything.

  “Is Daddy coming?”

  “Daddy has to work this weekend. He has a very important project to finish this week. But we’re going with my friend and his daughter Elizabeth who’s the same age as you, Chloe. So it’ll be like a playdate.”

  “That sounds fun,” she says, twirling a strand of dark hair around her index finger, pensive. Her expression seems wary. She’s probably hoping this “Elizabeth” is a nice girl, because as she is fond of saying, nine-year-old girls can be so mean.

  “And you need to include Claire,” I press. “Just because she’s seven, doesn’t mean she can’t play with you two.”

  “Yes, Mom,” she says with a dash of eye-roll.

  Edward greets us in the driveway. He flashes Claire a smile as he helps me with the luggage. I thank him profusely. He opens the door for us and as I follow the girls in, I thank him again.

  “This is a fancy-schmancy car,” Claire says as she slides her little pudgy bottom against the beige leather interior. “It has a driver man and everything.”

  I laugh. “You look pretty fancy yourself in your little jacket.”

  “It’s new,” she says knowingly.

  I laugh a little. “I know. I just bought it for you. I bought the jackets special for this trip. I didn’t want you looking like ragamuffins.”

  “They would not let us ride in this car if we were ragamuffins,” Chloe chimes in.

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Is this going to be a long ride?” Chloe asks. “I thought New York was far.”

  “We’re going on a plane,” I tell them, half-excited, half-scared.

  “Really?” Claire asks. “I’m so excited.”

  I was expecting to be taken to O’Hare but the driver tells me we’re heading north to a small executive airport in Wheeling.

  “So, Mommy,” Chloe starts. “This friend of yours, who is he?” she asks with a knowing smile and such maturity, it unnerves me a little. But she’s only nine, I remind myself, surely she doesn’t suspect a thing.

  “He’s the one Mommy and Daddy went to Hawaii with. You met him once. He came to see me after school.”

  “The tall man with the black eye?” she asks, her brows straight as an arrow, she seems very intrigued.

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “The handsome one?” she says with a slight curve of her lip.

  “Yes,” I mutter and remind myself to be extra cautious this weekend.

  As soon as we arrive at the airport, I spot Weston with his daughter and a petite, middle-aged woman I’ve never seen before. He smiles when he spots me. He’s looking cute; worn gray leather jacket over black shirt and slim-fitted dark-wash jeans. You would think he’d spare me and try to look a little less delicious, considering the circumstances we find ourselves in. This weekend will be an interesting experiment in impulse control.

  He gives me a chaste kiss on the cheek. “How was the drive here?”

  “It was great,” I tell him, eyeing his daughter and the friendly looking woman I don’t know yet.

  He kneels down to the girls. “It’s so nice to see you girls again. Do you remember me?”

  “How can we forget?” Claire says, and we all laugh out loud. I’m not sure why she chose those words. I guess he made quite the impression.

  Weston stands and introduces me to the woman by his side. “This is Roselyn. She’s helped us with our children since they were babies. She’s here to help out.”

  Wow. This is news to me. But I like it. I’ve never had a nanny before.

  I offer my hand. “Hi, I’m Mirella,” I say with a smile.

  He puts a gentle hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder. “And I suppose you know who this young lady is.”

  “Hi, I’m Mirella. It’s nice to meet you,” I offer, struck by her beauty. She has inherited her father’s thick jet-black hair and long dark lashes, and her mother’s light-gray blue eyes—the effect is striking. I wonder if she realizes how stunning she is even at this young age.

  “It is very nice to meet you too,” she says as she shakes my hand, a strong, confident handshake.

  “These are my daughters Chloe and Claire. Chloe is your age.”

  Chloe is usually very shy, but seems to warm when Elizabeth beams at her.

  “Mr. Hanson,” a young man says. “She’s all ready for you.” He flashes a megawatt smile which goes perfectly well with his white pilot suit. But he can’t be the pilot, I think to myself. He’s way too young.

  “Thank you, Kyle,” Weston s
ays. “I suppose we’re officially off to New York.”

  “Mr. Hanson,” another pilot says as he shakes Weston’s hand—a firm manly handshake. This one is even younger looking. They both look like babies and they’re going to fly us thousands of feet above the ground in a big hunk of metal? Not scary at all.

  “Bill,” Weston says, a smile on his face. “This is a friend, Mirella Keates,” he adds, introducing me.

  “Nice to meet you,” they both say as we shake hands.

  “We’ll be flying you to New York today,” Kyle says, with a devilish smile. I’m sure he can tell I’m petrified. “We’ll have a good flight,” he assures me. “The weather is beautiful today.”

  Kyle, Bill, and Weston roll our luggage toward the exit and we follow eagerly. The sun blinds me when we make our way out of the airport. I slide my sunglasses off the top of my head as I spot the plane on the tarmac; blue and white, and a little small for my taste. I remind myself of what Weston has told me—two skilled professional pilots, top-of-the-line plane, perfect safety record…and I take a breath.

  It’s quite a nice plane actually.

  The girls are speechless. I think they’re just as scared as I am. I will myself to not look as petrified as I feel inside. If they see Mommy white-knuckling it and holding on for dear life, they might get scared too.

  The pilots guide us up the stairs. The girls get in first and grab the three seats at the back, giggling like the little girls they are. I follow Roselyn in. She buckles the girls in, already in full-duty mode. I can tell she’s done this before, flying on a private plane is apparently nothing new to her.

  “This is so cool,” Chloe cheers. “We have our own plane.”

  “Is this your daddy’s plane?” Claire asks, her small high-pitched voice bounces off the walls.

  “Yes,” Elizabeth says, matter-of-factly.

  Chloe’s gaze travels across the plane to the cockpit. “You’re so lucky,” Chloe tells her.

  “Are you rich?” Claire asks, eyes wide as saucers.

  Oh, Claire. I smile, my face buried in my hand. Unfortunately, now’s not really the time for the “proper manners” conversation.

  I take a seat on one of the seats facing forward. I’m relieved to see the interior is in good repair. It is very swanky; cream leather seats; nine in all, drink holders, small folding tables.

  Weston follows us in. His tall frame looks odd bent under the low ceiling. He quickly takes a seat across me and shoots me a smile. “Comfortable?”

  I arch my back against the comfy leather seat, and buckle my seatbelt. “Very.”

  Kyle shows us the drinks and snacks station and tells us the girls can check out the cockpit later if they wish.

  I thank him profusely, and decide that I would prefer they stay in their seats. But then I suppose, if the plane goes down, we won’t be much safer in our seats. The thought makes me panic a little.

  Weston must see the alarm on my face because he smiles and tells me we’ll be fine. “Mirella, I would never bring you and your girls on this plane if I wasn’t undoubtedly convinced of its safety,” he insists, his words firm, and said with conviction.

  “I know, but the pilots look so young. I’d feel a bit more assured if I saw a little gray at the temples.”

  Weston smiles. I seem to be entertaining him again.

  “I’ve flown many, many times,” Roselyn says with a smile. “And I’m still kicking.”

  I smile at her and take a breath. And then, I turn to Weston, who is sitting, in perfect view, looking delectable as usual. He spreads The Chicago Tribune over his legs and shoots me a playful smile.

  And I decide to distract myself by looking at him for the next hour or two.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The things I would do to you.

  THE PLANE RIDE IS UNEVENTFUL and relatively relaxing and quiet, with the exception of the girls’ giggles in the back. It’s nice to avoid the line-ups, check-in, baggage claim and all that stuff mere mortals have to put up with.

  Another car and driver is waiting for us when we exit Teterboro Airport. This one is a white full-size limousine. The driver smiles at us and immediately takes our luggage.

  “Oh wow! We got one of those really long cars,” Claire says. “I always wanted to go in one,” she tells us as she follows her sister and Elizabeth.

  Her excitement knows no boundaries and is completely uncontained. That’s the beauty of children—such spontaneity, such honesty—they never filter their thoughts before sharing them. I give her a squeeze before she goes in. Roselyn helps the girls settle in. I turn to see Weston looking at me. I smile and mouth the words “thank you.” He smiles that magnetic sweet grin of his, and I make a mental note to sit next to him.

  As we travel through the Lincoln tunnel to get to Manhattan, the inside of the limo is pure chaos. Roselyn and I try to settle the girls down, without much success.

  Weston doesn’t seem fazed. He seems more preoccupied with me.

  “Stop looking at me like that,” I scold, speaking in hushed tones. “Do you want all of them to know?”

  He smiles. “You’re right.”

  But neither Roselyn nor the girls seem to be paying us any mind. I turn to smile at him.

  “You look very smart today,” he whispers in my ear.

  I smile. “And by smart, you are not referring to my crossword solving skills.”

  He laughs. “No. I mean beautiful.”

  “You’re doing it again,” I tell him, a huge smile on my face as I see Manhattan laid out before me. “Knock it off,” I say with a nudge to his arm.

  This is so exciting.

  We’re staying in the heart of Times Square. The hotel is old-school, charming. I love it. It seems very bohemian sixties to me. The décor is Art Deco; old door knobs made of high-quality steel and glass, intricate moldings, charming wallpaper. I’m surprised by his choice. I was expecting something contemporary; all muted colors, chrome and clean sleek lines.

  “I love it,” I tell him as we make our way to the check-in desk.

  “I knew you would. I chose it for you.”

  I smile and look away. His words get to me. He’s always so thoughtful, goes out of his way to make me happy. Sometimes, I wish he’d stopped being so damned romantic. I’m trying not to fall again, but he’s making it so hard not to.

  “We’re on the twenty-second floor. I got a room for Roselyn, and a two-bedroom suite for you and your girls. Elizabeth and I are in a suite just down the hall from you,” he tells me as we wait at check-in. He’s next up.

  “Thank you,” I tell him again. My eyes well up as I say, “You don’t know what this means to my girls.” My voice wavers as I explain, “They never get to go anywhere. We’re just too busy and cash-strapped.” I bite my lip, willing myself not to cry.

  “You don’t need to thank me, Mirella,” he says, a hand on my shoulder. “You know it’s my pleasure. This brings me as much joy as it does you,” he says, his voice unsteady, his stance stiff. I can tell he’s mildly uncomfortable with this sudden outburst of emotion.

  I try to regain my composure. “Well, thank you again,” I say business-like. And I tell myself to get a grip.

  Our room is beautiful—very small but very quaint. There’s a charming striped wallpaper lining the walls. As I enter the beautiful space, I take in the two rooms. The one at my left consists of a lone bed, at the end of which, is a lovely red velvet covered bench. A large solid wood headboard grounds the queen bed in the center of the amazing room. The girls immediately spot the twin beds on the right side, and take ownership of that room.

  “I guess this is your room,” I tell them, doing a walk-about. I discover the bathroom. It is utterly charming with its original plumbing (or possibly very convincing replicas). “It looks like you get the bathroom.”

  The two rooms are separated only by a front hall and closet—a rustic door with an old glass doorknob. My room offers no privacy from the girls’ room, but I don’t mind. Ther
e is a sense of intimacy in the small space, it’s perfect.

  The view of Times Square is amazing. I take in the excitement of the city as I slide the heavy curtains open.

  The girls jump up and down on the beds and I just don’t have the heart to tell them to stop.

  I smile, thinking about Weston—the way he looked at me in the limo…that smile.

  I can do this, I remind myself. I can keep my hands off him for the next twenty-four hours. I wonder what his room looks like. I wonder if it’s exactly like mine—open concept, small, and intimate. Or maybe he has his own room with a door and a comfy king size bed.

  Oh, here I go again.

  It’s magical.

  I’ve never seen so many toys.

  Of course, we can’t go on a trip to New York and not drop by F.A.O. Schwarz—everyone says so—the girls at work, my brother, Gwen, and even Weston.

  The girls dive right in, burying their little paws in all varieties of stuffed animals; big furry pandas, adorably soft kitties, long-armed monkeys.

  “Check out the giraffe,” Claire says. “It’s so big. Like a real giraffe,” she says, matter-of-factly.

  I smile up at Weston who seems thoroughly entertained. She walks up to the giraffe, which must be at least seven feet tall, strokes it and kisses its leg.

  “She is so adorable,” Weston says. “I think I want to steal her.”

  “Now, don’t get creepy on me,” I tease.

  He laughs and inches closer.

  Claire is still mesmerized by the giraffe. She stands at its rear now, stroking her face with the tip of its tail.

  “She really loves that giraffe,” he says.

  I smile and watch her, without a word.

  After a beat or two, he says, out of the blue. “I know the feeling.”

  I turn to look at him, a curious expression on my face.

  His beautiful eyes linger on me for a second too long. “Falling in love at first sight,” he clarifies.

  I smile and look away.

  “I know the feeling too,” I say, my words almost inaudible, buried in the noise of the crowd.