I remembered her crying about how alone she felt, how she didn’t think Barry was as serious about having a natural born baby as she was because he’d started talking about adoption.
Still, I refused to believe that Amanda’s baby wasn’t his. Who else could it have belonged to?
“Barry, I think you’re being paranoid...That one time could’ve been the time you know? I think you should call and discuss this with her. I don’t think I’m the right—”
“It’s not mine.” He groaned. “Meet me at the Marriott around the corner from your job. I know you two are supposedly great friends, but I need to show you something.”
“Okay...” I hung up and called Ryan.
“Hey baby,” he whispered. “I’m in a meeting. What’s going on?”
“I need you to pick the girls up from dance practice today.”
“Okay, not a problem. Is something wrong?”
“No, I—” I was about to tell him that Barry had called me crying about Amanda, but there was a strange voice in the back of my head telling me not to. “I need to run a few errands and I won’t be able to pick them up on time. That’s all.”
“Okay babe. See you at dinner.”
When I made it to the Marriot’s lobby, I saw Barry hurling pennies into the wishing well, cursing at any one who dared to stare at him.
His eyes were swollen and bloodshot, and he reeked of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol.
I tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around in a rage. But then his eyes softened and he hugged me tightly. “Thank God you’re here...Come with me.”
He motioned for me to follow him inside the hotel’s upscale lounge and ordered a bottle of the most expensive champagne on the menu. Sighing several times, he shook his head over and over.
“I’ve never really liked wine, Claire.” He filled his glass until it slightly overflowed. “It was always Amanda’s thing. I always thought it tasted like horse shit. The more expensive it is, the worse it tastes.”
He’s losing it...I knew I should’ve called Amanda on my way over here... I’ll go call her in the restroom...
“Barry, I’m going to run to the—”
“She insisted on having this very brand at our wedding. Did you know that?”
I shook my head.
He took a large gulp and exhaled. “Yep. 1975 Chateau Trotanoy—it’s a Bordeaux...And it’s still as disgusting as it was on the day I married her.”
“Barry...”
“That’s why I find it quite fitting to drink now, especially since I’ll be filing for a divorce in the morning.”
WHAT!
“I don’t feel comfortable with you telling me this.” I stood up. “You need to go home and talk to—”
“My wife? My philandering, lying, ‘doesn’t-give-a-shit-about-me’ wife? I don’t think so.” He pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and slid it to me. “I hired someone weeks ago to follow her, to find out where the fuck she was spending all her extra time.”
I sat down and opened the envelope, flipping through the pictures: Amanda was shopping at a few boutiques, hanging out with me, and attending first time mommy classes.
I stopped flipping and put the stack down. “Okay. I need you to listen to me. I really don’t think—”
“I didn’t believe it was true either. I mean, my guy would always come back with the same photos week after week. She was at home, at your house, out shopping. Pretty typical stuff on the surface and I almost called him off the job. I thought I was being paranoid. But then one day at dinner I happened to ask her about you. I said, ‘So, how has Claire liked being a freelance marketing director? Is it better than working for an ad agency?’ She said you hadn’t worked at home for years, that you’d been working sixty hour weeks at Cole and Hillman downtown. So I asked myself: If Claire isn’t at home during the day, who is Amanda going there to see? It can’t be Claire’s daughters. They’re in school. So...”
It took me several minutes to absorb what he was trying to imply, several more to even wrap my head around such a ridiculous assertion.
“No.” I shook my head. “No...There’s no way. There’s a perfectly good explanation if...” I picked up the packet of photos and flipped through them again.
They were all circumstantial: Amanda’s car parked outside my house—she loved my neighborhood’s walking course and often left her car in my driveway to do one of her “thought-walks.” There were pictures of her walking along the Hot Metal Bridge in the rain, sitting alone on a bench—probably crying about Barry not being at home again. But then there were pictures of Ryan, my Ryan, sitting next to her on that bench. Kissing her on that bench.
There were pictures of their cars parked outside the Hilton in Greentree—the next town over, pictures of them walking through the city park hand in hand, pictures of them having sex from the open windows of my bedroom.
The date on this bedroom photo is yesterday...
Barry lifted a photo from my hands. “I went to that Hilton myself...I followed them there in a cab. I waited thirty minutes before going inside and pretended to be her brother who happened to get lost on the way. I walked over to the front desk clerk and said, ‘My sister is always bragging about how nice this place is, how often she uses it for a getaway. You must see her a lot huh?’ You want to know what that clerk said to me?”
“No.” Tears fell down my face.
He took another gulp of his wine. “I’ll tell you anyway. He said, in the most annoyingly excited salesman voice, ‘Oh yeah...She’s been coming here off and on for over a year. She tips every time she comes and she just loves our room service menu.’ For over a year, right under my goddamn nose...”
His face reddened and he shook his head. “I wanted to go up there and confront them, but I knew I would’ve killed them—both of them. I can’t pretend that I don’t know anymore, Claire. I can’t pretend to be happy about a baby that’s not mine, and when I got this last set of pictures today, I made up my mind... I’ve hired a lawyer and I’m telling her it’s over tonight. I just thought I would let you know the real reason why before she lied to you like she lied to me.” He banged his fist on the table.
I looked through the photos once more, hoping that my eyes were playing tricks on me, that it wasn’t really my best friend and my husband in the shots—praying that I was in some type of sick nightmare.
But the images never changed. It was true.
“Cheers to faithful spouses.” Barry poured another glass of wine and practically forced me to drink it.
That wine was disgusting, but not as disgusting as the following weeks would be...
“It’s okay, Claire.” Sandra motioned for me to switch seats with her. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter 1.5
Claire
The summer my divorce was finalized, I wasn’t sure what to do with my life. Everything I’d ever known, everything I ever was, was all entwined with Ryan. He was a huge part of me, an engrained piece of my identity, and I didn’t know who the hell I was without him.
I wanted to do the whole Eat, Pray, Love thing—you know, travel the world and try to find myself while tasting new foods, soaking up new cultures, and having reckless sex with a young, hot Brazilian—but I knew that was completely unrealistic: I was in serious debt, I was terrified of planes, and too much time without my daughters would’ve driven me insane.
So, instead I opted for long walks in the park, walks that usually ended with me curled up against a rock—sobbing until my sides ached.
No matter how hard I tried pretending to be “fine,” there was always something that triggered a miserable memory of my failed marriage: A young couple playing with their children in the park, a flower stand vendor offering discounts on red roses, a group of college kids wearing their “University of Pittsburgh” T-shirts.
I tried reading books about divorcées who overcame their pain, hoping to feel inspired or enlightened, but they only made me more depressed. I tried hanging
out with my other friends, thinking they would distract me from my agony, but they were more interested in throwing pity parties.
After months and months of non-stop bawling, I decided to attack my heartache in stages—well, “phases” if you will:
There was the “Dr. Phil and mint chocolate chip ice cream” phase, where I sat up and watched the good doctor rip cheating spouses to shreds. I recorded each and every episode and watched them over and over. I even imitated the twang in his voice as he said, “Whyyyy would you do thattt?!” And I rewarded myself an extra scoop each time I didn’t yell “Liar!” when the cheating spouse tried to justify himself.
There was the “recent divorcée group” phase, where I tried to connect with other hurt women at a local church. It was kind of like Alcoholics Anonymous, but shockingly more depressing. None of the women could get two sentences out without sobbing; and, by the time it was my turn, I was too numb to speak.
I was planning to end this phase after a few weeks, but after one particular meeting, the lead advisor asked me not to come back. She said she’d noticed that every time I was asked to give a suggestion about an ex-husband to a grieving divorcée, I always said, “You should have him murdered.”
I assumed the dead pan tone of my voice and the seriousness in my eyes prevented them from seeing that I was joking...
I even went through an “I am woman, hear me roar” phase where I made the following drastic decisions: 1) Cut my waist length hair to barely shoulder length. 2) Picked up a new habit—smoking, which lasted all of one day. 3) Got a tattoo of my “freedom date” (the date of my divorce) on my foot, pierced my ears, and actually accepted the shop’s complimentary belly button piercing. 4) Blasted female power anthems whenever I was in my car, in my work office, or at home cleaning. (I’m pretty sure my daughters trashed and burned my Shania Twain CD...) 5) Sold all my worldly possessions—except my TV...and my e-reader...and my iPod...and my—Okay, so I just gave away everything that belonged to Ryan.
As I was testing out all these phases, my career as senior marketing chair for Cole and Hillman Associates continued to suffer miserably: Our newest client’s product was named “Infidelity” and the company insisted on using the phrase “Some vows were made to be broken” as the tagline.
It wasn’t until I spent an entire day crying in a public restroom that I realized what I had to do.
I had to leave. I had to start moving on.
I quit my job, withdrew my daughters from school, and packed up my SUV. I used what little settlement money I received from my divorce and made the cross country drive from Pittsburgh to my mom’s hometown of San Francisco, California.
I bought a small fixer upper in a quaint neighborhood, a house at the very top of a slope. I watched numerous HGTV shows and completed several home improvement projects as my therapy, as a way to keep my mind busy: I stripped all the carpeting and installed hardwood and sleek ceramic tile. I painted each and every room—soft taupe, cream-less ivory, café olay, woodsy red.
Within three months of moving, I’d had numerous job interviews, but very few call-backs. After realizing that my options were limited in the recession, I reluctantly took a mid-level marketing job at Statham Industries, a huge downgrade and pay-cut from my previous position.
I told myself that less money wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, it was a new thing and I needed to do more new things in order to truly move on.
Since I’d never been a fan of running, I woke up early every morning and forced myself to run—half a mile at first, then a full mile, and then eventually three miles a day.
I had my hair chopped even shorter—from shoulder length to bob-length. I started treating myself to a day at the salon twice a month, something I’d always dreamed of doing but never found the time to do. I even shopped for a whole new wardrobe—trading in my trademark all-black outfits for colorful silk blouses, pencil skirts, flattering dresses, and well-fitted suits.
One day while I was out shopping, I met a woman named Sandra Reed. She was one of those people with a mild-mannered yet upbeat personality, someone I felt like I could instantly trust—like I could tell anything to; I was pretty sure her career as a psychiatrist had something to do with that.
When I opened up months later and told her the real reason why I’d fled to San Francisco, she insisted that I start going to therapy. Out of respect for our budding friendship, she recommended me to one of her firm’s renowned associates and wrote off my sessions for free.
She always encouraged me to go out, to try finding men at singles’ mixers, and to actually attempt dating again. Yet, after four years of being in San Francisco, I still couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I didn’t believe too many men would be interested in a middle aged divorcée, and doubted that any man would be able to heal the wounds inflicted by Ryan and Amanda.
Chapter 2
Jonathan
Jesus, she’s sexy...
I was at a business dinner with some associates when I spotted a gorgeous redhead looking out over the deck of Pacific Bay Lounge.
She was absolutely stunning. The short black lace dress she was wearing hugged her curvy body in all the right places and I was straining to see what was underneath that plunging neckline.
Her glossy hair was swept to the side in loose curls that barely touched her shoulder and her eyes—soft green eyes, were glimmering against the twinkling lights that hung above her head.
“Mr. Statham?” My executive lawyer interrupted my thoughts. “When do you want to go over that proposal?”
“Tuesday morning. I have a feeling it’s going to take a long time to sort through everything. I can’t believe they don’t want a merger. They’re going to lose a lot of money with a buyout.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t believe it either, but it might be a power play to test your commitment. I’ll see you Tuesday.”
“Me too.” “Have a good New Year’s.” “See you at corporate.” The rest of the associates shook my hand and walked away.
I turned back around to get another look at the red haired goddess, but I didn’t see her anymore.
Was I dreaming? How much did I drink tonight?
I scanned the pier again and—there she was. She’d moved several feet down.
I watched her sip her beer and sigh, wondering if she was attending that party alone.
“I think that went pretty well.” My trust advisor Vanessa smiled. “You’re a great conversationalist. It’s a win-win for Statham Industries either way.”
“Don’t thank me yet. We still have to get them to close on it.” I stood up. “Thank you for coming tonight. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“You’re leaving? Don’t you want to stay and have a few drinks with me? It is New Year’s Eve and I don’t have anybody to kiss after the countdown...”
“Vanessa, we’ve been through this. You know I don’t date employees.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not a regular employee. I’m a chair on the board.”
Even worse...
“Yeah well, mixing business with pleasure? It’s more than a cliché. Besides, I don’t want things getting complicated between us.”
“They won’t get complicated.” She reached up and touched my face. “You and I would be perfect together and you know it...”
I sighed. Vanessa and I did have good chemistry and we’d come close to kissing in my office several times over the past year, but I always broke away. Even though she was extremely beautiful—curly coffee-brown hair, ocean blue eyes, and an amazing body—there was something missing, and I wasn’t quite sure what that was.
Maybe it’s nothing...Maybe I should give us a chance after all...We are really compatible and—
Out the corner of my eye, I saw the redhead moving down the pier again.
“I’ll see you at the next meeting, Vanessa.” I pushed my way past the café tables and looked back over my shoulder every few seconds, making sure the redhead wa
s still there.
I rushed over to the front doors of Pacific Bay Lounge and made my way inside. I looked around the room and stopped.
There was a banner with the word “Jiggy” on it. There were little napkins on the tables that read “Cheers to the first middle-aged mixer of 2013!”
The majority of the people in the room were clearly in their forties and fifties. Some of them were even wearing party hats with their ages written on them in glitter. There were a few younger people scattered about, but those people were holding serving trays or cleaning off tables.
There’s no way the woman I saw was middle-aged...
I made my way out to the pier and looked around. I leaned on the railing and looked both ways.
She wasn’t there.
I walked back and forth along the deck, aimlessly searching, trying to find her. I went back inside and waded through the crowd, but she was nowhere to be found.
“Hello there.” A woman’s hand landed on my shoulder, making me turn around. “What brings you out tonight?” She purred.
She was an extremely attractive older woman—I guessed at least fifty years old, and I could tell by the way she was looking at me that she was the assertive type.
“Good evening.” I smiled. “I just came in looking for someone particular.”
“She’s right in front of you.” She rubbed her hand across my chest and batted her eyes.
Oh god...“Umm...”
“You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t interested in older women.” She reached up and playfully ran her fingers through my hair. “Those young girls don’t know how to treat a man right, do they? But I do. We should get out of here before someone tries to steal you away from me. My place?”
I started to say, “I’m sorry. I can’t do that,” but my breath caught in my throat once I felt her hand sliding down my pants.
I gently grabbed her hand and moved it away. “I’m not here looking for—I don’t... I was really here looking for someone else.”
Mid Life Love Page 2