She wondered why that was so.
Well, she thought, I can’t figure out that one, but about Jerry and Sam, I do have to come to a conclusion. She forced her attention back to her notebook.
It really didn’t take that long. After a half hour, here’s what she had:
JERRY
pro: con:
good guy; goes on and on when he explains things
works hard okay in bed—(but magic?)
successful; impossible at fixing things, can’t screw in a lightbulb
nice looking
doesn’t snore
loves me a lot
remembers my birthday
would never cheat (I think)
would marry me in a minute
At the bottom, where she’d put the question to herself: “Makes me happy?” she wrote:
“Well, he’s never made me unhappy.”
And that was the left-hand side of the page.
On the right side, this is what she had after a half hour:
SAM
pro: con:
good guy—I think
works hard—I think
successful—apparently
nice looking
knew me way back when
persistent!!!
Nothing at all on the “con” side.
Instead, she wrote right across his column:
“Insufficient information!
I hardly know anything about Sam now. He was a good guy back in high school, but that was long ago.
Does he snore?
Would he bore me to tears explaining some minor point of the law?
Handy with a screwdriver? I suspect yes, but I don’t know.
What was that about “military intelligence” and the buddy who finagled something to help him find me? Good thing? Bad thing?
And in bed—”
She paused there, because she felt a little tingle right in the corner of her mouth—
and then wrote:
—I’d bet anything sex with Sam would be great!
She stared for a long time at what she’d written. Then, with a huge sigh, she looked up from her notebook. And watched the children some more.
And then looked back at her list and was shocked to realize she’d written nothing about either man as a father. For years she’d felt there wasn’t much room in her life for children and just put it off as something to think about in the future. But now, with this list in front of her, and the little ones running and laughing only steps away from her, it hit her like a smack in the face: this really was something she had to think about.
Would she ever have her own little ones running about in a playground somewhere? Would she ever be the one sitting on a park bench, calling, “Good job” every time they took a step? Would she ever have the fun of choosing a car seat, or sheets for a baby’s bed, or dressing them in precious little outfits, those tiny shoes and little bitty socks, or “kissing it better” when they hurt a finger, or struggling to get them into good schools, or driving herself crazy trying to be a perfect parent? Was she in danger of delaying so long, being so preoccupied with her work that the possibilities would just slip by until it was too late? These next few years would be the crucial ones.
Jerry never talked to her about having kids. But she was sure he’d be a good father. Steady and serious and thoughtful. And committed. Probably.
And Sam? She remembered the way he was back in school. He was the one who broke up all the fights. He was the one who knew how to be serious, but with a light touch. Adolescents were so volatile and Sam always knew how to steer everyone through their disputes to a good solution. Was that a sign about parenting?
She thought of him at the Peter Pan statue. Keeping his youth alive.
She wished there was a way to test men to predict their fathering skills. And how many men test really well—and then fail tragically when it comes to the real thing?
Jerry would go out and play catch in the back yard with his sons, and probably his daughters, too—because that’s what good fathers do.
Sam would play catch because playing catch was fun.
She was pretty sure of that.
But did “playing catch” matter?
She watched the children for a long, long time. She imagined being responsible for a child’s future. She’d felt the hunger for a baby before this day, but always set it aside, putting it off to “another time; not now.” Why was now, this day, different? Was it because she was sitting here, watching these real-life kids? Were they ramping up her maternal juices? Was it the little toddler who’d come over to her, curious, with his plump round cheeks and his searching blue eyes, looking deeply and innocently into her eyes—my God, how open and innocent and precious each baby is—or was it his awkward “bye bye” gesture as he looked back at her, curling his little fingers in an effort to do it right as his mommy drew him away with a murmur of apology? Was this what made her heart twist in longing? Or was it because she was facing a very grown-up choice between two men? Thinking about opening up her life and future to one of them?
There she was, on a bench in a park in a foreign country, watching some children who had no connection at all to her, listening to their chatter that was incomprehensible to her. And now, now at this moment and for the very first time, she really longed to be a mommy.
Chapter Twenty-four
She was crying when she left the park. What had happened to this day that had started out so well? She went back to the pension, washed her face and then sat at the little vanity table for a while, looking into the mirror, and she had a little talk with herself.
“Marge, this is more serious than you realized. Whatever you decide about these two men, there’s going to be a big change in your life. It’s time to face up to it. And you can’t decide at a distance. You’re going to have to confront each of them. But it can’t be done now. Not yet. You need to get yourself settled down first. Go out. Have lunch. Do a little shopping. That always helps.”
She made a face at herself in the mirror, reassured herself that the world was not coming to an end, and went out to find some lunch.
There was a cute little Beisl just around the corner on the Wollzeile that she’d been meaning to try, so this seemed to be a good time. Lunch would help her postpone any decisions. After a bowl of soup—a rich chicken soup with hunks of chicken and short skinny noodles and an egg threaded through it, like a Chinese egg drop soup—and dark bread cut thick on which she slathered the great butter that seemed to be everywhere, followed by apricot Palatschinken—which turned out to be crepes layered with jam—and some more great coffee—she was ready to go out and face the world. At least, face the little corner of it where she was.
She had just paid the bill and had walked out into the sunshine, when her phone signaled a message.
It had been silent all these weeks. An emergency?
It was Jerry. No, no emergency. Not really.
Hi Marge. I know you’re hiding somewhere. But I wanted to tell you, the case is done. My guy came out OK, but the others are facing heavy fines. Your friend Sam is tough. Can you come home soon? I miss you. You OK?
She stared at her phone for a long time.
So the case is finished. They’re free now to get back to—whatever.
She imagined the two men in the same room together all those weeks, facing each other every day, with Sam knowing where she was, knowing that he’d been with her in London. And the whole time, every day, Jerry in the dark. It was so unfair. And so unkind to Jerry, who always played by the rules.
What to do?
She sighed. She’d decide later. She put her phone into the pocket of her jacket—and found there the little slip of paper with the name of the linen shop on the Tuchlauben. She’d go there. Buy egg cozies. A souvenir of her time here in Vi
enna. She consulted her map. Only a few streets away. She’d be there in maybe ten minutes.
What she found at the Tuchlauben surprised her. Centuries-old buildings updated to accommodate high end flagship stores. As though her home turf had followed her, here were Jimmy Choo and Chanel, Prada and Louis Vuitton and Alexander McQueen. And more. And looking snazzy and totally au courant right in the heart of Vienna’s old inner city, a place that had been already ancient two thousand years ago when the Romans arrived and created Vindobona on top of a primitive Celtic settlement.
Tucked away on an unobtrusive corner, she found the shop she was looking for, a small gift shop specializing in fine needlepoint, and she spent a happy half hour there, examining linens and embroidery work, fine batiste nightgowns and handkerchiefs—and the cozies she’d come to buy, they looked like tiny ski caps, thick and padded and embroidered with hearts and flowers and peasant girls dressed in dirndls. She chose a dozen of varying designs and was about to pay for them, taking the bills out of her wallet, when the sales clerk said, “It’s been a pleasure to serve you, Ms. Webster. And an honor to have you in our little shop. I had no idea you were in Vienna. I hope you are enjoying your stay here.”
Marge stared at her.
Oh my God, I’ve been recognized!
Of course. She had stumbled into the very part of town where it was most likely that her face would be familiar, even if her “disguise” was a raggedly pinned pony tail and jeans and a tee shirt.
She stammered something awkward and got out of there as fast as she could.
She longed for a paper bag to put over her head, and hoped, as she walked past Louis Vuitton and Chanel and the others, that she could get back to the Pension Kreindl—and then get out of Vienna as fast as she could, like a thief in the night. Well, not quite in the night. She’d call Bridey right away to be sure it was okay to stay in her place in Paris, and then leave first thing in the morning. But word would be out in the high fashion part of town that Marge Webster, supposedly “on vacation,” was right here in Vienna and dressed like an unrecognizable American tourist, and reporters from W and the International Times and God knows who else would be chasing her for a story.
By eight o’clock in the morning, she’d check out and be on the early train heading west. No Orient Express on this trip, no exposure to luxury class. She’d book a single compartment, and just hide out all the way through Switzerland and France. And she’d have to be more careful in Paris. At least she knew Paris well enough to know where not to go.
* * * *
Back in her room at the pension, she locked the door, as though hordes of pursuers might be trying to break in. She checked her watch. Six hours’ time difference; not too early to call Bridey.
“I’m fine. I’m fine,” she said. “Oh, but Bridey, I have so much to tell you. You’ll die. It’s been fascinating. But not now. Not till I get back. Now, Bridey, you have to promise—absolutely promise—not a word to anyone. Not even to Mack. Not even to the children. Not even to those precious cats of yours. You understand? You promise?”
“Of course.”
“You have to say it. You have to say you promise.”
“Oh, Marge, you sound like a twelve-year-old. Of course I promise. What is it?”
“I want to go to Paris. And absolutely no one—I mean no one—can know I’m there. And I’m calling to ask if I can use your place.”
“Of course you can. How long? When will you be getting there?”
“Tomorrow afternoon.”
“No problem. Do you remember Mme. Michou? The old concierge? She’s retired now. I’ll call the new concierge, Mme. Pilard, and tell her to give you the key. It’ll be fine. She won’t recognize you at all. You remember the address?”
“Yes, I have it. On the corner, at the Square Robiac.”
“That’s it. And what name should I tell her?”
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. I’m not really good at this cloak and dagger stuff.” She thought a moment. Then said, “Just tell her I’m Ms. Adams. That’s simple enough.”
“Marge, are you okay? You sound—sort of—weird.”
“I’m okay. I really am. And we’ll have plenty to talk about when I see you.”
“When are you coming home?”
“Probably in a couple of weeks.”
“Are you feeling better? Getting enough rest? Eating right?”
“Actually, I am feeling better. In fact, I’m feeling much better. And I’m feeling good about getting back to work. Dr. Diaz will be pleased. I’m eating like a horse. You don’t need to worry. I’m fine. But it’s all been a little more interesting than I’d anticipated. Maybe a lot more interesting.”
“Can’t wait to hear it all. You take care, Marge, you hear? Gotta go now. Kids yelling. How do they know the minute I’m on the phone?”
“Kids have magic powers.” Boy, do they ever! “Bye, sweetie. Kisses to them both. And hi to Mack. Love ya. And thanks for your pad in Paris. I’ll take good care of it.”
* * * *
She was too preoccupied with her own hurried change of schedule, and didn’t remember, till she was on the train to Paris, that she’d told Christiane Riemer she’d let her know where she’d be staying. She took out her phone and texted her Paris contact information to her, with a nice little message to thank her for making her time in Vienna so pleasant.
Chapter Twenty-five
Mme. Pilard took the key off a hook on the wall and handed it over to Marge. She spoke no English, and Marge’s French was rudimentary, but with signs and smiles and good will, they managed to communicate. Marge said, “Merci bien,” left Mme. Pilard in her apartment, and climbed the cool marble steps. Bridey’s Paris pied à terre was up a couple of flights and Marge was eager to get the door closed behind her. It had been a thirteen-hour trip from Vienna, and she just wanted to drop her carry-on, wash up and then go out, find a bistro nearby, and have some dinner.
She’d been there before, a couple of years earlier, when Bridey and Mack had taken a little vacation in Paris at the same time that she’d been there for Fashion Week. They’d had only a couple of hours together, but she remembered a beautiful little hideaway, tiny but comfortable and exquisitely redone to modernize the kitchen, which was really just a counter along one wall, with built-in sink, fridge, and stove, with cabinets above and below, where Bridey, being the super chef that she was, could put together a gourmet meal with all the trimmings on just those rudimentary appliances. The bath was tucked away in a separate room with a huge and very modern shower and tub. Marge promised herself a good soak later on.
In moments, she was out on the street, and walked over to the Rue Cler. It was a street rich in cafés and bistros, but she was so hungry, she went into the very first bistro she passed, where she had an excellent dinner of roast chicken and potatoes with a glass of wine and ice cream for dessert. And she was back in the apartment by ten, had a long soak in the tub. And went to bed and slept long and well.
* * * *
If she dreamt any dreams that night, she didn’t remember them in the morning when she woke up just after eight o’clock. But before she’d even brushed her teeth, she saw that she had a message. And this one was from Jerry.
Another one from Jerry. Second message in just a couple of days. He knows I’d asked the whole world to leave me alone till I got back. What is this?
I had a call from Sam Packard.
He wanted to meet with me. I had an awful hour with him.
You and I have to talk. Call me.
Oh, God!
She checked; the message had arrived at 4:53 a.m., while she was sleeping. Six hours’ time difference between Paris and New York. He must have sent his text just before 11:00 p.m. in New York. She checked her watch. It was now 2:00 a.m. in New York. He’d still be sleeping.
Oh, God!
But maybe not. A
silent text wouldn’t waken him. She texted him.
Are you sleeping?
No answer came back. So yes, he was sleeping. She’d have to wait until the afternoon to call him.
This is awful. What could Sam have said to him?
She brushed her teeth. She brushed her hair. She walked around the tiny apartment, like an animal in a cage. She brushed her hair some more.
The phone rang.
Before she could even say “hello,” she heard, “Where are you?”
“Jerry?”
“Yes, it’s me. Where are you?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m here. I’m sitting in a café on the corner. The damn concierge wouldn’t let me in. Said there was no Marge Webster there.” He sounded pissed.
She stared at the phone as though it had grown a head. Her mouth was open but no words came out.
“Damn it, Marge. I’m in no mood. I haven’t slept, I’ve been on a plane all night, little kid next to me, cried the whole way. Jesus! And now, I can’t find you. Where are you?”
Her voice returned. “I’m here. I’ll come down. Which café?”
There was a pause. Then he said, “Café Larroche. On the Rue Grenelle.”
And he was gone. She stared at the phone some more. Then she washed her face, put on some clothes, and went downstairs.
* * * *
He looked disheveled and also a little gray, like a man who needed a good night’s sleep. And he was definitely looking not happy. He stood up as she came in.
“I’m not sure,” he said. “Is it okay to kiss you hello?”
“Oh, Jerry. Don’t be silly.” She put a hand on his arm and held her face up to him.
His kiss was perfunctory. “I wasn’t sure.”
She sat down.
“You look awful,” she said.
“Damn kid never stopped crying all the way over. And then he threw up all over his mother. God, what a mess.”
She had to laugh. “I know,” she said, apologetically. “It’s not funny. I shouldn’t laugh.”
“Have you had breakfast? Should I order something?”
Who Would You Choose? Page 17