by Toby Devens
“And you have a perfect excuse. The call from Fortune Simms’s office. You can tell him all about that.”
Fortune’s producer had phoned the day before to prep me for my first appearance on the show. “I don’t remember seeing a TV set in his house,” I said. “ I’ll bet he doesn’t even know who Fortune Simms is.”
“Please.” Kat rolled her eyes. “More people recognize Fortune than the pope. I’ll bet he’d be thrilled to hear from you. Call him.”
“Don’t you dare!” Fleur brandished her fork menacingly. “The fastest way to lose a man is to chase him. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that?”
“My mother told me Hermann Goering was sending her messages through her molars. But don’t worry, Fleur, I’m not going to call Simon. I don’t wear white shoes after Labor Day, I don’t touch up my makeup in public, I don’t send printed Hallmark sympathy cards, and I don’t call men. Besides, the last thing I want Simon to think is that he’s on a short leash.” I turned to Kat. “As for bourgeois—hell, I’ve spent my entire life striving for bourgeois. Now that I’ve got it, they’ll have to pry it from my cold dead fingers.”
***
Simon phoned finally on Saturday afternoon from Budapest. “Hectic conference,” he said. “Very busy.” I heard background tinkle of crystal and clatter of silver.
He was all wound up over some buzz he’d come across about a rival lab working on a project similar to something cooking in his own. Now it was going to be a race to the finish line. “I’ll really have to put nose to grindstone when I get back,” he warned me. “Sorry I didn’t have a moment to call. And I didn’t want to subject you to my black mood.” Which didn’t sound black now.
“That’s what friends are for.” For better for worse, I almost said but caught myself.
“You’re right of course. See, you’re already teaching me about relationships. I’m a slow learner, but don’t give up on me, please.”
When I didn’t answer, he said. “Uh-oh. Do I sense regrets? Still love me?”
“Most of the time,” I said, only half-joking.
“Oh, you can do better than that,” he said, laughing. “You’ll see, all will be well as soon as we’re together.”
I grumbled, “Which isn’t until December fifth, more than two weeks away.” And then it would be only for Saturday night because he had a Kerns-Brubaker fund-raiser in D.C. on Sunday.
“I know, darling. Too long. But I’ll make it up to you.”
A woman’s voice trilled in the background, “Siiiiimon.” Violin music swelled behind him with gypsy passion.
“Magda Zilahy, wonderful old warhorse, chair of our host committee,” he whispered. “Looks like our table’s ready. I love you, Gwyneth. Take care. I’ll phone again soon.”
Which he did from then on. Nearly every day. So we were back on track.
***
Thanksgiving was less awful than I’d expected. Much less awful than the year before when Drew had gobbled his dinner bent over his plate, eyes averted from my dribbling father, then declined dessert to exile himself to the far end of the living room with a book. And the old man had known. What was left of his consciousness had registered the abandonment. “Come here, barnebarn,” he’d called to his grandson, “sit by me.” But Drew had just waved to him from across the room.
Hurt for my dad, anxious for my son, I’d tried, but Drew had refused to talk about it; not to me, not, so far as I’d known, to Dan Rosetti who early on had explained the Alzheimer’s prognosis to my sons and invited them to phone anytime with questions or just to talk.
This year I watched, half sad, half proud, as Drew mopped cider from his granddad’s chin and buttered his roll. He cut his turkey into small pieces and, when my dad’s hand shook too hard to make the journey from plate to mouth, fed him. Major transformation.
In the kitchen as I got out the pie, Drew came in carrying plates, which I took as an opportunity to say, “Thanks for taking care of him. I know you don’t think he’s aware, but I can tell you’ve broken through.” My father, who’d looked so lost the previous year, had given Drew shining smiles throughout dinner.
“No problem,” Drew said, stacking the plates in the sink.
“I know this is hard for you, seeing him this way.”
“Yeah, well, it’s hard for everyone.”
“True. But you’ve been so gentle with him, I just…”
“Mom, for godssakes, it’s not a big deal, really.” He didn’t look up from scraping plates.
“It is to me. It is to him,” I said.
“Yeah, well, the truth is I really didn’t want to come today.” He turned to me then, holding a scraped plate in front of him like a shield. “I didn’t think I could deal with it. But it’s Thanksgiving and all, and my not showing up would leave just the two of you. So I called Dr. Rosetti and we had a talk. He explained some shit to me. So now, well, I’m not all right with Grandpa’s brain cells checking out, but I can deal with it at least.” He put down the plate and wiped his hands on a dish towel. “By the way, don’t blame Dr. Rosetti for not telling you. I didn’t want you to know. I wasn’t sure I could bring this off.”
“But you did.”
“I guess. So if this turns out to be like his last memory of me, it will be okay, right?”
“Oh yes,” I said and kissed him on the cheek.
Thank you Dan for giving that to my son and my father. Thanks for so much, I thought, on Thanksgiving Day.
Dinner over, my father insisted on watching a football game, so while I loaded the dishwasher, Drew sat with him on the sofa, arm wound around the old man’s scrawny shoulders, explaining the plays. But within a few minutes, Drew told me later, Dad got antsy and began wandering around the living room picking up and putting down the decorative tchotchkes on my tables.
It was only at a commercial break that Drew realized his grandfather was out of his sight. That’s when I heard him calling, “Granddad, where the hell are you?”
And then, “Mom, Jesus, Mom. Get in here.”
I found Drew standing at the door to the master bath staring at my father dressed in my peach silk robe with the ruffled cuffs. He’d draped a Gucci scarf around his neck and propped on his nearly bald head a hat I hadn’t worn in twenty years.
“Nice touch, the feather on the hat. Joan Rivers would love this getup,” Drew said. We leaned against each other, stifling giggles, swallowing back tears.
“You’ve got to face facts, Mom,” Drew told me after we’d delivered my father into Sylvie’s care, “he’s really losing it. If you wait until he becomes incontinent or can’t walk, your options are slashed. I know how hard it is for you, but you can at least start scouting out places. You want to have all your ducks in a row when he has to go in.”
Which made sense. And eased my heart a little, since I could tell myself this was a contingency, not an inevitability, plan.
“Smart boy, your Drew. You’ve done a good job with both your kids,” Dan Rosetti said the next day in his office after I’d thanked him for intervening. “I’m going to hook you up with Michelle Isaacs, a geriatric social worker who’s really terrific. She’ll find the right slot for your dad. In the meantime, I wouldn’t worry too much about Harald turning into a drag queen, but let’s fiddle with his medication a bit.” As he scribbled on his prescription pad, he asked, “Any news on the Clinic grants?”
I’d gone over his emailed suggestions for revising my proposals. He’d come up with some salient points I’d missed. “Cross your fingers,” I told him. “I have two applications out. Haven’t heard yet on either. I’m going to try to send a few more this afternoon. I’ve got the day off. Our office is closed for Thanksgiving Friday.”
“Ours too,” he said, concentrating on scribbling a new page.
“You came in for me?”
&nb
sp; His head snapped up then and he stared at me with a look I hadn’t seen before from Dan. Tentative. “For your dad, for you,” he said. “The least I can do.” He put down his pen, gave me a cryptic smile, then raked his fingers through his hair. The last seemed like a nervous gesture, which was out of character for Dan. He said, finally, “So now I know your son and your dad like football. How about you?”
I nodded, puzzled.
“Good. Because I’ve got two tickets for the Ravens game Sunday. I was thinking that maybe you’d like to join me.”
Was he asking me out? Impossible. First of all, he had a wife. I darted a glance at Mrs. Rosetti’s photo. And Dan, tracking that, took an audible breath as my astonishment became apparent. “Ah. You didn’t know. Melinda passed away two years ago. Of an aneurysm. Very sudden.”
“I’m sorry, Dan, I didn’t know.” He was full of surprises today.
“She was a great gal,” he said and swiveled around to adjust the frame. “We expected happily ever after but I don’t have to tell you, the best-laid plans.” He shrugged. “Anyway,” he swiveled back and gave me the full force of his baby browns, “I’m legally and morally free to ask a lovely woman out on a date. That is, if you’re interested.”
Under different circumstances, I would have jumped at the chance. Well, not jumped, because according to Fleur, who had the rules of this game down pat, jumping implies overeagerness, which borders on desperation. So no jumping. But I would have happily strolled into a date with Dan Rosetti. Which was currently out of the question because I had Simon. And Simon had me. Big time. We were in love and we were a couple. Officially, even though Simon was, at the moment, in Key West for Thanksgiving and I was facing a man drumming a pen on top of his desk as he waited for my answer.
Which came spewing out. “Honestly, Dan, I’m flattered. But the thing is, I’m seeing someone.”
He elevated his eyebrows. “Figures.” He flipped the pen into a spin and caught it, as if to say, “Got it. Fine with it. Already flipped it off.” What he actually said was, “Well, timing is everything. That’s great, Gwyn. Congratulations to the lucky guy.”
A lesser man would have gone frosty on me, but not Dan, the ubermensch. The change was subtle. He returned to scratching away at his pad. “Okay, I’m giving you Michelle’s number at the office and her cell. I’ve already briefed her about Harald.” Looking up, he showed me a smile that was only semi-detached. When he handed me the page, he was careful his fingers didn’t touch mine. Or maybe I was reading more into it than the quick hand-off implied.
He didn’t help me with my coat as he’d been doing lately, but gave me a single pat on the back as I exited, the kind of pat he laid on my father and probably on all his ancient patients.
“To repeat, timing is everything,” he said, as he ushered me out. “In your dad’s case, I wouldn’t wait too long. Call Michelle. And enjoy your weekend.”
Chapter 30
I was grabbing a leftover turkey sandwich when Fleur stopped down on her way to Saturday brunch. Not your run-of-the-mill cold waffle and curdled scrambled egg buffet, either, she assured me. This was a special promotion that Linen and Silver, her fifty-plus dinner-dating service, offered their premium members. “A lot of the men are retired and I guess they don’t have much to do besides play golf or play with themselves. So they come to these brunches for the all-you-can-eat, which is better than the frozen dinners they microwave at home. They have a few drinks, charm the ladies, and then go home to nap.”
She’d dated a few men she’d meet at the L&S dinner fix-ups. “Nothing you want to bring home to Mama, even if Mama would probably accept the bag boy at Safeway at this stage of the game. Look, I know you’re not currently in the market, but if all you do is drink mimosas, you’ll get your fifteen bucks worth. And Connie deCrespi will be there. You two hit it off, remember?”
Fleur had been hanging out a lot with Connie lately, personally and professionally. Contemplating adding a second Madame Max store in Bethesda, she’d called on the attorney to handle some tricky legal maneuvers for the expansion. They talked about it a lot over drinks.
“Sounds irresistible, but regrettably I’ll have to pass. I’ve got these grant proposals to get out and then Harry and I are meeting for an early dinner.”
“Really?” Fleur said. Her voice was icy. “I hope you’re not using this guy. To fill in the blanks with Simon, I mean. Because from everything I’ve heard, Harry has a heart. So you might not want to break it.”
My sentiments exactly. When Harry had called wondering if I was as tired of turkey as he was and if I wanted to join him for steamed crabs on Saturday night, I said absolutely. I couldn’t continue to string this decent man along. It was morally reprehensible to continue to treat him like a spare part. First I’d mellow him out over a couple of beers, then I’d bid him adieu.
I told that to Fleur, who said, “Good girl. Crazy girl, dumping Harry for Simon York—for anyone—but good.”
If she thought I was crazy for ending it with Harry, she’d have shipped me off to a padded room for turning down Dan Rosetti. But that bit of data would remain forever out of her reach, if I could help it. Just imagining what Fleur could do with that tasty bit of information made my head ache.
***
“Come to papa, baby,” Harry Galligan spoke lovingly to a beautiful specimen of Maryland Blue crab steamed red, one of two remaining from the dozen we ordered at Bo Brooks Crab House on Baltimore’s Boston Street. He brought the wooden mallet down hard, shattering the crab’s shell, gushing spicy juices that soaked the newspaper-covered tabletop.
With an evil grin, he broke off the crab’s claws, laid a sharp knife blade against its carapace, dug the sweet lump meat from its eviscerated body, and popped a morsel into his mouth.
Maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea to make my farewell address to someone wielding a sharp instrument, but I’d fortified myself with two and a half beers and the time had come.
“You’re a good man, Harry,” I began.
“Yup.” He concentrated on sucking a sliver of crabmeat from his thumb. “And you’re a fine figure of a woman.” He looked up. “What’s wrong?”
Here was someone who could read my thoughts. A rare find. Every woman’s dream.
“Wrong?” I quickly swallowed a spoonful of crab soup hoping the pepper might sharpen my senses.
“Well, we haven’t gotten very far with this relationship, but something tells me you’re about to give me the old heave-ho.”
I wondered when he’d mastered that mind-reading trick. After his divorce, I figured, because he told me once that he’d been oblivious to his wife’s diddling her politician girlfriend for the last six months of their marriage.
He whomped a crab. “Ah, well, de gustibus non est disputandum.” He registered my blank look. “No accounting for taste.”
On the money. In Latin, yet. So much for my thinking of him as an overgrown leprechaun. In my dither over Simon, I hadn’t given Harry the credit he deserved. This was a person who’d traveled the world. A crack scientist, probably as well respected in his field as Simon was in his. And on the personal level, Harry was empathic.
I put down my spoon. How do you explain a coup de foudre? And not explain to Harry that with him there was no zap of lightning, not even the sound of distant thunder.
“You’re a fantastic person,” I began again.
“Wow. First I was good. Now I’m up to fantastic. When you get to spectacular, sell, right?”
When I didn’t answer, he said, “Do you want to talk about him?”
It was like trying to break up with Houdini.
“Come on. If I’m so fantastic and you’re still not buying, there has to be someone else. No, honestly, I’m okay with it. And I can tell you need to vent.”
That was all it took to launch me into a ten-minute mon
ologue about my feelings for Simon, feelings that were, somehow, easier to lay out for Harry than for Kat or Fleur.
So I told him how I’d surprised myself by falling, no plunging in love with the guy. Then I kvetched about how tough it was to maintain a long-distance romance. That we had to work at finding time to see each other. “I’m busy. He’s busier.”
“You say he’s tops in his field. How do you think he got there?” he asked.
“But he warned me he’s not very good at relationships.”
“Credit his honesty.”
“He’s in Florida for Thanksgiving. And I haven’t heard from him since Wednesday.”
“So call him, if you’re worried. But come on. He’s our age, right? We’re not like these kids on their cell phones every minute. He’s busy down there. He’ll catch you up when he gets back. Women obsess over the craziest things.”
“You’re right.” Leave it to Harry to uncomplicate what I’d complicated into a restless night. “And the thing is, I’ve got so much respect for him. And admiration. He’s brilliant, and charming. And cultured.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, which could have meant he was impressed or maybe he was just registering the chef’s heavy hand with the Old Bay seasoning. “Culture means a lot to you, huh? You a Dundalk girl?” He named the blue-collar area where my father used to work for Bethlehem Steel.
“East Baltimore, Patterson Park,” I replied, feeling a non-menopausal flush rising.
“Ahhh.” Harry had my number. “Still, I’m a little surprised. You’re a physician. And I’d think being married to Stan, you would have hobnobbed with the rich and famous.”
“Not really. The business magazine only took off in the last ten years. Before that it was strictly a Baltimore enterprise. Berke’s Law still is. By the time Business made it big, we had our own circle of friends. Most of them are successful. A lot of them have money, but Baltimore isn’t D.C. or New York. The major players don’t live here.” I whacked the last crab. “I’ve been to a few Washington parties. But I’m not that impressed with the business crowd. My peers are another story. In my field, Simon is one of the golden boys. National Academy of Sciences. President’s Commission on Cancer.”