by Nina Solomon
He told her to explore to her heart’s content. She wandered down crooked corridors with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. One shelf was a shrine entirely devoted to Duncan’s books. She touched their spines. Maybe one day . . . but a voice in her head mocked her. Silly girl, dream on.
At the end of the hall was an octagonal drawing room. Seashells and green apothecary bottles were lined up on the windowsills; antique canes and peacock feathers seemed to be growing out of the umbrella stand. The only anachronisms were a huge flat-screen television and modular black leather couch, probably the only furniture Duncan had ever purchased himself. Framed photographs, mostly of Duncan (one with Bill Clinton), were three-deep on the mantelpiece. Stacks of books, newspapers, and dust of every variety covered the surfaces. A brand-new pink feather duster idled on the windowsill.
She heard file cabinets opening and slamming. Duncan’s fingers pelted the keyboard like a hailstorm.
“I’ll just be a second,” he called from the other room. “I have to give Tarantino a quick call.”
He’d changed out of his suit into jeans and a T-shirt and was pacing around wearing a headset like an air traffic controller.
Emily settled into the window seat and gazed at the alabaster fountain in the central garden, pretending to ignore his pretentious prattle. Was this a show, or was he for real?
Then he was typing again. And back on the phone, this time in French. Had he forgotten her? Finally, just as she’d decided to leave, he appeared behind her, swaying to music apparently only he could hear.
He spun her around slowly. Each time she made a full rotation, her gaze landed on a basket of exotic fruit on the coffee table, until the basket became just a blur of color when he finally kissed her.
He led her to the leather couch. “You’re going to be late to your appointment,” he said.
“I’m already late,” she said.
“Tant pis, this appointment is more urgent.”
Emily tried to relax, staring at the ceiling as he unzipped her jeans.
Two weeks. That was how long she and Charles had waited before sleeping together. But he’d already told her he loved her and met her parents. Two months later they were engaged.
Why now, of all moments, was she thinking of Charles?
As much as she’d enjoyed the feeling of being lost in Duncan’s apartment, was she ready to lose herself again, and to this man? Since ending her affair with Nick, she was only just now finding her way out and back up to the surface.
He sensed her tensing up. “I’ve got you,” he said.
She didn’t know why, but the words made her feel safe. She melted into the couch as he pushed her knees apart. With Charles, this sort of thing had usually been relegated to national holidays, vacations, and birthdays, and only occasionally successful. Duncan, though, was a demonstrably accomplished linguist.
She’d always thought security and passion were mutually exclusive. Maybe there were two types of men: the ones she felt safe with, and the ones with whom she could cut loose.
Her inhibitions were dissolving. She was floating above the couch, watching herself. She thought of “Prufrock”: Like a patient etherized upon a table.
More ether, please.
So, Duncan was literary, cerebral, complex, and more than a little bit egotistical, but he was certainly not asexual.
* * *
A few hours later when Emily gathered her things, the sky was a deep midnight blue. Her hair was still wet from the shower they’d taken in the clawfoot tub, the showerhead so strong it felt like needles. She’d welcomed his presence behind her, for an “encore.” She’d heard him unwrapping something, probably putting on a condom. But when he turned her around, she saw that his hair was tucked into a pink-striped shower cap from the Beverly Hills Hotel, and he hadn’t thought to offer her one.
Duncan said he’d drop her off in a cab on his way to a “working” dinner with his assistant Lara. In the elevator, he handed her a Rite Aid sack of manuscripts and a Penguin tote bag filled with advance reading copies of not-yet-published books.
“In case you can’t get to sleep tonight, these work better than sleeping pills,” he chuckled.
As they crossed the landscaped courtyard, passing ombré-leaved pear trees and formal flowerbeds, she felt protected, shielded from the chaos of the city. She imagined the literary parties, intimate dinners, and late-night discussions with luminaries that they could host. They’d be one of those couples. Before exiting the carriageway, she counted five stories up to Duncan’s window. The Juliette balcony would be the perfect spot for a flower box.
“What are you doing for yontif?” he asked, as the cab pulled up in front of her building.
“It depends.”
“If you’re free Friday afternoon we could continue our quest for the elusive triple mitzvah.”
She was glad she hadn’t donated the book her mother-in-law had given her on setting up a Jewish household, so she could look up the definition. But she guessed the meaning and hoped they’d find it. It was only Wednesday. Zach was with Charles. She wished they could begin their search tonight.
“To be continued, then,” he said, kissing her goodbye, “during the Days of Awe.”
Upstairs, Emily found a crumpled note in the bottom of the Rite Aid bag: To the sweetest fruit of all. Signed Lara.
Working dinner? My ass.
* * *
Whenever Max socialized with clients outside the gym, she wound up feeling “less than,” like a pair of canary-yellow patent-leather Louboutins bought on impulse for a black tie something-or-other, worn only once and, after collecting dust for several seasons, boxed up and sent to Housing Works or another worthy cause. It came with the territory. She’d dressed for the part, in laser-cut leather shorts, a backless halter, and combat boots to show them she could kick ass. But she felt like an impostor. She’d never had a problem separating herself from the situation. Why tonight? Had she really changed that much since meeting Garrett?
Pam and her entourage were at the Cabanas, an uber-cool bar on the roof of the Maritime Hotel, a white-brick building with porthole windows that in one incarnation had been a shelter for runaway teens. The way she was feeling, the setting seemed uncannily appropriate.
Pam was sitting on a blue-and-white-striped bench at a low teak table. Paper lanterns and amber-colored heat lamps hung from the rafters. She waved, whispering something to a pudgy British guy with a pink button-down and side-swept blond hair sitting next to her.
As Max drew near, she heard the pudgy guy say, “Seriously?”
Pam nodded. “It’s true; ask her.”
“You went to Harvard?” the man asked Max when she sat down.
She’d been down this road before. A fitness trainer who went to Harvard didn’t compute with this set, engendering question after question as they tried to discover the fissure in her character, how in the world she ended up training spoiled, out-of-shape trust-fund babies like him.
She shot a look at Pam. “Yes. Amazing, but true.”
“What house?”
“Cabot.”
“Premed?” he asked. She nodded. “What year?”
“Class of 2005, but—”
“Perhaps you knew my brother Eric. He was also premed, captain of the squash team?”
“You’re British?” she asked.
“Yes, I grew up in Hampstead.”
“London,” Max said, feigning interest. “So you must know Tony Blair.”
The guy colored, blathered a bit, then said, “Right,” in that polite British way, before turning to his neighbor to discuss the Republican primary.
She hadn’t just known the pudgy guy’s brother; she’d slept with him and subsequently half of his Club brothers. It surprised her that she remembered him at all, considering she’d been in a bottomless tequila blackout after Calvin died.
The waiter brought a $1,000 bottle of Russo-Baltique to the table and seven chilled crystal glasses. Max could practically feel
the cool burn of the first swig of vodka.
“Please don’t tell people I went to Harvard,” she said to Pam.
“What’s the big deal?” Nothing was ever a big deal to Pam, as long as the story was entertaining and made her look good.
“Because my life is none of their fucking business, that’s why.”
But Pam wasn’t even listening. She was waving to Count von Stunning. Everyone at the gym had a nickname. He got his because he dressed like Nureyev in The Nutcracker and couldn’t take his eyes off himself. A lightweight. Max could bench him without breaking a sweat.
He kissed Pam and gave a tentative smile when he saw Max, trying to place her. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he said.
“You know Max, Duncan,” Pam said. “She’s my trainer.”
He looked at her blankly then opened his eyes wide. “Oh, of course! I’ve never seen you dressed!”
The rest of their group broke into uproarious laughter, especially the pudgy guy who seemed to think it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
“Sit with us,” Pam entreated. “I heard your book’s been optioned.”
“Sorry, I can’t. I’m meeting someone.” He kissed Pam’s cheek. Then to Max: “If you can squeeze me in, I’d love a private training session sometime.” Count von Stunning held out his card, but Max refused to take it.
“That’ll cost extra,” the pudgy guy said. He was drunk, but not drunk enough for her to let the comment slip by. While the rest of the group was discussing their upcoming winter holidays to St. Barthes or Vail, Max slid closer to him until their thighs touched.
“Do you work out?” she asked.
“I play tennis twice a week at the Paris Club. With the pro. I also play a little golf,” he added, sucking in his stomach.
“You have good genetics,” she said. “If you gave me six months, I could get you in the best shape of your life.”
“I was actually thinking of getting a trainer. To build up my endurance.”
“Plus other things,” she said, casually placing her hand on his crotch. His cheeks flushed redder than a teenager caught with his father’s Playboy magazine.
“What other things?” he asked, trying to act as if nothing untoward was occurring under the table. She slowly uncrossed her legs and slid her ankle along his calf.
“That for every ten pounds a guy loses, he gains an inch.”
The table suddenly grew silent.
“No guarantee, but we can only hope,” she said, spilling a glass of water on his lap as she rose to leave.
Pam caught up with her at the elevators. “What kind of stunt was that?”
“That guy’s a shithead,” Max answered.
“You’re the shithead. That guy was my client, past tense, thanks to you.”
“And you used to be mine,” Max said. “Good luck with your muffin top.”
If she’d learned one lesson from her grandfather, it was to get them before they got you. Self-love is self-protection.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE MAD HATTERS
WHEN CATHY HADN’T SHOWN UP BY 4 P.M. for the Soul Mate Soirée at Alice’s Tea Cup, even Max expressed concern, though that hadn’t stopped any of them from ordering and nearly polishing off the Mad Hatter, a three-tiered, aptly named extravaganza. The waiter had recommended the Jabberwocky, an unlimited affair, but Beatrice, already on her third scone and second cup of coffee, thought it excessive. To her, tea was just a waste of hot water, or so she’d tell anyone who inquired. The real reason was that it reminded her of stuffy afternoons in Freddy’s mother’s chintz-upholstered drawing room.
Emily took a sip of her chamomile tea, hoping to calm her monkey mind. Duncan had been so remote when she’d spoken to him that morning.
“This is a very emotional time of year for me,” he had said when she inquired if something was wrong. “I’m feeling very fragile.”
“Is there anything I can do?” she’d asked.
“No, there’s nothing anyone can do. I’ll be better in January.”
She chalked it up to Yom Kippur, this solemn fast day in the Jewish calendar. Emily never fasted or went to synagogue. She wouldn’t consider herself observant—she was raised celebrating Christmas and Easter—unless making jelly donuts for Hanukkah and chocolate chip hamantaschen for Purim counted. Charles was always in a very black mood if he skipped a meal. She used to give him the benefit of the doubt with regard to his moodiness, until the darkness began consuming entire weekends, despite how consistently she monitored his blood sugar levels. Duncan could be prediabetic for all she knew, but then she remembered Yom Kippur didn’t technically start until sundown.
The private party room in the back was decorated with balloons and crepe paper for a little girl’s fifth birthday party. The theme was Fancy Nancy. A gaggle of little girls dressed to the nines with pink boas and tiaras drank tea with their pinkies out, Fancy Nancy style. Even Justin’s teacup poodle, Apricot, was wearing a rhinestone collar and sparkly fairy wings.
The change in the other women since Normandy was remarkable. Beatrice looked twenty years younger. Her skin was luminous, her eyes glowing. And Max was no longer the lean adolescent jock Emily had met there; she looked softer. She was even wearing a dress, a silk python-printed shirtdress with gold buttons, and motorcycle boots. She said she had to leave early; Friday nights she worked as a hostess.
Beatrice drained her cup. “Between you and me,” she said, “all this love stuff isn’t really my thing. I’m just here because Cathy’s a sweet kid. The only thing I want to conjure is another scone.” Though she scoffed, she had indeed read the first chapter of The Love Book, and the one after that. She’d boarded the bus from New Jersey and settled into her seat for a little escapist reading when she discovered that once again she’d mistaken The Love Book for her Stephanie Plum novel. Surrounded by glum-faced commuters, she’d passed the time by reading and then doing a silly quiz at the end of the chapter. She’d used a pen just like she did the Times crossword puzzle. She never put down an answer unless she was certain, and she always was.
Question One: In a movie, when the bride makes a run for it at the altar, your first thought is . . .
Smart cookie to have the taxi driver keep his meter running!
Question Two: If a man sent you loving emails three times a day, your first response would be . . .
Spam lists were invented for a reason!
Question Three: The last person you lived with . . .
She’d hesitated. An image of Albert, looking forlorn, his bags packed at the door, came to mind. She chose C, the only answer that came remotely close: Moved out because they were cramping your style.
Question Four: A man you’re dating is transferred to another country. You . . .
Wish them luck. What else?
She completed the quiz, all twenty-five questions, and reviewed her responses. She’d felt satisfied. She was a strong independent woman who’d have made Betty Friedan proud. She tallied her score and turned the page.
If you scored 25 or above, you are a commitmentphobe. Seek professional help immediately.
“Hogwash!” she’d muttered. She was alone by choice. Several passengers had glanced up from their newspapers. It wasn’t that she was averse to the idea of having a man take her to dinner occasionally. Once you got them home and unwrapped, even Albert, they were all the same: basically useless.
Beatrice thought about something Albert used to say before he was diagnosed with cancer: I’ll sleep when I’m dead. What she would give to have one more night with him, just to tell him she was sorry for bailing on him when he needed her most.
Justin arrived with a scone and ramekin of clotted cream, but suddenly Beatrice couldn’t eat another bite.
Emily glanced at her watch. “Traffic can’t be that bad. I’m going to give Cathy a call.”
She went to the front of the shop for better reception. Stevie was at the counter, her head resting on her hand. Last time Emily had been ther
e, Stevie had been bubbling over about a new guy she’d met at her acting class—unlike today, when she looked like she’d rather be in bed under the covers. Emily knew how that felt; she’d spent the first three months after Charles left in a pair of flannel pajamas and a ratty cardigan.
“What’s wrong with Stevie?” she asked Justin.
“Her boyfriend broke up with her. She’s taking it pretty hard. It must be going around. My boyfriend dumped me too. From now on it’s just me and Apricot.”
The call to Cathy went directly to voice mail. When Emily returned to the table, Beatrice’s tote bag began to chirp, an electronic orchestra of crickets.
“Cathy!” Beatrice said, answering her phone. “Where in God’s name are you? We were getting worried . . . What’s that you said? . . . The wrong Alice’s?”
“She must have gone to the East Side Alice’s,” Emily said.
Beatrice shushed her. “I can’t hear.”
“Tell her we’re at the Alice’s on Columbus Avenue.”
“Stockbridge? How the heck did you wind up in Massachusetts?” Beatrice listened, a look of disbelief on her face. She covered the phone. “Her GPS went kerflooey. Apparently her brother-in-law programmed it for the wrong Alice’s. The Arlo Guthrie Alice’s in the Berkshires.”
Max rolled her eyes. “A four-year-old in a pink Barbie car could drive from New Jersey to Manhattan without a GPS.”
Beatrice put Cathy on speakerphone on the top tier of the tea tray so she could give them detailed instructions for the release ceremony. Cathy had devised the exercise herself. It borrowed from several traditions and this one was fitting for the Day of Atonement. They were supposed to throw bread in the water to symbolize cutting emotional ties with past lovers. Beatrice didn’t know from cutting toxic ties, but she didn’t want to be a spoilsport, so she told Cathy they’d throw in a couple of slices for her.
The first step was to write a letter of forgiveness to someone with whom there was still unfinished business. Emily handed out mini legal pads, envelopes, and pens.
Beatrice pushed her pad away. There was no one she needed to write to; Albert was dead. And if she had anything to say to Freddy, she’d say it to his face.