by Nina Solomon
Emily’s plans for New Year’s Eve consisted of cocooning herself in goose down and watching old movies. These plans were derailed when her friend David, the editor, called and invited her to a party. She said she wasn’t up for it, but he was adamant. He even resorted to telling her about a superstition that whatever a person did on New Year’s Eve was a harbinger for the rest of the year, and did she really want to spend the year alone? Being alone didn’t sound so bad, but she grudgingly agreed. She began to feel more in the spirit as soon as she slipped into a black halter dress with iridescent paillettes and a pair of impractically high silver sandals she hadn’t had any occasion to wear the whole time she was dating Duncan. She would have towered over him.
The party was at the home of a friend of a friend, in a town house across from the Hayden Planetarium. Furs and Burberry overcoats crowded together on the metal coat rack set up in the marble vestibule, and afterward, plastic champagne glasses tumbled down the carpeted stairs like loose change.
David went on the grand tour of the five-story rococo house with the hostess, a petite blonde who produced Off-Broadway plays, while Emily mingled with the bejeweled women and clean-shaven men in the elegant parlor. Just five months ago she would have been star struck by her surroundings. But the literary milieu she thought Duncan would give her access to now seemed like a gilded cage. More than a few people had met her with Duncan and felt the need to bombard her with questions, pressing her for juicy morsels about his forthcoming novel and whether it was true that Scorsese was planning to turn it into a series for HBO. Then, as if serving gossip on a silver tray, they’d offer their own unsolicited tidbits in return, things she’d have preferred not know. Like that he and Petra were back together, after he’d tired of his assistant Lara, who couldn’t refrain from acting like an assistant.
Finally, Emily escaped to the balcony; her only companions two little girls throwing confetti onto passersby below. She leaned against the wrought-iron railing, gazing at the celestial blue glow from the dome of the planetarium, which somehow contained infinite universes. It had been almost a month since the miscarriage, and still every time she thought about Charles showing up, a lump formed in her throat. She knew that every year she’d calculate how old her son or daughter would have been, just as she still did with each of her other three miscarriages.
The little girls went back inside; they’d run out of confetti. The planetarium was cloaked in an opaque pink haze. She was tired and shivering on the balcony, bare-shouldered, having not wanted to wade through the throngs to get her coat. When the French doors opened behind her, sounds from the party floated out: laughter, music, glasses clinking in celebration. Couples kissed, arms entwined, as the sky exploded with color. After the fireworks, the party soon began to thin out, the guests migrating to the next social event on their calendars, or rushing home to impatient babysitters.
David joined her outside holding a glass of champagne. “I hope this is a better year for you. Not all men are like that Duncan guy, you know.”
She nudged him as she reached for the last glass of champagne from a server. “I’m swearing off men,” she said.
He put his jacket over her shoulders. “It’s a well-known fact that if you want good luck all year, the first person to enter your home after midnight New Year’s Eve should be tall, dark, and handsome, preferably bearing gifts. I can pick up some Hostess Cupcakes at the deli.”
“That’s one thing I know for certain,” she replied. “No man over four-foot-eight and no sweets will be crossing my threshold for a while.”
* * *
With the approach of Valentine’s Day, Emily began to feel wistful about her Soul Mate Sisters. Maybe it was because the article about The Love Book had just come out (the author’s identity still a mystery), or that she’d given the caterer a nonrefundable down payment for Duncan’s book party. She had formal invitations printed with RSVP cards, though she had no idea if any of the Soul Mate Sisters would even want to be in the same room. Mistakenly, she’d ordered one extra as though she were an invitee, not the hostess.
Every day she hoped another red envelope would arrive, providing her with the answers she was looking for, but it never did.
Zach and Emily spent days looking for just the right Valentine’s Day present for Sasha. They walked up and down Broadway, but nothing was quite right. Hello Kitty paraphernalia and clothes were too boring. Finally, on Valentine’s Day itself, in the window of a tiny notions shop a block from Zach’s school, he spotted the perfect gift. A rhinestone tiara. They went in and inquired about the price. He checked how much cash he had in his wallet, and then asked the salesperson to ring it up. His serious demeanor and deliberateness reminded her so much of Charles, until his face lit up and he impulsively told the salesperson he’d take two more. That was all Zach, through and through.
“Are you sure?” Emily asked. “Remember what we talked about? You can’t lose what you’re feeling?”
“Just in case,” he said. “She might want to share one.”
“That’s sweet.” She pulled him close.
When they walked out of the store, Kenneth was at the corner, revving his motorcycle.
“Hey, Kenneth!” Zach called. “Mmm . . . bacon!”
“Mmm . . . pie!” Kenneth responded, giving Zach a big grin and saluting Emily before speeding off.
“Kenneth’s really cool,” Zach said. “Did you know he can quote every single episode from The Simpsons?”
Emily laughed. “Who wouldn’t like a guy who could do that? Do you want to invite him to Alice’s sometime?”
Zach gave her a look.
“Dallas BBQ? Early Bird Special?” she asked.
He smiled. “I’ll even let you get the Texas size this time!”
They stopped at Alice’s for scones and peppermint tea. They sat at Zach’s favorite table, glass-topped with an Alice in Wonderland tableau inside. Emily was so busy looking at the charming miniature scene, she didn’t notice at first that the lovely older couple she’d seen outside Barnes & Noble were seated right next to them, exotically dressed as always. The woman had on a multicolored hat with earflaps and a harlequin jacket, the man a red-velvet blazer and striped blue trousers.
“Excuse me,” Emily said. “I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I’ve seen you around the neighborhood and just want to tell you that you inspire me.”
The man chuckled. “You’d like to be like us when you’re in your golden years?” He had an accent she couldn’t place.
“I want to be like you now,” she said. “I’ve never seen two such vibrant, connected, and joyful people before.”
“Thank you for saying that,” the woman chimed in. She too had a European accent and the most beautiful porcelain skin. “We just live every day to the fullest. Life is a gift.”
“I know this might seem odd,” Emily said impulsively, “but I’m having a small Valentine’s Day party tonight. My son will be there and a few of my closest friends. We live right down the block.” She reached into her purse. “I even have an extra invitation. Don’t feel obligated,” she added.
“Brock and Lavinia,” the man said, shaking Emily’s and then Zach’s hand. “And we’d be delighted. Wouldn’t we, dearest?”
“Yes, sounds perfectly lovely.”
“Do you live in New York?” Emily asked.
“No, we’re just here for a bit,” Lavinia said. She touched Brock’s hand and smiled, closing her eyes for a moment as if savoring a delicious piece of chocolate.
“Where are you from?” Emily asked.
“We met fifty years ago. In London,” Brock answered. “We were both foreign correspondents. And we’ve been following our story ever since, wherever it leads.”
“I envy your sense of adventure,” Emily said, thinking about the invisible boundaries of her life, which she knew were not just geographic. Charles had always wanted to explore the world, live in exotic places, but Emily had resisted the idea. And when she did travel, her grea
test worry was that she’d never get home again.
“Home is where Lavinia is,” Brock said. “Even during the winter we were snowbound in Kashmir with nothing but the most meager provisions and our love to keep us alive.”
“Don’t forget our Olivetti,” Lavinia said, her eyes sparkling.
Brock nodded and kissed his wife’s hand. “Yes, and we still use it to chronicle our never-ending love story.”
After paying the bill, Emily felt inspired to leave her dog-eared copy of The Love Book on the antique sewing table. She inscribed it with a quote by Saint Thérèse de Lisieux before sending it on its way: It is there for each and every one of us.
Emily and Zach walked home down Amsterdam Avenue, the familiar stores now long gone like timestamps of his childhood: Vinnie’s Pizza, where he had his first slice; the penny candy store, where he loved to scoop Swedish fish into a white bag; Pug Brothers, for a small buttered popcorn and to play with the owner’s dogs. They passed the barbershop where he’d gotten his first haircut. Something—perhaps the twirling red-and-white barbershop pole, a glint of sunlight, or a little whisper from the angel of just desserts—made her turn and look in the window. The sight of Duncan sitting in the first chair with silver foils in his hair was, without question, the “highlight” of her Valentine’s Day.
* * *
Kalman gave Zach a high five as he held the door. “Mrs. Andrews, sorry . . . I mean Ms. Jordan, there’s an Express Mail letter for you.”
Inside was her new Social Security card. She celebrated with a glass of pink champagne and felt like a schoolgirl as she practiced writing her name over and over. Now hearing Emily Andrews felt strange, as if she’d found an outfit she hadn’t worn since college that still fit but was strangely out of date.
* * *
At three o’clock on February 14, Beatrice waited at Pier 12 in Red Hook where the Queen Mary 2 was berthed. The water was choppy. She and Freddy were booked to set sail next month for an eight-day transatlantic cruise. Tonight, he’d made reservations for her birthday at the only four-star hotel in Brooklyn. They’d take a stroll along the pier and have dinner at Morton’s. He’d promised to order fish. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him the other night on the phone that she’d rather be with her Flaubertian sisters.
In another life, Beatrice would have arrived at the dock like an heiress, enrobed in ermine, her twenty-seven-piece set of matching luggage conveyed onboard by porters, and, after the Bon voyages, she and Freddy would embark on the adventure of their lives. But this wasn’t the society pages or a Deborah Kerr movie. It was real life. Her life, and there was no script.
In the distance, like Humphrey Bogart emerging from the fog, she saw Freddy walking down the cobbled street. She peered out over the water. The river was a sheet of obsidian.
The letter she’d written to Freddy was crumpling like a carnation in her sweaty hand. Love Book, I know I pooh-poohed you, but please don’t let me down now.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. It was the moment of truth. Here goes nothing. She turned to see . . . Malcolm in a safari hat.
“Malcolm? What are you doing here? Where’s Freddy?”
“Beatrice,” he said, taking her hand. “Beatrice, dear . . . how can I say this?”
She pulled away. “Don’t waste your breath, Malcolm, I know what you’re going to say.”
“You do?”
“Yes. Freddy sent you to let me down easy. Muriel needs him and he needs her. He thinks the world of me. I’m the only one he’s ever loved. He’s an old dog who has trouble with new tricks . . . blah, blah, blah. Does that sum it up? The coward couldn’t tell me in person? Like a real man? When push comes to shove, he sends his little brother to do the dirty work.”
“Don’t blame Freddy,” he said. “He’s never been good at dealing with feelings. Old school. He was afraid you’d be devastated.”
“Tell your brother whatever you think he wants to hear—that I fell to pieces, that I’ll be pining away for the rest of my life, anything that will make that old dog feel better.”
“Freddy doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Malcolm said. “I never would have given up all those years ago if I thought he would hurt you, but the best man won.”
“What do you mean?” Beatrice asked.
Malcolm sighed. “If I’d had any idea he’d chicken out on you a second time—”
“It was your mother who put the kibosh on our engagement, not Freddy.”
“Mother? Why would she do such a thing? She was awfully fond of you.”
Beatrice finally understood what Freddy had meant at homecoming when he said the stakes had been high. Malcolm had been the goalie on the Big Green hockey team. The one protecting the net from a rush or onslaught by the opposing team. It seemed so fitting. He’d always been there. Even now, when she didn’t need him, he was there to shield her. After the match, when Freddy raced up the stairs, scooped her up in his arms, and said, The best man won, it hadn’t been about her at all, but about beating Malcolm, and still was.
A seagull was pecking at a piece of bread some kid had thrown in the river. She thought of that releasing exercise Cathy had wanted them to do. Casting Off the Castoffs? Dumping the Chumps? If she’d had a loaf of bread now, she certainly had plenty of things she’d like to unload.
“I’m not a trophy, Malcolm,” she said. “And I don’t need Freddy or anyone else, for that matter, to protect me.”
“I know that, Beatrice. We were young and dumb. Trust me, he’ll regret this for the rest of his life. But he lacks courage and always did. Come, I’ll drive you home. Where’s your luggage?”
“Baggage free,” she said. “One thing you should know about me, Malcolm, since I think you and I are eventually going to be good friends, is that I ain’t no hollaback girl. I came to tell him the same thing. I just had the decency to do it in person.”
Cars honked above on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. She was shivering. Her eyes stung. Maybe she wasn’t so tough, after all. Malcolm wrapped his scarf around her neck and offered her his soft leather gloves.
“Thank you,” she said.
“It’s what you do for the people you love.”
A quote by Eckhart Tolle surfaced like stars on a dark night: And within that stillness there is a subtle but intense joy, there is love, there is peace. She hadn’t realized how much the stillness scared her and that she had been trying to mask it with busyness, background noise, and a lot of scotch, which only deferred the pain.
“Enough of this smarmy stuff,” she said. “How would you like to go to a Valentine’s Day party?”
“How could I forget? Happy birthday, Beatrice. You get younger every day.”
“You know what, Malcolm? That’s a big pile of baloney. But I hope there’s more where that came from.”
She tore the letter to Freddy into little pieces and threw it in the water. Now she was ready to set sail.
* * *
Zach and Sasha were in the kitchen dipping strawberries in chocolate. Sasha had on her new rhinestone tiara and Zach was wearing a Knicks cap she’d given him. The kitchen looked like it had been hit by a chocolate tsunami. On the front hall table were three pink manuscript boxes and Cathy’s copy of The Love Book, which Emily still hadn’t returned.
The doorbell rang. Beatrice and a tall man in a safari hat were standing there in the hall.
“You must be the lucky guy,” Emily said. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Freddy.”
“I’m definitely lucky,” the man replied, putting his arm around Beatrice. “But the name’s Malcolm and the pleasure is all mine. Now, if our beautiful hostess will point me in the right direction, I would be delighted to do the honors.”
“The pink champagne is in the fridge,” Emily said. “My son’s the one covered in chocolate.”
He turned to Beatrice. “Club soda with a splash of cranberry and a twist?”
She nodded.
“Ladies, I shall return anon.”
“
I like him,” Emily whispered. “He’s a keeper.”
“I have a feeling he’s more of a never-leaver,” Beatrice said.
“What’s with the binoculars?” Emily asked.
“Oh, these?” Beatrice laughed. “With Malcolm you have to be prepared. We had a couple of hours to kill so he took me on a guided parrot safari in Brooklyn.”
Emily hugged her. “I’m so glad we’re all together again.”
“All of us?” Beatrice asked.
“No, Cathy didn’t RSVP.”
Beatrice’s smile faded. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer. Are we the first ones here?”
“Max and Simon are in the den.”
“Simon?”
“I’ll fill you in later.”
* * *
The morning of the Run-Up, Emily had waited with Simon outside the Empire State Building. She’d brought a thermos of tea. Her hood was covered with wet snowflakes. The tower runners, wearing shorts and long-sleeve shirts, were congregating in the marble lobby. There was a cacophony of echoing voices, then a thunder of footsteps.
“Did you tell her I’d be here?” she’d asked Simon.
“You think I’m batshit?” he said, smiling.
A few minutes later, Max had limped out of the building. When she saw Emily and Simon standing together she began to cry. Emily didn’t know if it was because Max was in pain or relieved to see them. She held out the thermos. Max took a sip and smiled through her tears.
“I couldn’t even make it past the twentieth floor.”
“Don’t worry, Shorty,” Simon said, opening his jacket and pulling her close. “There’s always next year.”
“As long as my cheering section is here, I don’t care if I come in last.”
* * *
Zach and Sasha were wearing long white aprons, passing around hors d’oeuvres on trays like at a fancy cocktail party. Sasha’s mother and father were chatting with Kenneth and David in the living room, and Max and Simon were in the den playing Guitar Hero. Max was wearing a Columbia sweatshirt; she had enrolled for the fall term. The next time Emily peeked in, Malcolm was fast-fingering the whammy bar like a pro. Zach called winners and sat on the couch between Simon and Max. He whispered something into Yoda’s ear and squeezed his hand, smiling at the answer.