by Julia London
“Oh, sure,” her mother said, chuckling. “You’re going to come to the rescue. Another empty promise, that’s all I need. My whole life has been empty promises,” she said, and closed her eyes. She was fading.
Lola knew a little something about empty promises, too, courtesy of the woman in this bed. She picked up her purse. “Good-bye, Mother.”
Her mother didn’t answer.
Lola’s mother was a hateful, bitter woman, and she deserved no sympathy from any of her children. But dammit if Lola could quit her. She was driven by that sense of duty and compassion, and every single time, she was slapped in the face for it. In the space of a few hours, her mother had insulted her, had derided her desire to be writer, and to add insult to injury, had taken so long to be discharged from the hospital that Lola was stuck in a bad part of town with several blocks to walk to the subway in the dark.
She was spent. Her mother drained her spirit from her.
On the way to Manhattan, Lola pulled out her phone and looked at the text Harry had sent her. The address was on East 72nd. She debated asking him for that ride. She’d relied too much on him in the last few days. She didn’t want to be a burden, or the kind of woman who couldn’t handle the slightest bit of drama. But Lola was also emotionally exhausted, and it was already six o’clock. She’d have to change trains twice, and then there was the problem of getting a ride from Black Springs to the lake house. Harry was going the same way—was it really such an imposition?
Or was the truth that she could use a bit of his strength and a shoulder to lean on right now? Was that one of the allowed benefits? Should she even go down that road? Last night had left her feeling so . . . right. Now what was she going to do with that feeling and with him? She didn’t know . . . but catching a ride wasn’t going to change anything.
With her doubts raging, Lola got off the train at Grand Central and grabbed a cab uptown. In the cab, she texted Harry. Offer still good?
He answered almost immediately. You bet.
I’m in your hood.
Close?
A few blocks away.
Come up.
Don’t want to disturb your family.
?! Come up, you little lunatic.
Lola smiled. She directed the driver to let her off at the corner of 72nd and Madison, where the buildings had doormen and stone carvings for window casings. In fact, when she reached Harry’s building, the doorman surprised the hell out of her by greeting her by name. “Good evening, Miss Dunne,” he said.
“Oh. Wow. Good evening,” she said with surprise.
The doorman escorted her to the elevator banks and pushed the button to send her up to the fourteenth floor. The doors slid silently shut, and Lola saw her hazy reflection in their highly polished fronts. She tried to comb her hair with her fingers as best she could in that blurry reflection. She was standing as close as she could to examine her face when the car stopped and the doors slid open.
She jumped back. And then stepped out gingerly onto thick carpet. And a mirror, thank God, a mirror! Well, not a mirror, exactly, but a painting behind glass, and if Lola stood a certain way, she could just make out her reflection. She groped around the bottom of her bag for a lipstick. She had a red one. It was too red for someone who had come from her mother’s bedside in intensive care, she figured. And besides, she couldn’t even see if her mascara was smudged beneath her eyes, much less manage to get lipstick on straight. Her normal face would just have to do.
“Stop acting like he’s your boyfriend,” she muttered under her breath. She didn’t have to impress him.
At apartment C, Lola knocked.
Harry was the one who opened the door. His gaze swept over her, top to bottom, and then he smiled so warmly that Lola’s heart did a little pitter-patter.
“Rough day?”
“Oh, it was great,” she said sarcastically.
“How’s your mom?”
“She’s okay for now,” she said, and looked past him, unwilling to speak of Lois Dunne.
“Come in,” Harry said, and stepped aside so that Lola could step into luxury.
She didn’t know what she’d expected, exactly, but she couldn’t have imagined this. Obviously, she knew his parents wouldn’t be living in a shack on the Upper East Side—but this was opulence. She was walking into an apartment that could be showcased on any realty show. The entry was marble tile, with crown molding and a crystal chandelier overhead, and striped wallpaper above wainscoting. Lola followed Harry into a living room that was huge by New York standards, trying not to gape at the bank of windows that overlooked the carefully landscaped rooftop terraces. Her feet, encased in some old Converse Chuck Taylor high-tops, sank into thick pile carpet. “This is spectacular,” she said, her voice full of awe.
“Yeah, I guess,” Harry said.
Lola was so entranced by the apartment that she didn’t notice the man who had appeared, drink in hand, until Harry said, “Dad, this is my friend, Lola Dunne.”
Harry’s father was tall and broad-shouldered like his son. He had full head of salt-and-pepper hair and was wearing tan slacks and a pink collared shirt. He was barefoot. “Hello,” she said.
“Lola Dunne!” he said bombastically, extending his hand. “That’s a very dramatic name, miss. It would look good on a Broadway marquee. Would you like a drink?”
“Sure she would,” Harry said before Lola could decline. He winked at her. “She’s just discovered a liking for martinis.”
“Martini! A civilized, imperative drink for all of mankind. Allow me to mix one, Lola. I’ll join you.”
What was he going to do with the drink he was holding? “Ah . . . thank you,” she said, and watched with surprise as he downed the drink in his hand and wandered to the bar.
“My mother has gone to bed,” Harry said as his father stepped behind the bar. “It’s just me, Dad, and Dosia. She’s here somewhere.”
“Your sister?” she asked, confused.
“Dosia is the family maid. Or, as Dad puts it, the person who sails this ship.”
“Ah, Dosia,” Mr. Westbrook said, as if about to launch into song. “She’s been with us since Harry was learning to walk. She’s retired for the night, probably in her room watching those god-awful soap operas her family sends her.”
“Who are you talking to?”
That question, posed by a woman, was followed by the sound of the front door slamming shut.
“Your brother’s friend!” Mr. Westbrook shouted back. “Her name is Lola Dunne, star of stage and screen.”
“What?” A pixie of a woman appeared. She had a full head of dark curls, and was dressed stylishly in jeans that rode low on her hips and a boxy sweater over a button-down shirt. She came to a halt at the entrance to the living area and stared at Lola. “Jesus, Harry, you didn’t say you were seeing someone new!” she exclaimed, and marched forward, headed for Lola. “I’m Hazel,” she said. “Lola, right? So you and Harry, huh?”
“No, it’s not like that,” Lola hastened to assure her. She could just imagine what his family must think of her in old, faded jeans, a T-shirt and denim jacket, and her hair held back with a bandana she’d rolled up and tied around her head like a hair band.
“It’s not?” Hazel asked, peering at Harry with shrewd brown eyes.
“Wow, is that how you greet my friends these days, Hazel?” Harry asked. “Nice.”
Hazel responded with a bear hug for her brother. “Sorry. But I was going to be really mad at you if you had a new girlfriend and I didn’t know about it.”
“I didn’t get a new girlfriend,” Harry said.
Heat prickled at Lola’s nape. He sounded as if he was going to get a new girlfriend, it definitely would not be Lola.
“Listen up, people,” Harry said. “I gave Lola a ride today, and I’m going to give her one home. No need to interrogate her or me, okay?”
“Okay!” Hazel said, and saluted. She whirled around, practically skipped to her father’s side, and kissed him on
the cheek. “Hi, Dad. I’ll take one of those. Where’s Mom?”
“Oh you know your mom,” Mr. Westbrook said as he studied the many liquor bottles on the bar. “She’s in bed.”
That seemed a little odd to Lola, seeing as how it was only half past six. It occurred to her that Harry’s mom might be sick. She didn’t know anything about his family. She didn’t know anything about him.
“Lola, would you like to sit?” Harry asked.
No, she would not. The pink-and-white couches looked like they were upholstered in very expensive silk, and she’d been on a commuter train. Who knew what biohazard might be lurking on her jeans.
But Harry flopped onto one of the couches and gestured for her to do the same. She sat gingerly beside him.
“Do you live in East Beach, Lola?” Mr. Westbrook asked. He was holding the silver shaker above his shoulder, swaying side to side as he shook the contents.
“Um . . . yeah,” she said, sounding as if she didn’t know where she lived. “For the time being.”
“Uh-huh. And what do you do for a living?”
“Oh, I ah . . . I was a paralegal—I mean I am a paralegal, but just not right now.”
“She’s writing a book,” Harry said, and looked pointedly at Lola, shaking his head a little, as if he didn’t understand her.
“A writer! Now that’s a talent I admire,” Mr. Westbrook said, as he poured the liquor into four martini glasses. “I’ve long thought I wanted to write a book,” he added.
“You should totally do it, Dad,” said Hazel. She had perched on the arm of the couch and was studying nails that looked freshly manicured. “People who pursue their passions are the happiest.”
“Well, I think the time to pursue my passion has run out for me,” Mr. Westbrook said jovially, and handed his daughter a drink, then brought one to Lola. It was so full she was certain she couldn’t take it from him without spilling some of it on the Oriental rug at her feet.
“What do you write, Lola?” Hazel asked.
“Fiction. Women’s fiction,” she said.
“Wait,” said Hazel, lifting her gaze from the study of her nails to eye Lola again. “You two met in East Beach?”
Lola nodded.
“Wow. And here I thought Harry was so busy working he didn’t have time to hang out with friends. Certainly not his family. We haven’t seen you in a month, Harry! Oh God, that reminds me—guess who I ran into the other day?”
“Who?” he asked.
“Your ex,” she said, and her mouth gaped open, as if that news surprised even her.
Lola wasn’t looking at Harry, but sitting next to him, and she could feel him tensing. She reached for that martini.
“Oh yeah? How was she?”
Did she detect some emotion in his voice? Reluctance? Sadness? Maybe she hadn’t heard anything at all. Maybe her overactive imagination was overreacting.
“She seemed good. Glam, as usual,” Hazel said. “She asked a lot of questions about you,” she said, pointing at Harry. “Oh, I’m sorry, Lola. Has Harry mentioned his ex?”
“Um . . . yeah,” Lola said, and risked a look at Harry. “He mentioned he’d ended a relationship recently.”
“Boy, did he ever,” Hazel said, and Mr. Westbrook laughed.
Harry didn’t. He was staring at his sister. “What’d you say, Hazel?”
“Well of course I told her you were doing great,” she said as Lola took a sip. “I told her you were working out of East Beach. Just so she’d know you hadn’t had to move to some pit in Brooklyn.”
Lola coughed.
“Careful there, cowgirl,” Mr. Westbrook said.
“Nothing wrong with Brooklyn,” Harry said evenly.
“Maybe not. But I wouldn’t want to live there. I swear we get more of our patients from Brooklyn than any other borough. Anyway, I thought it was interesting she was asking about you,” Hazel said. “You know what I think? I think the grass wasn’t so green on the other side, and now she realizes she had it better with you after all.”
“Very astute observation,” Mr. Westbrook said. “You may be on to something, Hazel.”
“She said you two were taking a break,” Hazel said. “That gives her an entry back, you know? Anyway, I’m having lunch with her next week. Maybe I can ask her.” She winked at Harry.
“Mind if we save the analysis of my former girlfriend for a time when I don’t have a friend sitting right next to me?” Harry asked. “I’m sure Lola doesn’t want to hear all the details of my relationship.”
Au contraire, Lola very much wanted to hear all the details, every last one. But now everyone was looking at her.
“Anyone here a Mets fan?” she suddenly chirped, recognizing the moment the words flew out of her mouth that it was the weirdest of segues.
“Yankees!” Mr. Westbrook said emphatically. “Lola, don’t ruin your life rooting for the Mets.”
That prompted a lively discussion of the Mets’ chances this year, and some friendly arguing between father and son about the New York teams. Lola had sipped half her drink when Harry stretched his arms overhead and said, “Lola and I should probably get going.”
“You’re not going to stay until Mom wakes up?” Hazel asked.
Harry gave his sister a look that seemed to suggest she knew better than to ask. “I have to work tomorrow. Who knows when she’ll wake up?”
Hazel looked down the long hallway where Lola presumed the bedrooms were situated.
Harry stood up. “Are you ready, Lola?”
“Yes.” She stood up. “Very nice to meet you. And thank you for the drink.”
“You are more than welcome, my dear,” said Mr. Westbrook. “You come back any time, will you? We love to meet Harry’s friends, and I love making martinis. It’s a win-win.”
“See you, bro,” Hazel said, and playfully punched Harry in the belly. “It better not be a month before you show up at Sunday dinner. You know I can’t handle the Old People on my own.”
“Hey, I think I resemble that remark,” Mr. Westbrook said, miming Groucho Marx as he headed back to the bar.
Harry didn’t say much as he drove out of the city. He remarked on the traffic twice, and mentioned how much he loved Dosia and her pancakes. Lola tried to read him, tried to detect if his sister’s news had affected him at all. She was making herself crazy with it and finally asked, “Is your mother okay?”
“My mom?” he asked, glancing at her. “Yeah. Why?”
“I don’t know. She was in bed early, and there was that talk of her getting up.”
“Right.” Harry sighed. He scratched his chin. “She’s okay. If I were actually dating you, I’d sugarcoat it,” he said, using her words. “The truth is that my mom gets pissing drunk every Sunday.”
Lola laughed.
“I’m not kidding,” he said seriously. “Looks like we have more in common than you know.”
“You’re joking,” she said. If Harry’s family had been living in a rundown, two-bedroom apartment like she and her family had, she’d believe it. But the apartment she’d seen this evening didn’t look like it could possibly be the home of a drunk. People who lived in homes like that never had the problems of people who lived hand-to-mouth. Or so she’d always believed.
“I wish I was joking,” he said. “We’ve all gotten used to it. It’s weird—she doesn’t drink a drop through the week. But on Sunday, she starts drinking early and she goes until she just about passes out.”
“But why?” Lola asked, confused.
“Why?” Harry shook his head. “Why did your mom do drugs? What makes anyone abuse alcohol or drugs?”
That was a question Lola had pondered many times in her life. “I wish I knew.” She looked out the window at the passing lights, silent.
“What are you thinking?” Harry asked.
“That I really don’t know you,” she said honestly. “I don’t know if you have more than one sister, or what your dad does for a living, or if you’ve lived on the Uppe
r East Side all your life.”
“Well you’re all kinds of curious tonight,” he said. “Let’s see—Hazel is my only sibling. I grew up in the apartment you saw. And my Dad? He doesn’t do anything. He married my mother’s money and he’s been a stay-at-home dad all my life. Anything else?”
She could hardly process that information, but yes, there was something else. “Do you miss your ex-girlfriend?”
Harry looked at her, his brows dipping in a vee of confusion. Or irritation. Lola wasn’t certain which. “What?” he asked, as if he hadn’t heard her correctly.
“Sorry,” she said, holding up a hand. “It’s none of my business.”
“No, it’s okay,” he said. “I was expecting you to ask where my mother’s money came from. Banking, by the way. And yes, I miss her sometimes. But not all the time.”
“So . . . are you over it?” She picked at a fraying hole in the knee of her jeans, dreading his answer.
“Man,” he said. “Twenty questions, huh?” He laughed ruefully, as if he was gearing up to grin and bear something unpleasant. “I loved her, Lola. I still do in a way. But when something doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. I’m sure you know what I mean.”
“Boy, do I ever,” she said with a snort. “Were you together a long time?”
“A little over a year,” he said. “We were living together. I’ll let you in on a secret. I thought she was the one. But . . .” He shrugged it off and didn’t elaborate.
Lola didn’t press him, either. She was sorry she’d asked. She didn’t want to hear about the girl Harry had thought was “the one.” And now, even though he was staring ahead, she had the sense he was seeing anything but the road. It made her feel strangely at odds—like she’d misbuttoned herself and was all lopsided now. She didn’t need Kennedy’s budding psychology degree to point out that as hours clicked by in Harry’s company, she understood less and less what to think about the gorgeous man beside her, this roommate slash casual-sex partner.
What Lola did understand were the rules—she didn’t have the right to feel strange that he had feelings for another woman. That’s not how friends-with-benefits worked. She had the right to have fun, and nothing else. She wasn’t allowed to care. Unfortunately, she did care. She cared a lot. Maybe too much.