I take another bite of sandwich. “I want a man who is free to pursue a relationship. I want someone who isn’t going through a divorce with roller-coaster emotions. I don’t want a man on the rebound or one in the midst of a messy divorce.”
“And you think some of these supposedly single guys are that stable and together? My philosophy is capture him while he’s still vulnerable and before he’s back out on the market,” Margot says sagely.
I decide I don’t want to talk about Reed. It’s much too painful. I’d had such high hopes for us.
“What did you decide to do about Earl?” I ask.
“I don’t know. He’s back with a vengeance and won’t even give me space to think.”
Par for the course. He can smell another man’s interest. But even though I’m thinking this, I wisely keep my mouth shut.
We talk about my business and the new direction it’s heading in. I tell Margot about the office space I’ve just rented.
“That’s awesome, Roxi,” she says, “and long overdue.”
“I’ll need your help.”
“You know you can count on me.”
I explain that I will need her to help me take care of things until a full complement of people are hired. I give her a hug.
“No one can replace you, ever,” I say. “You’re my bud.”
There are tears in Margot’s eyes. We’ve both been through tough times and we’ve always been there for each other.
My cell phone rings making me jump. Reed’s number pops up. He doesn’t seem to want to give it up, and I still can’t bring myself to talk to him. Eventually voice mail will kick in.
We leave in separate cars and head back to our separate homes. Life will go on. With time I will heal. I am a survivor after all.
When I pull into my driveway my instincts are to pull out again. A man is on my front steps, and that man looks suspiciously like Reed.
I sit for a while and keep the car’s lights on. The muffled tones of a phone ringing come at me and I scramble through my purse.
“It’s me,” Reed says. “It’s safe to get out.”
Not in my book it isn’t. I do not want him at my home at this hour of night. I’ve had a big day and right now confrontation is the last thing I want, yet I reluctantly slide out of the front seat. I can’t risk a scene.
Reed meets me in the driveway.
“We need to talk,” he says, taking my arm.
I try to pull away. “We’ve already spoken.”
“Something else has come up. It’s serious.”
I toss a dubious look at him that’s wasted in the darkness. A spotlight over my front door illuminates the shadows. I need to get there.
The driveway is not a good place to have this conversation anyway. If I lose my temper and begin shouting, my neighbors don’t need to witness the show.
“You might as well come in,” I say ungraciously as we climb my front steps together.
There’s a light on in the living room, and I gesture toward the sofa. If I don’t offer him a drink or something to eat, maybe he’ll leave shortly.
Reed takes a seat, legs splayed, arms hanging between his legs, head down. He is having a hard time looking at me. Oh, well, he should have thought about the consequences before he put himself out on the Web.
“What brings you all the way out here?” I ask when the silence stretches out.
“I’m in trouble.”
I nod, thinking that’s the understatement of the century. “You can say that again.” I remain standing, hoping he will get the hint.
Reed looks at me with liquid eyes. “Look, I wanted you to know I might be doing some jail time.”
“What do you mean, jail time?”
He’s got my full attention now, and I don’t like what I am hearing. Again, I feel as if I’m auditioning for The Jerry Springer Show.
Reed’s hands cup his forehead. “I could kick myself for not being upfront with you.”
“Why would you be doing jail time?” I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
Seconds turn into minutes and he still doesn’t respond.
“Let me be straight with you,” he finally says.
“It’s about time.”
“When I asked my soon-to-be-ex for a divorce she turned ugly.”
“That’s a big surprise. I got the e-mails, the notes, remember?”
“She demanded money to go away, and when I refused, she filed a report with the police stating that I threatened her life.”
This is starting to sound like a bad novel. They say truth is stranger than fiction.
“So were the police involved?”
“Not the first time.”
“There was a second?”
Oh, gawd, this was worse than any talk show.
“Yes. She told them I threatened her with a bow and arrow.”
I look at this man, this poster child for buppiehood dressed in chinos, loafers and cashmere sweater, and think, boy is my judgment off. I don’t know what to say.
“They carted me away, handcuffs and all. Can you imagine the embarrassment?”
“So that’s why I haven’t heard from you in several days.”
Dazed, he nods his head. He seems unable to believe this has happened. “Luckily I had a credit card and checkbook on me. That’s the only reason I was able to bail myself out,” he says.
I still don’t know what to say. What’s more, I don’t know why he’s telling me all of this. He’s lied to me from the very beginning. And I no longer feel the way I did about him. He’s lost my trust. I am more mad at myself than him.
“What happens now?” I eventually ask.
He shrugs. “I’ve hired an attorney. It’s going to cost me a bundle to defend myself. She’s claiming I was abusive all along.”
“I’m sorry.” I really am sorry for him but at the same time I am wondering if there is a kernel of truth to his wife’s claim. It’s not as if I’ve known this man for years.
“She’s in a shelter for abused women somewhere,” Reed rambles. “And she’s got one of those feminist lawyers representing her.”
“Why would she accuse you of something you didn’t do?” I ask. “What would be the purpose?”
“Money. This all comes down to money.”
“I don’t understand.”
Reed stands and stretches his arms. He rotates his neck to get the kinks out. I can tell he is stressed.
“She says I owe her for the three years we were married.”
“Isn’t New York a fifty-fifty state?”
Reed visibly balks. “I had assets way before she was in the picture. She brought nothing to the relationship.”
Nice guy. I don’t need to know this. The whole thing is sounding more bizarre by the minute. Why would Reed take up with an unhealthy woman unless there is something in it for him? Sex? Housekeeping services? Maybe a need to control?.
“Just be grateful you didn’t have children,” I say.
“I would never let that happen.”
Deep down I know I should be more compassionate, but truthfully the whole thing bites. It’s hard for me to get past the fact that he’s lied to me.
“What I’m really here to say is that I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess,” Reed says, playing his ace card.
“I’m sorry, too.”
I stand. Reed comes closer. I step back.
“I really do care for you, Roxi,” he says.
“Caring isn’t enough.”
I cross to the front door and yank it open. A frigid breeze blows in. There are tears in my eyes for all the things that could have been. I blink them back.
“Goodbye, Reed.”
He looks at me solemnly and takes a hesitant step.
“Goodbye for now. This isn’t over.”
When he’s gone I press my back against the closed door and allow myself a good cry.
I’d had such hope for us.
CHAPTER 22
Three weeks go by, an
d each day Reed’s duplicity begins to hurt less. I throw myself into work and focus. There’s enough on my plate to keep me busy. I’m relying on my marketing consultant to help me launch the campaign for this new aspect of my business. I am using my loan to pay for promotions. This Sunday there will be a huge ad in Newsday.
Yvette is working as diligently as me, although most of the time she spends at home on her computer. Jessica, her daughter, the terror of the neighborhood, needs reining in. Yvette researches new businesses to target, and we spend a portion of each day checking out thrift shops for furniture for the suite. Even Margot is pitching in and helping me do errands that would normally be assigned to Vance.
I haven’t heard from Carlo in some time but assume he’s back in the United States. Since Bacci was picked up by Alexandra I haven’t heard the first word from him. I need to thank him properly. He gave me a running start to get this concierge business off the ground. I also need him to sign contracts agreeing to use my services exclusively.
I pick up the phone and punch in a number.
“I need you to send a gift basket,” I say to the proprietor who is a friend of mine.
“Where to?”
I give her DeAngelo Creations’ address.
“What should the card say?”
“‘Thank you for your idea. I’ll call to set up an appointment to discuss the details of our collaboration. Best, Roxanne Ingram.’”
“Okay, I’ll get it out today.”
I hang up and decide to take a trip over to my new office. I still can’t believe I am finally operating out of a real building. Every once in a while I pinch myself, and when I’m not pinching myself I indulge in a few sad moments. I miss Reed. Actually, I miss the idea of him.
I walk around the inside admiring the comfortable chairs in the waiting room and the painting hanging over the couch Yvette and I bought from a thrift store. We are still looking for desks with rich woods and an antique look to them. We’re also on the hunt for a nice throw rug to warm things up.
A cappuccino and espresso maker would be perfect in one corner. Maybe I can buy one secondhand. I sit in one of the leather office chairs and swivel. I think about what I will do once the money really starts rolling in. Number one on my list is a trip to Paris to see Lindsay.
My phone rings. It is Yvette. She needs me to put out a fire. Somebody’s kid was to have been picked up from school and the frantic mother and teacher are calling. This was to have been Vance’s job. I must have dropped the ball when I was transferring assignments and missed this one. Lucky for me the school is only about ten minutes away. I race off.
Later, after I have apologized to the upset mom, removed the charge off her bill and offered another free pickup, I go home to put up my feet. I take a long slow soak in the tub, wrap myself in one of those huge terry cloth bathrobes and sit in front of the television set. I am close to nodding off when my cell phone rings. It is late. I am tempted not to answer, but something urges me to pick up.
“Bella. Carlo here. Sorry for calling so late.”
I feel the old familiar flutter deep in my gut, and my tongue twists into a double loop.
“Roxanne, are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Did I wake you?”
“No, not at all. You caught me off guard. Normally I don’t answer my cell after a certain hour.”
“I am calling to thank you for the lovely gourmet basket,” Carlo says. “It was unexpected, unnecessary and very much appreciated. I am also hoping we can set up a date.”
Date as in he and I? I get another flutter.
“Send me a copy of your contract. I’ll look it over, sign and we’ll discuss it over dinner,” Carlo says.
“I’ll get one out to Alexandra. How is Bacci by the way?”
“Doing very well. And by the way, you will not be dealing with Alexandra on this matter. You and I will be speaking directly unless I am out of town. I trust that should not be a problem.”
“No problem at all. In fact, I like that.”
We talk some more. I agree to e-mail a contract to him, and Carlo promises to call back with a date and time to meet. Before he hangs up he says, “Pick a restaurant, bella, a very nice one, and I will take you out to eat.”
This is what I have wanted for a long time and fantasized about forever. Yet I wonder if Carlo’s interest is merely professional and I am making too much of this. Then I think of having his total attention for the minimum of a couple of hours, and staring into those soulful caramel-colored eyes of his.
I drift off to sleep thinking about Carlo. I think about his beautiful chiseled face and smooth olive complexion. I think about his seductive lips. Maybe I am getting over Reed finally, or maybe he was just a passing fantasy; a distraction of sorts. Maybe my heart has always been with Carlo.
On Sunday I search Newsday and find my ad. I am happy with the end product. Even I would want to sign up for Other Options, as I’ve decided to call my concierge business. The remainder of the week I hold my breath as calls slowly come trickling in. Then on Thursday we get slammed, and phones ring off the hook. Everyone has questions about this new business and many sign up.
“Yes!” Yvette says, arms pumping above her head doing a war dance, as the phones continue to ring. “Yes!”
We are booking appointments like crazy. Before I know it she and I have two solid weeks booked. The companies that are calling are some of the more prominent. They vary in size and structure, and so do their needs.
I explain about the retainer they will need to pay and the contract they must sign. None of them seem overly concerned with my request.
I am seeing Carlo to discuss our contract tomorrow. We’ll meet at a restaurant on the North Shore of Long Island. Margot is still seeing Theo, the doctor, and trying to decide whether to give Earl one last shot. She’ll do just about anything to have her children back and I guess I can’t blame her. She and I have agreed to meet for pedicures at one of those tiny Asian places that are all over New York. Afterward she is coming to my house to help me pick out something to wear.
When we are soaking our feet and enjoying an invigorating neck and shoulder massage, Margot says, “You’re handling this whole business with Reed really well. I’d be throwing a hissy fit.”
“I’m trying my best to move on.”
The pedicurist towel dries Margot’s feet and she wiggles her toes. “Ever thought about checking to see if Reed’s still out on the dating site?”
I grunt. “Why would I do that? It’s over.”
“Curiosity. You might want to confirm whether he’s a player or not.”
“I don’t care. Too much energy.”
Margot nods her head knowingly. “Well, I do. That hound dog needs to be stopped. Give me his stats and I’ll check him out when we get home.”
I’m thinking I’d have to be a masochist to go poking around. But at the same time I am curious. I hate being played.
Two hours later my bedroom looks like the storage room of a department store. Heaps of clothing are on the bed, as well as every available surface. Margot and I have narrowed it down to two outfits. She thinks I should show a little leg, but I am of the mindset to play it safe. Even so, I’m considering a body-hugging dress that stops short of the knee and comes with a matching shawl. Truthfully, though, I’m leaning toward the other: a slim skirt with a matching jacket under which I will wear a camisole and pearls.
As I am mentally going through my accessories, Margot flips my laptop on.
“What site did you find Reed on?” she asks. “You know his stats, age, height, education, right? What’s his screen name?”
I tell her what I know. She does a quick search and says, “Looks like he canceled membership on this site. I’m going to try another.”
I leave the room to take care of a couple of things and come back with two glasses of water.
“Bingo! Look who I found,” Margot says, tapping a nail against Reed’s photo.
My eyes almost pop out of my head. The photo is one we had taken in Barbados together except he’s cropped me out of the shot. To say I am speechless, hurt and feeling as if I have been played big-time is an understatement. Margot clicks an arrow, and the next photo pops up. This one is of Reed and Guinness. He’s using that lovable dog as bait to reel women in.
I feel my eyes mist up and blink back tears.
“Let’s see what the bastard has to say,” Margot says, clicking on his profile.
Now I can barely see and there is a roaring in my ears that makes it impossible for me to hear. Margot is reading about Reed’s search for the love of his life and about how much he wants to give this person his heart. He says he wants to design a house just for the two of them. Puhleese! It’s the same kind of bologna he told me. Some other trusting woman will fall for his smooth charm. And the bugger has the nerve to list himself as “single.”
Now I am really mad at myself.
“Please stop torturing me,” I say to Margot. “I’ve been a sucker. I made a bad choice. Lesson learned.”
“What an SOB,” Margot says before muttering something really crude and vulgar. “Let’s see how he operates with other women?”
“What do you mean?”
“Let’s fix this player’s wagon.”
She begins typing and I quickly see what she’s doing.
“You’re creating a fictitious profile,” I say. “What are you going to use for a photo?”
I am starting to panic. I have never done anything this wicked before.
“That part is easy,” Margot says. “Hand me that magazine. Now, let’s see, there’s got to be a certain type your boy goes for.”
I hand over a copy of a popular African-American magazine and point out a few pictures that might work. Margot flips through the pages, picks out a polished-looking African-American woman with sparkling brown eyes and a wide smile, and says, “That’s her. That’s Savannah.”
“She looks friendly and not the least bit threatening. Reed should like her,” I say, quickly figuring out what Margot is up to.
Margot scans the photo and uploads it. She uses her own credit card to pay for the membership.
“There. Done. This is Savannah.”
We both laugh. Laughing feels good.
Hook, Line and Single Page 18