The Book of Jane

by Anne Dayton

  When the door opens, I step out into a long hallway with gray carpeting. I look for number 1214. I pass several doors with welcome mats and crayon drawings taped to the door, but 1214 is austere. The heavy metal door is tall and intimidating.

  I raise my hand to knock, then bring it down again.

  He’s going to think I’m crazy. I can’t just show up at his door. I’m still holding this ridiculous elephant. I’d better just go.

  I turn to go back toward the elevator when I hear noises inside. I lean in to listen. That’s definitely Neil Diamond. I can’t help but laugh. Okay. I can do this. Surely he’ll be so embarrassed to be caught listening to “Sweet Caroline” that nothing I say will be a big deal.

  Before I lose my nerve, I knock on the door. I hear footsteps, and I steady myself. The door opens, and he’s standing there in dark blue jeans and a tight gray T-shirt. He looks…good. And he is smiling. Before he can ask me what I’m doing here, I blurt it out.

  “I know it was you.”

  Chapter 17

  You’re a little later than I thought,” Coates says, looking at his watch. “I had guessed two days ago.” He shrugs. “But better late than never.”

  He expected me? Here we go again with him pretending he knows everything about me.

  “All the same. I’m glad you’re here.” He smiles, his cold blue eyes almost kind. “Please, come in,” he says, stepping back and gesturing me inside.

  I step through the doorway and look around. Straight ahead is an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. The view toward upper Manhattan is breathtaking. The living room is decorated with an annoyingly tasteful mix of modern and classic furniture. He has several large photographs hanging on the walls, and the kitchen is open and looks professional grade. He gestures toward the sleek brown leather couch, and I sit uncertainly, placing Judy Garland down next to me. I can’t deny that he has a nice place. And, it’s spotless. Surely he must have just cleaned it up…but he didn’t know I was coming over. He’s not telepathic. Oh well, I bet he has a maid.

  “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water?” he asks, leaning against a granite counter and crossing his arms over his chest.

  “I’m fine,” I say, shaking my head. I balance on the front edge of the couch.

  “Hungry?”

  “Nope,” I say, looking around. I tap my fingers on the couch leather. This is awkward. I usually think through what I’m going to say before I face an awkward situation, but I just came over so quickly, I hadn’t really played out in my head how it would go.

  He walks to the stereo and turns the music off without a hint of embarrassment, then takes a seat on the modern armchair chair across from me. He looks at me. “So…,” he says, raising his eyebrows.

  “Why?” I ask. “Why did you do it?”

  “Whatever do you mean?” He smiles at me.

  I know he knows what I’m talking about, so why does he insist on teasing me? This man. Is he nice? Is he evil? How can those two qualities intermingle so closely?

  “Look, Coates. The Four Seasons. All of that. Obviously you have money to spare, but we’re not exactly the closest of friends, so I don’t get it.”

  “Hmm,” he says and gets up. He paces back and forth for a moment with a bemused look on his face. “I’ve known all along you’d someday come to me and ask this question.” I stifle a groan. As if he knew that. “And even still, I’m not sure how to answer it. For the moment I would prefer to let you decide for yourself.” He sits down next to me and breaks into a big, enticing grin. He’s having the time of his life with this.

  I have no idea how to respond to that. I change my tactic.

  “Why did you make it such a big secret?” I ask.

  “Aren’t you supposed to keep your right hand from knowing what your left hand is doing?”

  I shake my head. I could try to fight him, to insist that he tell me what he’s up to, but I suspect that’s exactly what he wants. I will not play along.

  “So you’re a Bible scholar now?”

  “I know the Bible.”

  I look at his chiseled face next to me. “Indeed. You seem to know a lot of things. It’s sort of what you do for a living, I realize now.”

  “Aha. I see you’ve been researching what an actuary does. I must say, it was quite a breakthrough when I finally found a career that perfectly tapped into my gift for—”

  “Insulting others?”

  He stands up and walks to the wall of windows, grinning. “From your mouth to God’s ears, Jane.”

  “You hope to be insulting?”

  He puts his hands in his pockets and looks out at the city. I watch him. “I think I might choose a different word than insulting, but yes, basically.”

  “You’d choose annoying? Dismissive?”

  “I’m not sure. What’s the term for waking people up to how things really are?” he asks.

  I cross my arms over my chest. Fine. He did sort of have that effect on me. But did he have to be so unctuous during the process? “Fairy godmother of cruel reality?”

  He turns and smiles at me. “It certainly has a nicer ring to it than ‘actuary,’ I suppose, though we’re mostly men.”

  “Of course you are,” I say and roll my eyes. “So how did you know that I like cookie dough and face masks?”

  He laughs. “Every woman likes cookie dough and face masks. It’s a stereotype, but the thing about a stereotype is that it’s often statistically true.”

  “Glad I’m so predictable.”

  “Only on some things. Like I said, I would have thought you’d have come by at least two days ago. And I didn’t expect you to have a pink elephant in your arms.”

  I watch him. He turns his head to look at me, then looks back at the window and takes a deep breath. “We didn’t start off on the right foot, Jane.”

  “That’s like saying Hitler wasn’t such a decent chap,” I say.

  “You intrigue me.”

  “Why?” I shrug. I think back to our first encounter at Hamilton’s party. “You had me all figured out by the end of our first conversation, didn’t you?”

  “Do you honestly believe five questions would be enough to tell me everything I want to know about you?” He walks to the kitchen and takes down two glasses, filling them with water from the refrigerator.

  “You told me I was lying to myself.” I accept the glass he offers me and take a long, thirsty drink. I place the empty glass down on his dark wood coffee table. I bite my lip. I look at him. He’s watching me intently. “And you were right.”

  He nods. “I’m glad you can admit that now.”

  I sigh. Why is it that just when I let my guard down with him and actually begin to like him, he says something insufferable?

  “Now do you want to talk to me about the pink elephant in the room?”

  I can’t help but smile and start to think about how to explain about the elephant. But then I decide that it’s really none of his business. “I don’t know why I came here,” I say quietly, looking down at my hands. “I should go.”

  “No, please stay,” he says. For a moment, I almost think I can see a blush spreading across his face. “I mean, if you want to.”

  “I do want to,” I say, standing, emboldened by my honesty. “But I have to go.” He nods and rises, and I begin to walk toward the door. But I stop when my hand is on the knob. I turn back to him and look him in the eyes. “Oh. And thanks. I’m not sure if that’s what I came here to say, but thanks. The hotel was what I needed.”

  “Don’t forget your stuffed animal.” He points to the couch where Judy Garland sits, incongruously bright in this masculine apartment. I pause, then pull the door open.

  “Why don’t you keep it?” I say, and walk out the door.

  “Now, see, aren’t you glad you came?” Lee asks, pulling me through the front door of Echo, the latest Manhattan hot spot. I would never come to a place like this but Lee insisted, begged, and finally demanded I come with him as payment for
his keeping Charlie while I stayed at the hotel. Lee, understandably, has been having a tough time of it, and he wanted to go out and have fun for a night and forget about everything his mom is going through, so I didn’t mention his statue was the reason I was homeless in the first place. And he always likes to be where the beautiful people are and would never be seen in anything less than the club of the moment. It didn’t hurt that a friend of his who bartends there put us on the guest list. I’ll admit it felt good to be pulled from the line snaking around the block and ushered behind the velvet rope, but as I look around at the hot, crowded room, I want to be anywhere but here. I remind myself that Lee needs this.

  I follow him past the smooth-as-glass indoor pond, past the crowded bar area, and through the throng to a lounge area in the back where we manage to snag a table. I rest, leaning back on the low-slung padded bench, while Lee preens and looks around the room.

  “Is that Lindsay Lohan?” I whisper, pointing at a waiflike figure shuffling across the room in big dark sunglasses.

  “Shh, Jane,” Lee says, pushing my arm down and rolling his eyes. “Please be discreet,” he says. “No pointing.”

  “Fine,” I say, signaling for the waiter. He comes over and smiles.

  “I’ll just have a glass of red wine, please,” I say.

  “Vodka tonic,” Lee says, smiling at the waiter, who avoids his eye. He turns to go.

  I shake my head and scan the room. The place is dark, loud, and hot, the dance floor is jam packed with writhing bodies, and the corners of the lounge area are shadowy and private. The VIP room is guarded by a bouncer and a velvet rope. I wonder what you have to do to get in there? I stare at the doorway, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever stars may be inside.

  “It is so good to get away for a while. Auntie Di made these disgusting casseroles, and they’re taking up my entire freezer, and not only that, I’m being forced to eat them for every meal. Tell me, Jane, do marshmallows belong in a casserole? I don’t think so, and—”

  “Jen!”

  I look at Lee, who is staring in wide-eyed awe at the person who is apparently coming up behind me. I turn around. Matt Sherwin.

  “Matt,” I say as sincerely as I can and hop up. “Imagine meeting you here.” I offer him my hand to avoid a kiss on the cheek and look around to see if there are cameras anywhere. That would be all I need.

  “How are you doing?” he asks, taking a seat next to me on the bench. Lee is glaring at me, leaning in, practically begging for an introduction.

  “Matt, this is my friend Lee,” I say. Lee thrusts his arm out and beams with delight.

  “Nice to meet you, man,” he says, raising his hand for a high-five. Lee meets his hand, but he appears too starstruck to open his mouth.

  “So how’s Chloe?” I ask, looking around to see if she’s here. “She’s fine,” he says. “She’s at her mother’s. She’s like this amazing person, you know?”

  I nod. I know.

  “Well, good to see you, Jen,” Matt says, rising. “Give me a ring sometime. And Lee,” he says, extending his hand to Lee, “it was great talking to you.” Lee, who has not uttered one word since he sat down, nods enthusiastically.

  “You’re, uh-huh. Yep,” Lee finally manages to say as Matt begins to walk away.

  “What did you just say?” I laugh as soon as Matt is out of earshot.

  “Oh, can it, Jane,” he says. “You’re ruining this beautiful moment. I just high-fived Matt Sherwin.”

  “And you handled it so well.”

  “I did?” he asks hopefully, his eyes glazed over.

  “Sure you did,” I say. “You just sit here and bask. I’m going to find the ladies’ room.”

  “Mm hm,” he says.

  I shake my head. I wind my way through the crowd to the back of the room, hoping I’m headed in the right direction. With the dim lighting it’s hard to see anything. I get bumped and pushed and plow on ahead, gritting my teeth and thinking about how much Lee owes me for being here.

  After a few dead ends, I find a hallway at the back of the room and duck down it. The bathroom must be down here. I follow it and stop short when I stumble upon a couple making out in a nook off the hallway. I know that head. It’s Matt Sherwin’s. I thought he said Chloe wasn’t here? I decide to just put my head down and pass them when I catch a glimpse of shining red hair. The shining red hair. I stop and look, startled. Nina. Matt is kissing his personal assistant, Nina.

  I freeze. Matt is cheating on Chloe. With Nina. As I put the pieces together, I turn around. I have to get out of here.

  “Hey!” Matt says, as if delighted to stumble across an old friend he hasn’t seen in years. “Jane. How are you?” So now he gets my name right?

  “Shhh,” I hear Nina whisper as I walk back past them. Nina glares at him, grabbing his arm and pulling him down the hall toward the bathroom. She doesn’t look at me.

  “See you later!” he yells as he’s being pulled away. Nina whispers something angrily at him as they disappear around a corner.

  I rush back to Lee, pushing my way through the crowd.

  “We have to get out of here,” I say.

  “Jane, what’s going on? We just got here,” Lee says. “We haven’t even danced yet.”

  “We have to leave right now,” I say, pulling him to his feet. “I’ll explain later.”

  “Fine,” he says, sighing and looking at me like I’m crazy. “But this had better be important. This is a good song,” he says, moving his shoulders.

  “I promise I’ll make it up to you,” I say, a little calmer now that we’re closer to the door. I take one last look to make sure Nina isn’t around. The coast is clear.

  “Hey, I think that really is Lindsay Lohan,” I say, nodding at her as we pass.

  “Jane, please,” Lee says. “You’re totally embarrassing me.” He pulls my arm down and shakes his head. “You really need to learn how to act around celebrities.”

  Chapter 18

  My head is inside my fireplace as I try to remember how to get the gas turned on. I’ve only used the fireplace once, at the fancy Christmas party I threw a couple of years ago, and even then it took Ty and me an hour to figure it out. This must be the first gas fireplace ever invented. No switch to flip, no easy instant-lighting mechanism. After another five minutes of hunting around in dusty soot, I spy a faucet in the back and give it a turn. The fireplace begins to fill with gas fumes, and I pull my head out. I grab a match and slowly but surely get a nice little fire going after a minor sneezing fit.

  Pulling up a big pillow, I sit in front of the fire with Charlie, whose doggie instincts are telling him to stay far away from the heat. I look out the window and sigh. Thank goodness fall is coming on, otherwise it’d be too hot to do this tonight. And I have to do it tonight, or I’ll lose my nerve.

  Next to me, on the new couch I bought on credit last week, is my day planner. I wonder if it knows what is about to happen to it? Not that it has feelings or even a life force so, um, that was sort of a silly thought. I pick it up and flip through the pages, watching them fan in front of me. I guess it really did seem to me to have a life force. I read some sample entries.

  I find a week where I apparently scheduled and rescheduled a date with Tyson five different times. I shrug. That’s the nature of being a publicist. I’m not going to make myself feel bad about it. You can’t stop the world, and especially your clients, from having crises. I keep thumbing through. I see that I have church scheduled each Sunday morning. Why did I do that? Did I think I would forget? I never oversleep. I run my fingers over my own precise handwriting and remember the answer. I just liked to fill in the gaps for the week, liked the security of seeing it all written in front of me. No need to worry about the future, Jane. You’ve got it all scheduled right here. A small laugh escapes from deep within me. How foolish I was.

  For another hour I flip through my year, reliving all the things I had scheduled with Raquel, Lee, Tyson, the Brownies, work, my family, everything
. And then, I move a little closer to the fire. I take a deep breath. I have to do this. I have to learn to let go. Normal people can use day planners in a healthy way, but mine is a security blanket, a crutch. I slide a little closer and tear out the first page. Charlie wakes up and tilts his head at the noise.

  “I know, Charlie. It’s hard to believe.” I take another deep breath. “But here goes nothing.” I throw the first piece of paper in the fire. Watching it burn, I feel as though I might have a panic attack, but I force myself to keep going. I continue to tear out the pages in big chunks and throw them into the fire, causing it to blaze up and then calm back down each time. “Thy word is a lamp unto my feet and a light unto my path,” I say again and again, until the last curl of paper disappears and the last lick of flame has burned out.

  All I can hear at the Chelsea Piers skating rink is high-pitched, little-girl glee. This is a trial event, a chance for the mothers of Troop 192 of Manhattan, New York, to see me with their children before they make a judgment. This is their chance to skewer me, an opportunity disguised as a friendly mother–daughter skating event. Predictably, the turnout is excellent. Everyone except Raquel, who’s very pregnant and uncertain on her feet, is here, so Haven is my honorary daughter for the day. Of course Margaret Ann Markelson is in attendance with her darling little Bella, who has spent the last hour chasing a little blond boy around the rink threatening to kiss him. Our cute instructor, Sven, seems a little overwhelmed.

  “Twwwweeeeee.” Sven blows the whistle, and we all clutch each other and look at him, trying not to fall down. “Ladies, listen up,” he says, hands on hips. I’m pretty sure he aced his Presidential Fitness Test every year. “Our goal is help you all learn the basics of ice-skating so that no one leaves here today a ‘rail hanger.’” He doesn’t have to define the term for me to know what it means, and judging by the nodding heads, everyone else knows too. “Now who can tell me the names of the two edges of the blade on your ice skates?” he asks.