Who Do You Love?

by J. M. Bronston

  “Where have you been?” she asked.

  “I went to a movie.”

  He went into the kitchen and took a beer out of the fridge.

  She stood in the doorway while he drank the beer.

  “We shouldn’t fight, Warren.”

  He passed her to go into the living room. “And you shouldn’t make me mad.”

  “You said some very mean things to me.”

  “Yeah, well maybe it’s just the truth, and you don’t want to hear it. I mean, look at you right now. Your hair is a mess, your eyes are all puffed up and red. And look what you’re wearing.” His glance slid disapprovingly over her jeans and shirt. “A guy likes to be able to show off his girl, you know?”

  Funny, of all things, her mind went to that night she’d seen Paul and Cherie Blitz going into the restaurant.

  It’s true. A man must feel really good when he’s seen with a really good-looking woman on his arm. Makes him look successful.

  But still—

  “Not everyone can be stunningly beautiful, Warren. And if you think about it, no one ever says a man has to be handsome. Let alone movie-star handsome. You’re not bad looking, Warren, but it doesn’t matter to me if you’re not as gorgeous as a movie star.”

  “It’s different for men. You know that. Everyone knows that.” He headed into the bedroom. “Maybe you could take some lessons from the people you work with. I kinda thought that would happen when you went to work there.” He was peeling off his clothes. “Anyway, I’m going to bed now. You think about it.”

  Gena knew she’d just been dismissed.

  By the time she showered and was ready to turn out the light, Warren was asleep—or, at least, he seemed to be asleep, though when she got into the bed, she thought he shifted a bit so that their bodies did not touch.

  Am I so awful he can’t even be near me?

  I don’t think so.

  I bet Paul doesn’t turn away when he’s in bed with a woman.

  I wonder what Paul Brackman is like in bed.

  She smiled into the dark room.

  He does have such nice hands.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  She hadn’t slept well, and she woke up with the feeling that maybe she had done something bad. Or was about to do something bad. Warren was already up, and she could hear him moving around in the kitchen. As she brushed her teeth and wound her hair up into a twisty bun, she asked her mirror self, “Is a little fantasy flirtation really so wicked?”

  As she dressed, she kept up a running conversation with herself.

  “Is it such a terrible thing just to imagine?”

  She took a dress from the closet—a pretty thing, white, with a flowing line and a summery feel. It felt silky all over.

  “And Warren made me feel so bad yesterday.”

  A black, brocaded bolero vest she hadn’t worn for years was tucked away at the back of the closet, and she slipped it on over the dress.

  “Why does he do that?”

  Warren was in the kitchen, reading the Wall Street Journal and finishing his breakfast. For a moment, from the doorway, she watched him. He was apparently not aware she was there.

  Finally, she asked him, “Warren, why do you do that?”

  He looked up from the paper, got his attention focused on her, and said, “Do what?”

  “Why do you make me feel so bad?”

  He didn’t even put down his coffee cup. “Oh, come on, honey. Let’s not start off the morning with a sour face. I just said some things you didn’t want to hear. For your own good. For both of us. Don’t be mad.” He finished his coffee and returned his attention to the paper. “I like that dress you’re wearing. You should get more like that.”

  He did that so easily. Dismissed her.

  * * * *

  There’s no anonymity like the anonymity a crowded subway car provides, and there’s no privacy, either, that’s comparable to the privacy afforded by a mob of strangers pressed up close, maintaining their own zone of personal, individual space. Fortunately, the fifteen-minute subway ride to work gave her a chance to start all over again.

  “Why is it,” she asked herself, “that Warren makes me feel bad?”

  No answer arrived.

  “And Paul makes me feel good?”

  The train clattered on. People got on. People got off.

  “What kind of girl has a boyfriend for years, ever since high school, lives with him in a great apartment he pays for, pretty much commits her life to him—and then has sexy fantasies about a man she hardly knows?”

  She listened for an answer from her conscience, but no answer came back.

  Her next question was a little bolder.

  “Is a little fantasy flirtation really so bad?”

  And still there was no answer.

  She was at the halfway mark to work—Forty-Second Street, where the crowd thinned out and she found a seat.

  “Is it such a terrible thing to just imagine—?”

  And still her conscience remained silent.

  “It’s just fantasy. A daydream. Is that so bad?”

  Apparently, her conscience had decided to be absent.

  But in its place, a different voice was speaking to her.

  Mind if I sit down?

  It was Paul’s voice, a voice in her fantasy, of course. And in her fantasy, her daydream, Paul took the vacant seat next to her. He was dressed less formally than usual. His collar was open and he wore no tie. His hair was a little windblown, but nice. Thick and dark and wavy, falling a bit over his forehead.

  Continuing her fantasy, she smiled at him, letting him know she had no objection.

  You look pretty today, he said.

  This daydream had made a nice start.

  Oh, this old thing.

  They both laughed at the unsophisticated cliché.

  I’ve been reading your Lady Fair articles. You write well, Gena.

  I didn’t know you had any interest in my work.

  It’s you I have an interest in. I followed you when you left Wiley off at Dog Prep this morning. I wanted to be sure you got to work safely.

  Would you like to come up to my office? See where I work?

  That was part of my plan.

  Her fantasy made him want to get her up to his apartment, but she decided to hold him off.

  I have a full agenda today. Maybe you’d like to come along, keep me company while I work.

  Only if you let me buy you lunch.

  I’d like that. And then later—in her daydream, she let her expression be suggestive—later tonight, after work maybe—

  For the rest of the day, as she worked on the Romy deVere story, her fantasy Paul stayed with her. He was looking over her shoulder as she typed out:

  The Character Is the Challenge, Not the Cheekbones

  Good title, he said.

  “Yes, it is,” she said aloud. She sat quietly for a moment, thinking, her fingers poised over the keyboard. And then she began to write.

  “What happens to them, those former Hollywood stars, who once blazed brilliantly in our film firmament? ‘Is he still alive?’ we ask when a name comes up. Or, ‘Didn’t she die in a fire? Or maybe it was a car crash?’ And when we learn that no, he—or she—is still very much alive, we may feel a disappointment, for it seems unreasonable, as though against some law of nature. Stars should die in a blaze of glorious flame. It is too sad to think that out of the public’s view they merely age, grow wrinkled and gray, become feeble and lose their brilliance.”

  Gena stopped, lifted her fingertips from the keyboard, thought for a moment, and then, almost without further pause except to refer to her written and transcribed notes, wrote like a demon, taking only occasional sips from the coffee cup Selma had silently placed on her desk.

  She didn
’t look at her watch until it was past time for lunch. She contemplated what she had done so far, and was pleased. Thousands of words, and good ones. This was going to be a good story.

  Yes, it will be. I told you, you do good work.

  Her fantasy self gave him a nod, a wink, and a smile. She had imagined him with her the whole time, and in her imagination he had walked around the room, helping her think things through; he’d looked over her shoulder, he’d asked questions that she needed to answer. His collaboration had kept her moving steadily along. She put her head back and her imaginary Paul put a light, imaginary kiss on her lips. With one hand—one of those nice hands—he undid the twisty bun of dark hair and let it fall to her shoulders. And they both smiled. Co-conspirators. He was a product of her own mind, she knew that perfectly well. But gee, it sure was fun.

  Instead of going out for lunch, she ordered in a roast beef sandwich, a banana, a toasted and buttered corn muffin, and a chocolate shake. While the deli man took her order, she put her hand to her hair. The twisty bun was still in place, which seemed sad.

  For the next hour, there was a flurry of phone activity, and her fantasy man took a fantasy walk while she handled messages, questions, and requests, while at the same time eating her lunch. When things quieted down, she put aside the Romy story to let it “cook” for a while and turned to the New York dogs idea. She brought up her notes from that Sunday planning session almost two weeks ago and gave the list a quick glance.

  2. Pitch something to Marge about a New York dogs story.

  Rich dogs/poor dogs? Lifestyles

  Westminster Kennel Club—dog show. (When?)

  Dog fashion, accessories, costs (range? fancy—plain)

  Costs, generally.

  Laws?

  Homeless?

  Compare—city dogs, suburban, country?

  Do city dogs suffer, confined to apartments? (Really?)

  She looked over the list thoughtfully. Each item could be a full, stand-alone story. Then, with a big smile, she added another item.

  Owner(s) at work—day care for dogs?

  “Thank goodness for East Side Dog Prep and Day Care,” she said to the empty room. “And thank you, Paul, for making it possible. I’ll have to find a way to thank you.”

  I look forward to that. He was laughing. Did you think I’d gone away?

  She laughed, too. She was enjoying this.

  He listened in when she made her first call to Grover Simms, the communications director of the Westminster Kennel Club, and made an appointment to meet with him the next morning. Paul approved when she selected, out of a long roster of attorneys who advertised themselves online as dog law specialists, a likely sounding woman named Elizabeth Woofley who had published a textbook for use in law school classes on animal law. Ms. Woofley’s offices were on Madison Avenue, not far from the Westminster offices, and she said her calendar was clear for an hour tomorrow at one o’clock and she’d be delighted to talk to a writer from Lady Fair. He looked jealous when a call to Dr. Zweig produced a hearty, “Ah, yes, my dear. Yes, of course. Come by on Saturday morning. Early, if possible.” He laughed as she combed through the offerings of insanely expensive accessories for the dogs of the very, very rich and made a list of pet accessory boutiques that deserved a visit. And he was sympathetic when she called the Coalition for the Homeless and arranged to meet with their press person to learn about the life of a homeless dog. Sometimes she saw a homeless person with a dog, always a devoted dog, sitting on a blanket or on a large cardboard box opened out to form a mat, and she wanted to explore the stories at the other end of the social spectrum.

  * * * *

  This was her work for the next two days. She visited rescue locations and spent time with a lovely woman at the Humane Society who sat with her in the reception area and patiently answered all her questions as cats and dogs were brought in and out, some on leashes, some in carriers, some in arms. She examined dog accessories at a dozen pet shops. She gathered information on legislation affecting dogs, and she met with people in the Central Park Conservancy to learn more about the park’s off-leash areas—there are twenty-nine—and she interviewed a homeless man on Third Avenue whose big camel-colored dog lay quietly beside him on a tattered blanket of indeterminate color and pattern. The dog rested his head on his paws. “I don’t always get a meal,” the man told her, “but the dog eats before I do.”

  Through all her field research, her fantasy Paul stayed off in the distance. But she knew she could get him back whenever she needed to.

  In the meantime, Warren was so busy at work she hardly saw him. And when Sunday came, he said he had another golf date with the boss, and would be gone all day. She began to wonder if—was it possible—could he be seeing someone else? She talked to Viv about it.

  “Oh, honey. What’s the difference? Golf or another girl, he’s not with you.” They were relaxing with a late-afternoon glass of wine at Tavern on the Green. “But I’ve said all I have to say on the subject of Warren Haglund. You know I love you no matter what you do about him.”

  * * * *

  It wouldn’t have been possible to avoid the real-life Paul forever, and indeed, there he was, not at all a fantasy, sitting on a bench at the dog park while Sweetie Pie visited sedately with the other dogs. He smiled at her across the park, and she walked over to join him. She removed Wiley’s leash and watched him race several laps around the space before he settled down with the other dogs.

  She felt transparent, as though by some magic he’d be able to see what she’d been thinking of him. It didn’t help that he was dressed almost as she’d imagined him in her daydreams: shirt open at the collar, no tie, no jacket, his shirt sleeves rolled up. His hair looked nice but not so neat. She restrained the impulse to run her hand over his hair, to tidy it a bit.

  “You look pretty today,” he said.

  “Oh, this old thing,” she said, and they both laughed.

  “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said.

  Now she really felt transparent. But he was not a fantasy and this was not a daydream.

  “Tomorrow night,” he said. “There’s a concert tomorrow night, here in the park. Dogs allowed. Would you like—”

  She stopped him with a gesture.

  “Thanks, but I can’t. I’m going to be out of town tomorrow. On an assignment. And won’t be back till really late. So sorry. It would have been fun.”

  “Maybe another time,” he said. It was impossible to tell if he intended anything by the suggestion, and they chatted lightly after that. Gena felt so silly having laid all her romantic feelings on Paul Brackman, while Paul Brackman was really only a dog care surrogate, taking care of his sister’s Sweetie Pie while she was away, and there was nothing between them except the care of their dogs.

  Which was odd, because while they’d sat together, hadn’t she absolutely felt something totally primal and magnetic, like a current of electricity, running between them?

  She tried to be sensible and grown-up, she really did, but he was such a nice man, and he made her feel good.

  And she was wearing that pretty white dress, with the black brocaded bolero. And he’d said she looked pretty.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  On the plane to Knoxville, the camera people were feeling more jovial than usual. By that time they’d all been informed about Sonny’s wedding. They’d signed all the nondisclosure papers, and there was an air of adventure and conspiracy about the whole trip. Nell Magano was sitting with her hair-and-makeup crew, and a couple of rows away from the others, Gena was sitting by herself with an empty seat next to her. Her mood had been fairly somber for the last few days, and she was just as glad to be separated from the rest so she wouldn’t be forced to join in the festive spirit.

  And it really was a festive spirit. They were going to a wedding, after all, a wedding that was going to make news. Everyone s
eemed so bubbly, you’d think they’d already started on the champagne. But Ira Garlen, whose gift and genius it was to see what lay behind the masks people put between themselves and the rest of the world, had seen the pain Gena was hiding. Ira had worked with Gena for a couple of years, and he’d come to like the young woman and want a good future for her. He’d met the boyfriend once at the magazine’s Christmas party, and he wasn’t sure how that was going to work out.

  An ambitious young man, he’d thought, but doesn’t appreciate the charms of the girl he’s with.

  “Hey, Gena. Mind if I join you?” The plane had reached cruising altitude and people were moving around.

  “Of course not.” She removed the papers and the magazine she’d put next to her to clear the seat for Ira. “Always a pleasure.” She stuffed the papers into the back pocket of the seat in front of her. “The weather forecast is good for this shoot today. I understand they’re planning to have the ceremony outdoors, at sunset, with the glow on the mountains behind them.”

  “They forwarded pictures. I think we’ve got it under control.”

  “You always do. You’re the best, Ira. You really are.”

  Ira said nothing, just acknowledged the compliment with a little nod and a small smile.

  “I met Sonny once,” he said. “Nice young man. Couple of years ago. He was in New York for a business meeting. He was coming in, I was going out. We were introduced, we chatted for a couple of minutes. When I called him to make arrangements about this shoot today, he remembered me. Remembered where we’d met, what we talked about.” Ira paused for a moment, savoring the memory. “Not an ounce of ego about that boy. And nice manners.”

  “I had the same impression,” Gena said. “I liked his partner, too. Tim. I bet they’re going to make a very good marriage.” And then she added, “Of course, you never know…”

  Ira noted the cloud that passed over her face, and he saw the sadness that darkened her eyes.

  “No, you never do know,” he said. “Really good marriages are so rare.”

  They sat silently. Ira took the magazine out of the pocket and leafed through it. Gena gazed at the clouds outside. After a little while, she turned to Ira.