“I want to do the right thing. And the first thing, Paul, is that I really have been thinking about you, too. You’re awfully attractive. And I don’t just mean you’re good-looking. Which, of course, you are.”
They both laughed a little, because she was embarrassing him.
“And maybe you’d be a little less attractive if Warren and I weren’t having our problems right now. I’ll make a confession to you—I’ve been wondering if cheating on a boyfriend is as bad as cheating on a husband. I guess it is, but still, somehow—”
“I know what you mean. It is just as bad, but somehow—”
“Right. Like, if you haven’t made a legal commitment, it’s as though you’ve both been willing to leave certain options open.”
“Yep.”
“And lately, I’ve been tempted—”
“With me?”
“I’m not saying. But this choice you’ve given me…seems sort of unfair.”
“It’s fair. I’ll respect your relationship with Warren if you want me to, and I’ll leave you to work it out with him—at least for the next two months. But if you tell me to stay—well, all’s fair, as they say, in love and war.”
“This isn’t love, Paul. This is probably lust. Or at the least, a passing phase, a pleasant distraction. Maybe just a fling.”
“Whatever you say.” He was smiling.
“You’ve got that canary look again.”
Now he laughed. “I’m usually not a man who takes wild chances. But I’m taking a wild chance now. And I’m willing to see how it works out.”
Gena was looking long and hard into her own heart. And when she’d made her decision, she felt as though she was cutting off a part of it.
“You should go, Paul. You should go to Australia, and I should see what Warren and I can work out between us. It’s not what I want.” She smiled mischievously. “It would be fun to watch two men fight over me.” Then she was serious again. “But it’s the right thing to do. And either way, whatever happens, no harm done. No serious harm, that is.”
Paul’s hand was still on hers. “And in the meantime, we’re still friends?”
“You bet.”
Friends? Oh, if you only knew. You are so attractive, Paul, sitting there, only a table’s reach between us, with that nice face of yours and those nice hands. And your intelligence. And you read my pieces!
“We could write to each other, if you like. Or not, if you prefer.”
“I guess we could.”
“And Gena, they don’t have me in chains there. Anytime, if you give me the word, I can be back in New York in a day.” He squeezed her hand gently, let it go, and signaled for the check. “And now,” he said, “it’s after nine. Why don’t you and I take the dogs over to the park? And then I’ll walk you home. And maybe you’ll let me kiss you goodnight.”
And they did walk over to the off-leash park, and they sat for a while and talked—like old friends—about what his work in Melbourne would be, and then he walked her home.
And yes, of course she let him kiss her goodnight, in the shadows of some shrubbery that faced the front of her building, away from Alfie and everyone else’s eyes, and the kiss she’d expected to be a friendly goodbye was instead a slow and deliberate kiss of such hunger that she knew he needed it to last for at least two months. And before he left, she needed to hold him long enough to memorize his face—and the feel of his body against hers.
* * * *
Warren was watching a movie. “Where’ve you been?”
“I had to pick up the dog. And then I walked him for a while. In the off-leash park. It’s good for him to get the exercise.”
Not one word of that was a lie. But she now knew that yes, cheating on a boyfriend was every bit as bad as cheating on a husband—or anyone else. She hated how she felt.
Chapter Twenty-nine
“Oh, Ms. Shaw,” Labibbah said. “Mr. Brackman was in real early this morning. He’s going to be out of the country for a couple of months, and Sweetie Pie will be here with us till he gets back. And he said that his Sweetie Pie and your Wiley get along so well together, he said if anytime you come by to walk Wiley, like at lunchtime or something, you have his permission to take Sweetie Pie along, too, if you like.”
“Well, that was very thoughtful of Mr. Brackman.” She handed Wiley over to Labibbah, who set him down onto the floor. “I’ll be in a little early this evening to pick him up.” She watched him run off to find Sweetie Pie. “Maybe I will take them both for a walk around the block.”
As she went out onto the street, she was laughing to herself. “That sly dog,” she thought, and she didn’t mean the four-footed kind. “He’s left her for me, like a memento, so I won’t forget him.” On her way to the subway entrance, she added, “Not that that’s likely.”
Her agenda for the day included a follow-up call to Grover Simms at Westminster, then an editorial meeting at ten o’clock, and after that, out of the office to do field research at the city’s most posh pet accessories shops. That would take the whole afternoon—up to four o’clock, when she’d pick up Wiley. Only a short walk today; she had an after-work agenda, too.
* * * *
It all started with Warren, over breakfast.
“Why am I the one who always has to fry the eggs in this house?”
“What?” She looked up from the Times’s food section.
“The eggs. Why do I have to be the one who always fries them?”
“I don’t know, Warren. I guess because you’ve always done them.” She turned a page to follow up on a column about a fancy new Lebanese restaurant in Midtown.
“I know I always have. That’s the trouble. That’s something you should be doing. You don’t do any of the cooking around here.”
“Warren, no one does any of the cooking around here. Except for breakfast, we mostly order in or eat out. I’m a rotten cook, you do eggs well. This is how we’ve managed the meals for years. What’s the problem now?”
“It’s not just now. I’ve been waiting for a long time for you to be more of the housewife around here. It would be nice, you know. To come home at night and have dinner on the table.”
He was serious, she could see that. And if she’d not been carrying a load of guilt about Paul, if she hadn’t woken that morning thinking of how it would be to wake up next to Paul, if she hadn’t been taking her morning shower and brushing her teeth and getting dressed with the feeling that she was walking on very shaky ground, that a big sign hung around her neck that said, “I’ve done a bad thing, and I may be about to do an even worse thing,” if it weren’t for all of that, she might have handled this latest complaint of Warren’s differently. But what she actually did was to hand him another stick to beat her with.
“I’m sorry. I really am. I hadn’t realized you cared that I never learned to cook. I just never did, and you seemed to be okay with it.” She closed the newspaper and put it aside. “But I can try. I really can. Tell you what: I’ll leave work a little early tonight, and I’ll shop and I’ll have a home-cooked dinner waiting for us when you get home. I really will. If I keep it simple, I should be able to manage it. Like maybe lamb chops and baked potatoes and a salad. Would that be okay?”
“Ah, now, that’s more like it, baby.” Warren sat down at the table and used a piece of toast to break the yolk of his egg. “Maybe, with a little practice, you could even be frying the eggs in the morning and have breakfast ready for us. I’d really love that.”
She had an image of herself in an apron, being a little wifey.
This is not going to be easy. But I owe it to Warren to try.
And I owe it to myself, too—however the future works out—if I’m ever going to be able to live with myself in peace.
* * * *
She did the shopping, picked up Wiley and Sweetie Pie, did a quick walk around the block with them, and was ho
me by five. With help from Google recipes and the Good Housekeeping Cookbook her mother gave her when she graduated from college, she really did have dinner ready when Warren got home. And it was ready without the conventional cliché of the frazzled young housewife’s inept and comically frantic disasters. For, after all, how difficult could it be? The oven, pristine until this day, broiled the chops just as it was created to do. It baked the potatoes as though it had been baking potatoes for years. And she kept the salad simple—just some torn-up Romaine lettuce, two sliced-up tomatoes, cucumbers, and scallions, and a bottle of store-bought dressing on the table. She opened a bottle of nice Italian red, and thought about lighting a couple of candles but decided that was going too far. When Warren walked in, it was looking picture-perfect.
“Wow. You really did it. This looks great. I wouldn’t mind coming home to this every night.” He had his arms around her, hugged her tightly, and said, “I’ll go wash up, then let’s eat!”
Dinner was fine, and then he went into the living room and turned on the TV and she took care of the cleaning up. Later, in bed, he told her he loved her, he really did. But the truth was, the love-making between them did not make the earth move. It never had, and she had often wondered what that must feel like. No, tonight’s love-making, like every other night’s, was for Warren’s pleasure. Just as tonight’s dinner was for Warren’s pleasure. Warren had gotten what he wanted, and he was pleased with himself.
Am I only an accessory to his life?
An hour later, in the window niche, with Wiley next to her and a carton of Trio Triple Chocolate ice cream in her lap and the city lights spread out like a carpet of diamonds below her, she peered into her future and tried to think what to do about Warren—and tried very hard not to think about what to do about Paul.
“This is not good, Wiley. I did it the way Warren wanted. All I needed to do was be the way he wanted me to be. And he was really quite nice to me tonight.” She pulled Wiley close and whispered into his ear. “He said he loved me. What do you think of that?” Wiley’s ear twitched reflexively, but he was silent on the subject. “I should be feeling really nice, shouldn’t I?” She looked out into the night for a long time. Slowly, she spooned her way down a quarter of the carton. Then she said, very quietly, “I’m really not feeling very nice at all. The truth is, I’m feeling awful.”
“Oh, Wiley.” She spoke very quietly into the silent night. “Would it be different with Paul?” She stroked his silky ears and he put his face up against hers, as though they were whispering together. “I shouldn’t even think about that. I owe it to Warren to try. I owe it to all the years we’ve been together and whatever it is we’ve created. I owe it to him to really try.”
Then, though she knew she shouldn’t, she texted Paul.
You slipped out of town like a thief in the night. I know it’s a 21-hour flight, so you’re in the air right now. Have a safe journey.
She wanted to add, “Love.” But she didn’t.
An answer came back.
Sun coming up over the ocean. Very beautiful. It’s after midnight in New York.
Go to bed.
And she did.
Chapter Thirty
She was trying hard to concentrate, but it was hard to think about super-expensive and over-the-top accessories for dogs when her personal life was poking her on her arm like a nagging finger, trying to get her attention.
“I know, I know,” she wanted to say. “Getting myself sorted out is a lot more important than telling the world about all this stuff.” She waved her hand over the materials she’d gathered yesterday afternoon. “Does the world really need to know where they can get a real mink coat for a dog? Or custom-designed, handmade Italian leather boots?” She picked up one of the pictures, then dropped it back down onto the pile. “Here’s a dog bed for thirty-four thousand dollars. Does that make any sense? Or this water bowl, gold-encrusted porcelain, for nine hundred and eighty-nine. And an actual diamond dog collar for—gulp—$2.3 million? And here’s a whole fashion line of track suits and bathrobes and bikini outfits. Gross!”
On the other hand, there were some hand-tailored coats that actually made some sense. She’d already learned that standard pet store coats didn’t fit Wiley. His chest was too deep, his back too short and skinny, and his legs much too long. Rain boots that would fit over his long paws would not fasten tightly around his stick-thin ankles. She’d also learned that there is an international cottage industry producing summer and winter wear especially for Chinese Cresteds. Who knew? She planned to do further research to see if there were similar resources for other breeds. And who makes dog beds for Great Danes?
She stared at the pile of photos and notes. She stared at her computer screen. She told herself to focus. She told herself to get to work. But nothing seemed to get her brain in motion.
She simply had to stop thinking that Paul must be in Australia by now, and that it must be afternoon there—well, she couldn’t actually figure out what day and time it was in Melbourne, what with crossing the international date line and the big time difference. She knew that it was winter there, but she didn’t know what winter in Melbourne would be like. Should he be bundling up in scarves and gloves and a winter coat? Or was Melbourne’s winter milder than New York’s?
She really wanted to stop thinking about Paul. The whole point of her sending him away was so that she could concentrate on Warren. And even with that thought, a gray cloud of sober reality settled over her like a damp blanket. She deflected it by remembering that she was supposed to be writing an article on ways to outfit a super-rich dog. She wished something—anything—would give her an excuse to leave her desk, take a walk, forget about dogs. Forget about Paul. And Warren. Just check out for a while. Wouldn’t it be nice to just sit in the sun and have a glass of wine?
She took a resolutely deep breath and got to work.
That lasted for about two minutes. Her phone pinged with a text message. The caller ID said Sonny Gaile, of all people!
Got a minute?
She texted right back.
For u—anytime. Wassup?
And he answered
I’ll call.
The phone rang immediately.
“Great to hear from you, Sonny. You still in town?”
“We’re still here, and Tim and I were thinking, what are the chances you can get away for lunch?”
She beamed at her phone.
“Oh, you can’t imagine how much I’d like to do that.”
“You know a nice place where no one will know us? We’re sort of in disguise—hats pulled low and big sunglasses—where we can be left alone and just talk.”
“Where are you?”
“I think we’re in your neighborhood. Near the World Trade Center. Just walking around, people-watching. Tim bought a scarf from a street vendor and I had a hot dog for breakfast. Mrs. Wilkins would kill me.”
“There’s a little diner near Rector Street. Nada’s Place. It gets busy around one, but I could meet you there for an early lunch—say at eleven thirty?”
“Good. We’ll walk around until then.”
She gave them the directions and then sat back, smiling. This was just the break she needed this morning. The prospect of a friendly lunch with Sonny and Tim broke the logjam in her head, and suddenly it became easier to write about rich dogs. The first draft was practically all written by the time she needed to leave for the diner on Rector Street.
They were already there when she arrived, tucked away in a corner booth, looking safely unrecognizable.
“You guys having fun?” She was about to say “on your honeymoon,” but remembered that the wedding was a secret. “I was so surprised to see you the other night.”
“Surprised? We were flabbergasted. Had no idea you knew Paul Brackman.”
“And I didn’t know you knew him, either. How did that happen?”
>
Sonny and Tim looked at each other, as though each giving the other permission to talk to her.
“He’s been doing our legal work for years,” Sonny said. “He did our prenup.”
She shook her head and smiled. “So he already knew about the wedding.”
“Yep.”
“And I was so careful to say nothing about it to him.”
“And I bet he was careful to say nothing about it to you.”
“Neither one of us knew the other one knew.”
“So you’re both good at keeping secrets.” This was Tim speaking. “I was sure that was true. That’s what I told Sonny, didn’t I, honey?”
“Yes, you did. That’s one reason we picked Lady Fair to handle the story. In our business, Gena, everyone needs to be ‘on’ all the time, performing even when they’re not on stage. So it’s hard to find people who are ‘real’ people. But we decided you’re a real person. And Paul is, too. In fact,” Sonny paused and then said, “you tell her, Tim. You’re the one who said it.”
“That night, when we saw you together, I said that you and Paul made a good pair. I thought you were a match. We were getting into the taxi, and that’s what I said to Sonny. ‘Those two ought to get together.’ And Sonny said he thought maybe you were together. And I said no, I remembered that you talked about a boyfriend, and his name was not Paul and he wasn’t a lawyer, and I think you and the boyfriend are actually living together. And Sonny said, ‘Do you think that’s working out?’ And Gena, it’s none of our business, but I had a feeling maybe that match with your boyfriend is not made in heaven, and I’m such a busybody, I just had to butt my nose in where no one has asked for it, and see what’s what.” Gena was staring at him with very wide eyes. “Have I gone too far?” Tim asked. “You just tell me to buzz off and I will. And we’ll have a nice lunch and forget I said anything. But Sonny here thought it would be all right. Because he said he had the same feeling. At the wedding. He said you didn’t look happy that day, like something was bothering you. Sonny’s real sensitive that way, and I always take whatever he says seriously. Omigod! Gena, honey. You’re going to cry! I’m so sorry.”
Who Do You Love? Page 17