Who Do You Love?

by J. M. Bronston

  It was true that Gena was on the verge. She grabbed a napkin and dabbed at her eyes and managed to stop the tears that had suddenly welled up.

  “You guys are too much,” she said. “I thought I was doing a good job of keeping things to myself.”

  Tim reached a hand across the table and laid it on her arm. Sonny’s hand came and rested on hers.

  “Would it help to tell us?” Sonny and Tom seemed to speak in sync.

  She took a long time to answer their question. Yes, of course it would help. But to talk about it would be to expose herself in ways she never had before, to talk about things she’d never shared with anyone. There they were, Sonny and Tim, two of the most sincere and sympathetic men she’d ever known, waiting for her to decide to trust them. She felt as though she was about to step off a cliff. But maybe, because she held a secret of theirs, it was safe to share one of her own.

  “Yes, it would help,” she said quietly. Then, with a deep sigh, she went ahead and stepped off the cliff. “Warren’s my boyfriend. We’ve been together for a few years, and lately, well, you’re both right. Things haven’t been so good between us. I seem to be not so much what he wants anymore. And becoming what he wants may be impossible.”

  “Why should you become what he wants? You’re practically perfect as you are.”

  “Oh, you guys. I could give you a list. The thing is, I guess I could learn to cook, to be a traditional wife and support him in his work and try to keep him happy no matter how stressful his days become, and help him up the corporate ladder. But there’s one thing he really wants more than anything else, and that I can’t give him. He wants a woman he can show off to his buddies. To the people he works with. To his boss. He wants to be able to walk into some fancy place and have a gorgeous woman on his arm that everyone will notice.” She sighed again and held herself straight, as though to put herself up for their inspection. “And look at me. No way I can be that woman.”

  Sonny was staring at her as though she’d been speaking Chinese. Tim was resting his chin in his hand and gently shaking his head as though what she was saying was not to be believed.

  “What, you guys? What are you thinking?”

  “Oh, Gena.” This was Tim. “You’re breaking my heart. Is this man, Warren, really a man? He sounds like an infant.”

  But Sonny said, “No. I understand. He matters to you. You care for him. And you want to make it better.”

  “Thank you, Sonny. That’s about it. That’s what I’m trying to do.”

  “And you think you aren’t beautiful enough to please him.”

  She laughed. “Oh, Sonny. I’m not beautiful at all. I’m around truly beautiful women every day, and they’re a whole different species. People have been teasing me about my looks for as long as I can remember. In kindergarten, they called me ‘Skinny Marink.’”

  “I remember that song,” Tim said. He thought about it for a moment, dredging it up from the long-ago time when he was five. “I remember, ‘I love you in the morning, and in the afternoon, I love you in the evening—’ But Gena, that was a little kids’ song, all about telling someone you love them.”

  “I know, but that was the problem. I couldn’t get mad, because the song said, ‘I love you,’ but when they called me that name, it pointed a finger at how I looked. And I was ashamed.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re still ashamed.”

  “It’s not just being rail-thin. I wouldn’t care, maybe, but all through high school kids had names for me. And it was always the same—not mean, just kidding, friendly even. Warren does it all the time. Like he thinks I’m sharing the joke. How can I be sharing a joke that calls me ‘giraffe girl’ and ‘beanpole’ and ‘whooping crane’? I laugh and I pretend I don’t care, but I just wind up feeling geeky and, well, not lovely. And that’s about it.”

  “And you’re in love with this man?” Sonny squeezed her hand.

  And Tim said, “He should be horsewhipped.” And then, more thoughtfully, he said, “I suppose you’ve talked to him about it.”

  “I’ve tried, but he doesn’t get it. He says he’s just kidding around, and, you know, like, ‘What’s the matter? Can’t you take a joke?’ Like I’m not supposed to mind.”

  Sonny looked at Tim. “What do you think? Should we go find this guy and beat him up?”

  Tim laughed and asked Gena, “How big is this boyfriend of yours? Do you think he could hurt us?”

  Gena laughed, too. “He’s big.” She glanced quickly around to be sure no one could overhear her. “And I can just see the headlines: ‘Sonny Gaile and Tim Fine spend their honeymoon in jail.’”

  The two men laughed. “Okay,” Tim said. “We’ll behave.”

  “But Gena,” Sonny said, “your boyfriend’s a big bully. If you’re determined to stay with him, you at least have to stand up to him.”

  And Tim added, “You know we’re right.”

  She looked at them fondly. “You guys. A couple of weeks ago we hadn’t even met, and now I’m pouring my heart out to you.”

  “Which reminds me, Gena. We were surprised to see you with Paul. Have you known him long?”

  “Only a few days, actually. It was the dogs that brought us together. The two dogs you saw outside the Graydon. The hairless one is mine and the other one, the white one with all the beautiful hair, that’s Paul’s. Long story.”

  “Tim noticed them. He said they looked like an interesting pair—one all fluffy and white and the other beige and all skin. They seemed to get along well, didn’t they, Tim? And I hope you notice, Gena. Neither one of them seems to notice if the other is pretty enough.”

  “Right,” Tim added. “You think they know something we human beings don’t?”

  The buzz around them was getting louder and the tables at Nada’s were beginning to fill up. The lunchtime crowd was arriving and Gena looked at her watch.

  “Well, this has been great, you guys, but it’s time for me to get back.” She stood up and Sonny and Tim did, too. “Stay,” she said. “Have lunch. The moussaka here is to die for. And I’m so glad you called. You don’t know how good this has been for me.”

  There were hugs all around.

  “Remember. You have to stand up to bullies.”

  She put on a brave face. “I’ll sure try to.”

  “And remember, too: Beauty is one of God’s mysteries. People who respect that are the best people.”

  “I’ll try.”

  On the way back to her office, she had a little conversation with herself. “Is Warren actually a bully? That seems a little harsh. A tease, maybe. But he doesn’t mean to really hurt me.” There was a pause in her internal conversation as she dared to ask herself the question: “Does he? Does Warren actually mean to hurt me?” The question hung in the air, unanswerable.

  She settled into her chair and brought up the last screen she’d been working on.

  “But that was cute of those two, threatening to beat him up. It felt nice, having them rush to my defense like that.”

  Later that afternoon, she tried to call Warren about dinner plans, but he wasn’t answering the phone. She texted him, too, but got nothing back.

  Probably in a meeting, she thought.

  With no word from him by the time she headed to Dog Prep to pick up Wiley, she decided it would have to be an order-in night. Linguine Bolognese and a big salad with olives, capers, and garlic bread. Enough for two, but Warren didn’t show up until after ten o’clock, and then he said he’d eaten already.

  “You could have called.”

  “Yeah, well, no. I really couldn’t. It was pretty intense all day, and we went straight through. Had dinner in the conference room. Pizzas. And coffee all day long—I probably won’t be able to sleep tonight. And I’d better sleep. I have to be back in the office for a seven-thirty meeting.” He was in the bedroom, peeling off his clothes, hang
ing up his pants and jacket. “I need to settle down. I’m going to take a bath.”

  “I thought we could talk.”

  “Talk? What about?” He sat on the bed, taking off his socks.

  “Well,” she hesitated. “About us. About you and me.”

  He stopped, looked up at her. “Now? You want to have a talk now? I’m dead tired, I have to be up early. I’ve got important stuff on my mind and I’ve got to keep my head clear. Do you think maybe you could have picked a better time?” He stood up and got out of his boxers.

  He really does have such a nice body.

  “Jesus, Gena! The last thing I need. A little soul-baring heart-to-heart when I’m handling the biggest deal they’ve ever given me, and you decide this is a good time to talk about ‘us.’” He went into the bathroom to start the water running in the tub, and as he closed the door behind him, she heard him add, “Gimme a break!”

  Gena sat down on the bed. She imagined Sonny and Tim sitting there with her. Big as life, they seemed. And they were watching her expectantly.

  “Maybe,” she said to them, “I’ll have to find a better time to talk.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Bright and early next morning, Ira Garlen popped his head around the door.

  “Gena, you busy?”

  “Never too busy for you, Ira. What’s happening?”

  He came into her office and perched on the corner of her desk. As usual, he was dressed in his customary Hawaiian flip-flops, jeans, and chambray shirt, open at the collar, unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and sleeves rolled up.

  “Romy deVere called me. She’s in town, would like to get together with Marge and me. She has some ideas she wants to propose to Lady Fair. Also.” He paused and preened a little. “She kind of hinted that maybe I’d like to photograph her. In addition to what we did for your article. Studio shots. And I said, ‘Are you kidding?’ Can you imagine, Gena? Romy deVere has been photographed by every major photographer of her time—but they got her only when she was young. A chance to show her beauty now, to show the additional depth and experience of all those years. Wow! You bet I said sure. I can’t wait. So I spoke to Marge and we’re meeting her today at the Auburn Restaurant to set it up.”

  “Well, good for you, Ira. What a treat.”

  “You bet. And there’s something else, Gena. You must have made quite an impression on her. Romy specifically asked if you could join us. She seems to have taken a fancy to you.”

  “That’s so flattering. I don’t know what to say, except, of course, I’ll be delighted to join you. Couldn’t be a better day for it. It’s my birthday today.”

  “Perfect. We can celebrate. I’ll let Marge know. Her office is handling the reservation. She’s uptown right now, doing an interview at ABC, but she’ll meet us at the Auburn at one o’clock. I’ll pick you up and we can go together.”

  * * * *

  They were led through the front room, through the noisy lunchtime clatter of clinking glasses and the animated conversation of New York professionals getting a midday break in their over-pressurized lives, to a separate dining room, a haven of gleaming table linen and equally gleaming flatware, where quiet conversation and, perhaps, more serious deal-making were encouraged. Gena and Ira were the first to arrive. Somehow, Ira had managed to acquire a jacket and tie, and his feet were in loafers. No socks.

  They’d barely had a chance to agree that tap water would be fine, and ice water was being poured into their glasses when Marge made an entrance, chic as always, this time in lavender Dior, and taking over the conversation before she’d even sat down.

  “What a treat this is. To meet the fabulous Romy deVere. Do you know, my grandfather kept a picture of her in his wallet. He said he’d met her once and she was his fantasy secret mistress ever since. I can’t wait to tell her that.”

  Ira was laughing. “I bet she’ll tell you she’s heard the same story many times.”

  “It wouldn’t surprise me,” Marge said. “And now, I need to run to the ladies’ room. Gena, come with me.”

  Once she had Gena safely behind the closed door, Marge explained why she had to take Gena away from the table. “Just wanted to be sure you know that Ira hasn’t yet been let in on the information about Romy’s past. We want to be sure it doesn’t come out until the story is published.”

  “That’s what I figured. I haven’t said anything to him.”

  “Good girl. Romy mentioned it to me when she called, but I hadn’t had a chance to tell you. We’ll have to keep the conversation away from your article. If it heads that way, I’ll rely on you to help deflect it.”

  “Okay. I’ll do my best.”

  “Good. Now go entertain Ira while I powder my nose.”

  Back at the table, Ira was studying the menu. As Gena sat down, he said, “What did Marge want to tell you that I can’t hear?”

  Gena gave him a sly smile. “Girl talk, Ira.”

  “Okay, okay. Probably something I’d rather not know.”

  Gena just smiled and picked up her menu.

  Marge was back at the table by the time Romy arrived. She was dressed casually, in a rose-hued cowl sweater and dark, perfectly tailored trousers. Her white hair was loose, but it still fell in the thick, seductive, shoulder-length waves that had been her trademark, and the maître d’ recognized her immediately. He brought her to the table with an attitude that could only be described as worshipful.

  “Ms. deVere. It is such a pleasure to see you here. Is there anything I can bring you?”

  She asked for a dry sherry. His eyes adored her. Clearly, she was accustomed to being adored. She smiled at him. He visibly melted and she held her smile until he was gone. Then she turned that same smile to those at the table. It was wonderful to watch, and Gena enjoyed the whole performance.

  * * * *

  Mostly, Gena sat quietly while Romy and Ira discussed her wishes and his preferences for the photographs she had in mind.

  “It is many years,” she said, “since I’ve had the pleasure of being viewed by a man with a good eye and a mastery of his craft. I’ve seen your work, Ira, and I would not have selected you to photograph me now, at this time of my life, if I had not seen the depth of your artistry. I believe you will be honest without being unkind.” Ira told her he was flattered and honored, and they went on to talk and plan the project while Gena listened and Marge delighted in the great good fortune of bringing these two people together.

  And then Ira said, “Gena, Marge tells me the story you did on Romy is coming out in the next issue. It must be really special, to rush it into print so quickly. Tell me more about it.”

  “Oh, no, Gena!” Romy said. “No, you mustn’t. It is bad luck to talk about it before publication.” She looked sharply at Ira. “Don’t you know that?”

  “Not at all,” Ira said. “We’d never get our stories out if we didn’t discuss them thoroughly beforehand.”

  “But not this story.” Romy was imperious. “I am a believer in kismet,” she winked at Gena, “and we will not discuss it further.” She turned abruptly away from Ira and said to Gena, “When I saw you last, you said your boyfriend was not happy with the dog you found. Have you been able to bring him around?”

  Gena could have thought of a hundred topics she’d rather have turned the conversation to. “I’m afraid not. Wiley has to be kept in a separate room when Warren’s at home. And at night”—embarrassment colored her cheeks—“well, at night we have to lock him in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, but that is terrible. That beautiful dog.” Romy was outraged. “I will say it though I should not: your boyfriend is a monster.”

  “Oh, no, Romy. He’s not a monster.” She wished Romy had chosen a different path to divert Ira’s attention.

  “Then why do you look so sad when you speak of him? I saw it when you were in Connecticut. I saw it then, I see
it now.”

  “Romy, please. Not here. I can’t talk about it here. Not now.”

  Sonny said Warren is a bully. Now Romy calls him a monster. This is too much.

  She felt her eyes filling. She mustn’t cry, not here, not at lunch with her editor in chief. What would Marge think of her, and Romy and Ira?

  I hate this.

  She turned her head away as the first tear fell.

  “Oh, my dear,” Romy said, placing a hand on Gena’s. “We women let men make such a mess of our lives.” She gave Ira a brief but disapproving glance.

  “Don’t look at me,” Ira said. “I didn’t make her cry.”

  ”Oh, Ira! Do shut up!” This from Marge. And to Gena she said, “I had no idea. How can we help? We’ve all had just enough wine to be in a very sympathetic mood. Go ahead, Gena. Take advantage of us. Between us, we have tons of IQ points and years of experience and wisdom. Let us help.”

  That did it. Gena grabbed the napkin, planted her face in it, and let herself have a full minute of really honest misery. Then she pulled herself together, dried her tears, looked up at the others, and saw only simple affection on their faces.

  “I’m so embarrassed,” she said. “You just caught me completely off guard.”

  “Gena,” Marge said gently, “tell us what’s the matter.” She looked around the table. “I think we’re all good at secrets here.” She paused, looking at Ira. “Well, I don’t know about you, Ira, but if it goes beyond this table, we’ll know who to blame.”

  “My lips are sealed. But Gena, if you need a shoulder to cry on, who better than a big strong guy like me?”

  And Romy said, “If a man is making you unhappy, then there is nothing to do but fix it. Let us help you fix it.”

  “That’s just it. I am trying to fix it. I just don’t know if it can be fixed.”

  They were all looking at her expectantly.

  “Oh, it’s dumb. Warren and I have been together for years. Since high school. He’s a financial analyst at Blass Investments, he’s become very ambitious and it looks like he has a really successful future ahead of him.”