by Dee Davis
I nodded, finding speech too difficult. Besides, there wasn’t anything to say, really.
It was over.
Had been last night.
Anything I’d done was only icing on an already top-heavy cake.
But just at the moment, the thought wasn’t comforting.
“You’ve got to go,” I whispered, not certain where the thought had come from, but absolutely sure it was the right one.
“What do you mean?” Dillon frowned, looking—quite fairly— surprised. “Aren’t we going to spend the day together? I thought after last night...”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “There is no ‘after.’ I will always be grateful to you for what you did last night. Rescuing me from what was an indescribably awful situation. But nothing’s changed between us. We’re not a couple, Dillon.”
“But we talked it all through.”
“Maybe we did. To be honest, I don’t remember a lot of it. But standing here—right now—I know that it’s never going to work between us. We just want different things.”
“You want Ethan,” he said, his jaw tightening as he said the name.
“Trust me, that ship has sailed,” I said, meaning every word. It was breaking my heart, but it was the cold hard truth. “This isn’t about Ethan. It’s about you and me. It just isn’t going to work. And you know I’m right.”
“Maybe I do,” he agreed. Almost too easily. “But I do love you. And you should know that—”
“No more words,” I said, hiking up my sheet. “Just go. Please.”
“Right.” He nodded, grabbing his shirt from a chair and heading for the bedroom.
I stood in the same spot, apparently incapable of moving, my mind yelling that I was making a terrible mistake. That Dillon and I had been through too much to simply throw it all away. But the truth was that it’d been thrown away a long time ago. Before Diana. Before Ethan. We’d simply been too stubborn to face the truth.
It was a surprisingly adult moment.
I don’t have them all that often.
And quite honestly, it wasn’t at all enlightening. Just really depressing.
“So,” Dillon said, coming back into the living room, “this is it?”
I nodded, and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “Thanks again for last night.” I wasn’t completely sure that I meant it. At least the biblical part. But he had come to my rescue when I’d really needed it. And that had to count for something.
“Be happy,” he said.
I didn’t have an answer to that. But then maybe under the circumstances that was for the best. Dillon walked down the hall, looking back once, and then, with a sigh, I closed the door.
Still wrapped in my sheet, I leaned back against the cold metal door, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor, fighting the waves of emotion racking through me. Bentley, sensing my distress, moved into my lap, his head resting on my knee. I let my fingers tangle in the silky softness of his snowy fur.
“So,” I whispered, the tears finally beginning to flow, “it’s just you and me now.”
Self-pity has its limitations, however, and after an hour or so of wallowing, I realized I’d had enough of my own company. And so, after a much-needed shower, I pulled myself together and headed over to Bethany’s. Misery loves company. And her night hadn’t been much better than mine. Although at least she’d managed to avoid going to bed with the wrong man.
Me, apparently, not so much so.
Bethany lived in a fabulous co-op on the Upper West Side. Just a block from Riverside Park in the Seventies. It was an old building with a part-time doorman, an ancient elevator, and subway-tiled foyers. Each apartment had twelve-foot ceilings and separate service entrances. One of the perks of being in real estate was that you got first shot at some of the best properties in Manhattan. And Bethany had definitely capitalized on the fact.
“Hey,” she said, opening the door. “You look worse than I feel.”
“And I feel worse than I look,” I laughed, “but I brought something to ease the pain. Cookies.” I offered the package I’d picked up at Dean & DeLuca on my way over.
“Eleni’s. My favorite.”
Eleni’s cookies are simply the most wonderful cookies in Manhattan. I love them. Sugar cookies with enough icing to cause permanent sugar shock. They don’t call the frosting “white death” for nothing. Perfect for whatever ails you.
And to make them even more special, the cookies come in all kinds of fantastical shapes. Baby carriages, designer dresses, Kate Spade purses, even breast-cancer-awareness ribbons. Today the cookies were shaped like little pink hearts, and believe me, there was going to be something quite cathartic in breaking them into bite-size pieces.
“I figured we could use the sugar rush.” I settled on the sofa, opening the box while Bethany headed into the kitchen, returning with two tall glasses of milk.
“Next to Ben and Jerry’s, of course,” I said, dunking the cookie in my glass, “this has got to be the best ‘feeling sorry for ourselves’ food on the planet.”
“We seem to be making a habit of pity parties of late,” she said, dropping cross-legged onto the floor. “I woke up this morning wishing I was dead.”
“At least you woke up alone.”
“Thank God for Clinton,” she said with a delicate shudder. “Can you imagine waking up to Alexander Kerensky?”
“Believe me, it’s only slightly more revolting than realizing you broke up with your current boyfriend only to wind up in bed with your ex. Not exactly my finest moment.”
“At least Dillon isn’t a letch. And Ethan gave you plenty of reason to move on.”
“I know, but I still feel guilty somehow. You should have seen his face when he saw the two of us standing there half naked. It was almost too cliche to be true.” I reached for another cookie.
“So maybe you should talk to him. Maybe there’s still some hope for the two of you.”
“Not a chance.” I shook my head. “Even if I could get over the whole setup thing, there’s still the fact that he lied about it. I gave him the opportunity to come clean when he admitted being related to Diana. And he didn’t. In fact, he promised me that there weren’t any more secrets.”
“At the risk of making you throw things,” Bethany said, snapping a frosted heart in two, “you made your feelings about setups pretty damn clear. I can’t imagine anyone would have found it particularly easy to come clean in light of that.”
“I’ll admit there’s some truth in what you’re saying.” I shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter. My forgiving Ethan isn’t going to make it all better. There’s still the little matter of my sleeping with Dillon. Which means that even if I could convince myself to forgive Ethan, he’s never going to forgive me.”
“But there were mitigating factors.”
“Doesn’t matter.” I shook my head. “You didn’t see his face. It’s definitely over. But I still think there’s hope for you and Michael.”
“I don’t know how you can say that. He broke up with me. Remember?” She popped a bite in her mouth, closing her eyes in pure ecstasy. “These are so good.”
“I know,” I said, reaching for another. “But we were talking about Michael.”
“Past tense.”
“Maybe not. You didn’t sleep with anyone else. And as far as I know, he wasn’t at the party and so didn’t get to see you swapping spit with Kerensky.”
“God, when you put it like that,” she said, making a hideous face, “it sounds so nasty.”
“Well, as public displays of affection go, it wasn’t your finest hour. Not that I’m in any position to pass judgment.”
“No,” she said. “You’re absolutely right. It was a stupid thing to do. I’d had too much to drink.”
“Join the party. I don’t even remember sleeping with Dillon. Fortunately, I’ve been down that road before so it’s easy enough to fill in the blanks. But still—”
“Face it, we’re both sluts.” We laughed and sim
ultaneously reached for more cookies, which made us laugh even harder. There was something to be said for girlfriends. Especially the kind you could share your worst moments with.
“I still think there’s some hope with Michael,” I said. “I mean, sure he was angry when you turned him down. But maybe there’s a reason he overreacted. Maybe it’s not even something to do with you. You said he was really shy. And I know that Althea said something about him not being overly confident with women. Maybe your rejection was just more than he could handle.”
“But I wasn’t rejecting him.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know that. I know sometimes when I’m hurt I strike first, without thinking, in an effort to protect myself against something that hasn’t actually happened yet. And more often than not, I regret it. Because I never really know for sure how things would have turned out. I’m too busy making sure I don’t get hurt. And if that’s what Michael’s doing, then he could be at home right now, regretting the whole thing.”
“You really think that’s possible?” Bethany leaned forward, an uneaten cookie in her hand. And the flicker of hope in her eyes killed any desire I had for a friend to share my misery. Better one with a happy ending.
“I do,” I insisted, “I really do. I think you just need to go and talk to him. Tell him that you’re scared, but that you don’t want to lose him. And for God’s sake, Bethany, if it’s a deal breaker and you really care about the man, move in with him. I mean, why the hell not? We don’t get that many chances at happiness. You know?”
“You’re right. It’s just so scary to put myself out there like that.”
“It beats the heck out of sitting here with me, eating yourself into a sugar coma.”
“Well, I don’t know that I’d go that far.” She reached over and squeezed my hand. “But I’m going to do it. I’m going to go over there, and tell him that he’s got to give me another chance.”
“Here’s to success,” I said, lifting my milk. “Now go and get dressed. I’ll wait and walk out with you.”
She smiled, looking giddy but determined, and I smiled back. At least one of us had a shot at being happy.
I leaned back against the sofa, and was reaching for another cookie—hey, I was still working on that pity party—when the jarring tinny sound of “Macarena” filled the room. Great, someone calling. Probably the press. Althea’s latest antics had made all the columns, which included speculation as to Ethan’s real motivation. It made for gripping reading.
If you weren’t the one living la vida loca.
I produced the offending phone and flipped it open, noting Metro Media’s number. Not exactly a call I was expecting. Still, at least it wasn’t Page Six.
“Hello?”
“Andi, Monica Sinclair here. I’m sorry to bother you on a weekend.”
“Not a problem,” I said, “but shouldn’t you be calling Cassie?”
“I thought maybe that under the circumstances, it would be better if I called you.”
My heart stuttered to a stop. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s not. I’m sorry, Andi, but Philip isn’t going to do the interview.”
“I see.” I hadn’t thought I could feel any worse than I already did. I was wrong.
“Look, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but maybe it’ll help you understand Philip’s position. The reason he turned you down is because of your aunt.”
“Excuse me?”
“I know it doesn’t really make any sense. He didn’t go into any further detail. Just said it had to do with Althea. You know how he is about keeping his image private. And I’m thinking he’s worried about his name being linked with yours. And by association your aunt’s. Considering today’s columns I’m sure you can understand why.”
And I could. That was the really sucky part.
My aunt and her notoriety had killed my television show. Or if not that then at least perpetually trapped it in the obscurity of daytime cable television.
In short, she’d ruined my life—again.
And, believe me, there weren’t enough cookies in the world to make that pain go away.
Chapter 24
After bolstering Bethany and sending her off to conquer Michael, I marshaled my anger and called Althea. I don’t know what exactly I thought I was going to say. But in the end it didn’t matter because no one answered. And under the circumstances, although tempting, leaving a message was out of the question. So I disconnected and hailed a cab to my grandmother’s.
I wasn’t sure if she was still there, but I really needed someone to talk to. And she knew Althea better than anyone.
The taxi let me out on the corner of East Eighty-fifth and East End and I walked along the park side of the street, letting the familiar sights and sounds surround me.
Manhattan sometimes feels like it’s all about what’s coming next—the newest, the best, the brightest—but in my opinion, some of the most wonderful things come in rather dated packages. Like my grandmother’s building. It’s just got that old Manhattan feel. When I was little there was even an elevator operator. Frederick. I loved him. He’d let me run the controls. It was great fun.
Of course, even then he was an anachronism. But it was a lovely reflection of what must have been a very elegant time.
I’ve seen pictures. My grandfather and grandmother dressed to the nines. Harriet in furs. My grandfather in a white dinner coat with a carnation in the lapel. They were off to the theater or to a dinner club or maybe uptown for a bit of jazz.
Wonderful memories, with Harriet’s classic six all that remains to remind her of the life she and Niko once led. Six perfect rooms in a fading building with a spectacular park view.
Like all of Manhattan, the neighborhood is being revitalized, and sooner or later all traces of my grandmother’s world will no doubt disappear. But for now, I can still imagine the building and its occupants in all their former glory.
I crossed the street and waved at Diego, my grandmother’s doorman, thankful that some things at least never seem to change. He’d been on the door as long as I could remember, to the point where you actually felt compelled to open your own door in case the exertion proved too much for him. Diego lifted his cap as I walked into the building and headed up to my grandmother’s apartment.
“Harriet?” I called as I let myself in, my heels clicking on the herringbone floor. “It’s Andi.” The apartment always smells like Murphy Oil Soap and Fleur de Rocaille, my grandmother’s favorite perfume. It probably sounds like an incongruous pair, but to me, at least, it smells like home.
“She’s not here,” Bernie said, appearing in the doorway to the dining room. “She left for Paris this morning.”
“Just like that,” I sighed. Even though she’d told me she was going, I’d somehow hoped that maybe this time, under the circumstances, she’d have stayed.
“It wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment trip, Andi. People were expecting her.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I needed her, too.” There was nothing to be gained in taking my disappointment out on Bernie, though. “So, what are you doing here?”
“Closing things down. Harriet always leaves everything a mess. So I figured I’d tidy up a bit and make sure everything’s in good shape for her return. Why don’t you come into the kitchen and let me fix you something to eat. Some food will do you good.”
“I actually had a bunch of cookies at Bethany’s. So I’m not all that hungry.”
“Cookies aren’t food,” Bernie sniffed. “Especially those sugar bombs you buy at Dean and DeLuca. Let me make you some eggs. And I think there are still some muffins.”
It was the closest I was going to get to mothering, so I accepted, following her through the dining room and into the kitchen.
My grandmother’s kitchen was probably my favorite part of the apartment. Windowed, with enough room for a butcher-block island, it had been privy to the recounting of many childhood and adolescent tragedies. Skinned knees to broken hearts, the kitchen
had witnessed them all.
I made myself a cup of tea and perched on the ancient yellow step stool that sat in the corner while Bernie gathered ingredients to make an omelet.
“So I gather it wasn’t a very good night,” she said, whisking eggs, salt, and pepper.
“Not my best, no,” I said as an ugly thought occurred to me. “You didn’t know, did you? About Althea’s arrangement with Ethan, I mean.”
“Hadn’t a clue.” Bernie shook her head. “You know Althea doesn’t talk business with me.”
“Business,” I snorted. “That’s a laugh. I’m her niece, not her client, for God’s sake.”
“It was a setup, Andi. That’s what Althea does.”
“Yes. But usually both parties are in on the fact. And I most certainly didn’t agree to anything. Althea knows how I feel about her meddling in my life. I can’t believe she’d do this to me.”
“She did what she thought was best.” The eggs sizzled as Bernie dropped them into the pan.
“Well, then she’s seriously delusional. And thanks to her meddling, she’s ruined my life.”
“Surely that’s overstating things a bit.”
“Maybe,” I shrugged, “but she’s managed to make me a laughingstock. Did you see the papers?”
“I saw the Post,” she said, adding some Gruyere and green onion to the omelet.
“Well, the Daily News was just as bad.”
“So that’s what’s got you upset,” she asked. “The paparazzi?”
“It’s not as if I enjoy public humiliation. But no, of course that’s not the main reason I’m upset. I’m devastated that everything about my relationship with Ethan was a lie.”
“Surely the fact that it was a setup doesn’t make the whole thing a lie.”
“But it does. Especially if Diana was right about Althea offering him something in return for his services, so to speak.”
“Do you know for certain that Diana’s telling the truth?"
"No. But I don’t see any reason why she’d lie.”
“We’re talking about Diana Merreck.”