by Jane Heller
“That’s right,” I pressed on, my palms growing clammy. “As a matter of fact, I did a piece on Kevin Costner recently.”
You’re pathetic, Nancy, I derided myself. A hopeless liar, just like Fischer Levin. Stop this right now, before you make a total fool of yourself.
“Well, well. Kevin Costner.” Bill Harris chuckled. “I guess you wouldn’t consider going out with a mere mortal after being in his company.”
“Yes! Yes, I would,” I said quickly, realizing that my stupid name dropping might scare him off. “I’ve been interviewing celebrities for nearly a decade. After a while, they lose their luster, if you know what I mean.” God, forgive me.
“I can understand that,” he said, “although your work sounds pretty glamorous to me.”
“Oh? What do you do, Bill?” I asked, continuing to play along, continuing to scare myself.
“I’m in the jewelry business,” he said. “I was the manager of the Denham and Villier store in D.C. until the company transferred me here last month. I’ll be managing the Fifth Avenue store for the foreseeable future.”
Denham and Villier was a world-renowned chain of jewelry stores, on a par with Tiffany and Cartier, speaking of luster and glamour. Bill Harris had to have his own dealings with the rich and famous. “How interesting,” I said. “I’ve never met anyone in the jewelry business.”
“Terrific. Then I’ll be your first,” he said. “Are you free for dinner Saturday night?”
“Free for dinner Saturday night?” I repeated, stalling for time.
He groaned. “You see? I told you I wasn’t very smooth with this blind date stuff. Leave it to me to cut right to the chase when I should have engaged you in witty repartee so you’d find it impossible not to go out with me. I’m a little overeager, I guess.”
Gee, he seemed nice. So down to earth. So honest, unlike somebody else I knew.
“I really would like to take you out on Saturday night,” he reiterated. “Are you free, Nancy?”
Okay, big girl. Now what? I thought. Are you going to keep this game going or tell him the truth?
“I hope your silence doesn’t mean you’re seeing someone,” Bill remarked. “You’re not, are you? Joan didn’t think you were, but then she hadn’t talked to you in a while.”
“As it happens I’m not seeing anyone,” I said. “Not exclusively, anyway.” Well, I couldn’t let him think I was a complete shut-in.
“Oh, but I’ll bet you’re busy because it’s Thanksgiving weekend and you’re spending it with your family. I forgot all about the holiday, what with getting settled in a new city and a new job.”
“I will be spending the holiday with my family on Thursday and Friday, but I’ll be back in the city by Saturday night,” I had the nerve to reply.
“Then how about having dinner with me?” he said.
A deep breath. “I’d like that,” I said, feeling exhilarated as well as excruciatingly guilty.
“Great. Now, since you’re the Manhattanite and I’m the new kid in town, maybe you could choose the restaurant. Anywhere you say is fine.”
This is insanity, I thought. He’s asking the other Nancy Stern out, not you.
Still, he’s never met her, I reminded myself, has no idea what she looks like. Even if this Joan Geisinger did give him a physical description of her, I could always say that my appearance—I mean, her appearance—had changed. Joan admitted that she hadn’t been in touch with Nancy in ages. It was possible that the last time she’d laid eyes on her old pal was literally years ago—well before the boob job.
What do you have to lose? I asked myself in a feverish attempt to decide whether or not to pretend I was another person. Why not go out with him—as a lark? You can always worm out of the situation when the date’s over, stop taking his calls, explain that you didn’t feel there was chemistry between you, change your phone number. Why not have some fun, do something wild and crazy, just once?
“There’s a cute little restaurant down the block from my building,” I said hesitantly, then told him the name of the place.
“I’ll make a reservation for seven,” he said.
“Seven it is,” I agreed.
“I’ll come by and pick you up,” he said.
“No,” I said, panicking. “I’ll meet you at the restaurant.” Joan would have tipped him off to the other Nancy Stern’s ritzy lifestyle, I suspected, and he would, therefore, expect a fancy apartment, wouldn’t he? Besides, what if we ran into the celebrity journalist herself as we were leaving the building?
“Whatever you say,” he replied. “I’m just glad I’ll get to meet you. Joan told me so much about you I feel as if I already know you.”
“Did she?” I said, my stomach churning.
“She sure did,” he said. “For instance, she mentioned that you’re tall, like I am.”
Pause. “Oh, you know Joanie,” I said offhandedly. “She thinks everyone’s tall. She once told me she thought Robert Redford was tall and he’s not. I know because I interviewed him during that film festival he organizes, Sundown.”
“Sundance, isn’t it?”
“Right.”
“Well, Robert Redford may not be tall, but I am,” said Bill. “Six-four.”
“Six-four,” I said. “My, Joanie wasn’t exaggerating in your case. What’s more, I’m glad you shared the fact that you’re tall. Now I’ll be able to recognize you when I get to the restaurant.”
“And how will I recognize you, Nancy?” he asked. “Other than that fabulous blond hair Joan told me about.”
“Fabulous blond hair.” I laughed as if the words were hysterically funny. “As I said, Joanie’s quite an exaggerator. Not only that, she’s color blind.” Now I was a liar and a slanderer. “You’ll be able to recognize me though. I’ll be the woman in the black dress.”
Gee, that narrows it down, I thought. Every woman in New York wears black. It’s practically a uniform.
“I’m really looking forward to this,” said Bill. “It can be pretty daunting moving to a new city, not knowing many people. Lonely too. Women aren’t keen on having dinner with a strange man. I mean, a stranger who’s a man.” He laughed at his own awkwardness, which I found endearing. “What I’m trying to get across is, thanks for going out on a limb here, Nancy.”
Going out on a limb doesn’t begin to describe it, Bill.
Chapter Five
The instant I hung up with Bill Harris, I called Janice. Her line was busy. I tried a few more times, then fell asleep.
Maybe it’s just as well that I couldn’t reach her, I thought as I drifted off. I want to see her face when I tell her what I’ve done.
But when I got to work on Tuesday morning, I didn’t have the chance to tell her, because Tuesday was the last day of school before Small Blessings broke for the Thanksgiving vacation, which meant that things were more chaotic than usual. Not only did we have to costume and prepare the children for our class’s much-rehearsed Thanksgiving play, we also had to greet and chat with the parents.
The play itself was performed in the gym, adjacent to the classroom. While the kids did their number on the little makeshift stage, the parents sat on folding chairs and Penelope paraded up and down the aisle. (I was surprised she didn’t pass the hat.)
I was really proud of the kids, none of whom flubbed their lines, burst into tears, or abused the scenery. I was especially pleased that Fischer’s parents showed up. They were late—it was the chauffeur’s day off, apparently, so they were forced to take a cab—but they arrived in time to catch their son sing “Oh, Turkey Tom,” thank God.
Mr. Levin—Bob—videotaped the action and bragged to anyone within earshot that he had purchased the camera while he and Mrs. Levin—Gretchen—were in Hong Kong for the transfer of power. When he wasn’t videotaping, knocking over other parents to get the best shot, he was talking loudly on his cell phone, reaming out some poor underling at the office. The only thing he didn’t do of an irritating nature was to light up a cigar.<
br />
He was a nice-looking man, if unremarkable. Forties, good shape, large brown eyes framed by tortoiseshell glasses, curly brown hair just like his son’s. And he was dressed for success, no question about that. His impeccably tailored, three-piece suit was befitting the partner of one of the country’s largest brokerage houses, although I, personally, could have done without the polo players galloping across the tie.
As for Gretchen Levin, she was your basic arm candy—a vacantly beautiful woman at least ten years younger than her husband. She wore her extremely dark hair shoulder-length, parted down the middle, and loosely coiled in the Raphaelite fashion that Madonna favored during one of her incarnations. Like her husband, she, too, was dressed in an impeccably tailored suit, the difference being that she wasn’t trotting off to work after the play; Gretchen Levin’s career was spending her husband’s bonuses.
“Oh look, Bob. Here’s one of Fischer’s teachers,” she said as she saw me approaching. The show was over and Janice was back in the classroom, helping the children out of their costumes. “Bob,” she said again, tugging on his sleeve. “Surely, you can conduct your business later.” He blew her off and kept yammering on the cell phone, something about margin calls.
“Mrs. Levin,” I said warmly, shaking hands with her. “I’m so glad you and Mr. Levin could make it today. Fischer was great, don’t you think?”
“He was adorable,” she agreed. “Wasn’t he, Bob?”
Bob finally pocketed the phone and gave me one of those who-are-you looks.
“I’m Nancy Stern, Mr. Levin,” I told him. “I’m the head teacher in Fischer’s class. Thanks for coming.”
“What’s to thank?” he said. “My boy had a starring role in a play. I’m not gonna miss that, am I?”
You did miss it, I thought. You were too busy with your toys to enjoy your boy.
“Fischer’s very fond of you, Miss Stern,” said Gretchen. “He mentioned it to his nanny, who mentioned it to our cook, who mentioned it to me.”
“I’m thrilled that his compliment made it up the chain of command,” I chuckled. “I’m very fond of him too. Which is why I’ve tried to reach you several times, as a matter of fact. You see, in the few short months that Fischer has been in preschool at Small Blessings, my associate teacher and I have noticed that he tends to have problems relating to the other children.”
Bob practically split a gut. “Problems? My kid? What kind of problems?”
“For one thing,” I said, not having to guess where Fischer got his explosiveness, “he often resorts to hitting when he’s feeling frustrated or upset.”
Bob appeared relieved, proud of his son almost. “So you’re saying he’s not a sissy.”
“No, Mr. Levin. I’m saying he’s the class bully.” I wasn’t usually so blunt with parents, but this guy was asking for it.
He flicked his wrist at me, a thoroughly dismissive gesture. “I was exactly the same way when I was his age and I turned out okay.” Debatable. “Sounds to me like the problem isn’t with Fischer; it’s with you teachers. You’re just not packaging him right.”
“Packaging him?”
“Yeah, for the schools we’re applying to for next year. Dalton. Trinity. Horace Mann. You know.”
“Yes, I’m aware of the schools you’re interested in, Mr. Levin, and how important it is to you that Fischer be accepted at them. But he’s not a piece of merchandise to be packaged. He’s a four-year-old boy.”
I turned to his wife, hoping she would be more receptive. “There’s another problem we’ve had to deal with, Mrs. Levin. Fischer is very bright, very imaginative, but there’s a fine line between a fanciful thought and an out-and-out lie. I wonder if—”
“It’s Mr. and Mrs. Levin!” Penelope interrupted, glaring at me as she rushed over to us. “How lovely to see you both.”
“It’s lovely to be here,” said Gretchen, as if I hadn’t just told her that her son was in trouble. “Bob, you remember Miss Dibble, the director of Small Blessings.”
He snorted. “I should. After that fat check I handed over to her.”
Penelope laughed too, and as she did she positioned herself directly in front of me, so as to literally block me from the Levins’ sight, block me out of the conversation.
“How did you enjoy the play?” she asked them, her tone cheery. “Your son was quite the virtuoso.”
“He sure practiced enough,” said Bob. “I got a hunch I’ll be hearing that damn turkey song the whole vacation.”
“Are you folks going away for Thanksgiving?” Penelope chirped while I stood there steaming.
“Yeah, we’re flying down to Aruba,” he said. “I’ll play my golf and Gretchen will play her tennis, and at night we’ll do the casino so we can pay for it all.”
“What about Fischer?” I inquired as I maneuvered myself from around Penelope’s body. “What will he do in Aruba?”
“He’ll play with the nanny,” Gretchen explained. “We’re taking her with us.”
“Sounds like a dream vacation,” Penelope exclaimed before I could get another word in. “Now, while you two are waiting for Fischer to come out and join you, why don’t I show you the plans for the new library? Pardon me, the Levin Reading Room.”
“We’d love to see them,” said Gretchen. “Wouldn’t we, Bob?”
He checked his watch, one of those huge Rolexes that did everything but microwave dinner. “Sure, sure. If we make it quick,” he said. “I’m losing money every minute I’m out of the office.”
And off they went.
No wonder Fischer’s a mess, I thought sadly, as I watched his parents trail after Penelope. The father was an asshole and the mother was an airhead, although I sensed that Mrs. Levin might be more approachable than Mr. Levin if I could ever get her alone.
I considered writing her a note after the holiday, expressing my concern about her son. Penelope would be furious, but what was she going to do? Fire me?
On the other hand, maybe the note wasn’t such a hot idea, given the scarcity of teaching jobs in the city.
Janice and I put the classroom in order before leaving for the long weekend. Afterwards, I suggested we go out for lunch.
“I’ve got to talk to you,” I said with a sense of urgency. “Confess to you, actually. I’ve been holding it in all morning.”
She eyed me. “What’d you do, steal something?”
“In a way,” I said mysteriously.
We ate at Janice’s favorite restaurant, a health-food place where virtually every dish was accompanied by some form of soy.
“So,” she said as she munched on her veggie-with-soy on whole wheat pita. She was forgoing her usual side order of low-fat cottage cheese, having recently discovered, along with most of the population, that she was lactose intolerant. “What’s the confession?”
I put aside my fruit-plate-with-soy and leaned over the table so I could talk to Janice without being overheard. “I got a phone call last night,” I said, keeping my voice low. “It was from a man who said he was given my name by someone I worked with—Joan Geisinger.”
“Who’s she?”
“Beats me. That’s the trouble.”
“Oh, you mean because you don’t remember her. Hey, we all have memory problems as we get older. Try Ginko biloba. They have a Web site.”
“My memory’s fine,” I said. “I don’t know Joan Geisinger because she’s not someone I worked with. She’s someone the other Nancy Stern worked with at one of those women’s magazines.”
Janice nodded sympathetically. “Another mix-up with the chick upstairs.”
“Exactly.”
“Sorry, but I still don’t see what the intrigue’s about.”
“I’m getting to that. The man on the phone, Bill Harris, is a jeweler who moved here recently from Washington, D.C. He called to ask her out for dinner on Saturday night—and I accepted.”
“You what?”
“I said I’d go out with him, that she’d go out with him.”
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br /> Janice looked stunned at first, but then a smile crept across her face and she started to laugh. “You’re saying you let him think you were the other Nancy Stern?” she confirmed between guffaws.
“I let him think I was like this”—I held up two fingers together—“with Kevin Costner.”
That did it. We both burst out in hysterics, our bodies convulsing with laughter. Everyone in the restaurant turned to stare.
“I can’t believe this,” said Janice, barely able to catch her breath. “It’s so unlike you to pull that kind of stunt. Maybe I’m rubbing off on you, Nance.”
“Or maybe I’m lonelier than I thought,” I said. I was about to signal the waitress and order us a couple of stiff drinks but then reminded myself that the stiffest drink they made was probably a cup of echinacea tea.
“What in the world provoked you to say yes to this guy?” asked Janice.
“He had a nice voice,” I said, shrugging. “We didn’t talk long, but he was very down-to-earth, very sincere. Besides, I’m tired of sitting home on Saturday night.”
“I’m with you there,” she commiserated.
“And there’s another reason. I wanted a peek at the other Nancy Stern’s life,” I admitted. “I figured, why not pose as her, assume her identity, for one measly night? Bill will never be the wiser.”
“Wow,” said Janice, shaking her head. “This is going to be one really blind date.” The remark inspired another fit of giggles which lasted for several minutes.
“You don’t think any less of me?” I asked, after we had settled down.
“Think less of you? I’m proud of you,” she said. “You’re taking a risk for a change, putting some adventure into your life.”
“But I’ll be lying to the man.”
“And men don’t lie to women on a regular basis? Anyhow, this is different. All you’ll be doing is playing an innocent game of pretend, the way the kids in our class do. You won’t be committing the crime of the century, believe me.”
“As soon as the date’s over, I’ll tell him the truth,” I vowed.
“Right,” said Janice. “If he has a sense of humor, he’ll find the whole thing funny. If he doesn’t have a sense of humor, he wasn’t worth going out with in the first place.”