by Wendy Wax
“Why are you here and what do you want from me?” she asked finally.
“I don’t know exactly. Except that it seems that my marriage is over. With the kids gone we’re, well, there’s nothing really holding me there.” He looked into her eyes in a way she’d only dreamed about, and said words she’d never expected to hear. “And I’ve always wanted to know what my life would have been like if I’d spent it married to you.”
Twenty-three
Emma sat propped up, her back against her bed pillows. Zoe lay beside her, a onetime regular occurrence that had disappeared when Zoe became a teenager and had only now resurfaced. Her long legs were bare beneath the oversized As the World Churns T-shirt Ethan Miller had given her after her recording session, and which she’d slept in every night since. In the morning sunlight with her long red-gold hair splayed across her slim shoulders, she looked so much like her aunt Regan it almost took Emma’s breath away. Except that Regan had never smiled anywhere near as sunnily as Zoe was now. Nor did Emma have one single memory of herself, Nash, or Regan, ever the favorite, in any bed anywhere near this close to their mother. Unable to let go of this train of thought, she closed her eyes for a moment trying hard to remember if she’d ever witnessed a single informal or spontaneous gesture between Rex and Eve and barely came up with a handful.
“Is Ryan coming to my birthday?” Zoe asked. Emma noticed she made no mention of Ryan’s father and suspected they could all probably sit this one out as long as Ryan Richards was there. But both Richards men had accepted and Jake had insisted on bringing his specially marinated baby back ribs to cook on the grill. “I know it’s a cliché,” he’d said. “But I cooked every meal on the grill the first year after my divorce. So if Zoe’s not up for ribs, we can have pretty much anything she can come up with. I even have a recipe for barbecue birthday cake, though it doesn’t look all that impressive.”
“You know Jake offered to grill you a birthday cake,” Emma said, smiling over the memory.
“Uh, pass.”
“Can’t say that I blame you.” The ancient memories seemed so much easier to retrieve, and Emma thought back to the birthday cakes of her childhood. They’d always been served at restaurants and not necessarily on her actual birthday but rather when Rex, Eve, Regan, and Nash could fit it into their schedules. Affection wasn’t the only thing reserved for the cameras. Birthday celebrations had been public affairs as well, played out with lots of happy emoting, candle blowing, and professionally wrapped gifts that Eve’s latest assistant had purchased.
Gran hadn’t exactly been a cook, either, but the celebrations she threw for Emma after she’d come to live with her had been joyous and sincere. Milestones had been formally celebrated. Her Sweet Sixteen took place in Bemelmans Bar, downstairs from Gran’s apartment at the Carlyle, where she and her school friends had eaten cake surrounded by the large murals of Madeline in Central Park created by Ludwig Bemelmans, creator of the Madeline children’s book series.
Her twenty-first birthday to which she’d invited Serena, Mackenzie, and Adam Russell, had been held in the Café Carlyle, where Woody Allen and his jazz band often performed and Gran’s famous friends stopped by to sing “Happy Birthday” to her and share a slice of cake.
But the majority of Emma’s birthdays were celebrated in private at the lake house—just her and Gran. When Gran was still performing, she’d had time off to observe Emma’s birthday written into her contracts.
“Okay,” Emma said. “Scratch the grilled birthday cake.” She pretended to ponder. “I could bake you a cake with my own two hands.”
“Oh, no, I . . .” Zoe sat up straighter. “I don’t think you’re strong enough for that yet. Please don’t feel like you have to go to all that trouble.”
Emma bit back a smile. She’d attempted a homemade birthday cake exactly twice. Both had been hugely unattractive and largely inedible. “It’s all right. I wouldn’t eat one of my cakes, either. Besides, I’ve had enough of hospitals. And I wouldn’t want to put anybody else in one.”
Zoe laughed.
“I’m thinking we should ask Martha to bake one to your specifications,” Emma said.
“Good plan.”
“So what kind of cake would you like?” she asked Zoe now.
“How about chocolate?”
“That goes without saying.”
“And chocolate raspberry filling and topped with chocolate fudge icing.”
Emma smiled. “When I was pregnant with you I managed to cut out coffee, but I craved chocolate so much I considered it the fifth food group. I feel terribly guilty about that sweet tooth you got from me.”
“I might forgive you. But only if we get to eat my cake for breakfast like you and Mackenzie and Serena used to when you lived in New York.”
“Done. There’s nothing more decadent than chocolate cake for breakfast, but I think sixteen is old enough that I won’t feel like a completely crappy mother for giving you that much chocolate first thing in the morning.” Emma ruffled Zoe’s hair and when Zoe reached up to stop her, she got a good couple of tickles in on her belly.
Mackenzie followed the sound of Zoe’s laughter into Emma’s bedroom. She walked in without knocking but stopped in the doorway at her first sight of Emma and Zoe tickling and laughing with huge identical grins on their faces. She felt a physical stab of envy at this demonstration of the mother-daughter bond she would never experience.
Emma looked up, a smile lighting her face even as Mackenzie’s smile faltered. It was the most animated she’d seen Emma since she’d been released from the hospital. Mackenzie hated that her first thought was to crush that smile rather than applaud it.
Zoe looked up and spotted her. “Guess what, Mac? We’re going to have birthday cake for breakfast. And it’s going to be totally chocolate.”
“That’s great.” Mackenzie forced a smile to her lips. Then she stepped forward.
She knew the minute Emma recognized the expression on her face for what it was, because Emma got out of bed, walked over to grab Mackenzie’s hand, and pulled her toward the bed. “Here,” she said. “Slide over, Zoe. We’re giving Mackenzie a Michaels sandwich whether she wants one or not.”
They pushed tight to either side of her, laughing eerily similar laughs. Mackenzie felt their warm skin press against hers, felt them intentionally include her in their warmth. She breathed deeply, their scents so similar and yet so different, then willed herself to let go, to let herself join in their laughter, not to hold her hurts and disappointments against them. It wasn’t Emma’s fault she’d miscarried while Emma had carried Zoe full term. And it sure as hell wasn’t Emma’s fault that she and Adam hadn’t been able to have a child.
“Frankly,” she said when she’d regained her equilibrium, “I think we should call this a reverse ham sandwich, since the actresses are on the outside and my poor little white bread self is smooshed in the middle.”
This got the laugh she was hoping for. By the time Nadia had come in to see what was going on, Mackenzie had joined in.
“So,” she said to Zoe. “How would you like an ‘original’ creation for your birthday? We’ve got almost ten days to design and sew it.”
“You can do that?”
“We can,” Mackenzie said. “Because I’m not going to be doing this alone. It’ll be a lot more fun if we do this together.”
Zoe appeared stunned. “Seriously?”
“You’re really in luck now,” Emma said. “Mackenzie’s one of the most talented designers I’ve ever known.”
“I think that might be a slight exaggeration,” Mackenzie protested, but she felt a warm glow at the praise and the certainty with which it was delivered. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d thought of herself in terms of talent.
“Gosh, I don’t even know what to ask for.” But Zoe was already looking at her phone screen, typing in fashion sites.
“You can take a day or two to think about it,” Mackenzie said. “Then we can go into town and pick up some fashion magazines to look over if you want to.”
“That would be cool!”
Mackenzie was puzzled by Zoe’s excitement. The girl had grown up in Hollywood. She and Emma probably could and did buy designer clothing all the time. Yet Zoe threw her arms around Mackenzie and hugged her with all of her might. “This is going to be so awesome. Can we go pick up those magazines this afternoon?”
Mackenzie nodded, smiled, and once again pushed away the envy. This at least was something she could give Zoe that Emma could not.
The rain started late that afternoon and didn’t let up. After dinner when the table was cleared, Serena watched Zoe and Mackenzie begin to pore over a collection of glossy magazines that included Vogue, Elle, In Style, and Seventeen. They’d found and set up a small corkboard on an easel they’d unearthed, and Mackenzie had started pinning pictures of things Zoe had torn out of the magazines.
“I don’t know which of these I like better,” Zoe said, pointing to photos of everything from capris to gauzy midlength skirts.
“Remember, we don’t have to choose anything in its entirety. We can take elements you really like and then design an article of clothing, or an outfit, that will make those elements work together.”
Emma was sitting on the window seat staring out through the sheet of rain as it fell from the dark sky. A novel lay open in her lap. Serena sat at the kitchen counter watching Nadia build a smoothie for Emma’s dessert.
Zoe had decided she wanted something that she could wear for the birthday cookout. Something casual but special and attention getting. She didn’t come out and say that its sole purpose was to make sure Ryan Richards couldn’t take his eyes off her, but then she didn’t have to. Mackenzie had appeared surprised that Zoe didn’t want something more elaborate to wear to some dressy awards ceremony or party, but Serena understood completely. Because at this particular moment she would have traded her entire wardrobe and any wardrobe she might own in the future, for one thing that would ensnare and entrance Brooks Anderson. Brooks. The man she’d just barely managed to resist after their dinner at Erlowest. And whom she’d spent the whole next day thinking about, a day in which she’d seriously considered tying herself to the hammock, the dock, and even briefly, to Nadia, in order to prevent herself from returning to the historic inn in order to try out the double Jacuzzi and the tester bed. Brooks. Whom she’d ultimately agreed to see in Manhattan.
“So, can someone drop me at the car rental agency tomorrow morning?” she asked casually. “I need to go into the city.”
She waited for the third degree or at least a few pointed questions, but Mackenzie and Zoe were immersed in clipping pages and sticking things up on the board, then arranging and rearranging them. Emma continued to stare out the window. Serena had prepared answers to a wide array of potential questions including why, after she’d said she didn’t feel like going into the city and would probably record from here, she was now going into the city. But no one asked that question. No one asked anything.
“I thought I’d go in tomorrow so I can take care of some things in the afternoon,” she explained as if someone had questioned her. “I have shopping to do and a, um, a doctor’s appointment,” she expounded, although she’d already canceled her standing appointments with Dr. Grant. “I’ll spend the night and record the following morning and, you know, then I’ll head back.”
She could tell that she was blathering and yet no one called her on it.
“I take you.” Nadia looked up from the smoothie she was blending for Emma, whom the nurse insisted still needed “blowing up.” “Have date for day off.”
This got everyone’s immediate attention.
Nadia took the lid off the blender and began to pour a truly horrendous orange concoction into a large glass. “Why you surprise? Kochenkov women are known for beat men off with stick.”
No one spoke. But no one looked away, either.
“I take you. But I not comink back until next morning.”
No one commented on Nadia’s announcement or her obvious intention to spend the night with . . . someone. Serena didn’t say anything, either. But then she was far less certain about anything than Nadia Kochenkov seemed to be. Including her reasons for agreeing to see Brooks Anderson again.
Twenty-four
Serena sat on a favorite shaded bench in Washington Square not far from its famous arch. The day was hot and muggy, the sky a dull gray that promised rain. Idly she watched camera-toting tourists stop to take photographs of the arch and the nearby fountain from every conceivable angle. As far as she knew this place didn’t have a bad one.
The drive in had passed in a blur of scenery but Serena’s thoughts had been thoroughly occupied with how best to handle the time she’d agreed to spend today with Brooks. She’d always thought of herself as an orderly person, far more so than most actresses she knew, but today her brain had pretty much abdicated, leaving her emotions and, yes, the fantasies she’d held so tightly in check all these years, free to run amok.
She’d debated whether to meet him near his hotel in Midtown? Get tickets to a show? Make reservations somewhere impressive for dinner? More than once she’d wondered whether she should be meeting him at all. He’d said he was in her hands, but she’d been determined not to turn into putty in his. Whatever she did or planned, falling into bed was not the goal. Which of course led to the question, what was?
In the end she’d decided to meet him on her turf, where she could show as much or as little of herself as she chose. After coming across so woefully vulnerable at dinner the other night, she intended to demonstrate her strengths not her weaknesses. What better way than to give him a tour of the life she’d created without him?
She studied him as he approached. Taking in the polished Ferragamos, the sharply creased gray dress pants, and the obviously custom-made white lawn shirt, she was reminded of just how easily he’d always carried off designer clothing. If he’d worn a jacket or a tie earlier, he’d shed them. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal lightly muscled forearms. The vee of his open collar revealed a tempting patch of taut, tanned skin that she had used to love to bury her face in. He took a seat next to her on the bench. Dropping both arms to the seat back, one of them skimming her shoulders, he crossed one knee over the other. “Nice spot.”
“It’s always been one of my favorites.”
She used to picture them strolling down the shaded walkways, hands entwined. Or over on a blanket having an impromptu picnic or lingering over a kiss. “The NYU campus is all around us. Washington Square is almost like a commons of sorts.” She watched him take in their surroundings. “Of course, the campus has grown a lot since I studied here. A lot of people aren’t happy about that.”
“What about you?” he asked, turning his eyes on her. “Are you happy?”
“I’m an alum. So I guess I’m mostly okay with . . .”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“I do.” She studied his face and wondered if he’d been hoping for a “yes” or a “no,” before reminding herself that she didn’t care.
“Okay,” he said when he realized she wasn’t planning to answer.
For a few minutes they watched kids play in the fountain and the people strolling by them in silence. A few looked her way as if they thought they recognized her, but she was careful not to look back and was relieved that none of them approached her.
“If you’re up for walking, I thought I’d show you around,” Serena finally said, ready now to give him a tour of her world, her life, starting with when she’d arrived until now. To show him what he’d missed.
He stood when she did and motioned with his palm. “Lead the way.”
They strolled through the park and then she showed him some of the NYU buildings that surrounded
it. They crossed MacDougal Street, passed through Father Demo Square, with its tiered wrought-iron fountain dedicated to the former pastor of Our Lady of Pompeii, which sat nearby, its Italianate bell tower thrusting into the gray cloud-filled sky. The breeze was warm and smelled of rain.
“I am completely turned around,” Brooks admitted as they left the square and began to walk down a busy shop-filled street.
“That’s not uncommon here. The further west we head the more chaotic the street layout becomes. This is Bleecker. We can take it all the way to my town house, but we won’t exactly be walking in a straight line.”
Shops and restaurants lined both sides of Bleecker and she pointed out those that had been here for as long as she could remember and others that were new. Above them rose apartment buildings and condos. Just past a glass-fronted doorway, Serena stopped in front of a window whose neon sign proclaimed it John’s Pizzeria. Another sign announced that this was the original location and that it had been here since 1929. Large white letters on an awning screamed NO SLICES.
Brooks smiled. “I’m trying to imagine a restaurant on Broad or King Street in Charleston announcing what a customer can’t have.”
“Unlikely in the extreme.” Serena laughed. “But the ‘whole pizza only’ thing isn’t uncommon at old coal oven pizzerias like John’s. There’s some story about it having to do with Al Capone’s one-time control of pizza cheese.”
“Interesting,” Brooks replied.
“Actually, this building is the first official stop on the Serena Stockton memory tour.”
“Because?” Brooks prompted.
“Because this is where I lived when I first moved up here.” It was, of course, where they would have lived together had he come up as planned. Serena pointed upward. “That’s my former living room window. Fifth floor, far left.” She waited for his eyes to find it. The window was small and still dirt caked, though it was likely newer dirt. “The even tinier window off the fire escape was my bedroom.” Where she’d dreamed about and cried over the man standing next to her. She hesitated as the anger she’d nursed over the years wavered once again. Serena took a slight step away from him. “Emma, well, we knew her as Amelia back then, she lived in that apartment.” Serena pointed to another window farther to their right. “I met her right here on the sidewalk the day I moved in.” She smiled at the memory. “Mackenzie lived a few blocks down Jones Street.” She motioned across Bleecker to the next intersection. “In this really cute daylight basement apartment. Adam, her husband, waited tables here to help pay for school.”