“I'm not. Besides, I'm still married.”
“For three more months. And then what? You can't stay alone forever.” Meg was firm, and Paris avoided her gaze.
“Yes, I can,” Paris said stubbornly. “If what's waiting for me out there is an older generation of Peace Joneses, I think I'd rather just stay single and forget it. I haven't dated since I was twenty, and I'm not going to start now, at my age. It would depress me profoundly.”
“You can't give up on life at forty-six, Mom. That's crazy.” But so was being single after twenty-four years of marriage. It was all crazy. And if sanity was going out with a grown-up version of Peace Jones, Paris would rather have been burned at the stake in the parking lot of a shopping mall, and said so to her daughter.
“Stop using him as an excuse. He's unusual, and you know it. There are plenty of grown-up respectable men out there who've gotten divorced or lost their wives, and would love to find a new relationship. They're as lonely as you are.”
Paris was heartbroken as much as lonely, that was the real problem. She hadn't gotten over Peter, and didn't expect to in this lifetime. “At least think about it. For the future. And think about moving to California. I'd love it,” Meg said warmly.
“So would I, sweetheart.” Paris was touched by her daughter's concern and enthusiasm. “But I can always fly out more often. I'd love to see more of you.” Meg was planning to come home for Thanksgiving, but they had no plans to see each other sooner, which was going to be hard for Paris. “Maybe I can fly out once a month for a weekend.” She had nothing else to do now, but the truth was that Meg was busy on weekends. She had her own life. And eventually, Paris would need one too, she just wasn't ready to deal with it yet.
They cooked dinner together that night in the small cheerful kitchen. And slept in the same bed. And the next day, Paris wandered up and down Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, window shopping, and then went back to the apartment to wait for Meg. She sat in the last rays of sun on the deck, thinking about what Meg had said, and wondering what to do about her life. She couldn't even imagine what the rest of her life would be like now, and she wasn't even sure she cared. She really didn't want to find another man, or date. If she couldn't have Peter, she would rather be alone, and spend time with her children and friends. Just the health risks of dating someone these days, and sleeping with them, seemed far too terrifying to her. She had said as much to Anne Smythe. It was far simpler to be alone.
Meg had a problem on the set that night, and didn't get home till ten o'clock. Paris made dinner for her, and was grateful to climb into bed with her. There was something so comforting about just lying next to another human being and feeling her warmth. She slept better than she had in months. And they had breakfast on the deck the next day. Meg had to be back on the set by nine, and Paris was taking a noon flight back to New York.
“I'm going to miss you, Mom,” Meg said sadly when she left. She had loved the two nights they had spent together. And Peace had said he thought her mother was great and a real babe, which she duly reported to her mother. Paris had laughed and rolled her eyes. He was harmless, she hoped, but definitely strange. And hopefully a temporary departure for Meg.
“I want you to come back and visit soon, even if you don't go up to see Wim.” They both knew that he wanted to spread his wings at last, and be independent from both of them.
As soon as Meg left for work, Paris felt a wave of sadness engulf her. As loving and welcoming as her daughter was, she was a grown woman, with a demanding job and a busy life. There was no room for Paris in it, except for a few days and brief visits. She had to make her own way now, and adjust to the realities of her life. The reality was that she was alone, and would stay that way. And she cried when she wrote Meg a note of thanks before she left. She was sad all the way to the airport in a cab, and on the flight back to New York. And when she walked into the silent house in Greenwich, the emptiness of it hit her like a bomb. There was no one. No Wim. No Meg. No Peter. There was no way to hide from it anymore. She was totally alone, and she thought her heart would break as she lay in bed that night, thinking of Peter, and how beautiful and familiar he had looked in California. It was hopeless. And as she drifted off to sleep in the bed they had once shared, she felt despair engulf her until she felt as though she were about to drown. It was still hard to believe sometimes that she'd survive. At night, alone in her bed, it seemed as though everyone she had ever loved was gone.
Chapter 8
The sessions with Anne Smythe seemed to get more difficult once Paris got back from California. The therapist was pushing her harder, making her look deep into herself, and bringing up a lot of painful issues. She cried in every session now, and the volunteer work she was doing in Stamford with abused kids was depressing. Her social life was nonexistent. She was relentlessly stubborn about it. She went nowhere and saw no one, except for the occasional lunch with Natalie and Virginia. But she seemed to have less in common with them now. Although their children were the same age as hers, they both had husbands, busy lives, someone to share their days and nights with, and take care of. Paris had no one. All she had were calls to Wim and Meg in California. She stubbornly insisted to Anne that she was staying in Greenwich. As Paris saw it, she belonged there, and didn't want to move west.
“What about a job?” Anne pushed her about it again one morning, and Paris looked hopeless.
“Doing what? Arranging flowers? Giving dinner parties? Driving carpool? I don't know how to do anything.”
“You have a master's degree in business administration,” Anne said sternly. She held Paris's feet to the fire with great regularity, but in some ways Paris loved her for it, although there were times when she hated her for it too. The bond of friendship and respect seemed to grow stronger between the two women week by week.
“I wouldn't know how to run a business if my life depended on it,” Paris replied. “I never did. All I learned in business school was theory. I never practiced any of it. All I've done since then is be a wife and mother.”
“A respectable pursuit. Now it's time to do something else.”
“I don't want to do anything else.” Paris sank down in her chair with her arms crossed and looked like a pouting kid.
“Are you enjoying your life, Paris?” Anne said quietly with a calm expression.
“No, I'm not. I hate every minute of it.” And she felt certain she always would from now on.
“Then your assignment, before we meet again, is to think about what you'd like to do. I don't care what it is. But something you really enjoy doing, even if it's something you've never done before, or haven't done in years. Knitting, needlepoint, ice hockey, a cooking class, photography, hand puppets, painting. Whatever it is. You decide. Forget about a job for now. Let's find some things you like to do.”
“I don't know what I like to do,” Paris said, looking blank. “I've been taking care of everyone else for the last twenty-four years. I never had time for me.”
“That's exactly my point. Now let's take care of you. Fun time. Think of two things or even one that you want to do. No matter how silly it sounds.”
Paris was still looking baffled when she left, and even more so when she tried to put pen to paper. She couldn't think of a single thing she liked to do, except that something Anne had said in her office had struck a chord with Paris, and she couldn't remember what it was. She was already in bed that night, in the dark, thinking about it some more, when she suddenly thought of it. Ice hockey. That was what Anne had said. Ice skating. She had loved it as a child, and always loved watching figure skaters in pairs. She went back to Anne victoriously three days later. She was still seeing her twice a week, and didn't feel ready yet to reduce it to one.
“Okay, I found something,” she said with a cautious smile. “Ice skating. I used to love it as a little girl. And I took Wim and Meg skating when they were small.”
“All right, then your assignment is to get yourself to an ice skating rink as soon as you
can. By the time we meet again, I want to hear that you've been out on the ice, having some fun.”
Paris felt utterly ridiculous, but the following weekend she went to the Dorothy Hamill Skating Rink in Greenwich, and was out gliding around the ice on a Sunday morning. It was still early, and there was no one on the ice, except a few boys in hockey skates, and a couple of old ladies, who were surprisingly decent skaters, and had been skating for years. And by the time Paris had been out there for half an hour, she was having a ball.
She skated again the following week on a Thursday morning, and amazed herself by hiring an instructor to teach her to do spins. It was becoming her favorite pastime of the week, and by the time the kids came home for Thanksgiving, she had gotten pretty good. What she hadn't done yet was go anywhere socially. She had not been out for dinner, or an evening, or even a movie, since Peter left. She told Anne that it was too embarrassing to go out socially, with everyone knowing what had happened to her, and it was too depressing to go to the movies alone. The only place she had fun was on the ice. But at least she had that. And Wim and Meg were vastly impressed by her newfound expertise when she talked them into going skating with her on Thanksgiving morning. She felt like a kid again, and even Wim said he was proud of her when he saw what she could do.
“You look like Peggy Fleming, Mom,” Meg said admiringly.
“Hardly, sweetheart. But thanks anyway.” They skated together till almost noon. And then they went home to eat the turkey Paris had left in the oven while they went out. But in spite of the pleasant morning they'd shared, and the fact that she was thrilled to have them home, it was a difficult afternoon. The holiday seemed to underscore everything that had changed in the past year. It was agonizing for Paris, and Wim and Meg were scheduled to have dinner with Peter in the city the following night. He was anxious to see them too, but had understood that they wanted to be with their mother on Thanksgiving, and hadn't pressed the point with them.
Wim and Meg both looked very nice when they caught the five o'clock train into the city on Friday afternoon. It was snowing, and neither of them wanted to drive. He was taking them to Le Cirque for dinner, which seemed very festive and generous of him. They were both looking forward to it. Meg was wearing a little black dress of her mother's, and Wim had decided to wear a suit, and looked suddenly older than his years. He seemed to have matured noticeably in the three months since he'd left for school. And Paris was undeniably proud of him.
Peter was waiting for them at the entrance to the restaurant in a pin-striped suit, and Meg thought he looked very handsome, and said as much to him. He was pleased, and happy to spend an evening with them. He had invited them both to stay at the hotel with him, and had reserved rooms for each of them. And on Saturday morning, they were planning to go home to Greenwich. They were both returning to the West Coast on Sunday morning. And on Saturday night, they were both planning to see their friends. It was hard now, with separate parents to satisfy, to fit it all in, although both of them had seen friends the night before, after Thanksgiving dinner, as well. Paris was just grateful to have them sleeping there, she didn't expect to monopolize their time, nor did Peter. And they were glad to come into the city. There were already Christmas trees everywhere, and with the snow falling, there was a festive air and it looked like a Christmas card scene.
Peter seemed a little tense to Meg at first, as though he didn't know what to say to her, and he seemed a little more at ease with Wim. He had never been an easy conversationalist, and he had always counted on their mother to keep the conversational ball rolling. Without her, things were a little stiffer. But eventually, after a glass of wine, he seemed to loosen up. Neither of his children had seen Peter very often since he left, although he made a point of calling them often. And Meg was touched and surprised when he ordered champagne for dessert.
“Are we celebrating something?” she asked, teasing him. It was legal for her to drink, and she pushed her glass over to Wim so he could take a sip too.
“Well, yes, actually,” he said, looking uncomfortable, as he glanced from one of his children to the other. “I have a little announcement to make.” It was hard to imagine what it would be. Meg wondered if he had bought a new house or an apartment, or better yet, maybe he was thinking of going back to their mother. But in that case, she reasoned, he would have invited Paris to join them, and he hadn't. They waited expectantly as he put down his glass and seemed to be waiting for a drumroll. This was turning out to be harder than he'd expected, and he was feeling extremely nervous and it showed. “I'm getting married,” he blurted out finally, as both of his children stared at him in amazement. There had been nothing in their conversations with him to even remotely suggest it before this. He had thought he was giving them time to adjust to the divorce, and protecting Rachel from their inevitable conclusions. It had never even occurred to him what kind of damage he would do to his relationship with them by dropping her into their lives as a fait accompli, a surprise.
“You're kidding, right?” Meg was the first to respond. “You can't be.” She looked shocked, and her face went instantly chalk white.
All Wim could think about was his mother. This was going to kill her. “Does Mom know?”
They both looked crestfallen, and Peter looked panicked. “No, she doesn't. You're the first to know. I thought you should know first.” Who was he marrying? They hadn't even met her. All Meg could think was, how could he do this? And she couldn't help thinking that the woman he was marrying must be the reason he had left their mother. They weren't even divorced yet. How could he think of getting married? Their mother wasn't even dating, and had barely left the house.
“When did you meet her?” Meg asked sensibly, but she felt as though her head was spinning. All she wanted to do was jump up and hit him and run out of the restaurant screaming, but she knew that would be childish. She felt she owed it to him to at least listen. Maybe he had just met her. But if that was the case, marrying her this quickly was insane. Meg wondered if he was.
“She's worked at my law firm for the past two years. She's a very nice, very bright young woman. She went to Stanford,” he said to them, as though that would make a difference. “And Harvard Law School.” So she was intelligent and educated. They had established that much. “And she has two little boys, Jason and Thomas, who are five and seven. I think you'll like them.” Oh my God, Meg thought to herself, they were going to be her stepbrothers. And she could see in her father's eyes that he meant this. The only thing she was grateful for, as she listened to him, was that he had the good taste not to bring the woman to dinner. At least it showed a certain sensitivity that he hadn't.
“How old is she?” Meg asked, with a sinking stomach. She knew she would always remember this as one of the worst moments of her life, second only to the day her mother had called her to tell her they were getting divorced. But this was running a close second.
“She'll be thirty-two in December.”
“My God, Dad. She's twenty years younger than you are.”
“And eight years older than Meg,” Wim added with a somber expression. He wasn't enjoying this either. All he wanted was to go home to his mother. He felt like a frightened child.
“Why don't you just go out with her? Why do you have to get married so soon? You and Mom aren't even divorced yet.” As she said it, Meg was near tears. And her father didn't answer the question. He looked right at her with a stern expression. He was not going to justify this to them. That much was clear. Meg couldn't help wondering if he'd lost his mind.
“We're getting married on New Year's Eve, and I'd like both of you to be there.” There was an endless silence at the table, as the waiter brought the check, and Wim and Meg just stared at their father. New Year's Eve was five weeks away. And this was the first they'd heard of it. It was already a done deal, which didn't seem fair, to say the least.
“I was planning to go out with my friends,” Wim said as though that would excuse him from an event he would do almost
anything not to attend. But he didn't see how he was going to get out of it, judging by the look on his father's face. Peter was actually foolish enough, under the circumstances, to look stern.
“I think you'll have to skip that this year, Wim. It's an important day. I'd like you to be my best man.” There were tears in Wim's eyes as he shook his head.
“I can't do that to Mom, Dad. It would break her heart. You can make me come, but I won't be best man.” Peter didn't answer for a long moment, and then nodded and looked at Meg.
“I assume you'll be there too?” She nodded, and looked as devastated as her brother.
“Are we going to meet her before the wedding, Dad?” Meg asked in a choked voice. She didn't even know the woman's name, and in his anxiousness, he had forgotten to tell them, and then took care of it in the next breath.
“Rachel and I are going to have breakfast with you tomorrow. She wants you to meet Jason and Tommy too. They're adorable little boys.” In a single breath, he had a new family, and it occurred to Meg instantly that his new bride was young enough to want more babies. The very idea of it made her sick. But at least he was including them in the horror. It would have been worse if they'd been excluded, or he'd told them after the wedding.
“Where are you getting married?”
“At the Metropolitan Club. There will only be about a hundred people there. Neither of us wanted a big wedding. Rachel is Jewish, and we didn't want a religious wedding. We're going to be married by a judge friend of hers.” It was beyond thinking. The vision of her father marrying someone else nearly reduced Meg to hysterics, no matter how smart or nice the woman was. Like Wim, all she could do now was think of how it would affect her mother. She was going to be heartbroken. But hopefully not suicidal. If nothing else, Meg was glad that she and Wim were in town to bring her comfort.
“When are you going to tell Mom?” Meg asked cautiously. Wim hadn't said a word in minutes and was playing with the napkin in his lap.
Dating Game Page 9