Serendipity

by Fern Michaels

  “As much as you do, Father. She’s mentioned it.” Ross wanted to tell his father the new publication, if it came into being, would be three or four steps below TIF. She even had a name for the embryo: Keyhole. “Mother never lets grass grow under her feet. As far as I can determine, it’s just a thought. She’s pretty busy with TIF right now.”

  Ross stared into his empty coffee cup. It was time to go. But where was he going to go? Back to the big, empty house? And do what? Go to bed to wait for his nightmares. Bullshit. He stood up to shake the crease back into his trousers. He looked around. The room was so empty. Furniture, dark and massive, took up space, and the pool table covered the center of the floor, but it was empty. He hated the thick drapes, the sheer curtains underneath, detested the thick dark brown carpet, the huge chandelier with its winking bulbs. This room was his father’s, and it had always intimidated him, as had the rest of the house. His taste ran to light, airy colors and green plants. There wasn’t a green plant in the entire house. Growing up here had been a chore.

  Jasper touched Ross’s shoulder tentatively. There was so much he wanted to say to this young man who was his son, but he was afraid of saying the wrong thing. He didn’t want to disturb the newfound empathy they’d developed in the past few months. “I enjoyed this little unexpected visit, Ross. I wish we could do it more often. Any time, drop by any time. I’m here most evenings. Don’t bother to call, just come in.” He was babbling, almost begging his son for companionship.

  They were by the front door. In another second Ross would be outside. Jasper clapped him on the back and stage-whispered, “Son, tread lightly where Lena is concerned. I’m not trying to be fatherly, but there is something about that young woman . . . Sex isn’t everything, even though it seems like it at times.”

  Suddenly Ross turned and wrapped his arms around his father, something he’d never done before in his life. He thought about the calculating look in Lena’s eyes. “You’re absolutely right, Father,” he said lightly.

  Outside, the air was cool, almost crisp, the night star spangled. The end of summer was fast approaching. He slipped his arms into the heavy knit sweater. It felt good. He jammed his hands in his pockets and started to walk. On a whim, he stepped on a bus and took a seat. He didn’t even know where it was going. It didn’t matter, he’d ride to the end of the line and then head back.

  Thirty-five minutes later he stepped off the bus. The huge chestnut trees told him where he was. In ten minutes, if he walked fast, he could be on Gravers Lane. Why the hell not? It was familiar and yet unfamiliar. What was the harm in walking past Jory’s house? He wanted to see the carriage house Woo was moving into. That was the reason for his being here. He didn’t have to tell anyone about his little evening stroll. He wasn’t spying. He didn’t know the bus was coming here. This was legal reasoning at its worst, he told himself as he started up Hartwell Lane. He walked one block to Shawnee Street, crossed Southhampton, and a block farther on turned right onto Gravers Lane.

  The house had a red door, that much he remembered. He vaguely remembered a building in the back behind the garage.

  Ross ambled along, his eyes taking in the cozy-looking houses with light spilling outward. Lampposts glowed warmly, front doors were closed, windows opened slightly. It was quiet.

  Families lived here. People with children and dogs and cats. The yards had sandboxes, swing sets, and wading pools. He could hear the crickets and frogs. It was a home sound, a belonging sound. Ross ached with longing.

  He heard her before he saw her. He moved quickly to step into the deep shadows created by a low-limbed chestnut tree. And then he saw her and the four dogs Woo mentioned. In the dim glow of the streetlight he could distinguish the colored strings she was holding. She was laughing and giggling as the pups frisked about her ankles. She stopped three times to untangle the strings from her ankles. He dug his heels into the ground to keep himself from stepping out into the road to help untangle the dogs.

  She was still his wife.

  Did he dare invade her privacy?

  He bit down on his lower lip so hard he drew blood.

  She was calling them by name now, her voice full of laughter. Jesus, when was the last time he’d laughed like that? When did he ever hear Jory laugh like that? Had Jory laughed like that during their short marriage? No, she’d cried. And whined. And cursed.

  Jory was under the streetlight now, oblivious to anything other than the pups at her feet.

  “This is very ungentlemanly of you,” Jory gurgled. “You know the drill. If you walk nice, if you behave, you get a cookie. You get two cookies if you do what you’re supposed to do. Clancy, you stop that! Now! Murphy, get your nose out of his butt. Bernie, stop chewing on Sam’s ear. It’s sore enough as it is. Enough!”

  Ross whipped his hand to his mouth to stifle his laughter when the pup with the green string leaped into Jory’s arms.

  He could clearly see her hair, in a ponytail and tied with a red ribbon. She had on sneakers with a hole in the toe, khaki slacks, and a gray Villanova sweatshirt with holes in the arms. It looked like one of his. Had she taken it with her? He wanted to run out from his hiding place and ask her. His feet dug deeper into the grass. She looked cute. She looked healthy, happy, and so goddamn normal. She looked the way Woo looked. At peace. And he was churning like a fucking windmill.

  Ross almost clapped his hands when the pups squatted one at a time and pooped. Jory did clap her hands. “Good boys! Two cookies! Fig Newtons. Okay, troops, let’s head back to the ranch.” She ran then, the dogs leapfrogging ahead of her.

  Ross stepped from his hiding place in the shadows and watched until Jory and the dogs were dark shadows in the starlit night. When he was certain they were in the house at the end of the block, he meandered down the street, searching for the red door. He vaguely remembered Jory saying she was the one who painted the door red, but he couldn’t remember why. He couldn’t remember why the old Jory did any of the things she’d done back then. He hadn’t cared, hadn’t wanted to know anything about the girl he’d consented to marry against his will.

  Now he wanted to know. Now, when it was too late.

  There were lights on all over the house. Upstairs as well as down. Obviously Jory didn’t like the dark. He was by the driveway, wondering if he dared walk around the back of the house and . . . peep in the windows, for Christ’s sake. A goddamn Peeping Tom. The desire was so strong, his feet moved until he was again standing in the shadows of a chestnut tree. He had a clear view of Jory’s kitchen. She was handing out cookies. He could hear her voice but couldn’t distinguish the words. What he could see was the smile on her face. The dogs were at attention like four little soldiers waiting patiently for their treat.

  Ross wanted to run up the back steps and tell Jory she should be more careful about locking doors. Any crazy person could walk into her house. The puppies were no protection. Hell, they didn’t even know he was out here spying like some lowlife crud.

  He wished he could share the bottle of soda pop she was drinking, light a cigarette to match the one she was puffing on. Smoking must be new. Jory hadn’t smoked when they were married. Or had she?

  She looked so pretty. So contented and so normal. In comparison, he felt ready for the white jackets and nets. She was moving again, the dogs on their feet. He watched as she set her pop bottle on the floor next to the refrigerator, held the cigarette under the water and then deposited it in the trash can under the sink. She was talking, the dogs’ tails swishing furiously as they yipped and danced about the kitchen. He heard the door shut and thought he heard the bolt shoot home. He did clap his hands softly then and let his breath out in a long sigh. Gradually the lights on the first floor went out, one by one.

  Bedtime.

  It was one-thirty in the morning when Ross climbed the stairs to his own bedroom. He wished there was a four-legged creature following him. His steps slowed when he passed Woo’s door. He looked down, hoping to see a ribbon of light, but there wasn’t
one. His hands balled into tight fists. Woo always came out on top. Always.

  For four nights, until Saturday, Ross spent his evenings in Chestnut Hill hiding in the shadows, watching his wife. Then, on Saturday evening at nine-thirty, Ross got in his car and drove to Chestnut Hill, completely forgetting he had a date with Lena. The only thing different about this excursion was the light in the carriage house—Woo had moved in—and his hiding place.

  He did the same thing Sunday evening, and again on Monday evening. On Tuesday he told himself he was behaving like a lovesick adolescent and stayed home. On Wednesday, Lena showed up at his door. She’d literally dragged him upstairs to his bedroom, where she fucked his brains out until four in the morning, when he had his own personal nightmare once again.

  Ross managed to choke back his anger when he saw Lena trip down the steps at seven o’clock, as beautiful as any model. She joined him at the table, nibbled at buttered toast and drank three cups of coffee. She smoked four cigarettes before she kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I had a wonderful time last night, Ross. We should do that more often. I have no objection to getting engaged, if that’s what you want. We can pick out the ring on Saturday if you like. I have to tell you I don’t believe in long engagements, and I’m not even sure it’s right for us to get engaged when you’re still married to Jory.”

  What the hell was she talking about? Two bottles of wine must have been the reason he couldn’t remember. Jesus, he had to say something. “I’ll talk to my lawyer before we . . . I’m not sure either. You’re going to be late, Lena.” He wondered if he sounded as desperate as he felt.

  “You’re right, Ross. Your mother gets . . . hostile when . . . never mind. I guess I’ll see you at the office.”

  “Hmm,” Ross murmured. He waved halfheartedly.

  At nine o’clock Ross was sitting in the waiting room of Fenster, Williams and Ryce, waiting for Arnold Ryce, his attorney. When Ryce finally arrived at nine-twenty, he said to Ross, “You look like something the cat dragged in and then dragged back out. Come into my office and let’s see what we can do.”

  Arnold Ryce was a nice man and a good family attorney. Like Woo, he didn’t believe in huge billable hours, preferring to try and talk sense into his clients before litigation was instituted. He was round like a basketball, a cherub of a man with rosy cheeks and snow-white hair. From time to time his eyes twinkled. Ross thought him amazing.

  “So, what brings you here so early, Ross?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m beginning to think you were right and I should have taken the time to . . . what I mean is, Jory is so . . . I don’t want to rush into anything. Maybe I should . . .”

  “Back off and take a breather.” Ryce smiled. “It can’t hurt, Ross. If you think this is a mistake, we can drop the proceedings. However, your wife seems so amenable to it, I think you have to prepare yourself for the fact that this is what she wants too. As you know, I personally do not favor divorce. Young people today rush into marriage, and then when they have their first fight they head for a lawyer. Marriage isn’t easy, it’s something that has to be worked at. Daily. Sometimes hourly. If you like, you can set up an appointment with your wife and yourself and we can talk. But again, I feel duty bound to tell you this rarely works. I’m due in court at ten to plead a motion,” Ryce said, looking at his watch.

  “Sorry,” Ross muttered. “I shouldn’t have barged in here without an appointment. I’ll call you.”

  In the lobby, Ross called his office and spoke to Woo. “I’m going to be late this morning. There’s nothing very pressing.”

  It was ten-twenty when Ross drove the Skylark up Jory’s driveway. The din from inside when he rang the doorbell set his nerves twanging. The dogs yapped and yipped, and from somewhere he could hear a radio and the tap-tap of typewriter keys. He rang the bell again and then a third and fourth time, with no results. When the dogs stopped long enough to catch their breath, Ross shouted Jory’s name. She came on the run, her face full of shock.

  “Ross, what are you doing here?” She didn’t look happy to see him. He wanted to tell her he’d been spying on her, but he didn’t. He motioned to the stoop. Jory eased herself out the door, the pups slamming their fat little bodies against the screen in protest.

  “I think we need to talk. Would you mind taking a walk around the yard? How can you think with those dogs making all that noise?”

  “I’m used to it. The doorbell is a strange noise to them,” Jory said coolly. “What is it you want, Ross?”

  “I guess for starters I want to apologize to you for . . . that command performance and throwing the divorce thing at you like I did. I’m sorry, and I came to apologize.”

  “When will it be final?”

  “By the end of the year. How are you managing here by yourself? Do you have a job?”

  “I’m fine, Ross. I’m trying out for a job on the Democrat. Freelance. I thought we settled everything the day I came to . . . your house. Is anything wrong?”

  “No. No, nothing is wrong.”

  “Then I don’t understand why you made this trip. You could have called me. I told you I’d sign whatever needs to be signed, and I don’t want anything. I’m more than willing to take the entire blame for our disastrous marriage. You need to know something, Ross. I would have honored our agreement and stayed in Florida. I think it’s good that we’re finally going to dissolve our marriage and get on with our respective lives,” Jory said breathlessly. “Is there anything else?”

  Was there? Damn right there was. “Why did you rent the carriage house to Woo?” he blurted.

  “Why shouldn’t I? It was for rent, he saw my ad and wanted to rent it, and we struck a deal. It’s a business arrangement, not that it’s any of your business.”

  “You’re changing your name. Why?” Ross demanded.

  “Because it was the name I was born with. We were never really married. I’m not going to do it, I did it. Legally.”

  “Would you like to have dinner with me? Papagalo’s is still in business.” He waited, hardly daring to breathe, for her answer.

  “No. Perhaps when the divorce is final we can celebrate. We need to break clean, Ross.”

  Ross shuffled his feet. There wasn’t anything else he could do or say to prolong the meeting with his wife. He looked around. “You’ve done a good job out here. I came by once about a year after your father died and everything was overgrown. I wondered why you didn’t sell it.”

  “Now you don’t have to wonder any longer,” Jory said tersely.

  “Look, Jory, I was a jerk. I’m sorry about everything. I know I can’t make up for those years. Look at you,” he said proudly, “look what you accomplished, and you did it on your own. If we’d stayed together, do you think you would have gone back to school, gotten your degree, be the person you are now?”

  She had to get back in the house before her eyes puddled up. Couldn’t he see what this meeting was doing to her? Was he so blind? Too much, too little, too late. “You’re about five years too late with your praise, Ross. You were a jerk, but so was I. No, you can’t make up for what you did. I can’t make up for robbing you of your life for a little while either. What we’re doing now is the right thing. You’ll meet someone who will fit into your life and your world will be right-side up. I really have to go now,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “Will you meet someone too, Jory? Or have you already met someone? Will you find someone who’ll fit into your life?”

  “Probably not. I don’t think I’ll ever marry again. Good-bye, Ross.”

  Her hand was on the knob of the red door when he called out, “Why did you get those dogs?”

  “Because, like me, no one wanted them. They comfort me. They keep me company and they love unconditionally.”

  The red door closed. The yapping and yipping stopped immediately.

  Inside, Jory’s legs turned to rubber as she slid to the floor. Tears rolled down her cheeks, her arms outstretched to gather the puppies close.
She allowed her emotions to take over, hiccuping and sobbing into the dogs’ soft, furry bodies. Shaken with these strange happenings, the pups mewled softly as they tried to lick at her tears, demanding comfort for their own sake.

  “I shouldn’t still love him. I don’t want to love him and I’m carrying on like this because I still have feelings,” she cried heartbrokenly. “No, no, that’s not it, it’s because I’m . . . Why did he come here?” Ross had looked . . . like he really was sorry, and she’d been too cold, too reserved. “Oh shit,” she said, wrapping her arms around the wiggling dogs. “Okay, okay, I’m going to pull up my socks and not think about this. This was something that was inevitable, something I have to work through. I can do it, I did it before. No more bawling and whining,” she muttered as she wiped her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her shirt.

  On her feet, Jory blew her nose lustily as the dogs circled her ankles, their tails swatting each other in the face.

  In the kitchen, where she handed out puppy biscuits, she said loudly and clearly, “Only a fool would love Ross Landers, and I’m no fool, not anymore. So there!” She chomped on a Fig Newton as she made her way back to the study, where she was working on an article for Redbook on Florida honeymoon vacations. And when she was done with the article, she was going to tackle her checking account, and after that she was going to peruse the want ads in case the job at the Democrat fizzled on her.

  “I don’t need you, Ross Landers,” she said, attacking the typewriter with a vengeance. “I don’t want you either. So there!”

  Even the dogs knew it was a lie.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was hard to believe these were the same offices he’d walked into months ago, Ross thought. The dust was gone, so was the heavy, outdated furniture. Loose-weave textured drapes hung at the windows now, drapes that matched the beige carpeting and California-style, low-slung furniture. Glossy magazines and green plants decorated the reception area. The desk was glass-topped, and so were the coffee table and end tables. Brass lamps and African violets added a homey touch, as did the colorful Moulin Rouge prints on the wall. The receptionist sitting behind the glass-topped table was so perfectly coiffed and made-up, she resembled, in Ross’s opinion, a mannequin. Her lips barely moved when she said, “Good morning, Mr. Landers.”