Once More with Feeling

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Of course I’m glad you found an apartment you’re pleased with.” He ran his fingertips along her shoulder and down her arm. “But at the risk of sounding selfish, I have to admit I’m kind of hoping you don’t get too settled into this new life of yours.”

  “You mean the swinging life of Bachelorette Number One?”

  He didn’t laugh. “Look, I know it’s important for you to find a new equilibrium, Laura. You need a breathing period, a chance to be by yourself. It’s just that I’ve been thinking that one of these days you might want to—you know.”

  “Might want to what?” Cam had never been so evasive before.

  “Move in with me.”

  It took her a few seconds to digest what he’d said. “Are you looking for a way of lowering your monthly mortgage payments?” she finally asked. “Or are you looking for somebody to mate with for life?”

  “B.”

  “If that’s your idea of a proposal, Dr. Woodward,” said Laura, her voice strangely high-pitched, “I suggest that you hurry over to the romance section of your local bookstore.”

  “I’m not proposing.” He hesitated before adding, “Not yet.”

  “Gulp,” Laura joked. She was barely able to get the single syllable out.

  “Surely you must have thought about the possibility of us living together at some point. And, well, getting married.”

  “Sure I’ve thought about it.” Laura didn’t bother to mention that every time she did, she had to administer chocolate immediately.

  “I’m forty-seven years old, Laura. And my differences with my ex-wife aside, I basically liked being married. I need someone I can count on. What I want is a commitment. I’m not interested in dating forever. I want to settle down.”

  He paused before asking, “What about you? Is that what you want?”

  ‘To tell you the truth, Cam, I’m not sure what I want. Whenever I try looking into the future, all I see is a big blank.”

  “What about having a man in your life?” Cam’s voice was strained. “What about us?”

  “What about us?”

  “Exactly what do you want our relationship to be?”

  Laura thought for a moment. “Most of all, I want something comfortable. Romance is lovely. But the flowers and the candlelight dinners are only temporary.

  “It’s also the easy part. Even first dates, no matter how horrible, are nothing compared to that first fight. Or realizing for the first time the person you thought was perfect has a big fat glaring flaw right smack in the middle of his personality. The way I see it, any two people in the world can have fun together—provided they agree not to discuss politics or religion and to steer clear of ethnic food. It’s the hard times that determine whether or not they’re going to make it.”

  Laura shook her head slowly, and continued. “Even Roger and I managed during those rare times there were no problems, no pressures. It was trying to get through the rough spots that was our downfall.”

  “You won’t get any argument from me,” said Cam. “The question is how to accomplish that.”

  “I believe what’s most important is for two people in a relationship to want the same things. To share a vision of what life should be like. It may sound terribly unromantic, but I believe that when you get right down to it, if a couple agrees on the really important things, it doesn’t matter if he remembers to buy her flowers on her birthday or if she can keep track of whether it’s the big football game or the big basketball game that’s on TV that night.”

  “You do sound just a touch unromantic,” Cam teased.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I recognize that there’s got to be something magical between two people. That chemistry that’s so easy to recognize—but so difficult to define.”

  “Do we dare label that ‘something magical’ love?”

  “Love’s great,” Laura replied. “But there’s got to be something more. Look at all those couples who started out so crazy about each other that they were willing to declare their love in front of a roomful of people sitting there with tears in their eyes and gift-wrapped blenders in their laps. Yet a few years later those same two people end up at some lawyer’s office, screaming at each other from opposite ends of a conference table.”

  “Not that you’re cynical,” Cam observed wryly.

  “I’m not cynical,” Laura insisted. “I’m afraid. And that fear is making me tread very carefully. For fifteen years I tried to find answers. I thought about what makes a marriage work—or not work—every single day. I knew what I had was making me miserable. But that didn’t mean coming up with a definition of what I did want was easy.”

  Cam kissed the top of her head. “I don’t want you to be afraid. Not with me.”

  “It’s not you, Cam. I’d be afraid with anybody.”

  “Okay, so maybe it’s too soon to talk about sharing a mailbox. Believe me, the last thing I’d want to do is pressure you. But would you do me a favor?”

  “Hmmm?”

  ‘Think about it. When you’re lying in bed late at night with nobody but David Letterman to keep you company, try to picture a life with you and me together. One in which I have the privilege of keeping your feet warm every night, not just on weekends.”

  His tone growing more serious, he added, “And one in which I can be more than just a guy you have fun with. I’d like to take a stab at working out some of those rough spots with you.”

  Puzzled, Laura glanced at him. “Why?”

  “Because I believe that you and I could actually do it.”

  * * * *

  Legions of window decorators, interior designers, and city employees had made a full-scale effort at converting the island of Manhattan into a living, breathing Christmas card. Laura stood at the edge of Rockefeller Center, her eyes greedily taking in the festive accoutrements of the holiday season.

  Every window and doorway in sight was strung with lights. At Saks Fifth Avenue, right across the street, the windows were filled with robotic elves assembling quaint wooden rocking horses and dollhouses. A special vibrancy filled the air—maybe because the sidewalks were jammed with desperate shoppers, maybe because the thick clouds in the eerily white sky promised snow.

  Viewing New York City in one of its finest hours had been Laura’s idea. It wasn’t just the chance to mainline a little Christmas spirit that had prompted this adventure, however. She’d decided it was time for the two most important men in her life to meet.

  She’d already established a comfortable relationship with Cam’s children. On occasion she had even carried on a conversation with the boas, Nathan and Oscar, although only when the glass wall of their tank was between them. Even so, when it came to thrusting her own son into a new situation, presenting him with Cam and his brood and asking him to accept them, perhaps even to go so far as to like them, she was filled with apprehension.

  She’d been nervous that morning when Cam swung by in his station wagon. It was packed, not only with his three children but also with Zach’s Game Gear video system, a substantial portion of Simon’s comic-book collection, a stuffed bear almost as big as Emily, and two large thermoses, one filled with coffee, the other with hot chocolate.

  “I can’t help treating every outing like a field trip,” Cam apologized as she climbed into the car. “Force of habit.”

  Once she was settled in the front seat, Laura glanced back at Evan, anxious to see how he was reacting to being thrust into a car filled with activity. His eyes had lit up as if this year Christmas had come a week early.

  “Evan,” she said casually, “this is Simon, Zach, and Emily. And this is Cam—”

  He didn’t seem to have heard her. “Oh, boy, Sonic Chaos! Can I play?” he asked Zach eagerly. “I can get up to the leader of the game, on level six!”

  Laura breathed a little easier. This was a nine-year-old boy’s version of heaven: a carful of kids and video games on tap. She realized she’d been foolish to worry so much.

  Tripping up Fifth Avenue, all
six of them more or less together, she observed that the mood was comfortably upbeat. Having this first meeting in New York on the flashiest holiday of the year had been pure inspiration. So far, the only tense moment had arisen over the issue of whether or not the children should each get their own three-dollar pretzel—or whether the ho-ho-ho prices called for some holiday sharing.

  “Look!” Emily suddenly cried, skipping ahead of the others. She headed toward one of the eight-foot candy canes growing out of the sidewalk that led into Rockefeller Center. “Is it real?”

  “Why don’t you bite it and find out?” Simon suggested.

  “Yeah, right,” said Zach. ‘Try that and you’ll end up getting arrested.”

  “It’s not a real candy cane,” Evan explained with uncharacteristic patience. “It’s made out of plastic or something. And don’t worry; nobody’s gonna arrest you. You’re just a little kid.”

  He was fitting into the role of big brother nicely, Laura observed. She and Cam exchanged knowing glances. Or perhaps they were looks of relief.

  “There it is,” Laura finally announced, gathering the others around her. “The famous Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. When I was a little girl growing up in the suburbs, my parents brought me into the city to see it every year. It was always the second most exciting part of the holiday, after opening presents on Christmas morning.”

  As she stood in front of the tree Laura was surprised to find that her heart fluttered in the same way it had when she’d stood in this same spot decades earlier, wearing a spiffy pair of patent-leather Mary Janes and white tights that kept creeping downward. It was funny how Christmases were strung together, like the bulbs on those strings of lights. Each one was connected to the last, providing a sense of continuity to years that often fit together as haphazardly as patches in a crazy quilt.

  What a difference there was between this year and the last. She remembered how braving the holiday season alone had made her feel like the gutsy heroine in a TV movie of the week. When she took on that string of recalcitrant Christmas lights and emerged the victor, she’d felt like Spartacus. She’d been so proud of herself. Not only had she made it through the month of December with no more holiday headaches than in any other year, she’d actually managed to put together a warm and memorable Christmas for herself and her son.

  This year, orchestrating a merry Christmas was a piece of mince pie. Evan had settled comfortably into their new life, and she had Cam. Reaching for his hand now, she gave it a squeeze.

  “This was a great idea,” he commented, leaning over and sneaking a quick kiss. “I hardly ever get into the city.”

  “You’re such a country boy,” she teased. “But you’re doing fine. I must confess, I never thought a plaid-flannel guy like you could look so much at home on Fifth Avenue.”

  “See that? I’m pretty versatile.”

  “Hey, you don’t have to convince me.”

  “Don’t leer. There are children present.”

  “Fortunately, they’ve got so many stars in their eyes they’ll never notice.”

  “Can we get our pretzels now?” Emily suddenly piped up. “I’m hungry.”

  Laura looked at Cam and laughed. “So much for the wonder of Christmas.”

  As they stood at the pretzel vendor’s cart, the man in the apron hummed a carol.

  “Merry Christmas,” he said, counting out their change. “You and your family have a nice holiday, now.”

  An hour later, as Cam zigzagged through the heavy holiday traffic, those words continued to echo through Laura’s head. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Simon staring out the window, half-hypnotized by the steady stream of cars. Emily was asleep, her head leaning against his shoulder. Behind them, Zach and Evan were engaged in a video game, the long, tiring day having taken some of the competitiveness out of them both. And she and Cam, cast in the roles of Mom and Dad, sat at the helm.

  “Did you hear what the pretzel guy called us?” Cam suddenly said, his eyes fixed straight ahead. “He thought we were a family.”

  “Yes, I heard that.”

  He reached over and put his large hand over hers. “Think he knows something we don’t know?”

  Laura rested her head back against the seat, closed her eyes, and smiled mysteriously. She hoped that in the dim light of dusk, Cam would mistake her uncertainty for Mona Lisa serenity.

  * * * *

  Laura sat at her word processor, transfixed by a blinking cursor. Unwilling to allow herself to be dragged down by January doldrums, she’d coped with the inevitable post-holiday letdown by throwing herself into a new writing project. Yet when it came to cooking up a new scheme for a giraffe who’d seen too many Hart to Hart reruns, she was stumped.

  The ringing telephone was a welcome interruption. It was Claire, wanting to lure her away for another ladies’ lunch at the Sassafras Café.

  “Claire says she’s got good news,” Julie announced the moment Laura sat down. “But she hasn’t breathed a word. She insisted on waiting until you got here.”

  Glancing over at Claire, Laura saw she looked like the proverbial cat after he’d polished off a canary sandwich. “Is this news I should be sitting down for?” she asked.

  Her heart was pounding. Please, please, don’t let it be

  what I think it is.

  Claire was beaming. “Here’s the clue. Something old, something new—”

  “Oh, dear,” Laura muttered. “I hope you’re planning a garage sale.”

  “Gil and I are getting married!”

  “Oh, Claire!” Julie stood up and rushed over to throw her arms around her. “I’m so happy for you! How incredibly romantic!”

  “How incredibly rash!” Laura remained firmly glued to her seat.

  “When’s the big day?” Julie demanded.

  “As soon as I can throw together the most magnificent wedding since Lady Di’s.”

  “And we all know how well her marriage turned out,” Laura mumbled.

  Claire hadn’t heard her. She was too busy pulling a stack of glossy magazines out of her tote bag. All of them featured cover girls wearing bits of white fluff on their heads.

  “These magazines are an absolute lifesaver.” Claire’s tone was edged with giddiness. “They tell you everything you need to know. I’ve got them all: Bride, Today’s Bride, Bridal Monthly, Bridal News....”

  “My goodness,” Laura commented. “How many articles on ‘Honeymoon Do’s and Don’t’s for the Recycled Bride’ can these editors come up with?”

  Despite her cynicism about the precipitousness of Claire’s decision to become Gil Plympton’s better half—or to accept him as hers—Laura had to admit that she’d never seen Claire so happy. She couldn’t help wondering, though, was it real happiness ... or merely some weird hypnotic state, induced by the promise of a cake with more tiers than a Hyatt Hotel and a complete collection of pasta-making machines, fondue pots, and coffee grinders.

  “What kind of wedding are you planning?” Julie asked. Her cheeks were glowing with the same vibrancy as Claire’s. Grabbing one of the magazines, she fixated on a four-color spread of garters.

  “Don’t tell me,” said Laura. “Ultramodern. I can see it all now. A rap ceremony, synthesizer music, a wedding party clothed entirely in baggy shirts and jeans that are falling off ...”

  “Oh, no!” Claire looked horrified. “I’m planning to have the wedding every little girl dreams of! The first time around, I eloped. This time I intend to do it right.”

  A faraway look had come into her eyes. “I’m going to wear a long white dress with a train and a veil that trails behind me. There’ll be flowers everywhere. And music. I want a live orchestra. I’ll march down the aisle to ‘Here Comes the Bride,’ of course.”

  “It sounds absolutely lovely,” Julie breathed.

  “And so original!” Laura couldn’t resist adding.

  “But the best part,” Claire continued, “is that I want you both to be part of it!”

  “Brides
maids?” The word caught in Laura’s throat.

  “Long dresses, coordinating bouquets ... the whole kit and kaboodle!”

  “Oh, wow!” Julie replied.

  “Oh, no!” Laura moaned.

  “I haven’t decided what kind of dresses you’ll wear yet,” Claire went on, “but I promise they’ll be something out of a storybook.”

  “What about shoes?” Julie asked excitedly. “I’ve never worn dyed-to-match.”

  “I hate to be a wet blanket,” Laura drawled, “but may I ask a question?”

  Julie and Claire looked at her expectantly.

  “If we can forget about playing Martha Stewart for a moment, can I ask how carefully you’ve thought all this through?”

  Claire fingered her copy of Bridal Monthly defensively. “I’ve been faithfully following the step-by-step ‘Guide to Planning Your Wedding’—”

  “I’m not talking about the decision to go with the chicken cordon bleu or the roast beef au jus,” Laura replied. “I’m talking about the decision to get married again.”

  “I think it’s wonderful,” Julie insisted.

  “But look at the evidence!” Laura cried. “Claire, your first marriage failed. My marriage failed. Julie and George were together for years ... then broke up.” She shook her head. “How can you take a risk like this? How can you be sure?”

  “I feel it in my heart,” Claire replied.

  “Since when are hearts capable of making critical decisions?” Laura countered. “All they do is go thump-thump, thump-thump.”

  “Oh, Laura,” said Julie, “at some point you’ve got to let go of all the debating, the weighing of the pros and cons, the endless obsessing. You’ve simply got to have faith.”

  “Wait a minute. Aren’t you the one who not long ago told me you were concerned about Bobby being someone else’s ex-husband? It just so happens that Gil is somebody else’s ex, too.”

  “What about Cam?” Claire demanded. “He’s somebody else’s ex.”

  “As a matter of fact, he is,” Laura said. “And you don’t see me rushing around, hiring a five-piece combo and renting a wedding dress—”

  “I don’t rent,” Claire said indignantly. “I buy.”