Second Acts

by Teri Emory

  “What does your lawyer say?”

  “I don’t actually have a real divorce lawyer yet. So far, there’s been nothing much to do—just some routine paperwork—so I’ve been letting an attorney I know handle things for now. He’s a friend who wrote my will and checked over the contract when I bought my house years ago.”

  “Not a good idea, Andrew. You need someone good, and tough, to represent you. My brother works for a hotshot New York firm with offices all over the country. Should I ask him to find you someone?”

  “Outstanding, Bella. See, you’re helping me already.”

  “Andrew, surely you didn’t call me just to get a referral to an attorney.”

  “No, cara, of course not. There’s another piece to all of this . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “When we had the big blowup—when Marcie dropped the bomb about wanting to take Ben with her—she said some brutal things about me.”

  “People leaving their marriages aren’t known for kind departure speeches,” I say.

  “In this case, her words were cruel, but I’m afraid they also may be true.”

  “Like what?”

  “As you can imagine, the conversation about Ben led to other things. I knew that Marcie never cared for life in a small college town—hence the job that took her away so much. In addition to threatening to take Ben away, she went on a tear about the time I turned down the offer at Curtis. ‘It was our ticket out of here, and you blew it,’ she said. ‘You claimed it was for Ben’s sake, but the truth is, you know you’re a second-rate musician and you were scared to death of a place like Philadelphia. A backwater is much more your speed.’”

  I cringe on Andrew’s behalf. “Why is she so angry with you?”

  “When she married me, I was on the road to what might have been a very successful, even glamorous, career. She assumed that Salinas was a temporary detour, that eventually we’d be somewhere more exciting, that I would make it. She had hopes of raising the kids, especially Ian, in a city.”

  “How do you get along with Ian?”

  “My decision to stay in Salinas meant sacrifices for him. We get along—we can do the father and son bit, go to ball games and such—but I think he’s glad to be away. His last few years at home, ours was not a happy household. And he thinks, because of what his mother says, that it’s all my fault.”

  “Does he have any interest in music?”

  “He took violin lessons when he was very young, but he didn’t stay with it. I have no idea if he has talent. He knows a fair amount about serious music, but he listens to the stuff his friends listen to. His father is a second-rate musician, and he’s embarrassed to be the son of a loser.”

  I wave my hand. “Teenagers always think their parents are losers. Normal for the age.”

  Andrew shakes his head. “I hope you’re right, but ours is not a normal family situation. With Ben, I mean. I guess Ian has always been jealous of all the attention I give to Ben. But it can’t be helped. Ben, limited though he is in many ways, depends on me, only me. In a sense, I’m his only connection to the world. If Marcie takes him away, he’ll never be the same. And neither will I.”

  “It’s not over yet. For yourself, as well as for Ben, you’ve got to put up a good fight.”

  He nods. I glance at my watch. The afternoon is almost gone.

  “Andrew,” I say, “why did you call me?”

  “I’ve been so caught up in this fight with Marcie, and what she said about me being a failure. It’s like a tape I can’t turn off; it plays in my mind, night and day.”

  I was right; he is depressed. “I remember when you told me that music played all the time in your head,” I say.

  “There’s still music, but not much lately . . . You asked why I called you. I was nothing short of desperate to spend time with someone—a woman—who has never looked at me with disappointment in her eyes. When I think about you, all I remember is how sweet everything was. Did we ever have even a bad moment when we were together?”

  “Not until you said goodbye.”

  He squeezes my hand. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I was so young and self-absorbed. You wanted us to start thinking about a future together, and all I could think of was my own future. Marriage, kids, didn’t seem to fit with my plans.”

  “But you married Marcie. And you had children.”

  “After you, I didn’t get involved with anyone for a while. I thought that footloose suited me fine. And then, I got lonely. My friends were starting to settle down, and I was thinking, maybe they’ve got the right idea. I considered getting in touch with you, but, oh, I don’t know why I didn’t. And then I met Marcie at a concert I gave in Palo Alto just after I finished graduate school. I had just accepted a teaching job at Salinas, and she came to live with me. I guess we were in love, but these days I can barely remember when we were even polite to each other. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wondered if you were happy and if I would ever see you again. I’d think about Italy . . . It was a magical time.”

  “It was. That’s part of the reason it was hard for me to get over you.”

  “You’re over me, then?” he asks. “Have you forgiven me?”

  A bit wearily, I say, “It’s been a long time, Andrew.”

  “You haven’t said much about your husband. I hope he’s worthy of you.”

  “He’s a wonderful man. A good husband and father.”

  “And very successful. Rich. Probably handsome, too. I’m sure I’d hate him.”

  “He’s worked hard for everything he has. Not the handsome part; that’s a matter of good genes. When I married him, he was a poverty-stricken grad student.”

  “It must have been terrible for him, too, when your son died.”

  “His heart was broken. He still finds it hard to talk about Adam, even with me. It’s one of the uncomfortable issues between us. Being a therapist, I always want people to talk about things. Jim’s outgoing and talkative, but not always about the things that really matter to him. He’s got a great relationship with Nicole, and we have . . . a life together, a past that means something to both of us. Even when things are rocky or boring or infuriating, we don’t doubt that we belong together.”

  “So you’ve never strayed?”

  “Never.” Not even today.

  “I’m glad for you, Bella. I know you probably have to be going, but would you come with me for a minute? I have something I want to give you.”

  He takes my hand and we walk to the elevator. “I accidentally left it in my room. Oh, hell, it wasn’t accidental. It was part of a fabulous seduction scene I plotted for this afternoon. Get you here, invent an innocent reason to lure you to my hotel room, and then, pounce! Pretty smooth, huh?”

  “Debonair as always,” I laugh.

  “I must have lost my touch over the years,” he whispers as the elevator doors open to his floor. “The night we met, I had you naked and moaning in, what, fifteen minutes?”

  “It was more like several hours, signore, and who had whom naked?”

  The red light is flashing on the phone in his room. “Do you want to check your messages?” I ask.

  “Not now. I don’t want to talk to anyone except you.” He searches in one of his bags, pulls out a CD. “For you.” he says.

  It has no label. “What’s on it?”

  “I’m sorry I don’t have a CD player here. I’d love to see the look on your face when you listen to it. There are three cuts. The first is a short piano duet I composed last year. It’s called Una Bella Figura, and your spirit was with me every minute I worked on it. That’s me and a colleague from Salinas playing it at a competition in Miami, where we actually won a prize. On the second cut, I’m playing the piano at home—it won’t sound like a studio recording—and I’m singing, if you can bear it. It’s a John Denver tune; I love the lyrics. An
d the third cut—it was a real coup to get this—is a song I think you’ll remember, from another era.”

  “Thank you, Andrew. As always, you bring music into my life.”

  He takes me in his arms, holds me tightly. “I’d give the world for you to stay,” he says. “Part of me was fantasizing, when I called you, that you would say you were waiting for me, hoping I would rescue you from some dreary existence, and we could now be together forever. Don’t say anything, I know it’s crazy. I’ll never forget that you came when I needed you, Bella.”

  “I’m glad I came, too. I entertained a few fantasies myself after you called me. Don’t look at me that way; I’m not about to tell you what they were. But I do need to go now. I’ll get my brother to recommend an attorney. Promise me you’ll call when I give you the name? You’ll feel better if you’re doing something, rather than being passive. And speaking of doing something, you may want to consider some therapy.”

  “Ah, the shrink gives advice.”

  “Indeed. And it comes not just from any shrink, but from one who once gave you her heart. Listen to me: In addition to being untrue, those messages from Marcie that keep playing in your head are unproductive. They’re depressing your fighting spirit and paralyzing you. A shrink can help you erase those tapes.”

  “I promise, I’ll call someone as soon as I get home.”

  “Andrew, please stay in touch with me. I want to know how things are with you; I don’t want to lose you again. Who knows? Maybe we can hope to see each other again. I’d love to meet Ben.”

  “And, cara mía, at the risk of sounding like the jilted suitor in a really awful movie, I’d actually like to meet Jim sometime.”

  “Know what? I think you’d actually like each other.”

  __________

  I pull out of the hotel garage, looking for a spot on the street. I park alongside a hydrant and slide Andrew’s CD into the player. Before the music starts, Andrew speaks.

  “Bella, if you are listening to this, it means that you have found it in your heart to visit me in New York. This music is for you, my dear, and I send it your way with a love that was born on a spring night in Rome many years ago and which lives in me still. Ciao.”

  Before the piano duet, Andrew and the other pianist are introduced. The announcer then says, “The title of this piece is Una Bella Figura. The composer says he was inspired by a beautiful woman who once graced his life.” Applause follows, and the music begins, soft and sad, in a minor key. I try to imagine Andrew in formal attire, consumed by the notes he plays. I close my eyes, lose myself in the melancholy tune. I wipe the tears from my face.

  “You okay, lady?” A meter maid is knocking on my car door. I pause the CD and roll down the window.

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  “You’re next to a hydrant, ya know. Ya gotta move or I’ll hafta ticket you.”

  “No problem,” I say. I circle the block and find a metered spot. I put in two quarters to give me thirty minutes. I’ll be driving home at the height of evening rush hour, but no matter. I don’t trust myself to listen to Andrew’s CD and drive at the same time.

  The second cut also begins with a few words from Andrew. “I heard this song years ago. The final verse, especially, always brings you to my mind.”

  It’s called “Perhaps Love”; I’ve never heard it before. And some say love is holding on / And some say letting go / And some say love is everything / And some say they don’t know. The last lines take my breath away: If I should live forever / And all my dreams come true / My memory of love will be of you.

  The third cut has no introduction. The first few seconds sound scratchy, as if Andrew had made the copy from an old vinyl album. The music begins, and I laugh aloud. It’s Mina’s throaty voice, pleading for someone to tell her, Che senso ha? I’d love to know myself, Mina, what sense does anything make?

  Five-thirty. If I leave now, I won’t be home for hours. I reach for my cell phone and dial Jim’s private line at the office.

  “Hi, sailor. You alone?”

  “Just came out of a meeting, have another in fifteen minutes. What’s up?”

  “Got any plans for tonight?”

  “Oh, yeah. Big doin’s. The Brits are going pub crawling, but, as you know, I’m way too old for that. So I thought I’d get Chinese takeout, bring it back to the apartment, maybe check out Larry King.”

  “Gee, you moguls have all the fun.”

  “What are you up to? You calling from your cell phone?”

  “Yes, I’m in the city.”

  “Oh that’s right, you gave yourself a post-party holiday. What are you doing in town?”

  “Long story. Listen, I don’t have any patients until ten tomorrow morning, so I could stay in the apartment with you tonight. I think I still have clothes and a toothbrush there.”

  “What a nice surprise. So, what’s your pleasure? Hot and sour or egg drop soup?”

  “Noooo, no, no,” I say. “I have a different menu and a different agenda in mind. I’m not schlepping downtown for mundane Chinese food.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “First, I’ll swing up to Zabar’s and pick up whatever they’re selling that’s obscenely expensive. Russian caviar! French champagne! I’ve got a very rich husband; he can afford it. Then I might stop off in the Village on my way to you, see if one of those interesting lingerie stores has something trashy but tasteful in black lace.”

  I can hear other voices in the background at Jim’s office. “That sounds like a great plan,” Jim says earnestly. “I should be available by around eight. Anything I can do to prepare for this, um, conference?”

  “How about renting a really dirty movie? I’m not in the mood for Larry King.”

  “No problem. Listen, I’d love to continue this line of discussion, except I’ve got a meeting about to begin. But my mind is already working on some creative options for tonight.”

  “I’ll hold that thought.”

  I start up the engine and head north on Tenth Avenue towards the Upper West Side. I feel simultaneously energized and composed. I’ve spent the day with a man who has held part of my heart captive for my entire adult life, who inhabited my dreams, who represented incomparable excitement and joy that I couldn’t hope to feel again. It turns out that he has held me in his heart, too, and fantasized about me during all the ragged moments of his life. The man who once left me in despair now wanted me—physically, emotionally, in every way. He saw me not as a middle-aged woman worn at the edges, but as the object of desire I once was to him. God knows, it did me good to see that look in his eyes. But though I love the chapter we once created together, my life’s story wound up taking an irreversible turn away from him. Sitting with him today, sensing his passion for me, I understood for the first time that my feelings for Andrew are no longer romantic or sexual, but deliciously nostalgic.

  I hope there will be a way for us to stay in touch. I always want to know how he is faring, that he is well. Perhaps, from time to time, we can meet for lunch and hold hands and remind each other how lucky we were to have met when and where we did.

  Tonight I have a date with my husband. Stopped at a light, I adjust the rear view mirror and catch a glimpse of my face. I’m surprised that my makeup still looks fresh and my hair has held up, and I’m thinking, Not bad for an old broad. And wondering just what I will tell Jim about my day.

  PART III:

  Logic of the Heart

  Sarah:

  Comings and Goings

  “Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye.”

  —Leonard Cohen

  Prior to the Gillians’ party, I’d been drunk—liquored up enough to induce a good stupor, I mean—only once in my life. It was sophomore year in college, just after intercession break. My erstwhile boyfriend, the clandestinely married Claude Lequesne, had returned from a conjugal visit to Marseilles
with a case of Beaujolais nouveau and a notion that we have a go at re-enacting a few vignettes from The Story of O. I was relieved that we both imbibed enough to pass out before actually getting around to the handcuffs and masks, though I remain indebted to Claude for teaching me French slang for an extended spectrum of erogenous zones and lascivious acts.

  I hardly drink at all anymore, but at the party I was trying to get at least tipsy enough to forget, a little, the nerve-racking last few days. Maybe I was hoping I’d get talky-drunk and, with impunity, make a scene that would acutely embarrass Kevin. I imagined the kind of drama that might prompt my genteel friend Violet Bailey to excuse me in her uniquely Southern way: “She didn’t realize what she was saying, poor dear. Obviously, she’d been over-served.”

  I did my damnedest to get myself over-served at the Gillians’. I stayed with champagne cocktails, one after another, quaffing my third one before the waiters had even finished passing the hors d’oeuvres. I was sufficiently agitated from the events of the week that the tension didn’t leave my neck and shoulders and I didn’t even start to feel woozy until we were well into the main course. By then I had cornered Bruce Jacobs for advice about my wretched situation at work and completely lost sight of my wretched situation at home.

  I pretty much ignored Kevin. He probably interpreted my demeanor as fallout from the contretemps at my office, which Bruce kept referring to as my “case.” I think I told Bruce he was reminding me of something my mother used to say when I argued for something she’d already vetoed: Sarah, you’ve got a good lawyer, but a weak case. I don’t remember if he thought this was funny or not, but he stuck one of his business cards in my hand and told me to call his law firm—Jacobs, Howard, and Mercado—and ask for Kristin Traynor, the attorney in his firm who was the world’s living expert on New York employment law.

  Despite my chill towards him, Kevin was solicitous all evening—trying to hold my hand (though I rebuffed him several times), bringing me food, making sure my water goblet was full, asking interested questions of Bruce Jacobs on my behalf. Brendan’s friend Lilly threw me occasional apologetic smiles from across the dinner table. She knew that she had spilled some pretty important beans, and though I had made it clear that I held her blameless I could tell she was feeling culpable, and a little sad for me.