by Rozsa Gaston
“We could do something close to you. Maybe go over to that Irish place you told me about.”
At An Beal Bocht, the customers were mostly Irish laborers and Manhattan College students—the kinds born without silver spoons in their mouths. “I’ll see how I’m feeling. And congratulations. John told me you medaled.”
“I—oh yeah—hang on a minute.” She heard a high-pitched voice in the background. A woman was asking him something.
He came back on, sounding hurried. “Listen, I’ll call later. Rest up and take some ibuprofen.”
“Sure. Talk to you later.” She clicked off, wondering who’d interrupted him. One of the Society Smugsters undoubtedly. She went around to the far side of the van to remain undetected should Jude walk by before she left.
In a few minutes, she saw her teammates heading toward the vehicle. The second John unlocked its doors Farrah jumped in, slouching down in the farthest back seat. She fished in her backpack, until she found a baseball cap then put it on, hiding her hair up under it.
“You hurt?” Ana Morales asked concernedly.
“Nope.” Farrah shook her head.
“Then what’s up? I didn’t see you in the tent. That guy who came to breakfast with us in New Paltz won third place in his age group.”
“That’s great.”
“He had quite a posse there—all women sponsoring him for charity. You should have seen them all over him,” Ana went on.
I did, Farrah didn’t say, further sinking into her seat.
“What charity was that?” someone asked.
“It looked like the Make Me an MRS Foundation,” Gary McMullen chuckled.
“Oh look. There he is now,” Ana Morales pointed out. She tapped the window, motioning to her.
Farrah reached out and pulled Ana’s hand from the window. Sure enough, Jude was walking past the van, the Eva Longoria lookalike at his side. She was smiling up into his face, laughing at something. The high-heeled brown leather boots she wore took two steps for every one Jude did.
A sudden silence swept the inside of the van as Gary, Mike and John all checked out the woman. The men of the Van Cortlandt Track Club were highly respectful of the dignity of the females with whom they ran. Catcalls and comments were out. Instead, a moment of reverence passed while male breaths were sucked in.
“That was some smoking hot chick. What do you think? Girlfriend? Wife?” Ana was the first to regain speech.
Farrah shrugged, slumping back against the car seat, head down.
“Why are you scooched down like that? Don’t want that guy to see you? What was his name again? Jules?” Ana continued, looking at her suspiciously.
“No. I just got one of those post-race headaches.”
“You mean, like when the blood’s all rushing to your head, and you feel a little dizzy then nauseous?” her friend asked, peering at her as if to say “are you bullshitting me?”
“Yeah. That’s it. She put her hand up to her temple for added drama.
“Let’s see, maybe I’ve got some ibuprofen in my bag,” Ana said, rummaging in her pack. Always practical, always helpful, it was best to focus her on problem-solving rather than problem-speculating.
Farrah almost wished she really did have a headache just to distract her from what she’d seen. It couldn’t possibly get worse.
Then it did.
As they exited the parking lot, they drove past Jude’s dark green Ford Taurus. The woman in the high-heeled boots was just getting into the passenger side of the car as Jude put something in his trunk. His back was to Farrah so she had a chance to watch the miniature knockout as she fluffed her hair then pulled down the passenger seat visor to use the mirror.
“Here you go,” Ana commanded, pressing two ibuprofens into Farrah’s hand then passing her a water bottle.
She took them. She didn’t have a headache, but maybe they’d help with the heartache she had begun to feel. First Will then Jude both hankering after the kind of woman she would never be. But Will had tired of that kind of woman. Yet, did that mean he really wanted her?
Anxiety squeezed her heart. It was the old unease she’d felt when they’d been a couple. She was sick of worrying whether she measured up to someone else’s standards—Will Young’s or Barbara Feretti’s. Back in the woods she’d measured up to her own standards. Wasn’t it time for that to be enough?
NINE
On the shuttle to Philadelphia Farrah sat back in her seat and closed her eyes. She had three appointments, beginning at ten that morning, with the final one over at four. If she was lucky she’d make the 5:30 P.M. shuttle back to New York so she could be home no later than half past seven. Business travel days such as this one were tolerable, if everything went right. Usually they didn’t, just like in her love life.
Had she been too abrupt in rushing to judgment on what she’d seen the day before in the parking lot at Leatherman’s Loop? Maybe he’d just been giving the woman he’d been with a ride home. But how could he have shifted gears just like that? One minute planning to drive back to Greenwich with her, the next replacing her with another woman? Not just any woman either, but a total knockout.
She sighed, regretting her own actions of the afternoon before. When Will had called to ask if they could get together, she’d still been steaming from seeing Jude walk off with the strange woman. She’d given him her address and an hour later, he was there.
It was time for him to see her in her new life in Riverdale. If he couldn’t handle her new neighborhood, she needed to know now.
They’d spent a few hours talking then taken a walk. As they passed An Beal Bocht, Farrah had asked if he wanted to stop in, but Will had screwed up his face and said he’d rather keep walking. She’d forgotten to take her cell phone, and it had been late when she’d returned, alone. She’d told him she needed to get ready for her business trip the following day and bade him goodbye outside the front of her building. No way was she reigniting any flame between them. At least not until she knew what she herself wanted.
Back in her apartment she saw that Jude had called. But the time she’d just spent with Will surrounded her on all sides. Shuffling men was something she’d never been good at. Her girlfriends had frequently teased her for being hopeless at dating more than one man at a time. She needed time to think before she returned Jude’s call.
Jerking awake, she sat up abruptly and looked down the aisle to see the drinks cart three rows away. Coffee and juice would jolt her back to the here and now.
If she told Will she didn’t want him back, what if she and Jude continued to go out, her feelings for him deepened, then suddenly one day, in a casual phone conversation or e-mail message he told her there was some sort of disconnect he couldn’t put his finger on—then disconnected in real life? She couldn’t risk something like that happening again. Before she could move in any direction, she needed to know why Will had pulled the plug on their love.
“Something to drink?” The navy blue-suited stewardess pulled up alongside her. Looking at her attractive but harried face, Farrah felt like asking her if anything like that had happened to her. She’d bet it had.
“I’ll take coffee with milk, no sugar. And cranberry juice please.”
“Here you are.”
The stewardess moved on briskly. It occurred to Farrah that as much as she wasn’t crazy about her own job, there were much harder ones—such as being an airline attendant.
Her mother had worked as a hair stylist when she’d come to the United States from Iran. She’d advised Farrah repeatedly to find a job that didn’t involve standing on her feet all day. Closing her eyes again, she conjured up her mother’s image—petite, with elegant slim fingers on small hands. Thick, dark hair piled on top of her head, a long, Roman nose that Farrah’s father had often told her was his favorite of his wife’s physical attributes, and dark brown, almond-shaped eyes with long black eyelashes framing them. She’d looked like she was wearing eye makeup even when she wasn’t. Lila had been the fa
rthest thing from Farrah’s father’s Irish-American sisters and female acquaintances that a woman could be. He’d fallen hard for her. Did guys like that exist anymore? She’d thought Jude might be one of them, but the casual way he’d switched gears walking the unknown woman to his car in the parking lot at Leatherman’s Loop gave her pause. After Will, she didn’t trust anyone, not even herself. Thank God she hadn’t invited him back up to her apartment the evening before.
Opening her laptop, she reviewed her ten A.M. presentation. She was meeting with the newest member of an ophthalmology practice that specialized in laser eye surgery, or LASIK, procedures. Hopefully, it would go smoothly, and the ophthalmologist would agree to use the new product line for post-LASIK care that Farrah represented. Alison Keane was probably way ahead of her in the landing new accounts sweepstakes. But ever since Farrah’s conversation with Mara in the hot tub, her desire to compete with Alison for top salesperson of the year had diminished. At what price?
She opened her briefcase to review her samples and pulled out a bottle of hydrating eye drops. Leaning back in her seat, she squirted a few drops in each eye. Immediately she felt refreshed. If only there was some sort of similar product for her heart. She’d sprinkle on some rewetting drops and voilà! Immediately, it would be fresh and ready for love again.
A voice came over the P.A. system instructing passengers to fasten their seatbelts in preparation for landing. Farrah laughed at the vision of heart rewetting drops, tucked the briefcase under the seat in front of her and prayed for a predictable workday ahead of her. She needed one to save her energy for the unpredictableness of what was happening in her personal life.
Susan Choi, M.D. was even more petite than Farrah, with brisk businesslike eyes, short black hair, and a no-nonsense handshake. But as she turned to lead Farrah into her office, Farrah couldn’t help but notice the gorgeous high-heeled gray and black open-toed pumps she wore. Undoubtedly designer. Breathtakingly feminine. Apparently, Dr. Choi wasn’t all business all the time.
“I only have five minutes so let’s make this brief,” Dr. Choi began, pointing to a chair for Farrah in front of a large dark wood desk in the office she’d ushered her into.
“Fine. Let me get straight to the point,” Farrah said, noticing the way Dr. Choi eyeballed the leather tassel on her slim, walnut brown leather briefcase as she lay it carefully on the desk. “I got the briefcase at the Prada sample sale in Manhattan last August, and I love your shoes.”
For the first time, the doctor looked directly at Farrah. Then, she leaned back in her chair and laughed. “Jimmy Choo’s. Comfortable, too.”
“They look way too good to be comfortable.”
“They start bothering me by the end of the day, but I drive home, so it doesn’t matter,” Dr. Choi told her. She motioned to Farrah’s briefcase. “Do you know when the next sample sale is at Prada?”
“I’ll tell you if you stock FreshEyes and give every one of your patients a free sample at their first follow up appointment post-procedure.”
“I already have rewetting drops from another manufacturer.”
“If you use FreshEyes, I guarantee you your patients will be happier. They keep eyes moist hours after other brands stop working.”
“That’s exactly what the rep from the other company told me last week.”
“This briefcase comes in black and cherry red. I could see you with the cherry red one.”
The doctor’s eyes gleamed. “I like red.”
“I can tell.” The doctor’s scarlet red lipstick further reinforced Farrah’s hunch that a vibrant fashion sense was part of Dr. Choi’s skill set. “How about if I e-mail you the link to the next invitation-only Prada sample sale?”
Dr. Choi shrugged. “Why don’t you leave some samples here? I’ve got to go now.” She stood up and walked toward the door.
Quickly, Farrah pulled out a red and gold box containing a large-size container of FreshEyes and held it out to the doctor. “Red is a very lucky color for your practice, too.” She had picked up the box at an Asian gift store in the Bronx, knowing Dr. Choi was Chinese-American.
“Why’s that?” The doctor looked at her skeptically, but took the box Farrah held out.
“It reflects who you are. Bold, vibrant. Am I right?” Dr. Choi said nothing, but the flash of her eyes told Farrah she was pleased.
I’ve got an order form here for three months worth of FreshEyes for you to offer your patients on follow-up visits,” Farrah continued, praying she wasn’t coming on too strong.
The doctor sighed. “Have our office manager process it.”
“I’d like to visit again in three months’ time, so you can tell me how your practice is taking off.”
“Send me the link to the sample sale.”
“You’ve got it, doctor.” Farrah made way for the woman to exit the room. Behind her, she laughed to herself. She’d known the doctor had been bluffing when she’d expressed disinterest at her offer to send her the link to the sample sale.
By half past four, Farrah was in the back of a cab on her way to the airport. Her second appointment had also gone well. She’d talked baseball with two male doctors in a brand new practice who were Philly fans. After forty-five minutes she had succeeded in filling another order.
The third appointment had gotten off to a rocky start. The doctor with whom she was to meet had cancelled but she’d dropped by the office and chatted with his assistant, leaving samples behind.
Marianne had been a tough nut to crack, surly and dumpy with bold, black eyeglass frames that didn’t advertise well for the eyesight correction business she was in. She hadn’t been receptive to any of Farrah’s overtures. Fashion talk was clearly out and sports banter—as with most female clients—was a point of interest to neither.
She eyeballed the stocky assistant. She wasn’t a decision-maker for the practice, so with nothing to lose, Farrah decided to go out on a limb. The day was wrapping up, she’d had two successful meetings already, and she was feeling playful. Endorphins from her race the morning before still lingered in her adrenal system.
“Could I ask you something?” she asked the assistant.
“Like what?” the woman eyeballed her distrustfully. She looked to be in her late thirties, no wedding band or engagement ring.
“It has nothing to do with why I’m here,” Farrah went on, watching carefully for her reaction.
“So what do you want to know?” The woman perked up at Farrah’s comment, more interested to talk now that it looked like they were going off-topic.
Farrah took a deep breath. Maybe she was crazy to continue. But the woman didn’t like her already, so what did it matter?
“I got dumped by my ex-boyfriend about three years ago, over the phone. He said he felt some sort of disconnect he couldn’t explain. I had no idea what he was talking about. I still don’t. Did anything like that ever happen to you?”
Marianne’s eyes widened, then crinkled at the corners. She smiled for the first time.
“Want to go outside for a cigarette?” she asked.
“Sure.” Farrah didn’t smoke, but she knew from hanging out at her mother’s hair salon in Queens that cigarette breaks provided the backdrop for important information exchanges. It would be another forty-five minutes before she needed to hail a cab to the airport. She picked up her briefcase and followed Marianne to the elevator banks. The woman looked more perky already. Now that she’d cracked a smile, Farrah could see she wasn’t all that plain.
Outside the building, she took in Market Street as Marianne lit a Marlboro Light. The day was crisp, a cloudless blue sky overhead. Farrah was itching to run, but it would have to wait until the following day’s track workout.
“Want one?” Marianne offered.
“No thanks,” Farrah smiled. She might not be a smoker, but she understood the give and take of the smoker’s break. You didn’t rush things. You just let whoever you were with puff away and quietly held your breath when they exhaled. While the
conversation unfolded you didn’t wave the second-hand cigarette smoke away with your hand or make comments like, “why are you killing yourself with those things?” The result was you learned some juicy stuff that you’d never have found out if you’d been a Girl Scout and stayed in your office.
Marianne took a long drag, then slowly exhaled. “So you want to know if something like getting dumped over the phone with no explanation ever happened to me?”
“Yes.” Farrah waited expectantly.
“Yeah, it happened.” Marianne gave her a level look. “It happens to everyone at least once.”
“How do you close the book on something like that? I’m trying to work my way through it, but I’ve got nothing to go on.” Farrah shrugged. It wasn’t the total truth, but she wanted Marianne to really sink her teeth into the topic.
“You ever hear a phrase “It’s not what happens to you, it’s how you handle it?”
“Yes.” Her heart bounced, remembering her mother’s brisk but warm tone whenever she’d delivered that piece of advice. It had been often.
“It’s the most important thing you’ll ever learn.” Marianne’s decisiveness made her more attractive than she’d been back in the office. Farrah could imagine her telling a guy off in a bar—and making him fall in love with her at the same time.
“You’re probably right, but get back to what happened to you,” she redirected.
“Oh yeah. Well, to begin with, when a guy does that, you’ve got to understand there’s a real reason why he’s pulling the plug that he’s not telling you.”
“He said there was some sort of disconnect when we talked.”
“That’s bullshit. There was some other reason. Did this guy have a money problem?”
“No. I don’t think so. I mean, he didn’t have a lot of money, but he wasn’t broke.”
“And what about his family?”
“Oh, they were well off. I mean, he’d gone to boarding school. His father had made it big in real estate, but he died when Will was fifteen.”
“Will? That’s such a pansy name.”