Patrons listened to long-forgotten songs and danced to the lush music that replicated the soundtrack of Tia’s childhood. On Sunday mornings, instead of going to church, Tia’s mother had played Herb Alpert. Al Green. Etta James. Frank Sinatra. Music that made Tia nostalgic for a past she’d never known; times that seemed more glamorous than her life would ever be.
Nathan had worn a pressed shirt. When she leaned against him, Tia tried not to think about who’d ironed it so stiff, and who’d made it smell of bleach and wholesome living.
After ordering drinks, Nathan stood and held out a hand. “Dance with me?” he’d asked, as though worried that she’d say no; as though he didn’t own her dances, her thoughts, and her future.
Nathan pressed her close as they danced. She smelled shampoo and aftershave, scents Tia loved because they were Nathan’s, and hated because Juliette undeniably chose both.
She’d let her friendships and hobbies fall away in pursuit of her Nathan obsession. To the world, Tia seemed devoted to her work, as though she were solely dedicated to the needy men and women in the nursing home where she’d then worked, as though crafts programs for the elderly were her only reason for existing.
Tia turned her head so that her cheek lay on the solid muscle of Nathan’s arm. He engulfed her. “Moon River” played, and then gave way to Sinatra singing “The Way You Look Tonight.” Nathan pulled her closer.
“I wish we could always be like this,” she whispered into his sleeve.
“I know.” Nathan pulled her in closer. “Me too.”
He’d lied, of course. If he’d wanted them to be together, he’d be here now. He’d have answered her letter. He’d have looked at Honor’s picture and recognized himself.
The downstairs doorbell rang.
Tia pushed the buzzer to give Bobby entry. As she waited for him to climb the winding stairs, she finished the glass of wine she’d poured, and then stuck the glass in the cabinet, unwashed, so he wouldn’t see either the dirty glass or a freshly washed one. After she swished mouthwash straight from the bottle.
The tentative sound of Bobby knocking bothered Tia. She’d said yes to him, so why did he tap at her door as though maybe she’d forgotten he was coming? If Nathan had brought out Tia’s softer side, she feared that Bobby might bring out the opposite.
Bobby wore a suit while Tia wore jeans and a simple silk shirt. Their clothes announced how much more this meant to him than it did to her. Tia hated the inequity, an elephant hulking in the room.
“Sorry.” Tia gestured at her outfit. “I thought we were going local.”
“No, no—it’s my fault. I didn’t tell you.” His cheeks blazed. Poor strawberry-blond Bobby and his telltale skin.
“Give me a minute. I’ll change.”
“No, no,” Bobby said. “You’re fine. I’ll take off my jacket.” He moved as though to shrug off his suit coat and tug off his tie.
Tia swore she saw the gears clicking in his head: Changing the night’s itinerary? Perhaps trying to think of a less fancy restaurant. She stilled him with a hand on his shoulder. “Stop. Give me five minutes.”
Tia ran to her bedroom and flipped through her wardrobe. She fingered the white conception dress buried deep in the back of her closet for a moment—still so beautiful, but unwearable, reeking of unrequited love. She chose a black shift and dressed it up with her mother’s only good pieces of jewelry, now Tia’s only treasures: the lover’s knot gold earrings that her father had bought her mother and a filigreed locket holding faded photos of her grandparents.
• • •
They sat in leather chairs studded with brass buttons. The Oak Room at Copley Plaza was a place for celebrations of high order: engagements, movie deals, dream job offers. Bobby made his intentions all too clear.
This room was as dim as the bar where she’d danced with Nathan, but Nathan’s bar held a yellowed darkness; here luminous rosiness warmed every corner. Chandeliers reflected ornate carved paneling and a tapestry of red-toned fabrics.
“I sold a condo today,” Bobby said. “Totally redone, a loft for an artist. Good light. Sold it for big money, especially for today’s market.”
“I thought the market was down,” Tia said.
“Southie’s still strong as fuck.” Bobby turned tomato again. “Excuse me.”
“Bobby. You don’t have to apologize for saying ‘fuck.’ ” She rolled her eyes in exaggerated impatience. “So why’s Southie still—”
“For one thing, the waterfront. It’s a limited resource.”
It was difficult for Tia to connect the real-estate-rich area Bobby described with the place where she’d come of age. “I suppose you’re right,” she said.
“There are incredible opportunities.” He started to put out his hand, as though to take hers, and then drew back. “You won’t believe this huge building deal—way upscale—that I’m putting together.”
“It just seems like they’re taking over everything,” she said.
“ ‘They?’ ” Bobby smiled. “Why are the ones who move away always the most nostalgic?”
“Nobody who grew up there can afford to buy a house.”
“What? The neighborhood’s supposed to cater to the laziest?”
“Not being able to afford half a million dollars for two bedrooms makes you lazy?”
The waiter interrupted with the drinks they’d ordered. Tia practically drained the glass with her first taste. She felt far too sober.
Bobby raised his glass. “To our first fight.”
Tia cringed at his words. She raised her glass. “To your first million.”
• • •
Tia slunk past Katie’s desk, ignoring her glare and theatrical glance at her watch. Katie considered tardiness a major character flaw.
Katie didn’t ask how Tia’s weekend had been, and Tia didn’t ask how the new wallpaper in Katie’s bathroom had turned out. Despite the fact that their desks were at right angles, forcing them to work hard to avoid staring at each other all day, they performed a well-rehearsed dance of pretending they possessed a modicum of privacy.
After a morning of client meetings and endless phone calls up and down the ranks of city and state bureaucracies, Tia shuffled through papers on her desk until she found her growing to-do list on a lined yellow pad. She refused to commit the list to her computer, because once it went electronic, she couldn’t crumple, rip, shred, or otherwise remove it from the earth like she could paper. Didn’t they show that on Law & Order all the time? Deleted folders apparently lived in tiny wrinkles and crevices of computers that nontech mortals never found.
March To-Do:
Apt inspection for Mrs. Jankowicz
Possible homes for Grahams?
Roundtable meeting—host in April
Remind Katie of inter-agency Senior Fair
Walker Foundation Grant
AA for Jerry Conlin—find JP meetings
Mr. O’Hara eating?
Tia stared at the list. She updated it by crossing out “March” and writing “April” on top of the page.
Tia wished she could spend her days taking her clients to fun places. Here you go, Mrs. G, we’re having lunch on Newbury Street! Look Mr. O’Malley, time to check out the new Grisham from the library! Hey, Mrs. Kuffel, a new Adam Sandler film!
Mrs. Kuffel was eighty-nine, lived alone, and Adam Sandler was her celebrity pretend grandson.
Tia loved her clients but hated too much of her job. She hated the constant paperwork, the reports, the interagency bullshit, and the grant applications her boss Richard passed down the line to her and Katie.
Richard’s laziness strained Katie’s and Tia’s workload. He tested their patience daily. Tia was convinced that Richard had worked exactly hard enough to reach his position only so that he could then put his feet up on the desk and do next to nothing. Tia believed those “morning meetings” that kept him out of the office until noon or later were appointments with his computer, caving in to his fantasy football add
iction.
Katie rustled around, and Tia ignored her.
“I’m leaving,” Katie said.
Her clipped words drove a nail into Tia’s growing headache. She looked up to see Katie wrapped in her trench coat, sunglasses in hand, ready to ward off both rain and wrinkle-inducing rays.
“You have a meeting?” Tia asked.
“I have to see Natasha’s teacher.”
Tia simply stared, saying nothing, leading Katie into a rush of defensive words.
“She’s had issues with unexplained fears. I don’t know what’s going on. She’s had night terrors. Been stuffing herself with food. In secret. I found an entire sleeve of Chips Ahoy! under her bed.”
Tia ached at the thought of the little girl, but her jealousy at Katie’s being able to worry out loud about her daughter overwhelmed the ache and brought out Tia’s lesser self. “When will you be back?”
“Come back?” Katie stuck her sunglasses on top of her head, pushing back her perfectly Newbury Street styled hair. “By the time I got back, it would be time to leave.”
“Why’d you make the appointment so early?” Tia wanted to stop the flow of bitchy words, but she couldn’t help herself. Her mother kept telling her to watch her temper. But she never learned, did she? “One day,” her mother had said. “One day it will be too late.”
“For goodness’ sake, you waltzed in here at, like, ten o’clock.” Katie pulled her coat tight.
“It was nine thirty, and I fully intend to work until five thirty. Plus, I have a late meeting with a client. A home visit,” Tia lied.
“What’s wrong with you?” Katie asked. “This is important, my appointment.”
Tia completely agreed with Katie. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she stop doing this?
“Anyway, isn’t Richard coming in?” Katie asked.
Tia screwed her face into an expression indicating the pointlessness of thinking that might be a possibility. “You know how hard it is to handle the phones alone and try to get work done.” She shook her to-do list at Katie. “Look at this list.”
“Tia, you don’t understand the strain I’m under. Why are you doing this?”
Tia shut herself off from Katie’s accusatory eyes. Tia had gone too far. Another thing her mother had tried to teach her: “Tia, don’t try to make other people look bad so you look better. Just be a better girl, honey.”
Tia’s mother had a natural kindness even when she was too exhausted to do anything particularly nice. Tia worried that her own personality had come from her father’s side. Her mother called his family a bitter-edged bunch. She didn’t want to be bitter-edged. “Sorry, Katie. I . . . I’m sorry.”
“Motherhood isn’t a side job. Maybe someday you’ll understand.” Katie lifted her pocketbook higher on her shoulder and turned away.
“Oh, forget about it,” Tia muttered.
“What did you say?”
“Just go, okay?” In truth, Tia was thrilled to see Katie leave. She wanted to be alone.
“This is an office, not a bar. You need to remember that. If I have to, I’ll talk to Richard about this. I can’t have you take out your nasty moods on me.”
“Come, on, Katie. We all get in moods around here.”
“Not like you do. I mean it, Tia. I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but you better watch your step.”
• • •
Two hours later, Tia heard a knock on the wall outside her open office door. Before she could answer, Richard peeked in, showing first his shaggy head of hair, then his thick glasses and scruffy beard. Richard still lived sometime around 1979—even staying true to aged leather sandals that drew one’s eyes right to the disgusting sight of his hairy toes.
“I hear you gave Katie a hard time.” Richard crossed his arms over his paunch. “She called me almost in tears.”
“Did you hear that she left at lunchtime and stuck me with everything?”
“She told me she had a thing with the kids.” Richard looked at her over his smudged glasses.
“She made an appointment with her daughter’s teacher. Why couldn’t she schedule it later?”
Tia’s whining embarrassed her. She sounded like a fifth grader telling on someone. Besides, Richard was the king of leaving early. As far as Richard was concerned, if they met with their clients and didn’t set fires in the trash cans, everything was A-OK.
Richard took a deep breath. “I think you know I try to run this agency in a caring way. I extend to you the same understanding and flexibility as I do to Katie.”
Tia slammed her pen down. “I’m sick of kids being an excuse for anything and everything. The holy mantle of motherhood comes up, and it’s ‘Take over, Tia. Katie has to change a diaper!’ ”
Richard looked puzzled and wary. “Parenthood requires certain sacrifices.”
“Why do I always have to be the one to sacrifice?”
Richard looked at the silent phone, at Katie’s immaculate desk, and Tia’s pile of papers. “Are you overloaded?”
“That’s not the point.” Tia thought she might cry from not knowing what the point was.
Richard closed his eyes and stood very still for a moment, as though he were going into some yogi trance. With his eyes still closed, he said, “Why don’t you go home? Take the rest of the day off. I’ll handle the phones.”
CHAPTER 11
Tia
The scene with Katie and Richard replayed in a loop as Tia hunched against the wind. Once again she’d gotten caught up in the drama of her own anger. Nathan hated when she got in this mood. It was a stylized fight: She’d lash out at him for not being able to commit to her, and then he’d put up his hands, palms out, stagy as hell, as though to ward her off.
They’d been together two months when she first started asking about his so-called intentions. She was still asking when he left her a year after they met. Maybe she’d pushed too early, too much.
“Let it go for the moment,” he’d repeat. “Just let us be. It will work out.”
Looking back, she wondered how she could have been so naïve. Love had blinded her to the obvious meaning of his words: “Please shut up and join me in denial.”
She’d been convinced that he loved her. Had it been her imagination?
“I never meant to fall in love with you,” he’d once said.
“What did you mean to do?” Was he saying that, in fact, he didn’t love her, and never meant to? Her smile had been stiff with worry. She’d loved him right from the beginning. Smart. Protective. Passionate about his work; about the world. Nathan was a style of man she’d never known. By conversation and car, he took her to exotic places she’d never known existed so close to Southie.
How did he get the time to take her to places like the Fruitlands Museum in Lincoln? Had he been so drawn to her that he’d overcome his guilt at leaving his wife and sons for an entire day, or simply wanted an escape from them?
Shouldn’t he have been at the beach with them, rather than spending time with her at Fruitlands, the short-lived once-communal home of Louisa May Alcott’s family?
Tia had worked hard to push away those thoughts on that hot July afternoon. She’d spread out the blanket Nathan told her to pack. He laid out his offerings of fruit, cheese, and crackers as he explained transcendentalism. Like the ideas he offered, the food he brought was new to her parochial tastes. Sensuous slices of papaya replaced the crunch of apples. Gorgonzola spread on crostini seemed unrelated to the Swiss cheese on Ritz crackers she’d eaten since childhood.
“These days, people hold weddings here,” he said. “Back then, when it was formed, this place was incredibly radical. A commune. A place where they’d plan to separate themselves from the economics of the country, grow their own food, make all their goods—and practice what they preached.”
Tia knew Nathan wanted her to ask questions. He loved showing off his knowledge, which was fine with her. It excited her to see how much he knew. “And what did they preach?”
“And this is where she grew up, Louisa May Alcott?”
“Actually, her family only stayed for about seven months, but those seven months really marked them.”
She wiped her hands clean of papaya juice and lay back on the soft Tartan wool. Only one pure white cloud broke the clean blue sky. Nathan lay beside her and took her hand. She traced the calloused ridge along his right index finger. “From marking papers,” he’d joke when she called his hands masculine.
Rolling on her side, she offered the small swell of her hip. He traced the line of her thigh with his fingers.
She’d cried the first time they’d made love.
“What’s wrong?” he’d asked while wiping the tears from her cheek. “Did I hurt you? Did I make you sad?”
“It’s because you made me happy.” She didn’t know how to explain her fear that she’d never be able to hold on to the happiness she’d just found. “I don’t know where this can go.”
And for the first time of many times, he’d said, “Let it go”—kindly, but still the words hurt. He’d asked the impossible, as though she had any control over the monkeys who started to chatter in her head from the first time he left her apartment.
Monkey number one said the same thing any random Southie woman would say if Tia stopped her on the street:
He’ll never leave her.
He’s feeding you a line of bull.
Monkey number two was Tia’s mother.
Honey, what you’re doing is a sin.
Why don’t you find a good man, one who doesn’t lie and cheat? Do you think your face will last forever? Claim your prize while you still have bait.
Monkey number three had been Nathan’s wife.
The Comfort of Lies: A Novel Page 10