“Song on the radio?” Erika frowns. “You need to start back at the beginning, Annie. I think you’ve lost me.”
“Along with my mind?”
Erika grins. “Just tell me what happened, Annie.”
Seated across a cozy candlelit restaurant table from Joyce, Thom masks his misery behind a pleasantly attentive expression.
The prospect of breaking up with her in a public place five days behind schedule is bad enough, but he can’t seem to find a polite way to interrupt her long-winded account of last night’s charity auction, which he was supposed to attend with her.
Thanks to an extended meeting to discuss another potential corporate takeover target, he had to miss the auction, as well as a scheduled dinner with Joyce the night before that when a shareholders’ meeting waylaid him. And on Monday, she was the one who canceled their plans to have dinner at his apartment. She said she had a headache, but she didn’t sound very convincing. Thom found himself wondering if she actually had a premonition that he was about to break up with her.
Then again, she shows no indication tonight that she anticipates the bombshell he’s about to drop. She’s nibbling her endive and watercress, sipping her Vernaccia di San Gimignano, and delivering a convoluted monologue to rival David Letterman’s, minus the dry wit and willing, captivated audience.
As Joyce prattles on about authentic Chippendale chairs and Mitzi Longenbacker’s manicure, Thom finds himself wishing he were anywhere other than in this charming East Side bistro with this svelte blond beauty.
Okay, he might as well admit it: He’d prefer to find himself in a shabby cottage out east with a widowed waitress.
But acknowledging, even merely to himself, that he can’t seem to get Annie Harlowe off his mind doesn’t solve the problem at hand.
Thom extracts a petal-thin sliver of beef carpaccio from its bed of chicory and crumbled Gorgonzola, pops it into his mouth, and washes it down with Brunello di Montalcino, nodding as though he’s listening intently to Joyce while wondering whether to dump her during the main course or prolong the agony—and eventual ecstacy—until dessert.
If he dumps her during the main course, he can probably rule out dessert; something she never orders anyway, and he shouldn’t necessarily allow himself this evening.
After he left Annie’s house on Sunday night, he went home and polished off the rest of the caterer’s sugar cookies.
His newly developed sweet tooth unsated, he returned to Manhattan, with its Belgian chocolatiers and Italian pastry shops and a delightful little spot called Dylan’s Candy Bar, which Thom passed every day on his way home and never noticed until now.
Wandering amidst the dazzling displays of cellophane-wrapped stickiness, Thom found himself fantasizing about bringing Milo and Trixie here for a shopping spree.
It would never happen. Of course it wouldn’t.
He would have to be content filling a small plastic box with bulk Mary Janes and Laffy Taffy, then toting it home to his lonely penthouse and munching in thoughtful solitude. He couldn’t help comparing his silent and spotless—all right, sterile—apartment with the chaotic household he encountered Sunday in Montauk.
It wasn’t the favorable comparison he might have expected. His priceless ancient Chinese pottery wouldn’t last an hour with Milo’s constant take-offs and landings, and Trixie would undoubtedly be frightened of his collection of medieval armor and the moose head mounted over the fireplace in the den, courtesy of an inheritance from his paternal taxidermy fetishist.
Yes, and both children would surely leave a trail of crumbs on the white carpets, smudges on the ivory upholstery, fingerprints all over the custom-made curved, blue-tinted floor-to-ceiling windowpanes overlooking the roof garden and terrace. Heck, if the kids decided to play catch indoors, the way they did after dinner Sunday night before their mother put a kibosh on it, they might even break a custom-made glass pane or two, which at a couple hundred grand apiece would cost a small fortune to replace.
Not that Thom doesn’t have a small fortune to squander. Or a large one, for that matter.
The Harlowes’ bare cupboards, worn clothing, and threadbare home didn’t escape his attention. In fact, for the past few days, whenever he isn’t stressing about Joyce or work, he’s daydreaming about what he—and his money—can do for the underprivileged trio.
Not to mention what he—and his raging libido—can do for the unwillingly celibate Annie.
Okay, obviously Thom’s sweet tooth isn’t the only thing left frustratingly unsated in the wake of Sunday’s fleeting indulgences. Obviously, he’s developed a . . . a crush.
A crush on a waitress.
Isn’t that convenient?
It takes little more than pop psychology 101 to figure that one out, Thom thinks wryly as one waiter clears away appetizers, another refills water goblets, and Joyce yammers on without missing a beat.
Nothing like a grown man exhibiting good old-fashioned adolescent rebellion against his overbearing mother.
Nothing like a seasoned corporate raider setting his sights on the one acquisition that’s well beyond his reach.
Well, he’s one step ahead of his unsuitably infatuated inner self. He understands exactly why he thinks he has feelings for Annie Harlowe, and knows precisely what he should do about them.
Absolutely nothing.
By the time Annie reaches the part about hearing “Hello, It’s Me,” in the car on her way to Thom Brannock’s estate, she’s been interrupted several times by the children.
Naturally, once they’ve discovered Auntie Erika’s presence—and presents—Milo and Trixie begin an annoying ritual of popping in and out of the room to climb on her lap and leave chocolate fingerprints on her white linen suit and model their new T-shirts and beg to go to the beach with their new towels.
Finally, Annie banishes them to their rooms—but not before Auntie Erika promises to play Don’t Break the Ice with Milo and make some braids in Trixie’s hair.
Left alone with her friend again at last, Annie decides to leave out the details about losing her wedding ring and Thom Brannock dropping by to return it. No need to go there. At least, not aloud.
Never mind that he’s haunting her thoughts as effectively as Andre’s ghost.
Annie simply concludes her account with a matter-of-fact, “I think that if I didn’t imagine it, and it really was Andre’s voice I heard, he was trying to send me a message.”
“The message being . . .” Erika assumes a low-pitched, phantom monotone, droning, “Take the catering job, Annie.”
“Hey! I wasn’t kidding around,” she protests, but she can’t help chuckling. It does seem vaguely . . . absurd.
“Don’t get me wrong, Annie. I mean, I understand what you’re getting at, but you have to admit that it seems kind of . . .”
“What? Out there?”
“A little.” Erika smiles.
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you. So what’s the verdict? You don’t think my husband is popping up from beyond the grave to prod me to get off my butt and earn some extra bucks?”
“Well, I guess stranger things can happen . . .”
“Yeah, especially in my famous imagination,” Annie says ruefully.
“You don’t think you imagined it, Annie.”
“No. I don’t. And I think that what Andre was trying to tell me is that he’s not really gone. That he’s still here, with me and the kids. He made me take that catering job so that I would get into the car and turn on the radio, because I never play it in the house anymore. And he knew I would hear that particular song, and that I’d connect it to him, and the phone call . . .”
Catching sight of Erika’s dubious expression, Annie says, “Listen, I know it’s far-fetched. I know you probably think I’m crazy. I guess I even think I’m a little crazy.”
“You’re not crazy, Annie.”
“Is that an official diagnosis?”
Erika laughs.
Annie, lost in thought again,
does not. “Maybe I just really need it to be true,” she muses. “You know, that Andre still exists somewhere, on some level. Maybe I need to know that so desperately that my subconscious made up the whole phone call thing.”
“Maybe,” Erika agrees, and Annie’s heart plummets.
She wants Erika to tell her that it really happened, dammit. That it can happen again. That if she dials Andre’s cell phone right now, he’ll pick up on the other end and talk to her.
All right . . . if that’s what you believe, why haven’t you dialed the number since last Saturday?
She knows only too well why she hasn’t.
Because as long as she holds off on actually dialing Andre’s number again, she can almost convince herself that it’s possible he might answer.
The second she calls and gets nothing but his voice mail, she’ll know it wasn’t real.
So in other words, Annie, you prefer indefinitely deluding yourself over returning to your daily habit of dialing a dead man’s cell phone?
She shakes her head. Either way, she’s a potential institutionalizee.
Picturing herself in a straitjacket and locked up in an asylum, Annie finds herself almost enamored of the idea. Pure solitude, no clutter, no decisions about what she can possibly find to wear each day, free meals . . .
“Why are you laughing?” Erika asks.
“Who knows? I really think this single-parenting thing is getting to me. Maybe I need a vacation.”
Yeah. To, say, a lush tropical beach resort in the Virgin Islands. Or a cushy padded cell.
“Leave the kids with me and get away for a few days,” Erika offers promptly, not for the first time.
“I can’t possibly do that,” Annie protests, not for the first time.
“Why not?”
Because fatherless children need their mother 24-7, and because she doesn’t have the money for a vacation, and because of a thousand other reasons she frequently enumerates for Erika whenever her well-meaning friend urges her to get away.
This time, in lieu of presenting her itemized “Thanks But No Thanks” list, Annie simply assures Erika, “Look, I’m really fine.”
“I know you are. But maybe you should see somebody.”
An image of hotter-than-hot Thom Brannock bursts before Annie, igniting a flash fire somewhere inside of her.
“I already told you,” she protests, squirming, “I’m definitely not interested in dating.”
Erika laughs. “I meant that you should see a therapist. I can give you some names—”
“What about your friend?”
“Which friend?”
“The one who’s writing the book.”
“You want to talk to Dr. Leaver?”
Do I? Annie asks herself, feeling as caught off-guard as Erika appears to be.
She answers her own question, and Erika’s, aloud with a noncommittal, “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Erika shrugs. “I’ll ask him if he’s willing to see you, but . . . Annie, I’m not sure he has answers to the questions you’d want to ask him.”
“I just . . . never mind. You’re right. I shouldn’t talk to him. That wouldn’t help anyway. I can’t think of anything that will, at this point.”
Other than waking up to discover that the past year has all been a bad dream.
“Therapy will help you to heal, Annie. And time. And maybe . . . falling in love again. Someday,” Erika says quickly, seeing Annie open her mouth to protest. “Not right away. But someday, I know you will be ready to date again, and when you are, you’ll find someone.”
Annie closes her eyes wearily . . . and once again, Thom Brannock’s handsome face is emblazened against her eyelids.
“No,” she says firmly, snapping them open again. “I won’t find someone. Nobody can replace Andre.”
“You aren’t married, Annie. You don’t have to feel guilty. It isn’t as though you’re cheating on your husband.”
“It feels that way to me.”
Erika is silent for a moment. Then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out her cell phone.
Terrific. Time to speed dial the loony bin.
But Erika says, “Here,” and thrusts the phone into Annie’s hand.
“What?”
“Call him.”
“Erika, I don’t even know his number.”
It’s Erika’s turn to say, “What?”
“Thom. I don’t know his number, and anyway, I can’t just—”
“Annie, I don’t know who Thom is . . . although I have a pretty good idea.” Her cool fingers graze Annie’s bare arm, and her voice is gentle as she says, “What I meant was, call Andre.”
“But—”
“If you call and you get his voice mail like you used to, you’ll be able to move on . . . at least, from wondering whether he’s out there somewhere. And if you call and he answers . . .”
“Then what?”
Erika shrugs. “Then you can tell him whatever it is that you need to say to him. Go ahead, Annie. Call.”
She stares down at the phone in her hand. “I’m afraid.”
“Do you want me to go into the other room?”
“No. Stay here. If he answers, you can hear for yourself.”
Erika nods.
But, looking into her friend’s dark eyes, Annie can see that she doesn’t believe it. Any of it.
It happened, Annie thinks with sudden, savage conviction. And I’m going to prove it.
She dials the familiar number swiftly.
Hits SEND.
Holds her breath as the line rings once . . . twice . . . three times.
“Hey—”
For a split second, hearing her husband’s voice, Annie believes that he’s speaking to her.
“—you’ve reached Andre. You know what to—”
Stricken, Annie hangs up.
“Voice mail?” Erika asks quietly.
Too upset to speak, Annie merely nods.
She doesn’t know what she was expecting. Of course it was his voice mail. Of course he’s not out there, answering his phone from some other dimension. That’s as ridiculous as . . . as . . .
As Milo thinking he can fly up to heaven.
As Annie thinking a billionaire tycoon might fall in love with her.
Tears sting Annie’s eyes. She looks at the worn spot in the rug, at the peeling paint on the wall, at the crack in the windowpane . . . anywhere other than at Erika, in whose eyes she’s certain she’ll see pity.
Pity for the poor, hallucinating Widow Harlowe, who conjures telephone calls from her dead husband because she can’t accept the fact that he’s gone forever . . .
And who pretends that Thom Brannock is going to be back any second to sweep her off her feet.
I can’t help it, her own voice echoes back to her from long ago and far away. Imagination is my forte.
Finance is Thom’s forte.
Women—more specifically, conducting nonplatonic, non-professional relationships with women—are most certainly not his forte.
Which is why, try as he might, he can’t get Annie Harlowe off his mind. The darned woman has persistently flitted into and out of his head all the way through the palate-cleansing mango sorbet and his main course of veal medallions with wild mushrooms and artichoke hearts. Every time he seems to have banished her from his thoughts, she pops up again with all the persistence of Mother’s violets.
Somehow, Thom can’t entirely convince himself that his feelings for Annie Harlowe are mere rebellion on his part, courtesy of Thomas Brannock III’s gene pool.
Nor can he figure out exactly how to break the news to Joyce that she will never be anything more to him than a mere social companion.
Nonetheless, now that the main course has been cleared away, he really must proceed with the breakup agenda.
Joyce doesn’t order dessert, but she does order a cup of herbal tea.
“What about you, darling?” she asks Thom, as the waiter hovers overhead. “Are you going to hav
e some tea?”
“No, but I will have baked Alaska, and a cup of coffee.”
“Decaf?” the waiter asks.
“Caf,” Thom replies, secretly enjoying the way Joyce’s pale eyebrows disappear beneath a paler sheath of bangs.
“Should you be having caffeine so late at night?” she asks Thom, who bristles as much at the question as at the air of would-be wifely concern that delivers it.
“A little caffeine never killed anyone, Joyce.”
“That’s true, I suppose . . .”
The waiter delivers a small plate lined with tea bags.
Thom watches Joyce peruse them before selecting one and carefully reading the paper label.
“It’s definitely tea,” Thom can’t resist saying.
“Oh, I know that. But I wanted to make sure there’s no caffeine.”
“Didn’t you order herbal?”
“Yes, but some herbal teas contain caffeine.”
Why does he react to such an innocuous comment the way he would to Styrofoam squeaking against Styrofoam?
Because this relationship has dragged on long enough, that’s why. Health-conscious, philanthropic, polite and drop-dead gorgeous Joyce is getting on his nerves, dammit.
Especially when his dessert arrives and she shakes her head sadly, saying, “Baked Alaska? Darling, that’s loaded with calories and fat and carbohydrates.”
“All of my favorite ingredients,” Thom replies affably, deciding not to wait until after dessert to deliver marriage-minded Joyce to her unwed doom. He has no idea what he’s going to say, but if he waits until he can mentally conjure and rehearse a script, they’ll be here into the wee hours.
Baked Alaska, he concludes as the waiter departs, is a dish best served cold . . . and so is a breakup speech.
Without further ado, he plunges into both, blurting around a spoonful of iced silken sweetness, “I think we should probably break up.”
“Pardon?”
He watches Joyce lower her teacup and stare.
“I said . . .” Hunting for a more delicate way to put it, he reluctantly sets down his spoon and comes up with only, “I think we should probably break up . . . soon.”
Brilliance, Brannock. Absolute brilliance.
“Or tonight,” he amends, cursing the injections that have rendered Joyce expressionless.
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