by Sheri Langer
The house with the too-steep stairs had sold quickly. She and Gil hit the market at just the right time and netted a huge profit. Gil was more than ready to show the world how important he was.
“This is it,” Gil said when they arrived at Mont Blanc Estates.
Since they’d been to a dozen houses he didn’t like, Fordham was prepared to make an effort. It was, however, tough. “Do they do anything other than cobblestone driveways? And with all those security cameras, I’ll feel like I can’t step outside to get the mail without putting on makeup.” When she saw the house itself, she said, “This place doesn’t feel homey, Gil. It feels tense. Like people throw tantrums more than they do parties.” Fordham had hoped to get her husband’s attention. She’d succeeded.
“Stop being such a snob. You’re condemning these people because they’re rich.”
“It isn’t that. It’s just a feeling.”
“I want it, Fordham. And it’ll be great for Whitty.”
Which really meant, Get used to it. We’re moving. A month later, the papers were signed, and the house was theirs.
FORDHAM’S PHONE WAS buzzing, and she grabbed it before it woke Whitty. It was Gil again. A very small part of her was glad that she still hadn’t taken off her makeup. She clicked on the call, but it was dark, and she could barely see him. She went into the kitchen for privacy.
“I had a date, and I’m still awake,” she said, realizing she sounded more like a child than she had intended.
“I’m not playing games,” Gil said unconvincingly.
“Sure. What do you want?”
“Whitty.”
“She’s sleeping. Now it’s two in the morning here, but I’ll spare you the obscenities.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Gil sounded businessman serious. “I was thinking about it when we hung up, and it would be good for Whitty to come live with me. I got the bucks, and she could experience another culture.”
“I work full-time. I’ll take her out for Mediterranean food more often.”
“You’re afraid to ask her,” Gil said.
Fordham hadn’t seen that one coming. Maybe he had a point. She and Whitty were close, but the allure of a whole new world could be an offer too appealing to pass up.
“She needs consistency, not just joyrides in a Ferrari or whatever you’re doing there.” Fordham found a moldy lemon in the refrigerator and chucked it out the side door into the yard. “We’ve been down this road before. My uncle still works for the IRS, and you still have plenty to hide. Give it up.”
“You’re jealous. I make good money—I get it. That’s why you’re threatening me. But think about it, because it sounds like you’re busy with work, screwing around, and whatever. You could use the break.”
“Thank you for caring, Gil. I really find it touching.”
“What can I say? I’m a good guy.”
“I gotta go. The cat just threw up for me.”
FORDHAM SANK BACK INTO the couch. Ella, their frisky tabby, leapt into her lap to get to the remnants of her ice cream. After a few licks, she was purring and gave Fordham an affectionate nudge. Fordham kissed Ella’s nose before the cat jumped away to pursue a fly. Fordham clicked off the movie and realized she had to stop dredging up the past every time she watched a happy ending. Sure, she was lonely, but she had made the right decision, and it was foolish to get maudlin just because she hadn’t found the right man. More importantly, she had email to read and a book to edit. The quicker she got through the submissions, the sooner she would be done with this project. At the last check, there hadn’t been much to choose from. She printed out a few to have a closer look.
Her cell phone buzzed, and she shuddered at the notion of going another round with Gil. She was ready to dance when she realized it was Evie calling.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, don’t kill me,” Evie said. “Marv just interrupted my afterglow for an emergency. Paul’s sister fell on the dance floor and broke her tooth. Did you meet her? Paul’s not even back yet.” Evie’s voice got higher. “Oh my God, Fordham. Are you with him?”
“No, I’m not with him! The date’s over. I met his sister. I met his uncle. I chatted with his aunt. My evening is beyond complete.”
“So on a scale of one to ten...?”
“I swear, Evie, no numbers. None. Is that why you called—to find out if I was with Paul?”
“No, that isn’t why I called, but if you wanted to tell me something, I’d listen.”
“There’s nothing to tell. He was everything I expected him to be, and we really don’t have to do this again.” Fordham was scanning the submissions as Evie spoke.
“Fine. Whatever. Listen, I just got tickets to R.E.M. for tomorrow night. A patient of Marv’s can’t go, and Marv isn’t into it. Wanna go?”
“Yes. But I can’t. Sorry. I barely have time to go to the bathroom, much less a concert. Actually, if you have time, I want to read you a funny submission.”
“Good. I could use a laugh.”
“Okay. Her name is Wendi.” Fordham began to read. “I was at my wit’s end with the dating scene. At forty-five, I had exhausted every possibility for a human relationship. I preferred my cats. They didn’t give me a hard time as long as they were fed. The guys I had been choosing were losers. And worse, I allowed each of them to hurt me in his own special way.”
“Oh, yeah. This is really hysterical,” Evie said. “Tell me when she puts the razor blade to her wrist.”
“It’s going to get better. So shhh.” Fordham continued to read. “I did some soul-searching to figure out what message I was really sending out to men. Based on my experiences, what did they see as my wish list? What I discovered was truly appalling, but for fun, I decided to make it public. I wanted to keep it very low-key, so I selected a totally obscure dating service. This was my post: Are you seemingly calm and charming on the outside but seething uncontrollably inside? Do you take refuge in mind-altering substances? If so, we must talk. I am a single forty-five-year-old woman seeking an obvious control freak who brings new meaning to the word ‘critical.’ If you have a problem with the way I breathe, all the better. Your disdain is my ambrosia.”
“She must have known Gil,” Evie said.
Fordham definitely wasn’t ready to get into any of that part of her evening. She continued with the woman’s ad. “Insensitivity and an overall cynicism toward humanity are crucial. A hot temper and a rebellious, stubborn streak make me cream. If you’re too self-absorbed to think you’re not self-absorbed, we must meet for an evening of empty, meaningless sex.”
“I’m telling you, Fordham, it sounds like she was dating Gil.”
Fordham shushed her and read the next part. “Also, make sure you have an array of cute mannerisms and catchphrases for when we meet. I am totally shallow and get sucked in by inane bullshit all the time. Please, please call now. Begging is one of my specialties.
“PS. Anyone who responds to this is either sicker than I am or has one hell of a sense of humor. Since I can never tell the difference, let’s talk!”
“Pretty funny,” Evie said. “Is there more?”
“A little.” Fordham went back to the page to read the conclusion. “Man, was I shocked when Pierre, a normal, wonderful Parisian living in Paramus, New Jersey, contacted me. He said I had the funniest, most sincere profile he had ever read. We met almost a year ago and have been together ever since. Last night, he proposed! There really is a lid for every pot. My story needs to be shared.”
“That was great,” Evie said. “But be honest. Did you write it?”
“No, of course not,” Fordham said. “I wouldn’t do that, and besides, I don’t know any men from Paramus.”
“It really does sound like this woman had a relationship with Gil.”
“Who knows, and who cares? She belongs to Pierre now. Anyway, I have to go back to my big push on the submissions. Have fun at the concert.”
Fordham returned to her pile of papers. They wer
e stacked by age group, and the pile for the over-forty set was substantially thicker than the others. She continued to read the submissions, and once again, the over-forty pile grew. It seemed the book was trying to tell her there needed to be a shift in direction. She would have to discuss it with Abe.
She let Whitty stay on the couch and covered her with an extra blanket. As Fordham headed to her room, she shut down her phone.
Chapter Ten: The Draw-Blank Redemption
Fordham was tired—crazy, wicked tired. A row of empty coffee cups lined her desk like trophies on a mantel. And if anyone asked about the dark rings under her eyes, she planned to say it was a new MAC shadow in asphalt gray. Call me a trendsetter. It was a little before eight, and she had already been at the office for two hours. She polished off her fifth cup of coffee and read over yet another submission. Somehow, they were reproducing spontaneously, and most of them still weren’t worth her time. She was happy to hear a distracting noise.
“Hello.” Abe was holding a briefcase and a bag of bagels.
“Morning!” Fordham said, meeting him in the hallway and grabbing the bag out of his hand as she followed him into his office.
“What are you doing here at this hour?” Abe raised his eyebrows as Fordham dunked a salt bagel into her coffee as if it was a doughnut.
“My brain keeps asking me the same thing. Maybe it was the stormy weather, but I got so many submissions over the weekend that my inbox is rejecting new mail.” She laughed at her double entendre.
Abe flinched.
“Sorry. It was a crazy weekend,” she added quickly.
“Sounds like it. But not my business. Fordham, I have to tell you something you’re not going to like very much.”
“L’Oréal stopped making Voluminous in Very Black?”
“The date has been moved up.”
“What date? I told Evie, and I’ll tell you: no more dates!”
“The book. It has to be finished by Valentine’s Day or—”
“Or what?” She ripped off a piece of her bagel. If it weren’t mid-September, she would have guessed it was April Fool’s Day and this joke was on her.
And Margo had whined about a summer completion date being tight. Close to a year was the norm for editors to compile information, compose, edit, and decide on layout and cover. Fordham was near tears. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to hear it. I have no idea how I’m going to give this any more of myself than I’ve been giving it, Abe.”
“Fordham, you can do this. You’ll eat, sleep, and breathe submissions. Work in the bathroom if you have to. You’re very talented, and this is just the thing to get you out of your comfort zone.”
“Abe, out of my comfort zone is ordering ziti for lunch instead of a garden salad.”
“Do you think I would’ve given you this project if I weren’t one-hundred-fifty-percent sure you could do it?”
“Yes, especially after everyone else said no.”
“False. Stop being so negative.” He moved around some papers on his desk. “Really, Fordham, do you think I’m some kind of an idiot?”
“How truthful do you want me to be?” she said with a smirk.
“Funny. I’d like to say you get your sarcasm from me, but I can’t take credit. Listen to me. You are a smart, sensitive woman with a good head on your shoulders—just the kind of person I need for this project. You’ve been wading in the shallow end of the water for too long. It’s time to jump in and swim.” Abe handed her a bunch of files containing cover designs for upcoming books in the series.
A memory distracted her as she riffled through the papers. Swim, honey. Come on, Fordie, you can do it. Come swim to Daddy.
She’d been five, almost six, when they went to the Nevele Grand Hotel in the Catskills to celebrate her parents’ anniversary. She spent most of the time in the camp program they ran for guests, but when it was swim time, she refused to participate. She didn’t hate the pool, but there was something about it that scared her. The bottom was too far away, and she feared her feet wouldn’t be able to stay firmly planted. If she wasn’t careful, the weight of the water would carry her off or swallow her whole.
She didn’t mind sitting on the steps, but that was as far as she was willing to go. Her father, who had won medals for his high school swim team, refused to watch his daughter sit on the sidelines. He spent hours with her from morning to night, teaching her different strokes, carrying her in his arms at different depths, getting her used to the feel of the water in a tube she called Myrtle the Turtle. Dorie didn’t mind. She brought her crossword puzzles and occasionally would get in the pool, too, but most of the time, she seemed content to just watch.
By the end of the week, Fordham could swim without a tube, and not just to Arnie but to the other end of the pool as well. Finally, she could go to camp and stay for swim time. Everyone would be so surprised and impressed. But Arnie got some phone call, and their vacation was cut short. Dorie wasn’t sure why. Arnie, a professor, said it was something about a program he was running at the college. He was apologetic and told Fordham he would take her swimming when they got home. But by then, his mood had shifted, and Fordham’s glory in conquering the water had turned to mud.
“Fordham, you can go,” Abe said, shuffling a stack of papers in his hand.
Fordham, still deep in memories, ignored his cue.
“What?” he asked, sounding guilty. “Something else is bothering you. You’re crinkling your nose and furrowing your brow. It’s subtle, but it’s there.”
“No, nothing. Something you said reminded me of a guy I used to know,” she said, finishing the last of the bagel.
“Considering how many guys you’ve known, I hope he was one of the more interesting ones.”
“He was,” she said wistfully.
“Good. Then get back to work. Myra and I are leaving early. You know, that cockamamie conference to get me to do something I’m not interested in doing.”
This time, Abe handed her an everything bagel—a subtle doughy reminder of what was at stake. She wanted to grab it like a gauntlet, but she was still stuck sitting on the steps of the pool.
Fordham stood in front of Abe’s office and watched him strut down the hall, focused and confident. This was a man who would happily boast that no one could describe him as enigmatic. He knew who he was and was comfortable with what he believed he could and couldn’t expect from himself and others. He always shot from the hip, so like it or not, everyone always knew where they stood.
She mindlessly gobbled an oversized piece of the bagel as she watched Abe disappear into the lounge and winced in guilt when she imagined how life might have been if he’d been her father instead of Arnie. Dragging herself through the muck of her disappointments was unproductive, but she couldn’t control the impulse to keep doing it. Her cheeks flushed with a familiar suppressed rage. Somehow, her father had managed to be two different men, and her mother had been so enamored by one that she’d remained oblivious to the other.
Fordham wished she could be distracted by some gorgeous male model who was in town for a photo shoot. She was a grown woman. It was time to let go of the draining issues of her past and move on. But she couldn’t. Perhaps there was some unwritten law that said that as long as she had to struggle in her professional life, her personal life was fair game as well.
To calm down, Fordham tried the ujjayi breathing technique she’d learned from a yoga app. She returned to her office a few minutes later, feeling recharged and ready to tackle whatever the day had in store. But there were some things that didn’t include.
Margo had called, at least according to a neon-pink sticky note affixed earlier to her computer screen by Myra. She was “hunting for a wedding dress, darling” and would love Fordham’s opinion on a few she’d picked out. Fordham tossed the memo in the trash can. The idea that Margo wanted her input was ridiculous. The woman never appreciated her fashion sense. Her favorite observation had been, “Darling, you don’t always have to blend in with
the office décor. Everyone already knows you belong here.”
Maybe this was her passive-aggressive idea of an apology. Fordham wanted no part in dispensing advice. But the vision of Margo’s flamboyance translated into a wedding gown was too tempting to let slide. Fordham would love to see her friend saunter down the aisle in a big, poofy nightmare that would live on in cocktail party conversation for years to come. No, she wouldn’t really let that happen... but she might... no, of course she wouldn’t.
As she debated with herself, Fordham perused her inbox. And there it was, tucked in among more no-doubt useless submissions: Margo’s email with attachments. She clicked on it.
On the screen were four of the most stunning, tasteful wedding dresses she had ever seen. Margo had not only managed to find a husband, but she had also found the perfect look to celebrate the event. Fordham sighed at her own immature jealousy. She wasn’t angry with Margo for dumping the project in her lap—she was angry with her for finding love when all Fordham could find was an endless run of first-and-last dates.
Grow up, she told herself and sent Margo an email congratulating her on the selections and assuring her that any of them would be spectacular even with baby weight. Since spectacular was not a word Fordham would ever use lightly, Margo would feel particularly complimented, and Fordham’s guilt would be assuaged.
She checked the new submissions. Only one was promising, but after checking her phone, she decided to review it later. There was a text from Whitty, reminding her that Dorie had an appointment and couldn’t pick her up from school after poetry workshop. Fordham knew that if she reflected on it long enough, she would hate how much she depended on her ten-year-old to take care of herself. She settled on the notion that self-reliance was an admirable trait and that Whitty was lucky to be indoctrinated early.