Love-Lines

by Sheri Langer

She went to stand in the hall by the kitchen to hear what had was making her mother cackle. No matter how well-adjusted Dorie seemed, it was obvious she missed her old life. She missed Arnie. Fordham could hear it in the lilt of her voice whenever she said his name. To Dorie, he would always be her knight in shining armor, no matter what he had done to dull and corrode the finish. And Gloria, the most outspoken person on the planet, said that Dorie was lucky to have had a man so crazy in love with her that he forgot about everything else just to try to make her happy.

  Fordham wondered if she was the crazy one to think her father’s reckless abandonment had more dire consequences. Dorie couldn’t pay her bills or have a roof over her head by simply holding onto the memory of love. But Fordham had already said her piece more than once, and it was time to make her peace with her mother’s choices. Nothing was going to change the past. Luckily, she was managing, and she would have to respect her mother’s feelings even though she couldn’t understand them.

  It was almost dinnertime when Gloria said she had to get going. Dorie had tears in her eyes as she hugged her friend. Gloria’s life typically kept her too busy for visits, and even though Skype was better than nothing, it wasn’t the same. But this time, Gloria promised she would find a way to be around more often. She said it was her place to help Dorie move on, not by helping her forget Arnie but by encouraging her to keep her heart open to possibilities. As she was leaving, Gloria told Dorie, in her most convincing fairy-godmother voice, that she had a feeling life was going to surprise the Price women in wonderful ways. Dorie watched as Gloria’s Mercedes pulled out of the driveway.

  “Truly lucky people, like Gloria, count their blessings and make a point of being optimistic,” Dorie said, closing the door and patting Fordham on the back. “Most people I know are shallow and negative, and they take their good fortune for granted. Not everyone can turn the world on with a smile like Mary Tyler Moore. Most just grin and bitterly bear it, like many of the women in my group, whose names I will not mention. They have nothing better to do than worry about the off chance that Villeroy and Boch will discontinue their china patterns. I’m telling you, Fordham, most people have no inclination to wish others well.” And with that, Dorie headed for her room and closed the door.

  Fordham knew Dorie was talking about the women in the Y Group, an overly Botox-enhanced crew of self-proclaimed do-gooders who would sooner stick their necks out for a chemical peel than to do anyone a favor. Shallow as the day is long, these women had never considered burning their bras or marching to promote anything but gel manicures and fake eyelashes. The few times Fordham had been around when Dorie was hosting a meeting, she could feel their beady myopic eyes scrutinizing her jeans and balking at her Nice ’N Easy ponytail. For them, a day wasn’t complete if they didn’t find time to swap gossip and antidepressants. This group wasn’t Dorie’s cup of tea, but on the rare occasion that she bought a new outfit, it was a good place to go for feedback.

  Fordham wished her mother had a friend like Gloria to share her day-to-day life with—someone like her Evie, who really understood everything she’d been through. None of these women could ever know her the way Gloria did. They’d never known her when she was in love. They never knew her on her wedding day when she stood with Arnie in front of the rabbi, hoping no one would notice her tiny baby bump. They didn’t know her when Arnie surprised her with a new house and a private tutor so she could finish her degree without having to leave her newborn. They hadn’t been around when she and Arnie went through three miscarriages after Fordham was born followed by the hysterectomy that would end their dream of having a big family.

  No, they could never know that Dorie. They only knew the present-day Dorie with the cautious heart—the one who lived with her daughter, clipped coupons, hid her disappointment in online Scrabble games, and never spoke about men or dating. The cold, hard fact was that Dorie, who had once been a vibrant, sexy woman, was nearing extinction and was being replaced by a practical, systematic automaton. And if that was where her mother was headed, Fordham had a lot to consider about her own lot in life.

  Several hours later, well after Dorie and Whitty had gone to bed and Fordham had confronted a few demons, she was thinking that a big bag of popcorn and a Diet Coke with lime had made an adequate dinner, especially when she’d indulged in such a decadent brunch. She even left her funky mood long enough to find a few more good submissions for the book. They might not be perfect, but they were good enough.

  She glanced at the wall next to her bed and mumbled a little mantra: “Dreams can come true if you believe.” She had laminated and hung a copy of her prized submission right next to her pillow and routinely read it, determined to keep her heart open. She hadn’t had the time or the nerve before, but now she decided to do it. She would to call her friend in legal and find out who had written her submission.

  Chapter Twelve: On the Daughter Front

  Halloween. A sneezing fit had Fordham searching for a tissue as a metallic rust Rogue zipped into her lane. Then a blue Civic had the same idea. They were all out that day. Maybe there’d be a full moon later to celebrate.

  “I’m too old to get dressed up like a stupid bride or something,” Whitty had complained the day before, “and what am I supposed to do with a bunch of lollipops and vampire teeth?” She’d been saying for weeks that she had no interest in trick-or-treating.

  A stupid bride. Fordham wondered if that was a slam. Regardless, she was unconvinced and had told Whitty she would come home from work early in case she changed her mind and decided to go. After a curt “Suit yourself,” Whitty had gone back to her homework.

  Ten-year-olds are coming in sassy models these days.

  Fordham stopped off at a farm stand on her way to work and picked up a couple of decorated pumpkins. If she wanted Whitty to celebrate, it was up to her to provide the inspiration. She’d considered getting her a costume but decided that would be too presumptuous. Instead, she grabbed some cider and caramel apples for the house and for the office too.

  The light was on when she got to work. Abe greeted her. “You trying to catch the worm again?” he said, checking his watch.

  “I have to leave early—Halloween. I promised Whitty I’d be home to persuade her to go trick-or-treating.”

  “Persuade her? Why? She doesn’t find going door-to-door and begging for a sugar coma fulfilling? Tell her I applaud her good sense.”

  “I just want her to be more of a kid. I think she’s missing out on a childhood.”

  “Does she watch too much television?”

  “Yes,” Fordham said emphatically.

  “Does she eat cookies right before dinner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do her clothes lie in a heap on her bedroom floor, and does she yell at you when you try to wash them?”

  Fordham nodded.

  “I wouldn’t worry,” Abe said with a reassuring smile. “She’s having a childhood.”

  “Thanks, Abe. Maybe you’re right,” Fordham said, handing him the cider.

  Adequately reassured, she spent the rest of the day buried in work, except for the call she got back from the legal department about her submission. The news was disappointing. The only information she could get out of anyone was that it had come from the Pacific Northwest, which meant the odds of her meeting him would be somewhat improved if she were an Eskimo.

  Maybe she’d try a different route, but for the moment, she was ready to call it a day. With a couple of dozen submissions in her Accept file, for the first time in weeks, she was actually making progress.

  COME THREE O’CLOCK, she rushed out the door and got into the elevator just in time to meet a masked and costumed group of politicians, mass murderers, and belly dancers. There was a big party on the eighth floor at the temp-agency office, and both Donald Trump and Freddy Krueger asked her to join them for a drink. She declined politely, but one of the belly dancers, who didn’t seem too thrilled with Trump, slapped his misguided hand away from her rear en
d. As Fordham was getting off at the ground floor, someone asked who she was supposed to be.

  She answered, “A public relations manager, but they handed me this editor’s suit instead.”

  Luckily, traffic was light, and Fordham got to the door just as Dorie was handing out peanut butter cups to a group of smiling bunnies and chicks accompanied by Old MacDonald. Whitty was lying on the couch, watching television, and even when Fordham showed her the pumpkins, she didn’t budge.

  “Cute,” she said and went back to watching the Halloween episode of Chopped Junior.

  Fordham was pleased that Whitty was at least celebrating in her own way. Dorie came in, frazzled, holding a giant empty bowl. She offered a quick hello just as the phone and doorbell rang in unison.

  “Fordham, please get that. I have to take this call.” Dorie went to the kitchen, leaving Fordham searching for treats. The bell rang again.

  “Okay, coming! Just a minute.” Fordham opened the door to find David Prince standing next to a little girl dressed as a witch. “Dr. Prince?”

  She tried to hide her elation. The man didn’t seem to have the capacity to look anything but gorgeous and smell anything but sexy.

  “David, please. And this is my daughter, Lily.”

  The insistence on her using his first name seemed like an invitation to take their relationship to the next level. Fordham could feel her palms begin to sweat.

  Fordham shook the little girl’s hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Lily. Dr. Prince, do you live around here?”

  “David,” he said warmly. “Not far. Is Whitty out collecting loot?”

  “No, she’s being a pumpkin pooper.”

  Whitty muted the TV and headed toward the door.

  “Ah, here comes the Scrooge of the jack-o’-lanterns. Whitty, look who’s here.”

  Whitty offered a small wave. “Hi, Dr. Prince. Hi, Lily. I love your costume.”

  “Where are my manners? I’m sorry. Please... come in.” Fordham didn’t know what to make of David’s surprise appearance, especially without Pam glued to his side. Maybe she’s out trick-or-treating with friends. She led them into the den and fished out packages of candy from a nearby shopping bag.

  Lily’s eyes lit up. “Thank you,” she said in a tiny voice when Whitty handed her a candy bar.

  The girl poked David with her broom, motioning that she wanted to tell him a secret. He bent down and Lily tugged at the back of his hair to whisper in his ear. He nodded and stood up.

  “Whitty, Lily wants to know if you’d like to go trick-or-treating, and I’d be happy to have you join us... if it’s okay with your mom.”

  “What a nice invitation,” Fordham said enthusiastically. “Whitty?”

  “I don’t have a costume,” Whitty said, seeming disappointed.

  “Really? You’d go?” Fordham exclaimed. “Don’t worry. We’ll figure something out.”

  “I have an idea.” Whitty got up from the couch, laboring to walk more quickly than usual toward Fordham’s room. “Mom, come on—your closet.”

  Fordham was about to follow Whitty when Dorie walked into the room. “Mom, Whitty said she’ll go trick-or-treating!”

  “Well, isn’t that nice!” Dorie said. “Good to see you again, Dr. Prince.”

  “Again?” Fordham did an about-face.

  “We met briefly at the library board meeting,” Dorie said, taking a seat.

  “Oh, well, that’s nice,” Fordham said. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m not sure what Whitty is coming up with.”

  She found Whitty in her closet but was distracted by the ongoing conversation between Dorie and David, which she could still hear.

  “You had some great ideas, Dorie. As a matter of fact, we’re going to start the Scrabble Club after the holidays. And please, call me David.”

  “Thank you, David. Glad I could help.

  “So, David, how do you like being the principal at Crestwood?”

  “Well, it’s never easy stepping into popular shoes, but I think it’s been going pretty well.”

  “Absolutely. I’ve heard only good things about you. But no one expected Lenore Hudson to retire. I think she was as surprised as anyone to get a husband for her sixtieth birthday.”

  “Lives often change in the name of love,” David said.

  “Are you married?” Dorie asked as if on cue.

  Fordham didn’t understand why her mother needed to interrogate every attractive man who crossed their doorstep. Whitty went to the bathroom, and Fordham thought about interrupting her mother, but she didn’t want to be a buzzkill. Anyway, it wasn’t that big a deal. Everyone expected mothers to be inappropriately overinvolved in the lives of their children.

  “I was—twice,” David said.

  “I lost my husband almost a year ago. It certainly isn’t easy.”

  “No, I’m sorry, it certainly isn’t.”

  Fordham returned to the matter at hand, finding the material to turn Whitty into a witch. An old black nightgown that had once been intended for an amorous evening was sitting in a Macy’s bag with the tags still attached, and a black felt hat that she and Gil had bought at the 1994 Dutchess County Fair was begging to be used for something other than collecting dust. Perfect.

  “Whitty, why did you decide to go tonight?”

  “I don’t know. I like Lily. She’s cute. You’ll be busy tonight, anyway.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You’ll either have a stupid date or be working on your book.”

  “Ouch. Guess I deserved that.”

  “I understand about the book. But let’s face it—the guys you go out with are pretty basic. The good news is, you only need three dating outfits. No one ever gets to see four.”

  “And this is my fault how?”

  “I’m not blaming you.” Whitty took a black eyeliner out of Fordham’s makeup bag, faced the mirror, and began drawing wrinkles on her cheeks. “It’s just... remember when I was little and you used to read me The Three Bears every night?”

  “Yeah?” Fordham was baffled.

  “Well, sometimes I feel like the baby bear. Mom-Mom is like the mama bear, and you’re kind of like Goldilocks. You keep trying to find something that’s just right. But there’s still no papa bear.” Whitty faced Fordham with a look of concern. “Mom, I hate to break it to you, but Prince Charming is in a different story. And in that story, he’s the one that finds the girl.”

  FORDHAM WAS STRAIGHTENING up the family room, thankful that Whitty was finally out doing something kids were supposed to do, other than criticize their parents. If she hadn’t had so much work on her plate she would have loved to tag along, but making this book work was her priority, especially if she wanted job security.

  Fordham fluffed the couch pillows and filled both bowls with more candy. Instead of dwelling on what she was missing, she thought about how Whitty was consumed with concern for her dating life. She decided it was high time for her daughter to create the chapters of her own book rather than fairy tales for her relationship-challenged mother. Besides, Fordham wasn’t trying to find Prince Charming. Evie was trying to find him for her. That had to be creating different karma.

  It wasn’t her fault all the men she’d been set up with hadn’t been marriage material. The luck of the draw kept her in a three-outfit-maximum dating position. And maybe that’s what’s meant to be, she thought as she walked into her room and glanced over at the submission on the wall.

  Thinking about romance was an impractical distraction when she needed the time to work on the book. Dorie screamed a few select curse words, and Fordham gathered that another Scrabble game was underway. Knowing Dorie, there was no chance of this feud ending till she’d beaten her rival, and from the sound of things, the competition could go on indefinitely.

  Fordham took out her phone, checked her calendar, and called Abe. She got his machine.

  “Hi, Abe, it’s Fordham. I forgot to tell you I’m going to be late tomorrow. Doctor’s appointment. You
’re not answering, which means you’re either ignoring me or being attacked by trick-or-treaters who did not appreciate your prune-juice boxes. See you around lunchtime.”

  There was a faint tap on her door. “Fordham, are you napping?”

  “Are you kidding? Come on in, Mom. It’s open.”

  “I know if you’re not sleeping, you’re working. I shouldn’t be bothering you with this.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Fordham said, seriously needing to come up for air. “What is it?”

  The next half hour involved two visits from Dorie. The first was to ascertain whether Fordham knew the word z-o-u-k. She said it was a tropical dance. The second was to subject f-a-r-t-l-e-k to the same scrutiny. It had something to do with training runners. And yes, Fordham agreed that maybe Dorie’s opponent was a plant used to taunt regular players.

  An hour after Dorie took a two-point lead on her Scrabble opponent, the doorbell rang, and Fordham found Whitty and Lily standing on the porch, pretending to be too weighed down by their Halloween bags to move. David was behind them, holding their hats.

  Standing there all scruffy with five o’clock shadow, he was unnervingly delicious. If she were a different kind of woman, Fordham might have concocted a way to get him to stay for the night, or forever, but that would be weird for Lily. And she wasn’t that kind of woman.

  They were barely in the house when Lily spotted the cat and went running after her. “Kitty!” she shrieked as her costume got caught on one of the corners of the coffee table and all her candy went flying around the room.

  She was just about to cry when Whitty cleverly tripped to pretend the same thing had happened to her. There was candy everywhere, but Lily was still more interested in the cat than anything else. She ran after her with renewed vigor as Whitty tagged closely behind.

  Fordham and David scanned the room in disbelief. They were mired in an ocean of candy, snacks, and scary little rubber toys. Neither of them made a move until they both eyed a big Nestlé Crunch bar and went for it at the same time.