Love-Lines

by Sheri Langer

  By the time she arrived at work, people were busy making lunch plans. She tried reaching Evie—there was so much to tell her—but the call went straight to voicemail. Oh well. She had a bag of trail mix in her desk drawer and a banana in her bag. That was good enough. She could make up the time she’d missed by working through lunch.

  She trekked briskly to her office, smiling when one of the girls ordered a corned beef on rye with extra pickles. She probably still had one in her bag. More importantly, no one noticed her, and she was relieved that she could start her day without any annoying inquiries.

  The good news was that the book was coming along. The bad news was that she didn’t see how it could be finished by Abe’s decreed deadline. She took out a stack of papers and brought her notes up on the computer. No matter how much time Fordham dedicated to reading, writing, and editing, there were always more lovers in the pile, waiting to be scrutinized. It wasn’t that easy to decide who would make the cut. She wondered if this was the kind of confusion the NFL went through when recruiting players. Sorry, but you made an incomplete pass.

  And Fordham couldn’t neglect her own mantra of late: this is too much for you to tackle. She’d never imagined that so many people could find love online and was even more surprised by how many of them wanted to share the details. Maybe she hadn’t given dating sites a fair chance. Counting on Evie to find her dates had yielded the runts of the litter and made her feel even more jaded about her prospects. If her love life didn’t pick up soon, she might consider writing a profile.

  She was reviewing a submission about a sex-addiction therapist who’d met her boyfriend on a site for Christian singles. The guy had been admonished by the monastery when he was literally caught with his pants down, having sex with a conflicted nun in the church pantry. The clincher was when the missing jar of honey showed up on his nightstand drawer next to a pair of handcuffs. Rather than banish him from the church altogether, he was given the option of paying penance for his wayward behavior by attending therapeutic sessions to help purge him of his evil erotic tendencies. While in therapy, he decided that he was not so much a man of the cloth as a man of the sheets, so he opted to become a chef. Apparently, the pantry had been inspiring. He joined the same dating site as the therapist, and kismet had ensued. They were getting married in the spring and believed their chance encounter was truly heaven-sent.

  Fordham was amazed that she typically didn’t have to embellish any of the material she received. Some stories, like this one, sounded sketchy, but if legal approved, she was free to move forward with them. She wasn’t sure this one was a keeper and was filing it away when her door flung open so hard that it knocked over her pencil cup. There was Evie, frazzled and peaked.

  “Hi! I have something to tell you,” both women said in a suburban Greek chorus.

  “You first,” Evie insisted.

  “Aaron Karp is in town, and I had lunch with him,” Fordham said without any telling inflection.

  “No!” Evie said, falling into a chair.

  “Yeah!” Fordham said with a Cheshire-cat grin.

  “No!”

  “Yeah!”

  “Isn’t he married?”

  “Getting divorced.”

  “How does he look?”

  Fordham gave an exaggerated sigh. “The dimples are still there when he smiles, even with his ’stache and goatee.”

  “Wow. Aaron with facial hair. So how was, uh... lunch?” Evie’s question came with a snicker and a suggestive tone.

  Fordham ignored the subtext. Evie had always liked Aaron. Like most of their friends back in high school, she’d thought Fordham and Aaron would end up together like her and Marv. When they broke up, Evie cried almost as much as Fordham had.

  “Lunch was... interesting. He wants to spend more time with me.”

  “I swear, if you end up marrying Aaron Karp—”

  “Evie, it was lunch and a stroll down memory lane, not a catered affair and a walk down the aisle.”

  “Does your mother know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you still have a roof?”

  “Just need to replace a few shingles.”

  “I can imagine. Dorie Price is not one to let anyone mess with her cubs.”

  “That’s kind of what she said in her own inimitable fashion. So what’s your news?”

  “Dylan is pregnant, and the wedding is in a few weeks!” Evie groaned.

  Dylan was Evie’s oldest child, a born rebel who blasted her mother’s conventional life and vowed she would never become an insipid member of the bourgeoisie. A confirmed individualist, she had wanted her bat mitzvah theme to be communism, but Marv put his foot down and said her point would be better served if they shipped her to school in China. She relented, and for her forty-thousand-dollar birthday party, they’d settled on the theme of Hollywood blockbusters.

  “What?” Fordham screeched, knowing she was outdone.

  “I know. I’m not sure which one of us has been throwing up more.”

  “Who’s the proud papa?”

  “Bob Kalinsky, computer geek and drummer extraordinaire. You met him at Dylan’s high school graduation party.”

  “Right. It wasn’t that long ago. Bob and Dylan?”

  “Don’t remind me,” Evie said.

  “It’s not quite as funny as your wedding. ‘Are you here for the Gross-Weiner party?’”

  “Cute, Fordham. Cute.”

  “Do they love each other?”

  “Dylan says they do.”

  “Is she happy?” Fordham asked.

  “Ecstatic!”

  “Mazel tov, Evie. You’re going to be a nana!”

  DYLAN WAS PREGNANT. Margo was pregnant. Aaron was getting women pregnant daily. And her date with Brandon had her contemplating getting pregnant. Babies were little gifts of hope and promise that made even the most crotchety soul pause and be awed by the miracle of life. But not always.

  “What? Is she out of her mind? A baby?” Dorie was not inclined to mince words. “Dylan is barely out of her own diapers. I would have shot you if you had done that to me.” She took a weary banana from a small wooden tree on the counter.

  “To you?” Fordham said, grabbing a packet of nuts from the cabinet.

  “Yes. I put my mother through hell when I got pregnant with you. She was the only one I told. She even kept it from Grandpa until I married your father, because she knew he would have sent me to a school for wayward girls who couldn’t keep their legs closed!” Dorie pointed the banana excitedly at Fordham. “And all the while, she kept muttering about what a pity it was that my baby wasn’t Seymour Nageldorf’s.”

  “Could it have been?” Fordham’s curiosity was piqued.

  “Very funny. He and I barely dated, but I think about him from time to time.”

  “But you did go out with him.”

  “Once. We went out once. It was pouring that night, and he stood at the door, waiting for me. Your grandmother invited him in, but he was worried about getting mud on our carpeting. He kept saying, ‘Should I keep my rubbers on, should I take my rubbers off...?’ He never came in.”

  “Guess Dylan’s fiancée didn’t share that concern. He just left his rubbers off.” Fordham gave Dorie a little shove.

  Whitty came into the kitchen, and the two women abruptly stopped talking.

  “Oh, don’t let me stop you. I’m sure you were talking about sex or something.”

  “Whitney Presser!” Whether Dorie was more astounded by her granddaughter’s insight or her brazenness was anyone’s guess. “Okay, I have a tournament to play,” she added. “I will see you ladies in the morning.”

  Dorie blew them kisses and left, and Fordham went to prepare a quick dinner for her and Whitty. She could only imagine what Dorie was thinking. Her daughter was divorced and dating indiscriminately, her granddaughter had no clue that she was only ten, and a woman she loved like her own daughter was going to be a grandmother. Dorie’s world had certainly changed since Seymo
ur Nageldorf wanted to take her for chow mein and a movie.

  “So, what were you and Mom-Mom talking about?” Whitty asked through a forkful of macaroni and cheese.

  “Sex.”

  “I knew it. About who?”

  “You’re pretty nosy,” Fordham said.

  “I’m pretty bored. So who?”

  “I may as well tell you since you’re going to find out soon enough. Dylan is pregnant.”

  “You’re kidding. That is so weird. Aunt Evie must be having a cow.”

  “Well, let’s hope Dylan isn’t.”

  “She isn’t even twenty yet,” Whitty said.

  “Some people fall in love when they’re young.”

  “Love? She’s in love? I thought she just did it.”

  “No, honey. Dylan fell in love. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

  Telling Whitty about the birds and the bees had been easy. She’d used simple sentences and gotten straight to the point—something Dorie hadn’t known how to do. At five, Fordham’s friend from next door told her that babies came from people climbing on top of each other. That explanation didn’t sound right to her, since she and her friend frequently played climbing games and neither of them had babies. Logically, Fordham asked Dorie for answers to quell her confusion. But the explanation sounded more like a lesson about gardening than one about sex.

  “First, you start with the mommy’s seed, and then the daddy waters the seed in a special way inside the mommy’s tummy. It stays there and grows until it’s ready to be born.”

  That conversation led Fordham to believe that babies started out as trees and somehow ended up looking like people on their way out of the womb, though by the time she was Whitty’s age, the kids in school had set her straight. But this talk with Whitty was about romantic sex, and the idea of where the conversation could go left Fordham feeling queasy. Whitty was only ten, and there was no reason to get into a lengthy explanation about love, marriage, betrayal, and infidelity. No, she wasn’t ready to have this discussion with her daughter. Not yet and maybe not ever.

  Fordham set her plate in the dishwasher, poised to deflect the impending onslaught by going in an entirely different direction. “You’d better hurry. Lily will be here soon. I never even told Mom-Mom she was coming.” Fordham assumed she was in the clear, but just in case, she went on. “Which reminds me, Dr. Prince said you should enter the poetry contest. What’s happening with that?” Fordham was confident that she had dodged the sex-talk bullet.

  “Yeah. I’m not sure.”

  “What’s the problem? You know you’re a good writer.”

  “I’m okay. I know a few kids who are doing it, and they’re really good.”

  “Whitty, you’re really good. And who knows? You might win.”

  “Maybe, but there’s an opposite of winning,” Whitty said.

  “The only opposite of winning is not trying.”

  “Tell that to the Yankees.” Whitty continued to pick at her plate.

  Fordham shook her head but decided not to challenge Whitty and upset her before Lily’s visit. There would be plenty of time to work on her later.

  Dorie marched back out of her room, looking perturbed. “Okay, so now he wants me to believe that there’s another ‘droop’ that’s spelled with a u and an e at the end. I can challenge him, right?”

  Whitty excused herself and went to the bathroom.

  “No, Mom, it’s a word... something about fruit.”

  “Ugh! I’d like to turn him into applesauce already.”

  Fordham patted her hand. “Chunky or fine?”

  “Either would suit me.” She poured herself a cup of tea then gave Fordham the once-over and raised an eyebrow. “Nice outfit, and no offense, but you don’t usually smell quite this good by dinnertime. You’re wearing the expensive stuff Margo bought you.”

  “Gee, thanks, Mom! Between bringing up Margo and letting me know I typically smell funky, I’m not sure which is more endearing.”

  Dorie chuckled uncomfortably. “Sorry.”

  “I’ll live, and I forgot to tell you,” Fordham said, wiping the counter around Whitty’s unfinished plate, “Lily’s coming over for a little while. David asked me to watch her.”

  “Interesting...” Dorie said, elongating the word. “In a good way. And now it all makes sense!”

  “You’re ridiculous,” Fordham said as she wiped the gunk around the sink. “His sitter is busy.”

  Whitty came back into the kitchen, sat down, and poked at her plate.

  “Well, if you want to work, I could always ditch the game,” Dorie grumbled and sipped her tea.

  “And disappoint Mr. Applesauce? Never,” Fordham teased.

  “Well, then, back to the torture chamber.” Dorie huffed, leaving with a box of graham crackers in her free hand.

  Whitty finished her last bite and pushed her dish away. “I don’t get it. Why does Mom-Mom keep playing if it makes her so frustrated?”

  “So no one can accuse her of doing the opposite of winning.”

  WITH LILY ARRIVING any minute, Fordham quickly got some things together she figured any kid would like for dessert. The doorbell rang just as she and Whitty finished setting up the sprinkles and whipped cream. Whitty got the door with Fordham following close behind. David was looking particularly handsome in a dark-green sweater. He even styled his hair differently with a little gel, giving him a casual look. He was nothing short of delicious—probably a little too delicious. She quickly remembered that Pam was likely to be at his meeting. For all she knew, Pam was waiting for him in the car. After the reality check, she saw he was holding a big bag that said LILY in pink marker.

  “Hi Dr. Pr—I’m sorry, David,” Fordham said.

  “Hi, Ms. Pr—I mean, Fordham,” he said, winking at her.

  Fordham immediately distracted herself. “Hi, Lily,” she said, giving the girl a hug. “Good to see you. Have you had dessert yet?”

  Lily shook her head and ran off in search of Ella. Fordham went to check out the bag as David was unpacking items by the dozen. There were Band-Aids, pajamas, clothes, nail clippers—anything and everything a person might find in the Kids aisle of a department store.

  “And this is Ms. Snuggles for when Lily gets tired. She sleeps with her every night. Oh, and here—Cinderella. It’s her favorite book.”

  “David, this is a house full of women,” Fordham teased. “We have it in every edition.”

  Fordham was impressed with how attentive David was to all his daughter’s possible needs. Then she felt sad. Gil never overstuffed a backpack for Whitty.

  Fordham called Lily into the room so she could say goodbye to David. He seemed less than anxious to leave. Even after Lily had hugged him and gone off with Whitty, he was planted in the same spot.

  “You’d better go, or you’ll be late,” Fordham said, trying to be helpful. “She’ll be fine. I promise.”

  “Oh, I’m not worried about that,” David said.

  “Don’t worry about anything. We’ll see you later.”

  He checked his watch and left. Fordham was just about to close the door when he darted back. “I can’t believe I almost forgot to give you this.”

  He handed her a piece of paper. His cell phone number had been written on it with a neon-pink marker. She would file it under Perfection.

  “Lily’s favorite color. Well, I’d better go,” he said, sounding reluctant. “Fordham, you’re a lifesaver.”

  He finally left, and when she peered out, she noticed there was no one else in the car. If she let herself, she could easily build a case for why she should pursue David. But she couldn’t presume Pam wouldn’t be in the car with him the next time. She’d seen the way they were together with her own eyes, and stealing another woman’s man was not on her bucket list.

  A lot of noise was coming from the kitchen. Whitty and Lily were piling the ice cream and toppings Fordham had set up for them into their bowls. Something about pieces of chocolate chip cookie dough ha
d the girls so hysterical that Fordham was laughing even though she didn’t get the joke. Since they were happy and occupied, Fordham decided to check her email. There was a new submission, longer than most, that she found intriguing. She printed it out and knocked on Dorie’s door.

  “Come on in,” Dorie grunted.

  Fordham entered, unsurprised to see her mother sitting in her chair, pounding her fists on her desk.

  “I’m losing,” Dorie said, eyes fixed on the computer.

  “I figured.” Fordham sat on the bed. “Forget about that for a few minutes. I have a sinus headache. Can you read this to me?" She grabbed a box of tissues just in case. “It’s a submission I just got.”

  Dorie grabbed the pages from Fordham, seeming to heartily welcome the distraction, and began to read.

  “Hi, I’m Adele from Newton, Massachusetts. Some people would call me an older woman, but I don’t believe in numbers. The only time they matter is when you’re standing at the bakery counter. Maybe someone would ask, why is a woman her age writing to a book about love online? What could she know? To them I would have to say, a LOT.”

  Dorie peeked up at Fordham when she read, “a LOT,” as if that part of the story was coming from her personally.

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re the relationship maven, Mom,” Fordham teased. “Can you please continue?”

  Dorie nodded and read on.

  “Last year, my wonderful husband of fifty-five years decided it was time to join the other angels. I couldn’t imagine my life without my Saul. He was such a good man. Unfortunately, he had never accomplished one of the most important dreams of his life: to find his twin brother.”

  “Oh no!” Fordham sighed. “It’s going to be another sad one.” She pulled a tissue from the box in anticipation. Her mother continued.

  “Saul and his brother had been set on the doorstep of an orphanage when they were just infants. There were no real regulation laws in effect back then, and there were no records to speak of unless you got lucky. The only thing Saul’s adoptive parents ever knew about their baby boy was that he had a twin brother who was taken a few weeks before they found Saul. Otherwise, they would have adopted both boys.