Oh holy crapwagons, Marie was insane. “So we publish twelve books each year?”
“That’s right.”
I sat back in my chair, frightened yet giddy. Me, work with Marie? How lucky am I? Though I also knew that if she were writing a book a month and had done this for many years, she would stay on the treadmill at warp speed for eons. This is the drug of writing romance, and when you have the ingredients brewing in your head, you’re going to get it down fast. She needed to write a book a month. Only one thing would stop her—the flu or death.
Then I talked with Marie on the phone for the first time. She was like that fun neighbor you want to see every day over coffee to gab about the latest goings-on, the type who brings you soup when you’re sick, writes you many e-mails asking how you are, sends you gift after gift after gift for every possible holiday. She’s all about chocolate on Christmas and Valentine’s Day. For Easter, it’s a nice chocolate egg with some kind of sugary filling. I was right; she is definitely that combination of Doris Day—chipper, saying all the right things—and Ann-Margret with her vavavavoom.
When Marie and I first started working together, I was in love with Russell Crowe and did Buddhist chanting so that I would marry him someday (Patrick said this would work). It’s true. The Insider and L.A. Confidential had a visceral effect until he started seeing Meg Ryan, and then I turned away, out of respect for Meg. Marie fed my Hollywood crush, and within a couple of years, I owned most of his movies.
If Marie had a problem, she was apologetic about it. I edited her books with pleasure, though the pace of her work was dizzying. How does one ever keep up with Marie? How does Marie keep up with herself?
“Honey, I only need four hours of sleep. I don’t have time for more. If I did, my family would starve and my husband would have no clothes.”
Speaking of no clothes, her romances are the kind that readers keep devouring. Though each one is different, there are a few trends in her stories: the perky heroine, often blond, often positive about life (much like Marie). The heroes are gruff yet likeable. She makes her readers laugh out loud. She doesn’t often veer from her pleasing romantic stories with babies, law enforcement, teachers, nights of passion, or doctors, but every now and then she’ll insert a truly demented element—like a killer carving shapes into bodies or stealing a baby that is still in utero—that makes you wonder what lives in the mind of Marie.
In addition to being an author and fairy godsister, Marie could be a doctor. In the office, several of us consult Marie for diagnoses and treatment for our ailments. When I have a cold, flu, or injury, Marie sends me her recommendations for recovery, then a box of See’s chocolate, a book, or a DVD. She counseled me on my insomnia issues, going over all the different drugs on the market. Marie was especially helpful getting me through the stomach flu of 2007, which she did from California.
It’s hard to keep from considering her part of my family. She’s written books using the names of my brother, me, and several editors in the office. It’s kind of hilarious that I’m a heroine in a romance novel—a veterinarian—and that Marie has me hooking up with a hero named Brady. Same for my brother, Detective Patrick Cavanaugh (my real brother is gay, but obviously a hero can’t be gay in a heterosexual romance), who winds up falling for Maggie, another cop.
At this very moment, as I’m conducting this strange relationship with Sam, Marie is writing a book featuring the romance-novel version of my mother, “Bonnie Gene,” and “Donald Kelley” (their actual names). I’ve commissioned her to write a specific story and, for kicks, delivered character profiles of my family to use as secondary characters. The romance itself takes place between a sweet virginal heroine and gruff rancher. Marie is working away, then sends me this. . . .
To: Patience
From: Marie
What’s new with you? Haven’t heard from you in a while and it makes me nervous.
Love, Marie
I reassure her that I’m fine: Just trying to keep up with you, Marie. I get this kind of e-mail from Marie every few weeks. This time, I want to confide in her about this latest Sam situation, but it seems foolish. So I’m having a long-distance correspondence with someone from high school. It’s a little sketchy on paper, no big deal.
Marie’s stubborn insistence that I will find Mr. Right is hard to push aside. She is love’s champion. If I were on a desert island, she would assure me that someone would arrive on a boat, wanting to marry me.
For now, though, I keep quiet. Maybe I need a little “Marie” adjustment in my attitude. This is the perfect opportunity to transform into a Marie heroine: cheerful, optimistic, brimming with humor. Maybe I’ll wear those high heels and not act as if I’m on stilts. Instead, I’ll enjoy how much fun it is to be taller. A Marie heroine lives in the moment. For now, I bask in the excitement of new e-mails from Sam.
I discover early on that Sam is vain, and about the strangest things, too, like the hair on his back or the mole on his nose, which I like. How could a daredevil such as Sam be obsessed with his appearance? He should be trying to jump over twenty barrels on a motorcycle. Of course, I have to tease him about this:
To: Sam
From: Patience
Thanks for calling! It brightened up a very dreary day.
Have a great week and a hairless back!
p.
To: Patience
From: Sam
Hi, I enjoyed our conversation too. So, you’re amused by my male vanity? Last time I was here my great internal debate was whether to treat myself to more (back) hair removal or a sky diving lesson. I did the virile thing and jumped out of a plane. This time, I’m not so sure. . . .
To: Sam
From: Patience
Whatever you decide, I won’t judge any more than I have already.
p.
I want to tell the whole world about how my stomach jumps every time I see an e-mail from Sam. I really do feel like a heroine, a little like Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail. But aren’t we supposed to fall in love in a different way? We should meet on a random New York street or at a Taft alumni cocktail party. He’ll remember me, come over to talk because I’m in heels and wearing an inappropriately short dress for a woman my age (I do that sometimes, just because). Romance ensues. Maybe not.
A relationship over a computer puts us in this stagnant fantasy place. I present my best self in every encounter, which is easy when you’re separated by thousands of miles. He doesn’t see me remove my makeup and get into my polar bear pajamas. In real life, I present that best self for an hour or two, with harsh truths slipping out—how I hate pickled beets and that’s his favorite, that I’m not the most social person in the world, and is my eyeliner melting down my face? (Why, yes, it is.)
Sam knows so little about me, but over those hours of speaking on the phone, we cover a lot of ground. Even the questionable stuff leaks out eventually . . . and this creates even more cyber-intimacy. I know I’m in danger of becoming attached, more infatuated with this person on a screen. Now my romantic life is complicated again.
At least I have a challenging workload, with three books that need massive editing. This comes in addition to the sea of Marie. I’m grateful. And the end of the year offers those holiday parties, the presents to buy and relatives to see. It’s good to be busy. My annual performance review will happen soon, and I have to prepare for this. Really, I can’t mess around with this boy at all. And what are the chances he’ll want more than a boozy, salacious week in New York with a crazy redhead? Pretty much none.
When I consider every romance novel and every movie, I understand that the romantic heroine hardly ever does the pragmatic thing. She goes back into the house where the serial killer is waiting for her. If the hero is a jerk, she doesn’t walk away and ignore him. She confronts him, telling him he’s a giant ass, and then he kisses her, because heroes secretly enjoy female rage. As much
as I try to keep a tight rein on my love-struck heart, I run home in the hopes that he’ll call at our usual time.
“So how about I move in with you and father your children?” Sam asks in one of our phone calls.
No man has ever said this to me before. I’ll be all lighthearted like a Marie heroine.
“Sure, go ahead, Sam. I have room in my studio. As for kids, you might want to find someone younger.” I’m half joking but want to get it out on the table in case he has wild fantasies about impregnating me. I’ve seen too many friends my age suffer through infertility. I’m a little ambivalent about having children.
“I’m sure we’ll make it work.”
While filled with humor and not entirely serious, this is how the rush of love begins from an ocean away—with long phone calls. It could be that we’re easing our loneliness. What else does he have aside from this good girl willing to listen to him? The guy has left Israel to teach high schoolers in a remote part of Switzerland. How lonely must that be at night? I’m probably the closest thing he has to a girlfriend. And if he’s taken, well, that would be cruel.
These kinds of what-ifs would have killed me ten years ago. I’d stew for ages, eventually sabotaging the entire thing. But now, I keep an open mind. Maybe yes, maybe no. As I walk down the halls at work, I wonder who would want to know about this latest budding love interest. We’re not really a thing, but there’s more going on than just casual friendship. He calls me every day and we talk for hours. That’s not nothing. And you’ve gotta tell your girlfriends all the details, don’t you?
Someone.
I can’t tell my married, pregnant friend Rachel, whom I’ve known since diapers. We share a lot about our personal lives, but she has enough to think about, and this kind of nonsense is trivial. Mom and Patrick—no. I’ve used up my boyfriend coupons with them.
My friend Melissa is one of my best buddies in the office. She might like this story—or beginning of a story. I tend to tell her 95 percent of what I’m doing. The other 5 percent is too mundane, even for me. Melissa would describe herself as a nice Jewish girl from Brooklyn, and that’s exactly what she is: friendly, fun, and single like me. She’s got this gorgeous wavy brown hair, dark eyes, and that Snow White complexion many of us—mostly me—would kill for. We are both addicted to makeup and used to go out a lot more, but the older I’ve gotten, the lazier I’ve become about leaving my apartment. Melissa likes to do things. She’s someone I could tell.
But I also don’t know if it’s important enough. Melissa has the huge job of managing many of our Christian books. I can’t bother her with too much of this, the fact that I’m about to burst open . . . sort of. Maybe I won’t make a big deal about it until it is a big deal.
Sooner than I expect, Sam and I talk seriously about visiting each other. It’s only logical. When you talk to someone this much, shouldn’t you follow through with a visit? On this issue, I don’t budge. I won’t fly to Switzerland. He has to come to me. Maybe in December when his semester is done and he has some time off. Should he get a hotel or are we grown-up enough to be in the same room for a few days—without losing (too much of) my virtue?
I go off the rails from my Marie Ferrarella romance and invite him to stay. I know this may be a terrible idea. But am I ready to meet him in person after so little time? Of course. Especially since I don’t believe it’s really happening, that we’re slowly falling in love with each other over Skype. This will end with me crying over computer solitaire and Kim and Kourtney stuffing their faces with In-N-Out Burger while driving the Escalade to Kmart. Our special friendship could go to hell with one false move, one misunderstanding via e-mail, one lovely Swiss Miss who seduces him with her blond braids. Sam’s glowing praise for me doesn’t sink in, but why not follow this through to the end?
So now that we’re talking visiting, maybe I should mention Sam to a few more people. With the gradual disintegration of my mental faculties (Buddha says we’re always dying), I may have strayed from the sane path. People might be horrified by what I’m doing. Most of all, I don’t want to bore anyone. But there’s one person who wouldn’t be bored by my latest romantic intrigue. I contact Nici, my BFF from Taft, the girl who turned me on to Harlequin romances in the first place. She’s also responsible for my obsession with Duran Duran. She and I have kept in touch through the years, but not like we used to. She met her husband in college and married him in her twenties, and they went on to have three boys. Though we haven’t seen each other in a while, she and I have one of those friendships that picks up where they leave off, though we mostly operate as if we’re still in high school. I compose a careful message to her and detail this new friendship with Sam, how it’s escalating into a relationship that will soon involve a visit. Within minutes, she answers:
To: Patience
From: Nici
PATIENCE!!! THIS IS SO ROMANTIC!
HOLY SHIT!
I hope you are savoring the giddiness . . . you should revel in it no matter where the story goes; joy and excitement are feelings worth dancing around in. And honey, you are so damn funny. I have the feeling he sits at his computer grinning like an idiot when he reads your messages. I have the feeling his heart pounds when he dials your number. I have the feeling he falls asleep thinking about seeing you, and thinking about how hard it is to wait.
I would gladly be a reference; he can contact me ANY time and I will sing your praises. What are the odds of this? I don’t see how either of you could NOT be excited at the thought of finding each other!
As your friend who loves you a ridiculous amount, I am feeling great love for Sam right now, for being wise enough to recognize what a treasure you are, and for being brave enough to boldly speak his heart, and not let you slip away from him. I am a total sap, a hopeless romantic and wishing on every star I see that you both get a happily ever after. Never give up on that idea!
Love you to pieces. Nici
I know Nici is probably planning our wedding and I love her for it. She knew Sam as a good guy, reminded me of his putting his butt through a window and getting stitches. Plus, as I might have mentioned, she’s the true romantic in my group of friends, much more than I could ever hope to be. Because I read so much romance, I don’t have a clue what’s truly romantic and what’s nonsense. She nails it for me.
The best part about Nici’s e-mail is that she remembers Sam clearly, verifies that he is, in fact, a worthy investment, even if it’s just friendship. But I know deep down, this is much more than friendship. We don’t define what’s happening, like say, “Let’s date,” or “Let’s be exclusive.” I don’t dare venture those questions again. For once, I just wait and see what will unfold. It could be nothing. It could be something great.
• • •
“Maybe we could see each other on camera, I mean over the computer,” Sam suggests one night.
This sounds very porn-ish to me. It’s absurd that I’m slowly turning into a prude. I just don’t like to see naked people anymore. Maybe I need to up my omega-3 or go to Mama Gena’s School of Womanly Arts. Webcam indeed. Just recently Peter Cook, Christie Brinkley’s husband, was caught doing many dirty things over a webcam. Really, all this time alone has made me ninety years old. So what if he wants to exhibit body parts or see mine? I can end the video call if I feel uncomfortable. That’s the best thing about long-distance.
The idea that he could be a perv doesn’t stop me from immediately running to J & R to get my own webcam. It’s late September, and I can already tell that the end of 2009 will be an interesting one. What a way to go into the holiday season, a mere six months after Superman’s disappearance.
On the first night using the webcam, I go into the bathroom and fix myself up. White T-shirt, jeans, straight hair, lots of makeup. This is just like preparing for a date, though I don’t feel sick to my stomach this time. It’s not as if I want Sam to see what I really look like, with the blo
nd eyelashes and my Casper the Friendly Ghost complexion. At the allotted time, I go over to the desk, test the camera, and wait for the call.
Finally, it comes, that exciting buzz and flicker of a screen. I’m going to experience a moving Sam, a body to go with the voice. I see black at first, then his room snaps into focus, technology in motion. His place is dark, though I see his familiar features exactly as I’ve imagined from his Facebook pictures. The nose, the expressive eyes, the short curly hair and wide smile.
“There she is!”
My insides vibrate with excitement over the connection. For several minutes, we just look at each other and laugh, like kids discovering a new toy. Can we talk and look at each other at the same time? Indeed we can. In fact, we don’t stop talking for a good two hours, during which he takes his laptop into the bathroom while he pees.
Pees in front of me on our first webcam date.
I don’t see body parts, but I hear the whizzing in stereo. At first I think, He’s doing it. He’s peeing in front of me. I’m in a Bill Murray movie. Who does this? Ewww. He’s a little strange, but not enough for me to end the call. From my experience, guys cross into that territory often, and it fits with the Sam I knew in high school.
In fact, Sam’s pea-size bladder doesn’t stop me from taking a risk of my own. I decide to cancel all my dating profiles, even the paid ones, like Match, Chemistry, and eHarmony. I lose at least $200 because the enrollments are nonrefundable. I resign from these sites for myself. For Sam. Well, mostly for me. The relief is palpable.
I even break a girl rule and tell him what I’ve done. It’s not pressure so much as a statement of my commitment. If he’s scared off, then he’s not the person for me, especially with his public urination. I don’t expect him to suddenly declare his love, but this correspondence is a thing. It feels wrong for me to date other people. He shouldn’t either, or, at least, I don’t want to get my hopes up, invest all this time if he’s going to date a mademoiselle on the bunny slopes of Switzerland. It seems important that I tell him as much, to let him know that I’m serious about us.
Romance Is My Day Job Page 17