Romance Is My Day Job

by Patience Bloom

  “Let’s go to Miami,” Sam says, a bright gleam in those irresistible green eyes.

  My resistance flares. What the hell, traveling? That, for me, is the downside of a relationship, which a normal person would see as the good side—you have to go places when you’re with someone. Oh dear God. I have to be on a plane with this man. Dibs on the window seat or he dies. For some reason, if I can look out the window of the plane and see where I’m going, this means I’m psychically managing this aluminum tube. I’m so not Elizabeth Gilbert and I want to be.

  There is no way out this time because I have to fly to Florida anyway for a romance writers’ conference. I just thought I’d be going alone, freaking out by myself on the plane, as usual. Why me? Of course we’ll go to Miami together.

  “Oh yeah, I have to meet your dad,” I say. If I have to fly with Sam, I will buckle down and do it. Meeting his father is a necessity. Not only are Sam and his brother obsessed with their father, talking about him incessantly, but I just want to meet the man responsible for Sam.

  “He wants to meet you.”

  I’ve always wanted to spend serious time in Florida, and this is the only way I’ll do it. “I’d love to go.” And I vow to be a calm adult in my serene forties. What are the chances it will rain on the actual day? I hate flying in the rain.

  Of course, the day we leave, it’s pouring buckets. My spirit guides are laughing their asses off at the misery they’ve caused. The sky mists over, kind of like the haze that plunged JFK Jr., his wife, and her sister into the Atlantic in 1999.

  These kinds of thoughts plague me as we sit in traffic on the way to LaGuardia. We have about two hours to spare and we watch the skies carefully, me hoping for a blessed cancellation and ultimately a delay to our travels.

  No such luck.

  We have plenty of time in the airport. Sam grabs a beer and I buy four celebrity magazines, my frantic, quick reading material for the two-and-a-half-hour flight. I keep repeating my mantra: I will behave like an adult. Even with a whirlpool of pain brewing, I won’t let him see it. If I have to barf, I will gracefully excuse myself and go to the bathroom—though I have the feeling that Sam would gladly hold back my ponytail as I yak into a bag. If I were going to let him do that, I would wear my hair pinned back and contact lenses, since glasses could fly off during heavy spewing. Or so I’ve seen in horror movies.

  All aboard. I glance outside the window and see a sky littered with angry clouds. I’ve flown my entire life, all over the world. I once flew through three storm systems (thank you, Toronto, circa October 26, 2005) and did just fine. How could one little trip to Miami kill me?

  I suck on about half a tin of Altoids, my saving grace in any crisis, and, yes, I take half of a large animal tranquilizer. My nerves are there but not unmanageable. Sam reads the paper and begins to look sleepy. He leans his head back as we start takeoff, when my terror begins.

  The first ten minutes are full of bumps. I curse inwardly and pray to the white cloudy sky to show some pity. Though drifting to sleep, Sam reaches over and takes my hand. Not overt support but just enough so that I relax instantly.

  I know in my heart that I love him. I’ll love him forever. He is the one for me. No doubt about it. He doesn’t mind the crazy girl in me. This man is smart enough to leave me be during a panic attack.

  After riding out the storm, I settle in to watch a beautiful view outside the window. This is the post-traumatic relief, the good side of adventure. I breathe. We veer out over the Atlantic Ocean, something I haven’t done in decades, and for a moment, I want to rush back to France, a country I once called home. We land in beautiful Miami at night, and the lights of the city captivate me. I can’t stop smiling. We survived!

  Sam whisks me off to his father’s large condo in the Coconut Grove section of Miami. Sam’s father, Bill, well into his eighties, emerges from the back room and greets us warmly.

  He is a classic charmer, the kind you’d call “a swell guy.” Within minutes I can see where Sam gets his sparkle. This is what Sam will be when he’s eighty. His father has the family’s bright green eyes; clear, tan complexion; and wide smile.

  “Nice to meet you, dear,” he says.

  When an older man calls me “dear,” I’m pretty much a goner. He grasps my hand and we tear around his condo together.

  That first night in Miami, I sink into the bed and instantly fall asleep. I don’t think of the future with Sam, if we will ever get married, buy a house, spend all our days together. With him, I feel no pressure to do anything except relax. I’m sure that this is the right path, no matter where it takes me.

  For three days, we frolic around Miami. Walk around Grove Isle every morning, work out in the building’s gym, swim in the sparkling pool, go out to fancy restaurants in South Beach. The beautiful palm trees seduce me since I’ve only known the Northeast foliage and the New Mexico desert. The weather hovers in the eighties and we peaceably stroll in shorts and T-shirts. Sam makes like Miami is same old, same old, but I’m sure he finds some joy in his home away from Big Bad New York.

  If traveling is this fun, I will go anywhere with him.

  At some point Sam goes through his closet. Because he’s traveled so much over the years, his possessions are scattered—in a storage facility, with his brother, at his father’s, and now with me. But he does know where he kept the picture of us from the Taft formal oh so many years ago.

  Sam pulls out a shoebox and sets it on the bed. He goes through picture after picture and pulls out the one of us.

  I am speechless. He kept this picture all these years. I don’t even remember the moment, but the fact that it stuck in his mind touches me deeply. This guy thought of me as more than just a passing thing. I stayed with him.

  The photo itself is hilarious. There I am with my cool mullet, that blue dress, and Sam in his tux. We have disparate expressions—me with slack-jawed surprise, Sam with an almost stoic smile. Over the past few months, we’ve shared our memories of each other. Mine are hazier than his. I remember the dance, him as a legend, but not that we took a picture together. He remembers the picture, me in the halls, calling out to me from across the pond, catching me smoking with another boy. If you add this up, Sam had a little crush on me way back when. And if someone had told me that the popular boy was accessible to me, I would have sprinted after him.

  Who knew that so many years later we’d be meeting again, living together, and perhaps even contemplating a future?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Where There’s a Ring

  I will follow Sex and the City wherever it goes, even if it shoots out lackluster sequels, even if there are a million copycats. I love stories where women hang out together and wear great clothes and hash out their relationships. Now that it’s out in theaters, I have to see Sex and the City 2. Given that my office is focused on the business of romance, we have a group field trip to see this latest movie.

  I have to admit, there is a certain plushness to working in the romance field. We’re committed to trend-chasing, like seeing which shows and movies and books rise to the top. How can this help our business?

  Once a month, as a group, we’ll watch a movie at work and discuss the story, how it relates to our field—sort of like a mini English class. We do the same with books that we read, either from the company or outside. With such a rare event as a Sex and the City movie, it’s to be expected that we’ll all see it. We trek en masse over to the Regal theater near the West Side Highway and settle into our seats.

  Many of us were at Harlequin during the height of Sex and the City’s fame, and we cackle the loudest. My heart stops over Liza Minnelli singing “Single Ladies,” though I never thought that Stanford and Anthony would ever work as a couple. After this, Big and Carrie have some marital woes in that she likes to go out and Big wants to stay in and lie on the couch (as if that’s a bad thing). When the boredom hits an all-time high,
the girls go to Abu Dhabi. They just pick up and go because they can. Out in the desert, they wear flowing dresses and artfully arranged scarves, and they ride camels. They get to stay in this palatial hotel and each is served by a personal butler. The eternal question for me remains: Which one of the girls am I?

  It’s with great eagerness that I watch the film and reidentify with the central female characters. There are some of the usual fashion shows of earlier episodes, women squealing, and somewhat lame problems: If you’re married to Mr. Big (alpha, but turns into beta with an edge), do you really want to screw up your life with Aidan? I mean, really? I don’t buy it, but I watch anyway, liking that at least Aidan comes back since I thought he was the great guy Carrie should have married. And at least Samantha gets to bang that hot businessman on the jeep on the Fourth of July.

  The only misgiving I leave with is the mundane life Carrie has after marrying Mr. Right. Why wouldn’t she be happy with that? I am so ready to lead a boring life since I’ve had enough excitement—moving to Ohio, New Mexico, New York, not to mention all the relationships. Sam and I definitely have our mundane moments, but it’s more common that he makes me laugh hysterically every day. I wonder if we’re just weird. Maybe marriage does get mundane and I would go looking elsewhere. I shudder to think of it.

  I leave the movie theater with my colleagues. My friends Gail and Ann Leslie ask me how everything is going with Sam. Both women are wearing beautiful sundresses in this hot weather. I’m in a khaki skirt that I keep meaning to throw out but haven’t because it’s convenient. They seem interested in how my love life is progressing. Because I’m living with Sam and we’re happy, I feel as if I’ve joined a special club.

  Do I love cohabitation? Do I think it’ll get more serious? Wouldn’t it be nice if I got married? They could help me plan the wedding. J.Crew has some nice dresses. And then they tell me about how they got married, how long ago it was, and wouldn’t it be spectacular to have another wedding in the office? A baby, perhaps? At Harlequin, there is at least one marriage, one engagement, and/or one baby per year.

  This is one of the many benefits of working with women, because you talk about these fun things all the time. You have an instant support network, especially during periods of your life when you need all the encouragement that you can get.

  “Sam and I are just having fun,” I say to Ann Leslie and Gail. And it’s true. I feel no pressure to do anything except enjoy Sam.

  The stories I read don’t quite cover this part of a relationship. The romance should turn to a marriage proposal fairly soon. In a novel, there’s not a whole lot devoted to making dinner or doing laundry together. In earlier relationships, I felt that sense of urgency—I have to know what the future holds now. Does the guy feel the same way I do?

  I have none of those questions about my relationship with Sam, no need to know. We are a dream come true. I love folding the laundry after he brings it upstairs. I love going into the kitchen while he’s cooking and having him tell me to leave his territory. I love how obsessed he is with getting silk long johns to wear in winter. I love when he laughs really hard. Going to a restaurant is a pleasure with him because we talk as if we’re strangers again, getting to know each other. I love how when I’m mad at him, he finds a way to make me smile and defuse my anger. There is so much that I love about Sam that anything else—like marriage—would be a bonus I don’t exactly need.

  • • •

  When I get home from the movie, I see Sam put a little box in his pocket.

  He does it semi-covertly, without emotion, until I notice his fingers twitch. When nervous, he tends to fidget and avoid eye contact. Sweat beads on his shirt. I don’t want to admit that I suspect what’s in the box or that I’ve picked up on hints. I’m just going to enjoy this fully.

  “It’s happy hour at Mary Ann’s. Wanna get some margaritas?” he asks.

  Even though the early June weather is already warm, he slips on a sports jacket over his white shirt and dark pants. Formal wear for a casual night out to a Mexican restaurant? His hair is combed back, interesting considering he didn’t have to work today. His class at Barnard is done for the summer, and he’s scheduled to teach three classes in the fall.

  “Sure. Let’s get margaritas.”

  I can’t stop smiling. My life has changed so much in the past nine months. The Universe is laughing its ass off at my determination to stay single after Superman’s sudden disappearance, my many starts and stops in love. How did this joy happen? Was love supposed to feel this good? For six months now, we’ve had our ups and downs, but now I can’t imagine not having him in my space.

  For the long walk of three blocks, I watch him and memorize every second. People will be asking for our story. The hazy sun, my too-big khaki skirt and black shirt. Neighbors walk by, recognize us. We usually hold hands since we’re a new couple, but this time we don’t. Something is different. He keeps his hands close to his sides, as if guarding his pants.

  I check myself for nervousness. None. How weird is that? Everything makes me a little nervous: the walk to the subway, going to the gym, running on the treadmill, being at work, leaving work, going to bed, meeting anyone for coffee. And here I am about to get engaged, and not a single eye-twitch. Instead, I feel like a mother helping a boy off to his first day of school. Sam is going to propose, and I want to make it as easy as possible.

  “How was your day?” I ask, then look down at my sandals. My face feels hot. Sam is so handsome, I am struck when I take note of it. I look at him and think, Wow. He has those rugged good looks, along with that class-clown thing. He can go from GQ gorgeous to Jimmy Fallon in seconds.

  I feel his gaze and glance up. His smile charms away my shyness. This is the grin that gets me through the day. His smile is a lethal weapon and will keep us safe. And then there are the eyes . . . For an instant I am lost again, wanting to stop him and kiss him on the sidewalk—we do that—but this time we just keep walking.

  “I had a great day,” he says, imitating how my mother says “great.”

  In a way, I feel like I was married to him the moment he came into my life, that first time we talked on the phone or when he said, even though it was a bit of a joke at the time, that he wanted to move in with me and father my children. I am so sure of how I feel that no nerves are needed.

  We reach the red structure that is Mary Ann’s, which serves Mexican food. It’s part of a chain throughout Manhattan. It’s always bustling; customers seem to return over and over again. The décor is fairly minimal but it has a “Mexican” feel. Sam and I often eat here. Plus, they serve large frozen margaritas that he can slurp down, easing the stress of a long day.

  As we sit, I pretend not to know about the ring box. Once again, we say things like: How was your day? So glad it’s almost summer. Love how festive everything gets with people on the streets. Should we go back to Miami? Your father is a sweetheart.

  There, I do my best with chatting. The silence is inevitable after our smirking waiter brings drinks, as if he knows. I sip my drink and pretend to be absorbed in the table surface.

  Plunk. Sam sets the box in the middle of the table, stopping me midsip.

  “I wonder what this is,” I say coyly. In fact, Sam is terrible at keeping secrets and I decoded several phone conversations Sam had with his brother. We live in a studio. There are no secrets.

  Without hesitating, I pick up the box and open it, knowing I’ll love whatever is inside. Forty-one years. My moment. My prince. Open sesame.

  That’s what one looks like. And it’s mine.

  The round diamond winks at me, beckoning me to pick it up. I’ve seen dozens of diamond rings, worn a few, all belonging to friends and relatives. This one is for me.

  My first and only one.

  I instantly fall in love with a gem, a gold setting, an achingly beautiful piece of jewelry. It is a ring of protection and love. Smiling, ov
erjoyed, I slip it on my ring finger. Though I rarely search for it, I like tradition when it presents itself. This is my future. I didn’t need a ring, but I’ll take it.

  “Wow!” I almost forget to look back at him; I am that transfixed.

  “And I have a question . . . ,” he says softly, slurping his drink, his hands shaking. You’d think someone so handsome and smart would ease into this with flair and ceremony. Not this groom. He is about to soil himself.

  “Will you marry me?” he asks, his eyes darting around the room.

  The proposal is matter-of-fact, almost laughable—should we order Chinese or Thai? Sam displays more exuberance, but I know he must be nervous. As someone who easily slips into panic mode, I find this is the perfect way to propose to me—casually, without fanfare, with my having some knowledge ahead of time.

  “Yes.” Two seconds later, I feel that rush of giddiness brides-to-be are supposed to experience. OhmyGodIhavetotelleverybody . . . and change my Facebook status to “Engaged”!

  This isn’t how I—or anyone—thought my life would turn out. My family expected me to be alone forever, and I wanted to be alone. Who else could stand a crazy girl who preferred to stay indoors?

  Sam has changed this. He brings me out of my head. I forget to be scared and go with whatever love wave we happen to be riding.

  Slurp slurp.

  “How do you feel?” I ask.

  “Good. No dread like the first time I did this, or the second,” Sam remarks, referring to his ex-wife and rebound fiancée.

  I still can’t stop smiling or staring at the ring on my finger. The food arrives—I don’t remember what I ordered—and instead of eating, I stare at the ring, at Sam, then ponder the shock my family will exhibit upon hearing the news. I can’t wait to tell everyone. Can we leave now? Oh, I’m going to be one of those women with a dress, walking down the aisle, with family maybe. Or we could elope to Vegas or city hall. We’re not exactly rich enough to throw a big wedding.