by Jane Heller
“Anyone care for dessert?” I said after I’d cleared their table. “The lemon meringue pie is the best in the city, according to New York magazine.”
The others declined, but Dan asked if he could get a slice to go.
“Go?” I said, and realized my heart was breaking. Perky, I told myself. Stay perky. “Absolutely. I’ll have it wrapped up for you.”
I presented them with the check and dashed off to get the piece of pie. When I returned, I handed Dan the dessert in its Styrofoam container, took the cash off the table, and said I’d be back with their change.
“Keep it,” said Dan. “It’s all yours.”
“Thanks,” I said, stuffing the bills into the pocket of the dopey black apron they made us wear. That was the whole reason I was waitressing—to pocket tips—but when I watched Dan and his friends get up, put on their jackets, and start to leave, I didn’t give a crap about the money. I only wanted him. How insane was that?
“See ya, Melanie,” he said with a little salute as he trailed after the others.
I faked perky again. “Yeah,” I called out. “The next time I’m in Minco.”
He nodded and walked toward the door. He was about to push it open when he stopped. Literally. He just stood there, getting jostled by the crush of people waiting for a table. Just stood there with his back to me, head down, staring at the floor. Just stood there. I think I actually held my breath as I watched him and wondered what was going on. Did he forget his wallet or his keys? Did he feel sick? Was I supposed to rush over and help?
I was frantically debating the above when he turned in my direction, slowly, very slowly, and picked his head up. Instead of continuing out the door, in pursuit of his pals, he walked straight back inside the restaurant, his eyes lasered on mine. I remember emitting sort of a gasp as he strode toward me. Please don’t let this be about nothing, I prayed, as he kept coming. Please don’t let this be that he has to use the men’s room or make a phone call or buy another slice of pie for the girl back in his hotel room. Please let this be a miracle happening, something I didn’t have to work for just this once. Oh, please—
He was face-to-face with me then, and my brain shut down.
“What?” I managed. “Did you leave your—”
“Look,” he cut me off. “I know I didn’t exactly sweep you off your feet while you were bringing my buddies and me dinner, but—”
“You were the only one who didn’t treat me like I was dinner,” I said, cutting him off this time.
“I ordered the pie just to hang around you a little longer,” he admitted.
“Did you?” I asked.
He nodded. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No,” I said, my pulse thumping in my ears. “No.”
“Good,” he said. “I’m not leaving for two days, and I was thinking maybe we could see—”
“Yes,” I said. More thumping. “Yes.”
He reached up and touched my cheek. “I want you to know that I’m not like Ernie,” he said. “I don’t go around hitting on waitresses.”
“Then what do you do?”
“I follow my instincts.”
He lowered his head and kissed me. Right there in the middle of the restaurant. It was a fabulous kiss that was interrupted only when one of the other waitresses bumped us as she passed.
“It’s okay,” said Dan. “I don’t drop the ball in traffic, remember? I’m the calm one in the middle of chaos.” And then he kissed me again.
Chapter
3
“Hi, Ricardo,” I said to the doorman at my old building.
It was Monday morning at eight-fifteen and I had to get to the office by eight-forty-five for the Jed Ornbacher meeting at nine. I needed to hurry upstairs, deliver Buster to Dan, and beat it.
I tightened my grip on the dog’s leash and was about to rush toward the elevator when Ricardo stopped me. “I’ll have to buzz Mr. Swain before I can let you up, Melanie.”
Of all the indignities. It had always rankled me that Dan was “Mr. Swain” while I was “Melanie,” even though Mr. Swain wasn’t the celebrity he used to be and I was the one paying for the damn place. But what really got me was that I had to be buzzed up to my own apartment whenever I brought Buster over. Like I was a dog walker.
I stood there, insides churning, while Ricardo, a short, burly Latino with a thin mustache, called Dan on the house phone, spoke to him in this totally ass-kissy voice, laughed at whatever he said, then hung up. Ricardo was the opposite of the surly, I’d-rather-be-doing-anything-but-this doormen you hear about. He took his job seriously, which I used to appreciate when I lived there, but now I found it insufferable.
I smiled sweetly. “So? Do I get security clearance?”
“Mr. Swain says it’s fine to go up,” he said, seemingly unaware that it was mortifying for me to have to stand there in my former lobby, being snubbed by my former neighbors, being buzzed up by my former husband.
“Thank you,” I said. Buster chose that moment to fart in Ricardo’s face. I reminded myself to give him an extra biscuit for good behavior.
We rode up in the elevator to the thirty-second floor, where Dan was standing at the threshold of 32G. He was wearing a velvety navy blue robe with what appeared to be a Polo logo on it and a pair of buttery brown leather moccasins with Gucci Gs on them. Only the best for our Danny. God, did it gall me that while I could no longer afford to spend freely on my wardrobe, his had become the stuff of GQ layouts.
And then there was the fact that he was wearing a robe, instead of a business suit, on a weekday morning. My guess was that Ricardo had woken him up. The right side of his face had pillow dents.
Did he bear any resemblance to the golden boy who’d swept me off my feet at the restaurant thirteen years ago? Sure. A handsome guy is a handsome guy. But there were shortcomings. His hair was still blond but longer and more straggly now, the bangs falling across his forehead, the ends curling around his ears. His body was still muscular but not nearly as tight as it was in his playing days. He’d gained weight and grown a gut, and his face had filled out, which, together with the puffiness around his eyes, gave him sort of a doughy, dissolute look.
“Did somebody die or are you just glad to see me?” he said as I ushered myself and Buster inside the apartment.
“Somebody died.” I eyed his feet. “The poor calf whose hide made those shoes. They’re new, aren’t they, Imelda?”
“Maybe. I’d lend them to you, but they wouldn’t go with your getup.”
Getup. Please. I was wearing my investment banker gray pin-stripe. It was a little on the mannish side, but so what?
“How’s Buster?” he said, bending down to play with the dog.
“He’s great,” I said, glancing around the living room, where not a single piece of furniture had been rearranged or replaced since I’d moved out. He hadn’t even repainted. (I was in my colorful period when we’d decorated the apartment. The living room was robin’s egg blue, the dining room forest green, the master a deep burgundy.) Everything was just as I’d left it, including photos of us in happier times, which rested on various surfaces in their lovely silver frames. When I’d asked why he continued to display them, he’d shrugged and said he liked them. Typical Dan. Stuck in the glory days.
I also noticed two glasses on the coffee table, next to an empty bottle of champagne. But it wasn’t just any champagne, mind you. It was Cristal, which is, like, three hundred dollars a pop. Now do you understand why I resented him? Wouldn’t a less extravagantly priced bubbly have been festive enough? No, of course not.
“Listen, don’t forget to take him for his checkup,” I said. “It’s Wednesday at four-thirty.”
“You’ve reminded me six times.”
“I’m just making sure. Also, he really seems to like the rope toy I bought him last week, so I think he should have one here too.”
“I’ll buy him one on the way to the park this afternoon.”
“The park? You’re ta
king him to the park?”
“Yeah, what’s the problem?”
“It’s unseasonably warm for December, Dan. They predicted it might go up to fifty degrees. I don’t want him to overheat while he’s chasing a football around.”
He tugged on his earlobe, which is what he always did when he found me exasperating. “I’ll be the one chasing the football around. It’s my regular pickup game with Ernie and the guys.”
“It must be nice to spend your afternoons in Central Park,” I said with a little sigh.
“Where I spend my afternoons—or mornings or evenings, for that matter—is none of your business anymore,” he said as he let Buster wander around.
“It is my business where you take Buster,” I said. “For all I know, he goes with you to those lap dance clubs.”
He laughed. “You’re welcome to come too.”
“My point is, I don’t want Buster exposed to naked women.”
“He’s been exposed to you, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, but I don’t wear pasties on my nipples.”
“I guess they frown on that at Pierce, Shelley and Steinberg?”
“Can we change the subject?”
“You brought it up.”
I counted to ten, mindful of my promise to Robin. “All I ask is that you remember to take Buster to the vet on Wednesday.”
“And all I ask is that you remember to stay out of my business. We’re divorced now, which is how you wanted it, Mel.”
I moved closer to him, stood face-to-face with him. I could see every pore of his skin, every bit of stubble along his jawline, every broken capillary on his nose and, yeah, he had a few now. “So I opted out and you’re punishing me for it by getting alimony.”
“I’m not getting alimony. I’m getting combat pay—for thirteen years of having to put up with you, darlin’.”
“Put up with me?” I counted to ten again, but only made it to five. I was being provoked! I had to stick up for myself, didn’t I? “I was the one who watched you sit around with Ernie, reminiscing about the good old days instead of trying to figure out what to do with the rest of your life. You think that was fun?”
“Ernie accepts me for who I am.”
“Ernie’s a hanger-on.”
“It’s not such a bad thing to have someone who hangs on.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? That I should have hung on even though you made absolutely no attempt to—”
I was in the middle of my counter when Buster started barking. Pugs aren’t barkers, normally, but he was definitely letting us know he wanted us to cut out the fighting.
“Okay. Not in front of the dog,” I said.
“Right,” said Dan. “And now that you’ve brought him over, there’s nothing keeping you. So why don’t you hop back on your broomstick and fly off to work.”
“You know what?” I said, stung by the implication that I was anything other than a kind, patient woman who’d been pushed to her limit. “I came over here determined to be nice, determined to show restraint. But you’re baiting me and I refuse to be baited.”
“Fine. I apologize.” He tried to wipe off his smirk and look serious. “How is work, by the way?”
“Actually, I have a presentation this morning. If I land the client, I’ll be very happy.”
“Me too. In fact, I’ll celebrate. Ernie and I will break open another bottle of Cristal.”
You see that? He was incorrigible! “What are you thinking, Dan? Cristal costs a fortune.”
“Yeah, but it’ll be in honor of your latest success. You wouldn’t want us to drink the cheap stuff while we’re toasting you. Would you, darlin’?”
That did it. I didn’t even bother to count to ten. “You’re a selfish jerk, pissing my money away like that, not to mention your own. It’s not bad enough that I have to scrimp and save and live in a place that’s a pit compared to this palace? You have to rub my nose in the world’s most expensive champagne too?”
“So much for your restraint, huh?” Back came the smirk.
“Because you make me crazy!”
He winked. “That’s what all the girls tell me.”
Too angry to muster an intelligent response, I gave Buster a hug and Dan the finger and left.
During the entire cab ride to my office, I replayed this latest war of words between my ex and me, and I thought, How did it come to this? He was always goading me now, getting me to lose it even when I vowed not to. Was it his way of paying me back for leaving him? And if so, why had he expected me to stay? He had given up on football, on himself, on life. What was left to stay for?
As I rode down Park Avenue, I marveled at how two people who were so much in love could have ended up the way we had. But, as any woman who’s ever been in a failed relationship with a man can attest, things change. Circumstances bring about change. First, there’s a setback, or maybe a series of setbacks, and suddenly our hero’s other self is revealed, and it’s not what we anticipated. We find ourselves shaking our heads and muttering, “This is how he copes with problems? This is how he handles adversity? This is who he turns out to be?”
In the early years, Dan and I were in a perpetual state of bliss, and adversity wasn’t on our radar. We were young, invincible, confident that together we could do anything. Each of us lived up to our advance billing—I was the feisty, street-smart one who was always coming up with strategies for getting ahead; he was the talented, all-American athlete who didn’t need strategies for getting ahead because everything came easily. We were perfectly matched, perfect together.
Even the night Dan proposed was perfect. It was in Minco, on the back porch of his house overlooking his family’s corn-fields, about a week after we each graduated from college. There was a moon in the sky—not full, but almost—and the air was clean and fragrant following a late-afternoon rain. I’d come out on the porch feeling as if I’d already been designated a member of the Swains; they were the hokey, close-knit family I never had, and I couldn’t get over how warm and welcoming they were to an outsider.
“We’ll live here in Minco,” Dan said after he’d popped the question and I’d said yes. “Buy a farm, like Mom and Dad did. Grow corn, wheat, peanuts. Whatever we want.”
At first I was stunned. “Wait a second, honey,” I said. “You’re Traffic, remember? The guy who’s about to be drafted in the first round by a professional football team.”
“Oh, that.” He shrugged. “I’d rather grow peanuts. Be with my girl in peace and quiet, away from the bright lights. You in?”
“I—” Yikes. I loved Dan more than anything, but a farmer’s wife?
“Minco may not be a thriving metropolis,” he said, watching my face fall, “but it’s got four restaurants, two gas stations, a flower shop, a beauty salon, even a video/tanning place.”
I was speechless. Completely floored. All my dreams of an MBA, a job in finance, a beautiful apartment …gone?
“Mel?” he said.
“Yes?” I said.
“It’s a joke.”
“What?”
He grabbed me and hugged me hard. “I’m about to be drafted by the Giants, and you and I are gonna live in the Big Apple!”
I shrieked with excitement and shrieked again when he told me he’d be able to pay my way through business school, thanks to his hefty contract.
“Before you know it, I’ll be the team’s starting wide receiver,” he said, “and you’ll be hired by my rich teammates to tell them how to invest their money. How does that sound?”
“It sounds so—well—easy.”
“It will be.”
“But it’s never been that way. Not for me.”
He kissed me. “Everything’s gonna change now, Melanie.”
He was right, as it turned out. Everything did. He got injured, couldn’t play football, flopped on TV, and stopped living. I continued to suggest a coaching job, but he said he’d never stoop that low. As if sleeping until noon, then dusting himself off for an evening
of glad-handing and ass grabbing wasn’t stooping low enough.
We started to drift apart. I was spending more time with clients; he was spending more time with Ernie, an even bigger slacker than his buddy. We stopped making love. He claimed I didn’t respect him anymore; I claimed he didn’t respect himself anymore. We were both right.
Eventually, I’d had it. I’d concluded that the differences in our personalities, once so complementary, were now liabilities. I was the go-getter who couldn’t make him go and get. He was The Natural to whom nothing came naturally anymore.
Although something was coming naturally to him now: the alimony. God, did it stick in my craw. How could he throw my money away on champagne and shoes and—
“Hey, lady. For the third time, this is it,” snapped the cabdriver, interrupting my trip down memory lane. “You want to sit here forever or what?” We had arrived at my office on Forty-eighth Street and had, apparently, been parked at the curb long enough for the cars around us to start honking. It took me a second or two to shake off my reverie, but after the driver shouted at me to pay up and get out, I paid up and got out.
As he tore away, tires squealing, I stood on the sidewalk for a few minutes to straighten my skirt, smooth my hair, and banish all thoughts of Dan, past and present. I had a show to put on, and I had to be at my best. No distractions.
I gathered myself up to my full height of five feet six, took one more deep breath and strode into the building, Jed Ornbacher’s millions dancing in my head.
Chapter
4
“Has he shown up yet?” I asked Steffi Strauss, my twenty-six-year-old assistant, as soon as I got off the elevator and spotted her in the hall. She was carrying a stapler in one hand and a package of legal pads in the other, and if she’d had more hands she would have found useful jobs for them too. She was the most organized person I’d ever met, always prepared, always on top of things. The day human resources sent her to me was a lucky day indeed. She wasn’t just a bright kid who’d aced all her courses in business school. She was also what is commonly referred to as a “self-starter” and had an uncanny knack for anticipating my every need.