Mine Are Spectacular!

by Janice Kaplan

  I shrug. “Anybody can like City Slickers or When Harry Met Sally . . . Making it through Forget Paris takes real devotion.”

  “I see your point,” he says, finishing the pretzel and licking the salt off his fingers.

  The usher sidles up to our row again and flips down two seats, readying them for Owen and Kate, who are holding hands and bounding down the aisle behind him. From the spring in Kate’s step, they must have had some pregame warm-up.

  Owen thanks the usher and slips him a twenty-dollar bill. Ten from Billy and twenty from Owen. This guy’s got it better than the pretzel vendor. If my gig at Food Network doesn’t work out, maybe I can set up shop here.

  “Hi, Owen. Good to see you at another game,” Billy says affably, reaching over to shake Owen’s hand. But he’s staring straight at Kate.

  “Hi, Billy.” Owen looks as embarrassed as a kid who has just been caught cheating on a math test. Or as a man who has just been caught cheating on his wife. “I didn’t think you’d be here today.”

  “I wanted to see the game, so I postponed going to L.A. until tomorrow.”

  There’s an awkward pause as Kate looks at Owen expectantly, waiting to be introduced. But Owen just takes his seat and motions for Kate to do the same. She ignores his signals and leans across Owen to give me a kiss on the cheek. Then she smiles at my seatmate and says “Hello, Mr. Crystal, I’m Kate Steele. A thrill to meet you. When Harry Met Sally . . . is my favorite movie.”

  “Really?” Billy says, tugging at his Yankees cap. “My true fans prefer Mr. Saturday Night.” He looks at me with his impish smile, and then I see him looking quizzically again at Kate.

  On the other side of me, Owen purses his lips and hisses to Kate, “Don’t talk. Billy and I sit next to each other at every game and he knows Tess. I wouldn’t have brought you if I realized he’d be here.”

  Kate’s happy demeanor disappears. “Well, I’m here,” she says.

  “And we should probably leave,” Owen says, looking around, as if plotting an escape route.

  “No, I want to see the game,” Kate says tersely, holding her ground. Kate, the big baseball fan who asked me this morning if it’s three strikes you’re out or four.

  We all stand for the national anthem and at some point after “rockets’ red glare” and before “Play ball!” Billy whispers to me, “So who’s Owen’s friend?”

  “She’s my friend, too,” I say, trying to provide even the flimsiest of covers. “I think it’s wonderful when men and women are friends, don’t you? Friends, friends, friends. Old friends. You’ve got a friend. With a little help from my friends. Be kind to your web-footed friends. Amazing how many songs there are about friends, isn’t it?” I’m burbling over like a Coke on a hot day, but I can’t seem to stop myself. “And come to think of it, you know all about friends. That’s the whole story of When Harry Met Sally, right? They’re friends.”

  “They sleep together,” Billy reminds me.

  Now that’s a problem. “But not in every scene,” I say, trying to support my case. And deciding I won’t mention my favorite speech in the movie, where Harry explains to Sally that friends or not, men want to sleep with every woman they meet.

  We sit down, and on the other side of me, I see Kate putting her hand on Owen’s arm. And him brushing it away. We’re barely into the first inning and things are tenser here in our little row than in the bullpen during the World Series. Or in George Steinbrenner’s office anytime.

  Owen, used to getting his way, isn’t giving up on getting Kate out of the stadium. But ever the businessman, he’s now putting a new deal on the table.

  “Let’s go shopping. I’ll buy you whatever you want. If we leave now, we can get to Armani before it closes.”

  Kate gives him an icy stare.

  “Okay,” he says, upping the ante. “Versace. Fendi. Dior. Your choice.”

  I listen in fascination, wondering how many minutes it will take him to get to Van Cleef & Arpels.

  “I don’t want you buying me anything,” Kate says. “We invited Sara to spend the day with us. She wants to see the game.”

  Now wait a minute here. I’m flexible. If he wants to take me to Armani, I can always listen to the Yankees on the radio.

  Kate and Owen are trying to whisper, but their heated voices are louder than they think. Now Billy jumps in.

  “Hot dogs, anybody?” he asks, calling over the vendor. With no olive branches in sight, he’s hoping a Hebrew National will calm things down. He cheerfully passes hot dogs, napkins, and little packets of mustard to each of us.

  “Thanks,” Kate mutters.

  “If you’re hungry, we can leave and go to Cipriani’s,” Owen says, not willing to quit. There’s a reason the man owns half the real estate in Manhattan. “The one in Venice. We’ll take my plane.”

  “I don’t care if NASA’s sending a rocket ship. I’m not leaving,” Kate says, folding her arms. She turns plaintively to Owen and lowers her voice. “You keep telling me you’re in love with me. That you and Tess lead separate lives. You want to be together with me forever. Why should it matter if somebody sees us?”

  “I do want us to be together,” he says, trying to mollify Kate. “Just not in front of Billy Crystal.”

  “Then you’ve been lying to me,” she says.

  “I’m getting out of here,” says Owen, cornered and cutting off the conversation. “You can take the subway home with Sara.”

  Whether it’s the public humiliation or the threat of public transportation, Kate’s had enough. Owen’s gone too far and Kate explodes.

  “You’re an ass,” she mutters, throwing her hot dog at him and hitting his white polo shirt. The mustard lands in a splat across the Ralph Lauren logo.

  Owen’s face turns crimson—and I’m not the only one who gets to see it. Because the TV camera that has just panned from Mayor Bloomberg to Billy Crystal and put their larger-than-life images on the huge stadium screen has just focused in on New York real estate mogul Owen Hardy. And is beaming his fight with the pretty woman next to him to fifty-five thousand stadium fans. Not to mention the million television viewers at home.

  A loud cheer goes up from the fans who, as usual, are watching the screen instead of the game.

  “Food fight!” comes the cry from one section.

  “Food fight! Food fight!” the crowd in the bleachers chime in.

  And suddenly the entire stadium is erupting. “Food fight! Fight fight! Food fight!”

  Beer is spurting and popcorn is popping into the air as Kate’s little hot dog toss goes global. Burgers and buffalo wings come pelting down on us from the tier above and there are so many flying French fries that Owen may need a Lipitor to recover just from seeing them.

  In the frenzy, Owen escapes, leaving Kate and me to fend for ourselves.

  “I hate him,” Kate says, bursting into tears.

  “Well that’s a good start,” I say comfortingly.

  Kate wipes at her eyes and glares at me. “How can you be so cruel, Sara? I love him. It was all supposed to be so simple.”

  Billy leans over then and hands Kate a mustard-smudged napkin so she can blow her nose. “Love him—hate him. Love him—hate him,” Billy says, reeling his head from side to side as if someone were slapping his cheeks. “I feel like Faye Dunaway in Chinatown.”

  Kate finally laughs. How come he can cheer her up and I can’t? Oh, that’s right. He’s Billy Crystal.

  “It’s all my fault. I should have known something like this was going to happen,” Billy says with mock seriousness. “I never should have bought the hot dogs. They always give you heartburn.”

  When I finally get home after dropping off Kate, the house is quiet. Consuela’s gone for the day, Skylar’s out with friends, Dylan’s asleep, and even the dog doesn’t come to the door to greet me.

  “Bradford?” I call out hopefully.

  But there’s no answer. I see low lights twinkling on the patio and step outside into the moonless night.
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  “Anybody here?” I ask.

  “Over here, honey,” Bradford calls out from across the lawn. “Come join us.”

  I hear some splashing and as my eyes adjust to the darkness, I realize that Bradford’s in the hot tub. That’s not like him. And here’s something even stranger. He doesn’t seem to be alone.

  I walk carefully over to the wooden deck and notice several heads bobbing above the water. “What’s going on?” I ask. “Who’s there?”

  “Me,” says a familiar voice. “Kirk.”

  “And me,” sings out another voice. I stop, stunned. How can this be? The dreaded Mimi.

  “Kind of a long story,” Bradford says nervously as I step closer. “I played tennis and my back hurt, so I hopped in the hot tub just as Mimi was bringing Skylar home. They both jumped in with me, and then Skylar left to meet her friend and Kirk arrived so you two could rehearse for your next show but you weren’t home yet so here we all are.” He pauses for breath, and to gauge my reaction. Didn’t he ever learn that you should always keep your cover story simple?

  “Bradford’s become such a prudey-prude since he’s been with you,” Mimi says, lolling against the tub and kicking her legs. “He insisted we keep our bathing suits on.”

  “I alas didn’t have a bathing suit,” says Kirk, looking down at—I’m not sure what.

  “This is heaven for me. Surrounded by handsome men. I don’t know which way to turn first,” says Mimi. She extends a long leg, trying to tickle Bradford with her toe, but he sidles away and pulls himself onto the ledge.

  “Probably time for you to go,” he says to her coolly. I can see he’s being careful about my feelings. After our conversation about Mimi the other night, he knows that seeing her here, I might overreact.

  And I do. But not the way he might expect. I strip off the Guess jeans and Juicy Couture tee I wore to the Yankees game, revealing my best Victoria’s Secret push-up bra and bikini panties in pink floral. I figure it can pass as a bathing suit. I slither into the water and settle down next to Kirk.

  “Wow!” says Kirk. He puts his arm around me. “Hey, Bradford. If you want to keep your girl, you’d better get back in here.”

  “This girl’s all grown up,” I say. And it feels good to act that way. Bradford was right when he said that love and life are complicated. But I don’t have to let that make me insecure. Or let a complication like Mimi come between us.

  I playfully duck under the water to wet my hair. While I’m here, I might as well find out if Kirk is at least wearing the same Calvin Kleins from the photo shoot. Nope, looks like basic white Fruit of the Looms. Even Bradford’s underwear is racier than that. I wonder what got between Kirk and his Calvins.

  I come back up and shake out my hair and tug at Bradford’s leg to pull him back in. Bradford hesitates, but seeing that despite Mimi, I’m being a good sport, he decides it’s safe to come back in the water. I’m not going to drown him.

  He slips in beside me and starts playing footsie with me under the water. “You didn’t tell me your costar was so good-looking,” he says, now rubbing his calf against mine. “I’d better send a chaperone on your next shoot. I like it much better when you’re teaching at that all girls school.”

  Yes, all my students are girls, but I keep mum about the new male gym teacher who’s so ripped that attendance in phys ed class is at an all-time high. I know Bradford’s only teasing, but it’s nice to have the tables turned. And to have Kirk continuing to make me seem like the most desirable woman on earth. Or at least in the hot tub.

  “I must say I’m enjoying this more than I’d expected,” Kirk says, eyeing me. “If you dress like this for all our rehearsals I’ll never be late.” He runs the back of his hand across his forehead. “Is the water in this tub overheated? Or am I just feeling all hot and bothered from being near you?”

  I giggle, even though I’m pretty sure that line’s from an episode of Kirk’s soap. The kind of cutting-edge dialogue I’ve learned to expect from Days of Our Knives.

  Bradford gets into the spirit. “Something’s making me hot, too,” he says, pulling me onto his lap. “And I’m sure it’s my sexy fiancée.”

  This is fun. I could get used to it. I look gloatingly over at Mimi, who decides to make one last-ditch effort at getting some attention.

  She shimmies over to one of the water jets, raising herself on her hands so its full blast is squirting at her bikini bottom.

  “Ooh, ooh that feels so good,” she moans, writhing on the water jet, and enacting a little drama, all by herself. I’m briefly stunned, but then remember my new resolve. No reason to be jealous when I have the real thing under me.

  “Mmm, Bradford, you feel good,” I say, wriggling around on his lap.

  And talk about getting attention, I certainly have his. A little spontaneous bouncing got his interest a lot faster than roses and candles.

  Kirk paddles over. “Hey, Bradford, I’m a star. I’m not supposed to lose the prettiest girl in the pool.”

  I laugh and so does Bradford. But Mimi doesn’t find it at all funny.

  “Harumpf!” she says. I’ve never actually heard anybody say that word before. I thought it was something you only see in a bubble in Doonesbury. But Mimi’s genuinely miffed that she’s being ignored by two men. She gets herself out of the hot tub and grabs her clothes. “I’m leaving,” she says dramatically. “I wouldn’t dream of staying where I’m not wanted.”

  Coming from Mimi that’s a new policy. One that definitely gets my vote. I’m perfectly happy to see her unhappy, but Bradford’s too kind-hearted to enjoy Mimi’s chagrin.

  “Don’t be upset,” he says to her, standing up to offer a few words of comfort and unwittingly dumping me off his lap in the process. “Let me get you a towel.”

  “I have one,” she says, drying her feet. “Why don’t you just walk me to my car.”

  Bradford looks at me. “Do you mind, honey? I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “Go ahead,” I say, splashing some water with my feet, determined not to be jealous. Ever again.

  Bradford and Mimi walk toward the front of the house, and I make an effort not to watch them. He’s just walking to her car, not out of my life. I’m going to stay rational. No need to sign up for match-dot-com if Bradford’s not back in six minutes. Though I’ll think about it if he takes seven.

  But as if on cue, Kirk picks up the slack. “Alone at last. I get you in the end after all,” he says happily. “Whoo-hoo.”

  How bad can life be if Kirk is pitching woo? Literally.

  He puts his hand against a water jet and sends the spray in my direction. “Finally just the two of us.”

  “And what should the two of us do?” I ask.

  “We could rehearse our cooking show,” he says. “Or better yet, you can help me practice my scene for tomorrow’s soap. Where I make passionate love to a beautiful woman.” He leans in and gives me a soft kiss on the lips.

  “We’ll stick to the cooking show,” I say with a laugh. And I kiss him back lightly on the cheek because I know we’re just joking around.

  Chapter TEN

  WHEN I TOLD James he could meet Dylan two weeks from Saturday, I meant to pick a day so far away that it would never come. But now here it is. Dylan and I are standing at the bottom of the steps at the Bronx Zoo, looking up at the fountain—where I expect James is already waiting. He and I agreed that if the weather was bad, we’d put this off until tomorrow, so I search the blue sky hopefully for clouds. Cumulus, cirrus, stratus. Anything will do. But all I can see is a helicopter.

  “You don’t look happy, Mommy,” Dylan says as I bend down to tie his sneaker. Admittedly, it’s not really untied, but if I stop to fuss with the laces on his Nikes, I can put off our meeting James for another thirty seconds.

  “Of course I’m happy,” I say, standing up and trying not to sigh. Or at least too deeply. “I’m always happy when you’re around, sweetie.” I ruffle his hair, then pat it down, and do the same to my own. />
  “Then come on,” he says impatiently. “I want to meet my real daddy.”

  And I want to throw up.

  I go to take Dylan’s hand, but he races ahead of me and bounds up the steps. At the top, he turns around to grin down at me. “Slowpoke!” he hollers. Once I’m next to him, he dashes toward the fountain. And then comes to a complete halt.

  I catch up to him and put my arms around him. “Everything okay?” I ask.

  “I’m scared. There are lions here,” he says, tears springing to his eyes. And then he adds more quietly, “And what if my daddy doesn’t like me?”

  I hug him close. My first impulse is to grab him and run away. And why not? That’s what James did to us. But this isn’t about James. Dylan deserves to find out about his father. And to feel secure while he’s doing it.

  “Who in their right mind wouldn’t like you?” I ask, kissing the top of his head. “In fact, who wouldn’t love you? Just the way I do.”

  He looks up at me with trusting eyes, and I feel a lump in my throat. Then I notice James, standing on the other side of the fountain, watching us. I don’t approach him. Maybe it will be like one of those scenes in a movie where he spots us from afar, realizes what a perfect duo we are, and decides just to disappear again.

  But no such luck. He’s waiting for us to come over. I take Dylan’s hand in mine. “Honey, that’s James over there,” I say. “Let’s go say hello.”

  Dylan hesitates and then follows my gaze. “The man holding the balloon animals?” he asks, his face brightening.

  I nod and Dylan lets go of my hand to rush over. James walks toward him, a big smile spreading across his face. He holds out what’s probably meant to be an elephant, made from I don’t know how many blue and green balloons, and Dylan accepts it eagerly.

  “Daddy, this is great! Did you make it yourself?” Dylan asks.

  Daddy? It took me eleven months, two hundred sleepless nights and two thousand diaper changes to hear the word “Mama” for the first time. All James has to do is make a lousy balloon animal and he’s “Daddy.”

  I approach them slowly. James and Dylan are already laughing together and talking and for a moment, I’m the one who feels like an outsider.