Mine Are Spectacular!

by Janice Kaplan

  I grab the macadamia nuts, munch a few, and get back into bed.

  “Sweetheart, darling, love of my life,” I whisper into his ear.

  Bradford rouses slightly as I nuzzle my lips against his.

  “Mmm, you’re delicious,” he says, obviously tasting the salty nuts.

  “Honey, don’t be mad at me. I just found out James and I never got divorced, but I’ll take care of it as soon as we get back.”

  “That’s nice,” he replies in a groggy stupor, licking the corner of my lips.

  “Do you still want to marry me?” I ask.

  “Marry me,” he says. And he falls back to sleep.

  If Bradford had plans for the next morning, he cancels them before I wake up—and we stay in our plush suite rediscovering each other until nearly noon.

  “I’m never letting you out of my bed,” Bradford says, rolling on top of me yet one more time.

  “Yes you are,” I joke, pushing him away. “I’ve never been in Hong Kong before. I want to explore the city.”

  “I want to explore you,” Bradford says, kissing each of my fingers, slowly and sensuously. He pauses at my pinkie. “For example, I thought I knew everything about you. But I never knew you had this hangnail.”

  I giggle. “Then take me out for a manicure.”

  “I’ll get you anything you want,” Bradford says, making small circles in the palm of my hand. He’s quiet for a moment and then, as if in afterthought, he adds, “By the way, you never said much about the gift I sent.”

  “Um, I liked it,” I say.

  Bradford stops and pulls back slightly.

  “Liked it?” he asks.

  “Definitely,” I say with vigor, having told myself since the day it arrived that a wok sent Federal Express from Hong Kong was exactly what I always wanted. “It was very sweet of you. I even told Kate how sweet it was. And I’m thinking of using it on my TV show. Just as soon as I can dream up a dessert to make in a wok.”

  Bradford breaks into a grin. “You haven’t used it yet, have you.”

  “Not yet,” I admit. “But I’m going to really soon. Maybe I can make Thanksgiving turkey in it.”

  “But if you didn’t use it,” Bradford says, ignoring my holiday plans, “I’m guessing you never even opened the lid. Or looked inside.”

  “Maybe not,” I say slowly, wondering where he’s going with this.

  Bradford starts to chuckle, and then to laugh. And then he’s laughing so hard he rolls off me and lies next to me, leaning on his elbow.

  “So you flew eight thousand miles to find me in Hong Kong and you thought all I sent you was a wok?”

  “I didn’t come because you sent me a wok,” I say.

  “Not many women would,” Bradford concedes, starting to laugh again.

  “I didn’t come because of some present,” I explain. “I came because I love you. And it’s what I said last night—whatever we’ve done wrong in the past, we’re going to do right now.”

  “I know, sweetheart,” Bradford says kissing me. “And I love you for that. But when we get home, you’ll find out I didn’t do as badly as you think on the shopping.”

  I’m just starting to imagine what I could have missed inside the wok when Bradford comes closer and my mind turns to my immediate pleasures. For the next twenty minutes, I don’t mind being distracted at all.

  When we’re both sweaty, exhausted and totally giddy, Bradford finally concedes that a little lunch and sightseeing are in order.

  “Promise you’ll still be here if I leave you for five minutes to take a shower?” he jokes, getting up and stretching.

  “Right here,” I promise, not taking my eyes off my taut, firm fiancé as he strides toward the bathroom.

  But once I hear the shower turning on, I scoot to the other side of the bed and grab the phone to call Berni. “I need a big favor,” I tell her, after finding out that Dylan’s doing great and assuring her that Bradford and I couldn’t be better. I explain what I want her to do.

  “I’m supposed to go to your house, look inside some wok and call you back?” Berni asks in disbelief. “Don’t you have something more interesting to do in Hong Kong?”

  “Not for about five minutes,” I say. “Hurry.”

  Bradford has finished his long, luxurious shower and is shaving at the sink when the phone rings. I grab it before he can even hear.

  “South Sea pearls,” Berni says, practically breathless, the moment I say hello. “Double strand. Gorgeous diamond clasp. Huge and luminous. Never seen any this perfect. I’d value them at thirty-two thousand dollars.”

  “Really? That’s what was in the wok?” I ask, slightly stunned. And wondering how Berni got them appraised so fast.

  “Right there in a beautiful blue velvet box. Next to the instructions for the wok—which, by the way, is guaranteed for a year.”

  “So he bought the good one,” I joke feebly.

  “You have no idea how good,” Berni says. “I rubbed the pearls across my teeth to make sure they’re authentic. Little trick I learned. Imitations feel smooth and real ones have rough spots. Just like men. The best ones aren’t all polished surfaces. They have something underneath.”

  “You’re a wise woman,” I say with a laugh. “I see how you’ve stayed married so long. I don’t even mind that you stuck my new pearls in your mouth. Just keep them away from the babies.”

  “Don’t worry, the twins aren’t on solids yet,” Berni reassures me.

  Through the crack in the bathroom door, I see Bradford putting away his razor and I rush to get off the phone.

  “Maybe you should take the necklace home with you to keep it safe,” I say to Berni, suddenly worried about the jewels I didn’t know I had.

  “Are you kidding?” asks Berni. “I’m bringing all my jewelry to your house and putting it in the wok. What thief in his right mind would look there?”

  I hang up quickly as Bradford strolls out, freshly scrubbed and sweet smelling. I jump out of bed to throw my arms around him.

  “I just had my spies check out the wok,” I say, shaking my head but unable to contain my excitement. “South Sea pearls with an unbelievable diamond clasp. That’s so extravagant. What were you thinking?”

  Bradford gives me a big smile and takes my hands. “I was thinking about how much I missed you. And I was thinking that I want us to be together for a lifetime.”

  “Absolutely the gift of a lifetime,” I say.

  He hugs me. “Does that mean I’m off the hook for Christmas?”

  “Definitely. You’re covered for Christmas, Valentine’s Day and St. Patrick’s Day through 2014. There’s only one more thing I want from you.”

  Still holding him, I tumble back onto the bed and pull him toward me. Bradford doesn’t seem to mind. Even though he’s obviously going to need another shower.

  When we finally get outside into the sunny afternoon, Bradford and I amble along the promenade hugging the harbor.

  “Two famous tourist attractions here,” Bradford says, sounding like a proper guide. “The Star Ferry. And the tram that goes up Victoria Peak.”

  “You’ve probably done both of them a thousand times already,” I say.

  “Actually not even once. All I’ve been doing is working.”

  “I’m here, so it’s time to play,” I tell him, taking his hand.

  We take the tram and spend an hour at the top of the Peak, looking out at the breathtaking views and the multimillion-dollar mansions dotting the mountaintop.

  “Stunning,” Bradford says, looking out and shaking his head. “Look at all I miss when you’re not with me.”

  “You’ll never miss anything again,” I tell him.

  On the way down, I get the sense that we’ve been in the one tranquil spot in all of Hong Kong. Back in the crowded streets, the city is in nonstop motion, and we make our way past shops selling Levi’s jeans, Nike sneakers, and every electronic device imaginable. I examine the Gucci bags, deciding they’re much better fakes
than I can find on the streets of New York, but pass them up anyway. Farther north, we walk through an outdoor market crammed with vendors selling herbs, Chinese lanterns, embroidered slippers, and even goldfish and songbirds. I find a quilted pink vest trimmed in white fake fur and tell Bradford we should get it for Skylar.

  “You think it’s something she’d wear?” he asks dubiously.

  “Definitely,” I say confidently. “I know her pretty well now. We’ve been spending a lot of time together.”

  Bradford looks at me in surprise. “That’s great,” he says, pleased.

  He goes over to a table displaying the latest whizmo-gizmos. He quickly buys one and then another.

  “And what are those?” I ask.

  “Boy stuff for Dylan. Trust me. He and I will play with them some night when you and Skylar are busy doing your nails.”

  I stick my tongue out at him and we both laugh and kiss again. Over the last twenty-four hours we’ve now kissed at least ten times for every day we were apart. I guess there’s something to be said for absence making the heart grow fonder. Even if you do end up with chapped lips.

  As we continue on, a jade vendor tries to reel us in, but I assure him that I have the most beautiful necklace in the whole world waiting for me back home. Then we get drawn into a spirited conversation with a ginseng wholesaler, who tells us his product is good for energy and vitality. And a lot more.

  “You have a bad memory? You remember to take ginseng, it’s okay,” he tell us, speaking rapidly. “Need to lose weight? Get smoother skin? Buy ginseng. Need a better night’s sleep? Take a whole case. Don’t like your job? Ginseng helps you find a better one.”

  I’m waiting for him to get to the part where ginseng vacuums the living room. But what the heck. I pull out my wallet, figuring I can always find a use for it. Caramel-Ginseng Soufflé, here I come. I’m just taking the package when I notice two teenage girls gawking and pointing at me. They motion to a few of their friends who join them, and in another minute, the entire group is rushing toward me.

  Bradford hesitates, and puts a protective arm around my shoulder, wheeling us around in the opposite direction. But the crowd is growing—and persistent.

  “Disgusting lady! Disgusting lady!” they start to scream.

  Bradford and I pick up the pace and start to walk a little faster. But the gang is too quick for us. And before we can get out of the market, we suddenly find ourselves surrounded. Maybe I should drop the ginseng. The wholesaler didn’t mention that it also gets you attacked by angry throngs.

  But they don’t seem angry. And a few are waving notebooks and pens in my direction.

  “Is disgusting lady from TV!” scream several more people excitedly. They turn around, pointing from me to a poster hanging on a nearby kiosk. I look over and stare at the life-size image of Paris Hilton in her ad for Guess! jeans. She definitely is a disgusting lady from TV, but I don’t think anyone could confuse the two of us.

  And that’s when I spot it. The eight-foot-tall billboard, with a picture of Kirk and me, cooking.

  “My gosh,” says Bradford, following my gaze. “I didn’t know you’d become so famous. Your show’s on in Hong Kong!”

  “I had no idea! And people actually know me!” I say, suddenly feeling the thrill of celebrity I missed on that bus-watching day with Kirk.

  Bradford grins. “Go ahead. Don’t deny your fans an autograph.”

  Heady with excitement, I sign my name several times in a large, loopy scrawl. I’m having the time of my life. I only wish I knew how to write the Chinese characters for “Keep cooking! Keep watching!”—which is what I’d decided to write if anybody in America had ever asked for my autograph.

  Finally, the crowd starts drifting away, but one of the first girls is still lingering. She starts chatting shyly with me in perfect schoolgirl English.

  “I’m so happy you like my show,” I tell her. “But I have to ask. Why did you call me a disgusting lady?”

  She points again toward the poster, where the name of the program is written in Chinese. “We translate the title of your show here as ‘Disgusting American Desserts,’ ” she says proudly. “We love you. Everyone watches to laugh at the funny food you Americans eat.”

  For a moment, I’m taken down a peg. But then I laugh, too. Wish we’d thought of using that title at home. I never really expected to be famous. But hey, being known as the Disgusting Lady has a certain ring to it.

  Bradford spends the next two days closing up his Hong Kong deals and I have one piece of unfinished business, too. But I don’t manage to do anything about it until the last possible minute.

  When I dial James’s number the night before we’re leaving, I’ve rehearsed what I’m going to say to him a million times. But when he answers the phone, my practiced speech goes out the window, and I blurt, “I’m in Hong Kong, James. Bradford and I are back together.”

  “I know,” he says calmly. “Dylan told me. I saw him at Berni’s yesterday. And I’m happy for you, Sara. I meant what I said in Central Park that day and I wish I could be the one you’re in love with. But I guess we’re just meant to be connected in a different way than before.”

  “But still connected,” I say. “I’ll always love you for giving me Dylan.”

  “I feel blessed that we still have each other at all,” James says with deep felt emotion. “I told Dylan that he’ll always have me in his life. And you. And now Bradford. The more people who love you, the luckier you are.”

  “How wonderful of you to say that,” I tell him, admiring his graciousness. Dylan really is very lucky to have him. But now I feel bad. James has turned into a good guy, and I hope it doesn’t take him too much time to get over me.

  “James,” I say comfortingly. “You’re such an amazing man. Any woman would be thrilled to have you. I know you’re going to find someone very special. Really soon.”

  “You’re right, I will,” James says, moving ahead as only a man can. “Did I tell you I got a job as an interpreter at the UN? The woman who hired me just asked if I want to go out for drinks.”

  Am I the only one worried about harassment in the workplace? But anyway, that was fast. Word gets out that there’s a handsome single man in the city and he’s a hotter commodity than a rent-controlled apartment on Riverside Drive. I guess James is going to be just fine. And I can happily take on the role of friend, advisor, and supportive ex-wife.

  “If you want to impress her, tell her what a great dad you are,” I say conspiratorially. “Women like that.”

  James laughs. “Thanks for the advice. Anything I can help you with over there?”

  “I think I’m okay,” I say, really meaning it. “See you when I get back.”

  “Yup, you will,” James says. “Dylan and I are planning to build one heck of a Mars lander. Right in the middle of your living room.”

  Chapter EIGHTEEN

  THE FLIGHT BACK FEELS about half as long and twice as comfortable as the flight over because I spend it sleeping contentedly on Bradford’s shoulder. And then there’s that little bonus of our being in first class, where the seats don’t just recline, they turn into beds. When we get home, Bradford takes a whole week off from work and so do I. The kids complain that they want to be on vacation, too, so we take them for a special day in the city where we cover two museums, three streets of shopping, a carriage ride through Central Park and a night at the Big Apple Circus, which Skylar doesn’t complain about. Maybe because one of the clowns comes over to flirt with her and brings her into the ring.

  “I knew I’d think the men she dated were buffoons,” Bradford says, leaning over to whisper in my ear. “But who thought I’d actually be right.”

  Afterward we go to The Carlyle so Skylar can feel sophisticated drinking an alcohol-free piña colada in the elegant Bemelmans Bar while listening to the dulcet piano music. She marvels at the whimsical murals on the walls, and she’s delighted when we tell her they were created by the man who wrote the Madeline books.
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  “The bar was named after him, and he lived in the hotel,” I explain.

  “I could live here, too,” she says, contentedly twirling her drink with her swizzle stick.

  Dylan admires the ice-skating elephants painted on the walls for a while, but he’s less impressed by the intimate, romantic room than Skylar, and he falls asleep in Bradford’s lap.

  “A perfect night,” Bradford says, when we’re back at Hadley Farms and he’s carried the still-sleeping Dylan to bed. Skylar, on the other hand, is wide awake. She pulls a colorful Post-it from the pocket of her Cynthia Rowley jacket. “Do you think it’s too late to call the clown?” she asks. “He gave me his number.”

  “How dare he do that!” Bradford says, quickly falling into the role of furious father. Predictably, his ire just makes Skylar that much more interested in the whole idea.

  “He had floppy shoes, but he was kind of cute,” she says, like any teenage girl trying to test her limits.

  And for once, stepmom-to-be can do better than dad.

  “General rule I’ve found useful,” I tell her with a wink. “Never date a man who wears more makeup than you do.”

  Sklyar laughs, probably just as happy to be off the hook. “But he could have taught me so much about eyeliner,” she says, tossing the Post-it into the wastebasket and heading off to her own room.

  When she’s gone, Bradford gives me a hug. “Stop giving me new reasons to love you. I have too many already.”

  Two nights later, Bradford and I are back at The Carlyle, this time sitting at a table with Kate, waiting for Owen to show up. We had so much fun the other night, we decided to come back. But trying to replicate a great evening never works.

  “I’d like to tell you that Owen will be here any minute, but he’s never on time for anything,” Kate grumbles, halfway through her second cranberry juice and vodka. I always think drinking cranberry juice in public takes a brave woman. Either she really can’t live without the taste or she has a urinary tract infection.

  “I’m sure he’s very busy,” Bradford says, glancing sideways at me and obviously wondering how often I’ve made the same complaint about him.