She tugged at the tassels of the pillow and felt her heart pounding against the fabric. She knew it was Gabriel calling again. She’d seen his name on the screen. She knew it was Gabriel calling, because he’d called once already.
Her phone beeped, and the voice mail icon appeared. With clumsy hands she reached for the phone and dialed, working through the menu to retrieve the message. In the crackling silence after the beep, she recognized the rhythm of his breathing. She heard him sigh into the receiver. She closed her eyes and tried not to remember how it felt when he stretched her out on that table in the tent, his mouth hot against her throat.
Gabriel’s voice, soft in her ear.
“Listen,” he said. “I know this is complicated, Wendy. But we can’t leave things like this.”
She began to rock, pressing her mouth against the pillow, squeezing the phone against her ear. She never should have gone to the art fair. She should have known she wouldn’t be able to resist him.
“Just meet me somewhere. Anywhere. Times Square. Grand Central Terminal. I need to see you, querida.”
She buried her face in the pillow. She wanted to see him too. She wanted to move into his house and take care of his little Miguel and watch Gabriel paint marvelous paintings. She wanted to surrender herself to him as if she were a free woman, without guilt or hesitation.
A strip of light gleamed across her hand, sparkling the topaz of Parker’s ring.
“Please, Wendy. Don’t give up on us.”
It was a gorgeous wedding dress. Made of thick ivory silk with a hand-beaded overskirt that glimmered under the lights of the chandelier. Wendy stared at her reflection in the five-paneled mirror, marveling at the workmanship. She imagined pairing the dress with black stiletto boots and a spiked collar.
Wendy’s mother perched on a leather sofa coddling a cup of tea. “Oh, Stella, dear, you’ve outdone yourself. She’s an absolute vision.”
“Simple and graceful.” The designer glanced up at Wendy from her knees, where she was carefully tugging the hem. “These silver Louboutins work perfectly. Just as you ordered.”
“What do you think, Wendy?”
Wendy hardly recognized her own reflection. It was a wonder she hadn’t noticed this during all the other fittings. This was a dazzling wedding dress, a thing of great beauty—it was just better suited for some other lucky girl.
“I will say this,” Wendy said, plucking at the bodice’s careful folds. “The dress came out exactly as planned.”
That was the scary part. She’d labored over the design with her mother and Stella more than six months ago, coming in every six weeks to check on the progress. The dress had not changed. She had. All because on Saturday afternoon, Gabriel had made love to her under a tent in the rain.
“Really, Wendy, you have nothing else to say?” Her mother swirled the cup. “After all the trouble Stella went through hand-beading those Swarovski crystals on the overskirt?”
“Stella,” Wendy said, as if prompted for her line. “The overskirt really is spectacular. My sister, Birdie, will adore it.”
That was not what she intended to say. That was the least of what she needed to say. Birdie had been, until this moment, the very farthest thing from her mind. But since Gabriel’s last phone call, she’d been like a sleepwalker, dreaming through the haze of her life, going through the motions while watching it as if from a very great distance…and yet seeing it with stunning clarity. The words had leaped to her lips of their own accord. This newborn creature living in her skin felt absolutely no urge to take them back.
“So this is why you’ve been silent as the grave all morning,” her mother said. “I see you’ve made up your mind to bring Birdie to the wedding.”
Wendy had made up her mind on many things. Lots of plans had to change. Despite the fact that there were three hundred and twenty-five wedding invitations in the mail. Despite the fact that there were potted, not-yet-bloomed specialty orchids on a steamer, navigating from Rio de Janeiro. Despite the fact that there were three designer bridesmaid’s dresses and one matron-of-honor dress, cut, sewn, and awaiting Marta, Dhara, Kelly, and Audrey for the last fitting.
For in less than two months, there would be no sixteen-piece orchestra at her cocktail party playing the Meditation from Thais while her guests nibbled on salmon mousse on wafers. In less than two months, she would not be married to a wonderful man she’d known since second grade, a good man who deserved a better wife, a loving wife, a faithful wife.
Her heart squeezed.
“Oh, for goodness sake,” her mother exclaimed. “I’ll tell the wedding planner to arrange for two more seats.”
Her mother brought the cup to her mouth and put her lips upon the rim, going through the pantomime of sipping. Very deliberately, she replaced the cup in the saucer without a clink. And Wendy glanced at her mother’s reflection in the mirror, noting the sudden capitulation with a raised brow that she’d once pierced, and now was seriously considering piercing again.
In the stretching silence, the designer must have sensed the tension, for she mumbled something about fetching seamstress’s chalk. She rose to her feet, padded across the floor, and then closed the door behind her.
“Don’t look so surprised, my dear.” Her mother pulled a mirror from her purse to check her lipstick. “I suspected you were going to bring this up, sooner or later.”
It was a strange irony that the issue would come up when it didn’t matter anymore. “I know you never wanted Birdie at the wedding.”
“I love your sister, Wendy. I also know that you won’t be doing Birdie any favors by insisting she attend.”
“It wouldn’t be a true family celebration without her.”
“Oh, you’ll have plenty of her. She will cling to you through the entire reception. She adores you above all others.”
“Yes.”
“And when you must make the rounds of the tables, she will become petulant. She will complain. And she will have a tantrum. Then she will have to be dragged to some distant room where the minder will spend the next hour and a half trying to calm her down.”
Wendy closed her eyes and willed patience. She would not say the terrible things that leaped to mind. How her mother had sent Birdie away, when the family had the money to take care of her at home. How much more that act needled her, now that she knew someone like Gabriel. She was not going to fight with her mother, at least not today. That fight would come later. She needed to marshal every ounce of her energy for the more difficult confrontation coming this afternoon.
She reached blindly for the row of pearl buttons up the middle of her back. “Help me get out of this dress, would you?”
“Wait for Stella. She has a few adjustments to make.” Her mother crumpled her smooth brow. “And don’t change the subject. I know you think Birdie has improved these past years, but that’s because you see her only in a place where she is comfortable, where she feels safe, where there is a predictable routine—”
“Please, stop.”
“Yes, I see it’s no use discussing this.” Her mother spread her hands across her knees. “When you’ve got that look on your face, I should know better.”
Wendy glanced back at the woman in the mirror, seeing only the flush of her cheeks, the strange brightness of her own eyes, the face of a woman who’d fallen hard for a Brazilian artist when she should have been planning a wedding to a wonderful man.
“You were like this before you insisted on taking the job at the art gallery in that terrible part of the city. I couldn’t sleep, thinking you’d call me from your cell phone, bleeding in some alley—”
“Now you’re just being dramatic.”
“And that vulgar piercing in your ear, and those widow’s weeds you used to wear. No, no,” her mother said, raising the flat of her hand. “You’ll have Birdie at your wedding. I’ll try very hard not to say I told you so when she’s screaming in Trip’s office at the club.”
Wendy let the remark pass. It didn’t
matter anymore. Birdie wouldn’t be screaming in Trip’s office at the club. Someday, Birdie would dance at Wendy’s wedding.
Just not at this wedding.
Parker’s sailboat lay low in the water, its gunwale only a foot or so above the pier. As she approached, she saw him bent over something. His plaid shorts came to just above the knees, his calf muscles firm and contoured. His blond hair was dark with moisture, as if he’d recently showered.
“Hey,” he said, catching sight of her. “There you are.”
Yes, here she was, cheating fiancée. He cast a warm smile upon her and she felt that smile like a shadow across her heart.
“Love the hair,” he said. “You do that for me?”
She lifted her fingers to her hair, still pinned up from the trip to the salon that morning. She tried to run her fingers through it, but they snagged in the pins. “It’s bad luck if you see it.”
“Hey, not a word from me. Help me load, will you?” He gestured to a pile of gear on the dock. “Hand me some of that stuff so we can get on the water.”
She slipped her purse off her shoulder and let it topple to the boards. She picked up the first bag, crinkling the paper. She smelled fresh grapes and caught sight of a bottle of wine. Then, tilting the bag, she saw the familiar logo of their favorite deli.
“I did some shopping,” he said, reaching over to take it out of her hands. “Knew you wouldn’t be happy with a ham sandwich and some beer.”
Something inside her tightened. She reached for the next bag to hide her face. This was the man who suffered family Thanksgivings with her, clutching her hand under the mahogany table as the dysfunction flew. This was the man who’d raised the yachting cup toward her, blowing her a kiss after he’d won the club regatta last summer. This was the man she’d said yes to when he fell to one knee on this dock—in this very spot—offering her his great-grandmother’s ring along with his bright shiny future.
“Another bad morning, huh?” He put the last bag in the boat and then held out his hand. “C’mon. A few hours on the open water will clear your mind.”
Wendy looked at his hand. It was a strong hand, callused at the palms and fingers, the kind of hand that spent a lot of time pulling hemp ropes and cranking winches. An honest hand, an honest man. She had no memory of sinking down and folding her legs, but suddenly, there she was, sitting on the dock in a pool of cotton skirt with the sun-scorched boards burning against the backs of her thighs.
“Hey.” He clutched the gunwale, ready to leap over onto the dock. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she murmured, waving him back. “Yes, I’m fine. I just…need a minute.”
She fumbled in her purse, searching among the chaos for the familiar little pack, the emergency cigarettes she kept with her though she’d given up the habit years and years ago.
“Hey, Wendy…Are you sick?”
At heart, yes. “No, I’m not sick, just light headed.”
“You should stop dieting. You look great.”
“Thanks. But that’s not the problem.” She ducked her head as if she could dodge that arrow of kindness. “I can’t sail with you today, Parker.”
“Yes, you can. You’re here now.” Parker glanced around, waving to a friend passing by on the boards. “To hell with whatever other plans you have.”
“I’ve already canceled all my other appointments today.” She tapped the cigarette on her knee, turning it over and over in her hand. “All that’s really left is to talk to you.”
Squinting against the sun, she looked up into Parker’s face and saw his expression shift.
“Listen,” he said, “you already backed out on me once this week. Sail with me today and tell me what the hell’s going on.”
“Can’t sail.”
“I’ll listen. I promise.”
“I know you will, Park—”
“We’re just going out on the Sound. It’s a calm day. I won’t be distracted.”
“Here’s the problem: I’m not a good swimmer.”
Parker’s brow rippled. “I know you’re not. Two years in a row you flaked out on lessons with Jessica. But what does that have to do with us?”
“After I finish saying what I’ve got to say, we’ll be in deep water.”
“So?”
“You’re likely to throw me off the boat.”
Parker went very still. With shaky hands, she pulled out an old lighter and flicked it a few times, trying to ignite the spark. For the past week she had mulled this very moment over and over, searching for the words that would hurt this good man the least. She certainly couldn’t tell him that only now did she realize that she’d spent the last seven years trying to be the woman the world expected her to be, rather than the woman she really was. Nor could she tell Parker that she didn’t love him anymore. That was simply not true.
What she dreaded most was the chance that Parker would behave like Trey had yesterday, on the boat with Kelly. Audrey had given her the blow-by-blow. If Parker flew into as fierce a passion as Trey had, Wendy knew she would lose the Zen-like calm that had descended upon her. She would lose the crystal clarity of her thoughts. She would lose her sureness of heart.
Then the words tumbled out of her, loose from where her guilt festered. “I’m so sorry, Parker. I’m calling it off.”
His face shuttered. He backed up a step, and then another, finally stumbling back against the opposite gunwale. She watched him as he braced himself against the far side of the boat, his shoulders slumping, his polo shirt clinging to his chest. A thought passed fleetingly through her mind: what a terribly malicious thing love was, to bring to her attention the startling beauty of the man she was giving up.
Then he crossed his arms, flexing his fingers over his biceps. “I don’t want to know about it.”
She stilled, tilting her head.
“I get it, Wendy.” The wind picked up from the west and began to weave in his fair hair as he shifted the crossing of his arms. “I’m not an idiot. I know you had a last sowing of the oats.”
Her heart made a full stop. He couldn’t know. Nobody knew. She hadn’t even divulged that secret to Marta, Kelly, or Dhara.
It wasn’t possible.
“You don’t think I’ve noticed? This crazy decision to keep me hands-off three full months before the wedding? How distant you’ve been?”
“Parker—”
“You’re not the only one nervous about the wedding. You’re not the only one wondering if you’re ready for this.” Parker pushed away from the gunwale to move around the boat, shifting bags, pulling out the white wine and shoving it into the ice bucket. “My father has been talking to me about life insurance, annuities. Screws with my head.”
“Parker—”
“Not a word. I don’t want to know anything.” His arms bulged as he stowed the last of the bags into storage. “If I find out who this guy is, I’ll floor him.”
Her breathing hitched. Wendy weighed her next words, watching an ant work its way across the thin fissures on the weathered boards, trying so very hard not to get mired in the cracks. It was one of life’s strange ironies that it might have been better if she admitted the affair with Gabriel. Then he’d have a source to blame, a solid reason for her decision.
“There’s no other man, Parker.”
In truth, Gabriel wasn’t the real cause of this separation. Gabriel had been the catalyst, the man who showed her how foolish she’d been, trying to become her mother’s version of a good Wainwright girl. Her doubts about Parker had always been there. Even when Parker had dropped to one knee on this very dock, her lips had said yes to his proposal but a little voice in her heart had whispered no.
Parker would never have reason to suspect otherwise. She’d ended it with Gabriel almost as soon as it began. She’d burned into her memory the sensation of his hand cradling her head. She’d preserved it like a crocus plucked from the snow and pressed between the pages of an old book. It hurt to hear Gabriel’s pained voice on her voice mai
l, still urging her to reconsider. But she’d cheated on her fiancé. If she became Gabriel’s lover, she would destroy Parker. If she became Gabriel’s lover, guilt would destroy that relationship too. Infidelity was a poison that seeped both ways. No matter how long she tried to think this all through, it always ended with three broken hearts.
The least she could do was protect Parker by letting Gabriel go.
“Then it’s over,” Parker said. “Good.” He nodded once and then held out his hand. “Now let’s go sailing.”
She felt a chill in her blood. She searched his face, waiting for his expression to betray some suppressed fury. He deserved to yell. He’d certainly earned the right to be incensed, just with suspicion. She told herself it must be a coping mechanism. Later, she thought, he’d go out and get drunk with Trey.
Wendy put the cigarette in her mouth. She bent her head and flicked the lighter once, twice, until it finally caught flame. She sucked the smoke in through the filter, felt the hit in her lungs. She held the smoke for a moment and closed her eyes as her senses spun with the rush of nicotine.
“It’s the sailing.” He yanked on one of the ropes, setting it loose from the cleat. “It’s a jealous mistress.”
“It’s not the sailing.” Though, Wendy thought, it probably helped that his attention wasn’t always laser-focused on her these past years. “You never made me feel second place, Parker.”
“Have you told your mother?”
“No. Not yet.”
She wished she could see his eyes. She wished she could read his mind. But he was absorbed in the new knot he was winding around the cleat, pulling on it with far more force than was necessary, in a sailor’s knot she didn’t recognize—much more complicated than a simple clove hitch.
“Good.” He pulled the knot secure and then checked the tension. “I admire your mother. But I’d rather we decided how to handle this ourselves.”
“Handle this.”
“There are going to be a lot of questions. It’s going to be the talk of the season. Everyone is going to want to know why the wedding is off.”
Wendy was very glad she was sitting down. Hearing those words out of his mouth was like a scythe to the back of her knees. Had she been standing, she would have collapsed in a heap on the dock. As it was, she felt as if the boards had just given way beneath her and sent her through the pilings to the water gurgling below.
One Good Friend Deserves Another Page 21