by Jane Porter
I reach up to swipe tears, and somehow I hit the rim of the big mug with my elbow, and the cappuccino tips, spilling. Suddenly there is someone shoving paper napkins at me, a whole handful. I say a muffled thanks and clean up the coffee. As I move to throw away the soggy napkins, I realize that the person who shoved the napkins into my hands is Gorgeous Guy, the one who looks like a Gap model, the one who wanted to see the sports section.
“Hi,” I say. “Thanks.”
“You didn’t get burned, did you?”
I’d forgotten what a great voice he had, forgotten that it’s slow and a little sexy. “No. I’m fine.”
“Good.”
He stands next to my table for a moment, staring down at me. “You look familiar,” he says.
“Oh.” I reach up, push hair out of my eyes. “We talked once, briefly. You asked to borrow the sports section.”
He seems to remember, or at least almost, because there’s still a funny line between his eyebrows. “Right.”
“You wanted to check your high school’s score.”
He smiles, expression clearing. “You have a good memory.”
You’re kind of hard to forget. But I don’t say that, because it goes without saying, and I wonder how genetics does this—makes someone so strong and clear, all clean lines, perfect geometric planes, and then throws in the thick hair, the deep-blue eyes, and the intelligence on the inside that makes it come together, the energy that makes the person more than beautiful, but intriguing. “How’s your school doing?”
“Okay.”
“You’re not in high school.”
He laughs. “No. I teach in San Mateo, at the high school. Science.”
“Science?” I look up at him briefly and look away, a hint of heat in my face. I would have loved science if I had a teacher who looked like him.
“Biology, advanced biology, that kind of thing.”
I nod, trying not to think too much about the birds and the bees—reproductive science I’m sure he covers at some point, somewhere in the curriculum. And I think we’ve just about wrapped up our conversation when he gestures to the chair across from me.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Yes—no.” I swipe the rest of my tears away. “I mean, that’d be great.”
He sits, and he’s even handsomer up close. His eyes are really blue, Hollywood blue, and I’m reminded of that actor, the one who played the southern hunk in Sweet Home Alabama.
“Where’re you from?” he asks, leaning toward me, one hard thigh jutting out from beneath the table, the shape of a strong knee just barely outlined against the faded denim.
“Visalia,” I say, knowing he won’t have a clue.
“Exeter,” he answers, and we both grin.
Exeter’s just nine miles east of Visalia. You take Highway 198 toward Kaweah Lake, jog right off the highway before you reach Badger Hill, and there it is.
I can’t believe he was raised nine miles from my hometown. He’s too good-looking to be from Cowville. “You moved away from Exeter when you were a kid, right?”
His eyes crease. “Sometimes I wish I did, but nope. Graduated from Exeter High School. I’m Alex.”
“Holly.” I shake his hand, and I’m tempted to ask what class he was in, but I hold back. I know he’s older than I am; I peg him to be early, maybe even mid-thirties, as his bones are settled, his frame big, solid, and there’s something in his eyes that indicates he’s comfortable. Relaxed. He knows who he is.
Instead I point to his feet, “So those are real boots?” I ask. “Not just Needless Markup wannabes?”
He laughs low and husky and, stretching one leg out, lifts the hem on his jeans, showing the genuine stitching on the leather. “Real boots.”
“You were an aggie?”
“Yep. You, too?”
“Nope.”
“No Four-H? No FFA sweetheart queen?”
I shake my head as the knot inside my chest eases. I can already breathe a little easier. I feel a little better. Just knowing that Gorgeous Guy is from my neck of the woods makes everything okay. “I lived in town. I left the ag stuff to my friends.”
“Smart girl.”
“You’re a country boy.”
“Citrus.”
“You must love fog.”
He laughs, and it’s deep, sharp, distinctly male. “Far better than cold snaps.” And we both know we’re talking about the cold, clear winter nights that send farmers rushing through their orchards, lighting the oil smudge pots to keep the fruit from freezing.
“So what are you doing in the city?” he asks, changing the subject.
“I’m in PR.”
He lifts an eyebrow, so I hurriedly add, “I work as an event planner.”
“That’s great.”
And then I blurt things I shouldn’t. “I can’t believe you’re a teacher. I thought you were a model.”
He laughs again, a great big belly laugh, but before he can answer, I hear a voice. “Holly?”
I recognize the voice, even the incredulous tone, and immediately flash back to my freshman year of high school.
I turn around, and it is Katie. Katie. Katie from freshman PE, Katie from honors English, Katie from AP history. Katie Robinson. For a moment I do nothing but grin like an idiot, and then I’m launching myself up out of the chair and I’m hugging her. “What are you doing here, Katie?”
“I live in San Francisco.”
“Where?” I let go, step back, glance at Gorgeous Guy and then Katie. “She’s from Visalia, too.” I can’t stop beaming at her. “Do you live near here?”
“Up the street, three blocks over,” she says, pointing toward Lombard. But Katie’s not alone. She’s with a friend she introduces as Kirk. Alex stands up, and we all shake hands.
With introductions over, I turn immediately back to Katie. It’s been so long since I last saw her... seven years... eight... incredible.
“So how are you?” I ask for what seems like the fifth time.
“Good,” Katie answers. “Really good. And you?”
“Great.” I’m still grinning. I can’t help it. These past few weeks have been really hard, and tonight was just the worst, and when I feel at my lowest, Kate Robinson appears. Kate—Katie—and I go way back, to all those geeky years when we washed our faces with Noxzema and slapped on Clearasil like it was going out of style.
“When did you return to California?” I ask. She’d moved away in the middle of our senior year. Her father had been transferred to the East Coast—Boston? Philadelphia? (It’s terrible, but all those places sound the same to West Coasters.) And even though she’d begged to finish her year at Redwood, her parents had decided it’d be in the best interests of the family to move everyone at once. So they’d all gone, Katie and her three younger brothers.
My God. Katie. Katie Robinson.
And she’s even more gorgeous than before, less wholesome, more sophisticated; cheekbones have emerged from adolescent baby fat; her eyebrows are darker; her blond hair highlighted and precision cut. She looks like the ultimate California girl, even though she’s New Jersey born and partially bred.
“Two years ago. I work for Intel, but here in the city.”
Alex is still standing, but he’s reaching for the coat he’d slung over the back of his chair. “Sounds like you guys have a lot to catch up on. I’ll let you chat, but, Holly, can I get your number?”
I think he’s joking and then I see he’s got a pen out and a scrap of paper with his number on it. I tear off the part with his number and then write my number on the other part. I look at him and think he’s so out of my league—I mean, he is Gorgeous Guy after all—but I hand him my number, knowing he’ll never call, knowing he’s just trying to be nice since I was bawling my eyes out.
And then he’s gone, gorgeous Alex walking out the door.
Katie is riffling through her purse, digging out a business card. “Kirk and I are on our way to a comedy club; he’s got front-row tickets, so we
can’t be late.” She pulls out a pen and scribbles a number on the back of her card. “But call me in the morning. Let’s get drinks tomorrow night or meet on Sunday for brunch.”
“Great.” I put her card in my pocket but don’t let go. It’s a lifeline, something good from my past, something good in my present. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
She and Kirk are heading to the door. “Don’t forget!” Katie shouts to me, raising her hand to her ear, thumb and pinkie extended. “Call me.”
Chapter Twelve
Katie and I meet for brunch Sunday morning. Brunch in the city is still something new to me. Growing up, we didn’t belong to any country clubs, and brunch wasn’t something we did as a family. It’s not that Mom didn’t ever make a big breakfast late in the morning, but there was no rushing out of the house on a Sunday if it wasn’t for church. And after church there was usually housework and yard work to do. Not brunching.
But I swear, everyone in San Francisco does it, and on a nice day like today, dozens of people cluster outside every city café, talking, smoking, reading newspapers or novels, while waiting to be seated.
We put our name on the wait list and stand outside our corner café with everyone else. Lots of people wearing black, and leather barn coats, turtlenecks, boots, jeans, cords. I’m wearing a skirt. I don’t know why I’m wearing a skirt. Maybe it’s the old good-girl upbringing. Good girls don’t wear jeans to church; good girls dress nicely for social occasions; good girls try to make an effort.
Or just possibly, good girls don’t know any better.
Katie’s telling me about her work. She travels a lot for business, is on the road a couple of weeks every month, but she likes the travel, loves accumulating mileage points, because it allows her to keep up with her friends on both coasts. She’s between boyfriends at the moment but isn’t worried, since there always seems to be someone new on the horizon.
A cool breeze blows, and I hug my coat tighter. “You like dating,” I say, torn between admiration and horror as the restaurant door bangs open and a big group leaves. How can anyone like to date?
“Dating’s fun. It’s an adventure. You never know what’s going to happen.”
I flash back to my last two dates—my first two dates in years, and both scored very high on the Richter scale of horrible encounters. I’d have to give Tom a 6.8 or 6.9 for yucky company, and Paul... oh, he gets at least a 7.3, maybe even a 7.6, for boorish behavior and the booster seat request. Men should never ask for a booster seat on a date. That might be fine when you’re out with Mom, but not with another woman. “And you like that feeling?”
Katie, who is wearing jeans, a dark turtleneck, and a suede coat, shrugs. She looks urban. Hip. Cool. How did she learn to do that? “Why not?” she answers, tucking straight blond hair behind her ear. “It’s fun meeting new people, getting to see if you’re going to click or not.”
I really wish I hadn’t worn a skirt. “I never click.”
“Then you haven’t been out enough. Dating’s like the lottery. You’ve got to up your chances of winning by entering more times.”
The black restaurant door opens again, and the hostess comes out, calls our name, and we get seated inside at one of the little tables next to the window. Normally a window seat is ideal, but today it means we get our sunlight blocked by a half-dozen people on the other side of the glass.
“So, Hol, what’s new with you?” Katie asks as we sit down and rearrange our place settings more to our liking.
I nod to the busboy who has come to fill our water glasses. “Not much.”
She laughs, a burst of short, explosive sound. “Not much? Holly. I got your wedding invitation.”
“Mmmhmm.”
“But you’re not wearing your ring anymore. And you’ve made no mention of Jean-Paul—”
“Jean-Marc.”
“Jean-Marc,” she corrects impatiently, “and that means...?”
“It means we’re not together anymore.”
“You’re getting divorced?” Katie asks, eyeing me over her menu, but I can’t say much more, because our waiter has arrived and he’s giving us the specials, and I’m barely listening because I saw disappointment in Katie’s eyes. Disappointment and... what? Disapproval? Sadness? What?
I order pancakes—easy enough to eat with knots in your stomach—and wait for the waiter to leave. “Yeah, we’re getting divorced.”
“You’ve filed.”
“Yes.”
Katie doesn’t say anything for a minute. She just taps her spoon against the wooden table. Finally she drops her spoon and leans back in her chair. “You were the first from our crowd to marry.”
And the first to divorce, I mentally add.
“So what happened?” she asks. .
“He... we...” I try, and I stop. I honestly don’t know how to explain, and I feel that wave of confusion and helplessness, the same one I felt in St. Tropez when I lay on the chaise longue in the sun and everyone was drinking and smiling and I felt cold and sick in my gut, knowing that something was wrong but not knowing how to fix it. “He wasn’t in love with me.”
Katie shoots me a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look. “What?”
“He didn’t want to be married. He told me on our honeymoon.” I swallow. “Told me on the fourth night. Said he didn’t...” I smile. I don’t know why. I guess I figure if I smile, laugh, no one else can laugh at me; no one else can hurt me, because I’ve done it first. “He didn’t feel that way about me. We were better friends than lovers.”
“I don’t understand.” Katie shifts in her chair, arm hanging over the back. “You’re smart, pretty, funny–”
“You’ll change your mind after you marry me.”
“Holly, I’m serious.”
“So am I. But it’s okay. I’m okay with the divorce.”
But Katie doesn’t move; she just stares at me, but her expression is serious, and she looks hard. Fierce. “It’s not okay.”
I bite the tip of my tongue. I’m not going to cry anymore. I’m sick of crying, sick of sad feelings. It’s time to move on. “I can’t blame him, Katie. I should have paid attention...”
“Attention to what?”
“The signs... the signals... I rushed him. Rushed the relationship. I was just so happy to be in love. I couldn’t wait to get married.”
Katie gestures curtly. “Don’t ever say that again. Jean-Marc, Paul, whatever his name is, didn’t have to marry you. He’s a man, has all kinds of degrees from all kinds of prestigious universities, and he bought you a ring, and he showed up at the church, and paid for a honeymoon. Blame him. He screwed you over!”
“I know, but—”
“No. No buts. No more. Holly, stop being a frickin’ doormat. You’ve always been too nice for your own good. Stop letting people walk all over you. Get off the floor and get a life!”
I start laughing. Coming from anyone else, this would have hurt me, but from Katie—formerly pimply, somewhat stocky Katie Robinson, who looked hideous in the bright blue polyester gym shorts we used to have to wear for PE (her thighs were so white, even I couldn’t look at her when she ran)—it’s a relief.
Katie can speak her mind with me and I’ll listen. Katie knows my world—knows my mom, my family. (Heck, Jamie even came from college and took her to our senior prom when neither of us could get dates!) She practically grew up sleeping over at my house, or vice versa. If anyone has insight into my strengths and weaknesses, it’s her.
“Why Jean-Marc?” she asks after a minute. “You never liked having a boyfriend. Why did you settle down so quickly with him? You’re the one who never wanted to be tied down in high school.”
She’s right. It was pretty much the same in college, too. At UC Irvine I liked the idea of having a boyfriend, until I got one, and then I felt... trapped. Bored.
So why was I so desperate to marry Jean-Marc?
Because I thought he wasn’t like American guys. He seemed more intelligent, more interesting, more sop
histicated, more of everything. And when I thought I had found the right one, the Prince Charming I’d always been looking for, I jumped. “I was confused,” I say after a moment, when the silence has stretched for an uncomfortably long time. “I guess I thought I was marrying a hero, someone foreign and glamorous, and I thought if someone sophisticated likes me, then well...” I shrug, and my voice fades away.
In the dim light, with her pale oval face and her long, straight blond hair, Katie’s a study of contrasts: tough and tender, fragile and fierce. “You thought you’d be sophisticated, too,” she concludes as our breakfast arrives.
We pause, allowing the waiter to do his presentation with a flourish and leave before we continue.
“I wanted to be special,” I say in a small voice, staring down at my pancakes, and there’s a pound of butter melting into the top of the stack. I really should scrape some of the butter off, but I like butter.
Katie’s cutting into her corned beef hash and eggs. “A man doesn’t make you special. You’re special because you’re you.”
I finally, reluctantly push some of the butter off the stack. “So you feel special?”
“No.” Katie cuts another bite, then looks up at me with a wicked smile. “But it’s what all the experts say. No man will love us the way we need to be loved. We have to. love ourselves before anyone else can love us.”
And I suddenly see my mom, stretched out on the sofa in front of the TV night after night. Maybe that’s why Mom is alone. It’s not that she couldn’t have company, but maybe she doesn’t love herself and can’t let anyone else love her.
“You’re a genius,” I say.
“No. I just watch a lot of Oprah and Dr. Phil.”
I laugh. I can’t help it, and yet, laughing, I realize how long it’s been since I did this—felt something like this—and as my laugh dies away, I know I want to laugh more. “It’s good to see you, Katie.”
“Definitely meant to be,” she answers with a firm nod.
The waiter comes by with a pot of fresh coffee and refills our cups, and with our coffees refreshed and our plates nearly empty, Katie leans away from the table, fiddles with a bit of her hair. “I am sorry I missed your wedding, though. Heard it was beautiful. Jean-Marc’s family all flew in from Paris, didn’t they?”