by Lauren Clark
With a small nod, I acknowledge he’s correct. “Yes. David’s my father.”
Chapter 28
In my pocket, my cell buzzes. Andrew hears it, I can tell, but he doesn’t ask who’s calling me. I pull out my phone, and my fingers fumble to shut it off.
Without looking at the screen, I power it down. “Not important,” I say. And right now, no matter who it is, I owe Andrew my full attention. And an explanation.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Andrew gives me what passes for a broad, but uneasy smile. “Don’t you want to tell me more about the big reunion? With David?”
He doesn’t really expect me to talk. Andrew is well aware that my father isn’t quite stellar in the categories of parent and husband. David is an expert at leaving, my own wanderlust proof of his lineage. At least I have someone to blame it on.
Andrew reaches across the seat to squeeze my hand. I don’t pull away, though I’d like to sprint back up 5th Avenue, head back to West 57th and Central Park. My comfort zone is calling.
I chew my bottom lip and shake my head. “Not much to say. It was a bit of a surprise.” I actually smile, remembering my reaction—a cross between sick and shell-shocked. “I’m over it now. He’s there. He’s staying. He’s really smart and will do a great job.”
“What about you?” Andrew gazes at me.
I shrug. “I’m gone so much. On the day I found out he’d been hired, he sent me off on assignment. I’m leaving Wednesday for New Orleans.”
“Happy holidays from the Big Easy, eh?” Andrew murmurs. He’s not thrilled.
“Something like that,” I say. “I don’t have all of the details yet.”
The cab driver eases to the side of the street and parks. We’ve arrived in the Flatiron District, East 20th Street, to be exact. Andrew glances at the fare, peels off a few bills from his wallet, and gets out of the taxi.
He walks around the cab to my side, opens the door, and offers me a hand. Safe on the sidewalk, we watch the cabbie drive away. “Thanks. So, where to?” I ask, raising my eyebrows at the buildings surrounding us.
I’d suggested O’Reilly’s for the casual atmosphere and proximity to work. I’m actually longing for the simple menu at McGee’s on West 55th Street or The Gin Mill on Amsterdam.
The sumptuous Gramercy Tavern looms ahead. Any other evening, I’d be thrilled to be dining on Shrimp or Sea Bass. I adore the restaurant’s Bok Choy and have been known to polish off an entire course of Snapper with a side of Radish, Turnip, Bacon, and Beet Broth.
Despite my voracious appetite, and the huge bill when we leave, Andrew takes me here once a year. It’s our special place, as those things for couples go, and my heart sinks a little lower in my chest with every step we get closer to the entrance.
I’ve already meandered though our relationship with no intention of long-term anything. In my defense, I’ve been honest. I’m a commitment-phobe. Certifiable. More broken relationships than anyone I know. And Andrew entered into this knowing it.
But our unheard of stretch of romantic bliss has survived because we’re long-distance without being long-distance. I have an apartment in the City and a job that takes me around the world. The separation doesn’t make my heart grow fonder, it helps me endure. I know that I’m leaving, and therefore, can commit to another day, another week, another month.
But it’s not fair to Andrew, who, on more than one occasion, has stated his desire for domestic bliss, a house in the suburbs, and two point two children. True, I’ve overhead him saying it to friends or colleagues. He hasn’t addressed it directly with me. Not yet.
I think he still believes he can change my mind about marriage and forever after.
Tonight, I have to let him go.
We’re seated at the bar while we wait for our table. The table, covered with a lovely, crisp cloth, fresh flowers, and shiny silverware. The table that I have no intention of going anywhere near. The bartender takes our order—Andrew’s scotch on the rocks, my glass of Pinot Noir. As we wait, I run my hand along the smooth mahogany wood and try to settle my nerves. With a sly glance, I eye the slight bulge in his jacket pocket. A small gift? Some jewelry? My chest tightens. An engagement ring?
Our drinks arrive, and while Andrew takes a conservative sip and chats up the overweight man beside him, I down the entire pour in one gulp. The bartender eyes me and I nod vigorously, conveying my urgent need for a refill.
After the second glass in five minutes, I’m loosening a bit. My shoulders relax and I’m able to stop clutching my purse. As it turns out, Andrew’s new friend is quite funny, and we spend the next twenty minutes laughing at his off-color jokes. At one point, I have to dab at my eyes with a cocktail napkin. I can’t even remember the punch line.
I’m on my third glass—or perhaps my fourth—when the hostess sidles up to inform Andrew our table is ready.
“No, thank you,” I grip the stem of my wine glass and flash a look of pure terror at the restaurant worker. My stool seems to shift to the right and I try to sit up very straight. I put a hand on the bar and steady myself. The hostess takes a step back, frowns, and decides to ignore me. She’s drilling her eyes on Andrew, who’s making short work of vacating his seat.
“Julia?” Andrew touches my arm. His hand burns on my bare skin. I contain a yelp and pull away, sloshing my wine and nudging the innocent bystander to my right.
Andrew’s brow furrows. He sweeps a hand through his blonde hair, confused. “Julia,” he repeats. “Ready?”
“I’m not,” my voice strains above the crowd. I grip both sides of my chair for emphasis and lock my feet on the legs of the stool.
Andrew pivots at my acrid tone. For a moment, he looks stunned. Or perplexed. The wine’s altered my judgment, so I’m not able to read his expression with any clarity. I decide on basic unhappiness.
“Can we go?” I plead and pull on the sleeve of his navy sport coat.
He brushes off my hand. “Julia,” he hisses. “I don’t understand.” His jaw is set, eyes hurt.
“Not here,” I say and sweep a hand to indicate we’re in a crowd. Of course, my judgment of spatial relations is impaired, and I manage to knock off a row of six martinis the bartender’s just poured and garnished.
The crash and shatter of glass momentarily stuns the entire room full of people. The counter becomes a lake of gin and vermouth. A toothpick full of olives rolls by as the martini river continues to run toward unsuspecting elbows. The bartender chases the liquid with a dishrag, shooing patron’s elbows and hands along the way. I shrink down in my seat and raise my eyes to meet Andrew’s, expecting disappointment or disapproval. He’s not one for scenes, and this is a doozey.
Andrew’s face has lost all color. He’s as white as the cocktail napkin under his scotch and fluorescent lights. “Julia,” he says, voice tight and intense.
“I’m sorry,” I wince and close my eyes. “Andrew, I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time.” There’s no response. My eyelids flutter open. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at my knees, or my lap. “Andrew,” I clear my throat, trying not to get irritated that he’s not paying attention. “I really care about you, but—”
“Julia,” Andrew grabs my hand tight and drops to one knee.
“What are you doing?” I pipe up. “Do not propose, Andrew. I can’t accept.”
Instead of whipping out a small jewelry box with a bow, Andrew shoves me of my barstool, wraps my hand in a white towel he must have grabbed from one of the wait staff, and points me toward the front door. “You’re bleeding,” he yells in my ear. “I think you need stitches.”
I drop my eyes to my hand. Bright red liquid is soaking through the wrapped fabric. Blood, my brain tells me. Not wanting to accept it, I decide to ask anyway, hoping that someone spilled a bucket of cherry Kool-Aid. “Is that…?” My voice trails off and I gasp.
“Yes,” Andrew says, whisking me out of Gramercy Tavern.
Beneath the bandage, my palm begins to thr
ob.
A dozen stitches and a cup of coffee later, I am very sober and completely mortified. We’re standing on the concrete steps of my apartment. Thanks to a Novocaine block, I can’t feel anything below my wrist, and for that I am grateful. For the fiftieth time this evening, I wish there was something similar for my brain.
“So,” I finally say, “you were never going to propose.”
“No,” Andrew shakes his head. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a letter. “I’ve been offered a job in London. Great opportunity, and I’ve decided to take it. I wanted to tell you myself. Face to face.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“You are a wonderful girl, Julia,” he continues. “But, I don’t see a future for us. Maybe you can come visit. Or someday we could try—”
I stand on my tiptoes and put a finger to his lips. “Shh. It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. Go to London, meet someone wonderful, get married. You deserve it. You deserve to be happy.”
Andrew pauses, reading my face. His eyes redden. With an awkward grin, he takes me in his arms, hugs me tight, and kisses the top of my head. “Be good.”
“You too,” I murmur as he releases me. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
Andrew runs a finger along my cheek, his face full of emotion, and turns to leave. “Anytime.” His voice breaks a little.
I wave, tears coursing down my cheeks. Then, I clutch my bandaged hand, smile, and watch him until he disappears into the ink-black night.
“Good-bye,” I say to the night air. He didn’t say the words, but it is obvious. He’s moving on. He’s leaving. And I didn’t try to stop him.
For Andrew and me, our “anytime” ends tonight.
Chapter 29
The sound of honking taxicabs and a rumbling trash truck jerk me out of a deep sleep. My head throbs. I press two fingers to my temple and open my eyes a millimeter against the bright light. The clock on my bedside table reads nine-thirty-two.
Nine-thirty-two in the morning? No. No. No. My brain rewinds. I’m scheduled for a meeting with David in one hour. One hour. I scramble to kick off the covers, bump my bandaged hand, and fight the nausea welling up in my throat. The new Julia doesn’t sleep in on workdays. The new Julia shows up on time. The new Julia is responsible.
After wrestling off the cap, I swallow three Tylenol, throw a plastic bag over my wounded appendage and jump through the shower. One-handed, I run a comb through my wet hair, scrub my teeth, and pull on my favorite dark-rinse jeans and a black turtleneck. After I locate my scarf, gloves, and coat, I dial Dolores, tucking my cell under my chin while I wiggle my feet into my leather boots.
“David Sullivan’s office,” Dolores answers in her usual clipped manner.
“Good morning Dolores,” I say, breathless, “This is Julia. I have a ten-thirty with David. Please tell him I will be there. I was…delayed this morning.”
There’s a disapproving silence and the sound of rustling paper.
I squeeze the phone tighter to my shoulder and squint at my reflection in the mirror. “Dolores?” I say, “Thank you. I appreciate you taking the message. I know you’re really busy.”
After a beat, Dolores answers, her voice almost civil. “You’re welcome, Julia.”
Whew.
With a glance around the apartment for any last, needed items, my eyes fall on the envelope David handed me yesterday. I snatch it up, stuff it into my briefcase, and lock the door behind me.
When I reach the elevator, there’s a huge construction sign and yellow tape. I grit my teeth and take the stairs two at a time, the motion jiggling my aching brain and stitched-up hand. The ground floor has never been such a welcome sight. I burst onto the sidewalk and look for the yellow flash of a cab.
After being ignored by five drivers and being splashed by the sixth, one takes pity on me and pulls over to the curb. The hems of my pant legs are soaked, and I’m shaking when I slide inside the taxi. I smile at the man behind the wheel, rattle off the address of Getaways, and say a proper thank you. He nods in the rearview mirror and we take off, launching into traffic like a NASCAR pace vehicle.
As we weave in and out of lanes, I settle back against the seat and focus my thoughts. Andrew, my long-time boyfriend, is moving to London. The idea still shocks me, and I cringe when I remember our conversation. What I wouldn’t give for a mind-eraser device or a machine to zap a few hours from existence.
Andrew wasn’t proposing engagement. He was quitting the relationship, escaping, moving on. I blink back tears and gaze out at the hundreds of people moving down the New York sidewalks—all going somewhere, all meeting someone.
It had been over with Andrew for quite some time. He was the only one brave enough to say it. I’m not certain he would have stayed, even if I’d begged him last night. He’d had enough.
I owed him the truth. He deserved that—and more. But all I did was run away. My father did it to my mother. I’d done it to my father, my college boyfriends, and now Andrew.
It was time to grow up. It was time to stop. Even if it meant hurting someone’s feelings—or my own.
The driver pulls up to the tall silver building and I hand over the fare and a generous tip. I ease out of the cab with one hand, step onto the sidewalk, and check my watch. Thirteen minutes and counting until my meeting with David. It’s a miracle.
In the elevator, I squeeze into the corner behind two men and a group of six women, take out the manila envelope, flip it over, and lift the metal tabs. When I peek inside, my breath stops like someone’s clamped a vice on my windpipe.
It’s the same photograph Aubie Jordan gushed over at the dinner table.
The elevator stops and dings. The massive doors slide open and shut. We begin to move again, but I don’t look away from the young girl in the picture.
Snippets of that evening’s conversation come back to me in a rush. I can almost hear Aubie’s voice. “There was this reporter…I was just seventeen, and it was the first Pilgrimage, 1965…he took that photograph…that reporter. I can’t remember…” In my mind, I can see Aubie rubbing her forehead. Was she trying to remember his name? The newspaper? Something about the day?
TJ was quite annoyed, I recall that. PD appeared nervous, and Shug dashed to the rescue when his mother fell apart. What was the last thing she said? I strain my memory.
And then, like a long-lost letter, it comes back to me. Aubie had drifted into a dream-like state, her tone soft and hopeful, with the flush of young love. “He was so handsome…A real gentleman. And I wore that dress. I still have it, you know, in the closet …”
The man next to me clears his throat, an obvious prompt aimed at me. I glance up at him, then over at the elevator doors, yawning open. It’s my floor. He’s holding the ‘open’ button and seems annoyed. I swallow. How long have we been standing here? I murmur an apology, hunch my shoulders, and rush into the office lobby.
While I’m attempting to sneak past the front desk, someone spots me.
“Julia,” a voice calls out.
I stop, square my body toward the desk, and sneak a look at my watch. Darn it. With a quick adjustment of the briefcase strap cutting into my collarbone, I raise an eyebrow at the receptionist and lower my voice. “Um, I’m in a hurry. I have a meeting with David,” I emphasize this by widening my eyes. “Who is it?”
Before she can answer, the office phone rings, and I hear the click of high heels and an unmistakable Southern drawl. “Julia, darlin’!”
I whirl around and come face to face with Dean Alice Waters, my seatmate from the Atlanta flight. She squeals and throws her arms around me, hugging me to her chest like she’d just won the lottery.
When I can breathe again, I manage a smile. “It’s great to see you, Dean Alice. I’m so surprised. How-how did you find me?” I blurt out in a not-so-discreet way.
With a peal of laughter, she touches my arm. “Sugar, you told me that you worked here.” She winks at me with long mascaraed lashes. “Even
for a little old Southern belle like me, raised in tiny Dahlonega, Georgia, you aren’t that hard to find.”
I blink at her. For being so traumatized by airport security checks and two hours of severe turbulence at thirty-five thousand feet, Dean Alice is quite astute and has an incredible memory for details.
“Oh, Lord have mercy. Sakes alive! Whatever happened to your hand, darlin’?” She examines the bandages.
“Long story, but I’m fine,” I confess, then feel a stab of panic when my eyes fall on the clock above the reception desk. It’s ten-thirty. On the dot. And David said ten-thirty sharp. He’s likely to blow a gasket. “Look, Dean Alice, I hate to say this, but I actually have to run. I have a meeting—”
The receptionist behind us calls out. “That was David. He’s running late.”
“Thanks,” I reply, desperate to race back to my office, study the photo again, and figure out what the heck is going on with my father, Aubie Jordan, and Eufaula, Alabama. “Could you let Dolores know that I’m here, please? And ask her to buzz me when he gets in?”
After an affirmative nod from the receptionist, Dean Alice throws an arm around me and squeezes again. “Perfect! Then we can chat for a few moments.”
Her perfume wafts over me. I am light-headed enough as it is. I need food and strong coffee. Two or three cups of coffee, lots of cream, and a big pile of sugar. Instead of trying to delay the inevitable and ask Dean Alice to come back—or make an appointment like everyone else—I paste on my most polite and welcoming smile and wave for her to follow me.
Marietta watches as I lead Dean Alice back to the maze of office space. She notes the wrapping on my wrist and palm, pursing her lips with a concerned look in my direction, but says nothing in front of my guest. I make the introductions, the two women shake hands, and I collapse against the chair in my cozy cubicle. It’s still a mess, with piles of papers everywhere, but my visitor doesn’t seem to notice.
I jerk a desperate look at my best friend. “Food?” I mouth at her, grimacing.