The perfunctory kiss to the cheek Livvie gave and received from her former spouse would have looked the very picture of civility to anyone who didn't know her. Of course, since I knew her as well as anyone, I picked out the set of her eyes and the firmness around her mouth. I believed these were the same characteristics noted in wild panthers just before they took down their prey.
The threesome appeared to be making polite small talk and I was too far away to hear the conversation. I turned my head for just a moment, trying and failing to attract the waiter who briefly buzzed by, and when my attention returned to the group by the door I saw the blonde look at Donnie with disgust and stomp into the night, alone.
Well, now, that was interesting.
Donnie and Livvie continued talking for another moment before they finally parted, she toward my table and he presumably trying to chase after his date.
“What was that all about?”
“What do you mean?” Livvie smiled as the waiter appeared at her elbow before she had even removed her coat. “A house merlot for me, and another rum and coke for my friend.”
“That girl ran out of here like she was on fire. I'm thinking you may have had something to do with that.”
Livvie twisted her finger through a lock of her hair, looking ever the innocent waif we both knew she was not. “I simply thanked Donnie for referring me to his doctor and mentioned that the round of antibiotics I'd been given had worked wonders.”
“You, my friend, are evil.” I raised my empty glass in salute. “He didn't even look that mad.”
“Nah. I bested him at his own game. Donnie actually admires a worthy adversary.” Taking a sip from the wine that had magically arrived the moment she sat down, Livvie abruptly changed the subject. “So, how did it go?”
“Well, let's start with the show stopping news of the evening. Did you know that Ryan and Donnie worked together?”
Livvie sighed and muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Shithead.”
“So you knew?”
“I knew. I just didn't see any reason why I should tell you. Donnie's firm focuses on corporate work. Intellectual property and whatnot. I figured you and Ryan would never come into contact. Sorry.”
I waved off the apology as a minor breach in the girl code. “Don't worry. The only interesting thing about those two working together is that Donnie told me I should call Ryan.”
This time when my friend said, “Shithead,” it was clearly audible.
To most of the room, actually.
“Look, Sarah, Donnie says a lot of things. For starters, he told me he'd love and honor me till death do us part. Clearly that didn't happen. The man is a liar and an idiot, and if you take his advice, it will make you an idiot, too. Take it from one who knows.”
“You're right, you're right. I know you're right.”
“Well, then, stop channeling Carrie Fisher and tell me how it went with the men you're actively trying to date and not the one you need to forget about. Any prospects?”
“Settle in and get comfortable.” I warned as I began to describe the complete disaster my evening had been.
Even as I started telling Livvie about my first “date” with Carl (the bisexual, unemployed dog groomer) another part of my brain started to hum.
I was seriously thinking about calling Ryan, even knowing down to my toenails it would be a mistake of epic proportions. Maybe I was so caught up in my list of goals to accomplish before I hit thirty, and the need to be in a relationship that I was beginning to lose perspective.
“I think I need to reorganize,” I blurted, apropos of absolutely nothing.
“You know I've asked you to put on your signal when you're going to take a conversational left turn.” Livvie crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. “So, reorganize. Your purse? Your closet? What exactly is the scope we're looking at here?”
“My life. I'm going to reorganize my list of life goals.” Anticipating Livvie's groan, I rushed ahead. “Look, creating a happy relationship and professional success are fairly tall orders for me to tackle first. After all, reaching those goals is dependent on external factors and other people. The other items, though – losing weight and buying a house – those are totally within my control. All I need is will power and a good credit rating.”
“So you're saying…”
“I'm saying that I'm going to momentarily put thoughts of single men, Ryan and gnomes named George out of my mind for a little while.”
“Gnomes named George?” Livvie reached over and pulled my cocktail out of my reach.
“Forget about George. Listen to me. I'm just going to take a little break from my more difficult goals on my list before I do something really stupid. Instead, I'm going to focus on getting one or two easy successes under my belt.”
“Easy successes. Like losing two dress sizes or buying a house?”
“Exactly!” I was so glad to see my friend finally begin to understand. “Really, what could be easier than losing a little weight or signing a purchase and sale agreement?”
“What, indeed.” Livvie took a long sip from her wineglass and gifted me with a look I couldn't quite place. I chose to believe it was an outward expression of her admiration for the reasonable alterations I'd made to my life plan.
Unfortunately, even three fairly strong drinks didn't allow me to buy my own explanation. Livvie clearly thought I was insane.
And I would just have to prove her wrong.
December
BANG. BANG. BANG.
Ugh. I burrowed my face deeper into the couch pillow, wanting to ignore the sounds coming from the diner below me. It was almost eight pm and I had spent the last hour trying to marshal the energy necessary to brush my teeth and go to bed. Now faced with an unidentified racket winding its way upstairs, I flexed my left leg in another attempt to push off from the couch.
Ow! My calf cramped and I collapsed back in a whimpering heap.
I wasn't sure if my pain and malaise was caused by the spinning class yesterday, the belly dancing lessons Livvie and I had taken over the weekend or both activities combined with too few calories ingested over the past several days.
Closing my eyes to realize that even my eyelids hurt, I decided the most likely culprit was the lunchtime cardio yoga session at the gym that included a self-realization power stretch.
Cardio yoga. A room full of seemingly intelligent men and women jumping and stretching their bodies into unnatural positions – many of which were probably illegal in some states – all to the musical accompaniment of Kelly Clarkson. Yup. My attempt at losing weight and getting healthy instead had me draping myself like a chalk outline across the couch.
Of course, the rest of my lingering ugly mood couldn't be attributed to my exercise regime so much as the lousy day I'd had at the office. Putting out fires, dealing with unreasonable clients and topping off the day was the vicious argument I'd had with Morgan.
“What the hell is this?” I'd barged into the office law library that doubled as our intern's headquarters.
“What?” Morgan had jumped at the sound of my voice when I first entered, and then blinked owlishly as I first waved the sheaf of papers in front of his face then thrust them down on the desk in front of him. After taking a moment to read the typed pages, he answered, “Um…I think that's the Garfinkel Motion for Summary Judgment, right?”
“Wrong! I finished the Garfinkel Motion last night, signed it and put it in Gloria's inbox for her to copy and file with the court this morning. This is not the Garfinkel Motion.”
Morgan opened his mouth to speak but I didn't give him the chance. “I'll grant you, it looks like the Garfinkel Motion. It's even labeled, ‘Garfinkel Motion for Summary Judgment’, but since my motion is finished and signed and this motion is unsigned and quotes a new case I've never even heard of, this cannot be the Garfinkel Motion. Try again, Morgan. What the hell is this?”
Morgan glanced up at me briefly before turning his
attention to the papers on his desk which he then took great exaggerated pains to straighten into a neat pile. Wheeling his chair back, he stood and handed me the stack once again. “What this is, Sarah, is the new and improved Garfinkel Motion. I saw your motion in Gloria's inbox and noticed you didn't include the Bryers case that was decided by the Third Circuit last week. I added the citation, printed off a new copy and put it in your inbox to sign.”
“You…you did what?” I was barely able to sputter out.
“A simple thank you will suffice.”
“Thank you?” My head threatened to explode at the thought of thanking this man for his attempt at undercutting my work.
“You're welcome.” Morgan deliberately misunderstood my tone and walked around me to step out of the room.
It was a smart move since as soon as my shock-induced paralysis lifted I was planning to chuck a stapler at his head.
From halfway down the hall I heard him yell, “Read the case, Sarah.”
In the sanctity of my apartment at the end of the day, I groaned in pain at the memory because I had read the Bryers case as Morgan had suggested.
It was on point, favorable to my client and hugely supported my argument.
Well, shit.
Maybe I could work out my resulting frustration at the kickboxing class I'd signed up for the next day. If I ever got off the couch.
My stomach gurgled loudly, voting that I get off the couch and make supper, but it was unaware that the only food items remaining in the safety zone of my house were fat free cheese and low carb bread. Since both had the consistency of wet cardboard and were therefore not exactly the siren call of a cheeseburger and fries, I suspected the lure of the couch was going to win this round.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Oh, right. The unidentified noise from the diner – which was closed and should have been empty for several hours – infiltrated my dreams of greasy beef and fried potatoes. In my heart I knew burglars would likely attempt to be quieter, but I couldn't shake the mild concern that I might be ignoring the warning sounds of someone trying to break in. With one final grunt, I finally rolled my body into a sitting position.
Grabbing my tennis racket from the hall closet, I crept down the stairs of my apartment that led directly into the diner's pantry. I stopped short on the third step from the bottom when I noticed that between the banging sounds I could distinctly hear the strains of Barry Manilow's Christmas album.
Burglars rarely came with a soundtrack.
But Eddie Thornton did.
“Eddie!” I ran down the rest of the stairs – muscle weakness forgotten – and threw myself into the arms of Jeremy's youngest son, home for the holidays three weeks earlier than expected. Hammer in hand, he was decorating the diner with holly, garlands and twinkling lights.
“Hey, Bennett! I was wondering how much noise I would have to make before you got your ass down here.”
I gave one final bone-crushing hug before de-tangling myself long enough to take a good look at the handsome man before me. Tall and lean like his brother, Eddie's hair was light where David's was dark, and streaked lighter still by the warm sun of Aruba, his most recent destination.
The Caribbean sun must also have been responsible for the deep tan accentuated by Eddie's faded blue T-shirt and ripped jeans. Teva sandals – in December because my friend had no sense of weather or season – finished off the picture that was my youngest unofficial brother.
“Look how long it is.” I remarked pulling on a strand of hair.
“That's what she said.”
Rewarding his crude remark with a smack to the back of the head, I reached for one of the diner's carafes and filled it with water from the tap behind the counter. “Regular or decaf?”
“Is that really a question? High octane, please.”
“Put down your hammer and get over here,” I ordered. “We can catch up while it's brewing. Why are you in Maine so early?”
“I got a great deal on an airline ticket flying right into Portland. I don't have another assignment until the middle of January. Figured I deserved a nice long break.”
Eddie – my father's namesake – was born just a few months before me, but we were different as night and day. While I was content to live in Maine forever with the occasional plane ride to a different location just to make life interesting, Eddie couldn't wait to leave Portland and see the world. He got his high school diploma and set sail, camera in hand and was now a sought-after travel photographer. While he returned to his hometown often, each visit was usually very brief and generally unannounced.
Showing up weeks earlier than expected was not at all unusual for Eddie, but his explanation sounded a bit flimsy. I'd seen him change his plans in a moment for an interesting assignment, family emergency or attractive fellow traveler that he wanted to accompany back to the States. But a deal on Expedia? That wasn't exactly Eddie's style.
“Stop thinking so hard, Sarah,” Eddie observed with a mixture of affectionate amusement and resignation. “What do you want to know?”
Putting aside my questions about why he was in Portland – knowing Eddie and that they would therefore be deflected – I asked, “Have you seen your dad yet?”
“Nope. I called the house when my plane landed but he didn't answer. It took me about two hours to get my bags, make it through customs and rent a car, but when I got home he still wasn't there.”
“Weird,” I commented, looking at the time. “He didn't mention any plans to me.”
Eddie shrugged, and then waved his hammer around with a flourish. “I got bored waiting and figured I might as well come by and start decorating.”
I poured a cup of coffee for each of us, his black and mine lightened with fat free cream. Of course, I might as well have added Elmer's glue for all the flavor it provided.
“Well, I'm thrilled to see you. You should have called me and I would have picked you up.”
“I figured you'd be busy. Writing the great American novel. Brokering world peace. Curing cancer – you know, the usual gig for a twenty-nine year old.”
I took a sip of coffee – tasteless caffeine was better than no caffeine at all – and rolled my eyes. “I take it you've been talking to Livvie?”
“She may have sent me an e-mail or two about your plans to be perfect by the time you're thirty. I heard all about that horror show where she somehow set you up with her ex-husband. Classy. So, any new prospects since then?”
“None at all. The downturn in my love life has replaced the Dow Jones watch on the local news. Besides, if you are getting your intel from Livvie, she should have told you I decided to put the boyfriend hunt on the back burner for a while. At least until the holidays are over.”
Eddie stood and stretched, placing his cup on the drain board. “Speaking of holidays, move your lazy ass and help me finish hanging the garland by the door.”
It was good to have my friend home.
Working as we talked, Eddie and I soon had the diner almost fully bedecked in all its Christmas glory. One final touch that remained was placing my mother's crèche in its home of honor in the front window. A hand-me-down from her grandmother, it saddened me to think how many more years I had enjoyed the beautifully carved figures than had the intended recipient.
Unwrapping St. Joseph, a donkey and the other manger residents from their newspaper cocoons, I grasped for a topic that would lead me away from the melancholy I felt as thoughts of my family's losses assaulted me.
“Hey, Eddie.” I caught my friend's attention, deciding to get a man's opinion on a subject I'd been stewing over for a month. “When you talked to Livvie, did she happen to mention that Donnie said I should call Ry…”
“Jesus Christ, Bennett! No!”
Baby Jesus flew out of my hands and into the air. Catching him just before he smashed into the ground, I took a breath to collect myself. “God, Eddie! Give me a heart attack why don't you? ‘No’ what?”
Eddie descended the ladder he had use
d to hang more lights, reached into my storage box and started shredding a paper bundle that emerged after a moment as a wise man. “No. We are not going down that road again.”
I didn't insult him by asking which road – we were obviously talking about Rue de Ryan. “Why not?”
“Why not?” Eddie shook his head and for a moment I thought he wasn't going to answer. Then finally he said, “Well, let's start with the fact that the first time you had a fight, he got drunk and screwed his tarty ex-girlfriend.”
Wow.
It was amazing how brutal the truth sounded coming out of someone else's mouth. The details were correct, I supposed, but in my head I had made the event so much more complicated and gray. Not sure quite how to respond, I instead pulled at a tangled heap of garland from a nearby box and busied myself trying to find the end.
“I swear to god, if you say that you two were ‘on a break’ I will go upstairs and smash every Friends DVD you own.”
Against my will, I felt a smile tug at my lips at Eddie's attempt to lighten the mood. “Hey – you can hate Ryan if you must, but that's no reason to take it out on Ross and Rachel.”
“I'm sorry. I'm not exactly known for my bedside manner. It's just that I know you loved him, but Ryan was a dick.”
“Yeah. I know.” Finally finding the garland's end, I concentrated on winding it around the stairwell banister, strategically putting my back to my friend as I confessed, “I just get lonely and forget sometimes.”
The silence stretched uncomfortably as my pseudo-brother worked out an appropriate reply. Poor Eddie. The man would run into a burning building for me, but couldn't give emotional support if it were wrapped in a box with a bow.
Deciding to give the guy a break before he hurt himself by thinking too hard or resorted to the ever-popular and corny squeeze of my shoulder in a show of nonverbal, manly understanding, I moved away from the heavy topics of death, love and betrayal. “So, was that Barry Manilow I heard on the stereo when I came downstairs?”
Next Year I'll be Perfect Page 5