by Jill Kargman
“Look who’s up, Benji? Your girlfriend!”
I smiled and took his little fat hand in mine as we prepared for landing. “He was incredible,” I said, praising his proud father.
“I know! And I can say that because he’s never this easy,” he confessed. “You were our lucky charm.”
A sting of sharp acid tears pierced my eyes anew as I leaned to look out my window as the lights of New York beckoned below, spread out like a terrestrial blanket of stars as miraculous as the ones that shined above. This city, made by man from nothing, ignited more marvel in me than the map of lights that glistened in the sky. Home.
I was practically on fire, gathering my things as I wished the cute father and son a good visit, and ran off the plane. Benji. That face, that giggle, those eyes, their twinkle. Finn never wanted that, ever. The world was too crushing for him, too evil, too suffocating, and yet the child cooed and smiled and slumbered his way across a restless angry ocean, peaceful and pleased as pie.
I ran off the jetway. That was never Finn’s vision for his life, never his desire. He couldn’t see in the Sistine Ceiling the colorful bursts of pigment, only the falling plaster and decay of buildings, rather than their majesty. Benji’s spasmodic laughter, rivaling the YouTube baby’s in sheer cuteness, wasn’t Finn’s dream.
It was Wylie’s.
Ferreting through the crowd of rolling suitcase–lugging drones, I wove in and out of the onslaught of fanny packs, rummaging my way past packed newsstands and socks-and-sandals people and Yankees T-shirt shops. Past a blur of green souvenir Statues of Liberty, I ran, down to passport control, flying through customs.
I had nothing to declare.
I had everything to declare.
I burst through the double doors as hundreds of eyes of excited family members awaited their loved ones back from abroad. In the United Nations melting pot, I heard my name. I turned to see Kira, waving frantically.
“Hazel! Here, honey!!”
I ran to her and hugged her madly.
“Yaaaay! You’re home!!!!!” she shrieked.
“Not yet,” I said soberly, looking into her blue eyes. “I can’t come to the Hamptons,” I said.
The corners of her mouth slowly widened as she exhaled a happy sigh.
“Go get ’em.”
Chapter 39
How much research I have to do depends on the nature of the story. For fantasy, none at all.
—Alan Dean Foster
It was the longest taxi ride of my life. Finally, at Ludlow and Houston, I threw a wad of cash at Mohammed Mohammed, the driver, then opened the door and ran out. I could see my breath in the night air as my legs ran me as fast as they could. I’ve never done heroin, but in that moment of running to see him again, I felt like a junkie sprinting to meet her dealer, waiting to cook up the smack in the spoon, tie the tourniquet on my arm, fill the needle slowly, and surrender my soul to utter bliss once more. I’ve never craved anything in my life as much as him. Not schlong per se, but heart; his arms around me, my head on his chest again, safe. I was fiending, pacing, agasp. I needed him in the marrow of my bones. And I prayed I could get my fix once more. I had the perfect life and it turned course so drastically, as if overnight. I ached inside. But I guess they call it growing pains for a reason.
I was standing in his labor of love, his new restaurant, Hazel, with my heart in my hands.
“You know Shel Silverstein?” I asked, like a raving ranting psycho.
“Of course. Who doesn’t?” Wylie asked, wondering what the hell crack pipe I had been sucking on. “Hazel, are you okay?”
I knew I probably looked like a total freak, having deplaned from a transatlantic flight with nary a hairbrushing.
“Some people are always looking for his missing piece. They’ll always be looking, searching, brooding. The quest, the tour, the road, is his life. But you, Wylie—” My voice cracked as I looked into his brown eyes. “You are the Giving Tree.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked, putting a worried hand on my shoulder. “Hazel . . .”
“Wylie, I am so sorry I freaked out. I should have my head examined. I have behaved like a selfish, juvenile lunatic. And I know you probably detest me, but all I know is that I am madly in love with you. I need you.”
I started to cry as I took his hand in mine and knelt down on the floor of the restaurant as the confused manager took notice and looked over with the hostess.
“If I had one wish, one wish in all the world it would be this: marry me,” I begged through a thicket of stinging tears. “I love you. I’d do anything to stay with you. Forever.” I blinked hot tears down my pale cheeks and drew staccato breaths. Heart pounding, I looked pleadingly into the eyes of the man I truly knew I could not live without. “Please say you’ll be my husband. Wylie, I am so, so sorry for everything I have put you through. I love you. I always will. I would do anything, anything at all to get you to love me back again.”
Wylie took my hand and pulled me up. He kissed my hand, pulled me into him, and looked into my eyes and whispered, “The tree is happy.”
Epilogue
Six Months Later
It arrived the day Wylie and I got home from our honeymoon. I hadn’t noticed it at first, perched leaning against the vestibule wall. Sun kissed and high on being his Mrs., I tossed my duffel onto the floor as Wy and I kissed good-bye in the doorway for ten minutes until he had to tear himself off for the restaurant.
“I love you, wife.”
I laughed. It still sounded too weird.
“I love you, husband.”
He pecked my forehead and ran his hand down my spine, ending with a little pat on the bum.
I exhaled, flushed and thrilled. It felt so right, no holes, no regrets, just bliss. I was headed back inside to go call Kira to tell her we were back on terra firma, when I noticed the small thin brown box sitting there. I leaned down to pick it up for Wylie, assuming it was one of his countless Amazon purchases. But it was addressed in writing I recognized.
Instantly an old familiar feeling washed over me, though not with the high-tide velocity it once had. Finn. I walked to the kitchen and found a pair of scissors, which I widened to use as a tape slicer, opening the box. Inside was a copy of his new CD and a piece of folded yellow lined paper:
Dear Hazel,
I hope this finds you well, sweet girl; perhaps it is wrong of me to write to you but I promise this will be my only correspondence as I have no desire to bother you or disrupt your life, which I am sure has brought you back to the lotto-winning Wylie. Since we have last seen each other, I want you to know I have enjoyed the most prolific months of my career. I holed up in Kyoto for a while, dealing with a lot of stuff/demons and getting countless tracks down for the new album, which you’ll find enclosed. The songs are far more layered and nuanced than ever before and for that I have you to thank; your observations and comments on the music were beyond inspiring to me, and even in your absence, your ghost remains my muse. Please don’t be alarmed when you listen to my first single, track #1, “Bewitched”—I’m not so sad anymore and rather than feeling steeped in darkness, I now find your presence in my life, albeit too short and cometlike, made my world (though still twisted and a bit tortured) a brighter planet. Take a listen, enjoy it, and please know that you didn’t do anything wrong by exploring that path with me. I know your life in New York is exactly where it needs to be, and I don’t want you to ever be haunted by guilt about Wylie when you jumped off his path to wander my twisted one for a few paces. I know you said you felt awful about the way you treated him by running off with me. You told me you feared it would leave a little black dot on your formerly squeaky-clean conscience. But life is only mastered through those deviations from the well-trodden appointed roadways. And Hazel, look closer. It’s not a dot. It’s a heart.
With love always, FS
; With tears spilling from my tired eyes, I opened the jewel case and popped the CD in my stereo, hitting play as I plopped on the floor next to it, hugging my knees as I waited. First was the slow, edgy beat, echoed with a background noise not unlike tearing newspaper. Then, ever so lightly, the rockified strings of a violin entered. He was right, each new instrument tiptoed lightly from the wings onto the song’s center stage, rich and textured, lilting yet passion-punched. I felt like Salieri dissecting and marveling over each of Mozart’s added string or piano keys in Amadeus. But the maestro didn’t have lyrics to melt over. I did.
Bewitched
Just when I thought my core was coal
Reach down my throat into my soul
The thundering clouds were gray and thick
You weren’t coy, I wasn’t slick.
You poured yourself within the cracks
I didn’t know were forming there
I ran my hand along your back
As my blood lusted not to care
Chorus:
I cannot kiss your mouth, so I’ll kiss your heart
I cannot kiss your mouth, so I’ll kiss your heart
Bewitched is what I was
Bewitched is what I was
From the very start.
My enchanted blood grew clotted
My once-cold voice I found all knotted
You cast your magic, tragic spell
You dipped your hands in my black well
I’d cherish you always if I could
The empty cutout where you stood
Intrigued you laughed, in guilt you wept
The empty arms where you once slept
Are wound round nothing now but mist
On London streets where we once kissed.
Bridge:
My skin will never forget your touch
My lungs will never forget those breaths
My brain’s imprinted with you so much,
Good-bye’s a stone garden of little deaths.
I cannot kiss your mouth, so I’ll kiss your heart
I cannot kiss your mouth, so I’ll kiss your heart
Bewitched is what I was
Bewitched is what I was
From the very start.
“It would never have lasted, you know,” Kira said behind me.
She had let herself in and knelt down beside me.
“I know,” I whispered, choked with tears.
“He doesn’t want kids. He loves the road. You are the most homebody person I know.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you crying, honey?”
“Because you’re right. Wylie is the love of my life, and only by experiencing the sheer panic of losing him could I realize that, so I don’t have any doubts. I’m crying because I feel so lucky. I only got the clarity by living my fantasy. And then the loss of my reality, my rock, my Wylie, was scarier than that plummeting plane.”
“You’re lucky, sweetie. Now you will always know you did the right thing.”
“I always thought life was so black and white, like Finn does—love, hate, lust, disgust. Now I now there are so many shades of gray,” I said, wiping my very last tear from my now-dry cheek. “This whole year made me a better person, hopefully a better wife.”
“It has and it will. Life is long, Hazel. Everyone says how short it is, but life is long. And now in your private moments in your marriage you’ll have this. This journey, that song, those memories. And it will always remind you of who you are. When you’re forty, when you’re fifty, or when you’re fat and pregnant with stretch marks or when your boobs are on your waist or when you are graying and wrinkly, you will always know you inspired art. Music that will inspire so many people, the way it did us.”
I smiled, grateful for everything. “Who knew one thunderstorm would change the course of my life?”
“Who knows anything, Hazel?” She laughed, shrugging. “That’s life.”
“That is life,” I echoed, leaning back against the foot of the couch. “Filled with chance and mathematically impossible encounters.”
Kira hugged me and welcomed me home and we sipped the iced coffees she’d brought for us.
“I gotta go get the girls,” she said, looking at her watch. “I’m glad you’re back.”
“Me, too,” I said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
My sister and I hugged by the door and when I closed it behind her, I sat on the floor by myself and reread Finn’s letter. I stood up, walked to my bedroom, where I took down a large jewelry box from my closet where I saved meaningful cards and letters through the years, and put it at the very bottom of the ribbon-tied pile. I closed the box and put it back up on the top shelf of my closet. I went to sit by the window, not yet ready to deal with unpacking my suitcases. As I looked at the glittering New York vista of lights and backlit water towers and building tops, I unknowingly put my fingertips to the heart-shaped locket around my neck.
It had been empty when Finn had put his lips to the gold.
But now it wasn’t.
On our honeymoon, one night Wylie and I decided to take a walk on the beach late at night. The days were so hot that the evening air and cold waves on our feet were heaven. To my surprise, Wylie stopped and knelt down in the water, his pants wet with waves.
“Hazel,” he said, looking up at me, “you were the one who proposed, so I didn’t get to have my knight-in-shining-armor moment,” he said. “But I’m so happy. I’m the luckiest guy in the world that you are my wife.”
I blinked back tears, still guilty about everything I’d put him through and was overwhelmed with love for him.
“No, I’m the lucky one,” I said. “You were always sure, you always believed in us. You named your restaurant for me. You had faith before I did, and now I swear to you, I’ll never ever waiver again.”
“Good.” He nodded.
“Never ever,” I vowed, blinking back tears.
“I think, my Mrs., that it’s time to do something.”
He reached down and pinched some sand from the beach, then stood up and opened my locket. He put the grains of sand inside and closed it, snapping it shut with a click. Then he leaned in and kissed it.
He took my face in his hands, and kissed me. And it was the most passionate, beautiful kiss of my life. I’d mistaken Finn’s dramatic passion and fingers pressed into my back as some sort of purity, but there was no love as rich and perfect as the one my husband and I shared, after everything, on that beach, waves crashing around us.
Remembering that ocean-side moment, I looked at the darkening sky in New York. I felt my locket, recalling Wylie’s honeymoon gesture, and that second in time I knew: finally, my heart was full.
Acknowledgments
Not in a Kathy Batesian way, I want to thank my own rock idol, Trent Reznor. I’m not a psycho rabbit-boiling fan, but I can say that Nine Inch Nails has been one of the most consistent sound tracks to my life since I was sixteen and this book wouldn’t have been written without his songs.
As for my reality: This novel is dedicated to all the people below, the family and friends who are the cheerleaders that help my lazy ass limp to the computer even when I don’t feel Iike writing.
May Chen, my goddess of an editor, you are the dream boss and I’m sofa king lucky to’ve found you. Jenn Joel, übergent and sage advisor—worship. And to all the HarperCollins and ICM posse, massive thanks for everything: Liate Stehlik, Seale Ballinger, Amanda Bergeron, Shelly Perron, Clay Ezell, John Kotik, and Josie Freedman. And to Steven Beer and Mary Miles of Greenberg Traurig.
Merci à la prochaine Ellen Von Unwerth, fashion photographer Pamela Berkovic, who made me look way better than I am.
To my incredible friends and supporters who helped make my little wacky labor of love Someti
mes I Feel Like a Nut a bestseller: Tara Lipton, Alexis Mintz, Trip Cullman, P.J. Tiberio, the lovely Carol Bell and Barbara Martin, Julia Van Nice, Carrie Karasyov, Vern Lochan, Jordana Sackel, all the Heinzes, Konstantin Grab, Ellen Turchyn, Marisa Fox and Michael Bevilacqua, Dan Allen, Laura Tanny, Michael Kovner and Jean de Montaillou, Kelley Ford Owen, Jennifer Linardos, Abby Gordon, Lynn Biase, Mandy Brooks, Andrew Saffir and Daniel Benedict, Richard Sinnott, Lizzie Tisch, and Jeanne Polydoris. And to the chères Vanessa Eastman, Lauren Duff, Jeannie Stern, Dana Jones, and Dr. Lisa Turvey, for being my first reader, as always.
To all the Kargmans and Kopelmans, so many thanks and many xoxoxos, especially to my parents, Arie and Coco, and to my brother, Will, and the amazing Drew. I love you so. And to Harry and the Karglings—thank you for allowing my fantasy and giving me my roots.
About the Author
JILL KARGMAN is the New York Times bestselling author of nine books, including The Right Address, Wolves in Chic Clothing, Momzillas, and The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund. Her last effort is a nationally bestselling book of essays, Sometimes I Feel Like a Nut. She is also a featured writer for Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Town & Country, and Elle, and a copywriter for her greeting card company, Jill Kargman Etceteras.
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Also by Jill Kargman
Fiction
Arm Candy
The Ex-Mrs. Hedgefund
Momzillas
Wolves in Chic Clothing: A Novel (with Carrie Karasyov)
The Right Address: A Novel (with Carrie Karasyov)
Nonfiction
Sometimes I Feel Like a Nut
Children’s Fiction
Pirates and Princesses
Credits
Cover design by James Iacobelli
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.