Living Single

by Holly Chamberlin

  “Not as often as women,” JoAnne said darkly. “Especially if there are kids.”

  “Well ...” Me, again. Lame devil’s advocate.

  “Why don’t you buy a place, Abby?” JoAnne challenged. “Renting is such a colossal waste of money. You build no equity, renters’ laws only go so far to protect you, there’s no point in wasting money on great furniture that might not fit into the next place. Half the time if you paint the walls with some special technique you have to pay for them to be repainted white when you leave.”

  “I don’t care,” Abby insisted. “I’m not buying a house until I get married. Then my husband and I will buy together.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” I said. “What if you never get married?”

  “I will get married.”

  How could I argue with that logic?

  “Why not own property now?” Maggie urged. “Make an investment in your own future. You can always sell the apartment when you get married or have kids and need a bigger place.”

  “No. I don’t want to.” Abby flipped open the copy of W and pretended to ignore us.

  “You’re avoiding maturity,” Maggie pointed out.

  “Maggie’s right,” JoAnne said. “A woman should take care of herself and plan for her future. Abby, put the magazine down and look at me. What kind of retirement plans do you have? Insurance? Investments? Who’s your broker? Financial advisor? Or do you handle the research and paperwork on your own?”

  “I ...”

  The poor thing needed some help.

  “Abby, I know it’s scary but we can all help,” I said. “Look, my father helped me through the paperwork when I applied for the mortgage on my apartment. I was petrified. I just didn’t know terms, I didn’t know anything. I mean, when we did the closing I think I paid for about six different kinds of insurance. Who knew you needed title insurance, fire insurance. . . it never seemed to end.”

  “Well, you can trust your father,” said Abby.

  “Right. And he’s a lawyer and he’s bought houses before, so he knows the ropes. Buying your own home is a very scary thing.”

  “I don’t know ...”

  “Look, Abby,” I went on. “I’ll admit that on some level I saw buying my own place as sort of giving up the hope of ever getting married and buying a house with a husband.”

  JoAnne snorted. I gave her the evil eye.

  “I know that sounds ridiculous, but it’s true,” I said. “Part of me felt elated and powerful and finally totally independent. Part of me felt like I’d finally grown up—which was both good and bad. And part of me felt—alone. Like I’d finally acknowledged just how alone I really was. No husband. No children. No immediate possibility of either. It was just me and Fuzzer. Not that Fuzzer isn’t the best.”

  “Well, if I were a man,” JoAnne said, “I’d find a woman who owned her own home attractive. I’d think maybe she wasn’t looking for me to sweep in and take care of her. I wouldn’t feel so much pressure.”

  Abby looked worried by this. “Do you really think a man cares so much about whether a woman rents or owns?”

  “I don’t know about that,” I said, “but I’ll admit I find a man who owns his own place a lot more attractive than a man who rents. Unless he’s in transition or something. Like looking for the perfect place, or he’s just been transferred and he’s living in corporate housing, or his architect and contractor are taking longer than expected perfecting his two-thousand-square-foot loft.”

  “A home is security,” Maggie said.

  “It’s power.”

  “Your own home is where you can be Martha Stewart.”

  “If your husband isn’t sickened by wreaths made out of colored pipe cleaners and smelly potpourri.”

  “Isn’t potpourri smelly by definition?”

  “Would you own a house with someone you weren’t married to?” JoAnne asked. “If you were living with the guy, would you pool your finances, share a checking account, save for the future together?”

  “Never.” Abby.

  “Depends,” I said, thinking, what if Doug’s wife holds up a divorce and Doug and I live together before we can marry?

  “On what?” Maggie demanded. “How many generations of destitute women does it take to teach the rest of us a lesson about protecting our assets?”

  Now, I was depressed.

  “Abby?” I said. “Can I borrow your Vogue? The French one.”

  Erin—hi. please get diamond brooch from s. deposit bx., sell, send money. it’s mine from great-grandma. send to address below. know i promised it to you. take coral beads instead. Mom

  Sometimes I think I’m a frustrated party planner. Or maybe my desire to be a hostess has something to do with growing up an only and often lonely child. Either way, it occurred to me that with the early April weather being so unexpectedly fine, we city folk should take advantage. I suggested to about twenty people, mostly from EastWind, that we meet at the Barking Crab for an informal get-together. I’d thought about asking Doug but didn’t have the nerve. Besides, I thought, what if he brought his wife along? What if he met my invitation with coldness?

  JoAnne arrived wearing a clingy, wraparound dress in cobalt blue and black, and black strappy sandals. Of course, she looked unbearably sexy. Thank God she didn’t have a thing for older men, I thought later.

  I’d opted for low-on-the-hip pants in taupe, a fitted blouse in khaki, and canary yellow strappy sandals. I’ve never been afraid to wear bright and colorful shoes, provided they are beautifully designed and well crafted. And somewhat within my budget. And worn as the splash needed with an outfit in neutrals.

  Good thing the occasion didn’t call for the diamond brooch, the last remaining Morelli heirloom. I’d sold it just like my mother had wanted me to do. I was a good daughter. An angry daughter, but a good one.

  An impulse I couldn’t understand had made me ask my father to join the party. Much to my surprise, he said yes. Until the last moment I hadn’t expected him to show. I’d expected him to beg off, citing too much work or a crushed spirit still not ready to socialize.

  I was wrong.

  John Weston appeared at the Barking Crab in a smart navy blazer, crisp white shirt open at the neck, and neat, sand-colored chinos, got himself a drink, and began to socialize.

  I watched with some surprise.

  “Your father is looking quite handsome these days,” JoAnne said. “Your mother’s—absence—seems to be doing him good.”

  “Yeah, who would have thought? I mean, I know he’s sad and I think he’s still in a bit of shock, but ... ”

  “So, has he started to date yet?”

  “What?” I laughed. “No. I mean, I don’t think so. At least, he hasn’t said anything to me.”

  “Honey, you might be the last person he’d tell.”

  “Why? We’re close.”

  “And you’re his daughter. He might have to get comfortable with the idea of dating before he introduces you to his new girlfriend. It’s a classic recipe for trouble—the two women most likely to hate each other, the daughter and the new woman.”

  “Oh, come on, JoAnne! I’m an adult. I want my father to be happy. I’d be very glad if he was dating someone nice.”

  “And old and frumpy. No challenge to you.”

  “What? You’re insane.”

  Is she? Reason murmured.

  “You mean to tell me you wouldn’t be—upset—if your father showed up at your door one night with a bombshell on his arm?”

  “Well ... I might. If the bombshell was using him or just after his money or something. I mean, what kind of daughter would I be if I didn’t want to protect my father?”

  “Protect him from what, evil women? Or protect your place in his heart? Face it, Erin, John’s a big boy now. He’s a successful lawyer and he’s not about to be bamboozled by some floozy.”

  “You know, you piss me off, sometimes, JoAnne.”

  “I try, honey, I try. Someone’s got to be the realistic
one in this friendship.”

  “I’m walking away now,” I said, haughtily. “I feel the need for a glass of champagne. Maybe a two-pound lobster on the side. With lots of butter.”

  JoAnne raised her eyebrows.

  “Overindulgence won’t change the truth of my words,” she said.

  No, I admitted to myself. But it might help me to forget.

  If JoAnne wasn’t going to be all warm and fuzzy—or at least, nice—I’d talk to Maggie for a while. After a snack.

  We chatted a bit about doings at the Women’s Lunch Place, the shelter at which Maggie volunteered, and about EastWind’s involvement with a new client, a local public radio station. We admitted to not yet having seen the latest installment of The Lord of the Rings. And then I turned the conversation to a more serious topic, one I had not indeed forgotten, in spite of the champagne and lobster.

  “Do you think it’s odd that Abby’s been talking to my father for”—I checked my watch—“over half an hour?”

  Maggie glanced over her shoulder then looked back to me.

  “Odd, how?” she said. “They’ve met before, right? You know how Abby is. Once she gets going you can’t shut her up. Poor John.”

  Poor John? He’d been laughing for most of ten minutes now and I hadn’t seen that twinkle in his eyes since ... Actually, I’d never seen that twinkle in his eye. It was quite—attractive.

  And since when did he drink champagne?

  “She’s probably just trying to make him feel better,” I said firmly, turning away, hoping to convince myself of Abby’s purely disinterested motives. “You know, after my mother’s leaving him and all. Abby’s so sweet.”

  “That she is. Look, Erin, this has been great, but I’ve got to run.”

  “So soon? It’s so early.”

  “I know, but I have a deadline for an article I’m writing for Urban Dialogues and if I don’t spend at least an hour a night working on it for the next two weeks, I’m royally screwed.”

  “Your self-discipline is amazing,” I told her. “I mean it.”

  Maggie shrugged. “Not really. I’m getting five hundred bucks for the article. I’ll do just about anything for five hundred bucks.”

  “Send me a copy when it’s written?”

  “Like you’d understand a word of it,” Maggie drawled.

  I smacked her arm, then kissed her cheek. “You’re mean. Be careful getting home.”

  When Maggie had gone, I got a glass of wine and resumed Abby-and John-watching. It was not a sport I’d ever imagined myself a spectator of.

  Abby looked adorable—fresh and clean and pretty like Grace Kelly in High Society somehow—in a pale pink linen skirt suit, bone-colored, kitten-heeled mules, and her hair lightly curled. She looked like an expensive confection. An expensive flirtatious confection. I wanted to bundle her away, out of sight of the newly single John Weston.

  Why was I even thinking such a thing, imagining such a ... such a ... such a mind-blowing atrocity as my best friend flirting with my father? Had I gone completely insane? It was not without precedence in my family. My mother’s uncle Larry had been “put away” years ago after a rather embarrassing incident involving a chicken and a roll of packing tape, and rumor had it that her “crazy cousin Ellen” had become convinced she was Scarlett O’Hara—or was it Tallulah Bankhead?

  Either way, I was doomed. Maybe in my case the lunacy was just kicking in early. Or maybe it was the several glasses of wine and champagne I’d consumed. I looked at the half-empty glass in my hand, grimaced, and put it on the nearest table. Sober was the way to accurately assess this situation.

  But I never made it to Abby and my father. Halfway across the floor I was waylaid by Hank and his wife, Erica. By the time I managed to extricate myself from chitchat about the latest Big Dig scandal, Abby and my father were no longer in sight.

  I never found out where they disappeared to, but a half hour later I spotted Abby talking animatedly to some thirty-something guy not part of our group. Dad took his leave of the party soon after and I sighed a big ole sigh of relief. Literally.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A day or two after the informal get-together at the Barking Crab, I began to seriously regret not having asked Doug to be there. If he’d accepted the invitation and shown up with his wife, so be it. I’d have lived. Maybe. At least I’d have known what Carol looked like. I’d overheard someone at EastWind mention having met the Spears at a function, but couldn’t glean more information about Carol than her name. Now I had a burning desire to know just who I was up against. And Doug’s bringing Carol wouldn’t necessarily have meant he wasn’t still interested in me. If he was ever interested in me at all.

  I couldn’t get Doug Spears and our possibly nonexistent relationship out of my mind. I wanted very badly to call him. I was mildly obsessed.

  Reason was stern. Mildly obsessed? That’s like being sort of pregnant. Face it, Erin, you’re obsessed and you’ve got to cut it out. Now. Do not make the call. Do not.

  Romance had its own opinion. Don’t deny your heart’s desire, Erin, it urged. If you don’t act, you’ll never know. You’ll live the rest of your life wondering what might have been. Take the next step. Take it!

  Why can’t he take it, I thought petulantly, but I wondered if my petulance was in reality an excuse for my backing away from the idea of placing a call to Doug Spears.

  Screwing up one’s courage—it’s an interesting phrase, and quite an accurate description of how one’s stomach feels in the decisive moments before daring action. All screwy and twisty and whirly.

  Okay. I’d make the call. Maybe.

  But what would I say when he answered the phone? If he didn’t answer and voice mail kicked in, would I have the nerve to leave a bright and witty message, or would I just hang up, face burning. Bottom line: I wanted very badly to hear his voice.

  Another question: To pretend or not to pretend. To create a false pretense for calling, such as a burning question about a troublesome client—unnamed, of course, because fictional. Or to simply say, “Hi. Want to have lunch sometime this week? No reason. Just thought you might.”

  It could go several ways with either scenario. If I created a professional reason for meeting, Doug could say he was too busy that week but reschedule. How can a colleague turn down another colleague’s request for help? If Doug did indeed say no to a meeting and make no move to reschedule—well, that would be a clear sign that whatever romantic possibilities he’d had in mind were no longer in play. The end.

  Second scenario: If I gave no reason for my invitation other than an interest in getting together, Doug’s response either way would be clearer. Right? If he said no and didn’t suggest a rescheduling, I’d know flat out that he didn’t want anything to do with me in a personal way. If he said yes, even if he had to choose a later date, it would mean he was open to—romance?

  Okay. If I called I’d be honest. But did I have the nerve to make such a bold move?

  Yes. It turns out I did.

  Carpe diem.

  At ten o’clock one morning, I dialed Doug’s office number. The receptionist put me right through. Doug was in.

  “Doug Spears.”

  “Doug?” I said, and then thought, What a flaming idiot, Erin!

  “Yes, it’s me,” he said, clearly amused. “Is this Erin Weston?”

  He recognized my voice!

  “Yes. Yes, it’s Erin.”

  “Well, hello.”

  “Hello.” What next?! “Uh, how’ve you been?”

  Doug laughed mildly. “Busy, nothing unusual. How’ve you been?”

  “Oh, fine,” I said. “You know. Fine.”

  There was half a moment of supremely awkward silence—at least for me it was awkward—and then Doug said, again with a note of amusement in his voice, “Erin, is there some particular reason you called?”

  Do or die.

  I asked him if he would like to have lunch the next day. Or some day that week. Whatever worked f
or him. If he wasn’t too busy. If ...

  Mercifully, Doug cut me off.

  “How about instead of lunch we go to a gallery opening I’ve got an invitation for? It’s Wednesday evening, from five to seven.”

  Oh, Lord. Negativity roared. Had my offer of lunch been too boring? Did I live to eat? Dark self-doubts kept me from responding. I was a glutton, a greedy thing, a hedonist, a sybaritic waste of oxygen... .

  “Erin? What do you think? I remembered you said you were into art. There’ll be appetizers and champagne.”

  “Sounds great,” I said quickly. “The opening, I mean.”

  Doug laughed. “You don’t have to hide your appetites from me. I like a woman who lives large.”

  “Okay,” I said. A brilliant response.

  “So,” Doug said, “I’ll see you at the Biddle Gallery on Newbury at, say, five-thirty, Wednesday?”

  “Sure. Great. And, thanks,” I added. Thanks for not hanging up on me.

  “For what? You called me. I should be the one thanking you.”

  “Okay,” I said, more easily. “You’re welcome.”

  “See you Wednesday, Erin,” Doug said and his voice was warm.

  “See you Wednesday, Doug,” I said.

  Another move in the game.

  I was a player after all.

  Damion Finn and I had met several years ago when he’d joined EastWind Comunications as a graphics designer. I’d been attracted to him from the start. He was handsome and funny and intelligent and very mature. Though he was only about three years my senior, he seemed somehow much older. I liked that about him. However, it wasn’t long before I realized that while Damion might become a friend, he would never become my lover. That was okay. Better some Damion than no Damion.

  He left EastWind after only a year for a go as a freelance designer. Unlike most office friendships, ours survived the change in venue and actually grew. Though I didn’t see Damion as often as I would have liked—his schedule was even fuller than mine and included two pugs who needed to be walked three times a day and who attended regular grooming sessions—when we did get together the time spent was quality. Unfortunately, he’d been out of town the night of the Barking Crab get-together; I would have liked his take on Abby’s monopolizing of my father.