Changes of Heart

by Liza Gyllenhaal

  And she had told him what she dared to tell no one else in her life, “I want to be beautiful.”

  It had been Zach first, and Zach always, who told her she could be whatever she wished. Do whatever she wanted. It was Zach who believed in her, long before she did herself. Zach who told her again and again that she was lovely months before it was actually so. Zach…

  He had left the party earlier that evening before it had really started, mumbling an excuse to Janie and Alain about work that couldn’t wait.

  “Good luck,” he had said, holding out his hand to Alain. “Take care,” he added to Janie, as if she were a vague acquaintance whose name he could barely recall. She’d watched him lope down the corridor to his office. He had not looked or acted like someone whose heart was being broken. He closed his office door behind him with the firmness of a man who had nothing on his mind but work. Not love, not loss. But how could one ever tell with Zach?

  Janie opened her own door then and looked down the darkened corridor. His was the only light left on.

  She took a deep breath. She made a decision. She walked down the hall.

  “Who is it?” Zach barked when Janie knocked.

  “Can I come in?” Janie asked, opening the door a crack.

  “Sure,” Zach replied, turning from the window. He’d tossed his jacket on the back of his chair. His tie was draped across the out box on his desk. “But I thought we already said good-bye, Janie.”

  “Take care?” Janie retorted. “That’s your idea of good-bye?”

  “It’s really not my forte,” Zach replied. “I’m much more of a hello man. What do you want me to say? Good luck? All the best? Have a happy life? I thought ‘take care’ kind of summed it up.”

  “It sounded more like a warning to me,” Janie declared, sitting on the edge of his desk. “You might as well have said ‘watch out’ or ‘be careful.’ ”

  “I apologize if my semantics bothered you,” Zach told her tersely, pacing back to the window again. “I wish you all the joy in the world. How’s that? Now shouldn’t you get moving? Alain must be tired of waiting for you out there.”

  “No, he’s gone,” Janie said simply.

  “Oh,” Zach replied. “So you’re going to meet him later then? In any case, Janie, what more can I add?”

  “The truth would be nice,” Janie said.

  “I’m sorry,” Zach replied, turning to face her, looking at her hard for the first time. “I don’t do truth. I do facts.”

  “Okay, facts are fine with me,” Janie said. “Remember the first day I was in the office? The afternoon of my interview? And we both got to ask each other questions?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, I want to do the same thing now, okay?”

  “Is this some kind of a game?” Zach demanded, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I’m really not in a playful mood.”

  “No, it’s serious, Zach,” Janie said, standing up to face him. “It’s really very serious. Do you mind if I begin?”

  “Go ahead,” he replied, crossing his arms and looking at her with a puzzled expression.

  “Do you love Elise?”

  “Whoa…” Zach replied, his face darkening. “Well … we are serious here, aren’t we? We’re after facts, right? Okay, the fact of the matter is, no, I don’t love her.”

  “Are you going to marry her?”

  “I’ve thought about it,” Zach admitted. “Marriage seems to be in the air these days.”

  “You would marry someone you didn’t love?” Janie demanded. “You think that’s all right?”

  “It depends,” Zach countered. “She happens to love me, or so she says. I think I’d like to have children. I don’t see much hope for me when it comes to love, anyway. Why do you want to know all this, Janie? What’s the point?”

  “You’ll see,” Janie told him. “Now you ask me…”

  “What am I supposed to ask?” Zach retorted. “I know what your facts are. You love Alain and you’re going to marry him. It’s getting late, Janie, and I’m tired. You’d better get going.”

  “Those were the facts,” Janie told him. “Ask me what the facts are now.”

  “What … what is this? I don’t know what you want from me.”

  “Ask me if I love Alain, stupid,” Janie told him.

  “You’ve had too much champagne,” Zach asserted. “That must be it. You’re just not making any sense.”

  “Ask me, Zach,” Janie told him again.

  “Okay, okay,” he replied, throwing up his hands. “Do you, Janie Penrod, love Alain Chanson?”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “Now ask me if I’m going to marry him.”

  “Are you?” Zach demanded, taking a step toward her.

  “No,” Janie said, smiling across the room at him and watching his expression change from confusion to disbelief to dawning comprehension.

  “Do you…” He hesitated a moment, running his hands uncertainly through his hair, then he went on. “Do you love someone else?”

  “Yes,” Janie said. “I think I do. Now it’s my turn again, Zach.”

  “Okay,” he said, stopping a few feet from her. He suddenly looked very serious.

  “Do you love someone, Zach?” she asked him. The question came out as a whisper.

  “Yes, I do,” Zach told her, his gaze holding hers. “I’ve loved someone for years.”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell her?”

  “Because I thought she didn’t care. I thought it was hopeless. I thought telling her would somehow spoil her happiness. And one thing I’ve always wanted … is for her to be happy.”

  “You know what I think?” Janie asked as Zach took one last step and pulled her into his arms.

  “What do you think?” he asked as he brushed her hair back off her forehead and caressed the curving slope of her cheek. His eyes traveled from her eyes to her lips. She had never seen him look so peaceful, so content, so absolutely sure.

  “Whoever this person is,” Janie said, closing her eyes as Zach leaned over to kiss her, “I think she’s going to be very happy now.”

  Chapter 50

  It was not going to be a particularly fancy wedding, Faith had to admit, though it was the kind she most enjoyed. She was planning to do the dinner herself, devising an eclectic menu around the last bounty of fresh produce from her own garden and the local offerings of game and fish. Henry, of course, was taking charge of the music. Victoria was sending out the three dozen or so simple invitations.

  Cynthia, a bit put out by the social tempest all of this had stirred up in Paris, said it was enough that she was going to fly over for the weekend. Though, in a more lenient moment, she confided to Faith on the phone, “I’m so relieved, really.”

  “Why, Cyn?” Faith had responded. “I thought you were quite taken with the Chansons. And they’re certainly more socially acceptable than Zach.”

  “Since when did you start to worry about social acceptability?” Cynthia demanded with a laugh.

  “I’ve always wanted my daughters to marry well,” Faith said. “It’s every mother’s wish, my dear, you’ll see.”

  “No, Mother,” Cynthia corrected her, “you wanted us to marry happily. And now, I believe, we all will.”

  “Henry’s pleased,” Faith admitted, “though he’s quite beside himself getting the group in concert order by next Sunday. Who ever heard of putting on a wedding with two weeks’ notice?”

  “I know,” Cynthia commiserated. “It’s most unusual. But then, when did we ever really want Janie to be anything else?”

  As for the bride-to-be, two weeks seemed a lifetime away.

  “Why don’t we just run away tonight, Zach?” she whispered in his ear as they traveled by taxi down to her apartment a few nights after they had told her family that all previous arrangements were off, and Janie intended to spend the rest of her life with Zach. “Let’s sneak do
wn to City Hall or something. I can’t stand waiting any longer.”

  “Your family would lynch me, for one thing,” Zach replied, leaning over to kiss her left temple. His arm was around her shoulders. He still could not quite believe that she was here, his. He had asked her to marry him not ten minutes after she’d told him she wasn’t going to be Mrs. Alain Chanson. And, as she and everyone else in her family had already made arrangements to take time off at the end of the month for the Chanson nuptials, it seemed extremely sensible to both Zach and Janie to hold their own little ceremony that very day. Besides, neither one of them wanted to wait a second longer. It was Zach who had insisted that they not sleep together until their wedding night. Though he was in some physical agony over the decision, a part of him knew he needed the time to get adjusted to his happiness. No, his joy. He was still overwhelmed by his love. No, their love. He would have been content to marry, cherish, and protect Janie for the rest of his life, even if she hadn’t loved him in return. What was so miraculous to him, so stunning, was the fact that she did.

  “Oh, they’d forgive us,” Janie insisted, pulling his chin toward her so that she could run her finger along his lips. “You could blame me. Say I’d coerced you.”

  “No,” Zach said, after he’d kissed her. “I remain strong in my resolution to make an honest woman of you in the eyes of your family and our friends. I don’t like the idea of running off. I do like the thought of standing up and declaring my undying love. Plus, we get a party thrown in for free.”

  “My husband, the romantic.” Janie laughed. “And you’re sure we can take the time off for Italy? Isn’t it a bad moment to be away from the agency?”

  “The worst,” Zach agreed, squeezing her right shoulder. “Fourth quarter’s our busiest season. It’s totally irresponsible, but Michael’s not giving us any choice. I pleaded. I wept. He’s adamant. He’s paying airfare for a two-week honeymoon, and we’re not allowed back until we take it.”

  “Slave driver,” Janie declared.

  “Ruthless,” Zach agreed. “And there’s something else he wants from you. I guess now’s as good a time as any to talk about it.”

  “Yes?” Janie said, turning to look at Zach. His tone was suddenly serious, his expression set.

  “He wants you to become a partner,” Zach told her, “and so do I. The two of us actually discussed it months ago, when you first came back to the agency. Thought we’d spring it on you after you got a few of your old accounts in harness. But when it appeared that Alain was going to whisk you off to Paris, it didn’t seem fair to propose it.”

  “Is that true?” Janie demanded, searching his expression and knowing that he wouldn’t be able to lie to her. “You really think I deserve to be a partner?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he told her. “I certainly do. How does Dorn, Delaney, and Penrod sound to you?”

  “Wonderful,” Janie said, closing her eyes. “Almost too wonderful to believe. I feel as though I could float away with happiness. I feel as though someone should make sure I’m attached to the ground.”

  “You’re attached all right,” Zach said, pulling her to him. “I’ll guarantee that.”

  It was not the kind of wedding Martine Chanson would have approved of. There were no limousines. No ushers. No caterers. The whole affair consisted of less than fifty people, though there were some prominent politicians and business executives in the crowd. Madame Ramona arrived draped in a regal, mink-lined cape and accompanied by an arrestingly handsome young man and two nervous, yapping miniature poodles.

  “I insist on doing the makeup,” she announced imperiously as she mounted the stairs to Janie’s childhood bedroom, leaving the poodles in the obviously unhappy care of the young man. “You see, I’ve brought my own kit with me.” And so, though Janie already looked sumptuously beautiful in a classic, Empire-waisted white silk gown, the world’s most renowned cosmetics queen saw to it that her lipstick, mascara, eyeliner, and blush were applied to perfection.

  “What do you think about the veil, Madame?” Faith asked as Madame Ramona stepped away from the mirror to assess her work. “Should we also have the tiara? Cynthia says tiara and veil. Victoria insists on just the veil. Janie says she doesn’t care, and I don’t know what I think.”

  “Contrary to what women are always telling each other,” Madame Ramona replied judiciously, “I think we all secretly dress to please men. So, tell me, Janie, how does Zach like you to wear your hair?”

  “Down, of course,” Janie told them with a smile, “and as wild as possible.”

  “There you go!” Madame said triumphantly. “The answer is no tiara, no veil. Just red hair, and plenty of it.”

  It was not at all the sort of wedding Louella had helped Janie orchestrate for months. There were no flower girl, no ring bearer, no string of bridesmaids. There was only her, swathed in the brightly colored ankle-length dress that she had been allowed to pick out herself.

  “Aren’t you going to have a color scheme, at least?” Lou had asked Janie, thinking about the endless fittings that they had both endured at the hands of the seamstress Martine Chanson had hired in Manhattan. Though the mauve-colored crepe de chine fabric that had been selected for that ill-fated affair had done nothing for Louella’s complexion, she had been made to feel secure by the very formality of the planning, the pins carefully adjusting the dress to her waist, and the satin shoes that had been dyed to match the dress.

  “Scheme?” Janie had asked, looking up from her cluttered desk where she continued to do her design work, despite what Louella felt were the enormous demands of planning a wedding. Janie didn’t seem to realize—or did she simply not care?—that there were a million details that needed attending to. The Chanson wedding had been in the planning stages for months, after all, and here was Janie thinking that two weeks was more than enough time for everything that still needed to be done. “Well, let’s see,” Janie had replied cheerfully, “I’ll be in white. Henry and Zach will wear black tuxes. That leaves you with every color in between. Take your pick.”

  Her selection—a massive, flowing gown of bright floral design—indeed appeared to include every color in between, but no one seemed to think it was out of place. Baldwin itself was an elaborate array of hues: dazzling blue sky, trees at the height of their autumnal glory, the thick carpet of lush green lawn, Faith’s rose gardens in the last florid burst of color, and, beyond it all, gray-green and bright with white caps, the flat clear horizon of sea.

  Guests were seated in a rather haphazard semicircle of folding, chairs, facing the bluffs and the quickly improvised altar that consisted of one of Henry’s music stands and a number of huge pots of mums. A dog had somehow gotten lose and was running erratically through the crowd, sniffing skirt hems and pant cuffs. Henry’s medieval music troupe, nervous and slightly off-key without their leader who was to escort the bride to the altar, began a laboriously slow rendition of the wedding march. Thankfully, most of the notes were wafted out to sea.

  It was a day that Michael, seated with Anne and the girls in the front row, never thought he would see. Zachary Dorn’s wedding day. When Janie and Zach had walked hand in hand into his office the Monday morning after the Ramona presentation, Michael was nearly speechless, though he had managed to sputter, “I thought you were supposed to be in Paris, Janie.”

  “I was,” she’d replied, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “But, well, obviously I’m not.”

  “Which do you want first?” Zach had asked Michael, his arm sneaking possessively around Janie’s waist. “The good news or the bad?”

  “Bad,” Michael had replied, regaining his composure.

  “We seem to have lost the Chanson account,” Zach reported somberly.

  “We’ve resigned it,” Janie corrected Zach.

  “And the good news?” Michael had asked, starting to smile. “No, let me guess!”

  Considering Zachary Dorn’s transformation over the last two weeks, Michael would have
happily resigned just about every account the agency had. If Zach wasn’t exactly a new man, he had become the best possible version of the man he’d always been. Funny. Acerbic. Unpredictable. But now all of Zach’s hard edges had grown a softer, gentler underside. It took Michael a few days to put his finger on the real change: all of Zach’s tamped down anger was gone. He still had enough energy to fuel most of midtown Manhattan, but now it was generated from some self-fulfilling—rather than destructive—force. His smile came easily; his laughter was without sarcasm. For a man who always claimed that there was no such thing as happiness, Zach seemed to be saying that he wasn’t only happy, but deeply so.

  It was not the kind of wedding that Janie had always dreamed of. Those gauzy fantasy weddings that she had been imagining since girlhood were much like the one Martine Chanson had intended to put on. There were supposed to be bowers of perfect pink roses. A long line of ushers in morning coats. A carriage decked with garlands, perhaps, that would carry her and her dewy-eyed husband-to-be to the ceremony. In reality, moments before the ceremony began, Zach, Louella, Henry, and Janie were huddled together by the kitchen sink trying to get one of Zach’s more wayward cowlicks to stay down.

  “Damn, I told you to get a cut,” Janie scolded, running the comb under the faucet. She stood on tiptoe to part his hair.

  “Hurry,” Louella warned. “They’re starting the music.”

  “Does his hair really matter?” Henry, who himself had very little and rather envied Zach’s rich mane, demanded sonorously. “In the great scheme of things, I would say not. Let the man go to his fate groomed as he would wish. He’ll be in your female clutches for the rest of his life, after all.”

  “Daddy!” Janie cried. “You sound just like some old male chauvinist—”

  “Hurry!” Louella cried. “Come on, it’s time!”

  No, in the end none of it was as Janie had dreamed. For one thing, it all happened so fast. Henry, more nervous than anyone realized, strode so quickly across the lawn that Janie tripped twice and almost toppled completely over just as they neared the altar. But Zach, who was waiting for them at the head of the aisle, managed to catch her by the arm and steady her as they took the last few steps together. The ceremony itself was lightning quick. Janie was conscious of very little besides the minister’s lilting voice, like the babble of a brook that was very pleasant in itself but had no discernible meaning. Zach stood beside her, tall and elegantly handsome in his rented tux, though she had been unable to do anything with his hair. She glanced sideways at him and saw that he was listening intently to the minister’s admonitions: “… to have and to hold, in sickness and in health…”