Back In the Game

by Holly Chamberlin

  Maybe, I thought, this is a good thing. Happy Couples is all about business, all about getting men and women out of the singles scene and into a nice ranch house in the suburbs.

  Although personally, I’d like a two-story colonial.

  A pale, skinny woman in an outfit clearly from Dress Barn sat behind a big metal desk in what at first I thought must be the reception area; eventually I figured out it was the entire office. She introduced herself as Ms. Berber and told me she would be my facilitator. Without meeting my eye she thrust a stack of papers at me and told me to fill out the Happy Couples mandatory questionnaire. I sat on one of the metal folding chairs lining one wall of the room and began to read.

  The lengthy questionnaire was totally humiliating, not like the one I’d come up with at all. No, Happy Couples wanted to know if I had a body odor problem; if I used a depilatory cream on my face; and if I had any skin tags. Skin tags! Happy Couples wanted to know my height, weight, and fitness routine. (Well, I lied a bit about my fitness routine because I didn’t have one.) Happy Couples also wanted to know if I had any visible scars that would prevent me from wearing a bikini. Sheesh.

  When I had answered the two hundred questions, I handed the questionnaire to Ms. Berber. I noticed the diamond ring on her left hand was really big but kind of dull.

  “We’ll review your chart,” she said, already eyeing my check marks, “and get back to you as soon as an eligible match can be found.”

  I nodded and said thank you.

  I was at the door, my hand on the knob, when Ms. Berber spoke again.

  “And Ms. Keats? One final note. Lose ten pounds. The cabbage diet works quickly.”

  Four nights later I was out with Match #1. His name was Barry and his profile clearly indicated that he was looking for Ms. Right. Or so that skinny Ms. Berber told me.

  Barry suggested we meet at Bar Louis. I hesitated before agreeing. Bar Louis is a hangout for twentysomethings, a notorious pickup joint. But it was supposed to have good mixed drinks and I hadn’t had a Fuzzy Navel in ages, so I said okay.

  I dressed carefully to make just the right first impression. I wanted Barry to take one look at me and see a serious woman, a woman ready to start a family. I wore a crisp white shirt and a fitted linen skirt that came to the knee. I wore my hair in a neat, sleek ponytail, which took about a pound of product to accomplish. I wore a strand of tiny pearls.

  And from the moment I walked through the door of Bar Louis I felt like the biggest frump. Partly it was because every other woman in the place was half-naked; at least half of them wore exposed thongs and flaunted firm brown bellies. Partly it was because not one man looked at me, not even once. But mostly I felt like the biggest frump because Barry could not keep his eyes off the other women, all of whom were younger than me by, like, years.

  Ten minutes into our lame conversation I realized I’d gone from frumpy to invisible.

  “How was your day?” I asked.

  Barry, his eyes following a girl in skintight, low-rise jeans, replied, “Huh?”

  “What do you do for a living?” I asked.

  Barry, salivating over the cocktail waitress’s huge breasts, replied, “What?”

  “Are you originally from Boston?” I asked.

  Barry, tossing his napkin on the table, replied, “I’ll be right back.”

  And I watched him make his way through the chattering crowd to a tall, slim black girl. I watched him give her a business card.

  I sat absolutely still and watched Barry make his way back to our little table.

  He sat back down and grinned. “Miss me?”

  “You just gave that girl your number.”

  His grin remained firmly in place. “What?”

  And then the anger just surged through me. “Don’t deny it,” I cried, “I saw you! We’re on a date. You’re supposed to be paying attention to me. How can you even know if you like me if you spend the whole time staring at other women?”

  Barry’s grin ran away. “Hey, ease down. We’re not married, okay?”

  “Don’t tell me to ease down! I’m reporting you to the agency. You lied. You don’t want to have a baby. You want to date a baby!”

  I threw my napkin on the table and stormed off. I’m not sure he even noticed I was gone.

  The next afternoon during my lunch hour I took the T to the Back Bay. I’d read about a new high-end children’s clothing shop called Fleur but hadn’t gone because, well, it was high-end.

  The shop was cool and scented with fresh lilac. The clothing was handmade in France. The prices were astronomical. I mean, they had this thing called a layette that cost almost as much as my monthly rent!

  I fell in love with everything and had a really hard time choosing, but finally I decided on a sweet little set. It was absolutely adorable, a blush pink knit sweater and leggings, just perfect for a bright New England fall day.

  It did occur to me that if I had my baby in, say, December, by the next fall she would be too big for the sweater and leggings. And if my baby turned out to be a boy, well, he wouldn’t be able to wear the outfit at all.

  But it was so sweet.

  I know I shouldn’t have spent the money.

  I know.

  Chapter 24

  Grace

  Just remember: Forever is relative. What one person sees as three years can feel like a lifetime to another.

  —Did I Say Forever? Reinterpreting the Marriage Vows

  “Good morning. Welcome to the Auster Gallery.”

  I knew I wouldn’t run into Simon; he always sleeps until at least noon. But I hadn’t anticipated running into the owner of the gallery.

  Everyone connected to the Boston art world knows Evan Auster, even a person who teaches ten-year-olds how to hold a paintbrush. I recognized him right away; I’d seen his picture often enough in magazines, newspapers, on television. He appeared to be a handsome man, about fifty, with very blue eyes and very dark hair, a clean-shaven face, fit, and well dressed.

  The photos, I realized with a bit of a shock, didn’t do him justice.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  Mr. Auster smiled winningly. “If I can be of any help, please let me know. Are you interested in a particular artist?”

  I glanced quickly around the space. Yes, I thought. But not in the way you mean.

  I looked back to Mr. Auster. I noted that I came up only to his shoulder. “I know the artist you’re featuring in your next solo show,” I said. “Simon Trenouth.”

  Mr. Auster nodded. “I see. You’re a friend?”

  Was Simon my friend? Was I his?

  “Well, actually,” I said, “we were married for twelve years. But we’re divorced. Amicably . . .” When I’m not furious with him for abusing my credit cards and calling at all hours of the night. But Mr. Auster didn’t need to know the whole story.

  “So,” he said, “you’re here because you want to get a sense of Simon’s work in the space?”

  I nodded. “Yes, exactly. I haven’t been to the gallery in a while. I’ve been pretty busy with work.” And with a young German. But that’s over.

  “Really? What is your work?”

  Mr. Auster was a polite man. He didn’t need to ask a question that, for all he knew, might have resulted in a lengthy or boring answer.

  “Oh,” I said quickly, “I teach art at a private middle school in Brookline.”

  “That sounds interesting. And exhausting.”

  “It is,” I admitted. “Both things.”

  “So you must be glad summer is almost here.” Mr. Auster smiled. “What do you usually do with your time off?”

  Take care of Simon. But not this year.

  “This year,” I said, “I’m going to be the director of a new program called Art for All. It’s for kids twelve and under. It’s privately funded and free to the participants. We’ve already got close to a hundred kids signed up for the two sessions.”

  Mr. Auster seemed genuine when he said, “That’s grea
t. Congratulations. I’d like to learn more about the program. It sounds like a worthy cause.”

  There wasn’t a trace of phoniness in his tone or on his face. Mr. Auster wasn’t just making polite conversation. He really was interested in the program.

  “Oh,” I said. “Well, I could give you the Web site address . . .” I reached into my bag for a pen and piece of paper.

  “That would be great.” Suddenly, Mr. Auster laughed. “I’m sorry. I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Evan Auster.”

  I looked up from my search. “Yes,” I said. “I mean, I recognized you. From photos.”

  “And you are . . .”

  An idiot.

  “Oh. Sorry. I’m Grace. Grace Henley.”

  Evan put out his hand; it was a very nice hand. We shook and he didn’t squeeze too hard.

  Finally, I found a pen and wrote the Web site address neatly across the back of one of Evan’s business cards.

  “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Grace. Would you like to have dinner some time this week?”

  I was completely surprised by Evan’s offer. I think my mouth might have dropped open because Evan added hastily, “To discuss the show, of course. And your program.”

  Of course.

  “Sure,” I said. “Yes. That would be fine.”

  After taking my number and giving me another of his cards to keep, Evan excused himself to speak with an older couple who’d come in moments before. They had the look of serious art buyers about them; her tasteful jewelry alone would have paid my mortgage for years.

  I walked back to my apartment in a sort of stupor.

  Evan Auster, a big name in the gallery world, had asked questions about my work. My work. Not my job. Work sounded so much more meaningful than a mere job. Simon never asked about my work, not even in the beginning, not even as a means of getting me into bed.

  Simon hadn’t had to do a thing to get me into bed. Simon was Simon and that had been enough.

  Had been enough, once upon a time. Wasn’t enough anymore. I had to remember that.

  By the time I reached home my thoughts had begun to spin off in an odd direction.

  What if Evan and I started dating and then had a bad falling out? Evan might cancel Simon’s show in retaliation. Worse things had happened in the sometimes vicious world of art. What if I were the one responsible for destroying Simon’s big chance?

  I sat on the couch and sank into its cushions.

  Crazy thoughts! Here I was putting Simon’s welfare above my own happiness, again.

  Here I was imagining a future with Evan, a man I’d met only an hour earlier.

  Grace, I told myself, sinking even deeper, get a grip.

  Chapter 25

  Jess

  An old term for a husband or wife is yokemate. Do you really want to be compared to a pair of oxen? There is no freedom in restraint.

  —The Old Ball and Chain: Why Marriage Feels Like Prison

  “Where do people meet if not at work? I mean, adult people, people with jobs and health concerns and aging parents. People with mortgages.”

  I was feeling glum. The psychology department’s assistant had announced her resignation that afternoon. It seems she’d met and fallen in love with an assistant from another department and was moving with him to Seattle. I was happy for her, in a sort of removed way, but not happy to be losing her valuable skills.

  “Even meeting at work is tricky,” Nell said. “Sexual harassment laws are getting stricter. In some places it’s not even acceptable to date someone at exactly your level. It seems crazy to try to legislate love or sex, but there it is.”

  “People meet at the gym,” Grace said.

  “That’s so nineties!”

  I looked at Laura. She comes out with the oddest things.

  “People have to join a gym first,” I pointed out. “Besides, I don’t want to be worried about how I look when I’m on the StairMaster. I just want to work out. Well, I don’t actually want to work out, but if I did, I wouldn’t want some guy sizing me up as I’m furiously pedaling on the stationary bike.”

  Laura shrugged. “You don’t have to exercise. You could just sort of hang around, maybe meet a guy at the juice bar. Most gyms have juice bars.”

  “Oh, please.” Nell laughed. “Can you really imagine Jess hanging out at the juice bar, eyeing the muscle heads in shiny spandex?”

  “I guess not.”

  “People meet at bars,” Grace said.

  “People get drunk at bars.” People get drunk and invite strangers into their home for sex they can’t even remember the next morning.

  Grace nodded. “True. But not everyone hangs out at a bar to get drunk. It’s a social place, a meeting place. Bars can be very friendly.”

  And they can also be very dangerous.

  “I just don’t see myself as a barfly,” I said. “Besides, a single woman hanging out at a bar alone looks pathetic and easy. It shouldn’t be that way but it is.”

  “Speaking of alcoholic beverages . . .”

  The waiter arrived with our drinks, something neon green for Laura, a glass of red wine for me, a glass of white for Grace, and champagne for Nell.

  “And if you go to a bar with a girlfriend,” Laura said when he was gone, “and one of you meets a guy and he wants to talk to you and you want to talk to him, then what’s your friend going to do? Just sit there all alone?”

  Nell put her hand to her head as if it hurt. “You’d abandon your girlfriend to talk to some stranger who probably only wants to get into your pants?”

  “I wouldn’t,” Laura protested. “But some women would.”

  “A woman can’t go to a bar alone to meet a guy because she’ll look cheap,” I said. “And she can’t go to a bar with a girlfriend because if she does meet a nice guy, she won’t be able to talk to him, not without hurting her friend. It’s a no-win situation; it’s ridiculous.”

  “I think,” said Nell, “that we should eliminate bars altogether as possible places to meet the love of your life.”

  “Galleries,” Grace said. “Museums. You could meet a man at an opening.”

  I think I made a face. “I’m not comfortable with the notion of art as social lubricant. I want to look at the art, not at the other viewers.”

  “You’re impossible!” Laura said.

  “Maybe,” I agreed. “Anyway, there’s just no point in my dating. What I mean is, there’s no point in my looking for love. It doesn’t happen that way for me. Love—or lust, or whatever you want to call it—finds me. Suddenly, there’s a man and we’re undeniably drawn to each other and—that’s it. No questions, no dancing around the issue. But it’s a rare occurrence. I might be alone for months, for years before the next—force of nature—finds me.”

  “Maybe you can change that dynamic,” Grace said gently.

  “Maybe. But why would I want to?”

  Laura rolled her eyes. “Uh, because time’s running out?”

  Now Nell rubbed her temples. Maybe she did have a headache, and we’d brought it on.

  “I don’t mean to sound like a sappy greeting card,” I said, “but I really believe that love knows no age limit. I believe an eighty-year-old can fall in love as easily as a twenty-year-old.”

  “But,” Laura argued, “what man is going to fall in love with an eighty-year-old woman, besides, maybe, a man in his nineties. And there aren’t a lot of those around!”

  “I’m not sure I agree with you, Jess, about the old falling in love.” Nell looked to each of us in turn. “It seems to me that new love requires a degree of innocence, a willingness to be vulnerable, that age and experience can kill. I suspect that by the time most people reach fifty, maybe sixty, they’re just too weary to fall in love.”

  “Then so be it,” I said. “I just can’t get married again to assure there’s someone in bed with me every night. It’s simply more essential to me that the person in bed with me be the right person. I’m perfectly capable of sleeping alone. Sometimes I’m
lonely, but who ever said that life was going to be a slice of peach pie?”

  Grace smiled. “I don’t think I’ve ever had peach pie.”

  “It’s wonderful, but very sweet, very intense. A little bit goes a very long way.”

  “I think I’ll treat myself to dessert tonight,” Laura announced.

  I looked to Nell, expecting to see her rolling her eyes—which she was—and suddenly noticed the small gold locket around her neck. “That’s pretty,” I said.

  “It was my mother’s,” Nell explained. “When she died, Laura and I each chose a piece of her jewelry to keep. She didn’t have much, really, and most of what she did have wasn’t my style. But I thought the locket was sweet. It’s the first time I’m wearing it.”

  “Who’s inside?”

  “Colin and Clara, of course.”

  “I never asked,” Laura said. “What did you do with your wedding set, Nell?”

  Nell looked at her naked ring finger. “I put my wedding ring in my safe-deposit box. My ‘engagement’ ring, my diamond, which Richard couldn’t afford until our fifth anniversary, is in there, too. Someday maybe Colin or Clara will want it. I don’t know.”

  “What about you, Jess?” Laura asked.

  I felt a twinge of discomfort. I’d never talked about this.

  “I gave my engagement ring back to Matt,” I said. “The stone had been in his mother’s family for generations. I couldn’t very well keep it.”

  “Of course not,” Nell agreed.

  “But I did keep the wedding band. It’s silly. I can’t imagine I’ll ever use it. If I get remarried, which is unlikely, I don’t think I’d be comfortable wearing a ring that was supposed to symbolize my lasting union with another man. And I can’t see wearing it as a meaningless piece of jewelry. It’s full of meaning. I don’t know. Maybe I should just sell it and use the money for something practical, like paying a bill.”

  “Or,” Grace suggested, “you could use the money to buy another ring, something that symbolizes your commitment to yourself and to your own life.”