I climbed the stairs to the second-floor shop and pushed open the door. I was greeted by their signature lilac fragrance. It’s a very calming scent, lilac.
The sales clerk was the same young woman who had sold me the sweater and leggings. The expensive layette was gone from the shelf above the counter.
“I’d like to return this, please,” I said. I put the little bag on the counter and removed the sweater and leggings.
She gave me a funny look. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but we don’t accept returns.”
“What?” I pushed the sweater a bit closer to her. “But I don’t want these anymore.”
The sales clerk pushed it back. “What’s wrong with them?” she asked, her expression bland. “Are they damaged in some way?”
“No, no, it’s just that . . .”
Just that I could use the two hundred dollars they cost me because the husband hunting isn’t going too well.
The sales clerk’s expression remained bland. “Yes?”
“It’s just that the person I bought them for doesn’t need them anymore. She’s . . . She’s not having a baby.”
The sales clerk’s expression changed instantly to one of practiced sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, “but I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. The store’s policy is clearly stated on your receipt. No returns. We’d be happy to exchange the merchandise for—”
“But the tags are still on.”
“I’m sorry. Would you care to look around for a similarly priced item?”
“No,” I said. “No, thank you.” I stuffed the little pink sweater and matching leggings into the fancy little shopping bag and hurried out of the shop.
It was Matt.
Matt Fromer, Jess’s ex-husband, standing just a few yards away by the white leather sofa and the chrome and glass coffee table.
Boy, was I glad I’d come to the party!
After such a depressing afternoon I really wanted to stay home that night and watch my DVD of Working Girl and order a pepperoni pizza and eat every last bite of it. But a bit of the real Laura, the one with a fighting spirit, the one determined to have her baby and a husband too, spoke up and made me get off the couch, dress nicely, and show up at a party given my colleague Betsy and her husband Ryan.
At first glance the other guests seemed all paired up. I looked harder and finally saw a few single men; at least, they were alone at the party. I’d have to be careful. There was a good chance one of them was married and stepping out on his wife!
I went over to the bar—which was really a table covered with a white tablecloth—for a glass of wine. I would have preferred a chocolate martini, but you usually can’t get that sort of drink in someone’s home. No sooner had I turned away from the bar with my glass than I spotted Matt.
I noted he was drinking a bottle of sparkling water and remembered that Matt rarely ever drank. A sober man was just the kind of man to make a good father.
I choked a little on my wine. Matt as my baby’s father. It was a strange thought. I felt weird, kind of guilty for thinking it, but then I said to myself: Why should I feel guilty? As far as I know, Matt is single. I’m single. Doesn’t that make us a potential match?
Yes, it did.
I slipped through the throng of partygoers and appeared at his side. I tapped his shoulder.
“Hi, Matt.”
Matt was startled; he visibly tensed. I remembered him as a little stiff, so unlike Jess.
“Oh,” he said. “Hi. Laura. Wow. This is, um—”
I laughed. “I know. This is a bit awkward.”
Matt relaxed a bit. I’d forgotten how cute he was. Kind of boyish, like a younger Tom Cruise.
“Yeah.”
“But it shouldn’t be,” I said hurriedly. “Right?”
“Right. I guess.” And then a tall, lanky woman with professionally streaked blond hair slipped her arm through Matt’s.
I felt very conscious of my at-home streaking treatment. I’d kind of messed it up the last time and I knew my roots needed a touch-up.
“Laura,” Matt said, “this is Patrice. Laura is—an old friend.”
Patrice smiled lamely. I couldn’t fail to notice that Matt hadn’t called her his girlfriend.
“Well,” I said, “I’m going to, um, go talk to someone I know over by the bar.”
Patrice made no response. Matt said, “Nice running into you, Laura,” and the two turned away.
For the next hour I sipped a second glass of wine and kept my eye on Matt and his date. The moment I saw her walk off toward the powder room, I slipped through the crowd and appeared again at his side.
“Hi, again,” I said brightly.
“Hey, Laura.” Matt’s smile was genuine, easier than it had been earlier.
“So, who do you know here?”
Matt shrugged. “The host. Ryan and I work at the same firm. You?”
“His wife, Betsy. I work with her.”
There was a moment of silence and then Matt blurted: “I’m not really much of a party guy. But Patrice really likes to dress up and go out so . . .”
“Oh, me, too,” I said. “I mean, I don’t like parties much either. I’m kind of a homebody, you know. An old-fashioned girl.”
Matt smiled again. “Yeah, I guess I remember that about you.”
“Look,” I said, “I have to run but, well, I was wondering, if, you know, you might want to get together some time for coffee or whatever. Maybe talk. You know, I’m going through a divorce myself and—”
Matt’s face instantly took on an expression of sympathy. “Laura, I didn’t know. Hey, I’m so sorry.”
I smiled a sad little smile, shrugged, and sighed. “Yes, well, sometimes people aren’t who you think they are.”
“Don’t I know it!” he said.
I looked up into Matt’s eyes and he looked down into mine and at that moment something happened. I knew I had him.
“I should go before your date comes back,” I said softly. Do you see? The words implied that something illicit was about to happen between Matt and me.
Matt’s eyes still held mine. “Who?” he said. “Oh, right, Patrice.”
I handed him a slip of paper on which I’d printed my home number. (I’m always prepared!) “Anyway, here’s my number if you want to get together. You know, and talk.”
Our fingers touched briefly. Matt slipped the piece of paper into his jacket pocket. His smile was really very nice. I imagined that smile on a little boy of my own.
“Thanks, Laura,” he said. “I’ll call you. Take care, okay?”
I lightly touched his forearm. “Thanks,” I said, with a bit of breathiness. “You, too.” And then I left.
Once in the backseat of the cab I took a deep breath. My stomach was fluttering with excitement.
What, I wondered, am I doing? I’d just made a pass at my friend’s ex-husband.
My friend’s single, eligible ex-husband who just might want to settle down with a sweet, blond, family-oriented woman named Laura Keats.
After all, I thought, all is fair in love and war.
Chapter 34
Grace
You’ve got a mink. You’ve got a Tiffany diamond. You’ve got a house in Tuscany. Why can’t you overlook a little philandering on the part of the generous man who makes your life so comfortable?
—Think Twice: How Not to Make a Rash Decision When It Comes to Divorce
“Oh, my God,” Brittany screamed as she burst into the room, “guess what? I just read that Simon Trenouth is having a show at some gallery in, like, three weeks!”
I looked up from the worktable where I was laying out origami paper for the afternoon’s project.
“Get out!” Brianna screamed back as she grabbed Brittany’s fleshy upper arms. “We so have to go!”
Brittany and Brianna, my summer interns, were fine art majors at Boston University and they were totally unlike any art majors I had known in my own college days. Two more mainstream, pop-c
ulture addicts you’d be hard-pressed to find. Two less tortured souls did not exist in Boston.
That they read art journals came as a huge surprise, until I learned it wasn’t the articles and critiques and quality reproductions that interested them but the notices of openings and other events at which they could drink for free and, more important, meet cute guys.
Guys like Simon Trenouth. I’d never mentioned my connection to Simon. There seemed no reason to tell these girls my life story.
Brittany bounced on her toes, which was impressive considering she was wearing chunky wedge sandals.
“I mean, Simon Trenouth is just so amazing,” she cried. “He’s so awesome. He’s like, he’s like my idol or something!”
He’s something, all right.
Brianna put her hand over her heart. “I heard he’s really great in bed. I know someone on my floor who knows someone who slept with him once and she said it was, like, awesome.”
I turned away to hide a grin. Huh? That someone who knew someone on Brianna’s floor—I assumed she meant in her dorm—must have confused Simon with another man. The sexual Simon I knew was a lot of flash and little substance.
But I knew the appeal of flash. It blinded you to the reality. That is, until your eyes adjusted.
“Oh, I so am going to try to meet him!” Brittany vowed. “I mean, the opening is probably private, but maybe I can find out where the after party is and be there. God, I would die if he, like, liked me!”
There was some squealing.
I was sorely tempted to burst Brittany and Brianna’s happy little bubble and tell them the dirty truth about Simon. That I’d been his wife for years and that he was a lying, cheating bum, yes, a talented bum, but an emotionally abusive partner who had drained our bank account and destroyed our apartment and damaged my self-esteem until finally, finally I kicked him out. And divorced him. And continued for way too long to cater to his every need.
I was tempted. But I said nothing. Let Simon retain his gloss in these girls’ eyes. Let them learn the hard way that once the gloss wears thin, and it always does, what’s left is pockmarked and pimply.
“The Auster Gallery show,” I said, interrupting the squealing, “certainly will help Simon’s career.”
Brittany cocked her head. Brianna squinted and scrunched up her bobbed nose. “What?” she said.
“The Auster Gallery. Simon Trenouth is showing there.”
Brittany nodded vigorously. “Oh, right.”
See, I thought smugly. This is the difference between these girls and me. I had—still have—great respect for Simon’s talent. It wasn’t all about the sexy persona. It never had been.
I’d made the sacrifices I made in the name of Simon’s work. If he could come home to a clean house, if he had access to money to buy paint and canvas, if he had the freedom to stay away for days without explanation, then he could concentrate on the work.
Or so I’d told myself.
“Do you have the article?” I asked the girls. “I’d like to see what it says about Evan Auster.”
“Who?” Brianna asked.
It must be all the fast food young people eat these days that causes a constipation of the brain.
“Evan Auster,” I said carefully. “The owner of the Auster Gallery.”
Brittany shrugged. “Oh. Right. I only read the parts about Simon. Anyway, I put the magazine back in your office.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Can you girls help me move this table against the wall?”
That night I read the article that had sent Brittany and Brianna into fits. It included a fairly lengthy interview with Evan Auster. I was impressed by his simple evaluations of Simon’s paintings and his lack of bogus art world mumbo jumbo. Articulate, intelligent, attractive, and successful.
This was the man I’d turned down.
In contrast, Simon’s quotes were almost incomprehensible. Here’s a sample:
What I do in my painting, what I try to, like, say, is that we all, you know, and it’s not even about getting a message across, I hate that. It’s more like, I just want to let the paint, like, say what it needs to say, be free or whatever. You know.
To be fair, I thought, people really shouldn’t expect an artist to explain his work. That’s a job usually better left to the critics. Still, the contrast between Evan’s considered words and Simon’s rambling spoke volumes to me.
I put the magazine on the bedside table and turned off the lights. And I wondered if I was ready for a relationship of simplicity, clarity, and sense.
Chapter 35
Laura
So you slept with your soon-to-be ex-husband. So he suggested you do it again. This doesn’t mean your relationship is salvageable. It only means your soon-to-be ex is getting free sex.
—Getting Out for Good: How to Break the Nasty Habit of Backsliding
“So,” Nell said, “my darling offspring are coming for a visit.”
“When?” Jess asked.
The four of us were having dinner at a brick-oven pizza restaurant I’d suggested. The prices were reasonable and the salad bar was free. I’d skipped lunch because I’d forgotten to bring a sandwich with me from home and there was no way I was going to pay eleven dollars for a sandwich from a shop! Not anymore.
“Soon.”
“For how long?” Grace asked.
“Two weeks. Unless they get bored with sleeping until noon and shopping all afternoon, and then I suppose they’ll head off to campus early.”
“Gosh, I’ve missed them,” I said. “I’ll have to come up with an idea for a fun excursion.”
“Laura,” Nell said, “they’re not ten. Don’t be disappointed if they can’t find the time to spend with their aunt. Eighteen- and twenty-year-olds have very busy schedules that rarely include family.”
A cool, fun aunt isn’t the same as a boring old mother, I replied silently. “They’ll stay with you, right?”
“I suppose.”
“You don’t sound very happy about this visit,” Jess said.
Nell shrugged. “It’s nothing. It’s silly.”
“Oh, come on, Nell.”
“All right. I’m a bit hurt by their lack of sympathy for me. Don’t misunderstand,” Nell said. “I don’t want my children to pity their mother. And I don’t want them to hate their father, either. The divorce should not be their concern; I know that. I guess it’s just that I still feel so fragile. I’d like a little bit of sympathy from at least one of them.”
“I’m not sure they’re capable of sympathy,” Jess said. “I think they’re too young to understand the depths of emotion you feel. Has either of them ever been in love?”
Nell considered for a moment. “Not that I know of. Colin usually hangs out with a crowd of boys and girls and God knows what they do for fun. Clara dated someone last year for about two months. It was a record for her.”
It was true. Colin and Clara had never been in love. They would have told me, the cool, fun aunt, about a serious relationship, even if they kept it from their mother.
“See?” Jess said. “Besides, maybe they feel a lot more than they’re letting on. Maybe they just don’t know how to take care of a mother who’s always taken care of them. You’ve been a very strong person for Colin and Clara. It might be confusing or even depressing for them to see you in pain.”
Nell sighed. “I know. I do know, and I understand. I’m still trying to be strong for them. The last thing I ever want to be is a burden on my children.”
“Nell,” Grace said earnestly, “it’s not in your nature to be a burden on anyone. We’re the burdens on you!”
Well, Grace could speak for herself and maybe for Jess, but not for me! I’d never been a burden on my sister.
“There’s another thing,” Nell said with a grimace. “God, I hope it doesn’t make me a bad mother to say this—to feel this—but I’m glad the kids are only coming for two weeks. I’m enjoying being on my own. I’m enjoying the freedom of making my own schedule, ans
wering to no one, tending to no one.”
Well, I thought. Miss Perfect Mother isn’t so perfect after all! I just know I’ll always be thrilled to spend time with my children, even when they’re being all icky and teenagey.
“Oh, Nell,” Jess said, “you’re not a bad mother or a bad person. You’re normal. And for the first time in your adult life, you have the time and the space to think about your own needs.”
Nell laughed. “Well, I guess I have something to thank Richard for! You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if Clara decides to stay with Richard. She’s always been a daddy’s girl. Now that I’ve been eliminated as a rival, Clara really is the only woman in Richard’s life.”
“So,” Jess asked, “does that make Colin a mama’s boy?”
Nell shuddered. “God, no. I tried very hard not to ruin him for other women. I want his future wife to thank me, not curse me.”
I made a mental note to find a book about raising emotionally healthy boys. Girls, I thought, were a snap. I’m a girl. I know what we’re like.
“Nell,” Grace said, “I just have to say that you look fantastic. I’ve never seen you wear something so clingy. And leather pants!”
I frowned. I thought Nell looked—well, I didn’t really like her outfit. “I thought leather pants were only for winter,” I said. There was one piece of pizza left on the platter. I slid it onto my plate.
“Oh, no,” Nell said. “They come in all weights and finishes and colors. Leather and suede are appropriate all year round. You just have to know the right styles and where to buy them.”
“You’ve become quite the expert on animal skins, haven’t you?” Jess said.
Nell laughed. “I’m working on it. But seriously, there’s something else I’m working on becoming an expert at, something far more important to my well-being as a woman.”
“What?” I asked. “Are you taking up knitting?”
Nell looked at me with one of her annoying I’m-so-much-smarter-than-you looks.
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