I smiled when he said these things, but couldn’t find the words to contribute.
Sage ate a chocolate croissant in two bites and washed it down with champagne. I finished my first glass of champagne and poured myself another. Jacques jumped over, apparently offended by this manifestation of self-help. He shot me a fiery look of disapproval. Maybe I was acting very American.
While my endearingly disheveled husband-to-be appeared ensconced in dreams about our future together, I was hostage in the past. My dream was still with me, an invisible third wheel at our small table. Visions pierced through. Phelps’s smile. The flower girl’s tears. Victor’s muscles.
But that champagne was a godsend. I not only felt better, but good. The pounding dulled. Finally, I was there: relaxed and maybe even happy? When Jacques dripped the last trace of bubbly into my cobalt blue Fabergé flute, I gave Sage my best puppy dog eyes, which he knew very well meant I wanted more.
What would a body language expert say that morning?
There we were. Certainly, we must have been amusing to the outside eye. I would have loved to slink outside my skin and watch the two of us, to pick apart our fits of silence, the rapid rotations of champagne, the furrowed brow of our deeply irritated waiter. I would have loved to guess our ages, our professions, our passions, whether or not we genuinely enjoyed the French food on which we nibbled. I would have loved to slither down and sit under that small table as I did as a child, noting the increasing and decreasing distance between my feet and his. To some, we surely resembled that clichéd bedheaded couple in a coffee commercial, holding hands, weaving fingers, making soulful eyes at each other in the haven of an intimate European breakfast nook.
In truth, though, we were nothing but two kids sitting there, playing adults, gearing up for a new phase of our life together. We drank fancy champagne and buttered our croissants with Christofle’s finest. Periodically, we studied the diamond on my left hand together, remarking on its magic, celebrating how the stone caught the soft light of the crystal chandelier that dangled above.
Sage wanted to make me happy. Maybe it was that simple.
I pinched off the corner of a chocolate croissant and put the rest of the pastry on Sage’s plate: my cocktail party modus operandi.
The chocolate melted in my mouth and snaked down my throat with a swallow of champagne. It was for me a timely panacea, working wonders, temporarily quieting the storm of memories, the waves of guilt that buffeted me, muffling the crash of that dream that started it all.
“I think November’s perfect,” I say, taking a bite of his pork. “Bird Lake’s beautiful at that time of year. We’ll do it before Thanksgiving.”
Sage smiles as he chews. The waiter glides by and I flag him down.
“We’ll have another of those,” I say, pointing to our empty bottle of wine.
“The ’89 Sancerre,” Sage says, defeated. He pronounces “Sancerre” like it rhymes with “cancer” and I’m thankful he’s not yet all polish. “You know celebration is possible without inebriation.”
“Thanks for the news flash.”
“Come on, don’t do that. At this rate I’m not sure when I’ll see you next,” he says, and laughs, his words laced with humor and, unfortunately, truth.
We make it through the second bottle of wine before looking at the dessert menu. Sage’s cheeks have grown pink, which they always do when he drinks. The wine has worked its magic; before I know it, Sage and I are talking wedding colors and honeymoon destinations.
“What do you think? Should we get an after-dinner drink?” I say as the waiter drips the last drop in my glass.
“Check please,” Sage says.
The waiter disappears into the back of the restaurant, leaving us alone in silence. Sage puts his arm around me and I can’t stay mad. I cuddle up.
“Quinn, you’re mute. You’ve never been an introspective drunk. Don’t start now,” Sage says, and smiles.
“I’m not drunk,” I say, and smile back. “Okay, I’m a little buzzed, but that’s legal, right?”
“Just as long as you’re happy.”
That word again. Happy. What the hell does it mean to be happy?
“We’re engaged; no brooding allowed. At least pretend you’re happy until the wedding and then you can go back to the real you, mood swings and all.”
Pretending. I’m beginning to think I’m pretty good at that.
“Very funny. I am happy. This is all so surreal though. A month ago, I was your girlfriend and now I am a fiancée. It’s great, just a lot to process. Just give me some time to let this all marinate,” I say.
“Marinate, I like that.”
“There’s one thing that I’m really going to have to get used to though.”
“What’s that? That you have the good fortune of waking up next to me for the rest of your living days?” Sage says.
“Yes, that and the word ‘fiancée.’ I hate it. Really, it’s so silly. I’m a girlfriend with a promise. I don’t know why I have to refer to myself as anything more.”
“You are a girlfriend with a promise and a neat piece of hardware, I might add.”
“True. Did you think it all through? That you would shroud me with such a ludicrous French name in Paris?”
He nodded. “I have to admit it did occur to me.”
“Fiancée—the word’s just awkward on the tongue.”
“We’ll just have to practice then,” he says, smiling.
“Practice makes perfect, huh?” I say as a joke and realize I might be on to something. “Maybe everything—even being happy—is something you have to practice at.”
“Something at which you have to practice?” he says, and smiles.
And I smile too. “Point taken, counselor.”
“Guess now is as good a time as any,” I say, pulling my gift, hastily wrapped in leftover Christmas paper, from my bag. I hand it to him.
“Has my Bug been recycling?” he says, smiling, fiddling with the red paper with white snowflakes.
“Well, it’s red and white and it’s still winter,” I say, shrugging, suddenly feeling guilty that I didn’t make a special trip during my lunch hour to pick the perfect holiday-appropriate paper.
He rips the paper and pulls them out: a pair of white boxer shorts covered in red fishing flies.
“I love them,” he says, smiling, and kisses me. “My turn.”
He pulls out his gift for me. It’s wrapped in the same snowflake paper.
I smile.
The box is flat and curiously heavy. I peel away the paper. “A waffle iron?” I say.
“A heart-shaped waffle iron,” he corrects me.
I look at it, this odd contraption. “But I don’t eat waffles,” I say.
“But our kids might,” he says, grinning, and grabbing my hand.
“Are you pregnant or something?” I ask.
Our kids might. I finish Sage’s wine in one gulp. And smile. And say thank you. And kiss him. Because this is a sweet gesture, right? Because he’s doing it again, thinking about our future. Picturing holidays with our children.
Because this is what you do, right?
You get engaged.
Get married.
Have kids.
Make heart-shaped waffles.
“Eightieth and Amsterdam,” I say to the cabdriver, clutching my new waffle iron.
“But that’s not where we live,” Sage says.
“I know,” I say. “One quick stop.”
And I drag him into the pub. The same Sunday night pub.
We sit at the bar. And an old man, vaguely familiar, smiles big and tosses two shamrock coasters at us.
“Two Guinnesses, please,” I say.
“Coming right up,” the man says, his Irish accent thick and sturdy.
Sage and I sit there quietly, side by side, twirling on wooden stools, watching a rugby game on mute.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, his eyes sparkling.
“Honestly?”
/>
“Of course honestly,” he says.
“Mr. Nolan.”
Met with a look of confusion, I elaborate. “My fourth grade teacher.”
“Okay.”
“He gave me a hard time because whenever he asked me a question, I always said, ‘I don’t know.’ Even when I knew the answer. Finally, he got fed up and said: ‘When you’re standing at the altar on your wedding day and the officiant says, Prudence, do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband, are you going to say, I don’t know?’”
“And what did you say?” Sage asks.
“I said: ‘I don’t know.’”
Sage smiles, fiddles with that cardboard four-leaf clover. “Well, I’m beginning to feel quite lucky you said yes when I asked you to marry me.”
I nod and smile and sip my Guinness, as bitter and delicious as I remember. And suddenly I feel lucky myself. I look over at the booth where my family used to sit, the table under which I used to hide out. And for a brief moment, I do the unthinkable: I envision the future. I picture us there, Sage and me, laughing and pleading with screeching and slobbering kids who slurp Shirley Temples, enjoying the quiet promise of a new week.
Chapter 8
Goddamned groundhog,” I say, looking out Whalen’s vast smudge-free conference room windows. The sky is gray. Weathermen are predicting snow. I feel the building swaying. Earlier this month, that glorified creature saw his shadow and crawled back in its hole. This year, people got all excited about Mr. Punxsutawney Phil—and here in Manhattan our local celebrity rodent Mr. Pothole Pete—doing his little weather-predicting dance because the date was 02.02.02. I’m not sure why people get all hot and bothered by repeating numbers, but unsurprisingly, Sage, my number-loving man, was among the masses.
Shit. I’m not sure I can handle more winter, I said on the morning of February second.
You know, he’s seen his shadow eighty-five percent of the time. It doesn’t really mean anything. Spring will come when it comes, Sage explained. It’s like saying Quinn or Prudence. They mean the same thing. One just has a more foreboding ring to it.
“You’re boxing me out, O’Malley. I knew you’d do this. I knew you’d retreat into your own little wedding world,” Kayla says, walking into the conference room to meet me. Growing up with all brothers, Kayla acquired a litany of athletic references, ones that come in quite handy here at the firm where sports metaphors are tossed about all day. Weeks have passed since I got engaged and Kayla and I haven’t taken the time to sit down and talk.
Here, we gather for the mandatory Words from Whalen Women, an annual lunch where we’ll be educated—in a very efficient ninety-minute block of time—on the issues facing women, particularly mothers, in the legal world.
“You going to take notes?” Kayla says. “I mean this could be you in a year. Wearing maternity pinstripes. Or who knows—if you and Sage get going, you could even be checking your BlackBerry for messages from the nanny.”
We pass by platters of fluorescent orange curry and over-stuffed sandwiches.
“I’m not boxing you out. I’m completely swamped. I’ve barely seen my boyfriend,” I say.
“Your fiancé. Remember you now have a fancy label.”
“Right. Cheers.”
Kayla and I find a table in the back of the room. Kimberly Crane, a senior associate, sits at the far end. She’s been at the firm for more than eight years and there’s no question that she’s been gunning for partner. This fall she “off-ramped” temporarily to give birth to her son, Harry. We all saw photos of her adorable and chubby-cheeked baby on the firm’s announcement page. In any event, Kim wasted no time getting back to work. Only two months after his birth, she had a Filipino nanny holed up in a closet-sized bedroom in her two-bedroom York Avenue apartment.
“Now that one, she makes me sad,” I say, nodding toward Kim.
“Why?” Kayla asks.
“Her office is wallpapered with pictures of her baby.” I’ve worked with Kim only briefly, but long enough to know her story.
Kayla checks her BlackBerry. “So? Everyone around here partakes in progeny plastering. It’s perfectly par for the course.”
Kayla’s right. This is my favorite part of visiting a partner’s office (which can often be a stress-inducing activity because otherwise a phone call or e-mail would suffice): getting the chance for the inconspicuous once-over. I love looking at the art on the walls. Some partners have framed black-and-white photography, some have Audubon prints, and some just have their diplomas and bar certificates. But the partners I like always have many pictures of their kids on display throughout the office. Often they have notes from their kids or artwork propped up on their shelves. I love it when a partner catches me looking at the pictures and at the crayon masterpieces and starts telling me about his or her kids, their ages, their love for horseback riding or T-ball.
“I know,” I say. “I love seeing the pictures. Reminds me that these people are human.”
“All part of the act, my friend,” Kayla says, typing away on her BlackBerry. “If these people really cared about their kids, they wouldn’t be lawyers.”
“Not true,” I protest. “Some people, most people, have loans. People need to make money, Kayla.”
“Oh yeah. Decent point,” she says, and giggles. “That’s sad.”
“She’s different, though. Look at her,” I say, pointing to Kim, who I pray hasn’t heard our admittedly obnoxious, entitled exchange.
Kim tries futilely to hide her postpartum belly under solid-colored twin sets. She’s developed a very sad habit. “I heard that every morning, she takes a Polaroid picture of her baby boy and tapes it to her computer screen when she gets to work. She says she does this so that she can watch Harry grow up.”
“Shit. That is sad,” Kayla says.
Someone taps a microphone. The room grows quiet.
Linda Maxwell is the first to speak. She’s a plain-faced and diminutive litigation partner in her fifties. She rotates through her gray, navy, and red pant suits with alarming precision and manages to keep her silky black bob an inch above her shoulders at all times.
“I’m here today to tell you my story—which I warn you might be as boring as I am,” Linda says in her deadpan voice. The room erupts with laughter because this woman is very boring.
And Linda tells her tale of being a female attorney in a jungle of men. Of how she never planned on becoming a partner, but it just happened. And before the music plays and she hands off that mike, she thanks her stay-at-home husband and her twin girls.
“Note to self: Marry a pussy of a man and wait until my eggs have near-rotted to pop one out,” Kayla whispers. “Or two, as the case may be.”
The next on the panel: Henriette Young. She’s a new corporate partner. She’s giddy and speaks too loudly, spitting into the microphone.
“I suspect a pre-panel Red Bull,” Kayla says.
“My name is Henriette Young,” she says, and giggles, “but call me Henri.”
“Note to self: Find masculine nickname,” Kayla continues her play-by-play.
Jolly Henri has oily hair and puffy eyes and tells us, enthusiastically, that she wakes up at 4:30 A.M. to read contracts before her kids wake up. That she often conducts conference calls in the evenings while bathing her “little critters.”
“If the guys are Porters and Poultry,” I say, “then what are the women?”
“Pastries,” Kayla says. “Fine and flaky.”
“Sweet as pie,” I say in my best Southern accent.
“We are tasty little tarts, aren’t we?” Kayla says, and giggles. “Sweet as pie, but topless. Well, some of us are at least.”
She nods toward Sandra Friedman, a trusts and estates partner, not so tasty, who begins to speak to the now-dwindling lunch crowd. She’s a lot less glowing about the mommy-career balancing act.
“Every night when I get home to my house in New Jersey, my kids are asleep. I go through their hampers to see what they wore to schoo
l that day,” she says, her voice shaking.
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Linda says, interrupting. “But New Jersey is your problem.”
“I want my kids to have a backyard, Linda.”
“Frankly, they’d rather have a mom than an acre of grass,” Linda says.
And just when the truth starts coming, when things get a little less sweet and flaky, it’s as if the men can hear it and the alarms start blaring. Fire alarms. And emergency lights flash on the ceiling.
And I look around. Everyone is in slow motion. Unfazed. Checking BlackBerrys, stacking papers, discarding lunch plates.
But I stand, grab my things, and run. Down the carpeted hallway to the emergency exit. I take off my heels and throw them in my bag. Barefoot and alone, I cling to my blinking BlackBerry and run. Down countless flights.
I reach the lobby where people have begun to gather, where security guards usher us outside. Shaking and sweating, I step back into my heels and cross the street to the small café where Kayla and I often grab lunch. I find a small table in the corner and sit.
I pull out my cell phone and call Mom.
“They just evacuated my building,” I say when she answers. “But I’m okay.”
“You’re okay,” she says.
“You should’ve seen me,” I say. “I ran so fast.”
“Good for you.”
Silence.
Still catching my breath, I say: “Mom, do you think maybe if he ran, if he didn’t hesitate…He was such an athlete.”
“Prue, we can’t afford to play that game. He’s gone. We can’t change that.”
“I know,” I say. “I just wanted to let you know I’m okay.”
“I love you, Prue,” Mom says before hanging up.
Kayla finds me.
“Just another bomb threat,” she says.
I nod. Just another bomb threat. I look out the window at my colleagues who gather on the sidewalk, talking and texting, smoking cigarettes, rolling eyes at this latest inconvenience, at the annoyance of billable minutes lost. And I wonder if I’m the only one whose heart pumps furiously like this and feels like it’s breaking all over again. I wonder if I’m the only one who’s fighting tears.
Life After Yes Page 8
