My Favorite Mistake

by Stephanie Bond

  I blinked. “How did you know about the wedding dress?”

  “I saw it hanging in your closet the night I was looking for my toiletry bag.”

  And he had proposed the following night. I brought my fist to my mouth as a horrible suspicion bloomed in my mind. “Are you saying you proposed because you saw the wedding dress in my closet?”

  “Well…yeah. I mean, that’s one big hell of a hint, don’t you think?”

  Humiliation rolled over me in waves. I sat down hard in a chair. “So…you really don’t want to get married, either?”

  “Well, I’m crazy about you, Denise, and we don’t argue, and we have so much in common…I thought maybe it was time to just bite the bullet.”

  Bite the bullet. Barry was comparing marriage to me with sticking a gun in his mouth.

  I was numb. My mouth opened and closed, but I couldn’t seem to form words. Finally I managed, “Barry, I don’t believe either one of us is ready to make that kind of commitment to each other.”

  He sighed. “Denise, I’m swamped right now. Can we talk about this later?”

  “No. I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”

  He scoffed. “Just like that? No explanation, nothing?”

  “I’m sorry, Barry…I can’t explain it to myself. Just know that this has nothing to do with you. It’s me.”

  “You’re making a mistake, Denise.”

  His words sent a chill through me. Maybe I was…maybe my life was just one long series of mistakes and missed opportunities.

  “I’ll send the ring to your office,” I said in a choked voice. (I hoped he could get a refund.) “I’m truly sorry, Barry.”

  He made some disbelieving noises, all understandable—I was in a state of disbelief myself.

  “Speaking of the office,” he said bitterly, “don’t be surprised if our breakup affects Ellen’s decision to do business with Trayser Brothers.”

  I couldn’t blame him for being angry. “I’ll understand if she changes her mind. Goodbye, Barry.”

  I hung up the phone, took off the man-made diamond ring and cried. Sobbed. Really boo-hooed. (I never cried…ever.) Over losing my friendship with Barry, losing my heart to Redford, and losing my mind over love in general.

  And I was in love with Redford again. Or had I never really fallen out of love with him?

  In a torturous mood, I walked over to the cigar box of keepsakes and opened the lid, assailed by bittersweet recollections. I sat on the floor cross-legged and removed each item, turned it over, rubbed it between my palms, wringing the memories out of each memento in an effort to conjure up my state of mind at the time. I closed my eyes, tried to push everything else out of my mind, trying to remember with all five senses.

  I had been so…happy with Redford. Blissfully so…childlike. To the point that I thought it couldn’t possibly last…it had to be a mistake. And it was. My judgment where relationships were concerned was officially abysmal.

  My mother’s parting words came back to me. A wise person learns from their mistakes.

  Not me. I’d spent the last three years kicking myself for being stupid enough to marry Redford, only to turn around and almost make another mistake by marrying Barry. When I thought of how close I’d come to marrying a man who had proposed because of a lousy dress, I was nauseous.

  The ringing phone roused me from my bout of self-loathing. I wiped my eyes and cleared my throat, then answered the phone, wondering which person I didn’t want to talk to could be calling. Mother? Barry? Redford?

  “Hi, it’s me!” Cindy sang into the phone. “He called again!”

  “Who?”

  “Jim—the guy from my Positive Thinking class. Just now! We talked for almost an hour on the phone, and he asked me out again. Oh, Denise, I have such a good feeling about this guy!”

  Her announcement roused me from my melancholy mood, and I smiled. “That’s wonderful, Cindy. At least we know the man has good taste. And who knows—maybe he’s the one.”

  She sighed. “Oh, I hope so. Denise, it sounds crazy, but I think I’m half in love with him already.”

  “Easy, girl,” I said with a little laugh. But I knew just how she felt.

  “Oh, gracious, I almost forgot the reason I really called! I won the auction—you can keep your wedding gown!”

  I dropped back into the chair, caught between laughing and crying. I’d forgotten all about the auction. I’d set this entire mess into motion when I’d made the mistake of buying that stupid wedding dress. Now after having Cindy bid like a madwoman to win it back, I had it.

  Plus one fabulous gown—minus one fiancé.

  My life was just too sad for words.

  19

  I WAS A NERVOUS WRECK when I walked into the IRS office Tuesday morning at the appointed time. I’d gotten no sleep to speak of, tossing and turning and soaking my pillow. I was racked with guilt over the way I’d behaved with Redford, and what I’d sacrificed—my relationship with Barry, my self-integrity. Even my parents knew that I had betrayed my fiancé with another man. That fact alone was enough to launch me into therapy.

  But the basic truth was that my fixation on Redford simply wasn’t healthy. Both times he’d rolled through my life, he’d left a wake of destruction. I didn’t even want to think about how long it would take me to get over him this time.

  I straightened my shoulders, focusing on my goal to get through the audit. I’d worn my most stylish suit in anticipation of meeting with Ellen Brant later; but sensible shoes since I was still hobbling from my foot injury. And after much self-debate, I’d also decided to wear Barry’s ring to the interview…I didn’t want its absence to trigger any questions from Redford.

  Not that I thought he’d notice, but still.

  As I shifted the box of tax papers, my mind clicked ahead to the possible costly outcomes. Since I no longer had an “in” with Ellen Brant, I couldn’t count on the bonus for her account. If the IRS levied stiff penalties and interest for my mistakes, I’d have to sell my…what?

  My wedding gown? The wedding band that Redford had given me? I could have a “has been” bridal yard sale.

  And what if Redford had to pay a huge sum? What if it jeopardized the cash flow of his family business?

  More than the audit itself, I was dreading seeing him this morning. Dreading the visceral response to him I knew was virtually irrepressible. A physical reminder that I couldn’t trust my own judgment when I was around him.

  I was well on my way to developing a migraine when I was shown to a small office containing a long utilitarian table, a few uncomfortable chairs and a wall bookshelf of imposing tax tomes—just in case they had to whip out a revenue code to prove their point, I assumed.

  “Someone will be right with you,” the woman threatened.

  I set the box on the table and walked over to the window, parting the miniblinds with my fingers. It was the kind of cold, blustery day that made people hurry—trotting along, bundled in their coats and scarves, heads down. Redford stood out even more than usual as he walked toward the building, his stride long and precise, his duster coat flapping, a briefcase in his hand, his hat planted on his head, his chin level.

  My thighs quickened. Even from this distance, he could affect me. I stepped back, and the blinds snapped closed. I chewed my last remaining fingernail down to the nub, my nerves ratcheting higher as each minute on the clock ticked by.

  When the door opened suddenly, I was so startled I nearly cried out. Redford walked in and nodded to me, his face passive. “Good morning.”

  “Good m-morning,” I stammered.

  He set the saddle-tan briefcase on the table and shrugged out of his coat, then removed his hat. He wore dark jeans, a white dress shirt, and a gray sport coat. He looked so handsome, my heart ached.

  “How was your visit with your folks?”

  I wet my lips. “I told them everything, Redford. About the wedding and the annulment.”

  He pursed his mouth. “They
must have been shocked, hearing it for the first time.”

  I nodded, clasping my hands together. “They were disappointed. I was raised very conservatively. It’s not the sort of thing they expected out of me.” I gave an embarrassed little laugh. “They think I’m Miss Perfect.”

  He shifted from foot to foot. “I’m sorry to be the cause of blowing their perception of you.”

  “I apologized for them seeing us…together. I explained that it…just happened and that it was a mistake.”

  He glanced at my left hand. “I hope it didn’t spoil their celebration of your engagement.”

  “No,” I murmured. “They were…understanding.”

  His expression was unreadable. “Good.”

  The door burst open, admitting a stern-faced man holding a thick folder. He eyed us over half-glasses. “Are you Mr. and Mrs. DeMoss?”

  I blinked.

  “Formerly,” Redford said, straightening. “I’m Redford DeMoss, and this is Denise Cooke.”

  “Adam Helmut. I’ll be performing the audit.” The man shook Redford’s hand, then mine. His fingers were cold and stiff. “Have a seat.”

  Redford and I sat in adjacent chairs. When I crossed my legs, I accidentally brushed his leg. I jerked back and Redford looked at me, his eyes mocking. I knew what was going through his mind—Sunday night I had welcomed him deep into my body, and today I could barely touch him.

  Mr. Helmut pulled out our tax form and reviewed a colored sheet of what looked like handwritten notes. After verifying our social security numbers and the tax year in question, he ticked through personal data and made more notes on the sheet.

  “When and where were you married?”

  I cited the date, then felt my cheeks grow hot. “At the Taking Care of Business wedding chapel in Las Vegas.”

  He looked up, then back to the sheet, writing.

  “And when did you divorce?”

  “The marriage was annulled,” Redford said in a low tone.

  “Ah. In what calendar year?”

  “The following year.”

  The man nodded as if to say that he’d expected as much. “Do you have the annulment papers with you?”

  With a start, I realized I’d left them tucked into my silly cigar box. “I didn’t bring them.”

  Redford reached for his briefcase. “I brought a copy.”

  My heart thumped against my breastbone as the man so clinically examined the papers that had expunged our marriage, then made a check on his notes. “So the return in question is the only year the two of you filed jointly?”

  “That’s correct,” I said.

  “Have either of you remarried?”

  “No,” we said in unison.

  He looked up, then down again. “Mr. DeMoss, you were a sergeant in the U.S. Marines?”

  “First Sergeant—yes, sir.”

  “And what was your pay grade?”

  “E-8.”

  The man seemed impressed. “Career man?”

  Redford nodded. “I retired last year.”

  Helmut turned to me and verified my employment at the time and my address, which was the address on the form, then pulled out a calculator and announced, “Okay, let’s get down to it. Did you bring copies of your original source documents?”

  “I have them,” I said, nervously pulling the box of papers close to me. When I transferred the stack to the table, the books I’d bought on Thoroughbreds and the Marine Corps and logistics were in the bottom of the box. My cheeks warmed to see my newlywed eagerness revealed. Redford glanced at them and a wrinkle formed between his eyebrows, but he didn’t say anything.

  For the next two hours, the auditor painstakingly reviewed every figure on every line, questioning every number, recalculating the entire return. My anxiety grew as we moved toward the schedule of deductions for my home office.

  “Ms. Cooke, you were at the time establishing a home-based financial business?”

  I nodded. “But since then, I’ve taken a job with Trayser Brothers. Most of my clients followed me there.”

  He pursed his mouth. “Trayser Brothers…impressive. Well, let’s take a look at the receipts for these business expenses, shall we?”

  My stomach churned, but I pulled out the documents. One by one, we went over the figures and I tried to defend the expenses for which I didn’t have receipts. He frowned occasionally and made notes on the colored sheet of paper. The more marks he made, the more worried I became.

  “Excuse me for a few minutes,” he said abruptly, then left with our form and his calculator.

  When the door closed, Redford turned to me. “How do you think it’s going?”

  “Hard to tell,” I said, touching my temples. But I had a vision of Mr. Helmut gathering troops—a director or someone with police authority—to lower the boom.

  “Redford,” I said in a choked voice. “I…might have…fudged a little on the deductions I took.”

  One eyebrow went up. “You? Miss Perfect cheated on her taxes?”

  I frowned. “Shh! This room might be bugged.”

  He laughed, seemingly unfazed by my concern, then gave me a pointed look. “Relax, Denise. Your secrets—all of them—are safe with me.”

  I flinched. He was telling me that he knew the real me, the me that I kept hidden from everyone around me. Only he saw past the facade of Denise Cooke, neat freak, compulsive saver, reserved investment broker. He saw the woman who could bend the rules, and occasionally break them. The woman who threw caution to the wind and reason out the window.

  What he didn’t realize was that he was the only person who saw it, because he was the only person who could bring out that wayward side of me. Strangely, relief sliced through me because I realized that when Redford left, he would take my dirty little secrets with him. And as long as I stayed away from him, I’d eventually be back to normal. And once this audit was finished, we’d never see each other again.

  The door swung open and Mr. Helmut came in, followed, as I had feared, by another well-dressed man with impressive-looking identification cards on lanyards around his neck.

  “Mr. and Mrs. DeMoss?”

  “Formerly,” we said in unison.

  “I’m Stuart Stanley, the director for this field office. Mr. Helmut has just informed me of some discrepancies on your tax form.”

  My stomach pitched.

  “There are quite a few deductions that are being disallowed.”

  My intestines cramped.

  “But apparently, you weren’t given the extra income credit allowed for military personnel overseas, during the time for which you filed.”

  My eyes widened. “I wasn’t aware of an extra income credit.”

  The director smiled. “You wouldn’t have been. The original tax relief bill for soldiers was so riddled with problems that some people were actually penalized for their status. When the tax code was revamped, the government mandated that the IRS review each tax form and apply the credit were applicable. It seems that yours, Mr. DeMoss, was overlooked.”

  He extended his hand. “Our sincere apologies. The credit will more than offset the disallowed deductions. We’ll process an amended form immediately, but by our estimation, you’ll be receiving a small refund.”

  I was stunned. And weak with relief. I looked at Redford and he looked amused. “So are we finished here?” he asked the men.

  “Yes,” the director said. “Thank you very much for coming in today. The receptionist will sign you out.”

  When the door closed behind them, I looked at Redford and he laughed.

  “Looks like one mistake cancelled out the other.”

  “Yes,” I said, looking at him, my heart twisting. “If only all of life were that way.”

  He stared into my eyes and moistened his lips. “Denise…”

  “What?” My heart thudded in my ears.

  He picked up my left hand. “Don’t marry this guy unless you really love him.”

  I swallowed. “You’re a good one to
be handing out marital advice, Redford.”

  “I just don’t want to see you make another mistake.”

  Anger suffused my chest. “And what do you care?”

  His dark eyes looked pained. “I love you, Denise.”

  His words sent a tremor through my heart, but in the back of my mind, I kept reminding myself that our reunion had been unplanned. Redford could have looked me up when he lived in Albany and hadn’t. Wasn’t that proof enough that his interest in me was fleeting and based on proximity…on sex?

  “Don’t say that,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  “I know you don’t,” he said, his voice low. “I heard what you told Kenzie yesterday morning. That Sunday night was just a fling, that it always had been just sex between the two of us.”

  I inhaled a sharp breath, but didn’t deny what I’d said.

  “Maybe it was only sex to you,” he said. “But I’m not going to leave without telling you that Sunday night meant something to me.”

  I panicked and looked away. He was doing it again—mistaking sex for love. And I was dangerously close to falling for it again. “Sunday night…shouldn’t have happened, Redford.”

  His jaw hardened. “Just like our marriage shouldn’t have happened?”

  My pulse clicked higher and I looked at him. “That’s right.”

  “Well, maybe we should just call an attorney and draw up papers to have our night of great sex annulled!”

  My heart shivered. Our relationship always came back to sex. I started gathering up my things. “I have to be somewhere. Goodbye, Redford.”

  He was silent, then after several long seconds, he said, “Goodbye, Denise.”

  I didn’t look up as he left the room, not until after the door closed. My throat and chest strained to hold back the river of tears. It was for the best, I kept telling myself.

  I love you, Denise.

  And how long would that have lasted? Another six weeks, until we realized that we were too different to make a life together? I needed more than a few impulsive words to hang the rest of my life on.