“That’s great, Grace!” Darren says, smiling and clinking my glass.
As the boys discuss their favorite scenes from The Game Plan (“Fanny’s Burgers make kids fat and give them gas,” for Henry and “Thinnamon, I’m allehgic to thinnamon,” for James), Darren asks me all about the job. Listening to the boys talk kindly to one another, drinking wine, and having a civil conversation with Darren is all a little too intoxicating, in more ways than one.
As I place the boys in between Darren and me on the couch, there is a warm feeling in our family room that night as four pairs of feet rest on the coffee table, and a family seems whole once again.
chapter ten
“Henry just caught me coming out of the guest room,” Darren says, yawning as he comes into our bathroom the next morning while I’m brushing my teeth.
“He’s up early. What did you say?”
“At first I tried to make it like I was just walking down the hall, but he looked in and saw that the bed was messed up. He asked me if I slept in there, and I said I did because I was coughing a lot last night and I didn’t want to wake up Mommy.”
“Nice.”
“He bought it, but I guess we need to put the kibosh on the whole sleeping in the guest room thing,” he says, looking at my reflection in the mirror.
“You’re probably right,” I say, going into my closet to put on my hiking clothes. Last night had been a sweet family moment, and I really tried to be normal with Darren. But I still didn’t have it in me to let him sleep in our bed.
“Are you and Cam hiking?”
“Yep.”
“Is Kimmy coming tonight?” Darren asks me, his arms outstretched against my closet door frame.
“Damn, I forgot to cancel her.” Kimmy is our devoted and cherished Saturday night babysitter. Darren and I go out every Saturday night to dinner with friends or parties when we have one. When we don’t have specific plans, we love to eat dinner at the bar in one of our favorite restaurants in Rye or have sushi and go to a movie. We don’t have any plans tonight, and I would be perfectly happy staying home with the boys. But I always feel badly about canceling Kimmy because I know she depends on the money.
“Will you go on a date with me?” Darren asks sweetly. He sounds corny, but he looks so contrite I have to smile.
“Where are you taking me?” I say slyly, because I know he doesn’t know.
“It’s a surprise,” he says, smiling back. This means that he has no idea yet but as soon as I leave the house he’ll jump on OpenTable and make a reservation.
“Sure,” I say, thinking a night out could do us some good.
Cameron is stretching against her car when I pull up for our hike. Ever the athlete, she’s wearing such cool sports clothes she looks like she could model for Nike. Or run a marathon. She could probably do both, effortlessly.
“You ready, you pregnant goddess?” I ask as I get out of my car in head-to-toe Old Navy.
“Don’t you want to stretch first, Grace?” Cameron asks, going into some deep side-squat maneuver. I tried that once. It was like a bad paint job—my color was off and there was a lot of cracking.
“No. I’m good. Let’s go.”
“So how are things going?” Cameron asks as we cross the parking lot to the trailhead. It’s a beautiful morning and the sun is shining, but it’s still cool enough for a sweatshirt.
“I want to talk about you first,” I say cheerfully. “Let’s talk baby.”
“The good news, considering my profession and all, is that I can expertly burp a baby, change its diaper, and perform quality cord care, all at the same time. What I’m going to need help with, though, is shopping for all the gear.” Cameron looks at me, and I see that lost look in her eyes. She sailed through medical school, reads lengthy nonfiction books about battles, and knows her way around a computer’s motherboard, but the girl needs help when it comes to anything domestic. And while I think I’m just getting by in that category most of the time, Cameron thinks I’m a regular Martha Stewart.
“Well, then, consider me your official baby ambassador.”
“Great,” Cameron says, pointing out a leaf that has begun to turn gold. I love the fall and am ready for it to arrive. There are times when I miss the reliable and amazing Southern California weather, but I definitely prefer the seasons. There’s something wonderful about changing the clothes you wear, the activities you do, the food you eat, and the way you feel every few months.
“Now,” Cameron says as we get to the path near the river where we always skim stones (she reliably gets three or four skips; I get one, maybe), “fill me in on what’s going on with Darren.”
“Oh, where do I start?” I ask rhetorically. “It’s all just so complicated. Half the time, I just think I’m overreacting, and I should just not make a big deal out of this. But the other half of the time, I realize it is a big deal, and I shouldn’t be so hard on myself for not welcoming him back with open arms.”
“I understand both of those sides, Grace,” Cameron says. “But I think you’re thinking too much. I know that’s what you do, but I just think you should let things unfold, take it one day at a time, and not do your usual thing of coming to grand conclusions every few hours.”
“Well, you are very lucky that you are not a drama girl when it comes to emotional stuff, but I just can’t help it. It’s all just too fresh. You’ll be happy to know, I tried to act normally last night, and it was nice. And he’s definitely trying. He’s taking me on a date tonight.”
“Well, that’s good!”
“We’ll see.”
“I’m sure it will be a step in the right direction.”
I stop and look at her with a puzzled look on my face. “What’s it like to feel so confident about things?” I ask, completely without sarcasm.
“What do you mean?” Cameron asks.
“You’re like one of those women they interview in magazines about what they can’t live without. Those women seem so self-assured and confident about why that particular literary classic is their favorite book, or why that’s the only perfume they’ll wear, or that they’ll only use this one type of elegant stationery hand engraved by a century-old, family-owned factory in Italy. And then there’s me, with my stack of half-read chick-lit books, the little Jo Malone trial perfume set I got from the Duty Free in the airport, and the folded note cards I got in a charity solicitation that I decided to keep without making a donation. I just find myself feeling inadequate lately. Like I was supposed to develop into a fully formed real adult by now with convictions and tendencies and preferences, but instead I’m just trying to get by and put out fires.”
“Grace, you are really way too hard on yourself. Think of what you have accomplished. So what if you don’t use fancy stationery or don’t have a favorite author. First of all, you’re refreshing because you don’t need to impress anyone with name brands. Second, you’ve got to stop putting so much stock in how people are portrayed in magazine articles. I am certain that if Vanity Fair magazine called you tomorrow to do a profile on you, you would come off sounding incredibly adult-like, and other women would feel inadequate compared to you. I’m not blowing smoke up your ass, Grace. And I know you’re in a rut right now. But enough with the lame-plain-Jane game. You are magnificent, and you know it. Why else would I be your friend?” she asks and nudges me in the arm.
We start the uphill climb, and I tell Cameron about my job interview on Monday. She is very excited and thinks it sounds like a great opportunity.
“You’ll never believe this one,” I say to Cameron, stopping suddenly.
“What?” she asks, stopping and looking at me.
“I found a grey pubic hair this morning!”
“Grace!” Cameron exclaims a little disgustedly, but she is laughing.
“What? You’re a doctor. Surely, I can discuss anatomical developments with you,” I say, laughing along and starting to walk again.
“Well, you’re almost forty so it’s fitting. Sp
eaking of which, have you figured out what you want to do for your birthday? You need to get on this. It’s only five months away,” Cameron says sarcastically.
“Ha ha,” I say. She knows I like to plan far in advance. “I think my original idea of you, Jack, Darren, and I going on some indulgent Caribbean vacation is out of the running at this point.”
“Why? Maybe it’s just the thing you two need.” I can tell Cameron and my mom are on the same page here. Cameron is also a BFOD. Maybe even president of the fan club.
“Maybe just a luncheon with friends,” I say.
“A luncheon? What are you, eighty?”
“What’s wrong with a luncheon?”
“How about just a ‘lunch’? A luncheon is something that smells like moth balls and ends with Jell-O. It just sounds so old.”
“Well, then, it’s perfectly fitting.”
“Oh come on, Grace. Forty is not old.”
“You’re right. As I mentioned to you the other night, I’m excited about forty. I think it’s going to be the beginning of a new direction in my life.” And then I add solemnly, “I just didn’t think it might be without Darren.”
“Okay, don’t get all down on me. You and Darren are going to be fine. And I think a ladies’ luncheon will be lovely.” Cameron doesn’t use words like “lovely.” I know she threw it in there to emphasize her distaste for the word “luncheon.”
“I hope you’re right. On both accounts.”
When I get home, there’s a note from Darren saying he took the boys to the playground. A nice relaxing shower without my little Rugrats coming in to disturb me will be nice, and then I plan on working on my article for Nicole Winters.
After I’ve showered, had cereal, and made coffee, I open my laptop to start writing. First, I log on to Facebook to check in with Scotty.
I see I’m not the first to get to his wall to offer congratulations, and it’s fun to see all of the people who have already posted. I don’t keep up with many friends from high school, but apparently Scotty does, and here they all are. I rarely check my Facebook page because I end up spending so much time looking at people’s pictures, reading what they’ve been up to. It’s a time suck.
I look at Scotty’s photos and am thrilled to see all the ones he’s posted of Abigail, Abigail with him, more of Abigail alone. She’s beautiful, and they look very happy. Good for him. I write something witty on his wall and then send him a longer, more personal private message. I’m about to click over to see if there’s any activity on my page when a chat box pops up.
JakeDoyle: hey grace!
I giggle and type back right away.
GraceMay: Hey Jake! Why are you up so early?
JakeDoyle: about 2 go surfing
GraceMay: So why are you on Facebook?
JakeDoyle: you ask a lot of questions at 7am
GraceMay: I heard the good news about Scotty.
JakeDoyle: who says it’s good news?
GraceMay: Why? Something wrong with Abigail?
JakeDoyle: yeah, she stole my wingman
GraceMay: Oh, I see.
JakeDoyle: guess I’ll have 2 settle down now
GraceMay: You? Never!
JakeDoyle: can’t-the good 1 got away
GraceMay: Who?
JakeDoyle: u
I spent the bulk of my high school years lusting after Jake Doyle. Free-spirited Jake played the guitar, was an artist and a surfer, and had an uncanny resemblance to Rob Lowe—pure high school rapture. We were in the same crowd but, unfortunately, Jake Doyle did not have eyes for me. I wasn’t ugly, but I was no Stephanie Campbell, Jake’s tall, blonde, blue-eyed (this was L.A. after all) girlfriend.
We lost touch after high school, but at our twenty-year high school reunion a couple years ago, Jake and I ended up next to each other at the bar. He looked at me, then down at my hideous yearbook photo name tag, and then again at my face and said, “Gracie Roseman. No way! I had the biggest crush on you in high school!”
GraceMay: You had your chance.
JakeDoyle: ouch!
And then I don’t know what comes over me.
GraceMay: Marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be anyway.
JakeDoyle: say it isn’t so gracie! trouble in paradise?
GraceMay: No.
JakeDoyle: what did mr fancy investment banker do?
Seriously, Grace? Why are you doing this?
GraceMay: Nothing.
Good girl.
JakeDoyle: that’s convincing-need me 2 break his legs?
GraceMay: Of course not!
JakeDoyle: not going 2 try and read into it but any guy who would do anything 2 u is crazy
GraceMay: You think?
A little flattery never hurt anyone.
JakeDoyle: ur a catch gracie, i was blind :-)
GraceMay: We were young.
JakeDoyle: ur still as pretty
GraceMay: Almost 40!
JakeDoyle: like a fine wine
JakeDoyle: gotta run but if things don’t work out with u and mr fancy call me
GraceMay: You got it.
Yeah right.
JakeDoyle: i’ll catch up with u soon, what’s ur email address?
I give him my email address and say goodbye, giggling out loud. I’m surprised by all the tingling in my body. It feels like soda is rushing through my veins—all popping and bubbling. I feel like I’m sixteen again, when I used to wonder whether Jake would like me better in the blue oversize sweater with shoulder pads or the green one. Not that he ever noticed, but thoughts of him did go into my daily wardrobe selection. I wonder if flattery from thirty-nine-year-old Jake Doyle might even be better than attention from sixteen-year-old Jake Doyle.
I grab my coffee mug and see the photo of Darren and me on my desk. I return to reality and realize I might be guilty of Facebook Flirting, an epidemic sweeping the nation. Usual onset of the disease happens to thirty-eight-year-olds at their twenty-year high school reunions. The afflicted are often long past the honeymoon phase in their current relationship when everything was new and the sex was exciting, and most are not getting the adulation from their spouses that makes them feel attractive and desirable. Along comes the reunion and with it, fun encounters—usually accompanied by sexy outfits and tequila shots—with long-lost crushes who make said afflicted feel sixteen again. Upon returning home, the disease flares up when the afflicted become “friends” on Facebook and engage in flirty repartee. This can quickly lead to an outbreak of symptoms that include inappropriate emotional and often physical interactions. The natural progression of the disease results in ostracism, regret, and in severe cases, divorce. The only known treatment is Facebook abstinence.
That’s so not what I’m doing, I think and log off of Facebook. It was just a short, friendly, unsolicited exchange with Jake Doyle, I convince myself. So why are you blushing, Grace? I can’t help myself so I Google Jake to see if there are any recent photos of him floating around. His Facebook profile photo is of a surfboard. There are a few listings of articles from art journals about his latest opening, and a search result that leads to his own website, which I click on. I’m taken aback by photos of his art—beautiful, vibrant, large-scale canvases in the abstract expressionist style, which is my favorite. And I’m even more taken aback by the photo I find of him. He’s standing on the beach, his dark hair is longish and blowing in the wind, and his face looks a bit weathered, but the unmistakable resemblance to Rob Lowe is still, most definitely, there.
The bottom line, though, is that Jake just gave me butterflies, and they feel really, really good. I haven’t gotten that feeling from Darren in quite a while. It’s not that I don’t love him; it has nothing to do with that. It’s just that butterflies fade as a relationship deepens. But what replaces that new-relationship glow is arguably even better: the patina of contentment, of safety, of knowing that the person you love is truly there for you physically, emotionally, forever.
I spend the afternoon working on my piec
e for Nicole. I decided to make it about starting a mindful meditation practice. The boys play DS, build Lego ships, and play baseball outside. Darren works for a while, and, later, joins the boys for batting practice. If someone like Lorna were watching us through binoculars, and I wouldn’t put it past her, we’d look like the picture of family bliss. Just goes to show that you have no idea what’s really going on inside anyone’s marriage by appearances alone.
When I sit down at my makeup mirror to get ready for my date, I gasp in surprise. One of the boys has been playing at my vanity again and turned my mirror to the 10x magnification side. Once a woman hits thirty-five, it’s rarely a good idea for her to look at her face magnified 10x—there’s absolutely nothing to gain—unless she has to pluck her eyebrows or squeeze her blackheads. I could join the ranks of my peers booking Botox appointments, getting fillers injected into their frown lines, and opting for plastic surgery on their lips, chins, eyelids, eyebrows, and cheeks. But I don’t really mind how I look. At least not yet. At regular magnification. I won’t say I’ll never call a plastic surgeon, but I hope that when I do start minding how I look, I will be old and wise enough to feel like the wrinkles give me a sort of street cred, that I’ll not succumb to the trend of making fifty- and sixty-year-olds look like weird, molded twenty-year-olds. Or, for that matter, like the cast of The Hills.
I opt for a pair of flattering, dark-rinse jeans, an off-the-shoulder sheer black blouse with a black camisole underneath, and strappy black wedges. After going back and forth about it, I decide to wear the necklace Darren gave me for our ten-year anniversary: a sapphire heart rimmed in diamonds on a gold chain. I check myself out in the mirror. It had never crossed my mind before that Darren would consider a younger, sexier, skinnier version of me. But that’s all changed. I know he loves me for who I am right now, but I can’t help thinking that if my man strayed once, my man could stray again, and I may have to work a bit harder to keep that from happening. I wouldn’t be the first woman to do so.
On Grace Page 8
