Ditching The Dream (Dream Series)

by Isabelle Peterson

  Then there were glaring problems. Primarily, his lack of attention to me. I wasn’t asking to have a husband who doted on me, but to have a meal with the man, without his dang cell phone as the third person at the table, would be nice. Our anniversary dinner started to creep into my head and made my blood boil. Yes. I was doing the right thing.

  Three weeks ago had been our twenty-third anniversary. Not a major one, but our first as empty nesters. I insisted we go out. For our anniversary, I didn’t want to be washing dishes.

  The first zinger was the restaurant he chose. He didn’t ask me for my input either. It was a place we’d been to before, and I had never been a fan of it. But it was his favorite place, a half of a block from his work. We’d always leave the place with him asking, “Isn’t that place great?” And I’d always shrug and say, “It’s okay.”

  Then, when we ordered drinks, he raised an eyebrow at the Cosmo I ordered. “Starting with the hard stuff, huh?” he asked. What? It was a freakin’ cocktail! It was our anniversary!

  He didn’t order a bottle of wine, just two glasses because it was cheaper, and we didn’t need a whole bottle, he reasoned. “Especially since you’ve already had a martini,” he chided.

  When our meals came, he repeatedly stole bites of shrimp from my plate of Scampi. He didn’t ask, just helped himself. And it wasn’t like the plate was overflowing with the pink morsels.

  But the worst was that third dinner guest. The phone. It vibrated the whole night long. Texts, emails and even a phone call. He never let a message go unattended. And never a word to me about what was going on. He barely even excused himself each time he went to reply.

  Finally halfway through dinner, he groaned, almost comically. “Bets, I gotta go to the office and fix this. Wilson got the wrong account files, and – never mind. Suffice it to say, I’m the only one who seems to know what is going on over there. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes.”

  And then he left. Our anniversary dinner. For work. I didn’t finish my dinner, but I certainly had a couple more drinks.

  When he returned twenty minutes later, he gave me my anniversary gift. It was the same thing I got every anniversary, Christmas and birthday. A card with gift card for the mall. “Because it’s so versatile,” he always said. Really? I spent what I wanted with his credit card as it was. What was the difference?

  Didn’t he know how much that night hurt me? On the ride home, I was quiet, only saying as much as was absolutely necessary. I fussed with the radio more than usual. I was super quick when I brushed my teeth and washed my face. I practically ran to bed, then pretended to be asleep by the time he crawled in. And guess who came to bed with us? Yup. His cell phone.

  Deep down, I knew the Wilson account was a big one. Anyone in town would know that. But, were the Wilsons more important than one night with me? Or was I being overly sensitive? It was my husband’s exceptional account handling and attention to detail that had gotten him to the position he was in, with a paycheck to match. I did get to reap the benefits in our gorgeous home, our cabin in Lake Tahoe, my annual new car and so on. But, I didn’t really care about all that. I often found our house too big. The skiing was his thing. I didn’t really care if my car wasn’t the newest model, or had a tiny scratch or ding.

  It was like he didn’t know me at all… Or maybe he just didn’t care. And quite frankly, after twenty some years of it, I didn’t care. I didn’t know who I was. I knew that I was Mrs. Gregory Fairchild, but where was Elizabeth Morris? Did I care? Yes. I did. And I was going to find her. I was going to find me. In New York. On my own. I was already feeling stronger.

  I knew she listened to my voicemails and read my texts. She had to have by now. Why wouldn’t she talk to me? None of this made any sense.

  What did I do? I’d always been kind. I went out of my way to make things easy for her. I protected and provided. And this was the thanks I got?

  Well, screw her and the horse she rode in on! I poured myself another gin and tonic, and looked at her letter again.

  But she was the mother of our three beautiful, smart, and successful children. She made food better than a five star restaurant. She knew everything about me.

  I loved her.

  Why was she doing this? She said in her letter she loved me. She said it a few times. And she said that I was perfect. So what in the hell was going on?

  And New York? Why would she have gone there? She didn’t know anyone there, did she? It had to be a man. Plain and simple. You didn’t jet across the country to figure out what you’re made of, to New York or all places, unless you’re stupid, or a guy was there waiting for you. Elizabeth wasn’t stupid. It must have been a guy.

  My calls to Jessica and her mother were fruitless, too. How had she gotten them to be so tight-lipped? Well, Jessica — fine. Friends since the beginning of time. But Clarissa Morris? She would never stand for this little prank. Why was she protecting Elizabeth? I just wanted my Bets back.

  I snatched up the letter, re-reading the part about “it’s not you, it’s me” shit. Cliché? Absurdly cliché.

  I didn’t even know what I felt as I drank the last of my fifth, or was it sixth, gin and tonic. Confused? Definitely. Angry? Yes. Sad? Sort of. I think I was too confused and angry — and drunk — to be sad.

  CHAPTER 3

  The sounds of car horns woke me the next morning. At first the sounds annoyed and confused me. Our neighborhood was always quiet. I opened my eyes, and peering around the hotel room, my head cleared a little. New York.

  I smiled to myself, until I noticed the sun was shining into the window. I groaned and wished I’d thought enough to close the curtains the night before. I rolled over and looked at the clock. It was already after nine thirty. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept in like that. Then again, it was only just after six-thirty back home, so that wasn’t too bad.

  First order of business: coffee. Second order of business: find a job.

  Cleaned up and dressed, I evaluated my reflection in the mirror. My hair was cooperating today, simply brushed smooth. A light touch of make-up. A great pair of slacks and a tailored shirt. Jewelry that was not outlandish and comfortable pair of pumps. I was feeling good.

  Grabbing my cellphone from the charger, my good feeling crashed. A dozen voicemails from Greg. Just as many texts. Even a couple emails.

  There were several missed calls and one voicemail from my mother. Did I dare? I did. She’s my mom.

  “Elizabeth Marie Morris Fairchild. What in the world is going on? Why aren’t you answering my phone calls? Or Greg’s for that matter? Where are you? Greg is out of his mind. Suzanne said you texted her that all is fine. If that’s so, why aren’t you talking to anyone? Young lady, you have some explaining to do. You call me as soon as you get this message. Don’t worry about waking me up. You just call.”

  Her southern drawl cut right to my heart. Yup. Good feeling officially deflated.

  Appetite also squashed, I chose to just grab a coffee, I was no good without coffee, and made my way to the hotel’s Business Center. I was grateful that no one was in the room and a computer was available, but then I sat, stumped, staring at a blank Word Document page. For several minutes I contemplated how I was going to draft a respectable resume.

  Greg and I met my sophomore year at Colorado State. We got married a month after I graduated with my degree in advertising and marketing. He had graduated two years earlier and was working for a well-established financial management company. Three months after we got married, his company moved us to Napa Valley, California.

  In Napa, I started working at a small design firm, but I didn’t know that I was pregnant when I started there. Doing the math, it seems I was one of the lucky ones who got pregnant in her first month of marriage. I was so sick with the pregnancy early on, I only lasted at the company for three months. It wasn’t a big deal, because we had decided that I would be a stay-at-home mom.

  Bradley was born two months before our first wedding
anniversary. And then, just before Bradley turned one, Carter was a second bundle of joy added to the mix. And, almost a year to the day after Carter, I was blessed with my little girl, Phoebe. In a three year span, I’d had a baby almost annually. I used to joke that I needed to stop sharing the bar of soap with Greg, a joke he never cared for.

  When Phoebe was born, I decided to add another couple of days to my hospital stay and get my tubes tied. We’d certainly done our share for population replacement. And Greg’s hours seemed to be getting longer and longer, meaning that he had less and less time to be home and help with our growing family. Greg refused to have the procedure to solve things on his end. But he had no problem letting me go through the invasive procedure.

  I shook myself out of my self-pity and focused on the task at hand. A resume. What do I put on it? With all my ‘stay-at-home’ mom time, I had never gone back to work. Twenty-some years technically unemployed. That’ll look great on a resume! I groaned. Time to get creative.

  Under ‘Employment History’ I chose to list my PTA positions and the responsibilities I’d held as Treasurer then Secretary. I even put down the lame waitressing job I’d had in college. To further fill in my nearly laughable resume, I listed other skills I thought I had: computing skills, multi-tasking, budgeting, et cetera. Reading it over, I hoped that I’d assembled a moderately impressive resume.

  I sighed loudly as I sent the document to the printer to print a dozen copies, and sat back in the chair.

  “Headed to a rough meeting?” I heard someone say behind me. Startled, I turned in my swivel chair and came face to face with a harried-looking middle aged man. How long had he been there? I hadn’t heard him come in.

  “Oh, uh, no. Not yet at least. Job hunting. You?” I replied.

  “No. I’m in town for my boss, and I have to give this presentation. It’s one of those ‘make or break’ kind of meetings, and I’m almost out of battery on my laptop,” he said, raising his silver MacBook that was tucked under his arm, taking a seat. “It wouldn’t be such an issue if this client company had Macs or Apples but, they are all PC. Now I have to migrate my KeyNote into a PowerPoint and put it on this flash stick. It should be a rule that all companies have both PC and Apple compatibility, you know?”

  “Well, I can help you get it transferred, if you want,” I offered. “But, you may get lucky at the concierge desk. People leave cords behind all the time and they usually have an impressive collection in the lost and found.”

  “Great idea! I hadn’t thought of that! You’re a gem!” He popped out of his seat and started toward the door. Before he left, he turned to me and flashed a friendly smile. “And good luck with the job hunting. With your quick thinking, you’re a shoe-in where ever you interview.”

  “From your lips… Thanks,” I smiled back.

  I spent the next half hour scavenging the internet for job opportunities in Manhattan. Selecting several real possibilities, I mapped out addresses, then collected my resumes and went to talk to concierge to figure out how to navigate this city. A few minutes later, I had several great iPhone apps, yup, there’s an app for that, and I was on my way.

  Two banks, four professional offices, and a temp agency later, I was exhausted, no real leads, and attitudes saying thanks-lady-but-we’re-just-going-to-throw-away-this-waste-of-paper-resume-two-seconds-after-you-leave. I was starting to understand why people said that New York would chew you up and spit you out.

  As I passed a large plate-glass window, I caught a glimpse of my hair. Frizzing. Great! No wonder they all thought I was a nut job. I looked around to see who might have seen me studying myself and, in the reflection, spotted a small hair salon. That’s it! I’m cutting it all off!

  In a huff, I crossed the street and walked in. The trendy girl behind the desk tore her eyes from her iPad and smiled.

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes. I’d like to get my hair cut. All of it.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but –”

  “That’s okay.” She checked the appointment book in front of her. “We’ve actually had a cancellation. If you can wait for fifteen minutes, Bobbie can take you.”

  “Thanks, that’d be great,” I said. I took a seat and started flipping through style magazines.

  Ten minutes later I was getting my hair shampooed. Taking a seat in Bobbie’s station, she turned me to the mirror and pulled the towel back.

  “So, what are we doing for you today?” she asked in an absurdly chipper voice, flipping her long, sleek, blonde hair over her shoulder.

  “I’d like my hair cut. All of it. It’s way too frizzy, and I’ve had it.” I handed her the magazine I held in my hand. It was open to a picture of Anne Hathaway, just after she’d cut her hair off for the movie Les Miserables.

  “Wow. This will look amazing on you. With your cheekbones and elegant neck. My boyfriend would kill me if I cut even an inch off my hair. What will your boyfriend say?”

  Ha! That’s a laugh. Greg would hate it! He had always loved my hair. “I don’t care what he thinks. I hate it,” I said, feeling bold.

  “That a girl!” She pulled my hair together and put it in an elastic hair band. “You have quite a bit of length here and it’s in good shape. Would you like to donate it? Maybe Locks of Love?”

  I smiled. “Yes. That would be great. Thank you.”

  She pulled out her scissors and looked at my reflection squarely. “Are you sure? Last chance…”

  “Go for it!” I grinned.

  While she cut my hair, she asked me all sorts of questions. I revealed that I was new to New York, married, but my husband stayed back in California for work, and that I was job hunting today. She didn’t judge one bit that my husband hadn’t traveled across the country with me and went on to talk about her boyfriend, and when she first moved to New York.

  Forty minutes later, I was turned in the chair to see my reflection. I was stunned. I looked like a whole new person. I felt like a whole new person. A trendy person. And I felt like I’d had about twenty years cut off. Twenty heavy years.

  “You are a magician with those scissors, Bobbie. I love it!” I turned my head, checking the style from the sides. I looked chic… and young. She’d kept the bangs on the long side and styled the pixie into a very modern shape, with pieces pulled down over my forehead, pointing this way and that. It made my eyes seem alluring instead of too big.

  “And you can even play with this style,” Bobbie said. “With a little pomade, you can make it a bit spikier for when you want to go out on the town. Or you can play with the shape and go with a roaring twenties vibe,” she continued as she moved my hair here and there. “You can blow it dry and make it very soft looking… I would love to do this with my hair. What will your guy say? Aren’t you excited for when he sees it?”

  I shrugged and smiled. He would probably freak out. It felt good to be rebellious, even if it was just with my hair.

  With the attitude of a whole new woman, a spring in my step and a hundred and twenty dollars lighter, I sauntered back onto Lexington Avenue. I loved the gentle breeze that blew along my neck and shoulders. I loved the sensation. My head felt fantastic and I continually checked out my reflection in the windows as I went along.

  Walking to my next opportunity with renewed vigor, I passed by the most heavenly scent. Steak. I looked up and saw the sign. Ed Scott’s Steak House.

  I glanced down at my phone and noted the time. There were four new voicemails and a few texts, all from Greg. I shook my head and chose to just ignore them for now, yet again. It was already two-thirty. No wonder I was so hungry. I mean, how long can coffee carry a person?

  I stepped inside and was enveloped with a sumptuous, meaty aroma. The place was rather busy considering it was fairly late, but maybe ‘Late Lunches’ were really a thing here in New York. I noticed a man in his thirties, who was quite frazzled with his hair mussed, top collar undone and tie pulled loose. Standing next to him was a petite, intim
idated hostess. The two were thumbing through a stack of papers.

  “What did you think of this one? She looked okay?” the hostess suggested.

  “But her work history? She’s not maintained a job for longer than three months at any one place. No,” he growled back. He looked at the stack of papers in his hand and started to lay them down like playing cards. “To be honest, there’s not a good one in the stack! Horrible manners, too much perfume, not enough soap, not enough clothing…” he listed.

  I was getting hungrier by the minute, standing there and watching people eat juicy steaks, and fluffy baked potatoes, so I cleared my throat to get the attention of the duo at the hostess stand.

  The man looked me up and down, then barked, “Do you have your resume?”

  Omigosh. They’re hiring here? He thought I was here for some job? Serendipity? Before even asking about the job that I would be ‘here for,’ I politely smiled and dug into my bag. “I do,” I said, pulling out my folder and handing him a resume.

  “So, Elizabeth. I see your restaurant experience is more than twenty years old? You know that we use computers these days, not hand tickets, right?” he snapped.

  “That’s fine. That’s good actually. I’m very tech savvy.” I thought that was a good answer.

  “Have you ever tended bar before? Do you have your license or certification? What’s your specialty drink?”

  I felt as if I were the target of a firing squad, with one marksman. He was pelting me with questions. I wasn’t sure how I filtered through, but I replied with, “Well, I do make some spectacular martinis.” In our book club back in Napa, I was always the bartender, something I was suddenly very grateful for. And most of the time when we got together for “book club” there was very little dishing about the book, unless it was a steamy read, as was our current trend. Often it turned into a cocktail party, designing and drinking new creations.