When I'm Not Myself

by Deborah J. Wolf

  “Four kids? My God, Cara, who has four kids anymore?”

  “Me. Temporary insanity. But I love them to death. They’re fabulous. Seventeen, ten, eight, and the baby; she’s seven. Girl, boy, boy and another girl. You have kids?” she asked and eyed his ring finger again.

  “Nooooo. No, no, no, no, not me. Declared incompetent, actually. They’d never give me a license.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “And your husband?” he asked boldly without wincing or cringing the way so many other people had.

  “He’s on baby #5 with girlfriend, um, soon-to-be wife #2.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “Okay. I won’t.”

  Killer smile, full killer smile. Quiet settled on the room, thick and chunky, leaving her studying the walls, wishing to find something that could take her eyes off him just for a minute. Still, he continued to study her.

  “Can you have lunch with me, Cara?” He glanced briefly at his watch before he raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you have the time?”

  He’d taken her completely by surprise and she fumbled. “Oh? Um, well, ah, I guess, well, I’m not sure. Do you know what Stewart has in mind? Um, maybe I should check with him first . . .”

  He stood and began to check the growing stream of messages on his computer. She collected her things and waited uneasily, as if she was unsure of what to do, where to go. He glanced up from his computer and caught her eye.

  “Just give me fifteen minutes or so. I need to make a few calls. Tracy can show you to a conference room.” A sea of electric current passed between them and left her weak at the knees.

  David Michel was hitting on her.

  DAVID MICHEL WAS HITTING ON HER. And by all accounts, he wasn’t done.

  Cara followed his assistant to a glass conference room, and asked for directions to the closest ladies’ room. Inside she peed and punched out a text message to Mel from her cell phone.

  David Michel is hitting on me. Going to lunch with him now. Help!!!

  Mel’s reply message came back immediately.

  Just don’t sleep with him before he offers you a job.

  Cara fired back.

  I swear to God, Mel, I’m not kidding you. He’s hitting on me. What do I do?

  What’s he look like?

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Melanie, what do you mean, ‘What does he look like?’” Cara barked into the phone when Mel answered. “This is supposed to be a job interview. What the fuck do I care what he looks like?” She flushed the toilet with the heel of her shoe and scooted out of the stall, crouching to check the vacancy of the stalls next to hers praying she hadn’t spilled her guts in front of the office gossip.

  “Well, he looks like something, Cara, what?”

  “That’s beside the point,” Cara whispered harshly as she made her way back through the long hall toward the conference room.

  “No, it’s not. Is he worth it? ’Cause you can’t sleep with Stewart’s number-one guy before he offers you a job. Unless, of course, it’d be better to sleep with him than work with him.”

  “We’re not even talking about sleeping with him, Mel. It’s lunch, for Christ sake. Get your mind out of the gutter.” Cara was exasperated with her friend; she sighed deeply into the receiver.

  “Look, Cara, you want this job? If so, you’ll have Stewart cumming all over himself. He’s been begging you for years to come back to work so he could have you all to himself. Go to lunch. If David Michel’s as good-looking as I think he might be, go ahead and hit back. What have you got to lose? All I’m saying is that I don’t think Stewart will hold it against you.”

  “Jesus, Mel, why do I call you? What in God’s name do I think I’m going to gain by checking in with you?”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “What question?”

  “What’s he look like? Tall? Short? Dark, blonde? Old, young? He’s supposed to be a kid, right? How old is he?”

  “Thirtysomething. Early thirtysomething. Jesus Christ, Melanie, he is a kid. He’d be better off dating Katie. I’ve got years on him.”

  “He’s got you all tangled up in knots, Cara. I can hear it in your voice.”

  “Does not.”

  “He does. I can tell. You sound just as smitten as you did in ninth grade. Denny Spangler.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Stop it. I’m hanging up now. I don’t know why I bother with you, Mel. I have no idea, really I don’t. You are absolutely no help.”

  “Uh-huh,” Mel said again, smugly.

  “I’m hanging up now.” Cara sprinted back into the conference room without being seen.

  “Call me later,” Mel cried. “I’ll want a full report.”

  David Michel opened doors. Car doors, restaurant doors, the lobby door of the agency. You name it; he was a door opener. He and Cara collided the first time when Cara started to push her way through the revolving glass door and he stepped just in front of her to catch it first. She wasn’t expecting him to be such a gentleman; it had been a long time since she’d been in the company of a man who opened a door for her.

  “Sorry,” she said, nervously, too quickly.

  “No problem. After you.”

  He assisted her into the front seat of his Mercedes, literally taking her arm and settling her into the soft leather as if he was helping his mother to her seat. It wasn’t as if he was so young and Cara was so old, but something about it left Cara feeling cared for, as if he was escorting his grandmother out to lunch. She told him this, in a fit of giggles, when he finally tucked himself behind the steering wheel. But then she realized this had nothing to do with age; David Michel was a well-kept secret of a man.

  Cara couldn’t remember the last time Jack had opened a door for her. She couldn’t remember what it was like to have him listen, really listen to her response when he asked her a question. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time Jack had asked her a question that didn’t sound something like, Did you pick up my laundry? She couldn’t remember a time when Jack had made her feel so special, even when she wasn’t feeling well or when a day with the kids had taken its toll on her.

  David ordered wine with lunch. Over salad, Cara learned he was first-generation American, and that both his parents had grown up in Paris. He spoke fluent French, the only language he was permitted to use when addressing his parents. He pronounced his last name Me-shell with the sweetest hint of seductive femininity that Cara had ever heard.

  “Okay, Cara Clancy, let’s hear it.” He touched the edge of his glass with hers. “Why’ve you put Stewart off for so long?”

  “Uh-oh. The inquisition.”

  He nodded, leaning back against the hard wood chair and crossing his legs so that his body was parallel with hers. Dark, nearly black, charcoal suit. Pressed pale-pink striped shirt. Black square-toed shoes. A fabulous tie. He’d tucked his dark clip-on frames in the front pocket of his suit jacket; they peeked just over the rim of the pocket as if to be eavesdropping on their conversation.

  “I lost the drive to work, I suppose. We didn’t need the money, and when my second child came along, I just decided to give it all up for a little while. It just seemed so much easier, I guess.” Cara laughed, then shook her head.

  “How so?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Playdates and diapers versus uptight clients and ridiculous deadlines.”

  He paused, swirled his wine in the glass and watched her. “Kind of the same thing, don’t you think?” After a minute, he said to her, “So?”

  “So, what?”

  “So, is it time for you to join Weaver?”

  “Maybe.”

  “How do we go about convincing you?”

  She turned his question around and asked him, “Why’d you go to work with Stewart? What drew you back to San Francisco from New York?”

  “That’s easy. For the great work. You can’t get better work than
you’ll get at this agency. Period.”

  Cara nibbled on her pecan-crusted halibut. She found that she liked David Michel. She liked everything about him. His confidence radiated through his eyes, his smile, his demeanor.

  “You should work with us, Cara. It would be great, great fun. I’m fairly sure it would be the next best thing in your life.”

  Everything he said, everything about the way he said it, made her want to do just that.

  Later, Cara told Mel that Stewart had let out an audible sigh, something almost sexual, when she finally accepted the job.

  “Wicked, Cara,” Mel said. “You are absolutely wicked. Teasing my boy like that. I can’t imagine where you learned it.”

  Cara smiled at her friend. It was the first time she had remembered making a decision—one that really mattered—for herself in a long, long time.

  They had agreed to the terms of her contract in a meeting back at the office, at the end of which David Michel walked her to the front door, and held it open for her to walk through. This time she was ready for him, and scooted through with confidence and grace. He lit a cigarette and offered her one. She declined and dug around in her oversized black bag for her car keys.

  “He was watching me, Mel. I could feel his eyes on me the entire time I was digging around in that damn bag.”

  “I told you to get rid of that thing. For God’s sake, Cara, get a small clutch. Christ, you were probably pulling out a bunch of those ridiculous McDonald’s toys that get stuck at the bottom of that ratty old bag.”

  Cara ignored her comment. “I mean, watching me, Mel. I could feel his eyes on me; feel the way he was dragging on that cigarette. Without even looking up. You know what I mean?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He asked me to dinner. Saturday night. He said it just like that, too. ‘I’d like to take you to dinner, Cara. Will Saturday night work for you?’ ”

  “And? Are you going?” Mel asked her eagerly.

  “I invited him to your party instead. Dinner was just so, so . . . full of commitment.”

  “And the party?”

  “It’s supervised.”

  9

  Garin had canceled on Mel plenty of times before; it wasn’t inconceivable. Through no fault of his own, of course, something would come up to keep him from whatever it was they had planned together. Mel never felt as if he chose something or someone over her, not any of the times he ended up canceling. But it never completely surprised her if she received a phone call that started with the words, Baby, I’m really sorry, but . . . And it never completely broke her heart, either. She was used to being alone. She actually preferred it that way.

  They never would have lasted long living in the same city. Hell, they may not have lasted in the same state. Their arrangement was something Mel was comfortable with. Truth be told, it was something she required.

  Mel had invited Garin to join her for dinner; that’s how their relationship started. She was well aware of the fact that he was married and had children; he’d spent that entire day telling her all about them. She didn’t care. After shooting him for his company’s annual report, she wanted more time with him. Time alone, time when she wasn’t behind the camera and he wasn’t in front of it. After dinner, still more. After their first night of great sex at the Hotel Nikko, even more.

  Mel had no desire to marry Garin, no desire for him to father a child of hers or buy a house with her. She didn’t long for him on weeknights when he wasn’t there, didn’t go to bed lonely and wishing he was next to her. She liked what they had, the isolation of it when they were together and the freedom when they were apart. This way she never felt like she owed him something, never felt like she had to be someone she couldn’t make herself be.

  Mel had seen what could go wrong when you got too close to someone. She’d witnessed, firsthand, what marriage looked like, the so-called exclusive nature of it. And by her estimation, there was no such thing. Her mother’s relationship had ended in divorce, and that wasn’t even from Mel’s father. Jack had been cheating on Cara for years; as far back as she could remember. And as far as she could tell that had resulted in nothing more than eighteen wasted years.

  Everything about Mel was independent, sovereign. She wagered this was one of the things that Garin liked best about her, anyway. He had one white picket fence; there was no need for another.

  During a brief phone conversation on her way to the caterer’s, she’d told him about the party she had been planning. It wasn’t meant to be an invitation but he’d taken it as such. For some reason, of late, he’d had the desire to meet her friends. But she had been putting him off. There was no reason to mix him into her life in San Francisco; nothing good could come of blending him into her circle of friends.

  “I’ll be in San Francisco this weekend, Mel. Why don’t I come to the party?”

  “Okay,” she had said, much too quickly, regretting her answer immediately. She was in a rush and not paying attention and she had let her guard down for only a minute. For the last year, she’d kept Garin locked away; even Bella had met him only once, and that was a fluke, when they’d run into her daughter and some of her friends at dinner one night in the city. She just didn’t see the point in integrating him into her daily routine, didn’t feel like it was necessary.

  “Don’t you think it’s time, Mel?”

  “I don’t know what time has to do with it, Garin,” she snapped. “Yeah, fine, whatever. It’s just a small party. It’s not a big deal.” She was stalling, downplaying her plans and hoping that by then he would come to his senses and change his mind. She had nearly forty people on the guest list. Forty introductions. Forty wide-eyed looks. Forty explanations about how long they had been going out and how they could possibly sustain a bicoastal relationship.

  “All the better, then. No pressure at all.”

  “No, not really.” She swallowed hard and pursed her lips, thinking about the crab wontons she wanted to make sure were on the menu. “None whatsoever.” She paused then, trying to think on her feet. “Um, are you sure? You sure you want to do this?”

  “Oh, Mel, for Christ sake, it’s a party. Why the hell not?”

  Cara was thrilled. For months she and Leah and Paige had been relentless about asking to meet the man Mel had been carrying on with for over a year. They relished Mel’s stories; his sweet ways of showing up unexpected and staying for the weekend, of whisking her away when she needed a week at a Ritz somewhere fabulous. After all this time, Cara couldn’t imagine why they hadn’t met Garin. He had truly remained a mystery man.

  On Friday, as Mel arranged two vases full of the Dendrobium Orchids she’d picked up at the flower market, she prayed he would cancel. She hated the uneasy feeling in her stomach and had been forced to chase it away with Tums, angry with herself for getting all jacked up. His visit meant nothing, she told herself over and over again. Meeting Cara, Leah and Paige didn’t signify anything. They were no more a couple than they had been.

  Near seven o’clock, the doorbell rang.

  “Key?” she asked accusingly when she opened the door, wondering why he hadn’t used the key she’d given him.

  He shrugged his shoulders, bundled down with plastic bags, a sheepish grin on his face. The smell from Ming’s Lemon Chicken mixed with that of Dried Braised String Beans made Mel’s stomach growl. His familiar worn suitcase sat on the landing next to him.

  “I brought dinner,” he said to her, smiling.

  She threw open the door wide, pulling him in, calmed immediately by his presence.

  Without a doubt, Mel knew how to throw a party. Her flat vibrated from the street. Candles danced in the windows, shadows crossed the panes, and the cackle of voices sounded like something out of a university dormitory. On the front step two tall, rail-thin models whom Mel had shot recently stood in wool coats and high heels smoking clove cigarettes, the whispery ribbons of strong scented smoke swirling in the wind around their faces.

  The music was excruciati
ngly louder and more vibrant inside the house. It reverberated off the walls and hardwood floors like a nightclub in full swing. Cara spotted Leah and Paige and rushed over in an instant, helping them with their coats and hugging them in one fell swoop. Cara had debated back and forth over her outfit, changing several times before she left for Mel’s, but she looked fabulous in jeans and a jeweled black halter top that cut at her midsection. Her hair was pulled back from her face and, with just a tinge of lipstick and even lighter blush, her face was all aglow with mischief.

  “You’re late.” Cara’s eyes were large and glaring, but she hid a hint of laughter in her voice. She looked as if she was ready to burst forth with a secret she could hardly contain.

  Leah smoothed her blouse and dropped her bag in the corner. “Okay, let’s get this over with. Where’s Mr. Wonderful? Let’s have a look at him.”

  “Mr. Wonderful isn’t here yet,” Cara said, dismissing the comment immediately. “But that,” she continued, and nodded to the man mixing margaritas in the stainless blender in Mel’s kitchen, “that’s Garin. Mel’s secret has finally crawled out of the bag. Come on,” she said, grabbing both of them by the hands, “you’ll love him.”

  They gawked at Mel’s mystery man. No one had laid eyes on him, not in the entire year he and Mel had been dating. They stood with their hands on their hips and stared at him until he must have felt their eyes on him, drawing him to look up. When he did, he flashed them a smile from across the room, a look that caused them all to dissolve into a fit of giggles, as if something had touched them off.

  Garin was all salt and pepper. His features had, at one time, been defined and strong, his nose was sculpted, his eyes were deep set and piercing. But age had softened him; lines had set in around his eyes and at his mouth. He wore worn jeans, faded and broken in, a black button-down shirt and black sweater, pushed up to his midarm.