by Karen Quinn
“Sounds cool,” I said.
“It is. So, what’s up, Ivy? I haven’t seen you since that green-haired guy almost beat you up.”
“I know. I’ve been busy wrapping up my clients’ cases.” I told Michael what had happened, where the kids had been accepted.
“Should I invite one of my reporter friends over for an exclusive interview on this year’s admissions season?”
“That’s okay. I want to put the whole thing behind me.”
“So what’s next?”
“I don’t know. I’m exploring new careers. Maybe I can work for you.
What do you think about starting a mail-order division?”
Michael looked serious. “I’m sorry, but I make it a rule never to hire women I’m falling in love with.”
“WHAT? You’re falling in love with ME? Wait a minute. I’m confused. You said you didn’t want to be with me because our values were too different.”
“I know, and I believed it when I said it. But Ivy, I miss you. I think about Christmas night all the time. Don’t you?”
“Well, I have to admit it’s crossed my mind.”
He came over to my side of the booth and took my hand. “Let’s spend time together. Let’s see where this relationship will take us. Maybe we’re more alike than we know.”
“Oh, God.” I felt so guilty hearing him say this. I could still smell Philip on my body. “Michael, I care about you a lot.”
“Those are not the words a man wants to hear,” he said.
“I know. I’m sorry. But I’m involved with someone else now.”
“Who?”
“Philip.”
“Philip from the second floor? Dammit, I knew I should have evicted him years ago.”
I laughed. “You are funny. How about Miriam Goldofsky? Did you ever take her out? She’s a doctor. You could do woise!”
He gave me a look that I took to mean no.
“I’m so sorry, Michael.”
“Me, too,” he said.
“Are you in love with him?” Michael asked.
“I’m not sure. I’m attracted to him.”
Michael looked down. He didn’t say anything.
“Michael, I hated it when you said this to me, but please, let’s stay friends,” I said. “I’m crazy about you.”
Michael was silent for a moment. “But only in that friend way,” he said.
“Yeah, in that friend way.”
17. Romancing the Liver
A few days later, I called Faith to invite the family over. “Skyler’s birthday is two weeks from Sunday. I’m having a brunch for her. Plus, I want to celebrate the end of my business.”
“So you’re really going to end it.”
“Yeah, it’s time. I did so many things I’m not proud of in the name of my business. You know, after Drayton died, I made all these promises to God and myself about living life differently. Then I blew off every promise the moment anything tempted me. I’ve been more dishonorable this year than I ever was at Myoki. I made a complete mess of things and I’m gonna start over and get it right this time.”
“Ivy, you’re too hard on yourself. You’ve done great. You didn’t go back to that shark-infested corporate life. You became an entrepreneur. You created a new life for yourself. Most important of all, you lost weight. I’m proud of you and you should be proud of yourself,” she said. “I mean that.”
“Thanks. I’m not sure I agree with you, but thanks just the same. So will you come to Skyler’s party?”
“Sounds like fun,” Faith said. “I’ll bring champagne for mimosas. And how about on the Thursday before, I take Skyler to Toys ‘ ’ Us in Times Square so she can pick out her present? It’s their flagship store, and they have a giant Barbie dollhouse, an enormous dinosaur, and a huge indoor Ferris wheel. My girls have been dying to see it. Bring Kate. We’ll all get overstimulated together.”
“So you’ll come?” I asked.
“Sure. I’ll bring food,” Michael said. “Skyler’s my girl. I’m gonna make her something special.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I said.
“I know. But I want to. Here, taste. Tell me what you think.”
We were in Michael’s kitchen. He was making a personal batch of chopped liver. “Mmmm, that’s amazing. What do you put in that?” I asked.
“Just liver, onions, hard-boiled eggs, Wesson oil, salt, and pepper.”
“You don’t use chicken fat?”
“Nope, that’s my secret. That’s what keeps it light.” He picked up a warm morsel with his fingers and put it in my mouth.
“Mmmm, my God, this is heaven. More.”
He placed another bite on my tongue. “Ohhh, don’t stop,” I said, licking the traces off his fingers. He gave me some more.
“Ooooh, I love this,” I moaned with my eyes closed. “Do it again, pleeeease.”
He put another large chunk in my mouth. Slowly, I rolled it around on my tongue, relishing the flavor, smacking my lips. “Mmmm,” I murmured.
“You should swallow,” he said.
“No, not yet. I want to savor it.”
“Okay, you have to stop. You’re turning me on,” he said.
My eyes popped open. “I am? Me eating chopped liver is a turn-on? Is that a deli-guy thing?”
“No, it’s an every-guy thing,” he said. “I’ll send you home with a bowl.” He portioned out part of the mixture and placed it in a Corningware dish. It was still warm.
“You’re such a nurturing guy,” I said. “Some girl’s gonna be lucky to have you.”
Michael looked up. He’d been digging through the drawer for a glass cover. “That girl could be you,” he said.
“Tempting,” I said.
“I mean it.”
“I know. I just . . . you know how I feel about you, but Philip and I have gotten kind of serious.”
“Ah, if that’s the case.” He was scrubbing the frying pan. “What do you two have in common, anyway?”
“More than you might think,” I said.
“Such as?”
“We have fun together. The girls like him. He’s a brilliant writer who can even spell.”
“Now there’s something to base a relationship on,” he said.
“Michael . . .”
“Okay, fine, if he makes you happy . . . You broke my heart, Ivy, but I’ll survive. Here, take this. Enjoy.” He handed me the bowl. “I had hoped to sweep you off your feet with my liver, but I guess that wasn’t enough.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking the dish.
Michael smiled. “You’re sure about Philip?”
“I am,” I said emphatically.
“Okay. I won’t bring it up again. I’m moving on, starting today.”
“Good. That’s what you should do.” But as I said it, I wasn’t so sure. I’ve always been a sucker for a man who knows his way around a bowl of chopped liver. I just couldn’t shake the feeling that letting Michael go was a terrible mistake.
18. To Tell the Truth, Part 3
I dropped by Philip’s house that evening. Purportedly, I was there to invite him to Skyler’s party. But secretly I was hoping for a little affection. My encounter with Michael had left me slightly shaken. I wanted to re-experience Philip’s appeal. He didn’t answer when I knocked, so I walked in. He leaves his door unlocked like I do. Not wise, I know.
“Philip, you home?”
“Ivy?” he yelled.
“Yes.”
“I’m in the bathroom. I’ll be right out.”
I decided to check my e-mails. “Do you mind if I use your computer?” I asked. He didn’t hear. The water was running.
I went over to his computer and jiggled his mouse. His manuscript appeared on the screen. Ooooh, I shouldn’t look, I know, I know. I’m so bad. I hoped he wouldn’t think I’d invaded his privacy. But I couldn’t resist taking a tiny peek. Just enough to find out what Ariana was up to.
I read quickly. My jaw dropped. There was nothing in
this manuscript about Ariana, the lover of Hitler and Churchill. Instead, I was reading a well-crafted essay describing the morning he and I spent together at the Federal Building having that informal chat with young Mr. Baker. I started scrolling up. There, in black and white, was the story of Omar and Maria, Stu and Veronica, Tiny and Willow, the Radmore-Steins, Ollie, Irving, Winnie-WaShaunté, Cubby Sedgwick. It was all there. A complete narrative of everything I had experienced in the last year. At the very top was his working title: Telling Tales Out of School, by Philip Goodman.
Philip walked through the kitchen door and saw me at the computer. He stopped like he’d been shot with a stun gun.
I felt like someone had punched me in the balls. I don’t have balls, of course, but it looks excruciating when it happens to men, and my pain was just as intense, I can tell you that. “How could you do this?” I asked, barely breaking a whisper.
“Please let me explain.”
“By all means,” I said.
“I got the idea for this book the night you had me over to dinner, when you’d gotten all that press attention and your business took off. It was before we knew each other. I thought it would be interesting to write about your experience. It was unique. I gave my agent a proposal and he pitched it to some publishers. Random House loved it and gave me a big advance. TriStar bought the movie rights. You have to understand, I hadn’t been inspired to write a novel in two years, so here was a project that would get me back on the horse.”
“Oh. I’m so glad I could be of service.”
Ignoring my sarcasm, Philip continued. “Whenever we were together, you always gave me such rich material. Your stories were so entertaining. They were real. You couldn’t make up the characters in your life, Ivy. But then I started having feelings for you. I knew I couldn’t be with you and write this book. That’s when I broke it off.”
“You mean to tell me that you chose your stupid book over me?” I asked, refusing to entertain the idea that any living, breathing, sane man would actually do that.
“I hadn’t planned to, I wanted you. When I told you that wild story about Ariana Nabokov von whatever-her-name-was, I intended to trash what I was really writing. Later, when we argued over that bribe you were thinking of taking, you chose your business over me,” he explained. “Once that happened, I thought, fine, I’ll write the damn book. I wasn’t sure how I’d ever get material without you in my life, but then I got friendly with Sassy. She told me what good friends you were and how you always confided in her. I thought she could be my source.”
“Sassy, my confidante!” I said. “You have got to be kidding.”
“Well, I was wrong, I admit it. Anyway, you and I became friends again and you started opening up to me. Your new stories were so riveting that I kept going. At that point, I was in love with you. Actually, I don’t think I ever stopped loving you, even when we weren’t seeing each other. But I’d hidden the truth for so long that I didn’t know how to come clean. I’m sorry. I never should have lied to you like that.”
I sat on his computer chair shaking my head, staring at the flying-toasters screensaver. Then I looked at him. “Damn you, Philip,” I said. “You’re the last person I would ever expect to lie like this. You broke up with me because I was so dishonest. And look at you; you were full of shit all along. I was falling in love with you. How could you risk what we had for this?”
“It was stupid. I feel like such an idiot.” He looked hopeless standing there.
I just shook my head, disgusted. Finally I stood up and walked to the door. Then I stopped and turned around. “My father was a liar. Cad is a liar. You’re a liar. I don’t get it. Is God punishing me for something? Don’t answer that.” I left.
19. Revenge
On Thursday, Faith picked us up in the kids’ limo for our expedition to Toys “” Us. Over the last few days, I’d gotten in the habit of dropping the girls at school, then climbing back into bed with Sir Elton. When I found myself listening to Joni Mitchell’s Blue album over and over, I knew it was time to get out and try to live again. Faith promised that a trip to Toys “” Us was just what the doctor ordered. I remained skeptical.
“Let’s watch Milo and Otis,” Kate said.
“No, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,” Mae insisted.
“Yu-Gi-Oh!” Irving said, having not a prayer for that DVD in this car full of girls. He was still new and just learning to get along.
“No way. Yu-Gi-Oh! isn’t age-appwopwiate, I’m just thwee. The Potty Show!” Lia shouted.
Kate, Mae, and Skyler burst into giggles. “You are so immature,” Mae told her sister. Lia burst into tears.
“Mae, for God’s sake, she’s three. Give her a break,” Faith warned. “Anyway, let Skyler decide. It’s her birthday.”
“SpongeBob,” Skyler declared.
Soon the TV was blaring. “Are you ready, kids?” And the kids were yelling, “Aye, Aye, Captain.” “I can’t heeeear you,” the captain replied. “Aye, Aye, Captain,” they screamed even louder. “Oh, who lives in a pineapple under the sea? SpongeBob SquarePants!” the children sang. “Absorbent and yellow and porous is he? SpongeBob SquarePants,” they shouted to the TV. All ten eyes were raptly focused on the screen, their voices intent on answering the captain’s musical queries. You’d have to be a Communist not to love SpongeBob, that nutty fry-cook from the Crusty Crab.
Faith reached over and took my hand. “How are you holding up?”
“Not so good, but I’ll live.”
“Of course you will. This is just a setback.”
“Faith, I can’t believe how I’ve screwed everything up. My marriage. My business. My relationships.”
“You didn’t screw it up. You’re just going through a difficult passage. Do you want to see Madame Lala again? This could all just be astrological.”
“No, thanks,” I said. “What if she tells me things are about to get worse? If they are, I don’t want to know. Hand me that NYC Parent Guide. Maybe there’s something we can do with them after Toys ‘’ Us. I’ll check.”
Faith gave me the paper. I flipped through it, checking out the ads for Jodi’s Gym, Pee Wee Tennis, Tiger Schulmann’s Karate . . . Then something familiar caught my eye. No, it couldn’t be. But yes, it was. There, larger than life, was my picture on a two-page spread. What in the world . . .
“Faith, look.” I pointed at the paper. “Is that me?”
“Holy shi—I mean, oh, my God!” she exclaimed, remembering there were minors in the car.
It was me—in color. Next to the picture was the headline, NEED HELP WITH SCHOOL ADMISSIONS? DON’T HIRE IVY AMES UNLESS YOU WANT YOUR MARRIAGE DESTROYED AND YOUR CHILD IN A
THIRD-TIER PLAY SCHOOL.
“I don’t believe it,” I exclaimed. “Stu threatened to ruin me, and look what he’s done.”
“Your client did this to you?”
“Yeah, Stu Needleman, the jerk you met in the Hamptons—you know, the one who works for Steven. My God, that’s my driver’s-license picture,” I said, digging through my wallet and not finding it. “How did he get his hands on my driver’s license?”
“What a terrible thing to say about you, Ivy,” Faith said, looking at the ad.
“Forget what he said. It’s that repulsive picture. I look like an anemic biology student. I’ve always hated that picture, and to see it in all these newspapers, God have mercy,” I wailed.
“We’ve got to do something,” Faith said, dialing on her cell to Steven’s office. She got Steven on the line and explained the problem. Then she handed me the phone. Steven said he didn’t think anything could be done about the papers that had already been distributed, but he assured me that this would never happen again. I know it’s not politically correct to say this, but it was such a relief to have a powerful man to lean on. Why can’t I have one of my very own? Why?
As we shopped at Toys “” Us, I kept my sunglasses and baseball cap on. If someone recognized me from that picture, I’d be devastated. Sure
ly no one would mistake today’s attractive me for that overexposed ten-year-old photo of twenty-pounds-heavier me.
We shopped quickly, did a few turns on the Ferris wheel, saw Barbie’s cool dollhouse, bought everyone a toy, and got the hell out of there.
20. The Girl from Delancey and Orchard
For Skyler’s party, we squeezed new and old friends into our tiny backyard. Steven, Faith, and their children were there; Archie, Willow, Tiny, Jack Henry, Patsy, Veronica, Ollie, Irving, Wendy, Winnie, and their new dachshund puppy, Oscar Mayer—they all came. In a weak moment, I invited Omar, Sassy, and their combined brood. Plus-Sized Mama brought her husband and two kids. Even Rabbi Jacobson, from Shalom Day, made an appearance. I’d called her the day before about making a donation to the temple. I felt terrible about Greg and Dee Dee reneging on their first-choice letter after she’d bent over backward to admit them.
Michael brought food, as promised—his gift to Skyler.
“How’d you get off work?” I asked. “That line is three blocks long.”
“My manager brought his brother in to help. I told him I was catering a private party.”
“Ooh, you are a liar. Why didn’t I know that about you?”
“Hey, it’s close to true. I’m helping, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, you are. And don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
“Where’s Philip? Is he coming?”
“Mmm, I don’t think so. Michael, I want to introduce you to Rabbi Jacobson from Shalom Day.” Michael shook her hand.
“Ivy,” the rabbi said, “I want to thank you for that generous pledge you made to Shalom Day. One hundred thousand dollars will make a difference to so many kids. We’d like to call it The Ivy Ames Scholarship Fund if that’s okay with you.”
Michael gave me a quizzical look.
“Long story. I’ll explain later,” I told him. “You know, Rabbi, I’d prefer you call it The Buck McCall Scholarship Fund, since he’s the man who gave me the money. Plus, I think it would really piss him off.”
“Well, okay, whatever you want. We always honor the wishes of the donor, whatever the motive,” she said, laughing.
