“We heard you had your appendix out in Paris,” Sister Margaret said with a look of concern. She was the twenty-five-year-old nun at the front desk. She had gone into religious orders at eighteen, which was rare these days, and had only recently taken final vows. She had called Timmie’s office to talk to Jade and check on when she was coming back from Europe, and they had all been worried and frightened to hear that she was sick. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” Timmie said with a broad smile. “As good as new. Although it was a little scary when it happened. I’m okay now.” She had forgotten about it entirely in the past two weeks. It was as though it had never happened. “Anyone new?” she asked with interest. She loved knowing which children were there, and why. She took a deep personal interest in each case. St. Cecilia’s was dear to her heart, for reasons most people never knew, although years before she had told her own story to Sister Anne, as they worked side by side, restoring the house. She had helped them put the place together, only two years after her own son had died, and the year after Derek left. She readily admitted it had saved her life.
“We’re still waiting for the two new kids to arrive, but I don’t think they’ll be here till next week. There’s been some sort of technical delay in the system. We’re trying to get them here by Thanksgiving.” The holiday was only five days away. They fought hard to pull kids out of the system, and give them a home that could potentially change their lives, and almost always did. Once in a while, it was too late, and the children sent to them were too hardened, too damaged, or too sick, and had to be placed in medical facilities that offered either medical or psychiatric treatment that they could not. St. Cecilia’s wasn’t a jail or a hospital or a psych ward for children, it was in fact a loving home, provided for them by Timmie, where the children who lived there could thrive and enjoy opportunities, both educational and emotional, that they would never have had otherwise. It was what she wished she had had forty years before, and would have altered the course of her life at the time.
As she always did, she wandered through the house all morning, stopped and talked to the children who were familiar to her, and tried to become acquainted with those who had arrived in the past month or two, whom she had seen, but not yet talked to. She approached them all with respect and caution, and gave them the choice as to whether they wanted to open up to her or not. And after that, she sat on the porch with the nuns, and watched the younger ones play in the back garden, while the older ones went off to visit friends or do weekend jobs. It was just like having twenty-one children, with all the work, patience, and understanding that entailed, and love.
Just before lunchtime, one of the children she knew well came and talked to her. He was nine years old, an African American boy with one arm. His father had beaten him so badly, and then shot him and his mother, that the child had lost his arm. The mother had died, and the father had gone to prison for life. Jacob had been with them since he was five, and managed extremely well with one arm. He had come to them straight from the hospital after the shooting. The social workers in foster care had felt it was pointless to try and place him through them. He was unable to be adopted, as his father refused to sign the relinquishment papers, but he would have been nearly impossible to place anyway. The nuns of St. Cecilia’s had been quick to embrace him and bring him home. He handed Timmie a drawing he had made, of a cat with purple hair and a big smile. Those who had been at St. Cecilia’s for a long time were, for the most part, happy kids. You could easily see the ones who were recently arrived, who still looked frightened, and had wounded eyes. It took time for them to understand that they were safe, after the terrors many of them had survived.
“Thank you, Jacob,” Timmie said, smiling at him, holding the drawing. “Does the cat have a name?”
“Harry,” Jacob said, looking pleased. “He’s a magic cat. He speaks French.”
“Really? I was just in France last month. In Paris. I had my appendix out,” she informed him, and he nodded, with a serious expression.
“I know. Did it hurt when they took it out?”
“No, they put me to sleep. And then it just hurt for a few days after that. They were very nice to me in the hospital. And everyone spoke English, so it was okay. I wasn’t scared.” He nodded, satisfied with the information, and then went back to play.
Timmie stayed through lunch, and chatted with the nuns, whose company she had enjoyed over the years. Some had moved on to other positions and programs elsewhere, but most had stayed. One had gone to South America to work with Indian children in Peru the year before, and one had gone to Ethiopia shortly after they started, but other than that, the nuns at St. Cecilia’s loved the children and the work, and had been there for years.
It was two o’clock when she left and drove back to Bel Air. She felt happy and peaceful as she always did when she visited them. Zack was watching a video when she got back. He didn’t ask and she didn’t tell him where she’d been. It was a private joy for her that she never shared. She wanted no publicity for it, no attention, no awards, no recognition, no kudos. It was just something she did, that meant the world to her.
“I called you on your cell phone. They’re having a sale at Fred Segal’s. I wanted to know if you wanted to meet me there.”
“I turned off my phone,” she said, smiling at him. She always did when she went to visit the children. She didn’t want any interruptions when she was there. She liked giving them her full attention. “I’m sorry. Do you want to go now, or head to the beach?” She was his for the rest of the weekend, and didn’t really care what they did. It was cold in the city, and she knew it would be windy and chilly at the beach.
“Let’s go to the sale,” he said, looking pleased. He turned off the movie, while she went to get a drink of water, and five minutes later they were in her Mercedes heading for Fred Segal. She never said it, but she thought his ancient Porsche was a death trap, and he kept it in poor repair since he couldn’t afford to do otherwise. He liked driving her car. It was the latest sports car. She had treated herself to it that summer. It handled beautifully as they headed down Melrose. And when they got there, Fred Segal was a zoo. It always was when they had sales, but Zack managed to find a stack of things he liked, and Timmie found some things too, some cashmere sweaters with hoods for the beach, a gold Marni jacket she could wear with jeans to the office, and two pairs of shoes. They both looked delighted as they headed to the car with their spoils. He had paid for most of his own, except a leather jacket that he fell in love with and couldn’t afford, so she got it for him. He was thrilled with the gift. She had also bought some coffee table books, and they had gotten takeout pasta at the deli so they didn’t have to cook dinner that night. It had been a perfect afternoon. Zack settled back in front of the TV to finish his movie as soon as he got home, while Timmie read several copies of The Wall Street Journal she’d been saving all week. She liked catching up on her reading on weekends.
As the movie ended, Zack looked over at her and laughed. “Shit, Timmie, I love you, but you really are a guy.” He didn’t mean it quite the way it sounded, and she looked up at him in surprise. It didn’t sound like a compliment to her.
“What does that mean?”
“How many women do you know who read The Wall Street Journal?”
“A lot actually,” she said, trying not to wince at the sexist comment. In addition to which, how many women ran corporations the size of hers? In many ways, she was one of a kind. And the morning she had spent with the children at St. Cecilia’s made her even more special, but he had no idea about that. She wondered after his somewhat unflattering comment if his viewing her “as a guy” was why they so rarely made love. It suddenly made her feel insecure about herself. “Why does reading The Wall Street Journal make me ‘a guy’?”
“Look at you, you’re a business mogul. You have about a million employees in I don’t know how many countries, and you’re a household name. How many women ever come close to that? They stay home
and have kids, or work as secretaries, or get their tits redone. Women just don’t think like you do, or act like you do, or work like you do. Don’t get me wrong, I like it. But it would scare the shit out of most guys,” he said honestly as she sighed, and looked sad. What he had just said confirmed what she had believed for years. Apparently she was right.
“It always has,” she said mournfully. “I guess they don’t get it, that you can be successful and work your ass off in a man’s world, and still be a woman. I don’t see why it has to be either-or.”
“You wouldn’t. That’s what I mean. You’re a guy.” It was depressing to hear, although not news to her. She was sure most men who met her felt that way, although they didn’t say it out loud, like Zack. “It’s okay,” he reassured her, “I like you just as you are.” But he didn’t love her. That was the whole point. Men never had, and never would. Her husband had left with another man, and all the men she’d met since either tried to take advantage of her, or ran like hell. Or felt like Zack, that she was nice, but Zack was as likely to fall head over heels in love with her as he was to grow wings and fly. She didn’t want him to anyway, she reminded herself. And a little while later she put the pasta they had bought in the microwave. His comment had upset her considerably, and hurt her feelings, although she didn’t point it out to him. She didn’t like showing him her vulnerable side. Instead, she asked him what he was doing for Thanksgiving, and he surprised her by saying he was leaving town. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask him before. She had assumed he’d be around, and she had nowhere to go.
“You are? You didn’t tell me that.” She tried not to look hurt, but was. She forgot sometimes how unattached they were to each other, and how limited their relationship was. In effect, it was a five-month two-night stand.
“You didn’t ask. I’m flying up to Seattle, and having Thanksgiving at my aunt’s. I go up there every year, unless I have something to do here. You never said anything, so I figured you had plans.” She noticed that he didn’t invite her to come to Seattle. And in fact, she had no plans of her own. She had no family at all, just friends and work. “Are you doing something special?” he asked with a look of interest. He might have been willing to forgo Thanksgiving at his aunt’s for a holiday meal with one of her celebrity friends.
“Actually, I’m not,” she said simply. Holidays were always painful for her, for obvious reasons, and she tried not to think of them till the last minute, when the inevitable had to be faced. This year had been no different, and she’d been too busy to think about it for the past few weeks. Denial was a wonderful thing. She had somehow assumed that since they had a weekend relationship, she’d be with him on Thanksgiving. It wasn’t entirely his fault that she hadn’t mentioned it and he’d made other plans, although it would have been nice if he’d said something to her. They had been together for the past three weekends and he never said a word. “I don’t usually do anything too exciting for Thanksgiving or Christmas. I’m not too keen on the holidays anymore.” She didn’t go into further detail, and in this case, less was more. He hadn’t been in her life the year before, so he didn’t know what her habits were.
“I don’t like them much either, which is why I always go up to my aunt’s.” He didn’t ask if she had anywhere else to go, and assumed she did. He couldn’t imagine her enjoying Thanksgiving at his aunt’s. She lived in a retirement community in Bellevue, outside Seattle, and her husband was a prison guard. It wasn’t exactly high end, and he couldn’t imagine Timmie participating in that, or how they would react to her. It was easier not to ask. “I probably won’t come back till Monday. I hang out with my cousins when I’m up there. I hope you figure out something to do.”
“Thanks,” she said, trying not to look annoyed. In fact, she wasn’t angry at him. She was saddened and slightly hurt. He hadn’t even offered to come back for the weekend, after spending Thanksgiving with them. It told her a lot about what the relationship meant to him, and didn’t. But if she was honest with herself, it didn’t mean much more to her. It was just depressing to be alone on Thanksgiving. It wasn’t his fault, or even hers. She should have thought of it sooner and made other plans.
The rest of the weekend was easy and peaceful. He went back to the TV while she did the dishes. They went to bed early that night, and he left the next morning after breakfast. He was going out with friends. It often happened that way when they didn’t go to the beach. He usually left early, and made arrangements that didn’t include her. It was yet another reminder of all they didn’t share. Most of his friends were in their twenties and thirties, and Timmie had figured out early on that she and they had nothing in common. Zack was the only common link they shared, and he was far more at ease with them. It was an open secret between them that she didn’t like his friends. They drugged, they drank, most of them were models and actors, working as waiters and bartenders in Hollywood, waiting for their big break. Even Zack was long of tooth to be in their midst, although he looked no older than they. He had long since invested considerable energy in remaining one of them. The forever Peter Pan. Being around them made Timmie feel old, and bored her to tears.
He called on Wednesday night before he left for Seattle, to wish her a happy Thanksgiving, which was nice at least, and she didn’t tell him she had been unable to come up with anything to do. Everyone she knew was either busy or away. She’d had an extremely hectic week, and didn’t have time to think of it or deal with it to any great extent. She said nothing to David or Jade either, as she knew they went to their families every year, and she didn’t want to intrude. It was just going to be one of those off years.
Jade had been in high spirits in the office all week. She had heard from four of the six men she’d written to on the Internet. The other two hadn’t picked up their e-mail yet. But four had answered, including the one she was convinced she would like most, the architect who had graduated from U.C. Berkeley the same year she had. She had a date with him the following week, for coffee at Starbucks, so they could check each other out, as David had suggested to her. And two more were asking to have lunch with her. She was having fun, for the first time in a while.
When Thanksgiving morning rolled around, Timmie lay in her bed, wide awake and staring at the ceiling. There was something very revealing about spending Thanksgiving alone. It reminded her of where her life had gone, and what she’d been doing with it recently. She’d been spending time with men who didn’t care about her, weren’t attached or connected to her, any more than she was to them, and without her office to go to, she had nothing to do. She didn’t want to go to Malibu alone.
She dressed and put on jeans and a sweatshirt, while trying to figure out what to do with herself. There was a simple solution that came to her finally, as she sat watching the Macy’s parade on TV alone in her living room, which seemed pathetic, even to her. She kept her gaze averted from the photograph of Mark on her bookcase, and from remembering that he would have been sixteen years old by now. Holidays always made her heart ache again with a vengeance, and she was determined not to let that happen, or to indulge herself by feeling sorry for herself. She picked up her bag and denim jacket and went out the door. She knew exactly where to go, and should have thought of it before.
She arrived just in time for Thanksgiving lunch at St. Cecilia’s. The nuns looked surprised to see her, but gave her a warm welcome. She had never shared Thanksgiving with them before, but they were thrilled to see her, as were the children. She went home at five o’clock, filled with turkey and stuffing, cranberry jelly, and sweet potatoes covered in marshmallow topping. It had been the perfect way to spend the holiday. She was still coasting on the warm feelings of it when she got home, and decided to call Zack on his cell phone to wish him a happy Thanksgiving. He answered on the first ring, and she could hear people talking and laughing in the background. He told her they were at dinner, and he would call her later that evening. He never did, nor for the rest of the weekend.
It was a statement about him,
her life, and the decisions and choices she had made for the last eleven years. It was something she needed to see and think about. She wasn’t sure what she should do differently in the future, but she knew there was a message in it, and it was a wake-up call to her. There was nothing malicious about Zack. He just didn’t care a lot about her. Nor she about him. Which made her question what she was doing with him, and how many years she was going to waste with men like him.
She spent the weekend cleaning out closets, reading The Wall Street Journal, going over papers she had brought home with her, and doing sketches for their summer line. All worthwhile activities, without question, and it was how she was going to spend the rest of her life, if she didn’t make some major changes soon. The question that kept running through her mind was how. She wasn’t even sure what her options were, or if she had any. She spent a lot of time thinking about it over the weekend, particularly when she realized again on Sunday night that Zack had never called. His silence was deafening and eloquent over the holiday weekend.
Chapter 8
It was Thursday, a full week after Thanksgiving, before Zack called. It was a clear message to Timmie. Several of them in fact. The first one was that he wasn’t all that crazy about her, which was hardly a news flash, particularly if he thought of her as a “guy.” And the other was that if she didn’t actively do something about it, Christmas was going to look a lot like Thanksgiving, and she wanted to do whatever she could to avoid that. She broached the subject with Zack on Saturday afternoon in Malibu, where they were spending the weekend. He made no reference to the fact that he hadn’t called her over Thanksgiving, nor did she. In fact, he never even bothered to ask her what she did. He obviously felt that her holidays were not his problem, nor did he feel any inclination to include her in his. It was a powerful statement to her.
“What are you doing over Christmas?” Timmie asked him, as they started thinking about dinner. It was raining so they couldn’t barbecue, and she had offered to cook pasta for him, which he declined. He was dieting and said he didn’t want to eat carbs, so he offered to make a big salad for both of them, which suited her. She wasn’t hungry anyway.
First Sight Page 15
