Meet Me in Manhattan (True Vows)

by Judith Arnold

  Four years in landlocked Colorado hadn't changed her that much. She was still a Jersey girl, in love with the shore. She'd learned to ski in college, and after graduation she'd worked for a season in Vail, catering to the wealthy skiers and joining them on the slopes whenever she had a day off. But mastering the slopes had been only one adventure. She'd wanted more.

  So she'd learned how to sail and joined the crew of a sailboat for a transatlantic trip. Finally the expression "learning the ropes" made sense to her. She'd learned what a sheet was, and a shroud, a halyard, and a forestay. She'd learned enough different knots to qualify for a Boy Scout merit badge, and she'd learned how to clip her vest to a railing so she wouldn't get knocked overboard by a swell. She'd worked her ass off and loved every minute of it-the calms, the storms, the blisters that turned into callus across her palms. The way her skin and hair wore the scent of the sea as if it were perfume.

  She wasn't a thrill seeker, she assured herself. She was just ... someone who'd grown up vaulting over fences on the back of a horse. Tearing down a mountain on a pair of narrow polyurethane slats or sailing across the ocean in a streamlined fiberglass bathtub, powered by wind against canvas, seemed natural to her.

  Lying on a beach on St. Barts, with a Jameson on the rocks within reach of her left hand and a neglected book within reach of her right, offered a different sort of exhilaration than galloping across a field or sailing across the ocean. But she deserved this vacation, just as she deserved the Cartier watch circling her wrist. She was thirty-four years old, and she was a vice president at one of the world's biggest financial corporations.

  What a long, strange trip, she thought with a smile.

  There had been her return to New York City from Europe after the transatlantic sail, when she'd decided to become an actress. She'd given herself a year, attended auditions with hundreds of other young women-gorgeous women, staggeringly talented women, women who'd graduated from Juilliard and CarnegieMellon and the Tisch School of the Arts at NYU and actually knew what they were doing on stage. Women who were willing to starve and wait tables for years and sacrifice their entire lives for the chance to appear in a thirty-second commercial for mouthwash or to be cast as a juror on Law & Order. Erika didn't want it enough. She'd given it a year and moved on.

  Her degree in psychology had helped her a bit with acting, and it helped her even more once she landed a job as a recruiter, evaluating job candidates. That had led to a job at an investment bank. After a few years there, she'd decided she needed another challenge, something new to get her blood pumping. Business school.

  She wasn't going to be just another drone, though, learning marketing and accounting and winding up in an inner office, pushing papers around for no other reason than that someone was paying her big bucks to do so. In her riding days, she'd been a jumper. She wanted to clear some fences in business school, too. So she'd enrolled in the Thunderbird International School of Management, studied in Arizona and Mexico, and earned a degree in international business.

  She'd had some good jobs before landing her current position. But now she'd reached a pinnacle, the business equivalent of making nationals. She was thirty-four years old, she had an apartment in Manhattan-a tiny one, but all hers-and her life was complete.

  Almost.

  Her eyes were feeling the sun through her lids, so she rolled over onto her stomach, careful not to knock over her drink or bury her book in the sand. The heat baked her back and she sighed. Really, she told herself, she didn't need more. If she'd wanted a man in her life, she could have had one.

  She had had one-more than one. There were always dates, always guys. Always opportunities for romance. She worked with rich, powerful men. She hung out in neighborhood clubs full of funky, arty men. Friends set her up.

  She remembered one recent blind date with a banker. He'd been such a cool guy-suave, poised, successful. He'd traveled the world, like her. He spoke several languages, like her. They'd gone to an expensive restaurant and he'd ordered something weirdfrog legs, she recalled with a smile-and described the two-bedroom, two-bath apartment he'd just bought in Manhattan, and he'd told her he needed help decorating it.

  A come-on if ever she'd heard one. A sign of genuine interest, a bid for a second date, or at the very least a hint that he'd like her to come to his apartment.

  She'd sat across the linen-covered table from him, eating something far less exotic than frog's legs-she couldn't remember what, even though she remembered what he'd ordered-and imagining herself living in his two-bedroom, two-bath apartment. Decorated by her. With a kitchen big enough to prepare a gourmet feast in, big enough for her friends to keep her company while she fixed that gourmet feast. A couple of kids running around underfoot, too. Beautiful kids who'd gotten into topranked private schools.

  It had been a glorious image-except that she couldn't find the suave, multilingual banker anywhere in the picture. In her imagination, she'd loved the kitchen and the kids. Not the man.

  She was okay with that. If she never fell in love, so be it. She could always go to a sperm bank or find a willing male friend to provide a share of the genes if she wanted to have a baby.

  Which she did, she admitted silently, reaching for the Jameson. The glass was filmed with sweat, the lime-flavored whisky cool against her tongue and warm going down her throat. She would love to become a mother.

  But she just couldn't seem to fall in love with a man.

  She'd fallen in love once. So many years ago. Falling in love with Ted had seemed so easy-but she'd been young then, too young even to understand what love was about. The giddy joy of being desired? The satisfaction of knowing this one person was all yours? The sweaty, clumsy sex in the backseat of an old jeep Wagoneer? The security of having someone to hold hands with, to hang out with, to talk with for hours? To talk about nothing with, all the while knowing that "nothing" was everything?

  First love. Puppy love. All well and good when a girl was eighteen years old. But now ...

  Now she was a hot-shot VP. Competent, confident, content. To accept a man into her life would be to change the life she had, which she really liked the way it was. To love someone would mean to lose a part of herself. Which part was she supposed to sacrifice? What, of the many things that gave her pleasure, would she be expected to give up in order to make room for love?

  A two-bedroom, two-bath apartment would be terrific. But her tiny studio apartment near Gramercy Park was also terrific. And it was all hers.

  Maybe he was crazy to contact her. It had been so long. Why pick open a wound that had successfully healed? Why risk the pain, the possibility of infection? Erika had left a scar, but not a disfiguring one. Just because she was living across the river from him in Manhattan wasn't reason enough for him to suggest that they get together.

  He had a full life. A good job, finally. His position at East River Marketing was more than a job, or even a career. It was a calling. It tapped into his artistic talents. It satisfied his constant need for change. It demanded that he work hard-and when he was passionate about something, he loved working hard. One day he'd be occupied devising a strategy to convey not just what a cable network was but what it meant to consumers. The next day he'd be busy designing a concept that embodied a national magazine. Sometimes the deadlines were so intense he didn't bother to eat. He didn't skip meals merely because he was pressed for time; he stopped eating because during those pulse-pounding marathon stretches at work when everything was due yesterday, he became another creature, not quite human. All his energy, all his concentration had to be about the client, the assignment, the commission. He would live on soy latter for days and not even miss the experience of chewing.

  Work was great. His social life was also great. He was in a relationship. Three solid years with a fantastic woman, sharing a comfortable apartment in Brooklyn, just across the bridge from Manhattan. She was beautiful, smart, good-natured ... everything he wanted in a woman.

  And yet ... something was missing.
Something wasn't quite right.

  She wanted to get married. He didn't blame her. They were in their thirties, and she had that biological clock thing going, and-well, three years was a long time for a couple to be together without taking the next step.

  Ted wanted to take the next step. But something held him back. Something nagged at him, whispering in the darkest recesses of his soul that if Marissa wasn't the one, he shouldn't marry her. And it whispered that she wasn't the one.

  He hated the feeling of limbo. He hated becoming a cliche: the guy who couldn't commit. He wanted to do right by her. But ... something was missing.

  He knew what that something was.

  What was the current jargon word? Closure. He needed closure with Erika.

  Stupid. He had closure with her. They'd had closure when she told him, just before leaving for college, that she wanted them to be friends. And when she'd broken up with him definitively over the phone. And when she'd driven up to Denver to meet him at the airport, and he'd seen with his own eyes that she was no longer the girl he'd remembered, the long-haired, goldenskinned girl he'd been so madly in love with. And in every cold, clipped communication they'd shared since then, the few times they'd run into each other at gatherings of the old gang in Mendham, when they'd chatted politely for as little time as pos sible before gravitating to opposite ends of the room.

  If closure was the same thing as having a door slam shut, that door had slammed shut on him enough times to get the point across.

  But.

  Something was missing.

  Someone from the old Mendham group-Allyson, maybehad provided him with Erika's email address. What the hell, he thought. Just see her and make sure that door is not just shut but locked and bolted. So he sent her a note and suggested they meet somewhere for a drink, for old time's sake.

  A few days later she replied: Sure.

  He asked her to name the place, and she recommended Fanelli's Cafe, downtown in SoHo. They set a time and a date.

  He had never really believed in ghosts, even though he'd had fun pretending his childhood home was haunted. Now he did believe in ghosts, because suddenly he found himself haunted by the ghost of the lovesick boy he'd once been, pining for a girl who'd walked away from him.

  He wasn't pining, he assured himself. He was just exorcising a ghost.

  Darting between the raindrops the day of their meeting, he arrived at the corner bistro on time. He surveyed the pub and didn't see her. She'd picked the place; he figured she would have chosen someplace convenient for her. If he could get there on time when he lived in Brooklyn, surely she could get there on time from her Manhattan apartment.

  All right, so she was running a little late. No big deal. He sauntered down to the far end of the bar and settled on an empty stool that gave him a good view of the place. He'd be able to see her the moment she entered-before she saw him. This would give him a chance to assess her, and to brace himself.

  The bartender approached, a skinny, pretty boy with an air about him. Ted realized the stool he sat on was prime real estate; he'd have to order a drink if he wanted to stay there. He asked for a Budweiser.

  Waiting for her gave him too much time. Time to wonder whether he was overdressed or underdressed. He'd chosen cords and a polo shirt, neat but not prissy. He'd dressed in a way he hoped would communicate that he was prosperous, content, cool.

  Christ. You're still trying to impress her. Maybe you ought to give her one of your business cards, while you're at it.

  The minutes ticked by. He nursed his beer. The voices around him melted into a blur of sound. The door opened to admit patrons. None was Erika.

  He was trying to impress her, and she'd stood him up. Talk about a door slamming in his face. He decided that if she hadn't arrived by the time he'd finished his beer, he'd leave a note with the bartender. A ten-dollar bill and a note inviting her to have a drink on him. That would be gentlemanly.

  And cool. Impressively cool.

  A note saying, Maybe next time. Only there wouldn't be a next time. He'd accept the meaning behind her absence. Finally, finally, it would be over for him. He'd purge her from his mind once and for all. He promised himself he would.

  The door opened again, and that promise flew out into the drizzly night as Erika stepped inside.

  She was beautiful.

  Of course she was beautiful. He knew she was beautiful. She'd been beautiful at sixteen, when she'd been the new girl in their high school sophomore class. She'd been beautiful at eighteen, when she'd become his girlfriend. She'd been beautiful when she'd ridden horses, when she'd danced, when she'd lain beneath him in the backseat of the Wagoneer, opening her body and her soul to him. She'd even been beautiful in the Denver airport, with her hair cropped short and her college friends snickering about the loser boyfriend who'd flown halfway across the country with a teddy bear in his hands.

  She was beautiful now, her hair glistening with drops of rain, her slim body decked out in a white tank top and a black jumpsuit, her throat circled by a chunky black necklace. She still had the ramrod posture she'd had in high school, the same long, slim legs, the same generous breasts. The same gentle brown eyes and golden skin and intoxicating smile.

  She searched the room with her gaze, eventually spotting him. She worked her way to his end of the bar in strong, decisive strides, and he realized she wasn't nervous at all. Her gait intimidated him as much as her beauty and poise.

  Her smile didn't intimidate him, though. It was young, sweet, eager. She seemed truly happy to see him. A big difference from that time in the airport, he thought as he smiled back at her. As long as she kept smiling, he'd be able to think of her not as the girl of his dreams, the one that got away-pick a cliche, any cliche-but as a chic, together woman.

  Who was heading straight toward him. Who had spotted the empty stool next to him and bee-lined to it. As if she was genuinely glad to be there, with him.

  "Hey," he greeted her, as she settled onto the stool. His gaze ran the length of her and he blurted out his reaction. "Wow."

  "I know. Wow." Her smile grew even wider and warmer, and then she started babbling about how she didn't have any money with her, she'd left her wallet at home, she'd thought about going back to get it but she didn't want to be late-hell, she was already nearly half an hour late-and she'd been at the gym, and ...

  "Don't worry about it," he said, taking those words to heart. She shouldn't worry about not having any money with her. He shouldn't worry about sitting with her in this bar. She was a friend-a gorgeous woman, yes, but also a friend. Someone who'd known him when he was a kid, when he was a jerk, when he was lost and struggling. He wasn't lost and struggling anymore, and Marissa didn't think he was a jerk most of the time.

  This was good. Seeing Erika was good. Sitting next to her, catching a whiff of her perfume ... It was all good.

  Talking to her was good, too. There had been a lot of passion in their relationship, plenty of emotional peaks and chasms, but there had also been friendship. They used to talk about everythingtheir families, music, work, animals, their hopes and dreams. And here they were, having a beer together and talking. To Ted's surprise, talking to Erika after all these years proved to be easy.

  She told him about her job. He told her about his job at East River-and he recognized that the pleasure came not from impressing her with his fancy title and his exalted responsibilities but simply from sharing with her the things that comprised his life. He didn't have to impress her. This was Erika. Someone who knew him, knew his strengths and his weaknesses, knew his history. Someone whose voice was like a beloved song, one that evoked memories of all the times he'd enjoyed that song in the past but also could be appreciated for its beauty in the present.

  Beyond friendship, though ... He wanted to kiss her.

  He'd arranged to see her because he'd hoped to straighten out his head and make sure he was completely over her. And maybe he was over that old love, the wild, tangled, jumping-off-a-cliff love they'
d had so many years ago. The attraction he felt toward her now was entirely different. It was the attraction of a man to a gorgeous, smart, radiant woman.

  A woman as familiar as an old song, but as new as a melody he was hearing for the first time.

  "So," he asked, "are you seeing anyone?"

  "I'm seeing lots of people," she said casually.

  Her answer pleased and dismayed him. Pleased him because she was apparently not involved with anyone. She was free, unattached, available.

  Dismayed him because he was not free, unattached, or available. And he shouldn't be thinking about how he wanted to cup his hands around her smooth, dewy cheeks and draw her face to his, and kiss her and kiss her and kiss her until the bar they were in vanished and the voices of all the other drinkers and diners faded into the rainy night sky and all that existed was Ted and Erika and their endless kisses.

  Instead, he had to answer her question about whether he was seeing someone. He had to answer honestly, because he had never lied to Erika and he wasn't about to start lying now.

  "I'm sort of ... well, yeah."

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt as if he had lost his footing. He remembered those times when he'd been learning to surf, down in the tropical heat of Costa Rica, with that crazy stoner Bob bouncing on a board next to him, instructing him on how to sense the wave, how to time its approach, how to start paddling with your hands and then hoist yourself to your feet and ride it in. How many times had he misjudged the wave? How many times had he managed to stand on the board and ride it a few thrilling feet, only to have the damned thing slip out from under him?

  That was how he felt now: that something was slipping out from under his feet, and he was about to plunge into a surging, frothing wave. Bob had also taught him never to fight the wave but just to let it toss him around until it tired itself out, at which point he would rise to the surface. He always did, but sometimes he'd had to hold his breath for so long he was certain his lungs would burst. Sometimes the ocean just kept playing with him, spinning and tumbling him, and he was sure he would drown. And he would open his eyes and see the sky just above the surface of the water, the air so close, his life so close-and he would fight the tide and force his way up, toward that light.