Arm Candy

by Jill Kargman

  “Mace? Like that spray you use on rapists?”

  “No, the club with a metal orb with spikes on it. He thought we would be together forever. I didn’t deserve him.”

  “Where the fuck is this coming from? Seeing his mom?” wondered Allison, who had never seen her friend pine away over any guy.

  “I don’t know, I’m unglued,” Eden marveled, not recognizing herself. “Maybe being with Penelope was the catalyst, but I think because of my big birthday coming up I’ve been doing all this bizarre emotional reckoning. I also think . . . maybe in a way being with Chase reminded me of my younger self. What I used to be like. Anyway, it’s a silly time-suck because you can’t go back.”

  “I remember now that you said Wes’s mom was really cool. Didn’t she used to visit and take you guys out? You loved her—”

  “Yes! She’s amazing. She’s so self-assured and happy and still in love with her husband. In a way she’s what I would love to be like at that age.”

  “Geez, I never knew this haunted you like this.”

  “It didn’t . . . until now. Somehow Chase reminds me of what Wes wanted to be; the same strength and ideals, but with money. All the money Wes wished he had so he could shower it on me. I was such a greedy piece of shit.”

  “Listen, give yourself a break,” Allison said. “If he was so great, you wouldn’t have ended up with Otto.”

  But in the darkest recesses of Eden’s mind, she knew the truth was too embarrassing to admit to even her best friend. She had ended up with Otto because he could make her famous. He would make sure she would never have a return bus ticket home to Shickshinny. Otto made her safe, and then he made her a star.

  The older she grew, the less her ego mattered to her, and the more she felt the emptiness in her chest. The first four decades had been scripted, mapped out with a cartographer’s precision. She got to the destination she thought she had punched into the satellites of fate above, only to find that X sadly did not mark the spot. Unlike the first forty years, the next forty years were hazy and uncharted. And this time, she wanted to go off road, drop from the grid, not care about where she was going or what she would find. The only thing she wanted to seek was happiness—something, she feared, was more difficult to locate than even the most deeply buried treasure.

  59

  Time and Tide wait for no man, but time always stands still for a woman of thirty.

  —Anonymous

  After Wesley and Penelope tucked young Wes into bed, they sat on the front porch with two glasses of wine, side by side.

  “I feel strangely spiritual all of a sudden, and I’m not a religious guy,” Wesley said, smiling.

  “You are amazing,” said Penelope, taking his hand. “Here you are, living your life, and we show up like a tornado, and you take it all in stride. I’m so sorry. I—tried to call, I just didn’t have the guts. I had to just be extreme, I guess that’s what I do. That’s how I got to Woodstock in the first place, it was total impulse!”

  Wesley squeezed her hand. “Thank God you did. See? There I go again. I’ve never believed in God. And in these parts, that is top secret—you’re in the Bible Belt, my dear. But I just never connected with the church or even the whole concept of a higher, invisible being. I’m a builder. My work’s based on things working, fitting together, making sense. I run my hand over the beams, I can touch the wood, bend the metals. God never has made sense to me.”

  Penelope nodded, understanding his point.

  “And then—I was sitting right here, two, three days ago and I thought to myself, no, I guess it was a prayer, really, that I could fall in love and have a family. Your arrival,” he said, looking in her eyes. “It’s almost like I was heard.”

  Penelope leaned in and kissed Wesley, and the kissing, as it turned out, never ended. Six months later, once again in his young life, Wes would serve as ring bearer: but this time to his own parents.

  With Wes carrying their thin bands, handmade by a goldsmith friend of Wesley’s, Penelope and Wesley got married. The years were good to this one-time fractured family, and they more than made up for lost time. And soon, Wes became a brother.

  His parents had three more children, Lila, Hugh, and Eloise. Friends from his old neighborhood in San Francisco would come to visit, reminders of a life Wes could barely recall—a life with his mom that was now eclipsed by the picture-perfect family. It seeded in him a desire to wander; after all, his own parents wouldn’t have met had they ignored their insatiable urges to travel, to experiment, to take risks.

  So it wasn’t a complete shock to his mom and dad when Wes announced, at eighteen, that he wanted to move far away for college. In a quasi-continuation of his father’s line of expertise, Wes decided he wanted to study architecture and went to Columbia in New York City.

  Naturally the family was crushed, but something inside his mother made her proud—Wes was certainly wired like his parents, following his gut, going for what he wanted, and maybe, she hoped, his path would lead him to a love who deserved him and cherished his enormous heart and those big blue eyes like his father’s. She suspected, even when Wes was four, that he would have a loving gaze so powerful that a woman who felt that connection to him could never get over him, just as Penelope could never get over Wesley. Until she found him once again. And she was so happy, so at peace, finally, that she knew if she had never gone after him, he would have haunted her forever.

  60

  Looking forty is great! If you’re fifty.

  —Anonymous

  Eden got a nervous chill as she clicked through Wes’s company Web site. It was crazy to think they were together before the Internet was even a glimmer in Al Gore’s eye. So much time had passed. Each aspect of the site was pure Wes. Clean and restrained, cool and laid-back. It was unpretentious, with modest copy and clean lines. As she looked at the images of what he had built abroad, she smiled. How amazing, what he had done. As much as she loved being with an artist all those years, she saw in Wes’s portfolio true art fused with science, a brilliant combination that had her staring in awe at her Mac.

  In a small sans seriph font on the flush-left page menu read the word “contact.” She stared at it for so long it was as if the pixels became separated, floating like blurry dots that both tantalized and paralyzed. She took a deep breath and clicked on it. Address, various company e-mails, a phone number. E-mail would be too insane. She couldn’t send him psychotic volumes and she couldn’t simply shoot off a few lines, either. Both would be odd, and she concluded it was not the medium to reconnect through. She thought of Voltaire: “I didn’t have time to write you a short letter so I wrote you a long one.”

  That left the phone. For the first time in her life, Eden was stressing like a normal teen girl, the insecure awkward wreck that she had never been. She had never been one to dial and hang up, yet here she was, almost forty, freaking out, as if the buttons on her phone were electrically charged and would zap her. Her fingertip hovered, then retreated back into a nervous fist, which Eden pumped into the table, nervously. Fuck. What was her problem? Okay, deep breaths. She dialed, her heart pounding with the depression of each key.

  “Bennett Associates.”

  “Hi, yes, hello. Um, may I please have Wes Bennett’s office? Please?” IDIOT! She couldn’t speak normally to the receptionist! Eden almost hung up.

  “Wes Bennett’s office.”

  “Hello, hi. I’m calling for him? Wes Bennett?”

  “He’s in a meeting with a client right now; may I direct you to his voice mail or take a message for you?”

  “Uh, sure . . . ,” Eden stammered.

  “Which do your prefer?”

  “Um, I’ll take his voice mail. Please. Thank you so much.”

  “Sure thing, I’ll put you right through.”

  Eden was about to press the button to hang up when she heard his voice. Grainy yet soft, his familiar tone floated over the receiver. It was real—he was within her reach. When the beep sounded, she almost thr
ew up.

  “Wes, hello, hi, sorry, um, this is Eden calling, actually.” (Fuck!) “I . . . sorry to call so randomly.” (OMGOMGOMG) “I just had bumped into your mom, who is just incredible and we had this really amazing time and she told me all about what you’ve been up to, and I’m just blown away, really. So anyway, I know you just moved back here, to New York, um” (Idiot! Idiot!), “and I just wanted to see if maybe you would ever want to, like, maybe get together and catch up for, like, a drink or coffee, or whatever. Dinner?” (Oh no, too forward) “Or whatever you have time for, if you want. If you would like to.” (ARGHHHH FUCK!) “Anyway, um, let me know!” She left her number and hung up, shaking.

  Great: She was officially a teenager. Was this Freaky Friday or something? She felt so ridiculously upside down. She had to call Allison.

  “I can’t believe you did that. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I don’t know. I was stalking his Web site—”

  “Send me the link,” Allison ordered.

  “Okay, sending it now.” Eden obeyed.

  “Question: What are you trying to get from this?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing, really. It’s just coffee.”

  “Hey, breaking news: It’s never just coffee.”

  “I told Penelope I would reach out to him and catch up. As friends.”

  “Good luck with that. Tell that to Ross and Rachel.”

  “I sounded like such a loser dorkadelic idiot. I swear I will never hear from him.”

  “I’m not a betting man, but I’ll stake you a massage at Exhale.”

  “Done.”

  61

  Time may be a great healer, but it’s a lousy beautician.

  —Anonymous

  Chase pondered the globe at his fingertips. Where to whisk Eden off to for her birthday? The Ocean Club? Skiing in Aspen perhaps? Or maybe some exotic destination resort, an Aman in the hills of Bali or on the shores of Thailand? What to do. Chase mused at his desk, clicking away on the Internet, from page to page, not wanting to repeat any of the countless destinations he’d traveled to with Liesel. And if he thought being with Eden in her apartment was so magical, he could only imagine what being with her far away would be. He wanted to go somewhere that was fresh to both of them, so they could experience the exotic sights and smells together. Though she had seen the world, Eden mostly traveled to cities where art galleries lined streets rather than scattered isles known for their hotbeds of hedonism.

  “Hi, son,” Grant said, popping his head in Chase’s office doorway. “Can I come in?”

  “Sure.” Chase quickly clicked away from the pages he was perusing, filled with aqua oceans and palm trees hanging lazily in the sun.

  “Got a sec?” he asked, taking a seat.

  “Of course,” said the dutiful son with a nod. Grant rarely popped in for a chat.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you. I just wanted you to know,” Grant said seriously, causing Chase to wonder what was coming next. “I support you. Whatever you want to do with Eden. I don’t want you to think about your mother or any of that nonsense. I know you’re happy.”

  Chase smiled in grateful surprise.

  “I am, Dad. Really happy.”

  “I can tell,” Grant said, nodding. “Do you think she could be the one?”

  “One hundred percent. She’s it,” Chase said, without even having to consider such a large question. “I love her.”

  “Then I’m sure I will, too, son.”

  “That really means a lot to me, thank you,” Chase replied, touched by his father’s unusual understanding. His father’s eyes made him wonder if once he had his own passion he perhaps didn’t follow. Maybe Brooke was his Liesel whom he felt compelled to marry? A second later, though, the look in his eye had gone, replaced with a sly smile that was clearly where Pierce and Price got there constant Cheshire Cat grins.

  “Chase,” Grant said with a twinkle as he reached into his inner coat pocket. “Don’t worry about asking your mother for the key to Ruthie’s box,” he said. “Your grandmother had a feeling that perhaps you might not choose a bride to Brooke’s liking and saw to it that I got a second copy.”

  Grant slid the key across the desk to his son as Chase’s eyes widened.

  “She had left me an envelope of my own as well,” Grant explained as his son reached for the key. “This was in it, along with the instructions to make sure you are free to do as you wish.”

  Chase exhaled, his love for his late grandmother overwhelming him.

  “Thank you,” Chase said, standing up.

  Grant, as habit had it, stuck out his arm to shake his son’s hand.

  And Chase, as his new habit since meeting Eden had it, ignored the hand and hugged him instead.

  After work, Chase walked to his company travel agency, which catered to posh, upscale clientele, mostly businessmen and heirs, or both.

  “Oh, hi, you’re new,” Chase said to the sweet-faced, cheerful redhead at the reception desk.

  “Yes, hello!” she replied warmly. “Kara is on maternity leave so I’m just temping for a few months. How can I help you?”

  “Well, I have a mission for you,” Chase said with a smile, leaning in conspiratorially. “I need to plan the dream trip.”

  62

  Don’t just count your years, make your years count.

  —Ernest Meyers

  It was pouring freezing rain outside and Time Warner was coming to fix Eden’s cable sometime between noon and five and she was chained to her apartment. At least she was imprisoned on a shitty day instead of a gorgeous one. She was happy to shack up and wait, cozy in sweats. When the harsh brrrring of the phone punctured the silence of her TV-less home, she lunged across the bed like a wide receiver, grabbing it after one ring. It was Allison.

  “Thanks a lot; you sound so not psyched to hear from me,” Allison scoffed. “Chopped Liver here.”

  “No, no, just, he still hasn’t called.”

  “It’s been A DAY. God, not all the nuts are in the nuthouse. You’re being CRAZY.”

  “I know. What is my problem?” Eden shook her head, climbing under the covers.

  “Everyone has to wait by the phone sometime; it’s like a rite of passage. See, most girls pay in their teens and twenties. You’re paying now, I guess.”

  “I guess,” Eden lamented. “It’s so stupid, anyway. I’m with Chase. I just wanted to, you know, nip this whole Wes thing in the bud. I’d hate to bump into him or something. I’d rather be two adults and meet up.”

  “Okay, I’m sure you will,” Allison said. “What are you doing today?”

  “I’m just hostage to the cable guy. What are you up to?”

  “I’m going to pick up Kate and then schlep to the flower market and a few sample sales in the thirties. Sh’I stop by on my way home with some dumplings?”

  “Awesome. I’d love it.”

  Eden hung up the phone. Then looked at it. God, she really was acting like a nervous ninth grader. She detested the aggravating click of call-waiting so had never subscribed; maybe he called while she was on the phone with Allison? She picked up the receiver. Bingo: a studded dial tone. Voice mail.

  She punched in her code and heard she had One. New. Message. She hoped it wasn’t an automated recording from the Time Warner robot lady. It wasn’t: jackpot!

  “Hi, Eden, it’s Wes. I got your message. It was really nice hearing from you. My mom said she really had a great time catching up with you. I’m finally settling in; I live right on Gramercy Square and would love to meet up for coffee and catch up. That would be great. Maybe tomorrow or the next day? I just went to a very charming bar at the Inn at Irving Place if you’d like to meet up there, or that Seventy-one Irving coffee is really good. Let me know. Bye.”

  Eden played it once more. Platonic in tone. No nerves, no weirdness, just friendly, happy, chill. Shit. She decided to leave him a message at the end of the day so she could get straight into his voice mail from the company directory. She confirmed
tea at the Inn for the next evening at six.

  When Allison showed up with takeout, she found Eden hyped up, watching VH1 Classic and cleaning like a madwoman.

  “What’s with you, Martha Stewart?” she asked as she laid out the low-so soy sauce.

  “He called. I’m seeing him tomorrow night. Inn at Irving Place.”

  “NO WAY! Perfect! That place is so hot.”

  “It is?” Eden asked. “Is it going to be all these hipsters packed in with their skinny jeans and flats?”

  “Noooo, the opposite. It’s hot like old school pent-up emotions sexy. Like Daniel Day-Lewis and Michelle Pfeiffer in Age of Innocence.”

  “Why am I so nervous?”

  “You’re seeing an old flame!”

  “I’ve got to chill out. I told Chase I was seeing a friend tomorrow night. That’s all it is. He talked to me like I was a lost cousin or something.”

  “What do you expect? Did you want him panting through the receiver? Phone sex? It’s been two decades, E.”

  “I know. I just hope I can be normal tomorrow. I feel so off-kilter.”

  “I’m going to wallop you with an old cliché. Just be yourself.”

  “Thanks, Whitney Houston.”

  Eden played The The on her iPod for a pre-drink rev-up, ultimately selecting a little black dress after a movie-style montage of outfit tries that resulted in a Kilimanjaro-sized heap of dresses on her floor. She breathed deeply and walked out down the street for the subway.

  When she arrived, she walked up the stairs into the charming Old World hotel, scanning the mahogany lobby and bar room. She picked a small couch in the corner and plopped down, surveying the scene. Allison’s description was on the money: The spot did not disappoint. Typical Wes. He knew about a jewel like this while he had been away for ages, and she didn’t even know it existed.