She couldn't imagine being friends with Peter. All they were were strangers with common memories now, and many of them painful. The best she could offer him was peace and distance, and it was all he wanted from her. What Andrew and his ex-wife shared was something very different. And his ex-wife's husband was the leading hopeful for the next presidential election, so it was an interesting connection.
“And you've never wanted to remarry?” Paris pursued the conversation politely when they sat down again. He was an intriguing man, and she was waiting for the line about not meeting the right woman in ten years of looking, but he surprised her again.
“I have, but I don't need to. I've met a lot of wonderful women, most of whom would have made great wives. I'm not so sure about myself. I'm a pretty quiet guy. All I do is sit around reading manuscripts. I don't want to bore someone to death again. According to Elizabeth, my ex-wife, being married to me was about as exciting as watching paint dry. I figured I should spare someone that.” What he was saying really was that he didn't want to make another mistake, which was what most divorced people felt. He made a lot of sense and she liked him, not in a romantic sense. But he had the same kind of solid substance her new son-in-law did. She didn't view Andrew as a potential date, but thought he might make a nice friend, and given his close relationship with Richard, she was sure their paths would cross again.
“At my age, I don't need to get married.” He continued chatting with her. “I think it's wonderful for Meg and Richard. But I'm fifty-eight years old, I don't have the energy for a young girl, and I'd feel foolish with one. Richard is ten years younger than I am, that makes a difference. He wants kids with her, and to start all over again. I'm enjoying coasting, seeing my kids, being with my friends when I'm in the mood for it. I don't need to start all over again. I like my life fine the way it is.” He seemed completely comfortable with himself, and had no interest in impressing anyone, least of all Paris. He asked her about her job then, and she told him about it, and Bix entered the conversation and peppered her accounts with a lot of funny stories about her and their clients. Andrew said he thought it sounded terrific. “You two must have a lot of fun working together,” he said pleasantly, and Andrew went on talking to Bix when Paris's son-in-law came and asked her to dance.
“That's my best friend you're talking to,” Richard said to her easily, after he thanked her again for the wedding. “He's a great guy. I've told Meg a hundred times I wanted to introduce you two. She didn't think you'd like him, he's usually pretty quiet. But there isn't a better friend on the planet. I think his ex-wife will probably end up being First Lady.”
“That's what Meg said. We've had a nice time talking. I just hope Bix doesn't tell him a lot of horrible stories about me while we're dancing.” She laughed at the thought, but she didn't really care. She wasn't trying to impress Andrew. He wasn't that kind of person. He was the sort of man you could let your hair down with, and be normal. And she liked that. She could see how he would make a great friend. He didn't appeal to her in any other context. He was a nice-looking man, very handsome actually. But she wasn't interested in dating anymore, and he didn't seem particularly interested in her either. He was just as happy talking to Steven and Bix as he was to Paris, which was one of the things she liked about him.
And when Richard brought her back, Andrew had gone off to talk to someone at another table. Bix tried to tell her what a terrific guy he was, and she brushed him off, and said she had no interest. It wasn't even about chemistry now, or the lack of it. She was no longer interested in dating. At all. She liked her life the way it was, just as he did.
“Don't tell me this is another Malcolm Ford,” Bix said with a look of annoyance. She had become absolutely impossible since Jean-Pierre. She had surrounded herself with insuperable walls. “If you have no chemistry with this guy, then you must have an aversion to handsome, intelligent, nicely behaved men. Malcolm Ford is one of the smartest, nicest, best-looking guys I've ever met, and if you'd had the brains to go after him, or even talk to him, instead of that Parisian kid, you'd be married by now, Paris,” he scolded her with a stern expression.
“I don't want to be married,” she said happily, looking smug about it.
“Am I interrupting something?” Andrew asked as he sat down again, and Bix rolled his eyes and said she was impossible.
“Not at all. I just said I don't want to be married again.”
“That's too bad,” Andrew said pleasantly, “I don't disagree with you, but it's nice when it works out well. It's hard to get all the pieces of the puzzle lined up just right so they fit. But when they do, there's nothing better. Look at Meg and Richard.” They both smiled at the couple kissing on the dance floor.
“She's a lot younger than I am,” Paris laughed. “And as you said yourself, it takes a lot of energy. I'm not sure I have it. In fact, I'm sure I don't.”
“That's my problem too.” He smiled at her, and Bix groaned.
“The two of you need vitamins. If more people felt like you about marriage,” Bix said pointedly to her, “we'd be out of business.” They all laughed at his comment. He had a point. The lion's share of his business, and the real moneymaker, was weddings.
“Marriage is for the young,” Paris said emphatically.
“Marriage is for the young at heart,” Bix corrected.
“Marriage is not for sissies,” Andrew added, and they all laughed.
“Good point,” Steven said, entering the conversation. And a little while later they all left the tables, talked to friends, moved around, and the young people danced for hours. It was three o'clock in the morning when Paris and Bix left the wedding. Peter and Rachel had left hours before, and hadn't even stayed to watch Meg toss the bouquet. Rachel wanted to go to the hotel to nurse the baby, and the boys were exhausted. So Peter went with her, although he would have liked to stay, and have a few moments' conversation with Paris, if only to thank her, but it never happened. And Paris was relieved it hadn't. She had nothing left to say to him. There was too much water under the bridge now, and he didn't need to thank her. They had done it for their daughter. All Paris wanted was healing, and she was getting there. There were scars, she knew, but she could live with them. She was at peace now. It had taken a long time.
And Meg had done a silly thing when she'd tossed the bouquet. She had insisted that her mother get out on the dance floor with the single women. Bix had made her a special, smaller bouquet just for tossing, so Meg could preserve her real one. He did it for all brides. He thought it a terrible waste to let a magnificent bouquet go home with a stranger. And the smaller ones were easier for brides to throw at the single women. Meg had refused to move an inch till her mother was out there. And Paris felt ridiculous standing among girls half her age, or even slightly older, who were leaping and jumping to catch hope, in the form of an ancient tradition. It was a hope Paris no longer cherished, nor even wanted. And she had raised her hands halfheartedly and looked away as the bouquet flew at her and hit her in the chest like a football. Her daughter had taken careful aim and hurled it at her. Paris's first instinct was to let it drop and let someone else get it, and then as though a force beyond herself took over by simple reflex, she reached up and grabbed it before it fell. She thought it might be bad luck for Meg if she let that happen. So she stood there, holding it, with a dazed expression, and everyone cheered, as Meg looked at her lovingly from the chair she'd been standing on when she threw it. And immediately afterward Richard had tossed the garter to the bachelors, most of whom didn't want it, any more than Paris had wanted the bouquet. But she had it, and was still carrying it when she and Bix left the wedding. It had been a memorable celebration, and even Bix looked happy.
“What are you going to do with that?” He nodded at the bouquet as Steven went to get the car. Paris shrugged, as she smiled at him.
“Maybe burn it.”
“You're disgusting. I hope you see Andrew again, by the way. He said he has two writers in San Francisco, and
comes here fairly often. You should invite him sometime.”
“To what? You keep me too busy to entertain. I don't have time to see him.” Or the interest, she almost added, but she didn't say it. He was nice. But so were a lot of men. She didn't want one. She'd had enough for one lifetime, she had decided, and had retired from the race.
“If you don't make an effort one of these days, I'm going to have Sydney dig up one of her blind dates. You can't play grieving widow forever,” Bix threatened. Jean-Pierre had been gone for nearly six months, and she had gotten more and more determined to stay by herself, instead of less so. It seemed like a hell of a waste to Bix.
“I'm not grieving. I'm happy,” she said, and meant it.
“That's what worries me. You're not lonely?”
“Sometimes. I'm not desperate. That's different. Lonely is the way it is sometimes.” She was feeling nostalgic, with her daughter having just gotten married. “I'd love to be married. I thought I always would be. But I don't need to do it again. Maybe I'm too scared to. By the time you figure out it's not going to work, you're up to your neck in alligators and you're drowning. I couldn't survive that again, Bix. The stakes are too high. And the chances of winning the prize at my age are so infinitesimally small. I'd rather buy a lottery ticket, I figure the odds are better.”
“Maybe it is time for another blind date,” he said, musing, as they waited for Steven. He was taking forever.
“I don't need one. Although it might be entertaining, particularly if you ask Sydney.” She still groaned when she thought of the sculptor from Santa Fe. Bix teased her about it often.
“You can't stay alone forever,” Bix said sadly. “You're a beautiful woman, and a nice one. Don't waste that.” He hated to think she might not find someone, but it certainly wasn't easy. And she was obviously no longer willing to make the effort. And there was no question, it was a lot of work to find someone. And most of the time, the pickings were slim, and the rewards few and far between, or even nonexistent.
“I think your needle-in-the-haystack theory is great,” she responded. “But the haystacks get bigger, and the needles get smaller as you get older. And my eyes aren't as good as they used to be. It's easier to just stop looking.”
“And when you do,” he said philosophically, “you dance over it barefoot, and it pricks you!”
“You sound like the guy from Santa Fe. He was a ten-foot prick if I ever saw one.” She laughed, and Bix grinned as Steven drove up with the car, and they both got in. She was still holding the bouquet, and she put it in water when she got home. It had been a sweet gesture on Meg's part. And hopefully, harmless. She hadn't really caught it anyway, Paris told herself. It had hit her. And damn near knocked her over, which didn't count. She was safe. But the bouquet was pretty.
Chapter 29
Just as she had promised herself she would, on the Monday after Meg's wedding, she took both business cards she'd been hanging on to to the office. And when she had a break midmorning, she called them.
The first one called her back in twenty minutes, or his assistant did, and said he was out of town till mid-October. The second one called back at lunchtime, while Paris was eating a yogurt and an apple at her desk. The second one was a woman. Her name was Alice Harper, and her voice sounded young and enthusiastic. Paris told her why she had called, and they made an appointment for Friday morning. It was very exciting.
Alice Harper's office was in a quiet residential neighborhood at the west end of Pacific Heights, on Maple. She had an office in her house, a secretary, and a young attorney working with her. And despite the youthful voice, Paris was surprised to find her to be a motherly-looking woman in her early sixties. She was an attorney specializing in adoption, and she welcomed Paris into her private office. And a moment later the secretary brought the cup of tea Paris had asked for.
“Let's start at the beginning,” Alice said pleasantly. She had a worn, comfortable face, short curly hair, and wore no makeup. But her eyes were lively and alert, she was in the business of assessing people constantly, both birth mothers and adoptive parents. The success of her matchmaking depended on how astute she was at listening to what they told her, and if need be, weeding out the weirdos, and those that thought they wanted a baby but didn't, or wanted one for the wrong reasons, just like biological parents who were bored, or didn't know what else to do, or were trying to fix a failing marriage. She assessed the birth mothers just as carefully, so as not to disappoint hopeful would-be parents when a girl decided not to give up her baby. She turned off the phone, and turned her full attention to Paris. “Why do you want to adopt a baby?”
“A lot of reasons,” Paris said cautiously. She wanted to be honest with her. She had come to the decision through a circuitous route. But she was almost certain it was the right decision for her. Which was exactly what Alice Harper wanted to know. “I think being a mother is what I've done best in my life. It's what I'm most proud of. I love my kids, and they're wonderful. I can't take credit for that, that's just who they are. But I have loved being part of their lives for every minute I've been there. And I hate the fact that they're gone now.”
“Are you married?” There was no sign of a husband, and Alice suspected that there wasn't one. But she wanted to know. She wanted to be sure that there wasn't in fact a husband, who hadn't come because he was either indifferent or hostile to the project. This required full participation, from either one single parent, or both if there was a partner.
“No, I'm not,” Paris said clearly. “I was, for twenty-four years. I'm divorced. I've been alone for two and a half. My husband left me.” She wanted to be entirely honest about it. “For another woman. They're married, and have a baby.”
“Is their having a baby part of this decision?”
“Maybe. It's hard to say what is the overriding factor. I think the strongest one is that I want a baby. I'm not going to get remarried, and I don't want to be alone for the rest of my life. To be crude about it, I guess this would buy me another eighteen or twenty years of cooking dinner, going to soccer or ballet, and driving carpools. I loved that, and I really miss it.”
“Why aren't you going to get remarried?” Alice was curious about it. “You can't be sure of that, can you?” She smiled gently.
“I think I am sure,” Paris said firmly. “I think the likelihood of my finding someone at this point is slim to none. It doesn't matter to me.” That was almost totally true, but not quite, and she knew it. She would have loved to be married, but she had accepted the fact that she wouldn't be, and considered it a reality.
“Why do you think it's so unlikely you'll find someone?” The attorney looked intrigued as she watched her. She wanted to make sure she wasn't unbalanced or suffering from a deep depression. She didn't want to place a baby with a sick woman, but Paris sounded very healthy. “You're a beautiful woman. I would think you could have any man you want.”
“It takes too much effort,” Paris said, smiling.
“So does a baby,” Alice said, and Paris laughed.
“I don't have to go on a blind date with a baby. It won't lie to me, cheat on me, forget to call me for another date, be commitment phobic, have peculiar sexual habits or ideas, it won't be rude to me, at least not until it reaches about thirteen, I don't have to play tennis, golf, ski, or take cooking lessons to meet it, I don't have to audition for it, and it won't get drunk halfway through the first date. I'd rather drive carpool for the next twenty years, and change diapers for the next two or three than go on another blind date. Actually, I'd rather go to prison for ten years, or have my toenails ripped out than go on another blind date.”
Alice laughed and looked at her ruefully. “You may have a point. I'd forgotten what it's like. You bring back some memories. I've been remarried for sixteen years. But if it's any consolation, I was about your age when I met my husband. We met in a hospital emergency room when I fell off a ladder and broke my arm, and he had broken a toe. We've been together ever since. But I felt exact
ly the way you did about blind dates. How old are you, by the way?”
“Forty-eight. I'll be forty-nine in May. Will that be a problem? Am I too old?”
“No,” the attorney said carefully, “you're not. It all depends on what the birth mother wants. You're single, and you're a little older, as those things go. If a birth mother wants a couple, then it won't be a match. But you have other things to offer, you've obviously been a good mother,” although that would be checked out carefully, with references and a home study by a licensed social worker, as Alice was going to explain to her later. “You're experienced, you've already provided a good home and know-how, you're affluent, you're responsible. Some birth mothers don't care if there's a father or not, and many won't mind your age. Some will. You'll find, when we get further into it, that most birth mothers don't ask a lot of questions, far fewer than you or I would. If they do, we may be in trouble, and what she may really be saying is that she doesn't trust you, and she thinks she'd be a better mother than you would. If we present you, and you've been checked out, and you will be, then it's all about chemistry and instinct. It's the adopting mothers who usually ask all the questions. But for the most part, I hate to say it, adoption is a lot like dating.”
Paris grinned at the comparison. “At least there's a reward at the end of it. I'm not sure that's the case in dating, there all you get is a lot of heartache.”
“Sounds like you've been dating the wrong guys,” she smiled, “but haven't we all! It's the good ones, when you finally find one, that make it all worthwhile. Just like adoption.” She smiled.
She explained the entire process to Paris then. She had numerous options, a foreign adoption, a domestic one, private, or closed, the adoption of a special needs child, which Paris said she didn't want to undertake on her own, and Alice nodded, it was all a personal choice. And Paris said she wanted a domestic child. Foreign adoption sounded too difficult and too stressful for her. And she didn't want to spend two months in a hotel room in Beijing or Moscow waiting for a lot of red tape to be cut, and forms to be filled out. She wanted to lead a normal life and go to work every day while she waited for the right baby to be found. And that sounded reasonable to Alice. There had to be a home study, done by a licensed adoption agency if it was going to be a private adoption, which this was. Paris would have mountains of papers to fill out, documents to sign, fingerprints and criminal records to provide, medical exams, as well as references and information about herself.
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