by Lynda Curnyn
I gulped down the rest of my drink as Davis fluttered on about how he absolutely adored writers, how he once dated one and how to this day he still lived in fear that his ex was going to write an exposé about his sex life once he got famous. Then Davis spotted someone else he knew, and with another kiss to Jade and even a hug for me, he bounced away, already shouting lavish compliments at a handsome black man who waited with arms open for the expected embrace.
“Looks like you’re ready for another,” Jade said, spying my drink and dragging me off to the bar for a refill.
Several hours and a few drinks later, I didn’t even need Jade to introduce me as her writer friend to the numerous new people I met as we mingled, danced and lounged on the long sofas that lined a room bathed in scarlet light in the back. I had already adopted the persona myself—except with three drinks in me, it felt more like a real vocation than just party chat. I even found myself boldly flirting with a twentysomething model named Cliff with the most amazing blue eyes I had ever seen. And I might have even convinced him to come home with me, which in my state of spinning drunkenness seemed like a pleasing prospect, if I hadn’t—during a sudden spate of nervousness when I feared his attention was beginning to wane—dropped my drink on the floor, causing the contents to splash all over his Armani loafers.
After Cliff had excused himself to the bathroom with a look that spoke of his complete disgust at my utter disregard for his footwear, I came to the somewhat sobering conclusion that there was no way in hell I’d ever hook up with anyone at a scene such as this one. I sought out Jade, who was gyrating wildly on the dance floor with an even more exuberant Davis. “I’m outta here,” I shouted, touching her arm to get her attention. She looked surprised at first, then resigned. “Okay, okay. I’m leaving soon, too. Just one more dance?” she pleaded. I was powerless to resist the request I saw in her eyes not to leave her alone at the club with Davis, who, she had mentioned earlier, was notorious for seducing his companion of the moment into pulling an all-night dance party. “I’ll be in the lounge,” I said, pointing toward the back of the bar. At her nod, I headed off, sinking gratefully into the first available sofa I came across.
And just as I had reduced the couple necking on the sofa across the room from me to the kind of desperate, clinging types who sought out whatever affection they could find, I became achingly aware of a tall, dark-haired man standing in the entrance to the lounge, looking deliciously handsome in the kind of offbeat way I adored.
I fought not to stare. In fact, I struggled so hard to seem like I was completely unaware of his lean, lanky presence that I feared I might be sending out negative vibes. Sit down, sit down, I willed him silently, desperately afraid to glance up at him for fear he might see the positively needy look in my eyes.
Either he heard my unspoken plea, or my couch was conveniently located—in any event, miraculously, something made my new dream man sit down.
I leaned back farther into my seat, striving for the kind of indifferent, languorous beauty that drove men wild with desire. And as I struggled to come up with some sufficiently nonchalant conversation opener, he suddenly spoke.
“Are you as bored with this scene as I am?”
Something resembling relief was released inside of me. But it only lasted for a moment. For when I turned to look at him I realized he was even more incredible-looking than I first realized. And he was wearing glasses! How had I not noticed the glasses? “Totally,” I finally managed to say.
“Just not my scene. The club thing.”
We were even on the same wavelength. After two years of weekend after weekend of me, Derrick and some carefully selected movie title from the neighborhood indie video store, I had developed a decided distaste for the kind of romance that required an evening spent with a pack of perspiring strangers in a dimly lit room. “Yeah, well, this is my first time here. And probably my last,” I said, rolling my eyes and hoping to show how ready, willing and able I was to forego this glamorous life for something more sedate and meaningful. He looked like the philosophical type. I could tell by the collarless shirt he wore, which gave him a somewhat scholarly look.
“Max Van Gelder,” he said, holding out a hand which I only touched briefly, hoping he wouldn’t notice the layer of sweat on my own.
“Emma Carter,” I replied with a smile.
“Emma. Emma. What a good solid name. Like you stepped right out of a British novel.”
So he was a literary type, I thought, my heart beating faster. “Yeah, sort of like Clarissa after Lovelace got through with her,” I bantered back before I realized I sounded awfully like the bitter, recently dumped ex-girlfriend I was. After all, Clarissa pretty much died after Lovelace left her, if I remembered the novel correctly.
But he only laughed, and I liked the rich sound of it. Strong. Confident. “Whoa,” he said, “let me guess. You’re a writer, too.”
Too? “Yes,” I sputtered helplessly, “how did you know?”
“Because only a person devoted to the word would bother reading the rest of Clarissa after Lovelace ‘got through with her,’ as you put it.”
Devoted to the word. I liked that. I believed it. Heck, I would believe anything while sitting so close to the most heavenly man I’d encountered in a long time. “So, do you write for, uh, Bone?” I asked.
“God, no. I just came to this party because a friend of mine dragged me. I mostly freelance. In fact, I’m currently working on an article on transcendentalism and the remaking of Times Square for The New Yorker.”
Oh, God. I was way out of my league. “That’s sounds incredible. Wow, The New Yorker.”
“Yeah, well—” then he smiled the most endearingly modest smile “—got to do something to pay the bills while I work on my novel. So what do you write?” he asked.
Novel. He was writing a novel. My own unfulfilled dream swam before me, blurring my eyes and clogging my throat. “A novel?” I asked, ignoring his question about what I was writing. Better to leave Bridal Best out of this relationship until he was hopelessly hooked on my wit and charm.
“It’s my second actually,” he said, with another one of those smiles I was becoming addicted to. “The first is tucked away under my bed.”
“Better than still being tucked away in the brain cells,” I said, gaining another one of those great chuckles of his.
“Well, my agent thinks this one has potential,” Max continued.
He even had an agent. Suddenly I felt my heart skittering between hope and utter despair, as my mind leaped past this chance meeting to the day when he sold that second novel and left for a book tour and a better life without me as a New York Times bestselling author. And just as I was about to make some self-deprecating joke about how my latest writing achievement was purchasing a new computer to surf the Web with, Jade suddenly appeared, her face flushed and, surprisingly, anxious. “Let’s go,” she said, then realizing that she had just waltzed in on what probably looked like a very cozy moment between me and my next heartbreak, she backpedaled. “I mean, if you’re ready, that is.”
“Uh, I can go if…” I began, suddenly unsure how to maneuver this next crucial moment in my budding relationship with Max Van Gelder.
“You know what,” Jade said, as if realizing I was about to blow it, “I’m going to the bathroom. Meet me out front whenever you’re ready.”
“Okay,” I said, relieved. And just as I turned to Max to introduce him to Jade, she disappeared.
“Gosh, sorry about that,” I began.
“Hey, not a problem. I was thinking of heading out of this gin joint anyway.”
I smiled, then just when I was trying to figure out some non-desperate-seeming way to get his phone number, he asked, “Maybe we can finish this conversation over a cup of coffee some time?”
“Sure,” I said, wondering at my good fortune.
“Do you have a card?” he asked.
“Uh.” I started fishing around in my bag, then realized that even if I did have a card
, I wouldn’t want to scare him away with it, featuring as it did a wedding cake and the Bridal Best motto, Making wedding dreams come true for over a decade. “I don’t think I have one with me.”
“Hang on just a sec,” he said. Getting up, he headed for the bar, allowing me a nice view of his perfect little ass. After a brief conversation with the bartender, who looked over Max’s shoulder at me and winked, Max came back and handed me a pen and a cocktail napkin.
I quickly jotted down my home phone number and handed both items back to Max, hoping my hands weren’t shaking because I was absolutely strumming with joy inside. “Well, it was great meeting you, Max.”
“Great meeting you, too,” he said, then took my hand in his and held it long enough to fill me with a tingly kind of hope. “I’ll call you, Emma.” And with that, he smiled and released my hand.
I stood there stupidly smiling at him for a few moments before I realized this was the part where I was supposed to smoothly make my exit. Finally, with a nod of the head and a small wave, I headed out of the lounge, feeling his eyes burning into my back and praying that my skirt hadn’t somehow gotten tucked into the underwear or that my ass didn’t look too fat.
I couldn’t believe my luck. By the time I got out front where Jade stood, puffing, somewhat angrily it seemed, on a cigarette, I felt as if I were in some sort of strange dream.
“I hope you didn’t leave without his number,” Jade said.
“I gave him mine.”
“Oh, well. I guess that will have to do. But in the future, don’t be giving away your phone number. Always get his.”
Fearing I had messed up already, I asked, “Why?”
“Because then it’s up to you whether or not you want to see him again. Puts all the power in your hands.”
Damn, I thought, realizing that if Max Van Gelder didn’t decide to call, I would never forgive myself this fatal error.
“Don’t worry about it. Let’s just get the hell out of here,” she said, and started walking, her hand in the air to hail whatever cab might come rolling by at 2:00 a.m.
I noticed a stiffness in her movements, and as I hurried to catch up to her, I asked, “Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” she replied without looking at me.
But everything wasn’t fine. I could tell by the tightness in her expression, and the way she wouldn’t look at me once I was walking side by side with her. “Jade—”
“Okay, okay. Michael showed up.”
“At Envy?”
“Yeah. And he had this adorable little brunette on his arm.” She swung around to face the traffic and began to walk backward, her eyes scanning the empty avenue. “Where the fuck are all the cabs?”
I was in shock. Not just because Michael had shown up at a club—Jade always said he hated them—but because Jade was clearly shaken by the sight of him. After two years.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me. I’m immune to that asshole.”
“Jade—”
“He looked pretty cozy with that brunette. Maybe she managed to figure out what it takes to make that prick hard.”
“Jade, if you couldn’t do that, I seriously doubt—”
“I don’t care. What do I care? I’ve got someone who knows how to treat a woman in bed. I really don’t—”
“Hey, Jade, why don’t we go to the diner,” I said, cutting her off. “Get some breakfast like we used to do when we went clubbing.” My plan was to get her seated and calm somewhere so she could talk this through.
But Jade was on to me. “No way,” she said, as a cab finally pulled over to the curb. “I know what you’re trying to do, Em, and you can just forget it.” As she held the door of the cab open and gestured for me to get in, she continued, “I’ve done enough crying over asshole men in my lifetime, thank you. I’m going home to bed.”
And as we rolled down the dark and empty streets, I didn’t push her. Apparently she had been managing her angst over Michael just fine up till now. Who was I to force her to open those wounds again, when I couldn’t even find a way to close up my own? But it bothered me that even after two years, her breakup with Michael still caused her pain.
I began to worry that maybe there were some men you just never got over.
Eight
“There are very good reasons to medicate oneself.”
—Dr. Steven Coburn, author of The American Family: A Survival Guide
“Read this book!”
—Virginia McGovern, Emma Carter’s mother
Confession: I discover dysfunction is only a phone call away.
The next morning I woke up to the sound of a ringing phone, which reverberated maddeningly in my alcohol-soaked brain. I picked it up, if only to stop the sound.
“You’re still sleeping? It’s ten-thirty already. Whatsamatter?”
It was my father, full of the usual moral indignation he suffered whenever he was forced to recognize that neither of his children had inherited his solid discipline of early to bed, early to rise. My father was a firm believer in the early bird catching the worm. Even during his darkest drinking days, he always managed to pull himself out of bed, as if getting up before dawn might somehow save him from whatever damage his night-before debauchery had done.
“It’s Sunday,” I said, knowing my protests were falling on deaf ears. I settled the phone comfortably against my ear, nestled farther into my pillow and prepared for the long haul. My father didn’t call me on Sunday mornings without a very good reason.
“I’ve been up since five-thirty,” he said. “Not that it did me any good.”
“What happened?” I asked, bracing myself for whatever disaster he had heaped on himself.
“I had a little accident while I was replacing some roof tiles on the house.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, fine. Nothing that a couple of months in a sling won’t cure.”
“What?”
“Well, I broke my right shoulder,” he finally admitted, sounding almost embarrassed.
“What?” I repeated, alarmed.
“And my right arm. But it’s no big deal,” he said, brushing off the concern he must have heard in my voice.
“What happened?” I asked again, waiting for an opportunity to give him my biannual speech about how he had reached a time in his life when home repairs, especially ones that required him to scale the house, might best be left to professionals. Somehow my father could not bring himself to pay for the kind of repairs he still felt young and able enough to do himself, despite all the mishaps he brought on himself.
“I was up on the roof, working, you know,” he began. “Everything was going fine. I even had on that harness Shaun bought for when he used to go rock climbing. I found it lying around in the garage and figured it might keep me from falling off of the goddamn roof. And then what do you know? One minute I’m working, the next I’m on the ground.”
“Did the harness break?”
“God only knows. It was all in one piece, according to Deirdre. But there must be something wrong with the clasp. In fact, I called Bernie—” my father was on a first-name basis with his lawyer these days “—to talk to him about it, and the bastard would barely listen to what I had to say. All he kept telling me was that I didn’t have a case!”
I was immediately suspicious. “Were you drinking while you were working?”
“No, no,” he muttered, though the quickness of his denial made me even more suspicious. “Can you believe that bastard won’t take my case, after all the business I’ve given him?”
“Hmm…” I replied, suspecting I was about to be brought into my father’s latest plight. When I heard his next words, I knew I was right.
“Anyway, I was wondering how that friend of yours, Alyssa, is doing. She still wasting time trying to save rain forests with that law degree of hers?”
“Alyssa can’t take on your case, Dad, and I don’t—”
“What about that lawyer she’s dating? Where does he practice?”
“Dad, Richard practices corporate law. He’s not an…an…ambulance chaser!”
“Ambulance chaser? What kind of thing is that to say? Your old dad wants someone good. Respectable. Not some ambulance chaser. I mean, I’m hurt here. I got pain shooting up my arm.”
A stab of sympathy went through me. “Are they giving you anything?” Then I realized what I was asking. Would they give painkillers to a man who had struggled with substance abuse most of his life? To me, it seemed like giving a loaded gun to a suicidal maniac.
“Of course they’re giving me something,” he replied. “But it’s not enough. This arm is killing me. And to top it off, I’ve got to look for a new lawyer now. Because I can’t let these bastards get away with this. You use a product, you expect it’s not gonna fail on you. What kind of world are we living in, here? Those bastards are gonna pay through the nose this time. I’m not kidding….”
After listening to his diatribe on the injustices of the world, I finally managed to calm him down by promising to ask Alyssa and Richard if they knew any good lawyers for his type of case. Satisfied, he made the usual inquiries about my life—had I made my first million and/or found a decent husband yet? Feeling a sudden urge to shake him out of his delusional state, I blurted, “Derrick and I broke up.”
“Is that right?” Dad replied, a mixture of surprise and sympathy in his tone. “Did the bum finally figure out he wasn’t good enough for you?”
No, I thought dejectedly. He became too good for me. “He moved to L.A. Got a job as a script doctor for a studio out there.”
“Huh,” he replied, and I could tell he was surprised Derrick had managed to do so well for himself. Then, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“Yeah, well,” I replied, not knowing what else to say.
“You know, you could sue,” he said finally.
“What?”
