The Wife of Reilly

by Jennifer Coburn

  Jennifer wiped her eyes and held her glass to him as the rest of the guests toasted the couple and sipped their champagne.

  “Many of you know this already,” Adrian continued, “but on our first date, Jennifer and I went to see Casablanca — her favorite classic film,” he laughed. “So, I’d like to suggest this as our first dance together tonight,” Adrian said, signaling the pianist to play “As Time Goes By.”

  Chapter 34

  The next week I was still thinking about charming Adrian’s toast to Jennifer and wondering if Matt would ask our wedding guests to raise their glasses to my “awesomeness” at our wedding. Chad accused me of having a crush on Adrian because, as Jennifer showed us her engagement ring, I commented that “he” was gorgeous. Our friends laughed at me as I feebly tried to cover up my mistake by asking, “Aren’t diamonds referred to as he? You know, like boats are she?”

  Adrian winked and mouthed that it was okay. Jennifer smiled and said, “Y’had it right the first time. He is gorgeous.” Then she turned to kiss him and the group let out a collective “ahhhh.” Without question Adrian was a breathtakingly handsome man, but it wasn’t him I was smitten with as much as I envied what he gave Jennifer. My Jennifer.

  Father called to remind me that I was on his calendar for a movie that week. “You probably like those art flicks, right? The ones where two mimes find a piano in the ocean and it’s supposed to have some deep meaning,” he teased.

  “You’d think, huh? Actually, I’m kind of in the mood for a good suspense flick. Do you want to see The Keyhole? My friend Sophie said she couldn’t stop thinking about it for days after she saw it.”

  Father agreed to meet me in the Village on Wednesday night after work for a sandwich and movie. Honestly, I think he would have gone to an S&M slave cave clearance sale if I asked him to. He was so eager to spend time together, which I was greeting with equal parts skepticism and hope. Before I could stop myself from asking, I blurted that I wanted to know why he was suddenly so interested in spending time with me.

  “You’re my daughter,” Father answered. “I’d like to have a relationship with you.”

  “Well, you say that as though it should be obvious. Let’s not gloss over the fact that you weren’t always interested in running for Father of the Year. Why the sudden turn-around? Are you dying or something?”

  Father was silent. Oh my God. I couldn’t believe I had just been so cavalier about his fatal illness. He was dying, I realized.

  “No Prudence, of course I’m not dying,” Father said. “What a thing to say. I’m perfectly healthy. I just love you. Why is that so hard for you to believe?”

  Shall I count the ways?

  “Why now?” I shot.

  “I hate to sound like I’m at an anti-war rally or something, but if not now, then when?” he returned. “I can’t change the past, Prudence, but I can try to make a future for us. Now is the soonest I can start working on that.”

  “My Father the fortune cookie,” I laughed. “I just wish you’d thought of doing this twenty-five years ago.”

  “So do I, Prudence. So do I.”

  “Okay then, I’ll meet you at seven-thirty at the Waverly and we’ll just grab a bite at that diner down the block, okay? Wednesday, right?” I asked.

  “Wednesday. Seven-thirty. I won’t be late.”

  You already are, Father.

  * * *

  The next day was Matt’s birthday. Keeping with the tradition we’d set fifteen years ago, I called him the night before so I could be the first to wish him a happy birthday.

  Matt wasted little time letting me know that he was less impressed with this year’s birthday gift than he was with my hotel-room party in Fort Lauderdale.

  “I got your gift,” Matt said coolly. “Very telling.”

  “I have something more personal I’m sending this week, but I thought this could really come in handy with your new film and all. It’s a very practical gift, Matt. I think you’ll thank me for it one day,” I apologized.

  Okay, so maybe a personal liability insurance policy might not be on the Top Ten Romantic Gifts list, but Matt did say the Pasteur clan was threatening to sue over the slanderous things his film said about the scientist. Dealing with a lawsuit would take Matt’s time and attention away from his film making, so helping him avoid all that was really a way to support his art. When the insurance company quietly wrote a check to the Pasteur kids, and the lawsuit was settled, Matt would be able to walk away with his finances intact. In the meantime, I refused to apologize for being level-headed.

  “I’m sorry, Matt. Do you hate me now?” I asked.

  “I don’t hate you, but I think your gift sucks,” he said. “What are you saying, Malone? You think I’m going to get sued?”

  “Honey, anyone who’s anyone has been sued. I believe in you, so yes, I think sooner or later someone’s going to sue you. Wouldn’t you rather have an insurance policy to protect you against a frivolous charge?”

  Matt said nothing. Then I heard him typing in the background.

  “Are you typing?” I asked.

  “No,” he shot back.

  “You’ve got mail,” America Online Guy said in the background.

  “Matt! You’re checking your e-mail?!”

  “I’m not checking my e-mail,” Matt snapped. “I was checking out something I wanted to buy online, and I guess an e-mail just came in.”

  Okay, you are definitely missing the point!

  “Okay, well, I want to wish you a happy birthday. Can you sign off, please?”

  “Sure,” he sighed. “So how’s life in the big city?

  “Good. I booked the chapel in Ann Arbor and I need to get your guest list by the first of April so I can get the names and addresses to the calligrapher, okay? I put in for my vacation time for our honeymoon. I think six weeks gives us enough time for three countries. What do you think?”

  “Three sounds cool,” he said.

  Shouldn’t the e-mail guy have said “Goodbye” by now?

  “Do you want me to just choose the menu for the reception, or do you want me to have the Gandy Dancer send the dinner choices to you too so you can help decide?”

  “You can handle it, Malone. To tell you the truth, weddings are kind of female territory. I’ll handle the honeymoon, but all the wedding stuff isn’t really my thing. Besides, I wouldn’t want to choose the wrong dessert and have to worry about any of the guests suing me.”

  “Matt, I’ve already explained myself. You live in the most litigious state in the country. You work in the entertainment industry, and let’s face it, you just made a film dragging Louis Pasteur’s name through the mud, and that’s going to piss some people off. It already has.”

  Matt was silent again. I only knew he was alive because of the heavy sighs of a malcontent. Finally he spoke. “Malone, your gift just makes me feel like you don’t believe in me.”

  “Matt, I do believe in you. I also believe in insurance. The two aren’t mutually exclusive. Besides, I got you something else too,” I bluffed.

  “What?” Matt asked skeptically.

  “It’s a surprise,” I told him. “Please don’t be angry with me. It was a gift of love, really.”

  I lay down on the sofa and flipped through the March issue of Modern Bride eyeing the summer wedding dresses. There wasn’t a single model in this magazine that looked older than twenty-one. Nor did any of them look like they just had a fight with their fiancé over a poor choice in birthday gifts. Each page was filled with pictures of women who looked as if they didn’t have a care in the world other than reciting hand-written vows that they personally etched in gold ink on antique parchment. These brides looked so serene and content with their lives. They looked like Jennifer.

  * * *

  I spent most of the month of March alone in my apartment. I still showed up for work and the gym, but declined Jennifer’s, Sophie’s and Chad’s dinner invitations. I could make it through the work day, but always rushed home
eager to spend the night by myself.

  At the time, I convinced myself that my healing knee and wedding plans were the reason I needed to cocoon for a while. The truth is that I spent quite a bit of time staring at my brick walls and crying as I watched blue stars dancing over my bed. There were days when it was so quiet in my home that when the phone rang it startled me. Sometimes I cried so hard, I would actually throw my entire body into the ground like a widow hurling herself into her husband’s grave. The only good thing about my crying spells was that they exhausted me, so I was able to get to sleep easily every night.

  The more I questioned whether Matt and I should marry, the more elaborate my wedding plans became. When I remembered how he dragged me skiing the month earlier, I called the restaurant and upgraded the hors d’oeuvres. When I thought about the friends he chose in Los Angeles, I fired the string quartet and replaced it with a ten-piece swing band. I thought about hobbling to catch the bus to the Getty and ordered an ice sculpture. I thought about that moronic film he was making and frantically called the florist to tell her I couldn’t get married without orchids. And when I recalled how Matt just disappeared after college, I called the boutique that was holding my gown and told them I wanted the $4,000 Richard Tyler dress instead.

  After my third week of seclusion, Sophie, Chad and Jennifer showed up at my door with a picnic basket and insisted on taking me to the park for lunch. “If you won’t come to us, we’re coming to you, love,” Chad said. I stood at the door in my gray sweats and Reilly’s oversized button-down shirt and Yankees cap he left behind.

  “I’m just so busy with wedding plans, I haven’t got time to primp on Saturday morning,” I explained.

  “Okay, first of all it’s noon, and second I don’t think brushing your teeth is classified as primping, Prudence,” Chad shot. “Look, I hate to live up to stereotypes about gay men, but let’s get you into the bathroom and do something with this hair. Sophie, wardrobe. Jen, load the dishwasher and toss the pizza boxes please, then get into the lav for makeup.”

  And with the clap of Chad’s artistic hands, women began scurrying around my apartment, cleaning the mess, rustling through the closet and smoothing foundation onto my face. Sophie popped in with three outfits I’d forgotten I had. “Your closet is paradise, Prudence,” she said. “I had trouble narrowing it down to these three, everything is so damned cool.”

  “Know what Adrian says about you?” Jennifer asked before telling me to look to the ceiling so she could apply eyeliner. “You’ve got sophisticated elegance.”

  “What kind of man talks that way?” I laughed.

  “My man!” she shouted. “My. Man. Eyes up,” as she applied mascara.

  “You know, I think I may be depressed,” I told them.

  “Gee, y’think?” Chad said as he scrunched styling gel through my hair. “I mean, just because you’re holed up in a filthy apartment looking like a fraternity boy, crying all the time, doesn’t mean you’re depressed. All brides act this way.”

  “No, I think I really am, Chad,” I insisted.

  “And you’ve lost your sense of humor. Now I’m depressed,” he said.

  “I’m surprised you’re not telling me that you told me so, Chad,” I said.

  “I’ve been saying that behind your back, love,” he smiled. “Jennifer, Sophie, haven’t I said a thousand times that I predicted this miserable outcome?”

  “I tuned you out in the mid-nineties, Chad,” Jennifer answered.

  “Very cute,” he shot. “I’m thinking plum for the lips, no?”

  “I’m not sure if getting all prettied up and going for a picnic is the right way to deal with this, guys. I think I should stay home and try to figure out what’s going on with me. Don’t you think that’s a better idea?”

  Sophie knelt down beside the toilet where I was sitting. “Prudence, you’ve been doing that for three weeks now, and I’ll bet you’re going to do it for another few. We’re not telling you to end your depression prematurely. Maybe it’s something you need to go through for a little while. We just miss you, so can you do us a favor and take a break from it just for today? Jen, will you put the Oscar Madison duds on Prudence’s bed so she can slip right back into them tonight? And Chad, this stuff will wash out of her hair, right?” She opened my medicine cabinet and placed the makeup remover on the sink. “There, you’re all set. Depression awaits you when you return. Do we have a deal?”

  “I don’t think I’m going to be such great company today. Why don’t you just go without me?” I pleaded.

  “One day in the sunshine is not going to kill you, Prudence. We’ve already packed your lunch and we’re not taking no for an answer,” Sophie said.

  Chapter 35

  As we ate our mozzarella and pesto sandwiches that day, I asked the gang if they would start to think I was crazy if I told them I thought I was still in love with Reilly.

  “That assumes we think you’re sane now,” Chad said.

  We sat on a red and white tablecloth set on the grass a few yards away from a guitarist who was probably a student at NYU. He wore a scruffy goatee, flannel shirt and no shoes as he strummed songs from Fleetwood Mac. The summer-like weather prompted the fountains to burst with water, and dogs and children quickly jumped in to splash around.

  “Wait, are you serious?” Jennifer asked with gravity. “You think you’re in love with Reilly? Reilly, your husband, Reilly? Reilly, the husband you cheated on, then tried to find a new wife for, Reilly?”

  I nodded. “The one and only.”

  Sophie asked when I had this revelation. “I didn’t even know you’d seen him since the night at the gallery.”

  I told her about our dinner a few weeks ago after I got back from L.A. “I was starting to think we could be friends after the divorce was final. Hell, I even introduced him to a woman at the restaurant. Do you guys remember the blond woman with the wide face from cooking class? Anyway, it didn’t hit me till a few days later, but Reilly is a good man. A really good man.”

  They silently shot each other worried looks. Finally, Jennifer asked why I thought Reilly being a quality person was so appealing. She reminded me that he’s always been a decent guy.

  “Maybe Prudence finally feels like she deserves the love of a good man,” Sophie piped in as she tried to keep the wind from blowing her hair into the apple juice she was sipping.

  Jennifer disagreed. “Not buyin’ it. You’re into Reilly because you saw some other chick interested in him.” I decided not to tell Jennifer that she had pesto caught between her teeth.

  Remembering that the next week was Father’s annual Easter egg hunt, I invited them all to come. “Father’s on this big getting-to-know-me kick and wants to meet you all. Adrian and Daniel can come too.”

  That night Matt called to thank me for the flat-screen television I sent for his second birthday gift. He told me he was considering mounting it on his ceiling like the couple in the commercial, but that he would hold off on doing so until he arrived in New York. “So we’re like ten weeks out, baby? Then we ride off into the sunset for the happily ever after,” he laughed.

  Some indie filmmaker. Maybe he could fit a car chase in there somewhere.

  “Hey, that reminds me, I still need to get your invitation list,” I said. “Can you e-mail it first thing in the morning? The invitations need to go out by mid-May, and it takes a while for the calligrapher to address all those envelopes.”

  “No problem,” Matt agreed. “Thanks again for the screen. Now that was a birthday gift.”

  For the next week I slipped back into my funk as Sophie promised I could. Thankfully, I have a job where I’m not expected to engage my clients with witty repartee. As long as I was polite, I could be as glum as I wanted. In fact, I think many of my clients felt I was working harder for them during my blue period. They seemed to believe like they were really getting their money’s worth out of me when I greeted them looking like an exhumed body.

  When I grew tired of crying at
the plight of a spider crawling across my kitchen floor with no escape in sight, I turned on the television, only to be driven to tears by sentimental commercials for maple syrup. Finally, on Thursday evening Reilly called me.

  “Hi.” I perked up hearing his voice.

  “Prudence,” he returned. “How have you been?”

  “Just great, Reilly. How ’bout you?”

  “Fine. Look, I need to swing by the apartment to have you sign some papers. Are you free Saturday afternoon?”

  I suggested he come by around noon so we could have lunch and go over the divorce settlement papers. I was already planning what to wear and rehearsing the clever off-the-cuff remarks I’d make. “You know, Sunday is Father’s big Easter egg hunt, if you’d like to join us.”

  “Prudence, we’re getting a divorce,” he said flatly. “We’re not doing lunch and I’m certainly not going to attend any more of your family obligations. I’ll be there at noon and out by quarter-after assuming we’re still in agreement about the division of assets.”

  “I can put together a little something for us to nibble on here, if you’d like,” I suggested with a toned-down, we’ve-all-gotta-eat manner.

  “We had eleven years to have lunch together, Prudence,” Reilly said. “As for Easter Sunday, I’ll be spending the day with Sarah and her parents in the Hamptons.”

  If I lived above the second floor, I would have leapt out the window right then. But with my luck, instead of plummeting to my death, I’d lie on the sidewalk with a spinal cord injury while every Keith Haring wannabe in SoHo outlined my body with chalk.

  “Sarah,” I said as if I couldn’t be happier. “Lovely Sarah from the restaurant?”

  “Yes, we’ve been seeing each other for the last five weeks pretty much every day now,” Reilly told me. “How’s that surfer boy from California you left me for?”