“I am happy with him, the way things are. I’m not so sure we would work as a married couple. Sometimes I feel like I’m a different person when I’m with Michael.”
“Maybe you are, but is that bad?” Jill asked. “You’re more settled. That’s a good thing.”
“Settled. God, that’s so boring.”
“Lib, that’s what marriage is all about, at least the good ones. It’s about being settled and comfortable with someone, having someone to count on.”
I took another bite of my sandwich and wiped my mouth, realizing I’d inhaled three-quarters of it without even tasting it.
“I’ve got Rufus.”
“Rufus has his limitations.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But cats are so much more reliable than men. He loves me no matter what. He never makes me feel bad about myself, he approves of everything I do, he doesn’t leave toast crumbs on the table.”
Jill said, “He doesn’t blow his nose in the shower, he doesn’t leave the coffeepot on the edge of the counter after he makes coffee.”
“He doesn’t fold my collar down when I intentionally, and stylishly, leave it up. He doesn’t throw away the newspaper before I’ve finished it.”
We both laughed even though I was half serious. Fact was, I wanted to be finished with this conversation. I didn’t want any more advice from my little sister, who lived in storybook land, who’d lucked out at fifteen and met her Prince Charming and lived happily ever after.
But Jill wasn’t finished. She put down her fork and leaned toward me, putting her hand on mine. “All that cleverness aside, you’ve had the passionate, tumultuous relationships, and how did those work for you?”
I bristled, and pulled my hand away. “Shit happens, Jill. Not everyone’s as lucky in love as you. Just because other relationships haven’t worked out doesn’t mean this one’s right. It’s been right for a couple of years at this time in my life, but that doesn’t make it right for eternity.”
Jill kept her mouth shut then. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes she knew when to quit. We ate in silence for a bit as I tried to think of a neutral subject. I thought about telling her about Patrick but ruled that out. I could just hear her: “Don’t throw away your life with Michael for some fantasy,” she’d say, I was sure.
“Maybe you should try putting out a different vibe into the universe,” Jill said. “A vibe of being grateful and happy with what you’ve got.”
“Yeah, Jill, I’ll put out a vibe into the universe.” Jesus. “You know what? I am grateful for my life; I have a wonderful life that I’m very happy with. That has nothing to do with anything. I don’t need to send out a fucking vibe. In fact, don’t you think that proves my point? I’m happy with my life and I don’t need a man to make me feel that way. And getting married isn’t going to make me any happier or more grateful than I already am, is it?”
The whole conversation made me feel like I had as a kid when my mother told me that beets and Brussels sprouts had important nutrients and fiber that would make me stronger and give me more energy for the track team. They both grossed me out, so I’d move them around on my plate or spit them into a napkin when she wasn’t looking. When I made the team it was all I could do not to say, “See, I did it without those stupid vegetables.”
Jill drank the last of her wine and sat back, silent. Okay, let her pout, I thought.
But she’s my little sister. “So who’s in your bridge club?” I asked, knowing she’d be unable to resist talking about her perfect life and her perfect friends.
I felt wistful for the messy little girl she once was, the one who looked up to me and envied my life, who thought I was great and who wanted to be just like me.
As Jill talked I finished my wine and signaled my boyfriend Jarrod for another glass.
Thirteen
I don’t believe in signs from above. I don’t. But I was finishing my run that crisp clear morning, making my way past raked leaves and neatly edged lawns, and when I turned onto Cherry Street I saw a big For Sale sign standing self-importantly in front of my favorite house. I almost ran into a tree. When is a sign a sign? Well, this one was accompanied by an insistent little voice telling me that some things are meant to be; Michael and I were meant to get married, meant to buy this house, meant to live happily ever after.
Fuck that little voice.
When I got home the answering machine light was blinking. I hoped it was finally Michael. His silence was beginning to piss me off. It now seemed like a standoff and the one who called first would be the weakling.
But it wasn’t Michael, it was Patrick, and as I listened to his message, relief and affection spread through me like warm milk.
“Hey, I had a great idea,” his once-again familiar voice said. “I was thinking I’d come to Chicago and take you to lunch. What do you think? No pressure. No stress. We’ll just have lunch and then I’ll go home. Doesn’t that sound like fun? It would be great to see you.”
Come to Chicago? For lunch? It was outrageous. But my heart was thumping when the message ended. Was he serious? It was so impulsive, so daring, so extraordinary. So unlike anything that ever happened in my life.
I dialed his number. “Okay, do I need to remind you that you live a thousand miles away?”
“Hey!” he said, clearly happy to hear from me.
“That’s a tough commute for lunch.”
“It’s not so bad,” he said. “It’s just a quick plane ride.” His enthusiasm made me feel young and reckless. “So when should I come? Tomorrow?”
“Oh, god no, not tomorrow for heaven’s sake!” I said, feeling an equal measure of elation and terror.
“Just kidding,” he said. “But how about Friday? Would that work for you?” I felt a giggle rising up from my stomach as I looked at my calendar. I had someone coming in for a fitting on Friday, then a dentist appointment, then a phone consultation. The fitting was at nine A.M. The others? Was my life all about fittings and appointments and obligations? Why couldn’t they be rescheduled? How could I not rearrange a few things for Patrick’s amazing idea?
“Friday could work,” I found myself saying. Was I really going to let him do this?
“Outstanding,” Patrick said. “I’ll e-mail the details.”
After we hung up I stood there grinning like a goofball, thoughts racing around my brain like Ping-Pong balls. I imagined us eating lunch at the airport amid the hustle and bustle of travelers. Would it be awkward? What would he look like in the flesh? Would we be as comfortable face-to-face as we were on the phone? Should I call my hairdresser and evict the gray? Could I lose five pounds by Friday? Maybe get a quick shot of Botox?
The part of me that wasn’t overwhelmed was inflated like a joyous bubble. I was going to see Patrick Harrison.
I had to tell Sophie.
“You’re kidding,” she said when I called her. “He’s coming to Chicago just for lunch? How fun. And decadent. Can Pete and I come?”
“No!” I said.
She laughed. “Kidding,” she said. “He e-mailed Pete. Pete was really excited to hear from him. He said we should plan a trip to Florida to visit.”
“Let’s all go. A road trip, just like that time we all drove to St. Louis, remember? In our senior year?”
“I remember,” Sophie said. “I remember that ratty motel we stayed in.”
“Remember those Missouri cockroaches? They were big as cats. Patrick went after one with his boot and it got right up and ran away.”
“That was so much fun, wasn’t it? If you could go back to that time, would you?”
“For the day, maybe, but to live it all again? I don’t think so. Would you?”
“Would I be able to do anything different?” she asked. It was a totally unexpected response.
“What would you want to do differently? Oh my god, if you’re going to tell me you and Pete are having problems, what chance in hell do I have of a decent relationship?”
“No, no, we’re good. But if I c
ould do it again, I’d maybe go to law school before we had kids. And work for a couple years. Sometimes I wish I had a career I could have fallen back on.”
“You always seemed content to be a stay-at-home mom.”
“I know. I was. I am. Pretty much. But I always envied your having a career, working your way up in the corporate world, earning the boss’s respect, that sense of accomplishment. Not to mention wearing beautiful clothes.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Somehow I don’t see you as a lawyer.”
“Yeah, well, maybe a veterinarian, then. Or tennis pro.”
“Or storm-chaser,” I said. “Or Barbie-dress designer.”
We both laughed but then Sophie got serious again. “And then you started your own business,” she said, “and made a success of that. I guess if I had it to do again, I’d just have wanted something of my own, outside of the family. I’m sorry I didn’t have that experience.”
“How did I not know that?” It seemed disheartening to me that we’d been friends for almost forty years and I hadn’t known this about her. How do you ever really know someone? “You could still do it, you know. You could go back to school if you wanted to. Or start a business.”
“Oh sure, just like that.”
“If you’re serious, Soph, I’ll work on it with you. You have lots of talent you could turn into a business; you’re an amazing cook, your arts and craft stuff.…”
“It’s not that big of a deal. Really. Just a small regret in my otherwise marvelous life. Just something I’ve thought about recently, especially now that Danielle’s getting married. Pretty soon Tiffany will be going off to college, and then what will I do?”
“Go to the spa? Eat bonbons?”
“Oh hell, I’ve been doing that for years,” she said. “So anyway, I hate to rain on your parade but what about this lunch with Patrick? Are you going to tell Michael?”
“Michael?”
“Michael.”
“Oh god, Sophie, I don’t know. It’s just lunch. Why do I have to worry about Michael now?”
“Because you’re engaged, even if you’re not sure you want to be, and you’re going to have lunch with your high school sweetheart who’s traveling twelve hundred miles to see you. That’s why.”
“Oh,” I said. “Yeah, there’s that.”
Fourteen
I’d been circling O’Hare for eighteen minutes, checking arrival times on my iPhone. When I knew Patrick’s plane had landed I pulled up to Arrivals and watched people filing through the doors of the terminal, looking for a current-day Patrick. Clusters of people rushed out and I scanned them, but then the crowds slowed and people trickled out in ones and twos. I pulled down my visor and checked myself in the mirror to make sure there was no lipstick on my teeth. What would Patrick think when he saw me? How did I compare with the me he knew so many years ago? Would he even recognize me?
A man about the right age walked out and looked up and down the row of waiting cars. My heart thumped as I studied him, but unless Patrick had put on fifty pounds since his picture was taken (a possibility that hadn’t occurred to me), it wasn’t him. I blew out a breath when the man walked away. I glanced in the mirror again, checked my makeup and hair. Several more men came out of the terminal, but two of them were too young and the third was a large black man in a UCLA jacket. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and fluffed the hair at the back of my neck.
A tall, distinguished man in a trench coat walked quickly out to the curb as a beautiful woman got out of the Mercedes in front of me. They kissed tenderly. He pulled back, looked deeply into her eyes and broke into a wide grin. I smiled as the woman put her hand on his cheek. She was elegantly dressed in a long charcoal-gray coat over an ivory turtleneck, her hair pulled into a lovely chignon. I wished I looked as elegant. After all the clothes I’d tried on, I’d settled on tan trousers with a cream-colored sweater and short tweed jacket. Was it too dressy? Did it look like I was trying too hard? Maybe the chunky gold necklace was too much. I took it off and threw it in my purse.
I’d worked late into last night, too keyed up to sleep. I’d finished altering two pairs of pants and ripped apart a jacket before feeling tired enough to go to bed. And then I’d fallen asleep at once, only to awaken an hour later. This was worse than high school.
And all night Michael’s face rose up in my mind along with the hurt he would feel over what I was doing. What if he found out? What if he just happened to be meeting a friend at the airport at exactly the same time and we ran into each other and he saw me with Patrick?
A man and a woman came out of the terminal and chatted at the door. The woman was plump and wore a long black cape. She had tight silver curls and threw her head back to laugh, the breath floating from her mouth in a plume. The man wore a turtleneck and sport coat but no overcoat. Then they shook hands and the woman walked toward the taxi stand. The man stood for a moment looking around. My breath quickened as he started for my car, smiling. In the few seconds before I opened my door to get out I saw that this new Patrick was quite different from the boy of eighteen with long dark hair and black leather. His hair was still on the long side, not quite reaching his collar, and was more gray than brown. His face was fuller and his body heavier, but thankfully not by fifty pounds. He wore no leather, no chains, just that big smile and shining eyes. I swallowed hard.
He grinned when I walked around the car to the passenger side and we stood looking at each other. You know those age-progression photos, the ones that age a runaway child into a teen? Well, that’s what it was like looking at him. He was there, the Patrick of old, but whitewashed with this new face; softer, less angular, more cozy looking. His eyes had faint creases in the corners.
Sophie would be saying, Look at him, Libby. Just look at him. He’s gorgeous.
He studied my face, my hair, my mouth. “Unbelievable,” he said, and we laughed.
“Good unbelievable or bad unbelievable?” I asked, even though the answer was painted clearly in his eyes. And that made us laugh even more. We couldn’t seem to stop laughing and people turned to look at us, chuckling. Patrick opened his arms and I folded into him, wrapping my arms around his substantial fifty-something body. He held me for a moment, kissed me on the cheek, then pulled back and looked deeply into my eyes. He smiled. Just like the guy with the Mercedes woman. I was completely charmed. I felt like I had in high school the first time he asked me out. I could see his admiration back then, too, and it had puffed me up with pleasure.
* * *
We decided to drive downtown and take a walk before finding someplace for lunch. “Aren’t you cold?” I asked as we walked on the lakefront path.
“Not bad,” he said. “Why? Are you?”
“No, I’m fine. See this thing I’m wearing? It’s called a coat. It’s a great little invention.”
“I got rid of mine when I moved to Florida and swore I’d never buy another,” Patrick said. “I turned the house upside down looking for this turtleneck.”
“When we were in high school you always wore black turtlenecks, do you remember?” I asked.
“I think we both always wore them.”
“I wore them because you did and you looked so cool and I wanted to be cool, too.”
He laughed and put his arm around me for a second, and I had to work at keeping a big, dopey grin off my face. He hugged me to him quickly and then let me go. No, I thought, don’t let go.
Our conversation was light and casual, and there was no mention of Michael, thank god. I kept sneaking glances at Patrick, getting used to how he looked now. The boy I knew was in there; he moved with the same familiar, relaxed grace and his eyes still wrinkled up at the corners when he smiled.
We talked about his flight, security at the airport, the weather in Chicago, the weather in Florida. We talked about the traffic on the Kennedy Expressway on the way into town. We filled an awkward silence with a discussion about the temperature of Lake Michigan and how calm it was today. Patrick seemed more
recognizable as we walked, his gestures, his expressions, his smile.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“Starved,” he said.
The Cheesecake Factory was packed with Michigan Avenue shoppers and tourists. There would be a forty-five-minute wait for a table.
“Want to go somewhere else?” I asked.
“No, I’m fine with waiting,” Patrick said. “It’s part of the Chicago experience. Where I live you can walk into any restaurant, sit right down, order and eat, including dessert and coffee, in about half an hour.”
We went to the bar and Patrick ordered us Bloody Marys.
“Do you like small-town living?”
“Yeah, I do,” he said. “I like knowing everyone. I like how simple it is. It’s a different life, that’s for sure.” Very different from my own.
When the bartender brought our drinks we clinked glasses and drank to our reunion.
“You look even better in person,” Patrick said. “You’re definitely aging gracefully. And I like the gray in your hair. It looks great.”
I flushed at his compliments. “Thanks,” I said. “I considered coloring it this morning before you got here but ran out of time.”
“I’m glad,” he said. “So, bring me up to date on the last thirty-two years.”
I gave him the CliffsNotes version of my college years, my two marriages and my midlife career change. I told him about some of my clients, about Sophie and Pete and their girls. He told me about his ex-wife, how he got started in the kayaking business, how he’d taught his son to fish and play guitar. “I told Ashley and his wife about how we reconnected and that I was coming to see you. They got a kick out of it.”
I would have loved to have heard that conversation. It pleased me that he told them, that they knew about me.
Patrick pulled a skewered blue cheese–stuffed olive out of his drink and offered it to me. My eyes lit up and I plucked it off and popped it in my mouth.
“You don’t like blue-cheese olives?” I asked.
“No, I love them. But you went after yours like it was gonna get up and run away, so I figured you like them more than I do.”
What More Could You Wish For Page 8
