“Too old,” Patrick said. “Grandkids are just the thing at my age. You get to be the fun one, you get to choose how much time to spend with them, then send them off when you’re tired and let their parents discipline them. It’s perfect.” He tossed a pot to me to hang on the rack near my head. And when “Stayin’ Alive” came on the stereo he beat out the rhythm with a wooden spoon on Tiffany’s knee. Then he grabbed my hand and we did a little disco move. Pete and Sophie joined in and Tiffany couldn’t stop laughing.
“You guys are too much,” she said.
“She means ‘too old,’” Patrick said, winking, and twirled me. Then we went into the across-the-shoulder move we’d done so long ago. Tiffany thrust two fingers in her mouth, let out a shrill whistle and said, “The German judge gives you a nine-point-nine.”
I was breathless and wound up, caught up in the nostalgia of it and the four of us being together again, basking in Tiffany’s admiration. In some ways it felt like old times but in others it felt bright and shiny and new. Patrick’s hand on my arm gave off sparks that seemed to flutter around and settle on my skin. His face wasn’t as familiar as it used to be but his touch was, and his laugh, and the easy way he held me.
When the song came to an end he pulled me close and wrapped his arms around me. “We’ve still got it,” he said. We all clapped and laughed and high-fived each other and Tiffany shouted, “The German judge just changed his score to a perfect ten!”
Thirty-two
Patrick had found a moment in between dancing and cleaning to ask if I would drive him to the airport. And I had found a moment to say yes, even as I wondered if Michael was at my house, waiting for my return.
“This has been a gas,” Patrick said on our way to O’Hare. “Sophie and Pete are just like they always were. I mean, none of us looks the same but we’re the same people inside, aren’t we?”
“I’m glad you came,” I said. “Sophie and Pete are, too.”
“So, you gonna come visit me in Florida?”
I looked over at him and smiled. “That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?”
“Then do it, Lib.”
“I wish it were that easy.”
“I know it’s not easy. I know things are complicated for you,” he said, and put his hand on my shoulder. “But sometimes we make things more complicated than they need to be. Sometimes the solutions are right in front of us.”
“What do you mean?”
“Marry me, Lib,” he said, and I almost sideswiped a red Toyota. “Don’t marry Michael. Marry me.”
I could feel his eyes on me. My heart felt as if it would thump through my rib cage. “Marry you? Oh my god.” No one had mentioned the word “marriage” to me in a hundred years (except my parents, of course) and now it was all anyone could talk about.
He laughed. “Okay, don’t freak. You don’t have to marry me. Just come live with me.”
“Oh, Patrick. What are you saying? We don’t even know each other anymore.”
He took his hand away, leaving my shoulder cold and empty. “We haven’t changed,” he said. “We know each other like we knew each other thirty years ago. We have the same connection now that we had then.” He turned his body toward me, a serious look on his face. “It’s like Denny Cavanaugh and Jess. They had a connection that couldn’t be broken even though they left each other for a while. Sometimes that happens.”
I couldn’t deny what he was saying. I couldn’t say it hadn’t occurred to me. But there was the other side to that coin as well; the side that said what we’d had was a high school love affair, that’s all, not the real world.
“I’m not going to deny there’s still a connection,” I said. “But all the living we’ve done has changed us. We’ve had these experiences and relationships, and all that can’t help but change us from what we were back then into who we are now. Yes, maybe basically we’re the same people, but so much life has to have affected us in ways we can’t even calculate.”
We approached the departures terminal. Soon he would be on a plane and I might never see him again. I pulled over to the curb. People bustled around us, getting luggage out of trunks, hugging goodbye.
“Look, Lib,” Patrick said, his brown eyes intense.” I love you.” He loved me? How could he say that? He put up his hand when I started to interrupt. “That’s not up for debate. Whether you believe it or not, it’s true. It’s clear to me. We’ve wasted enough time. We’re not getting any younger. We’ve missed out on thirty-some years but we don’t have to miss out on the next thirty.” I thought my head was going to explode. “So just come and visit me,” he said. “Take some time, get away for a little while. Forget the marriage part; I didn’t mean that.”
“You didn’t mean it?” I said.
“Well, not for now anyway. Not so long ago I was giving you a lecture about making too many life changes, wasn’t I? So we’ll take our time. You need some time to heal from the loss of your dad and we don’t need to rush into anything. You need to be sure that whatever you do, you do for the right reasons. But let’s spend a little time together—a few days, a week—and see what happens.”
“I’m just not sure this is a good time,” I said. Why wasn’t I saying, Great! I’m on my way?
“It’s the best time,” Patrick said and took my hand. “You owe it to yourself.” When he saw the look on my face he said, “No, really, you do. And you owe it to Michael, and believe me I’m not his cheerleader. But if there’s even the smallest part of you that’s considering it, you need to find out, even if it means discovering I’m wrong. At least you won’t end up married to Michael and wondering what might have happened.”
Part of me wanted to go with him now, right this minute. Really … did I want to live the rest of my life with a “what-if” hovering over me?
He cupped my chin, kissed me sweetly, swept the hair off my forehead. “Think about it, okay?”
His face was so close, his breath a whisper on my face. I felt dizzy. “I will,” I said.
He smiled broadly. “Okay, great. That’s good enough for me.”
* * *
I could think of nothing else as I lay in bed that night. I imagined Patrick picking me up at the airport in … what? I didn’t even know what kind of car he drove. An SUV? Volkswagen? Mercedes? Rusted-out Impala? So we’d drive in this mystery car through the streets of his town lined with palm trees and pink stucco houses, and pull up in front of his place—which would be what? A house, a condo, a beach shack? I didn’t even know. Maybe it was a mansion. Maybe a double-wide trailer. Maybe he was one of those hoarders you see on television and every surface was buried under piles of crap.
I knew nothing about this man.
Would we stand there awkwardly, not knowing what to do or say? And where would I sleep?
Questions rocketed through my brain, shoving sleep right out the door. I lay on my back examining the landscape of the ceiling. Rufus jumped up and looked into my eyes, meowed in his squeaky, mournful way and then climbed onto my chest and lay there purring. I closed my eyes and tried counting sheep. I got to eighty-five of those fluffy little critters jumping over an imagined white picket fence, but my mind was on speed dial, recalling Patrick saying I should marry him, the softness in his eyes when he looked at me, Michael’s bruised expression when I’d told him I was going to the brunch without him. So I sent little Michaels over that fence and counted them instead, and then little Patricks. They were good jumpers.
I would go. I knew that. Even though I also knew it was going to be a huge problem for Michael, an obstacle he might not be able to get past. But Patrick was right—if I didn’t, I’d always wonder. Chances were so slim that this could work, but I had to find out.
It was past midnight when I picked up the phone to call him, past one A.M. his time, but I didn’t hesitate.
“I’m coming to visit,” I said when he sleepily answered the phone. There was silence and I started to think he’d changed his mind but then he said, “Mom?”
&
nbsp; I laughed and laughed.
“I’m so glad,” he said in a wide-awake and delighted voice. And then, “Whoa, I better look for my vacuum cleaner.”
The pleasure in his voice jumped right through the wires and landed happily in my heart.
When I finally slept I had a dream that Michael and Patrick were in a track-and-field event and were neck and neck as they jumped over hurdles toward the finish line.
I didn’t need Freud to interpret that one.
Thirty-three
Bright and early the next day I got online and looked for tickets to Florida. I found a good fare and convenient times, and selected a return for four days later. When I got to the screen with the button that said, Book this reservation, I had a moment’s doubt. Michael was going to freak. One thing was sure, he wasn’t going to say, “Oh yeah, I understand, go ahead, spend all the time you want with Patrick. Sleep with him if you need to. I’ll be here waiting when you get back.”
I wavered for a second. And then clicked the button. Your reservation is confirmed, the screen told me and I laughed out loud. Immediately I sent off an e-mail to Patrick with the details of my flight. I’m nervous, I wrote, but looking forward to spending time with you.
Now I had to tell Michael. I picked up the phone and dialed, but hung up before I punched in the last number. This was terrible timing. He was probably on his way to work and it seemed mean to tell him while he was driving, right before he went into the office. Or worse, saw a client. This wasn’t the kind of news anyone wants to start the day with. I’d call him tonight when he was home, alone. Where there was scotch in his liquor cabinet.
I went for a run instead.
When I got back the red light on my answering machine was blinking.
“Great, Libby.” Patrick’s mellow tones filled my living room. “Can’t wait to see you. And there’s nothing to be nervous about. I’ll be at the airport, in the terminal outside the gate area, with a big sign that says CARSON PARTY. We’ll go right down to the beach and have lunch at an outdoor café and drink something with an umbrella in it and eat soft-shell crabs. How does that sound?” I could hear the smile popping off his face. “Bring warm-weather clothes. The temps are still in the eighties. See you in a few days.”
Oh god. What have I done? I thought.
I called Sophie.
“Well, good,” she said when I told her what I was doing.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. It’s time you did what you wanted to do instead of what everyone else wants.”
“Who is this?” I said. “Aren’t you the one who told me Michael would be a great husband? That he’d be someone to spend the rest of my life with?”
“Oh, fuck that,” Sophie said. “I’ve seen you and Patrick together. Go see what happens. Michael’s not going anywhere.”
“He’ll be furious. He won’t put up with this.”
“Yes, he’ll say that. He’ll tell you you’re through, but that’s the thing about Michael. He’s steady and he’s forgiving and he loves you. He’ll get over it if you find out Patrick’s not the one.”
“It seems so cruel to do this to him.”
“Well, it’s not the nicest thing in the world. But would it be better to marry him and then find out you were in love with someone else?”
“How do I tell him?”
“You say, ‘So, Michael, I’m going to go see Patrick in Florida for a couple days and you’re not invited.’ And then you hang up.”
* * *
While I was still riding high from Sophie’s encouragement I called Michael. Voice mail.
“Michael, it’s me. I know you’re pissed that I went to the brunch yesterday. I hope you’re feeling better today and that you’ll still be here on Wednesday as usual. I’m counting on it, okay? I’ll make dinner and we’ll talk. Call me.”
I didn’t hear from him that day.
I had work I needed to complete and deliver before I left: to finish the details on a blazer I was making for one client, hem three pairs of pants for another, alter a suit for a third, and work on Bea Rosatti’s wedding ensemble. So I put some CDs in the stereo and Maroon 5 serenaded me as I stitched in the lining on the black wool blazer. If I moved fast, I could deliver it tomorrow and still have a couple of days to finish the rest. As I worked I tried not to feel too bad about Michael or too good about Patrick. I didn’t know what I’d do if Michael didn’t come over Wednesday or call me before Friday, when I was leaving. Part of me thought, Good, I’ll just go and not tell him and decide what to do when I get back. The coward’s way out always seems easiest, doesn’t it?
Thirty-four
Tuesday came and went and still no word from Michael. It seemed I was in a familiar pattern with him, alternating between pissed off and guilty. One minute I’d pick up the phone to call him and the next minute I’d slam down the phone and say, “Fuck you. Two can play at this game.”
On Wednesday, though, I went to the grocery store and picked up a whole chicken, some potatoes and fixings for salad. My game plan was to assume he was coming over, that he’d have called if that weren’t the case. If I was wrong, I was wrong. I sort of hoped I was.
In the afternoon the kitchen smelled homey with the chicken roasting in the oven, stuffed with onions, lemons, thyme, oregano and parsley. I was peeling potatoes when I heard Michael’s key in the door. My stomach did a spin.
“Smells good,” he said, coming into the kitchen, coat still on. He didn’t kiss me as he usually did. He barely looked at me. Instead he got a glass and poured some scotch.
“I wasn’t sure you were coming,” I said. I cut the potatoes into wedges and put them on a baking pan. “It would have been nice if you’d called me back.”
“Yeah, I know. But I wasn’t sure what I was doing until I got here.” He took a slug of scotch while I drizzled the potatoes with olive oil and sprinkled them with salt, pepper and rosemary. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what’s going on with you,” he said, leaning against the refrigerator, “and I think it must be related to your dad’s death.” The word brought tears to my eyes but I blinked them away and put the potatoes in the oven.
He went on. “Grief affects people in different ways. It’s a big blow and I understand that. I think it’s hard to be yourself right now and I’m sorry you’re going through it.”
His empathy softened me. “It is a tough time,” I admitted.
“I think you need time to work through that before you can worry about anything else.” He seemed relieved to have figured it all out. “I’ll be honest, it’s not easy to deal with, but I’ll try to be patient. Losing someone close to us can make us say and do things we wouldn’t ordinarily do. I understand that now. And I forgive you.”
My head snapped up. “Forgive me?”
“Oh, I don’t mean forgive exactly. That was a bad choice of words. I just mean I can overlook what’s going on with you now because you’re grieving.”
I guess I should have appreciated his empathy, but I hated how sure he was of himself, how pleased that he’d decoded me. I hated the smug expression on his face.
“What’d you do, Google ‘grief’?” I said.
“Well, I did actually. It’s amazing what you can learn on the Internet.”
Can you learn not to be an asshole? I wondered.
“I’m going to Florida on Friday,” I said quietly. Can you forgive that?
Michael blinked. He looked into his glass and then back at me, studying every detail of my face as if he weren’t sure who he was looking at.
“Well, that’s an interesting way to deal with your grief,” he said. I had to look away. “Goddamn it, Libby,” he said. “I never thought you’d do this to me.”
My chest tightened. “I didn’t do anything to you,” I said. Yet. “There’s nothing going on that you don’t know about.”
“Yeah, right,” he said. “That’s why you’re going to Florida.”
It sounded bad. I knew it did. “Nothing’s going on,�
�� I said again. “I don’t even know how I feel about him.”
“You don’t know how you feel about him. You don’t know how you feel about me,” he said, his eyes on fire. “Just exactly what do you know?”
Where had Mr. Understanding gone?
“I guess I don’t know much of anything anymore.”
Michael walked over to the window and stared out. He twisted the wand on the miniblinds, opening, closing, straightening them. “You think he’s so great, Libby? You don’t even know him.” He turned. “You have no idea who he is. But you’re going to throw this all away.” He waved his hands, sweeping the room.
I looked around the room. “Throw all what away?” I said. “This is my house. My TV, my Oriental rug, my candlesticks, my pictures hanging on the walls—”
“You know what I mean,” he said. “Us. Our future. Our life.” He stood for a moment, glaring at me, his shoulders hunched, his mouth grim. Then he huffed and turned away. He poured more scotch, adding water this time, and left the kitchen.
I braced myself against the counter, my heart beating like a jackhammer. The smell of the chicken was intense, so I opened the oven to see if it was done. I took the bird out and studied the golden, perfectly crisped skin. I breathed deeply for several moments and then went into the living room, where Michael was sitting on the ottoman, his head in his hands. Was he crying? He sat utterly still and there was no sound. I wished I could make him disappear so I wouldn’t have to see the dejected curve of his back, his vulnerable neck, white where the barber had trimmed his hair. I wished I could spare him this, and spare myself this overwhelming feeling of being a traitor. And a bitch.
Rufus was curled into a gray ball on the chair. I moved him and sat in front of Michael.
He looked up. Thankfully his eyes were dry.
“I can’t believe this.” He laughed but there was no amusement in it. “Two weeks ago I was the happiest guy on earth. What the hell happened? Does what we have mean nothing to you?”
“What do we have, Michael? What we had meant a lot to me, back when we first met, when we had the same goals, when we seemed to be on the same page about our life together. I never wanted to get married again, you knew that. You said you felt the same way.
What More Could You Wish For Page 18
