Because She Can

by Bridie Clark

  It’s wrong to snoop, Claire, I scolded myself. Put the file back. But my curiosity got the better of me. I quickly pulled out the thin manila folder and took a peek. There was only one document in the file—an e-mail, sent to Vivian’s work address.

  To: Vivian Grant

  (vgrant@grantbooks.com)

  From: Stanley Prizbecki

  (Stanley_Prizbecki@nymayor.gov)

  Hi, tasty cakes. Haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since Thursday. Told A. that there was some public transportation conference in Baltimore this weekend, so I’m all yours. Meet you downtown, 11 pm, Friday. I’ll swipe a pair of cuffs. S.

  Yuuuuuuck. Served me right for being nosy.

  I returned the document to the file, and then I saw it—a small Polaroid clipped to the bottom of the folder. My jaw hit the floor. The picture was of Stanley—wearing a pink lace teddy, high-heeled bedroom slippers, and screaming red lipstick. Lipstick and a stubbly face, never a winning combo—nor was Stanley’s hairy chest poking through the feminine lace of his negligee.

  An involuntary shudder passed through my entire body. I threw the folder back into the cabinet and locked the drawer.

  That was wrong on so many levels, I thought as I slipped out of Vivian’s office undetected. I shouldn’t have looked—but really, seeing Stanley in that getup seemed like ample punishment for the crime.

  The phone was ringing as I walked into my office. No rest for the weary. I picked up.

  “Hi, beautiful,” Randall purred when I picked up. My heart leapt. Only a few more hours till I got to see him … our very first night together in our shared home.

  “Hi, sweetie. What a nice surprise—you don’t usually call in the middle of the day.”

  “Well, unfortunately I’m calling with some bad news, babe. I wanted to let you know right away. You know how much I was looking forward to going to Iowa with you this weekend, but my biggest client just made a bid to acquire their largest competitor—it’s all unfolding very quickly, and I’m leading the team. There’s no way I can be away during such an important live deal. I really need to be in New York this weekend, working out all the details.”

  “You mean, you can’t come?” I repeated. I was honestly stunned. Randall’s job often required him to change or cancel plans at the drop of a hat, but I’d still somehow expected that our Iowa trip would be held as an exception. We’d had our tickets for two months. He knew how much the weekend meant to me.

  “I know, babe, I’m really disappointed,” he answered. “But work is work. I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

  Work is work. Work is work. I rolled the words over in my head, tapping them for meaning. Work is work. What the hell did that mean? I bit my lip. Tears sprang painfully to my bloodshot, tired eyes. The adult in me appreciated how important Randall’s career was to him. He was fiercely dedicated to making a name for himself outside the shadow cast by his powerful family. Still, I couldn’t help feeling crushed.

  “It’s okay,” I managed to squeeze out, my throat tight.

  “I’m so sorry, Claire-bear. I feel horribly about it. At least let me fly another friend out there with you. Mara—whomever you like. Call Deirdre and she’ll arrange everything, okay? Sorry, babe. I’ve got to run into a meeting, but call Deirdre. Please. And I’ll see you tonight. I can’t wait for that.”

  After I hung up the phone, I felt an actual, physical ache in the area of my heart.

  Work, Claire, I instructed myself. You don’t have time right now to sit at your desk feeling sorry for yourself. I turned back to the catalog page, but it felt more hopeless than ever.

  David buzzed my intercom. “Now Luke’s here. What a day. Do you have a minute?”

  “Of course, David. Would you bring him up from the lobby?”

  Without thinking, I rummaged in my drawer for some lip gloss—then I pulled my hair out of its ponytail and did a quick flip. Midflip, a strange but intriguing thought popped into my head: What if I asked Luke to come to Iowa with me?

  Was that crazy? Luke and I had become fast friends during the process of working on his book. He stopped by the office pretty regularly—sometimes to talk about specific challenges he was facing in the revision process, and sometimes just to say hi. I always looked forward to seeing him. I knew Luke would love Dad’s party, and Randall had told me to invite anyone I liked. But would it seem wildly inappropriate to invite another guy home with me for the weekend?

  “How come you switched offices?” Luke asked, sticking his head into my tiny windowless closet.

  “Oh, well, I got tired of the view. And sunlight.”

  He smiled and gave me a kiss hello. For no reason, I blushed.

  “Have you had a chance to look through my edits?” I asked. I’d finally gotten them back to him the week before, taking a few extra days to be sure I’d covered everything.

  “I’m only halfway through them, but so far they’ve been a huge improvement. Thanks, Claire. But I’m just stopping by to say hello. Haven’t really spoken to you since last week at the Otheroom.”

  Oh yeah. The night I got hammered and talked your ear off for hours? My memory of that night had never lost its fuzziness, but I remembered yammering on about my job, my family, my dreams, my love life. It was probably better that I couldn’t recall the details.

  “So, how’s cohabitation?” Luke continued. “You moved in with your boyfriend, right?”

  “Yup, just last weekend. And it’s, um, terrific.” Domestic bliss with his intrusive mother and the smoldering Svetlana.

  And then, suddenly, I decided to throw caution to the wind. Luke was my friend. And why shouldn’t I invite my friend Luke to a weekend I knew he’d enjoy? Randall might feel a little uncomfortable about my bringing another man home for the weekend—but maybe he should’ve thought of that before he ditched me for work at the last minute. Maybe next time he’d rethink his priorities.

  Not that I was using Luke to make a point with Randall. Of course not.

  “Listen, Luke, please feel free to say no to this,” I began, “I know it’s last minute … maybe you already have plans, or maybe it doesn’t sound like fun … or maybe you’ve got work to do, or something … anyway, seriously no pressure—”

  Luke made a buzzing sound. “You’ve just exceeded the limit of disclaimers that can be placed before a single statement. What’s up?”

  “Okay, sorry. Well, I was just wondering”—why was my heart racing? why did I feel as though I were asking a boy to the prom?—“if you’d like to go to Iowa with me this weekend, for my dad’s party—I mean, we have this party every year to celebrate my dad, and a bunch of people from the community show up and read their favorite poems and—really, I’ll completely understand if you can’t, I just thought it might be … fun.”

  “Are you serious, Claire? I’d love to come. Of course!” Luke grinned at me, and I could tell that his enthusiasm was genuine. “And it’s actually good timing. My girlfriend’s heading upstate for a ‘save the silkworm’ rally.”

  “Great! Oh, and don’t worry about the ticket, I’ve got a … um, voucher,” I said. “I’m so happy you can make it. You know, we can even get some work done! Why don’t you bring the manuscript and we can go over the edits on the plane—”

  “Or we can just relax and enjoy the weekend. Get you away from work.”

  “Even better.” I smiled.

  “Hi, Claire-bear,” said Randall, cracking open the door to our now shared bedroom. Yum. Even though I still wasn’t over his last-minute bailout, I had to admit that Randall looked deliciously handsome, as usual, his suit slightly rumpled after a long day at the office. I sat up in bed, resting the manuscript I’d been reading on the nightstand. From behind his back, Randall pulled out a Cartier bag.

  “I’m really sorry about this weekend.” He perched next to me and gently pushed my hair off my forehead. “I know I let you down, sweetie. But it’s just one of those situations—I can’t not be at the office while this deal is
going down. Sometimes I hate the sacrifices I have to make for my job, Claire, but they do come with the territory.”

  I could tell his regret was genuine, and I couldn’t stay angry. “I understand,” I said, rubbing his back. “There’ll be plenty of chances for you to visit Iowa and spend time with Mom. And as far as the party goes, there’s always next year.”

  Next year. I watched his face for any visible signs of discomfort. Randall and I never talked about our future, really, and even my passing reference to next year felt like going out on a limb. But we were living together now—the future shouldn’t be a taboo subject.

  “Next year for sure.” Randall smiled, completely relaxed. “Here, sweetie, a little something to say that I’m sorry.” He handed me the Cartier bag. I opened the box inside to find a delicate, beautiful gold link bracelet. I loved it—but more than anything, I was touched that Randall had taken the time and made the effort.

  I wrapped my arms around him. “Randall, thank you,” I whispered in his ear. “It’s beautiful. You didn’t need to buy me a present, though.”

  “Let me help you put it on,” he said, fumbling with the latch. I could feel the heat from his fingers on my wrist. I kissed his neck. “I thought you’d like it,” he continued, finally getting the clasp fastened.

  “I love it, Randall. And I love you. I’m so excited that we’re finally spending our first night together!”

  “I know. You’ve been so patient, Claire.” He kissed me. “Hey, Deirdre mentioned that you’d called to arrange for a friend’s ticket to Iowa. Who’d you decide to bring?” he asked.

  “Um, actually, I invited one of my authors,” I said quickly. “Luke Mayville, Jackson’s nephew.” Uh-oh. Would Randall be upset? I suddenly wished I’d given it more thought before—

  “Yeah? That’s nice, babe. I’m glad.”

  Huh? No reaction at all? I should’ve been relieved that Randall didn’t feel threatened by my bringing Luke—but part of me, I’ll admit, felt a little disappointed by his indifference.

  “I’m going to get out of these duds and take a shower. I’ll be quick, I promise.” Flashing me a devilish grin, Randall loosened his tie, then headed for the bathroom.

  Maybe he was just really secure. And why shouldn’t he be? We were living together—we were a seriously committed couple living together. Why would he care if I shared my weekend with a friend? Randall trusted me. And he was right to—I was crazy about him.

  Resting my head on the downy pillow, I tried to stay awake for Randall’s return—but the sound of running water, the incredible softness of Randall’s Pratesi sheets, and the exhaustion of the day were almost too much for me.

  I’ll light some candles, I thought, forcing myself to sit up in bed, set the mood for when he comes back. I opened the drawer of the nightstand to look for matches—no luck. Maybe he kept them in the top drawer of his desk. Stamps, a letter opener, some stationery … and a photo of Randall with a beautiful blonde at the beach. Great. The second photo of the day I immediately regretted seeing. And no matches.

  Abandoning my mission and not wanting to inadvertently snoop more than I already had, I slipped back into bed. The shower was still running. Sometime later, I shifted in my sleep to find Randall next to me, freshly showered and in pajamas, reading through his papers. I looked at the clock—it was after 2:00. Didn’t he ever sleep? The man was bionic.

  “Hey, sweetie,” I whispered, sliding up next to him in the bed. He smelled soapy and clean. I inhaled deeply. “I’m sorry I nodded off.”

  “It’s okay, Claire-bear.” He kissed the top of my head, turning a page. “You need your rest.”

  “Good night,” I said, kissing his chest. Snuggled against him, I felt a kind of safety and comfort that I couldn’t remember feeling since childhood.

  “Night, Coral,” he whispered back in a distracted voice, scribbling something in a margin of the document.

  I sat up like a shot. “Did you just call me Coral?”

  “Of course not! I said Claire. Night, Claire.”

  Then why had I heard Coral? Was he telling the truth? I had been dozing in and out of sleep. Claire … Coral. I could see how the two might sound the same. And even if he had said his ex-girlfriend’s name, what did that mean? An innocent slip, two names with almost the same letters.

  I curled up next to him again. Randall trusted me, and I needed to trust him.

  Still, I couldn’t get back to sleep.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE HOUSE OF MIRTH

  My mother, of course, was waiting to pick us up—despite the fact that the airport was forty minutes from our house. The concept of taking a cab home was as foreign and “New York” to her as having dinner delivered from the restaurant on your corner.

  “Mom!” I screamed through the crowded airport. Her face lit up when she saw us. Beatrice and I sprinted for her, nearly tackling her in a hug. The guys, loaded down with all the luggage, ambled up behind us.

  “Honey—” Mom glanced meaningfully at Bea. “You weren’t kidding, Beatrice, she’s a toothpick. She was thin at New Year’s, but—”

  “Um, she’s right here,” I reminded them, pulling Mom into another bear hug mainly so she’d stop staring at me from every angle. “I’m so happy to see you, Mom. I’ve been looking forward to this weekend since you left.” It was true—but at the same time, it still made me a little sad to come home and not have Dad next to Mom. It had been five years, but I never got used to it.

  “Me too, sweetie. Harry!” Mom gave him a big hug. “You look great.”

  “So do you, Trish! And like you’ve been hard at work.” Harry pointed to the splotches of paint on Mom’s jeans.

  “I woke up this morning feeling very inspired.” Mom smiled. “And you must be Luke! I’m so delighted to meet you. Claire sent me your manuscript a few weeks ago, and I absolutely devoured it. You have incredible talent.”

  “Well, thank you,” Luke said, clearly moved by the compliment. “I think it’s starting to come together, thanks to all of Claire’s hard work.”

  Mom beamed. “Claire had two great teachers in the art of editing: her father and your uncle. So I’d say you’re in good hands.”

  “Okay, Mom.” I laughed, taking my bag from Luke and leading the pack out to the parking area. When it came to me and my father, my mother found it impossible to be modest.

  “You know, I’ve been a fan of your late husband’s work for many years,” Luke told Mom. “That’s why—among other reasons—I was so excited when Claire invited me to join her this weekend.”

  Among other reasons. Bea looked at me with a curious expression.

  “Thank you, Luke. It’s wonderful to know just how many people Charles touched through his work,” Mom said, linking her arm with his. “And please, call me Trish.”

  “Took her three years to throw the Trish card my way,” Harry joked. “Way to get in there with the poetry.”

  By the time we’d all piled into Mom’s beat-up Subaru to head home, it felt like Luke had been part of the group forever.

  “Sorry, guys, the heater’s a little temperamental,” Mom apologized, glancing back at Bea, Harry, and Luke huddled together in the backseat. “There are some blankets in the back if you’re freezing.”

  Bea immediately lunged for them, passing one to each of us. I’d forgotten just how cold Iowa could get in the winter. For a split second, I was the tiniest bit relieved that Randall hadn’t made the trip. How would he have dealt with Mom’s old jalopy—about as far as one could get from his Porsche—and its lack of heating? Somehow I couldn’t picture Randall wrapping himself in one of Mom’s handmade quilts.

  “Mom, don’t you think it might be time to trade Nellie in?” We’d had Nellie—the car—since my childhood. She’d more than served her time.

  “Dump old Nellie? Never! You know I’d never do that.”

  Why’d I even bother? Mom had ridiculous loyalty to inanimate objects. Old sweaters were never too old to darn, chi
pped plates had “character.” I could never decide if it was her Mayflower roots or a frugality that she’d developed over years of making money stretch. (I chose to believe that she didn’t really think our Subaru had feelings.)

  “Who needs heat?” asked Harry, pulling the blanket tighter around himself.

  “So, it looks like the crowd this year will be even bigger than we thought!” Mom told us excitedly. “It’s up to two hundred and fifty, and you know people bring friends along at the last minute … the tent is all ready to go. And Harriet and Suz have been in the kitchen since Wednesday, cooking up a storm.”

  Together for thirty years, Harriet and Suzanne had been my parents’ best friends for about twenty-five. Harriet was a chef at the local inn, Suzanne was a farmer/organic soap maker, and they always handled all the catering for the party—which seemed to get more elaborate by the year.

  By the time we pulled up to our house, Mom had brought us up to speed on all the preparations. Everything seemed to be under control, but she had a few chores for us before guests arrived in several hours. “Do you mind being put to work a little?” she asked Luke, who convincingly assured her that it would be his pleasure to help.

  An hour later, Luke wiped his brow and braced himself to lift a heavy coffee table out of our living room. He and Harry had already moved a couch, two big chairs, and an ottoman—I would’ve helped, but Mom had me testing out the sound system. The sound system! I couldn’t believe how much bigger Dad’s party had grown since its inception—or how much effort Mom had put into it this year. Bea was busy tying ribbons onto some programs listing names of local sponsors, and Harriet and Suzanne were giving detailed instructions to the wait staff. Finally, with about forty minutes to spare, we had finished everything on Mom’s list.

  “Would you mind if I jumped in the shower?” Luke asked. Sweat soaked through his shirt. “I’m pretty ripe.” He grinned, peeling his damp shirt away from his chest.

  “Of course! I can’t believe how rude we are, Luke, forcing you into manual labor within minutes of arriving. Some hosts—”