The One in My Heart

by Sherry Thomas

  So I raised my glass. “Here’s to a year of record-breaking sex. May all our vaginas be begging for an extended leave at the end of it.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Carolyn.

  The rest of lunch was the usual good time punctuated by laments that we didn’t see one another more often, what with everyone being so busy. As we were settling the checks, Daff touched on the Annual Boyfriend Roundup, which took place every February after Valentine’s Day. The event was started to give us a chance to introduce significant others to the group, but somehow nobody was ever in a relationship in February, so now it was just an excuse to dress up, go out, and enjoy ourselves.

  “Who’s bringing a boyfriend?” Daff asked.

  As was our tradition, we all raised our hands.

  “Good!” said Daff. “The liars’ brigade is all here. Now go forth and wrangle some penises.”

  AFTER LUNCH I PAID A visit to Pater’s grave.

  He had died nine years ago this day, from a car accident that killed his third wife instantly. He’d lingered for a few hours at the hospital, long enough for me to sit by his bedside, his hand in mine, and live out our alternate history any number of times.

  He’d remarried the year before, to a woman with whom he bickered constantly. And every other week they’d have a major fight. I couldn’t be sure, since I hadn’t been there, but I suspected that when the accident happened, they’d been in the middle of another one of their all-consuming quarrels.

  When he’d opened his eyes in the hospital, he’d whispered my name. Then he’d asked, “How’s Zelda?”

  Pater was the kind of man whose negativity could drive a saint to Hulk out. Yet in his own way, he’d adored Zelda—had given her the house in the divorce because he’d worried about there being too many abrupt changes in her life. Losing her had been a heavy blow to him. And the new marriage hadn’t been so much a rebound as a crutch—better to hate the one he was with than to be entirely alone.

  “Zelda’s fine,” I told him, “in England visiting her cousins.”

  “Those damn cousins,” he’d answered, wheezing. “They hated me—but at least they love her.”

  He’d fallen unconscious again after that. I stroked his fingers and imagined a very different January, starting with that long-ago night in Paris. In this alternate universe Zelda never got sick and she never left Pater. He would still be holding forth before dinner every night, a glass of vermouth in hand. And he would most certainly not be dying before me because the new wife with whom he couldn’t get along had decided to drive after a few drinks too many.

  His last words to me had been, “Make sure you don’t settle for social-climbing district attorneys.”

  I kissed the bouquet in my hand and laid it on his grave, along with a note.

  I miss you, Pater. And I haven’t married a social-climbing district attorney—yet. Love, Eva.

  CHARLOTTE AND SAM MARRIED AT City Hall, with only their parents in attendance. The evening reception was at the Mandarin Oriental on Columbus Circle. Bennett met me in the lobby of the hotel.

  “The bride is going to kill you, Professor, for looking so pretty.”

  I looked decent. But Bennett…

  Pater had been a clotheshorse with a closet full of Armani suits. He loved to expound on the intricacies of a good suit. In fact, just before his final admonition to me about not marrying social-climbing DAs, he’d said, Never tolerate a man in an ill-fitting suit.

  He wouldn’t have had to worry about that with Bennett. As a rule, men’s clothes that weren’t plaids or denim overalls did nothing for me. But the sight of Bennett’s impeccable slim-cut blue suit, worn over a crisp white shirt, made my heart palpitate.

  “Look at you, fashionista,” I murmured.

  “That means I-hate-you-because-you’re-beautiful, right?”

  “I don’t know. In your mind, is there anything people say to you that doesn’t mean that?”

  He laughed and kissed me on my cheek. “Three weeks was far too long without you putting me in my place.”

  It didn’t need to be three weeks. He had, true to his word, invited Zelda and me for dinner. But I’d declined for us. “I promise to put you in your place early and often tonight.”

  He whistled softly. “And Zelda, gone to her concert?”

  “Like a little girl off to visit her first pony.”

  My dear, gullible Zelda had even repeatedly made the case that I should take Bennett to the wedding reception in her stead, not realizing that my demurrals were all for show. That I’d already committed to this evening with him.

  “It’s easy to make Zelda happy. You, on the other hand, are absolutely impossible, sweetheart.”

  No one had ever said anything of the sort to me. Yet the truth of it was like a kick to the chest. Was he being playful again, or did he really understand, deep down, that I wasn’t the well-adjusted “sweetheart” I presented to the world?

  “Watch it, Somerset. There are men who would pay a million dollars for this—sex not included.”

  “Ah, yes, you promised early and often. You are a woman of your word, Canterbury.”

  With that, he took my hand and started walking. I stared at our interlaced fingers.

  He followed my line of sight. “It’s okay. We don’t have to be dating to hold hands.”

  We didn’t. It was only the intimacy of the gesture that had jarred me.

  The hotel staff directed us toward a flight of stairs that would lead us to the ballroom.

  “Nervous?” I asked.

  He exhaled. “Badly.”

  He had seemed perfectly at ease, like George Clooney about to work a crowd. But now I noticed the tension he carried in his shoulders.

  “So if I come on to you inappropriately,” he continued, “blame it on my nerves.”

  We were at the top of the stairs. I halted his progress. Everything about his outfit was perfectly in place, but I took a moment to smooth his collar.

  Maybe he was all about exploiting me for his own purposes, but that didn’t take away from the fact that he’d brought me out of the rain—and out of my misery—when I most needed it.

  “Don’t worry,” I told him. “I got you.”

  He traced a finger across my cheek. “I know you do.”

  WHEN WE RESUMED WALKING HAND in hand toward the reception line, there were people looking at us—to be expected when a handsome and sharply dressed man showed up at a wedding. After a moment I realized that I knew some of those people, and they were surprised not so much by Bennett, but by me. It had been ages since I went anywhere with a man by my side.

  I introduced Bennett to a couple of guests. Then it was our turn to congratulate the new couple. I hugged both bride and groom. Bennett shook hands with the groom and hugged the bride too. “Nice to see you again, Charlotte. I almost can’t believe you’re old enough to be married.”

  Charlotte looked nonplussed—she’d have been ten or eleven when he was disowned and probably didn’t remember him at all. Her mother, farther down the line, gasped.

  “My God, Bennett! It really is you. I didn’t know you were coming today.”

  “I’m just here to keep an eye on Evangeline, but it’s very nice to see you again, Mrs. Devonport.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Devonport, still dazed. “Evangeline Canterbury, is it? You were Zelda’s stepdaughter.”

  “That’s me. Bennett and I were neighbors for a while when I was housesitting for Collette Woolworth in Cos Cob. Now that I’m back in the city, we don’t get to see each other as much. Since he’s off tonight I thought I’d show him around a bit.” I patted him on his sleeve. “The man works too much.”

  “I hope you have a great time,” said Mrs. Devonport eagerly. “We have a fantastic deejay—or at least that’s what Charlotte tells me.”

  We congratulated her and moved on. By the time we got to the ballroom, news of Bennett’s presence had spread. Guests came and reintroduced themselves; those of the younger generation w
ere his former schoolmates and neighbors, those of an older generation friends or acquaintances of his parents.

  But no sign of the parents themselves.

  “Are they not here?” I asked when we were finally able to sit down, after this bout of heavy-duty schmoozing.

  “If they are, I can’t see them.”

  We’d arrived a bit late on purpose, so that as we made our way across the ballroom, we’d be easily visible to the guests who were already seated. “You think they might be running behind too?”

  Bennett shook his head, a grim look on his face. “For them, punctuality is next to godliness.”

  “But there isn’t a set time for dinner.”

  The reception, despite its location, was a casual affair, with a small-plates buffet and no formal seating arrangements.

  “If they were coming at all, they wouldn’t miss the toasts.”

  As if on cue, the best man rose for his speech.

  Speeches and toasts followed one another. I glanced at Bennett every so often. He laughed and applauded at all the right places, showing no signs of having been let down. When the bride and groom took the floor for their first dance, however, he laid his head on my shoulder and sighed.

  My heart ached, as if his disappointment were my own. “There’ll be other chances.”

  He sighed again. “I know. I’ll be fine.”

  Without realizing what I was doing, I kissed him on his hair. He took my hand in his and played with my fingers. I felt…paralyzed. Part of me wanted to yank away immediately. And a different part of me would like for us to stay like this forever.

  In the end Bennett was the one to straighten first, dipping a spoon into a demitasse of soup—he’d hardly touched any of his food. “I spoke to Mrs. Asquith a couple of days ago and asked about Zelda’s ex.”

  I felt a flutter of a different kind of nerves. “What did she say?”

  “He and his wife are in the middle of a divorce, which kind of took everyone by surprise.”

  “Is it because he found someone else?”

  “Mrs. Asquith didn’t think so. Seems like there was just nothing left.”

  “Did she tell Zelda?”

  “I didn’t ask.” Bennett looked at me. “You think she’d still care, after all these years?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she has never mentioned him, not even by allusion: ‘Oh, there was a man I once dated,’ or, ‘a TV producer I used to know.’ It’s like she erased him. You see what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  Hmm. Did he understand because he had done just that, expunging his ex from his existence?

  No, what was I thinking? He’d never hesitated to bring her up, not from the very beginning, with that reference about having been known to like an older woman.

  “Do you want to dance?” he asked.

  I spied Mrs. Devonport approaching the buffet. “You go. I’ll do some investigating.”

  “Seconds?” asked Mrs. Devonport as I drew up next to her.

  “Absolutely. I love these little bowls of truffle risotto.”

  “I haven’t had it yet, but I’m so glad you like it.” She leaned in a little closer. “We’ve been wondering where Bennett has been hiding himself since he came back to town. I guess it’s been with you.”

  “Not all the time. He’s still doing his fellowship, and there’s no end to the work.” I also leaned in toward Mrs. Devonport. “I didn’t know until Bennett told me just now that Charlotte is his mom’s goddaughter—I said I had a reception to go to and would he mind coming with me, so he really had no idea who the wedding parties were. Are his parents going to be here, by any chance? I should probably prepare myself if things are going to be awkward.”

  “Oh, you don’t ever need to worry about the Somersets being awkward in public,” Mrs. Devonport hastened to reassure me. “Besides, Frances called me this afternoon and said she was still under the weather—the flu—and she didn’t want to give it to anybody else.”

  “Phew,” I said. “Crisis averted. Thanks for letting me know.”

  When I returned with my newly gathered intelligence, someone had taken my seat, a wavy-haired blonde in a cranberry spaghetti-strap dress.

  Bennett rose and kissed me beneath my ear. “Sweetheart, I thought you were never coming back. I missed you.”

  “I was gone for five minutes, Doctor. You need to be a little less clingy.”

  He laughed. “Evangeline, this is Damaris. Damaris, Evangeline. Damaris and I took ballroom lessons together when we were kids.”

  “Bennett came with me to talent night at my school, and we brought down the house with our tango routine,” bragged Damaris.

  “Tango? Did you guys bring sexy back?”

  “I thought so at the time. But then Bennett and I went dancing last June at a tango club and my God”—she trailed a finger up Bennett’s lapel—”what a difference, dancing the tango with him all grown-up. How come we haven’t gone back there since?”

  “I told you,” Bennett said coolly, “my work is too busy.”

  “Why? You can buy the hospital. Forget work.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” said Bennett. “But it’s good to see you again, Damaris. Now, would you mind giving my date her chair back?”

  Damaris stood up reluctantly. “We should tango here tonight and show everybody a thing or two.”

  “I don’t think so. See you later.”

  Damaris made a sound through her nose. “I wouldn’t feel so secure about your place if I were you,” she said to me. “He went out with my friend a few times last summer and then dumped her like a bag of cement.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up,” I answered with a smile. “I’ll be sure to dump him first.”

  “You really are the best,” Bennett whispered to me as we sat down in the wake of Damaris’s hair-tossing departure.

  “Next time, if you must reject a woman, try some subtle.”

  “I already tried subtle. The patient is forty-five percent inebriated and not responding to subtle.”

  Damaris looked back just then. Bennett wasted no time in pulling me toward him and kissing me on my cheek. “Now, why don’t you get wasted and come on to me?”

  I ignored that question. “Your mom has the flu. She called Mrs. Davenport earlier to say she wouldn’t be coming.”

  This sobered him. “At least I don’t have to wonder about that anymore.”

  We sat silently for a while; then I felt him touch the shell of my ear. The sensation of it all but skewered me. “What happened to waiting for me to get wasted first?”

  “That’s only one scenario.”

  “What’s this scenario, then?”

  “I’m just turned on by you.”

  His words were almost a greater peril than his touches. I nudged a pumpkin gnocchi around on my plate. “You’re planning to use me to distract yourself from your disappointment. I don’t do consolation sex.”

  I also didn’t want to experience any more of his vulnerability. That sigh on my shoulder just about killed me.

  “It’s not consolation sex, just the straightforward, nasty sort,” he whispered in my ear, sending sizzles of electricity along my nerve endings.

  He was clearly angling for sex and sex alone, viewing me as a stressed-out society matron might eye her bottle of Xanax. Why, then, did I so desperately want to say yes?

  I put on my sternest voice. “If you want to get laid, hook up with somebody on Tinder, or order an escort off craigslist.”

  “I’m morally opposed to paying for sex, and I don’t want to deal with any more strangers tonight.” He reached for a tomato tarte Tatin. “Guess I’ll eat myself into a stupor then. Where’s a gallon of cookie-dough ice cream when a man needs it?”

  I got up and returned with an assortment of desserts. “Here, sex on a plate.”

  He bit into something triple-tiered, but his eyes were on me, his hunger unmistakable.

  I pu
shed a slice of almond dacquoise along the edge of the plate, too flustered to eat. “Something doesn’t compute about your situation,” I said, so that I wouldn’t stare back at him with the same intensity of lust. “Kids have screaming fights with their parents all the time and everybody says all kinds of mean things. And in the vast, vast, vast majority of the cases, by next Thanksgiving everybody is sitting down to dinner again. I don’t get why your estrangement with your parents should have lasted so long. Did you and Ms. Cougar break up just now?”

  “No, when I was twenty-three.”

  “Who holds a grudge for another decade?”

  “I did mount a couple of real takeover attempts of the family holdings in my twenties.”

  I stopped pushing around the almond dacquoise. “So you were a raging asshole.”

  “That, I believe, is the technical term.”

  This changed things. “Are you sure your dad will forgive you?”

  He dug a spoon into a thimble-size cup of chocolate crémeux. “No, I’m not sure at all. Which is why I need you. And you…you have no sympathy for a man trapped between his pride and his past asshole-ism.”

  He offered me the spoonful of crémeux, which was rich and bittersweet. “I have sympathy, just not enough to take off my clothes.”

  “You can keep your clothes on,” he murmured.

  The implication of his words…It was a wonder that the electricity sizzling along my nerves didn’t short-circuit all the lights in the ballroom.

  Applause erupted, startling me: The bride and groom were leaving. Bennett and I stood up and joined in the clapping.

  “We should probably go too, if your purpose here is done,” I said, once the newlyweds had exited.

  “Are you going to jump into a taxi and head straight home?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what do I do with my sad and lonely self?”

  “Get drunk, eat ice cream, and don’t operate on anyone.”

  He put an arm around me. “You are heartless. Why do I want you so much as my fake girlfriend?”

  Why don’t you want me as your real girlfriend, you jackass? “Because I seem—seem, mind you—to inhabit that sweet zone of obtainability: not so easy as to be worthless, and not so difficult that you’d give up all hope. Pretty basic evolutionary psychology.”