by Dee Ernst
I nodded and sipped my drink. “I know.”
The waitress appeared, setting down our salads.
“Everything okay?” she asked Ben.
He nodded.
She looked at me and raised an eyebrow. I nodded, and she left.
“I was hoping,” Ben said quietly, “that we could figure out a way for both of us to feel better about things.”
I played with my lettuce, pushing it from one side of the plate to the other with my fork. “What things, exactly? The kids’ wedding? Or ours?”
“There is no ours.”
“Right.” I looked up at him. He seemed so sad. “Listen, Ben, even if I admit that David and Miranda seem to be made for each other, it will take ten years of them happily married before I agree with you on this. And I’m sorry. I will do everything I can to support my daughter and her choices, but that doesn’t mean I’m happy with them. And as much as I love you, I still don’t understand why things between us can’t stay exactly the same. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right? And we’re not broken, Ben. I don’t know why we have to go through a symbolic ceremony to be happy together.”
“Marriage is not just a symbolic ceremony, Mona.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Just ask your daughter. It’s important. It means something.”
I pushed away my plate. The waitress hurried over to whisk it away. I had no appetite left. A perfect waste of pork chops and baked potato. I looked over at Ben, who was staring at his empty beer bottle.
I could see no way out of this.
CHAPTER TEN
SOME THINGS HAD TURNED AROUND.
Fabulous and comfortable shoes, black patent leather with purple suede accents for wedding number one—check.
Fabulous and less-than-comfortable shoes, ivory with sparkly heels and hot-pink soles for wedding number two—check.
Amazing and fairly sexy pantsuit, as well as smashing plan B outfit, perfect for posh, intellectual holiday parties with the New York literati—check.
Unbelievable black Chanel bag practically stolen from an online consignment shop, my Christmas gift to myself—check.
Wardrobewise, I was on a roll.
Anthony and I finalized three titles that would be ready to launch on schedule. Sylvia had called to say my old publishing house loved both of my manuscripts and were going to make an offer. A good one. I was writing again—no, not a romance, but a modern comedy—with more than a touch of fantasy—about a jaded divorcée who inherits a farmhouse in the country next to a cemetery and finds that she can talk to all the “residents.”
Workwise, I was in the zone.
I had hung garland over the fireplace mantel, purchased several wreaths, and bought—and decorated—a smallish, pre-lit tree for the corner of the living room. The cat’s digestive issues had ceased. I managed to whip together two batches of homemade biscotti.
Domestically speaking, I was back on the goddess track.
Miranda’s new job didn’t start until after the first of the year, so she was still reveling in her newfound role as housewife and calling me daily for advice on things like grout cleaning and how to season a cast-iron skillet. Lauren was still moping over her breakup with Justin but confided in me that she realized I had been right when I told her to make a clean break, and had said no to the last booty call. I think she said that to make me feel better, but it really didn’t. Jessica’s tattoo had healed, and she agreed with me that for her next one, something subtle, like a musical note inside the left knee, was a better idea than a map of the Shire between her shoulder blades.
My parenting skills had never been less needed, but also never more appreciated.
So you’d think that I’d be a happy camper.
I missed Ben so much it was like missing a part of my body. An important part. Like my right arm. Our dinner was only a few days ago, but I felt the distance of one hundred years, and I knew that wasn’t good.
But I was getting used to living alone.
I had never done that before. I had gone from my mother’s house to my husband’s house. After Brian left, the girls and Lily had lived with me. True, I had been living on my own in California, but I was always with somebody. I was working twelve-hour days or was in meetings until late at night. When I did have downtime, I was flying home or Ben was there, or one of the girls. It was not like now, with the girls barely home between terms and Lily practically living in Bay Ridge. Now I woke up, one morning after the next, with no one around.
It was a revelation to have to think about no one but myself.
Of course, the dog had to be walked, and the cats had to be fed, and I had a writing schedule. And let’s face it, the bills had to be paid on time. But I pretty much could do whatever I wanted. I never had that luxury before. It was liberating.
“So,” Anthony asked, “do you dance around the house naked to the Bee Gees?”
“What? Did you do that when you lived alone?”
“No, but I wasn’t a child of the disco era.”
“Neither was I. Well, not really. What are you and Victor doing for Christmas?” We were over the garage, working through e-mails and cinnamon-flavored coffee.
“New Hampshire. His sister is renting a cabin and we’re going to ski and sing carols. And drink spiced rum.”
“That sounds nice. Can I come?”
“Ben skis. Ask to go with him.”
“We did that once. Spent a weekend up at Stowe. I never actually went on a slope, but I waved at him a few times as he skied by the main lodge.”
“I love those shoes, by the way. For Lily’s wedding? Louboutin?”
“I have no idea. Carmella found them. The underside exactly matches the color of Lily’s dress.”
He looked at me steadily. “Why aren’t you happy?”
“I am happy.”
“But you seem sad.”
“I am also sad. I’m allowed to feel more than one thing at once, you know.”
“I know. What are you sad about?”
“Ben and I have never disagreed about anything before. It’s really hard to take. What if I lose him over this?”
Anthony leaned over and hugged me. “How can you lose a man who loves you as much as Ben does?”
“Love isn’t everything, Anthony. And sometimes it isn’t enough.”
“I refuse to believe,” he said loudly, “that you won’t get through this. After Miranda’s wedding, the two of you need to spend a long weekend alone, talking things out. You’ll be fine.”
Anthony, just as a point of information, still made Easter baskets for the girls and left them on the kitchen counter, along with a half-eaten carrot. Just so we all know where he was coming from.
“How’s Lily?” he asked.
“Doing great. I’m kind of really liking the scenario. Except the part where Vinnie’s connected, of course. Maybe when you reach a certain age you’re less afraid of failure. Or more willing to take the risk. Whatever. I suppose you reach a point in your life where you know you can trust your instincts. And I’d like to think that I could still find love if I were old and gray.”
“When you’re old and gray, you and Ben will be sitting together in a front porch somewhere, side by side in matching rockers, throwing things at people who walk by.”
I felt a twist in my gut. Would Ben and I grow old together? “Maybe.”
“No, certainly.”
“I never thought of myself as a rocking-chair type.”
“But you’re definitely the throw-things-at-people type.”
“True.”
“I bet she doesn’t invite me to the wedding.”
“Don’t take it personally. After all, she still only knows you as the guy who does stuff around here occasionally.”
“What do I do around here?”
“Hold my hand and make me feel better when I’m bummed.”
“Oh, baby cakes, I am so underpaid.”
Who gives a party in the middle of Manhattan the day before Christmas eve? Requiring me to no
t only take the bus wearing a stunning chocolate-brown pantsuit and very high heels, but also to carry a paper bag filled with canned goods for the local Food Pantry (in lieu of a hostess gift) down 42nd Street?
Amanda Witt, that was who. And for her, I’d do it gladly.
Amanda began writing romance when it was tucked away in the corners of drugstores and stationery shops. She was one of those referred to as a “grande dame,” and she not only deserved it, she reveled in it. She had slowed down when she hit her seventy-fifth birthday and was now writing only novellas and short stories for various charity anthologies. But she still had a sharp mind and sharper tongue, and she’d been my friend and mentor for years.
She always rented a suite in the heart of Times Square for her holiday party, and no one involved in the romance biz ever turned down her invitation. Not only did she always have the best food and drink, but certain people at her parties tended to loosen up so much that they could be counted on to open their mouths and let all sorts of interesting things fall out. No one wanted to miss out on that kind of fun. Even though I wasn’t writing romance with a capital R anymore, I still rated an invite. I knew what an honor it was. Even during the past two years, when my time home was limited and packed full of things to do and people to see, I went to her party.
She was that kind of friend.
A week earlier I had gone to another literary-type party, this time given by my once and future editor, Francine Welles. She had been an editor for a very long time, and was one of those almost-recognizable names in New York publishing. It was one of those Noel Coward–type affairs, with everyone standing around the piano at the end of the night singing show tunes. It was usually a mix of book people, theater people, and art people, so there was a lot of ego and opinion thrown around.
But at Amanda’s little shindig, everyone spoke the same language, and we all checked our pretentions at the door. It took me a few minutes to find her. She was surrounded, as usual, but when she saw me she bumped a younger and obviously star struck author from the seat next to her so I could sit. She kissed me on the cheek and got straight to the point.
“You’re really giving us up?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Let’s face it, I haven’t written a romance in almost two years. That’s a century in fan-years.”
She sniffed. She looked a little tired, but her makeup was perfect, as usual, and not an ash-blond hair was out of place. Nor would it be, even if a tsunami swept through Times Square. “That thing with your backlist—are you really doing it yourself?”
I nodded. “Yes. We release the first three in a few weeks, as a matter of fact.”
She raised her eyebrows. “I can’t imagine doing all that work, and for what?”
“Seventy percent royalty?”
Amanda was rich enough that she never bothered even calculating her royalty share. “What else are you writing?”
“Paranormal romantic comedy.”
“Good sex?”
“Good dream sex.”
“Whatever. And where is that gorgeous Ben that you brought last year?”
“He got propositioned so much that he swore he’d never come to one of your parties again,” I lied.
“Are you going to put him on one of your covers?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“Oh, dear, Mona. Have I taught you nothing?” She looked at me shrewdly. “What’s going on?”
I didn’t usually share personal things with Amanda, but I knew that she’d been married to the same man for more than fifty years. “Do you like being married?”
“Of course. It’s the best thing in the world. Why on earth do you ask?”
“I can’t imagine getting married again, that’s all.”
“You know, dear, that I rarely give advice, but can I share with you my secret?”
“Of course.”
She leaned in to whisper in my ear, “The key to happiness is to make sure your expectations are based on reality.” She sat back, looking very smug.
“Oh?”
“Never look at the world the way it was, or the way you want it to be. Look at your life the way it truly is, and make your plans from there. You’ll save yourself a lot of heartbreak.”
I thought about that for a moment. “That’s very good advice, Amanda.”
She sniffed. “Of course it is, dear. Now, go forth and be brilliant.”
Yes, Amanda.
The girls spent Christmas eve at home. Ben, David, and Ethan came over, as did Patricia. I felt that automatic jolt when Ben came through the door, but I was not as anxious as I thought I’d be. I was trying very hard not to obsess about us and just enjoyed his company. He seemed a bit withdrawn at first, but he soon relaxed. We had been good friends for a long time, and that was where we found ourselves by the end of the night. I had a beef tenderloin with scalloped potatoes delivered, and afterward we sat around the fireplace and talked about Lily in Aruba, the wedding, the DeMatriano family, the wedding, my new book, the wedding, Ethan’s psychotic roommate, the wedding, and, oh, yes, the wedding.
It looked as though everything was set. Carmella’s checklist was complete. The first RSVPs were coming in. The happy couple had written their vows. Ben had rented shoes.
It was going to happen.
I sat next to Ben on the couch, just close enough to feel his phone vibrate at least five times during the evening. To his credit, he never pulled it out to check who was texting him so urgently on Christmas eve. My guess was that it was Carmella, and I felt slightly smug knowing he was basically blowing her off in favor of our company.
Basing my expectation on the reality of his not caring what she wanted, I should have felt not just smug, but happy.
So why wasn’t I happy?
Because it wasn’t enough that Carmella wasn’t that important to him.
Okay, then, what would be enough? I had no idea.
See my problem?
Patricia left early. We sat and watched It’s a Wonderful Life until midnight. Then, since Ben and I weren’t going to be together on Christmas day, we went into the living room to exchange gifts. He handed me a box. I was afraid to open it up. Last year he had given me a beautifully illustrated first edition of Lassie: Come Home, one of my favorite children’s books. This year the gift was smaller. It felt like a jewelry box. Most women would be thrilled with jewelry, but I had all sorts of sparkly things—why hadn’t he spent time and energy finding something unique and different, just for me?
My expectation should have been based on the reality that Ben and I were not the same couple we were a year ago. In fact, we weren’t the same couple we were months ago. Just because I had spent hours online looking for framed original blueprints of famous architectural buildings before spending a small fortune on the floor plan of the Thomas Gale House, designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, didn’t mean that Ben was still as enthusiastic about shopping for me as I was about shopping for him.
I carefully peeled open one side, prying open the tape with my thumb. I unfolded the silver paper and slid the box out. Plain, white. No name or logo. I pulled off the lid.
There, in a bed of cotton, was a heavy gold bangle, fine engraving intertwined among tiny diamonds. I held it up and read the inscription.
Better Than Your Dreams.
“Oh, Ben.”
In the early days of our relationship, I had told him that even though I was a best-selling author of some pretty hot romance, being with him was better than anything I could have dreamed up. A few days later, he found a quote, by Dr. Seuss, of all people, that said, “You know you’re in love when you can’t fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.” It meant so much to me then. It meant even more, now, that he remembered.
He put it around my wrist very carefully.
“It’s so beautiful,” I whispered. “Thank you.”
He just nodded. I handed him his gift, which he opened with the same care and patience he had for everything in his life.<
br />
“Oh, Mona, how perfect,” he said. “Just perfect. Wow, it must have taken you days to find something like this.”
Weeks, actually, but I just shrugged modestly. He leaned over, and we kissed, very softly. I wanted to move toward him, put my arms around him. Maybe ease him onto the floor. The kids were watching A Christmas Story. I could hear the television in the other room. It ran with no commercials, right? And I knew there was plenty of popcorn left in the bowl. Those kids were in the Ralphie zone. They wouldn’t notice a bomb going off. Maybe Ben and I could slip right behind the tree and…
He sat back. “Thank you.”
I pushed those thoughts to the side. “I’m glad you like it. I thought it was really beautiful.”
He sat, looking down at the print for a long time. Then he took a deep breath and stood up. “I should go.”
I stood up with him. “Right. It’s late.”
He kissed me on the cheek. It was a good-friend kind of a kiss.
After he left, I sat. Maybe good friends was going to have to be enough.
Christmas day, I had been invited to Brian and Dominique’s with the girls and David. By the time we got there, Tyler had already exhausted himself opening several thousand presents, so we had a peaceful dinner while he slept under the dining room table. Christmas night, I sent lots of texts and e-mails. I still hadn’t taken off Ben’s gift. Not even for the shower. Of course, it wasn’t the same as having him there. But at least I looked elegant in my loneliness.
The day after Christmas, David and Miranda went over to Ben’s. Both of them were very polite and did not ask questions about what was going on, which I appreciated. They would be spending the night there, but coming back to spend time with me before the shower. Jess and Lauren were off somewhere. The house was quiet. I sat in the living room and looked at my beautiful tree, watched the cats play soccer with a few fallen ornaments, and ran my fingers over Ben’s gift over and over again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ONCE BRIAN AND DOMINIQUE FIGURED out that a chic two-bedroom condo was not the best place to raise a baby boy—especially since said baby boy would have to share his bedroom with his three half sisters whenever they came to visit—they’d moved west from Hoboken to the ’burbs into a five-bedroom, four-and-a-half–bath colonial on a sweeping half-acre lot, complete with pool, circular drive, and three-car garage. That may have been overkill, since Dominique made it very clear that Tyler was a onetime extravagance. My daughters were pleased that they now had a pool to hang out in whenever they wanted, as well as a very well decorated place to crash if they happened to be in the neighborhood. But their enthusiasm disappeared as soon as they started classes and realized they weren’t going to be back from college often enough to sufficiently abuse their own home, let alone their father’s.
