The Men I Didn't Marry

by Janice Kaplan

  “I’ve known it, too,” he says. “I’m not good at commitments. You figured that out the first day we were together. But I thought, maybe this time. Go for it, go to New York. But what can I say? The place made me sick.”

  “Not fair. Our future being determined by a rotten crab cocktail.”

  “Who would have thought.” He hugs me and we’re quiet for a long time.

  “Are you sorry I tracked you down? Should I have just left you alone after all these years?” I finally ask in a small voice.

  “Never,” he says ardently. “It’s been wonderful. It was a vision to see you that first day on the island. High school Hallie come to my own paradise.”

  “For me now it’s going to be paradise lost,” I say.

  At least he catches my literary allusion. “I think we were supposed to read that senior year,” he says. “Dickens, wasn’t it?”

  “Milton, but close enough.”

  “Did they write at the same time?”

  “No, a couple of centuries apart. But Dickens and Milton were both English.”

  “At least I got that right,” he says.

  “You got a lot of things right,” I tell him. “In fact, I can’t think of anything you do wrong except live in a place I can’t.”

  We hold each other tightly, Kevin running his strong hand up and down my back.

  “Do you think it would have worked if we’d stayed together after high school?” I ask finally.

  “No, our worlds were too different even then.” Kevin lifts up my chin and gives me a plaintive smile. “I guess that’s one thing that hasn’t changed.”

  “Can I still visit you in paradise?” I ask.

  “Anytime,” he promises.

  “And can we fall in love with each other once every twenty years?”

  “You bet,” he says. He gives me a long, tender kiss. “Something to look forward to. And the best reason I can imagine to get older.”

  Kevin and I manage to do now what we couldn’t after high school— stay friends. After he leaves, we speak almost every day, and by our second week apart, our conversations are easygoing, actually a lot more comfortable than they were in the will-we-or-won’t-we phase of our relationship after I left Virgin Gorda. Sitting in my office late one night, I call him just to chat. He’s cheerful and full of stories because the movie shoot with Angelina Jolie has started. Everything is going—in his words—swimmingly. I laugh and tease him about how many times he thinks he can use that joke.

  I hang up, feeling comforted and knowing we made the right decision. In those years with Bill, I’d sometimes get exasperated with my marriage and imagine what my life would have been like if I’d stayed with one of my other boyfriends. Now I got a chance to go back and make my decisions again. And I still said “no” instead of “yes”—to Kevin, to Eric. To Ravi? Well, I didn’t really get to say “no” to Ravi. I didn’t get to say much of anything to him.

  Thoughtfully, I open my desk drawer to retrieve the napkin I’d tucked away after my brave solo-night dinner at the Brasserie—where I’d written down the names of the men I didn’t marry. I take out the list and stare at it, looking at the fourth name, Dick Benedict. Ravi made me realize that you have to live in the present, but that doesn’t change the endless regret I’ll always feel about name number four. I fold the napkin up again and hold it in my hand for a minute. No, not every choice you make in your life was the right one. I still have to confront that.

  I go back to work and make myself focus on the papers in front of me. Frankly, there’s nothing else to focus on right now. No husband, no boyfriend—no way I’m going to blow this job. Looking for clues in the Tyler case, I go over every deposition we’ve taken. I reread Melina Marks’s but there’s nothing. Just like Mr. Tyler, she stonewalled neatly, saying only that she deserved her promotion. Going to hear her speak at Dartmouth may be grasping at straws, but right now I’m following any lead. I send a late-night e-mail to Arthur explaining why I’ll be out of the office tomorrow. All I can hope is that when I get back, nobody else will be sitting at my desk.

  I leave at five A.M. the next morning to drive up to Dartmouth and, in honor of Kevin, I speed along the highway with my windows down and Bon Jovi blaring from the speakers. Icicles form on my eyelashes and I finally give in and turn on the heat. Easier to be a free spirit in the tropics.

  When I get up to Dartmouth, I walk through the campus, envious of the kids who get to spend their days listening to great professors and pondering life’s important issues. I yearn to be back at college. Going to classes and writing papers always sound so appealing when you don’t have to do it anymore. But why do I think it’s any better than going to meetings and filing briefs?

  I get lost three times wandering around looking for the building, but helpful students cheerfully point me in the right direction. Finally, I see Adam and his friend Evahi outside the lecture hall waiting for me, and they both come over and kiss me on the cheek. Evahi on both cheeks. When I’d called Adam to tell him I’d be coming up today, I told him all about the case, Melinda’s role, and the threat to my job. My loyal son promised that both he and Evahi would help.

  “Thanks for letting me come to your class,” I say.

  “No problem, I think what you’re doing is cool,” says Evahi, who’s dressed in jeans and a baggy sweater. She’s not wearing any makeup, but with a nineteen-year-old’s natural glow, she looks even prettier than she did at Christmas.

  “Maybe we’ll help you crack the case and we’ll all end up on Court TV,” says Adam.

  “Or make a movie of it,” says Evahi excitedly. “So many sexy actresses in movies about sex discrimination. Demi Moore in Disclosure. Meryl Streep in Silkwood. Charlize Theron in North Country.”

  “Melina Marks in How Mom Lost Her Job,” adds Adam.

  “Thanks, darling,” I say, patting my son on his shoulder.

  The classroom is crowded and while the kids take their seats, I’m happy to slip into a spot near the back, out of the guest speaker’s line of sight. From my experience, I expect the professor will be white-haired, stoop-shouldered, and wearing a tattered tweed jacket with frayed elbow patches. But this one, who the kids call Joe, is in his early thirties and tall and handsome enough to be in movies instead of teaching about them. Another incentive to be back at college. He gives a gracious introduction to Melina, who smiles and thanks him for inviting her. Stepping to the podium in her navy pantsuit and flat shoes, Melina doesn’t exactly look like the femme fatale of the case. She flips through some note cards, then launches into a smart, thoughtful lecture on the ins and outs of film marketing, explaining that publicists are more important than anyone knows in creating a star’s image.

  The students in the class are riveted, and even I’m learning a thing or two. Alas, not about the case. But now I know that Tom Cruise flipped out on Oprah’s couch only after he ditched his longtime handler and hired his inexperienced sister—who found keeping him in line a mission impossible. And I learn that to get celebrities on the cover, women’s magazines sometimes let the publicist pick the photos and the writer and control what gets asked. So much for the ethics taught at journalism school.

  After about half an hour, Melina starts winding down from her prepared speech. “I’d be delighted to take questions,” she says pleasantly.

  A few hands shoot up enthusiastically and Melina points to a young woman sitting near Evahi.

  “First of all, thank you for all this wonderful information. You’re such an inspiration—a woman in a high position,” says the student who’s obviously about to shove her résumé into Melina’s hands. “Can you tell us the best way to land a job?”

  “Get A’s in Dartmouth and then suck up to somebody in the film business,” jokes Melina. The class laughs, and I look around to make sure there’s no spy for the other side writing down that line to use it against Mr. Tyler in court. But no, I seem to be the only mole.

  “Seriously, contacts are important,” Melina cont
inues, “but I’ve always found it’s really hard work that pays off.”

  Well, that’s better. Now she’s quotable for the defense.

  Melina calls on another student.

  “Is the film business really as viciously competitive as we’ve heard?”

  “Yes, cutthroat,” she says, taking a finger and drawing it dramatically across her neck. “I have so many scars that I have to wear turtle-necks.” She tugs at the cowl on her sweater for proof while the kids laugh again.

  “Hermes scarves would also work,” suggests a hopeful girl in the second row, who’s probably already bought her ticket to L.A. Maybe after class I’ll tell her about Echo scarves—lovely and an eighth of the price.

  “Other questions?” asks Melina.

  More hands pop up, and the next three questions are all about getting jobs in film publicity. Melina is relaxed and easygoing with the kids, telling them everything they need to know short of her cell phone number and e-mail address.

  “What’s the one most important thing you can tell us about moving up in the business?” asks a young man in the front row.

  Melina pauses and adjusts an earring as she thinks about her answer.

  “Keep your ego in check,” she says finally. “If you’re the idea person you have to try not to get upset if someone else takes the credit. What’s important is that your boss knows what you’ve done, not that the whole world does.”

  I sit forward. That’s interesting. I’m dying to ask a question myself. But I’m obviously better off as spectator than interrogator. Melina’s a lot more unguarded with the class than she’s ever been with me.

  Evahi’s madly waving her hand, and Melina looks encouragingly at her.

  “Did that ever happen with you?” Evahi asks. “A time you didn’t take credit?”

  “Sure,” says Melina.

  Now she’s really piqued my interest. Could that uncredited work be why Melina got the promotion over Beth? If so, Mr. Tyler knew about it and had some reason for keeping it a secret.

  “Can you tell us about it?” Evahi persists.

  Just what I wanted to ask. If Evahi doesn’t become my daughter-in-law, I may just adopt her.

  “I can give you a theoretical example,” says Melina, trying to be helpful to her eager young audience. “Let’s say you came up with an idea that brought a lot of attention to a big star, completely changed her image and her career. She’s really grateful, but the head of the company takes the credit. He makes it very clear that he has to stay numero uno with the star. All ideas are his ideas. If you go around bragging that this genius plan was yours, he’s going to get pissed off and fire you.”

  “Did you get anything at all for what you did?” asks the girl who recommended the Hermes scarf, not convinced that it’s worth being a team player.

  “A promotion,” Melina says. But then realizing she’s said too much, even to a group of college kids, she quickly amends. “I didn’t say this was me. Just theoretical.”

  “But it is you, right?” asks Evahi eagerly.

  Melina shakes her head no, and then says, “No, no. Not at all.”

  “Who was the star?” shoots Evahi, not letting up.

  A shadow crosses Melina’s face. “Look, forget about that example,” she says nervously neatening her note cards and pulling at her turtleneck, as if the room has unexpectedly become too hot. She looks pleadingly over to Professor Joe and cuts the session short. “I guess that’s all I have to say. Thank you for the opportunity.”

  The students give Melina a generous round of applause and she smiles shakily. Class over, the would-be movie moguls gather around Melina. I lurk in the back of the room, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. And suddenly I think I get it. A few minutes later, as the crowd thins, Melina notices me. She looks briefly startled, but then she excuses herself from the remaining students and comes over to me.

  “My son’s girlfriend mentioned you were lecturing today,” I say, before she has a chance to ask what I’m doing here. “You were excellent.”

  “Thank you. I hope the students enjoyed it. But maybe I said too much.”

  “No, you said exactly what you should,” I tell her.

  She looks at me worriedly.

  “Look, I finally understand what happened. Your husband, Charles Tyler, didn’t promote you out of favoritism. You earned the position over Beth because of some idea that your boss, Alan Alladin, claimed was his.”

  “I didn’t say that,” says Melina.

  “No, I’m saying it. And am I right?”

  Melina hesitates a long time. And then in a voice so soft I can hardly hear her, she says, “Yes.”

  We look at each other and she gives a big sigh, as if relieved to finally be free of her secret.

  “Why haven’t you or Charles told me about it?” I ask gently.

  Melina sinks down into one of the old-fashioned chairs in the lecture hall and leans her elbows on the attached desk. “Look, Hallie, I begged Charles to tell you,” she says. “But he knew if the story got out, Alan Alladin would fire both of us and blackball us in the whole community. He’s powerful, and nobody would hire us if Alan said not to. Charles wanted you to pull off some miracle and settle the case some other way.”

  “Oh, come on. You two have to be exaggerating. Mr. Alladin couldn’t possibly demand you stay quiet about it in the middle of a lawsuit.”

  Melina shakes her head. “Yes, he can. The man’s ego is limitless. The company’s logo is everywhere and all his shirts are monogrammed AA. He’s thinking of suing Alcoholics Anonymous for using his initials.”

  “Well, right now, Beth Lewis is suing your husband.”

  “It’s not really Beth’s fault,” says Melina. “All she knew was that Charles and I were close. We fell in love at work, and I guess everybody sensed it. But that had nothing to do with the promotion. Beth had no idea that I was pulling all the strings for Angelina Jolie.”

  “An-ge-li-na Jo-lie?” I ask drawing out the name.

  “You might as well know everything,” says Melina with another sigh. “Angelina’s been Alan’s client for years. Everyone thought she was a wild woman kissing her brother and wearing vials of blood around her neck, and I had the idea to turn her into Audrey Hepburn. That whole U.N. ambassador position she has? I thought of it; I arranged it. Then those trips to Africa about AIDS? Arranged those, too.”

  “But Alan was the front man?”

  “Right. Now it’s the only way anybody thinks of her. And the funny thing is that under all those tattoos, I think Angelina really is a great humanitarian.”

  “You’ve got to let me use this to settle the case,” I entreat.

  Melina shrugs. “Won’t do any good. Alan will just say it’s a lie and that he did all the arranging. Who could prove otherwise? Then it’s my word against his. Charles will look even worse, and we’ll both be out of work.”

  “Make that we’ll all be out of work, including me. My job’s on the line with this case, too.”

  “Sorry to hear it,” says Melina. “But I’ve been around and around on this. I just don’t see any way out.”

  “I might be able to come up with something,” I say, thinking about Kevin. “I have a friend who knows Angelina. You might say she relies on him for every breath.”

  Chapter SEVENTEEN

  THE OPENING DAY OF THE TRIAL, I take a car service with Arthur down to the courthouse at 60 Center Street in Foley Square. Ever since the building became the backdrop for Law and Order, I always feel like I’m going to a TV set rather than my job when I come down here. Today I’m definitely hoping for a good plot twist. But Arthur isn’t in the mood for anything unscripted.

  “I don’t like surprises,” Arthur grumbles to me. “We can’t be going into a courtroom not knowing every single thing that’s going to happen. That’s rule number one of being a lawyer.”

  “Yes, be prepared. Also rule number one of being a Boy Scout.” I don’t stop to tell him that I’ve often wonder
ed what rule number one is of being a Girl Scout. Sell cookies?

  “Anyway, I’m prepared, Arthur,” I continue. “But sometimes you just have to go with the flow.”

  “You did good work at Dartmouth, getting the information about Melina doing Alan Alladin’s job. But as she told you, he’s just going to deny it. We’re going to end up with he says-she says.”

  “At least a different kind of he says-she says than you usually get in sexual harassment,” I suggest. “Isn’t that worth something? Keeps our jobs interesting.”

  Arthur just grunts and looks out the window. Despite my bravado, I’m hoping that after today, I’ll still have a job to keep interesting. Kevin’s promised to deliver our secret witness, but like Arthur, I don’t really trust surprises. Sometimes they blow up in your face.

  When court convenes, Judge Ruth Warren, an elegant, gray-haired woman, walks quickly to the bench in black pumps and her black robe. Unlike me, she doesn’t have to worry about what to wear to work every morning. Since both sides have agreed to waive a jury, the judge makes a few comments, then calls for opening statements. Plaintiff Beth Lewis’s lawyer goes first, explaining the grave injustice done to his client.

  “Talented, hard-working, Beth Lewis deserved a promotion. But it was denied because her boss, Charles Tyler, unfairly gave that promotion to Melina Marks. And why?” He pauses to look at Beth, who is sitting demurely at the table next to him. “Because Mr. Tyler, the defendant, was having an affair with Ms. Marks, whom he later married.” He pauses again and then takes off his glasses to face the judge. “Your honor, the law says the workplace must provide a level playing field. But how can the playing field be level when there’s a bed in the middle of it?”

  He sits down as we all mull the image of a king-size mattress at the fifty-yard line of Giants Stadium. At least it would make things more convenient for the football players and all their groupies.

  But I shake off the thought and stand up to make my own opening comments. I carefully lay out our position, explaining that the defense will not be challenging the fact that Mr. Tyler and Ms. Marks have a connection outside of the workplace. (Come to think of it, they have a lovely two-bedroom apartment on Sutton Place. Irrelevant to the case, though it’s an impressive victory in the New York real estate market.)