Only to discover that Arnie hated spending time in the cramped studio (“You call this a kitchen?”), much preferring their comfortable home where he was only a ten-minute drive from their country club, and his long standing tee-off times.
Lonely Aileen said it would be fabulous if my mother joined her for dinner tonight, and did she have any plans tomorrow, because it was so much more fun to shop the galleries in Soho when you had a friend with a good eye. And Wednesday, a ticket broker who lived in her building said he could get her front row seats for Wicked. What next? A sleepover with s’mores?
By the time I got back to the office, the only sign of Gretchen was a note she’d posted to her makeup mirror saying the taping had been rescheduled, as had the media dinner because everyone had left town to attend the pope’s funeral mass. But not a word about us talking.
My busy brother didn’t pick up his cell, so I’d have to wait for further instructions as to the next thing on his list that I should do for our mother.
A call to my dad found him in surprising good stead, as he was taking advantage of his newfound freedom to spread out his mapmaking tools on my mother’s (her mother’s) beloved dining room table. “And tell her I am not using the table pads!” the proud rebel bellowed.
And other than a call from my lawyer’s office reminding me to submit the paperwork for my upcoming court appearance (like I could possibly forget the upcoming encounter with Judge Payup R. Else ), I had not a single e-mail, voice mail, or text message.
Frankly, I couldn’t remember the last time I wasn’t bombarded with demands from lawyers, bosses, parents, friends, my brother, and a husband. In fact, of late, my life had been so much about answering to higher authorities, I’d forgotten how to spend a carefree day.
Yes, of course, there were things I should be doing, I thought as I uncrumpled the paper with Ken Danziger’s numbers. But none that would cause the universe to blow up if I didn’t. Besides, wasn’t I entitled to time off for good behavior?
Avoid blind dates, the voice in my head said. At least with semisuicidal guys. On the other hand, Ken’s brother was one of the hottest men I’d seen in a long time, which boded well for the gene pool. And I was curious if we had a Penn State connection.
But who was I kidding? The only connection I cared about was the one he had with Billy Crystal. A good word on my behalf could get my stalled-on-the-shoulder life back in the fast lane.
First, however, I’d use my phone-a-friend option to call Rachel, my relationship expert, to ask if she or her supposed gurus thought I’d go to hell for taking advantage of a disabled person. Not that it would stop me if they said yes.
Chapter 9
YES, I CALLED HIM. Well not right away. It took an hour to get through to Rachel, who first wanted to know how my dad was doing, not because she cared, but because it so happened that her mother was moving back to New York, and if my parents were splitting, maybe my dad and her mom could be introduced. “She is so done with the widows in Broward County,” she said.
Was she serious? My parents were apart for less than forty-eight hours, and already my father was prime meat in the AARP manhunt? “They’re not splitting, okay? They’re having…technical difficulties.”
“Fine. But don’t you think it would be a riot if we ended up stepsisters?”
“Hilarious!” I almost hung up.
Finally, Rachel was ready to listen. I mentioned Ken’s name as if it was the answer on Jeopardy and waited for her to tell me what I won. Was she hoping for a sign from my deceased relatives? No, she was letting the name register, and to my surprise, she said she knew him.
“If he’s who I’m thinking,” she said, “we were on a panel together at some Bar Association seminar and he was drop-dead gorgeous. Tall, dark, curly hair. Great body. But he was married, and the only reason I remember that is because he stopped talking when his wife walked in.
“She was stunning. Tall and thin like him with great hair. I loved her hair. Then he breaks into this huge smile and says it’s his bride, the doctor. I’ll never forget it. He looked smitten.”
“Well, here’s a late-breaking story,” I said. “He and Nina didn’t make it.”
“Yeah. Nina. That was it. No! Really? He’s divorced? Shit! I wish I knew. Are you sure?”
“Positive. I’ll tell you everything later.”
“Okay, well then you should definitely call him because he’s a find. And if for whatever retarded reason you don’t like him, give him my number, but don’t say a word about my kids. Unless you find out he’s crazy about children.”
“How can I call him now? I’m obviously not his type.”
“You don’t know that. How do you know that?”
“Because you just said his wife was (a) beautiful, (b) smart, (c) skinny and I’m (d) none of the above.”
“Would you stop? I hate when you’re all anti. First of all, it’s his ex-wife, so lot of good (a), (b), and (c) did her. Besides, you’re not only beautiful and smart too, you’re hysterical!”
Yes, but being funny was not the same as competing with his ex in the swimsuit competition. Now I’d have to wow him during the talent portion of the pageant, and that would put a lot of pressure on me to be clever and bold.
For inspiration, I Googled him, hoping to see the words “No matches found.” Then I could write him off as a loser nobody, not even worthy of bad press. Instead, I found several articles about his entertainment law career, and pictures from industry functions.
Since he was in group shots, the faces were tiny. But even among a crowd, he was a standout. Just as Rachel remembered, he was tall, with dark, curly hair, an amazing body, and a great smile. Then my stomach knotted like after the first drop on a roller coaster. Rachel wasn’t the only one who might know him.
Maybe it was his resemblance to his brother that made me think I’d seen him before. Or was it his resemblance to David? No. My ex was twice his size. But wait. Did he look familiar because we had met before? If I could just remember where.
I dialed his home number so fast, I forgot to rehearse a funny spiel. Not that it mattered. My best routine, along with a laughing gas chaser, wouldn’t have warmed up this audience of one.
“Yeah, I heard you were supposed to call,” he said with the same enthusiasm you’d greet a census taker. And yes, he was aware of Madeline’s matchmaking plans, as she had done her little bit before. And yes, he agreed that if we didn’t at least meet for a drink, she would never let up so we might as well get on with it. “But do you mind telling her I took you to dinner?”
Only if you don’t mind telling her I know why she has to pay people to meet you.
Funny thing was, the chilly reception didn’t bother me, or the heads-up that our getting together would be a waste of makeup. I didn’t even care that I was wearing old clothes, no jewelry, and a Mets cap to cover my desperate-for-a-touch-up hair.
What did annoy me about his icy tone was that it meant there was merit to Rachel’s theory, which held that fifty percent of the men you met were assholes. The other half were someone else’s asshole (though if you were so sure psychics were right, why would you know any at all?).
Of course, for someone like myself who had sworn off men and marriage, so what if the odds of finding a great single guy in New York were about as good as finding one-of-a-kind Blahniks on sale in your size? I was no longer in the market.
No, that wasn’t true. I hadn’t stopped shopping. I had stopped hoping. For once you’ve invested your heart in a man who bankrupts your soul, there is no going back to the broker and asking what else he recommends. You are spent in the truest sense of the word.
Trouble was, in spite of the dysfunction and disappointment, I missed David terribly. Naturally, I understood that everyone in my inner circle would rather duct tape my mouth than listen to me pine for the emotionally insolvent man who mortgaged my life for a winning hand.
And don’t kid yourself. Even for marriages that ended in a heap of broken drea
ms, one thing couldn’t be erased by a judge’s decree. Your union was a declaration that at one time you were armed with purpose. Your ring, a universal sign that to someone you meant the world.
So yes. I would love to find another companion with whom I could wake up and inhale virile traces of soap and cologne. Of course I wanted to see the approving, desirous eye of a man when I walked into a room. It would be amazing to once again exchange glances with a partner and know so well the meaning of his expressions.
But what were the odds Ken Danziger could ever be that guy? They didn’t call it a long shot for nothing.
Theory pants were one of those luxury items on my list of things I’d buy if money was no object. Meanwhile, the only way to get my hands on a pair was if they were hand-me-downs from Julia or borrowed from Gretchen.
Since I was within arm’s reach of Gretchen’s dressing room, the logical choice was to quietly steal through her closet to see if that new black pair I’d admired last week was back from the cleaner’s. Along with that white man-tailored shirt from Barneys she wore for her interview with Faith Hill. And because it was only April, she’d not likely notice those fabulous Jimmy Choo thong sandals with the black beads were missing.
Hell! If she was going to fire me, I might as well give her cause, I thought as I tore through the closet. Technically, these weren’t her clothes, I convinced myself. They were purchased by the news division, like any other line item in the budget. And since we both worked for the same network family, shouldn’t she do the sisterly thing and share?
You’d think I’d have raided it by now. And I would have if not for gaining twenty pounds, which made me wish I was one of those infomercial space bags. (“It’s easy! Just suck out all the air with your vacuum.”) But since losing the weight, it was finally time to “shop” the magic closet.
Sure enough, the pants zipped, the shirt buttoned. And you know what they say when the shoe fits. And why stop there? I knew where she kept her Cartier watches and Tiffany studs. And would she really mind if I borrowed that black Chanel tote Simon gave her last quarter when we won our daypart for women twenty-five to forty-nine?
I admired my slender silhouette in her three-way mirror and felt like Cinderella. Half thief. Half ready for her close-up. God help me if my cruel step-boss spotted me at the ball.
“What do you mean you called and canceled on him?” Rachel yelled. “Are you nuts?”
“Yes…No…Maybe?” I was trying to hail a cab with my cell at my ear. “I saw him and I panicked. Or I think I saw him.”
“What did you do? Peek through his window?”
“No. I saw him on the street. I was about a block from his apartment, and I don’t know. It hit me that this guy limping in front of me with a cane was probably him…Taxi!” I waved.
“Would you stop trying to get a cab?” Rachel said. “I have a client waiting and you need to give me the short version. What made you think it was him?”
“Because he was carrying a bag from a liquor store, and like one from a gourmet shop or something…and he looked too young to be walking with a cane. Although I only saw him from the back.”
“So wait. You just turned around and took off?”
“Yeah. I left a message on his machine that I was sorry, but my plans changed and I couldn’t make it, and I’d call to reschedule…I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“Right. A handicapped guy shleps out to the store to pick up something nice to serve you, he has to hobble there and back, and you think he won’t care that you blew him off?”
“Fine. I’m a terrible person. But it’s not like he was very nice to me on the phone. Taxi!”
“I swear to God, Robyn, if you get in that cab, it’ll be the last time we talk. You call him back right now, tell him your plans changed again, and you can still come over if that’s okay.”
“Why would I want to get involved with a guy who walks like my grandfather? He probably needs help in the bathroom too.”
“Who said anything about getting involved? Be a good person and drink his wine and eat his cheese and steer the subject to talking about Billy Crystal.”
“I guess.” I put my taxi-flagging arm down. “It’s just that this whole meet and greet thing is so hard for me…”
“Really? Would you rather be in his shoes?”
“No thanks. I’m already in Gretchen’s and they hurt like hell.”
I didn’t need one of Rachel’s I-swear-she’s-amazing psychics to predict how my meeting with Ken was going to go. All hints of a disaster took place in the first thirty seconds when I buzzed from downstairs and his voice came through the speaker. “I’m one floor up. Door’s open. Let yourself in.”
Sounded like my shrink. Take a seat until I can summon the courage to listen to your whining. Except here I was greeted by a dog instead of a doctor. But at least I passed the sniff test.
“Hello?” I didn’t know whether to heel at the door like the dog, or walk down the long hallway. “Yoo-hoo. Avon calling.” Oh good. Very original. Where can I get tickets to see you?
“Where is he, boy?” In exchange for his answer, I had to let him sniff my crotch. Well, at least something with testicles wanted to go there, I thought as I followed him into the living room.
As brownstone apartments went, this one was not especially spacious, but given his disabilities, maybe he’d chosen it because he could manage better. And what was this? A Daybreak exclusive? A genuine eat-in kitchen unearthed in the middle of Manhattan?
Another eye-opener was that the decor was legal-leather brown, with an occasional touch of red and gold to break the monotony. Which could mean only one thing. His mother, his decorator, his ex, or all of the above, had descended to take charge of setting up the place.
The ultimate proof that the man of the house hadn’t been asked his preferences? The missing recliner and big-screen television. For no guy is ever going to say, “Who needs a TV? Go for the reception area look. And don’t forget the Steuben glass eagles.”
Frankly, the place looked less like a home than one of those temporary residences for traveling executives. But at least there weren’t dirty dishes and clothes strewn, waiting to be picked up by someone with ovaries and a mop.
“Anyone home?” I called.
This was crazy. Who expected company and then disappeared? Unless he was in the bathroom and it was a whole, embarrassing ordeal, I thought as I studied his choice of artwork, which was lame. One only adorned their place with shots of the city skyline if they were a newcomer, or so disinterested in their environment, they left the choice up to a decorator.
Ah. Finally something personal—a huge collection of CDs and a group of photos. What better way to get a sneak preview of a guy than to check out his taste in music and find out who was important in his life. Oh. And in this case, to see if Ken was as stunning as Rachel claimed.
Whoa…Assuming he was the guy standing next to Seth and Madeline at their wedding, he was hot as lit coals. And what a cute one of Seth with his dad, and I assumed Ken standing next to them. Such sweet-looking little boys, gap toothed and beaming, clinging to fishing rods.
Funny thing. My dad kept a similar shot on his desk of Phillip and me, taken on visiting day at camp…Wait. Why did the lakefront in their picture look like the one at Lohikan? Couldn’t be. There were dozens of sleepaway camps in the Pocono mountains, all with glistening lakefronts and canoes. What were the odds that our paths had crossed as kids? Was that why he looked familiar?
At least now I had a good ice breaker. But that would be nothing compared to the conversation we could have about the photo I found tucked behind the others of three adorable young men locked arm in arm, hamming it up for the camera.
If not for the dog barking, I would have cried. “What is it, Lassie?” I said only half in jest.
Should I just walk into this man’s bedroom? No way. What if he wasn’t dressed? What if that was the point? Oh gross. If this was a Hugh-Hefner-in-a-silk-bathrobe stunt, I was defin
itely taking the bribe money from Madeline.
But when the barking grew louder, obviously something was up. I just prayed it didn’t involve blood. Ever since I fell out of a tree at camp, I was really bad with blood.
“Oh my God,” I cried as I followed the dog into the bedroom. “Oh my God.”
Ken was lying facedown on the terrace. First thought? If he had just taken his life, or even attempted to take his life, no shrink in the world would be able to talk me off the ledge now.
By now the dog was barking and jumping so furiously, it was as if he was mocking me. “Open the sliding door, asshole. He needs help.”
I raced out to the terrace, saw blood spewing from Ken’s head, and screamed.
Once again, the dog gave me the cue, as he tried to get the cordless phone from Ken’s hand. “Smart doggy.” I dialed 911. Fifteen hundred my ass. Madeline would owe me more than that.
Queasy me was afraid to look down, though I couldn’t help but notice his crisp, white shirt, now covered in blood, and realized he was the guy I’d spotted on the street. And yet with his gaunt eyes and shorn hair, he no longer bore a resemblance to the sexy, bring-it-on guy in the pictures.
I felt his wrist, and at least he had a pulse, which was more than I could say for my last blind date.
“Help operator!” I said. “A man fell on his terrace. He’s bleeding and he’s not moving…I’m so scared…Wait. Now he’s trying to get up…Yes, that’s the right address…Second floor.”
“I’m okay,” he mumbled. “Help me up…hey boy.” He tried to pet the dog.
“He’s talking,” I said. “He wants to get up…They said don’t move. They’re on their way.”
“I’m fine. Just give me a hand…come here, Rookie. Come here boy.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “Ma’am, he’s insisting he can get up…Uh huh. Okay. Right.”
“Please.” Ken reached for my hand.
“No wait. The lady said you could injure yourself worse if you move.”
Fate and Ms. Fortune Page 9
