The thought of kidnapping Puddles during the day had crossed her mind. But what if she ran into Luna, or the dog walker, or if the doorman stopped her? If she did see Luna, it would be hard not to collapse in her arms and say, “I understand why you clean houses now! I wouldn’t want to take anything from that man either.” Later that day, she had plans to see Dahlia and her girlfriend, who were coming in from Westchester to have dinner with her. They said they had a big announcement and Cass had an inkling what it would be. Dahlia had warned her the Real Housewives cameras would be at the restaurant but that “honestly, you forget about them after twenty minutes.” That seemed hard to believe.
“What about text messages?” Cass had asked.
“They read them,” Dahlia answered.
“Paper airplane notes?”
“They’d be intercepted.”
“Okay, see you at dinner. Only for you, Dahlia.”
* * *
♦ ♦ ♦
THOUGH SHE’D REHEARSED her speech numerous times, when she filed into Emmet’s apartment for the service, her stomach was burbling. Public speaking was never her thing. Emmet was slated to go first with a welcome and his remarks, then it was Cass’s turn, then Percy’s siblings, then two college friends, and that was it. Many of her coworkers from PZA were there, which she’d been expecting, and she engaged in pleasantries that she steered to the superficial. Only Percy’s former assistant, Nancy, chipped away at her with question after question like a woodpecker: “What do you mean you’re working at Spiegel Productions? Aren’t they based in L.A.? Does that mean Jonathan relocated? But I keep seeing him on TV talking about Winstar? Are you doing that long-distance thing? How is your sweet dog? The one that always played with Shirley.” Cass finally excused herself to use the restroom and made sure to station herself far away from Nancy when she returned.
Emmet approached the podium that had been set up in front of the fireplace and asked everyone to take their seats. He looked different than the last time she’d seen him, gray around the edges and wearing spectacles, a far cry from the chorus boy he’d once been. Had Percy been the one who insisted he dye his hair and wear contacts? She couldn’t tell if the physical change was a symbol of freedom or neglect.
He spoke poignantly about his thirty-year relationship with Percy, from meeting at a bar in Chelsea when they were both wearing cutoffs and cowboy boots, moving in together and getting Shirley, making it legal when they could, the pain of the diagnosis, fighting it together. Cass knew most of the story and shifted her focus to her own notes, which she rehearsed in her head until something Emmet said caught her attention.
“I admitted to Percy pretty early on that the only reason I went out with him in the first place was because he was the Percy Zimmerman, Broadway Big Shot, and I was Emmet Nobody from Manalapan, New Jersey, wishing for stardom. I figured this guy could be my big break. I’d go out with him a few times, land a great gig and say buh-bye. But wouldn’t you know it? I fell head over heels in love with him. By the fourth date, I didn’t care if I never got another part again. I just wanted to be with Percy. And the rest, as they say, was history.”
It was that simple for them. Cass looked around the audience. Down every row, up every aisle, nobody was tsk-tsking, nobody was silently judging. Just sympathetic smiles and some drying of eyes. Why had she occluded her motivations for so long? Why had she ever let this snowball with Jonathan? She should have realized so much sooner that she could tell him the truth. She put her palms together and rubbed them back and forth until the friction became too much, feeling acutely alone.
“Next up to say a few words is Cass Coyne. She had the joy of working very closely with Percy for ten years. I know he saw her as some combination of a daughter, a best friend and a mentee. She was very special to him.”
Cass sucked in air to the pit of her belly and rose, running her hands nervously through her hair. She was skeptical of memorial services generally, even Percy’s. But as she headed for the podium, she felt her skepticism fading. Look what she’d just learned. Percy never mentioned what Emmet had admitted to him—had it really been that inconsequential? She just wished she had Jonathan in the crowd to make eye contact with. He’d have flashed her some silly thumbs-up to which she would have rolled her eyes, but felt that much sturdier at the podium. She was a full and capable person without Jonathan. She was just a better person with him.
Her remarks seemed to go over well, and while the siblings and friends spoke after her, she found herself staring at the back of Emmet’s head, wanting to swim inside what he now knew from looking down the barrel of his relationship from its end point. During the refreshments she tried to corner him, but he was busy mingling, telling one Percy story after another to his guests. She edged close to one group he was speaking to and overheard Emmet saying, “I swear sometimes Percy and I had nothing to say to each other aside from what we needed to order from FreshDirect. And you know what? That was enough for me. To have someone like Percy to make a grocery list with . . . that was enough.” Cass thought about Jonathan—how he loved coffee ice cream, Oreos, had an endless appetite for bananas. She waved her good-bye to Emmet and poked around until she found Shirley, crated but happy to see her nonetheless. She pulled out her cell phone and showed her Puddles’s picture.
Outside, in humid air as thick as the facial cream she spread on at night, she reached for her phone again. She would call Jonathan this minute. Ask him to meet her. The worst thing that could happen was that he said no. As she was about to dial his number—the first name in the list of “favorites” saved in her cell phone—she remembered it was a holiday weekend. Jonathan was most likely with his family on the Vineyard, maybe holding hands with Brett while his parents cheered from the sidelines. She stuffed the phone back in her purse.
Four hours remained until Dahlia and Roxanna were due to arrive in the city and she wandered the streets endlessly, attempting to shop but staring listlessly into the distance when clerks came over to offer help. A visit to the new Whitney downtown was foiled by long lines and even the pizza she craved at John’s was impossible to get. When had New York gotten so crowded? She’d only been gone a few months. Now she felt frightened by the magnitude of change she perceived everywhere she looked.
Finally it was time to meet Dahlia at a downtown restaurant that was paying the show a fortune to film there. Nothing was pure anymore.
Cass settled herself into the booth that was being held for them and ordered a Manhattan sour. Dahlia texted they were stuck in traffic. Two cocktails in quick succession strengthened her courage and she texted Jonathan. If she didn’t do it now before the cameras showed up, she wouldn’t have a chance until much later, and her urge to be in touch with him felt suddenly all-consuming.
Jonathan, I’m in New York. It was Percy’s memorial service today. I’m missing the hell out of you. If you’re in town, can we please get together while I’m here? I fly back to L.A. tomorrow night. And . . . I’m sorry. xo, Cass
30. JONATHAN
PUDDLES WAS LOOKING at him funny as he got dressed for his date, or whatever it was. Maybe it was the fact that he sprayed cologne, which he normally never did, or that he was in the bathroom fiddling with his hair for longer than the usual fifteen seconds. It was almost as though Puddles sniffed the magnitude of what Jonathan was doing. Brett was willing to meet him. Maybe it was just as a friend, maybe she was horny, he wasn’t sure. But he wasn’t going to disrespect her again. If she was willing to explore a relationship with him, he’d give it an honest try. If she wanted a friend, he’d be the best one he could be. If she wanted a fuck, he’d give her a good one. Cass was history. She’d made it abundantly clear that she didn’t care about him, and even as it pained him to realize it, he had no choice but to move on with his life. The woman he loved didn’t love him back—at least not enough to want to stay married to him—and he had to accept it.
He and Brett were suppose
d to meet at Bar Italia on Madison Avenue, ten blocks from his apartment. It was hot and sticky outside, August in September, but he was ready early and felt far too fidgety to wait at home, so he decided to walk instead of cabbing it. He checked his reflection in the mirror approvingly before stepping out, blanching at the irony that he was wearing the “cool jeans” Cass had bought him in order to impress another woman.
Cass. Why did she keep infecting his mind? She was like a song he couldn’t get out of his head. Where was she now? What would her face look like if she could magically see where he was headed? Proud of her boy for not being a pussy waiting around for her? Or crushed beyond measure, biting down on her bottom lip so hard that those crooked front teeth left an impression?
He was crossing 73rd Street when he felt the buzz in his back pocket. A text message from Brett. Running a drop late. Order me a glass of white wine. He responded with a wineglass emoji and slipped the phone back in its place.
On 72nd Street, it started to rain. First a few drops, then in full sheets.
He was crossing 71st Street when his phone buzzed again. Smiling to himself, he reached back in to see what Brett had written now. But it was from Cass.
Jonathan, I’m in New York. It was Percy’s memorial service today. I’m missing the hell out of you. If you’re in town, can we please get together while I’m here? I fly back to L.A. tomorrow night. And . . . I’m sorry. xo, Cass
The taxi making a right turn came out of nowhere. He flew into the air, as though he’d been sprung from a giant trampoline. Then all he felt was pain. Asphalt burning his skin. Shattered glass stabbing at him. Shooting pains in his legs and arms like he’d never known before. Darkness everywhere. Ringing in his ears so loud it was actually making him feel deaf. Then nothing.
31. CASS
WHEN THE CALL came in, they had just finished ordering dessert and Cass was in the restaurant’s vestibule getting repowdered by Tina, the show’s makeup artist. “Bronzer!” “Contour blush!” “Lip stain!” The artist was yelling to her assistant like a surgeon demanding a life-saving scalpel. Did she look that awful?
The screen showed an unrecognized 212 number. Likely a wrong number, Cass thought, but answered anyway, happy for a break from getting spray-painted.
“Excuse me,” she said to Tina, who was losing patience with Cass quickly. She held up her ringing phone with an apologetic expression. “Hello?”
“This is Nurse Sharon Carella calling from Weill Cornell Hospital. Do you know a Jonathan Coyne?”
Her entire body froze.
“Yes, I’m his wife. What’s going on?” She instinctively walked away from Tina, knowing she needed quiet and privacy.
“He’s been in an accident. You are listed in his phone as his next of kin.”
“Is he okay? What happened?”
“Ma’am, I can’t release any of that information over the phone. Can you please come here as soon as possible and bring identification?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, and darted back over to their table, where two enormous cameramen were hovering along with a full lighting crew.
“Cass, you look much better. The TV really washes you out, trust me,” Dahlia said.
“Jonathan was in an accident. I have to go.”
Both Dahlia and Roxanna jumped up and followed her as she dashed outside, her arm already outstretched for a taxi.
“We’ll drive you,” Dahlia said. “It’s Saturday night and it’s raining buckets—you’ll never get a cab. We’re parked half a block away.”
“Okay,” Cass agreed. “But I’m driving.” Only she would feel the urgency to weave through traffic and plow past the red lights.
“Fine,” Roxanna and Dahlia said in unison. The three of them shuffled quickly into Dahlia’s black Lincoln Navigator. Roxanna took the back, Dahlia sat shotgun next to Cass. And they were off, Cass gunning the engine like it was the Grand Prix.
32. JONATHAN
WHEN HE WOKE up again, he was alone. He knew he’d seen Cass’s face in the last twenty-four hours. Brett’s too, possibly at the same time, appearing fuzzily before him like the angel and the devil. He was also aware that he was in a hospital, that his limbs were mummified. There had been an accident with a taxi, that much he remembered. Everything after was a blur. He tried to move his right arm but it felt Krazy-Glued to the bed. Same with his left. Mercifully, he was able to wiggle his toes, the first sign that his body was able to do what his brain was telling it. There was a call button for a nurse within reach. If he could manage to shimmy his body over a couple of inches, he had a shot of reaching it with his elbow. No—too much effort.
His sense of smell was intact and he breathed in the antiseptic stink of his surroundings, a cocktail of baby powder, rubbing alcohol and Lysol. He tried to piece together a timeline. He knew it had something to do with Cass. And that he’d called Brett, possibly from a gurney.
Outside his room, voices. Female voices chatting softly. Familiar ones. Cass and Brett, conversing. His heart started to race, another sign that this wasn’t a postmortem nightmare. The heart monitor to which he was attached reflected the uptick, but not enough to warrant any alarm bells.
“I just don’t understand. I thought he’d be on the Vineyard for the long weekend.” Cass. “When I texted him, I expected to get back a picture of Puddles at the Pooch Parade.” The annual Labor Day weekend dog walk was the only thing Cass approved of at the Cheshire golf club. Having gotten Puddles on Halloween, their dog had more costumes than the average toddler.
“Nope. We were supposed to meet for a drink.” Brett.
The longest pause Jonathan could imagine in a conversation between two people followed.
“I see.” Cass.
Footsteps shuffling by.
“Doctor!” Cass called. “Can you give me an update? I understand he lost a lot of blood. We have the same blood type if it’s needed, B positive.”
“I’m a universal donor, so I can give as well.” That was Brett, chiming in.
A pissing contest over giving him blood. Crazy the turn his life had taken. He remembered joking with Cass when they found out they had the same blood type, saying something to her like, “I thought you’d be more of a B negative.”
“Ladies, thank you both. Mr. Coyne did lose a lot of blood. We’ve already transfused him, but the nick in his spleen is presenting a slow ooze. He will need more blood over the next week. If either of you does want to give, you’ll have to get screened today.”
“I’ll do it.” Both of them at once. Either Brett was a saint or a masochist. Cass was, well . . . Cass was competitive.
“As I explained earlier, Mr. Coyne also has a number of broken bones. He’ll likely need months of physical therapy, but your husband is very lucky.”
And here Jonathan couldn’t see which woman the doctor was looking at. Did he know he was married to Cass and therefore direct that comment to her, or did he size up Brett as the more likely spouse?
“The orthopedist will be in shortly to examine his X-rays and set him in the permanent casts. By morning we’ll have the balance of the test results back. Hang tight.”
“I think I’ll go check on him now, see if he’s up yet,” Brett said.
“Me too.”
He immediately shut his eyes, certain beyond measure he was not ready to interact with anyone just yet, let alone those two. Playing possum was easy enough because he couldn’t move a limb if he tried.
He heard their gentle footsteps pad in and back out of his room while he attempted the even breathing of a deep slumber.
“I just feel so terrible for him,” Brett said. “He’s had such a difficult year.”
“I suppose a great deal of that is my fault,” Cass said.
No shit.
“He never really said why he felt he had to ask you for the separation. I imagine he wouldn’t have said h
e needed space unless you were, well, never mind. It’s not my business.”
He flinched internally. How was Cass reacting to his portrayal of the separation?
“Uh-huh.”
In those two syllables, he could make out his wife processing the new information. Her husband wasn’t the slouch she thought he was. He wasn’t going to take it lying down. If that meant saying he’d orchestrated the separation, so be it.
“And well, it wasn’t just that, right?” Brett continued. “The Winstar thing was horrible. To have his professional life unravel suddenly. Jon is so hard on himself, you know? I had no idea until we reconnected how haunted he was about the incident with Daniel Rubia-Mendez.”
Though he couldn’t move his exterior limbs, Jonathan felt his insides work themselves into the tightest possible coil of veins and organs. How would Cass handle this latest bit—the shameful secret he’d never shared with her? Like a defense attorney in a courtroom, Cass in particular didn’t like being presented with evidence for which she hadn’t been adequately prepared.
“Yes,” Cass agreed.
“I mean, it was back in high school, for God’s sake.”
“You know, Brett, you’re so right about Jonathan being too hard on himself. His version of that, um, episode has always seemed really outsized to me. I’d love to hear it from your perspective.”
Smart cookie, Cass. Way to extract the information without letting on that you are in the dark. He was turned on, despite being paralyzed.
“Oh, sure,” Brett said, and he heard the details slide from her mouth. He more or less agreed with her accounting of the events, though naturally she didn’t touch on what plagued him most—the electric charge that ran through him when he landed his punches. The dominance. It occurred to him that maybe that was another reason he’d fallen so hard for Cass—someone he had no chance of dominating . . . ever.
The Intermission Page 34
