I’m tired of touching people and being touched by people, Gaby was thinking. All the kissing and hugging and squeezing and hand-holding. Maybe I was born to end up alone. Maybe I should cancel the wedding right now.
She and Marty walked into the kitchen. He was smart enough not to intrude on her thoughts, to just be there. Stacey Lee was scraping dishes, rinsing wineglasses, and then putting them into heavy plastic cartons.
“We’ll help,” Gaby volunteered.
“No need. I just have to get these rinsed off. One of the indentured servants from the store will pick them up tomorrow to wash.”
Gaby smiled. “Total efficiency. I love it.” So she and Marty headed off to the living room.
“Okay, what’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Gaby said. Then she went on, “Oh, everything. Marty, I have to ask you something, and you have to be honest.”
“Shoot. I’m always honest with you.”
“Okay. Well. You knew Peter better than anyone else. You were practically twins. So, I need to ask you this question. Am I doing the right thing?”
Marty thought about it before he said anything. “I can’t answer that. Only you can answer that.”
“Okay. Fair enough.”
Marty realized that his response had disappointed her. That wasn’t what he’d wanted to do.
“No, Gaby, I won’t give you an answer. But I will give you an opinion. And here it is: No! No! No! Peter would definitely not mind. He’d be happy. Peter would be happy, because getting married is going to make you happy. And he loved to make you happy more than anything else in his life.”
Gaby’s eyes instantly filled with tears.
“Thank you, Marty.”
“Remember, it wasn’t an answer. It was an opinion.”
Suddenly she felt the need to hug him. “Do you mind terribly…the way I’m doing this? Making it ladies’ choice?”
Marty looked into her eyes. “No. I don’t mind at all. Do you know why? Because I love to make you happy too.”
Chapter 29
EMILY AND BART
THE YEAR BEFORE, Dale, Hardy had held its Christmas party at New York’s chic restaurant Eleven Madison Park. The law firm booked the entire restaurant. They had two martini bars, poured twelve cases of Opus One, and served nigiri sushi, organic beef carpaccio, and blini with caviar.
The party cost $400,000.
This year, money was tighter. So less luxury was the solution. No restaurant. The Christmas party would be held at the Dale, Hardy offices. They would still have two martini bars, pour twelve cases of Opus One, and serve nigiri sushi, organic beef carpaccio, and blini with caviar.
It would cost a mere $250,000.
“I like having it here at the factory better,” said Jason McIntyre, an up-and-coming young attorney who had graduated from Columbia Law with Emily. “More money for bonuses. Nobody believes in Christmas anyway.”
“I think it’s more festive when you go out someplace,” said Emily. “And actually I believe in Christmas.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you do, Em,” said Jason. “But as long as you’re at the office, you can sneak away and get some work done.”
Emily knew that her distaste for Jason’s usual cynicism showed on her face. She excused herself and got a white wine spritzer, which she probably wouldn’t drink. What a scene. What a hackneyed stupid scene. Emily felt like she had walked into the wrong movie.
Jeanne Gallery, a promising Stanford Law graduate and junior associate, was exchanging lingering kisses with Ben Abbots, a promising Yale Law graduate who had just married his girlfriend over Thanksgiving weekend. That completely turned Emily’s stomach.
The handsome, and married, head of wills and estates, Danny Josephson, had his hand planted firmly on the backside of the handsome, also married Spanish-document translator, Raymond Ramirez.
Old Man Hardy sat on a large mahogany chair, actually a throne, beneath his own portrait, as a multitude of office toadies flocked around him as if he were an aging rock star. Keith Richards looked better than Hardy these days, and the Rolling Stones guitarist was actually older by two years.
“Have yourselves a merry little Christmas,” Emily muttered as she moved on.
Then she heard the familiar baritone of her boss, Cliff Church. “Pretty motley crew, huh, Em?”
“Christmas Manhattan style. Kind of brings out the small-town girl in me,” Emily said. Her voice was barely audible over the blaring gangsta rap, urban music that failed totally at transforming this into a cool party.
“Come on over to my office,” Cliff said. “I’ve got something that’ll brighten your holidays. I promise.”
Only one word came to Emily’s mind: “Partner.” Maybe this wasn’t such a lousy Christmas party after all.
Chapter 30
“I SHOULD HAVE done this earlier in the day, but you were in meeting after meeting,” said Cliff. “A typical Emily Summerhill afternoon.”
He reached into the drawer in the console behind his desk, the one where he displayed the photos of his lovely wife and his equally dazzling blond sons. He removed a white business envelope and handed it to Emily. “Merry Christmas, Em.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Merry Christmas to you.”
“Go ahead, open it,” Cliff said. He was smiling a nervous smile.
And so she did, and removed a check made out to her in the amount of $150,000. It was a big chunk of change. But it wasn’t the magic word. She was confused, but, to her amazement, she wasn’t angry. She was hurt. She was sad. She was silent.
“I don’t mind telling you, Em, that’s a generous bonus. There aren’t many that size being handed out this year at your level.”
She wanted to say, “But I thought I was being made partner?” Instead she remained silent. She had never been a whiner.
Cliff couldn’t bear the silence. He decided to fill it with his own pompous voice.
“This has not been the best year in the history of Dale, Hardy,” he said. “The economy remains dicey. They’re letting people go. Everyone who works here is scared. Even the Cliffster.”
Still, Emily said nothing.
Cliff kept going: “My unfailing insight tells me that you’re disappointed that you weren’t made partner. I know you feel you had it coming, and I agree. Absolutely. You work your perfect ass off. Maybe…maybe a little too much pro bono work…” He paused for a phony-sounding chuckle. “But you’re definitely a rising star. You’re a terrific lawyer. Like I said, you work hard.”
She knew Cliff wanted her to start talking, but honestly, she was just too damned sad to start chattering away. Something about the night, the party, the Christmas party. Maybe even the fact that Gaby was getting married to God knew who.
“You know, the firm just isn’t making commitments. I’m sure that when Old Man Hardy appoints the next group of partners, your name will be at the very top.”
Then she spoke. Softly. Politely. “It is a disappointment. But the bonus is very generous.”
“Yes, it is. I’m glad you realize that,” Cliff said as he shut the console drawer and walked around to Emily’s side of the desk. He put his arm around her shoulder and added, “My own bonus wasn’t a lot more.”
Oh, she thought. So we both got shitty bonuses, and I didn’t get partner. And now your hand is slipping down my back, lingering at my bra strap, and about to land on my butt.
“That’s reassuring,” she said. Emily wasn’t sure Cliff recognized the sarcasm in her voice.
His hand was now firmly established on what he had just called her “perfect ass,” and he stepped in and held himself firmly against her. So, this was Christmas. This was Dale, Hardy. This was her life.
If this were a movie, she would have slapped him. But instead, with her heart full of confusion, she stepped to the side and was free of her boss.
“Cliff, I’m glad we had a chance to get some time alone,” she said. And Emily saw that his eyes sparkled at the thought of Yuleti
de sex.
“Me too,” he said.
She looked him directly in the eyes.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
Chapter 31
ON HER WAY HOME, Emily played the moment over and over in her mind. “I’m leaving Dale, Hardy, effective immediately,” she’d said, and Cliff had actually laughed in her face.
“You don’t believe me? It’s true. I’m leaving, effective immediately,” she had said, and Cliff had finally looked confused, totally off his game, for a split second.
“And to prove my point, I’m leaving this office, and this terrifying party.”
A half hour later, Emily was walking through the door of her empty apartment. She removed her party dress. She poured herself a Coke. And then she did what every Summerhill child did when there was a crisis: She called Gaby.
She told her about the conversation with Cliff, and God bless her, Gaby said exactly what Emily needed to hear.
“That’s the best news I’ve heard all week.”
“It is?”
“Absolutely. Listen, Emily. Being a partner at a big-deal law firm is terrific, I guess…to someone else…not to you, and certainly not to me. Let me just tell you this: I’m proudest when you tell me you got a poor guy out of jail when he was sentenced unfairly,” Gaby said. “And that’s not me being a sap, that’s me being human, that’s me being me.”
What was there in Gaby’s voice that brought such wonderful peace to her children? That was the question all four of them always asked.
“I appreciate everything you’ve said, Mom. I really, really do. You’re the best.”
“I just say what I think.”
Maybe that was the source of Gaby’s kindness. There was a simple truth and decency to their mother that added strength and wisdom to whatever she said.
“And what does Bart think about all this?” Gaby finally asked.
A long pause.
“He doesn’t know.”
“Wow. You are the spunky one.”
“Was I wrong not to have discussed it with him?”
“What difference does it make now? The ship has sailed. Where is Dr. Perfect, anyway?”
“He’s working tonight too. On call. He thought I’d be late at the party, and…”
“So go and drink a big cup of tea or a big glass of your beloved high-octane Coca-Cola, watch Turner Classics, and get a good night’s sleep. Then tomorrow you can get up here nice and early for my wedding.”
“Oh, while I’m thinking of it, Bart and I aren’t sure when exactly we’re going to show up, but we’ll definitely be there by Christmas Eve Day.”
“Why so late? It’s not like you have a job to go to,” Gaby said. They both laughed then, and Gaby said, “I do have one more thing to say.”
“I’ll take a wild guess. It’s about what I’ll be wearing to your wedding.”
“You’re a mind reader. Emily, it’s my only request: Please wear something festive. Not some deadly gray or dark blue Prada thing. This is not Manhattan, you know.”
“I was thinking of a yellow gingham dirndl.”
“Perfect. Good night, sweetie.”
“Oh, wait. There’s one other thing. Who did you say you were marrying?” Emily asked.
“Oh, Emily. You are so bad at cross-examination. It’s a good thing you left that law firm. Bye-bye. See you in my dreams.”
“Always, Mom. And thank you. I’m sure tonight I’ll see you in my dreams too.”
Chapter 32
REST, EMILY. REST.
As she stood in the kitchen carefully measuring out two perfectly rounded teaspoons of decaf Assam tea, Emily heard a voice coming from the living room.
“A ten-second warning to whoever is in the kitchen.” It was gruff. It was loud. It was Bart.
She turned to face the kitchen doorway, and there he stood. His face was red from the cold. She could tell that under his ski parka he was still wearing his baby-blue scrubs.
He held a bottle of champagne in one hand and a bouquet of long-stemmed white roses in the other. There was her guy. Just in the nick of time.
He put the champagne and roses on the counter and walked to her quickly. He kissed her long and hard. Apparently one kiss was not nearly enough, so he repeated his actions. Only then did he pull back and speak.
“Well?” he asked as he held her shoulders.
“I received a lovely bonus.”
“Great. Congratulations. And…?”
“And?” she asked with mock innocence.
“And are you now a partner at Dull, Farty?” The name was Bart’s ongoing joke about the pretentious firm.
Slowly and firmly, emphasizing each word, Emily said, “I…am…not.”
Another husband might have dropped his arms from her shoulders and stepped back. But, as Gaby kidded, Bart was Dr. Perfect. So instead, he pulled her close.
“Em, that sucks big time. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. You worked so hard. You are so talented.”
“Would you believe me if I said—I don’t care.”
“If the words come from your mouth, then I know it’s the truth.”
“Want some tea?” she asked.
“I’ll have some of yours,” he said.
They walked into the living room. She sat on the couch and Bart lay down, resting his head on her lap. He turned his head to one side and enjoyed the soft skin of her thigh against his cheek. He rubbed her lovely bare leg. “Peach fuzz. I love peach fuzz,” he said.
“So, as you know, the party was in the office…up on thirty-five…where there’s that huge corridor with all the fancy conference rooms off it. And they had this guy, DJ Nini, blasting music, and I’m sure a lot of people were having a fabulous time. But there was also the undercurrent of politics and the undercurrent of sex and the…Oh, Bart. I just didn’t want to be there. And that’s because…because…I didn’t belong there. I wasn’t like them. They weren’t like me. I absolutely looked like them. But I was different inside…”
She breathed in the steam from her tea.
“Be careful with that tea,” Bart said. “If you spill it on my face…you’ll…you’ll…” He was searching for the words.
Emily supplied them: “You’ll lose your boyish good looks.”
“Yeah. That’s it. Anyway. What happened next?”
“Cliff asked me to come into his office, and…” She paused. She was searching for the words.
Bart supplied them: “And he made a pass at you, of course.”
“How’d you know?”
“Lucky guess. What else could make the evening absolutely perfect?”
“So he handed me a bonus check. He hemmed and hawed and pretended to be sorry that I hadn’t made partner, and then…” She paused again. And for the final time that evening Bart supplied the words:
“And you quit.”
Then he kissed her again. Gaby was right. Dr. Perfect.
“We’re going to Stockbridge for Christmas?” she asked.
“Absolutely. Gaby’s getting married. Who in their right mind would miss that?”
Chapter 33
ANDIE AND SETH
“I SWEAR TO GOD, this little heap of junk has more miles on it than Apollo Eleven,” Andie said as they drove their old Chevy Cav across the Mass. Pike “from Boston to Stockbridge”—just the reverse of the old song “Sweet Baby James.”
Andie’s nickname for the car was Popcorn because of its tendency to lurch or backfire unexpectedly. Seth’s nickname for it was This Goddamn Piece of Shit.
The car lacked a proper inspection sticker, an emission sticker, and a radio (stolen years before when Popcorn was “resting” in a sketchy area of Baltimore). Since the radio and cassette player were gone, Seth had hooked up his iPod to two small speakers and taped the speakers to the genuine plastic dashboard.
He and Andie sang along with Mýa and Pras to “Ghetto Supastar”:
I’ma teach this cat
how to live in the ghetto
As they headed past Framingham they saw that a significant amount of snow was coming down. Nothing to do but crack open a warm Guinness, and keep singing.
They allowed Mya to solo a little too. Seth handed the Guinness to Andie. He clearly needed both hands on the wheel. He leaned forward and squinted hard into the heavily falling snow.
“I hate This Goddamn Piece of Shit car,” he shouted over the music. “The first thing I was going to do when I sold my book was buy us a luxurious used Honda.”
“Stay calm, sweetie,” Andie said. “Like your mother says, we’re still kids. We’ve got time to be big shots.”
“I don’t want to be a big shot,” Seth replied. “I just want to sell a book. I want a few people to take it to bed at night. I want a few ladies in North Dakota to discuss it at their book club. I just…”
At that exact moment a truck the size of a house jackknifed right in front of Popcorn.
Seth turned the steering wheel away from the monster truck, and then he found himself flipped around and facing oncoming traffic and dozens of headlights. The skid seemed endless and very fast. He did everything a driver wasn’t supposed to do. He slammed on the brakes. He turned in the opposite direction of the skid.
Andie was frozen with fear. And, of course, all she could think was We’re going to die exactly like my parents did. Exactly.
Then it happened. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. Miraculously.
Andie and Seth and This Goddamn Piece of Shit were sitting safely on the snowy shoulder of the Mass. Pike.
Shaking, they reached for each other. They were safe. They held each other, hugged for a long time.
Popcorn, on the other hand, seemed none the worse for the wear and terror. As if to signal the car’s good health, the speakers suddenly began blaring a song by the Black Eyed Peas.
“Wow. A fatal accident sure would have hurt the good vibe at your mom’s wedding,” Andie said quietly.
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