A Slight Change of Plan (15 page)

“It’s a beautiful day,” she declared. “Walking around in this glorious sunshine will stir the juices, I promise. Let’s shop.”

It was a Wednesday, and during the week there were fewer motorcycles and more dog walkers on the streets of New Hope. The trees had all leafed out, the sidewalks were fairly empty and shaded, and all the shop doors were open to the warm breezes coming off the Delaware River. There was a hint of incense in the air, mixing with the smell of grilled burgers and roasting garlic.

We were trolling a vintage clothing store when Cheryl grabbed my arm and pulled me into a corner.

“This shop is for sale,” she hissed.

I looked at her.

“What? For sale? How could you possibly know that?”

“Because I was eavesdropping, that’s how. The owner over there was on the phone with a broker. The whole building, inventory and all, is up for grabs. Buy it with me.”

I stared at her. “Cheryl, why would we want to buy this place?”

She looked around lovingly. “Didn’t you read that great book about the woman who had the vintage clothing store, and how every piece of Chanel had a story, and there was an old lady, and kind of a romance? It was charming.”

“That is not reason enough to buy something like this.”

“Well, you need something to do with your life, and so do I. We could be partners.”

“We know nothing about retail. Or vintage clothing. And it’s an hour commute each way. And if I know you, you’d spend all your time wearing the inventory.” I shook my head. “First Alisa and her cupcake shop idea, and now this. Why would I want to start my own business in this economy?”

“Because,” Cheryl said, “you have nothing to lose. You’re smart, hardworking, and if you don’t find something to occupy your time, you’ll end up like me. Stoned and miserable.”

I looked at her. “Oh, Cheryl, I wish I could find something like in your book, really. I’d love to be your partner in something really great. But I don’t think this is it.”

She shrugged, and proceeded to buy six different outfits, including an amazing swing coat straight from Carnaby Street. She paid for it with her Platinum American Express card; then we walked over to the old rail station for a very light lunch before heading back.

I went home, took a long shower, and set out my sundress.

Tomorrow I was having a drink with Jake Windom.

I’m not saying that the world was against me, but as I was getting dressed the next morning, Regan called and asked if I wanted to help her pick out her wedding dress.

“I found three that I like,” she said, “but I’m really torn about which one looks the best. Can you help me? Or do you have something else to do today?”

Well… I mean, really. Should I tell her that I was planning on meeting that old flame of mine she had been railing against a few weeks ago? Should I send Jake a quick e-mail and tell him that for the first time in
weeks
my daughter had actually asked me for help, and could we reschedule? Or should I blow off the Monet exhibit that I’d been looking forward to and just meet Jake?

When in doubt, tell the truth, then lie. “Well, honey, I was on my way into the city to see that Monet thing at the Metropolitan Museum, but I’m sure I can catch it some other day. But I was meeting some people afterward. Do you think we’ll have this wrapped up by, say, three o’clock?”

Regan made a noise. “Mom. It’s not even nine in the morning. The dress place is twenty minutes away. And I’m only trying on three dresses.”

There is something to be said for a low-maintenance daughter.

So she picked me up and we drove down to Wayne, and she disappeared into the dressing room while I wandered around, looking at mounds of white, billowing silk, satin, and taffeta until I heard her calling for me. I scurried back to find her staring at herself in the mirror, frowning.

“What do you think? This is my favorite, but it’s not very traditional.”

I couldn’t speak, because my throat was suddenly blocked and I felt tears in my eyes.

She looked stunning. The dress was a simple sheath, cut on the bias, a pale iridescent fabric over white satin. Her shoulders were bare. Her body, which so often looked flat and shapeless, seemed fluid and graceful as she turned to face me.

“Mom? You’re crying? Oh, God, really?”

I sniffed. “Regan, you look beautiful. That gown makes you look like you have a real woman’s body, instead of a Freemont woman’s body.” I used both hands to brush away the tears. “Really, honey, I don’t know what your other options are, but I think that one is perfect.”

The saleswoman was nodding. “I told her that. Only about ten women in the world can get away with wearing a dress like this, and she’s one of them,” she said.

“But it doesn’t look, I don’t know, bride-ish,” Regan said.

“Yes, it does,” I told her. “If I were you, I’d forget a traditional bouquet and carry long-stemmed white roses. Get some white baby’s breath to put in your hair. You’ll look amazing.”

She made a face in the mirror and shrugged. “Okay. I’ll take it.”

And she did. She walked out of the store with it, because it was a discontinued sample. Then we went to the mall and had lunch, she dropped me off, and I drove to the bus stop, got on the express to Port Authority, and walked up Fifth Avenue to the Pierre Hotel.

We had agreed on the Pierre because I thought I was going to be right up the street at the museum all day. Of course, the Pierre was also wonderful and very romantic. As I crossed the lobby, I glanced around, half expecting Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers to come gliding across the polished floor. The bar was practically empty at that hour. I walked in, admiring the deep leather chairs, hoping I’d look younger and more beautiful with all that expensive lighting, and trying to pretend that this was just any old place to grab a quick drink. Then, my throat closed up for the second time that day, and I had to turn around immediately and find the ladies’ room.

I had spotted him right away, seated at a small table, staring down at his wine. He looked exactly like his picture—graying, older, still handsome. But what his picture hadn’t shown was his body—he was no longer a lean and muscular twenty-two-year-old. He had grown not so much fat as soft, and slightly round.

But that was not what had brought me to tears. Just seeing him in the flesh—God, what was wrong with me? Why was I still so emotionally tied to someone I had not seen in over thirty years?

I looked at myself in the mirror and took several long, deep breaths. Then, of course, I peed. Because I could. I ran
cold water, wet a paper towel and held it against the back of my neck until my heart rate returned to normal. Then I went back into the bar and walked right up to him.

“Hey, Jake,” I said.

He looked up at me and broke into a smile. He stood up and put his arms around me, and I slipped right into that familiar place against his left shoulder, where I had been a hundred times before, long ago, in a galaxy far away.

My arms had gone around him automatically, and I could feel the heat of his body soaking into mine as it had hundreds of times before, and his arms felt strong and protective around me, and all I wanted to do was stay as close as I could, breathing him in.

“You look great,” he said when we finally stepped apart.

I grinned as I sat down. “Thanks. You too. I would have recognized you anywhere.”

A waiter appeared and I ordered a martini. I’m usually a white wine person, but under the circumstances, I needed a real bracer.

“So,” he said. “Three kids?”

Thank God for Jake, knowing how nervous I’d be, and giving me something comfortable to talk about right away.

“Yes. My oldest is a cartoonist. He does a daily strip,
Bennie’s World
.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. He could do that—raise just one. And when he was younger, his brows were full and black and etched perfectly above his eyes. Now they were grayish and a bit shaggy.

“I know that one. I read it. Your son is Jeff Everett?”

“Wow. You remember his name and everything? Most people know the strip but can’t tell you the artist.”

He laughed. “Yeah, I still have a great memory for totally random information.”

“Oh, God, that’s right. You were always pulling odd facts out of the air and boring people at parties.”

He looked indignant. “I thought I was being wildly entertaining.”

I laughed. “I only told you that because I loved you.”

He looked straight at me. “Yes. I know you did.”

Very long pause.

“And then I have a daughter who’s getting married in October,” I said quickly. “And my youngest just moved back in with me, with his girlfriend, no less, so he can work on his PhD.”

“Sounds like a great family.”

“Yes. We are.”

“And your husband? Or, I guess, ex-husband?”

“He was an ob-gyn. He died eight years ago.”

“Sorry. Your profile on the site just said ‘Single.’ I thought you were divorced.”

“Well, I probably would have been if he had lived. I was getting ready to leave him.”

“How funny. He never came up at all when I Googled you.”

“You Googled me?”

He looked sheepish. “About five years ago. But it mentioned your children, so I assumed you were still married back then.”

He had Googled me? “He was having an affair.”

“That must have sucked.”

Yes. It sucked as badly as it did when
you
left me.
“You were always the master of understatement, Jake. And you? No kids? Didn’t you want, like, ten?”

He shrugged. “When I was young and foolish? Yes. But Jill and I spent a lot of years working our way up our respective corporate ladders. She was older than me, by five years, and when we finally stopped to think about it, she was at an age where getting pregnant was very tough. We could have gone a few different routes, I guess, but by then I was into working eighty-hour weeks. I would have been a very absent father.”

I had finished my martini and was feeling a bit reckless. “I bet if you had kids, you would have found the time.”

He looked at me. “You husband was a doctor. Did he find the time?”

I signaled the waiter. Two points, Jake. That deserved another drink. “No, actually, he didn’t. Although he couldn’t control when his patients decided to have their babies. But that’s water under the bridge, or something. What happened to your marriage?”

He fiddled with his fork, took a sip of his wine, and cleared his throat. “She just came to me one day and said she knew she was never my first choice, and that she was sick and tired of waiting for me to love her like she felt she deserved. So she left. That was six years ago. She just remarried, and she seems very happy. She was a financial analyst, but she spent a lot of time managing my career. In fact, she pretty much guided me in my job choices, all the way to the top. She always wanted me to be rich and successful, and she got what she wanted.” He shrugged. “But she realized it was never going to be enough.”

He had said that she was never his first choice. I wanted to reach across the table, grab him by the throat, and ask what the hell he meant by that. Instead, I gazed into the
spanking new martini in front of me, and took a great big gulp. My head exploded.

“That’s sad,” I finally said. “So you’re living in White Plains?”

“You mean, you didn’t Google
me
?” His eyes were glinting with laughter, but I looked at him calmly and lied.

“No, not at all. So, tell me.”

“Yes, I still have the house there, but I also have a place down in the West Village. The company I work for has its offices on Wall Street, of course, and it’s just easier to catch a cab and crash, instead of driving all the way home.”

“The West Village?”

“Right off Carmine Street.”

I stared at him. “That’s where Jeff lives. His partner owns West Wine and Cheese.”

Jake threw back his head and laughed. People around us turned to look. His laugh was like that—huge, booming, and infectious. I had spent hours laughing with him, and now, all those years later, it still felt the same—like he knew a great joke and you just wanted to be in on it.

“I’m in there all the time. Gabe and I have a very intense relationship. He’s always yelling at me to try something new, and I’m always telling him to shut up and bring me the usual.”

I couldn’t believe it. Jake lived literally around the corner from Jeff and Gabe. He knew Gabe. All the times I’d been down there, hanging out at the shop, even waiting on customers, Jake could have walked in at any time. I drank the rest of my martini in a single gulp.

The same thought must have occurred to Jake. He smiled gently. “It’s a very small world, isn’t it?”

Oh, yeah.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

I shook my head sharply. Of course not. He’d married a woman he couldn’t love enough to keep. He’d been living a stone’s throw from my son for years. Five years ago, he’d gone looking for me. And he’d found me. Damn Google for not linking Adam’s obituary. “I should not have ordered that second drink. I’m in danger of falling into a stupor.”

“God, we can’t let that happen. I remember how you used to get.”

I grinned. There had been many a night we’d sat on our front steps, my head against his shoulder, because I’d been so drunk I didn’t want to sleep for fear I’d get sick all over him in the middle of the night.

“Let’s get something to eat,” he suggested. “Do you want to stay here? Or I know a great pub just a few blocks from here.”

I needed to move, so we got up and headed south. We did not talk, but walked slowly as I let the fresh air clear my head. When we reached the pub, I still felt buzzed but much better.

“This place has great burgers,” Jake was saying.

“I can see that the years have not cultivated your palate any. Is a burger still your first choice for any dining occasion?”

“I never saw the need to fiddle with perfection,” he said. We were led to a booth, where I asked for a very tall ice water, Jake had the house red wine, and we looked at the menus.

“This place has fifteen different kinds of hamburgers,” I pointed out.

“Yes, and I’ve tried them all. More than once. In fact, the chef is thinking of naming one after me.”