"This was us senior year. At the Boardwalk in Atlantic City." She looked at Ferrero with batting eyelashes. "We were one hot item, eh Frankie?"
Ferrero looked mortified.
Or embarrassed.
"I'm afraid you have mistaken me," he finally said, looking around the restaurant for salvation.
"Frankie, it's me." The woman pointed ten claw-like red fingernails at herself. "Marcy. Marcy Russignola. From Bay Shore High."
Like a trapped animal, Ferrero stared at her with eyes wide and unable to speak.
Now this may not have been incontrovertible as far as evidence goes, but I felt pretty certain that my earlier doubts as to Ferrero's country of origin were well-founded. What a scandal. Franco Ferrero, designer to the stars, was really Frankie Farris from Bay Shore High.
This was the kind of scandal that could ruin a career.
No Hollywood ingénue wants to be dressed by a Jersey native. They want to wear Italian. Or French. Or even British. But not Jersey.
Ferrero was speechless. I was speechless.
Thankfully, Phelps came to the rescue.
"Marcy, so nice to meet you." He stood and took her hand, planting a charming kiss on her frighteningly manicured fingers. "Please, join us for dinner."
Marcy flushed, a little embarrassed herself. "Oh, well, I came with someone," she stammered. She looked across the room at the table she had come from. "My husband. It's our anniversary. thirty-five years."
"Congratulations." Phelps followed her gaze to the table and smiled at the older man sitting alone and waiting. "Don't let us keep you from your celebration. Enjoy your special night."
He kissed her on both cheeks and somehow she headed back to her table without the whole world of scandal erupting around us.
The wine steward arrived and took his time pouring three equal samples, then, after our hearty approval, three full glasses of the sweet red wine. By the time he left, our table had come to an unspoken understanding that Marcy Russignola was not to be discussed.
At one point, when I returned from the ladies' room, I saw Phelps smiling at Ferrero as the wine steward walked away. A few minutes later the steward delivered a bottle of champagne to Marcy and her husband. They raised a toast in our direction.
Marcy might not have to reconcile Frankie Farris with fashion great Franco Ferrero, but I knew I would never be able to forget.
Even if we did continue to pretend that Marcy must have been mistaken and Ferrero's frequent slips in accent were auditory anomalies.
After dinner Phelps insisted on seeing me home.
Even though the restaurant was on the same end of town as his apartment. Even though his apartment was either a very long subway ride or a very pricey cab ride from mine.
No protestations on my part would stop him, so when we stepped out into the night I moved forward to hail a cab.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
I raised one brow in sarcastic surprise, thinking the answer was obvious. "Getting a cab."
"Why?"
Again, obvious. Maybe I was missing something. "So I can get home?"
"I mean why a cab?" He pulled me back onto the sidewalk and out of cab-calling range. "There's a subway stop two blocks away."
"I don't take the subway."
He frowned like I had just recited the Presidents of the United States backwards. Which I can do, by the way.
"It's dirty and dangerous and unreliable," I explained. And then, because he wasn't responding and because I felt the need to defend my opposition to mass transit, I added, "And there are drug dealers and gang-bangers and—"
"Have you ever been
on
a subway?"
"No, but—"
"Come on." Phelps grabbed me by the hand tugged me into a trot down the sidewalk.
He had the same look in his eye as when he pulled up in front of Jawbreaker's on Daffy. I was immediately suspicious.
"Where are we going?"
"On the A Train."
11
Q: What did one shoe say to the other shoe?
A: Don't stick your tongue out at me.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #9
Two hours and countless subway stops on every line in the Metro Transit Authority later we arrived at my front door. I was exhausted and filthy and out of breath from running up the ten flights to my floor, but surprisingly enough I was having a good time.
Now I knew what older women saw in younger men.
"Admit it," Phelps teased as he poked me in the ribs, "you had fun on the subway."
I looked into those beautiful blue eyes and saw all the exuberance that was missing in my life. If only I was a few years younger.
"Yes," I admitted reluctantly, "it was actually pretty fun." My mother would have a heart attack if she ever— "You can't say anything about this on Saturday."
"About what? The subway?"
"Yes. It would kill my mother to learn I spent a night riding mass transit. For fun." And really, the last thing a woman about to sail around the world needs is a heart condition.
Phelps just smiled. Not that cocky, arrogant smile that grated my nerves—even though I was beginning to like that smile against my better judgment. No, this was a soft smile of indulgence. Of admiration.
"You, Lydia Vanderwalk," he said as he stepped closer and lifted a hand to my cheek, "are some piece of work."
His hand slipped behind my head and I felt the warm heat of his palm urge me closer. Hypnotized by his flame blue gaze, I leaned forward until my lips met his.
This was no hot and heavy, for public display kiss.
This was gentle and tender and I felt it all the way down to the tips of my toes.
My first response was, Why? Why was Phelps kissing me in this seriously romantic way?
But when he tilted his head and nibbled on my lower lip all questions—indeed all thought—ceased to matter. The soft fullness of his lips rubbed rhythmically against mine with a gentle pressure that begged me to open my mouth.
I was just about to when I heard a loud—as in this-is-not-the-first-second-or-third-attempt loud—
ah-hem
from behind me.
Reluctantly pulling away, I turned to find Gavin standing in the hall.
At least now I knew why Phelps had kissed me.
It had all been for show.
"So sorry to interrupt," Gavin said as he thrust a D'Agnostino bag in my face, "but I want my book back."
Stepping out of the awkward entanglement with Phelps I took the bag. I hefted the several pounds of small, wrapped goodies and sighed. It felt good to have my candy back.
Though as I thought about it, candy had not crossed my mind in the last several hours. I guess I was just too preoccupied discovering that my Italian fashion designer boss is an utter phony and that I like kissing Phelps Elliot
way
too much. Because nothing but the greatest of distractions could ever keep me from thinking about candy. Like studying for finals or obsessively striving to finish a complex jewelry design. But even in those cases I usually manage to drum up some serious desire for candy.
Maybe I needed to get myself checked out. I mean, it's not like alcoholics suddenly stop thinking about their Jack and Cokes or shopaholics suddenly stop fantasizing about sample sales at Bradford's.
Mental Post-it: Make appointment with psychiatrist to discuss period of candy disinterest.
Coming out of my mental wanderings, I found Gavin standing in front of me looking like a package of Pop Rocks ready to pop.
Oh yeah, the book.
"The book isn't here," I explained. "I left it somewhere for safekeeping."
"Where? The dump?" Gavin retorted.
"Actually," Phelps stepped around me and slung an arm across my shoulders, "she gave it to some starving homeless guy at 18th and C. If you hurry you can probably catch him."
"No, it's—"
"Listen, pretty boy, this is between Lydia and me." Gavin poked Phelps in the chest and I had a feeling this situation was going very wrong very fast. "Though come to think of it, you're as much to blame as me in this."
"Wait, let's—"
"Me? I don't even know what this is about." Phelps released me a stepped closer to Gavin, chest trust out like a strutting pigeon. "You show up here with a bag of junk and go psycho over some book. What do I—"
"Really, boys—"
"You agreed to the bet, jerkwad." Gavin poked Phelps in the chest with two fingers.
This situation was escalating much too quickly. And nosy Mrs. Peepers—I don't know her real name, but that fits the busybody well enough—was peering through the crack between door and jamb with avid interest.
"Can we please go inside and—"
"The bet?" Phelps shouted. "This is about that stupid bet?" He turned to look at me with disbelief. "What is the big deal about a bunch of candy?"
The hallway fell silent.
I closed my eyes against seeing understanding wash over Gavin's face. He of all people would know that any man seriously interested in me would know about my candy addiction.
That Phelps obviously didn't know... well, that was a problem.
The game was up.
Now Gavin would ask the question and I would have to tell him the truth because I never could lie to him—
He smirked. "Have you been keeping your little problem a secret from Phelpsy here?"
The condescension in his tone pushed me too far. "Listen Gavin, what I have or haven't told Phelps is none of your business. You lost the right to meddle in my affairs a long time ago." I stepped between the two raging testosterone-fed egos and faced Gavin with all the confidence I could muster. "Please leave."
He looked like I'd slapped him.
Backing away slowly, he scowled as he said, "You always were quick to defend whatever side I wasn't on. It was a wonder we lasted as long as we did."
I stared blankly at Gavin's back as he stalked away, slamming the door to the emergency stairwell behind him.
What had that parting comment meant?
For years I had been the dutiful girlfriend, blindly taking Gavin's side despite mounting evidence of his unfaithfulness. When he started staying late at the office five nights a week, I made excuses to family and friends that he was working really hard at his very demanding job. When he went away for long working weekends I attended all those social functions alone, putting on a happy face to hide the fact that our relationship was sinking fast.
"You should've let me punch him at the party."
Phelps placed his hands on my shoulders, giving me a reassuring massage. I turned into him, burying my face in his shoulder as tears of confusion and doubt stung my eyes. In his comforting embrace I let out all the frustration of two long years. Two years wondering what had gone wrong, what I had done do drive Gavin away.
Wondering how I hadn't been good enough.
Though I told myself it was better this way, there were still times on dark, lonely nights that I wondered if it might have been better if I'd never caught Gavin red-handed. If we'd just gone on as we were, gotten married, and lived the kind of marriage so typical of our peers.
Suddenly I felt very alone.
It had been two years since I'd been held like this. Like I mattered. Like I was cherished.
And it felt good.
Awkwardly wiping at my tears, I looked up into Phelps' brilliant blue eyes smiling down at me and smiled. I never wanted this feeling to end. "Want to come inside."
His smile faltered. "I don't think that's a good idea." He smoothed back the hair hanging across my eyes. "Not in your current state."
"Just for coffee?" He looked doubtful, so I added, "Promise."
He considered the offer for a minute before relenting. "One cup."
"I know I've got a coffee pot around here somewhere." I rifled through the twenty-four cabinets in my kitchen until I found the hunted appliance. "Ah-ha!"
"Not a coffee drinker, are you?"
Phelps looked around my apartment for the first time, and I wondered what it would look like to a relative stranger. Bland probably. Most everything was cream, beige, taupe, or a combination of the three.
Sheer cream drapes. Taupe sofa. Cream and taupe throw pillows. Ooh, there was ivory in the wallpaper.
The only real color and warmth in the apartment came from the wood furniture. The rich walnut coffee and end tables, media cabinet, and bookshelves. Somehow the deep auburn-brown turned the beige room into a welcoming home.
Or so I hoped.
"I managed to get through college without catching the coffee bug." Plugging in the ancient Krupps coffeemaker—a graduation present from a not-so-close Aunt Essie—I wiped off a layer of dust before taking the pot to the sink and filling it with water.