I just hoped that Janice and Kelly would turn around as quickly as I knew he would.
Gavin and Elliot? Well, I knew how to solve that problem, I just didn't know which path to take.
"Ma'am," the taxi attendant shouted, "ma'am, you're next."
I moved to the last taxi in line, handing my suitcase to the driver just as my phone rang.
"West 76th," I instructed.
Sliding into the back of the cab, I answered my phone as the cabbie lurched out into the through lane.
"Hello?"
"Lydia, thank God," Mom cried just before she burst into tearful sobs.
"Mom," I yelled, trying to get her attention long enough to explain. "What's wrong? Has something happened? Has there been an accident?"
"It's y-your f-father," she stuttered.
"Daddy!" I shrieked. "What's happened to him? Is he okay?"
"He—oh God—he's," Mom wailed, "having an affair!"
"He's ha—" On the verge of tears, certain my father had been eaten by sharks or speared by a harpoon, I caught myself as I realized what she said. "An affair? Mom, what are you talking about?"
The notion that my father was having an affair—or, for that matter, interest in any woman but my mom—was preposterous. He was the most loving and devoted husband I had ever known.
"With the deck hand." Her sobs subsided and she spoke with only the occasional sniff. "She's a former M-miss Hawaiian Tropic."
"She's not a real deck hand?" I asked, more concerned for my parents' safety without an experienced sailor on board than with this notion of an affair.
"Yes, of course she is. She knows everything about the stupid boat."
I stifled my relieved
whew
, knowing Mom would not appreciate the sentiment. "Well, then, what makes you think he's having an affair? Did you catch them together?"
"No, but—"
"Has Dad been, um..." I hunted for the right word while trying to maintain my stomach contents. "Inattentive?"
"No, we're actually having more se—"
"Then why," I blurted before she could finish the sentence and send me into a decade of therapy, "do you think they're having an affair?"
"Because he-he-he gave her a nickname."
The last word ended on a plaintiff wail and, if it hadn't been the silliest statement of proof of infidelity in history, I might have been concerned.
"Mom," I said sharply, my tolerance for anyone else's problems Thin Mint thin at the moment, "listen to me. Dad is not having an affair. Now tell me what's really the matter."
Several silent moments passed before she quietly ventured, "I don't like sailing."
My shoulders sagged, thankful the problem was nothing worse than realizing she wasn't cut out for the life of a sailor. "That's not the end of the world."
"I know." Her voice already sounded better, all signs of tears gone. "It's just that your father seems to be enjoying himself and I'm miserable. I hate water. I hate the sun. And I especially hate the endless parade of canned foods I have to cook because our refrigerator is the size of an ice cube."
"Tell him that. He'll understand."
"Maybe you're right, but—"
"What if he feels the same way?" I offered. "What if he's just too proud to tell you his great retirement plan is a big flop? You'll never know if you don't talk it out."
Mom's sigh carried across hundreds of miles. "I know, it's just that... no, you're right. How did you get so smart?"
"Years of practice with other people's problems."
Too bad that experience didn't apply to my own.
"Is everything alright with you, dear? You sound a little worn down yourself."
For a split second I thought about gushing. Spouting out all the things that had gone wrong in the last few weeks and hoping that mothers really did have all the answers. But this was my life. My problems. I had to work them out on my own.
"Just jetlag." If only. A six hour time change was the least of my worries. "I just need a cup of hot tea and a good night's sleep."
"Alright," Mom said, sounding unsatisfied but recognizing that I wasn't looking for help, "call me when you're feeling better."
"Will do."
Hopefully, that would be sometime before the next ice age.
"You are a genius, Lydia."
I stared at the cordless receiver in my hand, wondering if my phone had some fancy new computer chip that allowed only bizarre calls to ring through.
"Ferrero?" I asked, incredulous that he would be calling me at all, let alone phoning to call me a genius.
"Pre-sales on the Fall collection are through the roof." His Italian accent was gone, South Jersey coming through loud and clear. "Thanks to you."
"What do you mean?"
Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I crawled out of bed and headed for the kitchen and mind-clearing cup of peppermint tea.
"Your publicity stunt worked," he continued. "The press ate it up like Godiva, plastering my name on every rag sheet from here to Tokyo."
"Publicity stunt?"
I squinted at the clock on my stove.
6:15
. Maybe I needed to unplug my phone at night. None of these early morning conversations ever made sense.
"Denouncing my Italian identity at the after party in front of everyone." He sounded delighted. "Brilliant!"
"Ferrero, it's too early for this kind of confusion." I set a cup of hot water in the microwave and punched it on for ninety seconds. "What are you talking about?"
"Lydia, darling, every newspaper in the world covered my party—and my collection—because you outed me in public. There is no such thing as bad press. Our stock doubled over the weekend."
"Oh."
The microwave beeped and I rushed to pour the boiling water over the tea bag in my coffee mug. While it steeped I inhaled the wakening aroma of peppermint, praying it notched my alertness up a level.
"And it's not early," he added, "it's late."
Bent over the counter to sniff my tea, I had a closer view of the clock and made out the tiny
P
next to the time. Jetlag must have hit harder than I thought.
"So you're not mad at me anymore?" I deduced.
"Mad?" Ferrero squealed. "I adore you!"
"Oh." If I weren't so exhausted I might have been happy about that. "That's good."
Deeming my tea steeped enough to drink—and my brain desperate enough to endure weak tea—I swallowed a tingling gulp.
"Have you decided about the creative position?"
"The job? I didn't know the offer was still open."
"Of course it is."
Though peppermint was supposed to calm upset stomachs, mine clenched. Yet another decision to make.
"I'll let you know by Friday," I offered. By then my brain might have stopped spinning.
"So Ferrero loves you again?" Bethany asked.
When my enthusiasm level upon returning from Italy hadn't measured up, she and Fiona called an emergency Wednesday night meeting at Sweet Spot.
"Yes. He even still wants me to hire on as Accessories Designer."
"And Gavin still loves you?" Fiona tapped the stainless steel tabletop with a matching silver fingernail.
"Yes," I moaned. This was nothing I hadn't been over a billion times in the last two days. "He always has."
"Phelps too?" Bethany made a note on the rose-colored notepad in front of her.
"It's Elliot, actually."
"You call him by his last name?"
"No," I explained, throwing a scowl Fiona's way for not telling me in the first place, "his real name is Elliot Phelps. Phelps Elliot is just his professional name."
"Hey," Fiona returned, hands raised is a defensive gesture, "I didn't think it'd come up. How was I to know he would fall in love with you?"
"Anyway," Bethany interrupted, "Phelps or Elliot or whoever loves you too?"
I nodded. My eyes blurred as I stared at the untouched Lemon Drop on the table. Fiona was certain my problem was nothing that couldn't be solved by a girls' night out and buckets of vodka. Noticing that my ice had melted, she grabbed the drink and headed for the bar.
"You love them both?" Beth's voice softened. "You're in love with them both?"
I nodded again.
"But they're so different."
"I know. That's why I love them both." My heart thudded in despair. "That's why I can't choose."
"Well, here's the deal," she asserted, laying it all out for me. "Either you choose one or you lose them both. So let's figure this out."
Fiona returned to the table and set down the glass as she sat. "Start with Pros and Cons. What's good about Gavin?"
"He's kind, considerate, and reliable. Established and successful. Ready to settle down." I watched Bethany take copious notes as I evaluated Gavin like a prize pig. I remembered the special order lemon
semifreddo
and how considerate he was of my feelings. "He remembers all the little things and he makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside."
"Okay." Beth scribbled the last of the Pros in Gavin's column. "What stinks about him?"
"Well..." I opened my mind to an objective imagination of what life would be like with him. "He likes to plan. Likes to have things go his way. And he lives by routine. Things could get a little dull. And most of the time he's emotionally reserved."
"Not in touch with his feminine side, huh?" Fiona appeared to ponder my two lists, absently raising my drink to her lips and guzzling.
"Phelps?" Bethany prodded.
"Pros," Fiona gasped as she choked on the sour vodka.
"He's exciting. Surprising. Spontaneous." I smiled at the thought of whipping around Southampton on Daffy and cruising Lake Como after dark. "He's always up for fun and adventure. He shakes things up."
And when I thought about his kisses, my entire body burned.
Bethany grinned. "Not to mention he obviously lights your fire. Does he have any Cons?"
"Oh yes," I hastily answered. "He's reckless. Has no ambition or definitive plans for the future. And," I added, drawing out the word with extra importance, "he's younger than me."
"That should be a Pro." Fiona grinned wickedly.
"Where does this list get us, sugar?"
Bethany pushed the pink pad across the table. In her feminine script were outlined Gavin and Elliot in all their glories and flaws. The truth was, none if it made a difference. Feelings weren't something you could outline on a sheet of paper. They came from deep inside. That was where I would find my answer.
In the background I heard Fiona order another drink and sensed Bethany take the list and tuck it back into her purse.
Despondency sank its teeth into me, right into my heart.
Tears filled my eyes.
"What," Fiona asked, pushing the fresh Lemon Drop in front of me, "are you going to do?"
I stared at the drink as if I could find my answer there.
If only I could read ice cubes like fortunetellers read tea leaves. But in the end, all I saw was frozen water and vodka. And more problems than answers.
"Honestly," I said as I pushed the drink away, "I just don't know."
This was the hardest decision I had ever faced. In a perfect world I’d get to choose them both.
If you think Lydia should choose Gavin turn to
this page
.
If you think she should choose Elliot turn to
this page
.
24
Q: What did one heart say to the other?
A: Beat that.
— Laffy Taffy Joke #119
Gavin sighed as the elevator dropped him off at his apartment. It had been a long day. A long week. A long life.
He hadn't seen Lydia since she passed beyond the first class curtain on the flight back to New York. Not in the flesh, anyway. At night, her image haunted his dreams. During the day she filled his every thought.
His heart hurt for missing her.
Though he knew it was the right thing to do—for all of them—he wished he could take back that last night in Milan. The ultimatum he and Elliot had laid out was supposed to end their suffering. But instead, almost a week later, it had only multiplied his pain.
He couldn't take it anymore.
Grabbing the cordless phone from the living room, he strolled into the den, loosening his tie and shrugging out of his jacket. He ditched his briefcase in the corner and collapsed into the welcoming chair behind his desk.
Eyes closed, he slowly massaged his temples with one hand, phone still clutched in the other. Thank God it was Friday.