Authors: Fran Riedemann
She couldn’t help but question her emotional passivity as a possible flaw in her psychological DNA. But, that same passivity saved her the long hours of self-scrutiny and idle speculations about what might have been. “If only” had to be torture if you chose to let it rule your thoughts, she decided. Someone once told her that holding a grudge was like allowing someone to live rent-free in your head.
Speculating served no purpose other than being fertile ground to revisit things that were better left alone, with a never-ending continuum of possible scenarios. That Saturday morning was the first time since Craig had left her that she had left her house to do anything that wasn’t work related or necessary to her survival, other than crossing her driveway for an occasional evening with her neighbors.
Follow the
yellow brick road,
she thought.
I’m off to see the Wizard!
Humming the melody to herself she briskly made her way to the Metro.
***
When she arrived at the Mall Brittany realized, with chagrin, she was dressed entirely wrong for the day. She dismissed what she was attending as some sort of student showing, attended mostly by students, so she wasn’t terribly concerned about dressing up. She selected clothes that would take her from morning into the evening, but realized too late she was wearing too many layers, and the day was unseasonably hot.
It wasn’t long before she’d tied her jacket around her waist, along with a silk scarf she wore instead of jewelry. She knew by nightfall they were doomed to look like she had borrowed from a bag lady, but her only option was to tie them around her or leave them on a park bench for someone to find; most likely a bag lady. It was only late morning and she was sweating, her hair was stuck to her forehead, and she was bemoaning her choice of shoes.
It has to be some kind of omen
, she thought.
The pathways were strewn with joggers and dog walkers who were dressed more appropriately in tank tops and shorts. Small children shed their outerwear with abandon, throwing their discarded clothing on the ground or loading down their moms and dads with the unwanted layers. Brittany noticed people applying sunscreen and reached up to touch the back of her own neck, realizing she would be nursing a sun burn tomorrow. Her skin was already radiating heat, but, oh, the feeling was delicious.
Such days made her want to try writing again. She was fascinated by the mix of people milling around her, her imagination playing out possible scenarios of their tangled and titillating secret lives, intersecting on the mall by either chance or karma.
Clearly one result of the intoxicating weather was the not insignificant numbers of couples that lay, literally on top of each other, making out, blissfully unaware of the stares and glares they were receiving. She was thinking how love was
‘
a splendid thing’ when she was caught staring at a couple who was coming up for air. She blushed, they did not.
The unexpected holiday from her oft self-induced projects was producing long dormant endorphins. She realized how much she missed the rush that exercise and fresh air produce. And, ahead of her was the better part of the day to enjoy the sights and sounds of the Nation’s Capital. It had been too long since she’d savored the beauty and history of this beloved place.
***
Brittany and Craig's wedding took place on a similar spring day at her parent’s church in Arlington, followed by a Champagne brunch at the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown. From there they made a mad dash to the airport to catch a flight to Berlin, and from Berlin they flew to Austria two days later.
Because her mother immediately took control of their day, Craig reasoned if they could convince her mother there were advantages to having a morning wedding. By havig a brunch reception afterward, they could begin their honeymoon the same day, flying out later rather than having to spend the night in town and be obligated to hang around for a brunch with out of town guests the next morning. That suited Brittany fine. Her dilemma was that if they offended her mother, she would lose her gift for design, and her flair was vital because Brittany lacked it.
Brittany truly did not want a lot of fuss and chose to have only two bridesmaids who wore a different colored spring-hued, ankle length dress and carried bouquets of purple violas with yards of streaming yellow ribbons that fluttered down their skirts. Accompanied by Alma, Brittany tried on scores of dresses and couldn’t find a dress she loved or her mother approved of. One of her colleagues at work found a picture of a dress she thought suited Brittany in a magazine. Brittany loved it on sight, and took the picture to a dressmaker who created a pattern from it. The gown was a halter style that was form fitting and elegant, high the front and dipping provocatively low in back with no train. The fabric was a taffeta-like silk in white, finished it with a sash at the waist.
One fly in the ointment, so to speak, was that Brittany neglected to show her mother the sketch of the back of the dress. Later, in a counseling session, her counselor called that omission “passive rebellion”, specifically due to the fact Brittany had deliberately calculated the shock value as a way to zing her mother. Brittany later told Craig she could feel her mother’s eyes boring into her back through the entire wedding ceremony. The only cloud over the honeymoon was anticipating there would be payback when they returned.
Craig reminded her that ‘he who laughs last, laughs longest, and the comment was on target. Every time they remembered their wedding day, Brittany’s daring skin exposure was front and center of their memories. It was a good bet it was Alma’s, also. Other than a few candid pictures some friends took, the pictures that survived the day were all frontal.
So, each anniversary the couple would relive the hilarity. For some reason her mother never acknowledged their anniversary.
***
It was late afternoon and the sun was setting, bringing a chill with it. Brittany had completely blown off keeping track of her time, and the luxury of having too much of it had run out. All she had eaten was a not hot, hot dog and a warm diet Coke from a vendor, which she ate only because she was starving and felt jittery from low blood sugar and dehydration. Passing a restaurant she peered longingly inside, longing for an iced tea and something to eat, but there was no extra time to sit and wait to be served.
She located a public bathroom where she could pull herself together, freezing in place when she looked in the mirror.
Holy cow! I can’t go to an art event looking like this!
She gasped. The disheveled woman staring at her from the mirror looked every bit as horrified and disgusted as she did.
She ran her fingers through her hair hoping that it was the florescent lighting that was causing her face to look so red, raising her hand to her feverish neck.
Okay, you have fifty dollars, your American Express card, your metro card, your cell phone, and Chapstick. Yikes! How could you have forgotten lip gloss
?
She looked back at the face in the mirror. “Just be glad your mother isn’t here to see this!” She scolded her reflection, while trying in vain to smooth the wrinkles out of the front of her jacket.
***
In the time that passed between exiting the washroom and arriving at the gallery she fantasized about some possible scenarios that might get her in and out of the show quickly. One was making eye-contact with her artist/painter across the room, getting lost in the crowd and leaving before he could make his way over to her. Or, even better, she would the guest book and leaving before he saw her. Not showing up at all was option three, but she’d planned her whole day around the showing, plus she had promised Rick she would attend. One option out of her control was the possibility he might not recognize her in her present state. Regretfully, she had forgotten to program his number into her cell phone, which was serving to keep her honest, because had she done so it was a safe bet she would have already concocted a lame excuse.
When she arrived at the gallery she observed, with horror, that the showing was taking place in a very trendy area of shops just north of where Georgetown’s Main Street was, and not where she had pictured. It was one of the many side streets, where quaint old homes had been converted into unique boutiques, galleries, and restaurants. Strangers to the area might miss it altogether, if they didn’t know to look for it, but locals claimed these hot spots as their little secret, and went there to be seen. The only saving grace, Brittany concluded, was that she wouldn’t know anyone. Catching her crumpled reflection in the gallery’s front window she decided they might not let her in.
Having noticed her reflection again was enough to reduce her self-esteem to below-zero. By now her stomach was growling so loudly she was sure there was an echo, and she discovered, while nervously fiddling with her hair, and she had lost an earring. Added to that, her sunburned neck was killing her.
Note to self
, she thought,
never be without Advil and lip gloss.
She could foresee this evening was going to replay itself every time she got ready to go out for a long time.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a tap on her shoulder. A faintly familiar masculine voice commented, “Well, fancy meeting you here.”
She could feel herself blushing, deciding that getting dumped had been moved to the second worst night of her life. Without seeing him she recognized the voice, and her already flushed face felt even hotter. She was sure he'd used the word
fancy
on purpose.
Pulling her eyes away from the reflections in the window, she turned toward the voice, crossing her fingers that it didn’t belong to who she thought it did. .But, it did. Her ex’s attorney, Allan Chandler, was standing across from her
.
…
Of all the rotten luck
. “Why, Mr. Chandler…He-he-hello.” Under the circumstances she felt eloquent.
When their eyes met she couldn’t help but notice his bemused expression, making her recall how patronizing he had been when she saw him in his office when he reminded her what she was wearing when they met the first time. “You may call me Allan, if you’d like.” He said, smiling. “Might I call you Brittany?” She wasn’t imagining it, he definitely looked smug.
“
Sure.” She couldn’t believe it. Of all people…
Fancy
that!
“
Are you here for the show?”
“
Uh-huh.”
Don’t quote me
, her brain screamed. Now she was hoping she would wake up and realize she was having one of those nightmares that seemed real, but wasn’t.
“
Are you meeting someone?” he asked.
“
No. I came alone.” There! It was out! She hoped it would suffice for him to leave her alone.
“
Well, then, please join me.” He held out his arm for her to take.
Why does he have to look so darn amused?
One of Brittany’s pet peeves was being patronized.
Reluctantly, she took his arm, trying to size him up out of the corner of her eye, and sheepishly wondering how to not let his attractiveness affect her. While not tall, he was trim and athletic looking.
Possibly a swimmer
,
she thought
, or a tennis player for sure
. His hair was dark and thinning, but in that GQ sort of way.
He was smartly dressed in dark gray slacks, which she was sure were Italian, a black silk shirt, with a Gucci scarf draped loosely around his neck.
She looked down; he was wearing black Italian loafers with no socks. To top it off, he smelled as expensive.
Masochistically, Brittany glanced back at her reflection in the window. She knew she smelled, but it wasn’t expensive.
He’s got to be married, you
idiot,
she warned herself. Well, he might be,she tried to steal a glance at his ring finger. She saw it was bare and felt strangely relieved.
Immediately upon entering the gallery, someone handed each of them a glass of champagne. Brittany swallowed hers in three gulps, reaching out for a second one. She looked around for food, realizing, with dismay, there was none.
Please let there be peanuts
, she prayed. Having downed the second drink she felt somewhat less agitated, although it irritated her how patronized
Allan
continued to make her feel.
He was engrossed, reading Rick-the-Painter’s bio, giving her an opportunity to walk away to look for Rick. Wishing she could remember his last name, her get-away scenarios were now a moot point. Allan walked up behind her again.
“
Do you own any of his work?” he asked her, gesturing toward a painting. She felt a smile creeping up. “Well, as a matter of fact, I do. I have walls of his work.”
Ha!
“
I’d love to see what you own. I have a few friends who collect his paintings. They tell me he is an emerging talent. It was my friends who invited me to come tonight. You’ll enjoy them, they’re lurking around here somewhere.” He glanced past her, looking for them.