God, desire. She had forgotten all about it.
She undressed and climbed into bed with her steaming mug of tea. She picked up the novel her book club was reading, then set it down. She was levitating like a magician’s assistant. She closed her eyes.
The phone rang in the middle of the night. Three twenty, the clock said. Birdie sat straight up in bed. Her bedside light was still on. The tea was cold on the nightstand. The phone? Who called at such an hour? Then Birdie remembered her date and she filled with warm, syrupy joy. It might be India calling to find out how the date had gone. India kept ridiculous hours. Ever since Bill died, she had suffered from mind-blowing insomnia; she occasionally went seventy-two hours without sleeping.
Or the call was from Hank, who had, perhaps, not been able to sleep.
Birdie grabbed the phone.
A woman, crying. Birdie knew immediately that it was Chess; a mother always knew the sound of her child crying, even when her child was thirty-two years old. Birdie intuited the rest of it right away, without having to hear one lurid word. It crushed her, but she knew.
“It’s over, Birdie.”
“Over?” Birdie said.
“Over.”
Birdie drew the covers up to her chin. This was one of her defining moments as a mother and she was determined to shine.
“Tell me what happened,” she said.
Michael Morgan was six foot six, clean cut, and handsome. He had sandy hair, green eyes, and a smile that made others smile. He had played lacrosse at Princeton, where he had graduated summa cum laude with a degree in sociology; he was a whiz at crossword puzzles and loved black-and-white movies, which endeared him to people of Birdie’s generation. Instead of taking a job at J.P. Morgan, where his father was managing partner, or going to Madison Avenue, where his mother oversaw the advertising accounts for every smash hit on Broadway, Michael had taken out a staggering business loan and bought a failing head-hunting company. In five years, he had turned a profit; he had placed 25 percent of the graduating class of Columbia Business School.
Chess had met Michael Morgan at a rock club downtown; Birdie couldn’t remember the name of the place. Chess had been at the bar with a girlfriend, and Michael had been there to see his brother, Nick, who was the lead singer in a band called Diplomatic Immunity. This was how young people met each other; Birdie understood that. But unlike the other young men that Chess met socially, she and Michael Morgan got serious right away.
The beginning of Chess’s relationship with Michael Morgan coincided with the end of Birdie and Grant’s marriage. When Birdie and Grant met Michael Morgan for the first time, they were, technically, separated. (Grant was staying in a room at the Hyatt in Stamford. This was before he rented and then purchased the loft in South Norwalk.) Chess knew her parents were separated, but Chess wanted Birdie and Grant to meet Michael
together
as a
unit.
Birdie balked at this. It would be awkward; it would be what amounted to a date with Grant, whom she had so recently and unequivocally asked to leave her life. But Chess insisted. She believed that her parents could be civil and congenial to each other for one night on her behalf. Grant was open to the idea; he made a reservation for four at La Grenouille, their former favorite restaurant. Grant and Birdie drove to the city together; it wouldn’t make sense not to. Grant smelled the same; he was wearing his khaki suit and one of the Paul Stuart shirts that Birdie had bought for him, and the pink tie with the frogs that he always wore when they went to La Grenouille. Birdie remembered having the reassuring yet sinking feeling that nothing had changed. The maître d’ at La Grenouille, Donovan, greeted them as a married couple—he had no idea they’d split—and showed them to the table they preferred. On the way to the restaurant from the parking garage, Birdie had filled Grant in on Michael Morgan. He and Chess had been dating for three weeks.
“Three weeks?” Grant said. “He got an audience after only three weeks?”
“This is it, I think,” Birdie said.
“It?” Grant said.
“Just be nice,” Birdie said. “Make him comfortable.”
Chess had looked beautiful in a flowery lavender dress, and Michael Morgan was stunning in a charcoal suit and a lavender-hued Hermès tie. (They had color-coordinated their outfits! This struck Birdie as cute at first; then she worried that they were secretly living together.) Chess and Michael Morgan looked like they had just stepped off the pages of
Town and Country.
They looked like they were already married.
Michael Morgan greeted Grant with a strong handshake; he kissed Birdie’s cheek. He gave them both that brilliant smile that made them smile. (That square jaw, those perfect teeth, the light in his eye—he was magnetic!) Birdie had gone into that dinner feeling very jaundiced about romance and relationships, but even she had been won over by Michael Morgan, and by Michael and Chess together. Michael had beautiful table manners, he stood when Chess rose to use the ladies’ room and when she returned, he told Grant and Birdie about his business and plans for future growth in a way that was both impressive and pleasingly self-effacing. He appreciated the wine, he drank scotch with Grant after dessert, he thanked both Grant and Birdie profusely for the meal, he praised them for bringing up a beautiful, smart, accomplished daughter like Chess. What was not to like?
So what Birdie heard over the phone surprised her. Chess had broken the engagement. Chess had been out to dinner at Aureole with her friend Rhonda; from there, she and Rhonda had gone to the Spotted Pig for cocktails, and then on to a nightclub. Chess had left the nightclub without telling Rhonda. She had walked sixty-seven blocks uptown to her apartment (Birdie shuddered at the danger of it) and had called San Francisco, where Michael was with candidates interviewing for the head of a prestigious tech company. She had called off the wedding. Michael was flying home in the morning, she said, but it wouldn’t do any good. The relationship was over. She would not be getting married.
“Now wait a minute,” Birdie said. “What happened?”
“Nothing
happened,
” Chess said. “I just don’t want to marry Michael.”
“But why
not?
” Birdie said. She wasn’t naive. Had Chess taken any mind-altering drugs while she was at the club? Was she still feeling their effects now?
“I don’t have a good reason,” Chess said. She started to cry again. “I just don’t want to.”
“You don’t want to?”
“That’s right,” Chess said. “I don’t want to.”
“You’re not in love with him?” Birdie said.
“No,” Chess said. “I’m not.”
What could Birdie say?
“I understand.”
“You do?”
“I support whatever decision you make. I love you. If you don’t want to marry Michael Morgan, we will undo all the wedding plans.”
Chess exhaled. She hiccuped. She whispered, “God, Birdie, thank you.
Thank
you.”
“Okay. Okay, now,” Birdie said.
“Will you tell Dad?” Chess asked.
“Me?” Birdie said.
“Please?” The tears threatened. “I just can’t do it. I am not strong enough.”
What Chess meant was that she didn’t want to do it. Who in their right mind would want to call Grant Cousins, whose job it was to intimidate everyone from the at-home investor to the SEC, and tell him that he may have wasted $150,000 on things like hand-engraved invitations and a floating island in his ex-wife’s backyard pond? Birdie was aware that her greatest flaw as a mother was not holding the children fully accountable for their actions. She had never made them do the dirty work. When Tate, at age six, stole crayons from the five-and-dime, Birdie hadn’t marched her back to the store to confess to Mr. Spitko, the owner, as she should have. She had let it slide with a lecture and had then put five dollars in an envelope, which she slid under the door of the five-and-dime after hours.
“I think you should call your father and explain your decision in your own words,” Birdie said. “I won’t be able to do it justice.”
“Please?”
Birdie sighed. The hour weighed upon her, as did the reality of No Wedding—all that work for naught!—as did the prospect of speaking to Grant about this catastrophic turn of events. But she mustn’t think of it as a catastrophe. She would think of it as Chess saving herself from a lifetime of unhappiness. A catastrophic event would have been Chess getting married, bearing three children, and then realizing that any one of a hundred other options would have been better than marrying Michael Morgan. You only got one life, and Chess was going to treat hers with thoughtful care.
Birdie was exhausted.
“Let’s talk in the morning, and then talk again after you speak to Michael in person. Then we’ll worry about your father. This thing might reverse itself.”
“No, Birdie, it won’t.”
“Okay, but—”
“Birdie,” Chess said. “Trust me.”
Chess was steadfast in her decision. Michael came home from California exhausted and frantic, willing to do absolutely anything to get Chess to change her mind, but Chess shut him down. She would not marry him in September. She would not marry him at all. Michael Morgan, former King of the World, former Golden Boy, former All-Ivy athlete, and one of
Inc.
magazine’s Young Entrepreneurs of the Year, was reduced to gravy.
Michael called Birdie early the following evening. It was Sunday, cocktail hour, and Hank Dunlap was in Birdie’s living room with a glass of wine, eating her savory
palmiers,
listening to Ella Fitzgerald on the stereo. Birdie had invited him over for a springtime supper of roast chicken and asparagus, despite the fact that her world was tumbling down around her. Or not her world, exactly, but the world of people she loved.
When Hank had called Saturday at noon, what Birdie said was, “I find myself in the middle of a startling family crisis.”
And Hank said, “Would you prefer company or space?”
The wonderful thing about dating again at her age was that she was dealing with a partner who was emotionally mature. She could choose either company or space, and Hank would understand. She decided she wanted company. She barely knew Hank Dunlap, but she sensed he would give her a sound perspective. He had been a school headmaster. He had dealt with students, teachers, parents, money, emotions, logistics, and, most likely, dozens of thwarted love affairs. He might be able to help, and if not, he could just sit there and Birdie would feel better for looking upon him.
He had arrived at her door with a bottle of Sancerre, her favorite wine, and she had poured two glasses immediately, pulled the
palmiers
from the oven, and told Hank the story.
My daughter Chess called in the middle of the night with the news that she’d broken her engagement. She gave no reason. She simply isn’t in love with him.
Hank nodded thoughtfully. Birdie had begun to feel slightly embarrassed on Chess’s behalf. Why on earth had she agreed to marry Michael Morgan in the first place if she wasn’t in love with him? Michael had proposed to Chess onstage at a rock concert, which had seemed rash to Birdie, bordering on unseemly, but Chess and Michael had met at a rock concert and he was after some meaningful symmetry. He had thought it through; he had asked Grant for Chess’s hand the week before. Chess hadn’t seemed bothered by the public nature of the proposal, or had seemed bothered only slightly. What she’d said was,
How could I say no?
But she said this lightly, and what Birdie thought she meant was,
Why would I want to say no?
Michael and Chess were made for each other.
Hank interrupted Birdie’s thoughts by putting his hands on her waist and pulling her to him. She felt a light-headed rush. She set her wineglass down. Hank kissed her. Instantly, she was aflame.
He stopped and said, “I feel like the guy who is only thinking about sex when we’re supposed to be studying.”
“Sex?” Birdie said. “Studying?”
Hank took off his glasses and started kissing her again.
And then the phone rang. Initially, Birdie ignored it.
Nothing
was going to tear her away from… but then she realized she had to answer. She pulled back. Hank nodded and put his glasses back on.
“Hello?” she said.
“Mrs. Cousins? It’s Michael Morgan.”
She had told him at least half a dozen times to call her Birdie and he had never complied—his Ivy League sense of decorum stopped him—though now she was glad.
“Oh, Michael,” she said, and Hank repaired to the living room sofa with his wine and the tray of
palmiers.
Michael’s voice was shaky, then stronger, then shaky again, with high-pitched, boyish breaks. What did he do wrong? What could he do to change Chess’s mind? It seemed Chess had failed to come up with a convincing argument. She didn’t want to marry him but she didn’t have a reason. He wasn’t buying it.
“It doesn’t make any
sense,
” Michael said. “At eight o’clock, everything was fine. She called me on her way to Aureole. She told me she loved me.” He paused, allowing Birdie to express her sympathy with a clucking noise. “Then at ten o’clock her time, I got another text saying she was leaving the restaurant and going out to a bar.”
Birdie said, “I see.”
“Four hours later, she had taken off her ring.” His voice grew stronger, angrier. “Mrs. Cousins, I want to know what happened at that club.”
“Oh, goodness,” Birdie said. “I don’t know what happened.”
“She didn’t tell you?”
“She didn’t say a word about the club. Other than that she left without telling the other girl. She walked all the way back to Sixty-third Street in the middle of the night by herself.”
“Are you sure she was by herself?” Michael said.
“That’s what she told me,” Birdie said. “Why? Do you think there’s someone else?”
“Why else would she break the engagement?” Michael said. “There is no other reason, is there?”
Is there?
He was asking Birdie for her opinion. She was torn between wanting to comfort Michael and wanting to fairly represent Chess’s point of view. She was, she realized, being plopped right in the middle of this.