The One That Got Away (15 page)

“I’m sorry.” I wasn’t really sure what I was apologizing for, but I figured it was a good place to start.

“Forget it.”

I waited for more, but nothing. I sat up and turned on the lamp beside my bed.

“I know you’re stressed, and I know it must be tough, but—”

“I said ‘forget it.’”

“Can’t we talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“But you seem so upset. Was it something I did?”

“No. It’s fine.” He clicked the light back off.

But I knew he wasn’t okay. He had picked the fight for a reason.

After a few moments of silence, I reached out and rubbed his arm to let him know that if he wanted to talk, I would listen. But he must have misconstrued my meaning, because he rolled over and started nuzzling my neck and put his hand on my left boob.

It was startling, this change in demeanor, and I wasn’t ready to kiss and make up. And yet as the scent of him hovered around me, and I felt the weight of his chest and hips against mine, I found myself struggling to stay focused on our “fight,” struggling to keep my thoughts G-rated.

Maybe Alex was right. Just forget it. I started kissing him back.

But, still, when he started to pull up my T-shirt, I swatted away his hand playfully.

“Can you handle it?” I asked. “We soccer moms can be pretty hot.”

“I can handle it,” he said.

And that he did.

I
t was a room I didn’t expect I would ever find Mirabelle van Holt in. Or myself, for that matter.

I felt like I was on the set of a mafia movie—standing under a single bulb, surrounded by goods in boxes and stacked on shelves, examining contraband. The “really good stuff…
imported
.”

But this fabric shop behind a shop on South Street was where Mirabelle wanted to come, so this was where we were. Assisting us was a small man in an impeccable navy suit that remained surprisingly clean in the messy shop. He owned the shop but he moved like a worker bee, unfolding bolts, unpacking boxes, and laying out sample after sample, some of them so old, a wave of dust and acrid air floated up as they were unfurled.

I watched Mirabelle’s eyes cut to one fabric, then another. Occasionally, she shook her head or flicked her wrist, spelling doom for whatever piece lay before her. The little man, his balding head shiny with sweat, would then snatch the offending sample away as if it were an unthinkable insult. I imagined each rejected selvage would be destroyed, execution-style, its guts ripped apart in punishment
for a too-thin pinstripe or a ghastly polka dot, then left for dead in the Dumpster out back. Right beside a rotting polyester blend.

“I just can’t decide, dear. What do you think?” Mirabelle sighed and turned to me. “Abigail?”

“Sorry,” I replied. “I don’t know. They all look nice to me.”

“But this one’s too cadet. And this one is too… royal.”

“They’re not the same?”

Mirabelle frowned and the shopkeeper threw up his hands. “No! Not the same. Very different!” His wild gesticulations roiled another cloud of dust and fibers. I sneezed and he offered me a linen handkerchief.

“Oh, right. I see the difference now,” I lied as I leaned in for a closer examination. If only Jules were here, I thought. At home, she picked our paint colors, rugs, and throw pillows, and I always loved them.

Mirabelle instructed the shopkeeper to bring a bolt of brocade over to the one small window, preferring to examine it in “natural light.” I sighed and bit my lip in boredom. And frustration. When she’d showed up unannounced at the apartment this morning and insisted I accompany her on a “little expedition,” I didn’t think it would take so long. And I thought we might talk about something other than pima cotton versus blends, the benefits of blind stitching, and why certain Armenian importers—not this one—were crooks. I wanted to talk about Alex. If anyone could illuminate me on life as a Mrs. van Holt, it was one who had been doing it for forty years.

“I just can’t decide.” Mirabelle sighed and thrust the final two contenders under my nose. “You pick.”

I studied them again and pointed to a pale blue silk embroidered with darker thread in the shape of chrysanthemums.

“Wonderful. That’s the one I preferred too,” she said. “I’m so glad we have the same taste. When you and Alex are to have Bloemveld, I don’t want you sleeping every night in a room with drapes you
despise
.”

It took me a minute to understand that she meant after she was gone and we inherited the place—a thought that gave me pause on multiple levels. Not only did it mean my children and I would live in a mansion where the gatehouse was bigger than the apartment I grew up in, but it assumed a future for me in this world decades down the road, something I hadn’t yet considered. Every morning I woke half expecting to be back in Grange Hill, with Jimmy. But as days turned into weeks, and the weeks into years, would that always be the case? Or would that life fade and become hazy—like a half-remembered dream?

“Dear?” Mirabelle waved a hand in front of my face. “You left us for a moment.”

“Sorry.”

“We were thinking about this one,” she reminded me, pointing to the blue silk. “For the master bedroom.”

“It’s perfect,” I reassured her.

She smiled and turned back to the shopkeeper, who was holding an enormous pair of gleaming scissors, hoping to cut before either of us changed our minds.

Mirabelle turned to me with a question. “Help me with the math?”

“Three yards? Five?”

“Total, dear, not per window.” She seemed annoyed, pulling out a piece of paper from her purse and jotting down some numbers.

How many windows could there be in her bedroom? And how wide and tall was one window? And what about seams and a hem? I felt like she expected me to know this, as if calculating drapery yardage was included in some van Holt instruction manual I received on my wedding day. Little did she know I had never purchased decorator fabric in my life and couldn’t tell you how many inches were in a yard if my life depended on it.

I deflected her question with a question: “Maybe you should ask your interior designer?”

“Interior designer? Heavens no. I never use them,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “I thought you knew that.”

I started to reply, but she looked away, almost wistful. “Besides, I rather like sewing, always have. Did you know before I married Collier, I had two years at Moore College of Art studying fashion design. I was going to be the next Edith Head! But then I had Alex and, well…” Both her voice and her smile faded.

I wanted to tell her I understood. Things change; life sometimes has other plans. Instead, I leaned over and helped her finish the math. We came up with seventy-seven yards total, plus another five “just in case.” The shopkeeper turned bright red with excitement.

Out on the sidewalk, the noontime sun blindingly bright after the dark room, Mirabelle paused to put on oversized seventies-style tortoiseshell sunglasses while I slipped on my gold Ray-Bans. Then she began to stroll south toward Queen Village, her medallioned flats silent on the grimy sidewalk. I thought she was looking for her driver, but she pulled me close and linked her arm with mine. We fell into step together.

She was remarkable, my mother-in-law. In my entire life, I’d never met anyone more effortlessly refined, with a personal style that was so timeless yet approachable. It was as if Queen Victoria, Grace Kelly, and Michelle Obama had been blended together and then poured into a crisp blue shirtdress and Valentino flats.

“Now. Abigail. Are you all right?” she asked, her brow knit with matronly concern. “Let me know if you need to sit down or take a break.”

“I’m fine. Why?”

“Alex tells me ever since the accident you’ve been…” She paused, searching for the right word. “Different. Not yourself.”

I tensed, suddenly nervous. Did Alex suspect I was an imposter? Did she? I tried to relax, imitating her careful tone: “I can assure you, Mother, I’m perfectly fine.”

“Well, if you say so. But the Brindles thought you seemed out of it on Sunday. And Aunt Tickle said you insulted her.”

“She did? Oh, my apologies. I was just having a bad night. I was exhausted.”

“Of course,” she said, with a wave of her hand. “Just promise me you’ll be careful. I think we both know we can’t have any more distractions. Alex is far enough behind as it is.”

We turned right, onto a narrow street blanketed with yellow leaves. I started to speak but she pretended not to hear, continuing, “And I’m concerned about Alex. I was with him all day on Monday and he seemed so tired. Probably just concerned about you, my dear, but still…”

Funny, Alex hadn’t mentioned he’d seen her. If she wasn’t so gracious, and if her arm wasn’t wrapped lovingly around my waist, I would think she was making a point of letting me know that she had been with him, not me.

“No, he’s okay,” I replied, noting that he certainly hadn’t seemed tired last night. Or the night before. “But honestly, I don’t know how he does it. It’s so much pressure.”

“Well, you know Alex. Such a hard worker. And such a good boy. He always does what he’s told.”

I couldn’t tell if she meant that as a compliment or a failing. Either way, I felt a chill run up my spine.

She continued. “Still, Abigail, too much is riding on these next few days.” She stopped, turned to me, and peered over the tops of her sunglasses. “I need to know we’re still on the same page.”

“Of course,” I replied, though I had no idea what page, or even what book, she was referring to. But since she seemed so worried about the election, I attempted some reassurance: “Don’t worry. Frank told me this morning Alex was up another point since Sunday. He’s been calling it the ‘Abbey’s bump bump.’” I pointed to the side of my head where I’d hit the piano bench for emphasis.

“Oh? How wonderful,” she said, dropping her arm from around my waist. “I guess I should thank you again for making time today, then. Now that you’re so valuable to the campaign.” I detected an undercurrent of hardness in her silky-smooth voice.

She paused, and I looked up to see the fabric store from which we’d emerged a few minutes ago. We had circled the block without my realizing it.

And to my left? Her car and driver pulling up, as if she had willed them to do so.

I walked home, hoping some fresh air would clear my head. I strolled by pizza places, cheap jewelry stores, and a crowded Whole Foods, and into the boutique-filled “gayborhood.” With May watching Sam, and Gloria at school, there was no rush—or any reason—to get home.

I popped in to a baby boutique and bought Sam three complete outfits without once checking the price. Then, at an art supply store, I picked up some colored pencils, a few jars of glitter, and a Halloween I Spy book that I knew Gloria would love. And in yet another shop, I bought her a hot pink cashmere cardigan I had seen in the window.

Back home at the apartment, I asked the doorman for the time. One o’clock—Sam would be napping. I gave the man my packages, then hailed a cab.

As the taxi made its way from Rittenhouse Square and across the Schuylkill River to University City, I leaned back to enjoy the midday sun. We passed college dorms, fast-food restaurants, a new IMAX movie theater, and colonial homes turned frat houses, their large Greek letters marring their lovely facades. Then, as we moved farther away from the university, each block had less brick, ironwork, and grass and more chain-link fences, vinyl siding, and barred windows. We turned south off Walnut Street onto Fifty-Eighth, and
the street scene became quieter, even the people sitting on stoops and porches appearing motionless.

The cabbie pulled up to the address I’d given him, a low brick building that must have been a mid-century expansion of the now derelict stone church beside it. I swiped my credit card, punched in a tip, and then got out, stepping over broken bottles and sidewalk cracks as I moved toward the facade. The windows were wide but covered with iron bars. The red brick was dulled by pollution and bus exhaust, except for one cleaner, darker swatch in the shape of a cross, the emblem either stolen or removed in recent years. Now, a hand-painted sign stuck in the small patch of grass announced the “Holy Rosary Settlement House, established 1977,” the year I was born.

I knocked a few times with my knuckles at first, then louder with the palm of my hand. I peered through the door’s mesh window and called “Hello?” but still no one came. A few minutes later, I saw a small plastic buzzer and pushed it hard. I was about to give up when a small black woman in a nun’s wimple walked by. I rapped on the door to get her attention and she almost jumped out of her bright green Crocs.

“Heavens, you startled me,” she said as she pushed open the door and let me in.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I tried the buzzer, but no one came.”

“That old thing hasn’t worked in years,” she said, smiling.

“Well, that explains it.”

“How can I help you? You don’t look like you are here for lunch.”

“Well, no. I’m here to see Father Fergie. I’m Abbey van Holt.”

“Follow me, child.”

We walked down a hall lit by humming fluorescents and smelling of dust, bleach, and instant mashed potatoes. My heels clicked loudly while the nun moved silently. I tried to walk more softly.

At the end of the hall, we turned into a cafeteria-like room where
twenty or so people from the community were seated at long tables, some still finishing their lunches, others reading the paper, some just staring out the windows. At one table, two young mothers were chatting as their toddlers played with Legos, while at another, three elderly men sipped coffee from mismatched mugs. By the windows, a baby in a wash-faded sleeper rolled an empty water bottle back and forth while her mother talked on her phone. A grinning boy slightly younger than Gloria, eyes bright and mischievous, scooted from table to table playing a solitary game of hide-and-seek.

“Stop that!” yelled a woman I took to be his grandmother, who was busy feeding a teenage girl in a motorized wheelchair.

The nun placed a coffeepot on the table in front of the men, then turned to me. “Wait here,” she said.

I smiled at the baby and took a seat at an empty table. Not knowing what to do, I pulled out my phone and pretended to be engrossed in an e-mail. I felt all eyes on me for a few seconds, but by the time I looked up, conversations and playing had resumed.

“Mrs. van Holt! You came!”

I stood up as Father Fergie came toward me with outstretched arms.

“You seem surprised,” I said as I extended my hand.

He ignored it and went in for a bear hug. “I
am
surprised,” he said, embracing me a little too long. “Cocktail party promises are usually broken.”

“Well, here I am.”

“Yes, you are,” he said, one arm still around my waist. “Welcome to my little piece of heaven.”

He waved his hand proudly at the room as if he was introducing a play. Our tour was to begin, and off we went.

The building consisted of the cafeteria/fellowship hall, an office, a smaller room with couches and TVs, and a supply room stacked with
boxes of paper towels, off-brand diapers, and canned tomatoes. In the modest kitchen, two rusty ovens competed for space with a dented refrigerator, a six-burner stove, and a restaurant-sized dishwasher. The little nun was there, wiping down the biggest, blackest pot I’d ever seen.

“How many meals do you cook in here?” I asked Fergie.

“Three a day, except Mondays. Only one oven works, but we manage. But that’s why I need your help. If we could get Alex to help push our reclassification through, we could start getting HHS funding. Maybe even some grant money.”