The One That Got Away (29 page)

As I fled, face burning, the scandalized crowd whispering, I noticed a familiar face. Mirabelle was sitting at a table in the back; she must have slipped in late. Her face was immobile, but her eyes were glittering with rage.

Finally a word of French entered my head:
Merde.

Back on Chestnut Street, the November air cooled my burning cheeks. I walked as fast as my heels would permit, desperate to put some distance between myself and the scene of my humiliation. I didn’t know where I was going, but I didn’t care. I just wanted to get away. To lose myself in the city.

Of course Abigail van Holt spoke French. Of course she frequented auction houses, where everyone fawned and fussed over her as if she was the First Lady. And of course she addressed large groups flawlessly and without hesitation, her perfect hair and perfect clothes inspiring in her audience a mixture of admiration and envy. At this moment, I kind of hated her.

Soon I passed a station wagon filled with car seats and wished I
was sitting in my old Subaru with the kids strapped safely in the backseat. I walked by a teenager tugging a golden retriever and wanted desperately to hear the jingle of my own dog’s collar as I opened the back door of my house in Grange Hill. I was so homesick.

I turned left, fighting tears, and headed toward the convention center complex on Market Street, eager to disappear into the crowds of tourists and conventioneers. But among them I only stood out even more, my pink suit and blond hair bright against their faded jeans and sweatshirts. I stepped inside the building, weaved around commuters heading to the center’s underground subway station, and slipped out the other set of doors into a narrower street. Into another world.

Above me stood a massive red wooden arch with ornately carved dragons, red and green symbols, and gilded lettering: the gateway to Philadelphia’s small Chinatown. Crowding the sidewalks were vendors and their rickety tables of sunglasses and paper fans, men smoking in groups or hiding behind outstretched newspapers, and children darting from one stoop to the other while the rich smells from restaurants, noodle bars, and flower stands filled the air. Horns honked, music spilled from open doorways, and mothers called to children from second-story windows. I felt miles away from the van Holts, safely anonymous at last.

I slowed my pace and caught my breath. I stopped in front of a dark sliver of a bar with a neon Tsingtao sign in the window. The lure of alcohol beckoned. I slipped inside.

Once my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I took the first seat at a honey-colored bar, placed my purse on the ground, and looked around. In front of me, shelves held a United Nations of liquor bottles, jarred olives and cherries, and printed pint glasses. On one wall, posters of pretty Chinese models suggested travel destinations and cigarette brands, while a large aquarium separated the small bar
area from the even smaller “dining” area in back. I looked around it to see tables full of neighborhood businessmen drinking out of small ceramic cups and laughing loudly at one another’s jokes.

It felt too early for happy hour, but the flat-screen television behind the bar announced that it was just a few minutes until five o’clock. Close enough.

A slim young man with spiky hair and a silky button-down, who looked more like a DJ than a bartender, offered me a menu. I pointed to the men in the back and told him, “I’ll have what they’re having.”

He looked at me quizzically, shook his head, and handed me a menu filled with photos of pink and blue drinks, each topped with cherries or a parasol.

“Really, I want the same as them,” I insisted.

When he didn’t move, I assumed he didn’t speak English. Again, I pointed to the little blue and white ceramic cups on the nearest table. I had no idea what was in them, but whatever it was, it was working. The men in the back seemed to be feeling no pain.

The bartender finally spoke, his voice accented only by the lazy inflection of a teenager. “Lady, you’re not gonna like it. It’s old school. Stupid strong.”

“Perfect,” I said, ignoring him. “Set me up.”

Sighing, he moved to a small fridge and pulled out a thick brown bottle with a cork stopper. He poured a small bit into a cup and placed it in front of me. He waited, hands crossed in front, while I took a sip. The men from down the bar watched as well, their conversations stopping.

I brought the cup to my lips and gulped it back. It tasted like hot, spicy licorice mixed with pine needles and it burned so badly it almost triggered my gag reflex. I put the cup back down, my eyes watering.

The bartender gave me a “told ya so” look and handed me a napkin. I looked up at him sheepishly and whispered, “Beer, please.”

He returned with a frosty Yuengling lager and told me it was on the house. I drank a third of it fast, the cool malty liquid quenching the fire on my tongue. When I stopped for air, I set the pint back down on the bar and exhaled loudly.

“Been that kind of day, huh?” said a voice beside me.

I was about to respond blandly and pull my purse over to make room for the newcomer when the voice registered somewhere deep in my body, like a punch to the gut.

Jimmy.

My head snapped up. My heart stopped.

He stood just inches from me, one tanned arm leaning on the bar, the other slipping a phone in his pocket. I almost said his name aloud but caught the word before it escaped. Instead, I stared wide-eyed, not even blinking.

He tilted his head, puzzled. “Do I know you?”

Such a natural thing to say, such simple words, but they stung almost as badly as the shot I’d just downed.

“Sorry, no,” I told him. “You just reminded me of someone I used to know.”

“Good guy, I hope,” he said with a grin.

“The best,” I whispered back.

I motioned for him to sit and he squeezed onto the tiny stool beside me, the tips of his work boots banging the flimsy underside of the bar. He took off his jacket and waved to the bartender, giving me time to glance at him from the corner of my eye. My heart beat fast at the nearness of him.

“Lager, please,” Jimmy instructed the bartender. “And a menu.”

The young man stepped away, leaving Jimmy looking around and drumming his fingers on the bar, me silently exploding.

“What brings you in here?” I asked, cringing inside at the cheesy line.

“The noodles. Best in town.”

“Oh, I meant into the city.”

“What makes you think I don’t live around here?”

“Do you?” In this world, he just might.

“No. You’re right. I live out in Delaware County. Just in town for a trade show.”

“What kind?”

“The boring kind,” he replied. “Seriously, it’s for construction. To be more specific—paving.”

“Paving? Like, roads?”

“No. Like pavers, concrete, bricks,” he explained. “I work for a construction firm. I handle the outdoor stuff. Hardscaping, landscaping, patios, that kind of thing.”

“I like patios,” was my genius reply.

“Yeah?” He laughed. “A lot of people do. Or at least they used to.”

“Used to?”

“The recession hit the business pretty hard. We’re still reeling from it.”

“I’ve heard.”

“You have?”

“Yeah, someone I know is… was… is a landscaper. Ran his own business.”

“Good for him,” he said, sipping his beer. “Hope he is… was… is doing okay.” We both laughed. I caught my breath.

Jimmy leaned back on his chair and squinted at the small whiteboard advertising today’s specials, allowing me a better look. He was wearing a white button-down shirt tucked neatly into khakis, and his face was clean shaven. But he also wore his same beloved and battered Phillies hat I used to OxiClean once a week. When he
saw me looking at it, he took it off, smoothed his hair and popped it back on, a nervous habit I’d seen him do a million times. Same old Jimmy. My Jimmy.

He leaned a tad closer and studied my face. “Are you sure I don’t know you? I swear you seem familiar,” he said.

Yes!
I wanted to tell him.
Yes, yes, yes! We know every inch of each other; we can finish each other’s sentences; we’ve spent every day and night together for the past nine years; we have two beautiful children.

But I just stared into his golden brown eyes and said the only thing I could: “No. I don’t think so.”

We continued talking, sipping our beers. He told me he loved what he did but wanted to focus more on landscaping, on environmentally friendly installations, maybe run his own business someday. He said he liked his current boss but that the paperwork and politics of a big company were tough. He explained what I already knew—he had three brothers, was born and raised in Upper Darby, played ice hockey since he was three, and had a dog named Walnut (Wally, for short). But I also learned new things. That he loved Chinese noodle bars, for one, and was really into mountain biking. Also, that he had plans to go on an eco-tour of Iceland over the Thanksgiving break.

Who knew my husband had interests outside of me and the kids? Shocking.

A server brought Jimmy his food order, giving me time to look for a wedding ring. He wasn’t wearing one. That didn’t tell me much; few landscapers wore them since they spent so much time using fertilizer and chemicals. But then again, it seemed unlikely that a man who was married with kids would be hanging out at a bar at dinnertime.

When he wasn’t looking, I slipped my heavy diamond wedding rings to my right hand. I didn’t want anything to scare him away.

“So you know all about me,” he said. “Why are you here? Somehow, I wouldn’t peg you as the dive-bar-in-the-afternoon type.” Was he flirting with me? It was too cute.

“What type do you think I am, then?” I said, tilting my head coyly, giving it right back to him.

He looked me up and down, taking in my pink suit, high heels, and sleek hairstyle. “Hmm… I’d say you are a lawyer. Or one of those mergers-and-acquisitions finance types.”

“Not even close.”

“Something more creative? Like advertising or something?”

“Bingo. I was in public relations.”

“Was?”

“Yeah. Not anymore.”

“So what do you do now?”

“Funny. I’m having a hard time figuring that out.”

“Aren’t we all.” He lifted his glass and we toasted, our beers making more of a clunk than a clink.

“You’re right, though,” I explained. “I’m not usually the drink-in-the-afternoon type. I just needed a break.”

“From?”

“My life.”

“Husband? Kids?”

“Public embarrassment. I just royally screwed up a speech.”

“Like bored everyone to death?”

“Like freaked out and bolted.”

“Wow. I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as you think.”

“It was worse.” I grimaced and hung my head.

A second or two passed, as if he was contemplating what to say next. Then he leaned toward me and attempted to peek around the sheet of my hair that separated us. When I looked up, and my hair fell away, we were inches from each other.

“I can’t imagine you screwing up anything,” he said quietly. “I can’t imagine you being anything less than”—he paused as he struggled to find the word he was searching for—“remarkable.”

The word hung in the air, silencing us both. I knew he wasn’t giving me a line; his tone was earnest and honest. Besides, Jimmy didn’t blow smoke. And he always did think better of me than I thought of myself. When he looked away, shyly, I leaned toward him and breathed him in, so later I could remember everything about this moment.

Jimmy waved to the bartender, who had been ignoring us in favor of his iPhone. The young man trotted over and asked, “Another round?” We said “yes” in unison.

Outside, the light faded and the streets grew quiet, but we didn’t move from our stools, so deep in conversation. Tucked inside the small bar so far from our respective homes, it felt as if the world outside that flimsy red door didn’t exist. Even the other patrons seemed to fade into the background, their exotic, unknowable conversations softening to a hum. I finally understood what Buddhists meant by being in the moment; I was so alive I thought I might vibrate off my stool.

But it was my phone that started vibrating, bringing me back to reality with an incoming text: Sunita couldn’t find Sam’s giraffe and could they order pizza? I read the text as Jimmy glanced up at the television above our heads.

“Excuse me, I have to go to the ladies’ room,” I said as I stood, slipping off my stool and taking an ever-so-slight stumble as the blood returned to my legs.

“Careful,” he said, his tanned hand catching me by the elbow. Our eyes locked and I fought a powerful urge to kiss him.

In the bathroom, I texted answers to Sunita, then peed out two and a half beers and washed my hands. Looking at myself in the
mirror, I started to fix my makeup and limp hair, then stopped, remembering that Jimmy preferred the natural look. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but I decided then and there that if he asked for my number, I would give it to him. There was no reason we couldn’t be friends, right? I unbuttoned one button of my prim blouse and hurried out, anxious to be beside him again.

But when I got back to the seat, he was gone.

I scanned the bar and the tables in the back. I even ran back and pushed open the door to the men’s room, but it was dark and empty. I then ran toward the door and flung it open, searching up and down the sidewalk, but found only a few street vendors packing up their wares. I sighed and walked back to where we had been sitting. There were the two half-drunk beers plus two twenty-dollar bills.

And then, very quietly, I heard my own voice, and it wasn’t inside my head.

On the television above where we had been sitting, I caught the tail end of a repeat of today’s CNN interview: me sitting between Alex and Gloria while Sam played on my lap.

Jimmy must have seen it. And the plain white font identifying me as “Mrs. Abigail van Holt.” Very much a wife and mother. Not to mention, Philadelphia’s “political royalty.”

I had lost him again.

A
fter relieving Sunita and putting two chocolate-milk- and cartoon-drunk children to bed, I slipped into my own sheets, even though it was only half past eight. Alex had texted he would be home late, but just to be sure, I turned off all the lights in the bedroom. If he did come home soon, I wanted to pretend to be asleep.

I settled in and pulled the covers up to my neck, anxious to get to my thoughts. Of Jimmy.

I replayed the scene at Wok Ling’s over and over. I thought of his words, his smile, his smell. I wondered if he liked me, if he thought I was pretty, and if he felt the connection too.

I also thought how funny it was that despite my new marriage, new clothes, and awesome new body, underneath it all I was the same person I was a week ago. He was the one who was different. He had a different job, lived somewhere I’d never seen, and had interests, tastes, and hobbies I didn’t know about. I couldn’t picture his hefty frame on a mountain bike or him the lone blue-collar guy on a hipster tour of Iceland. But apparently he enjoyed these things. I wondered if all the responsibilities of our life in Grange Hill—or even me—had stifled this adventurous streak.

But then again, without me, Jimmy wasn’t a small business owner. He worked for someone else and probably hated it.

I’d always assumed Jimmy had done those things—started his own company, gone to night school to get his degree—on his own initiative. But now, seeing him working for someone else, I thought that perhaps I had something to do with it. Maybe I helped bring out his ambitious side? Or perhaps, as a couple, we were able to tackle challenges that alone seemed insurmountable. I’d always assumed that people were just who they were, but I was beginning to think that we influence those around us even more than we could ever really know.

Thinking that made me feel good and a touch wistful. Sighing, I stretched my knees down from their fetal position and fell asleep.

Rain.

It fell in torrents, pounding the windows and drowning out the sounds of the city below.

I got out of bed, padded across the carpet, and yanked open the heavy drapes. The trees in the square below were barely visible and the lights from cars blurred together in pretty pink and yellow streaks. And the sky—usually bright blue, even at seven thirty in the morning—was an angry slate gray.

Election Day was off to a bleak start.

Alex had slipped in late last night but was gone again when I woke up. Wherever he was in the city, I imagined him pacing back and forth and cursing the weather, his hands in his thick dark hair. For days now, Frank, Calvin, and he had obsessed over the forecast, and I knew barring a hurricane or a tornado, this downpour was the worst-case scenario.

I knew that in addition to a strong showing from middle-aged men, Alex needed at least forty percent of the female vote. Normally,
this would not be something we were too worried about—we all knew the ladies loved Alex—but rain would keep women, especially older ones, home. Despite their different ethnic and socioeconomic backgrounds, there was one thing South Philly, West Philly, and Main Line ladies could agree on: no matter how cute their future congressman might be, he wasn’t worth wasting a good blowout.

As badly as I wanted to crawl back in bed, I knew I had to get moving. An insanely long day waited. On today’s schedule were visits to a library, senior center, high school for the deaf, and two churches, one of which was our polling place and where we would cast our own votes. Along with the campaign staff and our favorite volunteers, we would smile and shake hands and squeeze the last bit of energy out of the overworked, overtired campaign machine.

And then tonight, win or lose, we would party. The big ballroom at the Ritz had been reserved, and at this moment, hotel staffers were probably blowing up hundreds of red, white, and blue balloons, while inside the kitchen others pulled the shells off an equal amount of shrimp, cut cheese and bread into tiny triangles, and iced down cases of champagne. Across the city and deep into the Main Line, our friends and family went about their day, some waiting more anxiously than others for tonight, when they would don their suits and cocktail dresses, then jump into taxis and town cars on their way to congratulate, or sympathize with, Alex. As for me, I knew that it didn’t matter if Alex won or lost, how tired I was, or how heavy was my heart. I would remain by my husband’s elbow, clad in satin-backed wool and the softest silk, playing the part I now knew how to play. Kissing everyone hello. Smiling and nodding. Making small talk. Doing what I had learned so well to do—pretend.

In the hall, on my way to rousing the kids, I heard a noise, like water running down a drain, coming from the kitchen.

“Alex?”

No response. I pulled my robe tighter and followed the sound, only to find my mother-in-law at the sink pouring a bottle of Macallan 25 down the drain. She was still wearing her khaki trench coat, the sleeves dotted with rain.

I knew the kids were heading to Bloemveld for the day, but I had thought I was supposed to send the children out with Oscar. I had already gathered their necessities—plus the diamond earrings, which I had retrieved and reunited last night—and the kids’ bags, as well as the velvet box, waited in the hall.

I cleared my throat, still froggy from the morning, and asked, “Mirabelle! What are you doing here?”

She set the empty bottle on the marble countertop and looked up at me. “I think you know.”

But I didn’t. And that worried me.

I noticed that my purse was open, as if she had just searched through it. Then I saw that in addition to the bottle in her hand, she had emptied
all
of our liquor bottles and thrown them into a recycling bin at her feet.

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Don’t think for a minute I’m not on to you.”

On to me? For what? She couldn’t possibly suspect the real truth. “What are you talking about?” I asked blithely.

“You’re an alcoholic.”

I stared at her, flummoxed. But also relieved. Alcoholism was something I could refute. Masquerading as a woman whose life I had suddenly jumped into? A little harder to explain.

“An alcoholic? That’s ridiculous.”

She continued: “Then you’re
on
something. Pills.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, but then I saw she was serious. I straightened up. “Mirabelle, believe me, I’m not an alcoholic. Or on drugs of any kind.”

She picked up the last full bottle—an aqua blue bottle of gin—and upended it over the sink. The pine smell filled the room as it hit the stainless steel.

“If it’s about what happened yesterday at the tea, no one is more embarrassed than me. I just wasn’t feeling well and I needed to get out of there fast. My head was hurting again.”

As I waited to hear if she bought the lie, I walked around to the coffeemaker, placed a cup under it, and began pressing buttons. Hopefully, this was the end of this ludicrous discussion.

“This isn’t just about yesterday,” she continued. “You’ve been acting strangely for some time.” She set down the now empty bottle and pointed her bony finger at me. “You are on something. I know it.” Then, her eyes widened as if the thought had just come to her. “Or it’s something worse.”

“Worse?”

“The bizarre fall off the escalator. That mess with Aubyn. And you asked Dr. Cohen all sorts of weird questions about ‘alternate universes.’ And then this embarrassment yesterday. If you’re not on something, you are
mentally unfit
.”

I had to hand it to the old broad—she was right. I
was
unfit to be a van Holt. I was Abbey Lahey, suburban sweatpant mom, bug publicist, and walking klutz. Funny that of all people she was the one who was suspicious. Women’s intuition, I guess.

I picked up my coffee cup and took a sip, buying time. Then I took a deep breath and used the same tone that Jimmy used when talking to an irate customer, the same tone I’d heard
her
use many times: “Mirabelle. I can assure you I am
not
abusing drugs. Or alcohol. And I am one hundred percent sane.” I put down my cup and walked back to the other side of the island, looking her in the eye. “And besides, if I was a drunk or a pill popper, don’t you think Alex would know? Ask him. He’ll tell—”

“Leave Alex out of this,” she interrupted. “I don’t want him sidetracked. Not today.”

“Leave him out of this? He’s my husband.”

She blanched, then regained herself. “Alex has a blind spot when it comes to you. But I
know
something is wrong. Very wrong. And I’m not going to allow it to ruin this family. Or his future.”

Her voice had that same patrician lilt she always used, but her meaning was as clear as a prison yard threat. I didn’t like being bullied in my own home. I matched her lethal charm with some of my own.

“Mirabelle.
Mother
. Thank you
so
much for stopping by.” I pulled my phone out of my purse and pretended to read e-mails, making her wait, a tactic I’d learned from Charlotte. Eventually, I looked up. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a busy day ahead. Alex is waiting for me. He
needs
me.”

I’d never seen her so mad. Or speechless. We glared at each other across the island like two lions seconds from ripping each other apart.

But then Gloria came stumbling in, yawning and rubbing her eyes. When she saw her grandmother, she ran over and threw herself into the stiff khaki fabric of her old-fashioned trench.

Mirabelle smoothed Gloria’s hair and turned the little face up to hers. “Good morning, my dove. Are you all ready? While Mommy and Daddy finish campaigning, you and Van are coming to stay with me.”

Gloria smiled, anticipating time with Aubyn, the sheep, and, above all, her horse. “For how long?” she asked.

“All day.” Then, Mirabelle looked over at me with a wide smile and triumphant eyes. “And if I have my way, maybe even longer. Maybe a good, long time.”

Take my kids away? She couldn’t do that, could she?

Every time I tried to think clearly, to figure out if that was in any
way legally possible, my mind became jumbled by fear. This was my worst nightmare coming to life, and it gave me chills, even while I stood under a steady rain of hot water in the van Holts’ giant marble shower.

So I fell down an escalator. So I asked strange questions. So I botched a speech. That doesn’t mean I’m an addict. Or insane. And this isn’t the 1800s; no one can lock someone up in an institution without just cause.

Still, I was worried. If you added them up, I had had more than just a few screw-ups this week. And who knew what ones were still to come. I slid to the floor of the shower and curled my knees up under me. I felt so alone. Scared. And with that horrible feeling of not knowing what’s to come.

Suddenly, I heard men’s shoes cross the bathroom floor, then the pop of the glass door as it opened. It was Alex, and he looked like he was in a rush.

“Where are my—” He scowled as he looked down at me on the floor. “What are you doing on the floor?”

“Uh, meditating.”

“Seriously?” He watched, annoyed, as I stood up and tried to shut off the water but couldn’t remember how the fancy control panel worked. He reached in and waved his hand underneath it. The water stopped, then gurgled down the drain.

“Where are my shirts? Did you get my shirts?” he asked as I stepped out.

I winced. “Oops.” I reached for a towel and pressed it to my face.

“You’re kidding, right? Abbey, it’s Election Day! And I have nothing to wear. I wore this one yesterday and now there are coffee stains all over it. Frank’s waiting downstairs.”

“Sorry. With the interview and the speech and everything, I just forgot.”

He followed me into the closet and tore off the stained shirt
angrily. I grabbed a robe and tied back my wet hair, then began to flick through his hanging clothes, hoping there was a clean button-down hiding among all the navy blue blazers.

“Where were you yesterday afternoon anyway?” he asked. I froze but managed to come up with an excuse. “I had that tea at the auction house, and then I stopped to get something to eat.”

He bought it, or didn’t care, because he kept on.

“And you couldn’t stop by Brooks Brothers? I’ve had to wear the same shirt for two days because someone hasn’t been keeping up.”

I turned to him incredulously. “It was
your
mother who fired May, not me, remember?”

He was about to say something back but stopped himself, realizing I was right. It felt good to respond with confidence instead of confusion. After ten days in this marriage, our fights were a little fairer.

Still, given the day, I offered an olive branch. “I can run out and get you some,” I said cheerily. “Just let me get dressed.”

“But we’re supposed to be in Springfield in twenty minutes,” he said. “Then that deaf school and the church. And we have to cast our ballots at noon.”

“Just go on ahead in that shirt and I’ll meet you wherever you are,” I said. “Alex, trust me. No one ever lost an election because of a coffee stain.”

“Can’t Sunita go? I want you with me.”

I started to say okay, but he cut me off. “Actually, never mind. I don’t want her driving my car.” He reached in his pocket, tossed me some keys, and told me, “Get me three. And remember, white or blue. No pink.”

I scrambled through my drawers and found a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and some well-worn lime green running shoes. I jogged into the kitchen, filled a travel coffee mug, and rushed to the elevator. But then I remembered the rain and turned around.

I rustled through the hall closet for an umbrella or a jacket but found only wool coats, a full-length fur, and ski pants. I tramped back to my closet, set my coffee mug down, and scanned the shelves and hangers, then rifled through some drawers. There was no umbrella, no raincoat, not even a baseball cap.

How can a woman with twelve pairs of J Brand jeans, six Hermès scarves, and a rainbow of Nordstrom pashmina not own a raincoat? Then it dawned on me. Nordstrom, raincoat. Hadn’t I seen a raincoat in the bag when that nice man—Bingley Cowan-Smith or something—returned my things?