The One That Got Away (35 page)

“What’s this?”

His grin gave way to sincerity. “I know it’s been a tough road, so I just wanted to say thank you. And I love you.” If he was conflicted about being a congressman, he certainly wasn’t conflicted about me. Even after what I put him through today.

When I hesitated, he picked up the box and put it in my hands. Inside, cradled in satin, was an antique platinum-and-diamond Cartier tank watch—the one I had bid on at the Ballantine Ball auction but lost.

“Aubyn told me you were bidding on it, so I found the couple and made them an offer they couldn’t refuse,” he said with a wink.

“You did?”

“Well, Calvin did. Here, let me help you.”

He slipped it out of the case and onto my wrist. Then he looked up at my face, anxious for a response.

I should have said thank you, but I couldn’t. To Alex, this watch was just another expensive bauble for his wife. There was emotion behind it, and some gratitude, but no sacrifice, no real significance. Coming from Jimmy, it would have meant so much more: a shared journey, obstacles overcome, and a love that flickered but never blew out.

I looked down at the watch’s pale face and slim black hands and noticed it was one minute to midnight.

It was time for Cinderella to leave the ball.

I closed the top of the watch box and took a deep breath to steel myself.

“What’s wrong?” he said, “Don’t you like it?”

“It’s beautiful,” I said quietly. “But… I can’t accept it.”

I took it off and pressed it into his hands. He cocked his head, still smiling, as if I were playing a game.

“Alex, you are a good man. A good father,” I said. “And whether you want to or not, you’re going to make a wonderful congressman.”

He stared at me, his smile fading.

“I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart. You’ve helped me more than you could ever realize. But…”

“Abbey, what’s this about? Are you drunk? My mom says she’s worried you are drinking too much.”

“No. I am perfectly sober, I promise.”

“Well, what, then? Is this about someone else? Is it that guy in the bar?”

“No. There’s no one else. You know that.” It was the truth. This wasn’t about Jimmy. This was about me. And the kids. I took a deep breath and continued: “The truth is… I’m leaving you.”

For a moment he didn’t speak, as if he couldn’t process what I was saying. Then he took my hands. “I know things haven’t been
great between us. But now that the campaign is over, they’ll get better. I promise.”

I looked over at his questioning expression, the hurt in his eyes, and felt sick. But I forced myself to continue.

“They won’t. They’ll only get worse,” I said. “Be honest, Alex. You can’t pretend things have turned out the way you wanted. Deep down, part of you is relieved.”

“Relieved?” His voice choked with emotion. “Jesus Christ, how can you say that? We’re great together. Look what we just accomplished.”

“No. We’re not great together. Maybe we were once, but not anymore. Now we bring out the worst in each other.”

“No, we don’t!”

“It’s true! I’ve known all along you didn’t want to be in politics. But instead of putting on the brakes, I let it go on, even though you were miserable. And you’ve known all along I really never wanted to leave my job and have full-time nannies and work on charity events for dogs. We should have stood up for what each other wanted. But we stopped fighting. Settled. Just gave in and gave up.”

“But I love you. You know I do.”

“I know,” I said. “A part of me loves you too.”

“A part? Just a part? What part?”

“Not the part that matters.”

“Stop speaking in code,” he said, suddenly angry. “What is it you’re saying? You want a divorce?”

I nodded.

“Why?”

I looked at his face and saw anguish and despair. I chewed my lip to stop from crying, but I couldn’t. Tears slipped out. But I had to go on; I had to finish before I lost my nerve.

“Because this life isn’t mine. And it never will be.”

I
had arrived at the Ritz-Carlton as Mrs. Abigail van Holt. Now, a few minutes past midnight, in the dark, earliest hour of a new day, I was leaving as Abbey Lahey. No, that wasn’t right; I wasn’t married to Jimmy either. I was Abbey DiSiano, someone I hadn’t been for nearly a decade.

I wondered if I could remember what it was like to be her. But instead of feeling worried and sad and plotting my next steps, I felt calm. Even-keeled.

I exited the elevators into the Ritz’s lobby, its marble floors amplifying my footsteps in the soaring rotunda. The place was empty except for a bored bellhop checking his phone and a few late-night partiers.
Good-bye, Ritz-Carlton,
I thought,
good-bye Ritz life.

I walked to the reception desk and was greeted by a briskly efficient night clerk.

“How can I help you?” she asked.

“Can you do something for me?”

“Of course, Mrs. van Holt.”

I took my wallet, keys, and iPhone from the red Hermès bag, dropped them in my pocket, and asked to borrow a piece of paper
and pen. I scribbled a note, dropped it inside the bag, and buckled it up. I then scribbled an address on another note and slid it over to her.

“I need this delivered as soon as possible to this address,” I told her.

“FedEx?” she asked.

“Courier, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She glanced at the address and then, more covetously, at the handbag.

“Nice, huh?” I said.

“Very.”

“Trust me. It’s not worth it.”

I turned and strode away. It made me smile to imagine Father Fergie’s confusion later that morning when he received a package containing a woman’s purse. I hoped when he read the note inside it, he would be pleased and that he’d forgive me for the canceled check. I hoped, too, to confirm his first instinct about me: that I wasn’t a spoiled princess who broke “cocktail party promises.” That when I told him I wasn’t quite what I seemed, I meant it.

But mostly I hoped that he—or someone at the Holy Rosary Settlement House—knew how to use eBay. In my note, I told him not to accept a penny less than thirty-two thousand dollars.

As I walked down Walnut Street I savored the night air, the rare quiet of the city streets, and the exhilarating lightness I felt.

Looking at my reflection in the shop windows I passed, I marveled at myself. I had done something extraordinary tonight: I had turned down Alex van Holt for the
second
time in my life. Only this time I hadn’t done it for the sake of some college boyfriend but for myself.

My heels clicked loudly on the sidewalk, brisk and purposeful,
the sound of a woman striding with confidence into a new life. A woman knowing that whatever the future held, it would been seen clearly, and without hesitation. And hopefully, it might even be something like my past.

Funny how different your life can look after ten days in someone else’s. It wasn’t long ago I’d sat in that bagel shop with Jules, looking at a photo of Alex in
Town & Country
and fantasizing about how much better my life would have been if I’d only gone out with him. Now I knew better.

Alex wasn’t the one that got away—I was.

My life with Jimmy might have been messy, but it was
mine
. I’d chosen it and it wasn’t a mistake. If anything, my mistake had been allowing the messiness to become an excuse. For not standing up to my bitch of a boss. For claiming to be “too busy” to start a firm with Jules. For not supporting Jimmy in his darkest hour.

For all the moments, big and little, when I played it safe. When what I should have been was bold.

As I neared the center of Rittenhouse Square, I slowed, feeling a sudden urge to see Jules. Or at least hear her voice. Leaning against my favorite statue, a bronze lion subduing a serpent with gleaming teeth and heavy paws, I dialed her number.

“Hello?”

“Jules?”

Silence. Then, “Hello, Abbey.”

“Hi. How’s it going?”

“Uh, it’s going fine.” Then, “Why are you calling me so late?”

“I’m sorry, I forgot what time it is. Did I wake you up?”

“No, I’m up. In fact, I’m still out.”

“You are? Me too. Where?”

“The Rittenhouse Hotel. Lucas has a gig so I’m just hanging out waiting for him to finish up.”

“That’s funny, because I’m standing in the square right now. Mind if I join you?”

There was a brief pause, but then she answered. “I don’t know… he’s only got one more set—”

“I’ll be right there.”

I hung up before she could say anything else, then ran full throttle across the damp grass toward the glass-fronted hotel.

The Rittenhouse Hotel’s Oak Bar was a cozy little space that few Philadelphians knew about—a secret watering hole closely held by the hotel for its cosseted guests and permanent residents. I found it at the top of a wide staircase, on the second floor, just before the hallway got smaller, leading to conference rooms, ballrooms, a gym, and a spa.

On the other side of the heavy oak-and-glass door, I found Jules. She was sitting in the corner by the fireplace sipping white wine with her eyes glued to the black-haired, black-clad bass player. He fronted a trio comprised of a another man tapping on a snare drum and a woman playing a keyboard, all swaying slightly, eyes closed, and seemingly unaware of anyone else in the room.

But maybe that was a good thing, because besides Jules, a bored bartender, and a handful of barflies, the place was empty. The bluesy tune added to its speakeasy-like intimacy.

As I approached Jules’s table, she looked up and smiled shyly, pulling her sweater around herself as if she was suddenly cold.

“This is a surprise,” she said. “I thought you’d be out celebrating the big win.”

“There was a party,” I said. “But I needed a break.”

“Yeah, I hear you need one from time to time.” She smiled cautiously, hoping I could take her joke.

I put my hands to my face in mock embarrassment. “I guess you saw that?”

“Yeah. I did. Pretty hard to miss.”

We both laughed and I took that as permission to sit down. I settled into my chair and looked over at the musicians in the corner. The man with the guitar was performing an impressive solo. “Your boyfriend is really good.”

“Thanks. But he’s not my boyfriend. He’s my fiancé.”

I glanced at her left hand and saw a cool sapphire-and-diamond engagement ring. Engaged!

I opened my mouth and my eyes went wide in a silent scream of joy. She tried not to laugh, but her green eyes sparkled.

I could tell she was trying to keep her emotional distance and stay mad at me, but as she got talking—telling me about the engagement (this past Saturday night, on the roof of their apartment in Old City), their plans (a spring wedding), and the flowered dog collars she was planning for her terrier “bridesmaids” (hot pink, of course)—I could see her resistance weakening. I loved hearing her talk, the rise and fall of her voice as rhythmic as her fiancé’s music.

Eventually, she came up for air—and laughed.

“Guess you can tell I’m kind of excited.”

“You should be. Marriage, the right marriage, can be amazing.”

“I would guess so. How does it feel to be a congressman’s wife?”

“Uh, fine.”

“Just fine? Aren’t you guys thrilled? Where
is
he, by the way?”

“I don’t know.” I took a breath, bracing to say the words aloud for the first time. “Actually, I left him.”

“What?” Now it was her turn with wide eyes and an open mouth. “Oh God, Abbey. When?”

“About fifteen minutes ago.”

“You left him?” she repeated, disbelieving.

“Yep, I did. But it was a long time coming. And it’s for the best. For both of us.”

“But I thought you guys were happy.”

“Sure looked that way, didn’t it?” I said with a sad smile. “But we weren’t. At least not the way you are supposed to be. Not the way I would want for you. Or for Gloria. Or for me, frankly.”

A silence fell. She pushed her glass over to me. I took a sip before continuing. “The thing is… it’s hard to settle for anything less than perfect when you’ve had the kind of love that really fits, even though it’s messy and ridiculous and complicated. The kind worth fighting for, the kind that makes you feel truly alive.”

Like in
Braveheart, I thought. I smiled to myself, realizing I’d never really gotten that movie until just now.

Jules looked at me with a mix of dismay and concern. She put her hand on mine. It was warm. I looked down at it and then back up at her sympathetic, worried face and realized that I wasn’t alone anymore. My best friend was back.

“What are you going to do?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I haven’t thought that far ahead. But the kids and I will figure it out. We’ll probably have to stay with my mom for a while until we get sorted out.
That
should be interesting.”

She couldn’t help but smile at the mention of Roberta.

“How is the old broad? Still breaking hearts and busting balls up and down the Main Line?” she asked. “Seriously, though, let me know if I can help. I can’t imagine divorcing Alex van Holt is going to be easy.”

She was right. The thought of divorce, and the heartbreaking work of disentangling two lives, brought me down to earth from the high I had been on since walking out of the Ritz.

Jules noticed my face. She gazed around the almost-empty bar and suddenly stood up.

“C’mon!” she said. “This place is fucking depressing. Let’s go somewhere more fun.”

“But what about your fiancé?”

She wrinkled her nose. “He knows I can’t stand jazz.”

I laughed as I let her pull me to my feet.

“Where are we going?”

“Dancing.”

“I’m not exactly dressed for dancing,” I told her. “And where in the world can you go dancing at one in the morning on a Tuesday—I mean Wednesday?”

“Are you kidding? Jesus, you
have
led a sheltered life,” she said. “I can see I’ve got a lot to show you.”

“Here. Finish this.” She pushed her white wine over to me and I gulped what remained, then told me: “Let me just say good-bye to Lucas and I’ll meet you outside.”

I gave her fiancé a shy wave, then headed out to the hall. I pulled out my iPhone, checked for any messages, then pulled up a mirror app. I checked my makeup and ran my fingers through my hair.

I heard shoes on the stairs behind me and moved aside to let a hotel guest pass. But instead he stopped and spoke.

“Nice suit,” he said.

“Thanks.” I looked down at the peacock-colored fabric as if for the first time. “But it’s not mine. I just borrowed it.”

“It’s Dior, right?” he said. “Nineteen sixty-eight? Seventy? And in such great shape.”

I looked up into a handsome bearded face. He was wearing a dark T-shirt and silky gray gym shorts with funky silver sneakers. Not tall, and slight, but so taut and tan it was as if he alternated days at the gym and the pool. But what set him apart was his eyes: warm and moss colored, but with a mischievous golden gleam.

It was a face I’d seen many times in my fashion magazines. Marc Jacobs.

“You’re… you’re… Marc Jacobs,” I said, my voice constricted by surprise. Then louder: “I mean, are you Marc Jacobs?”

“I am,” he said with a nod.

“Wha… What are you doing here?” I stammered.

“Just squeezing in a workout.” He hooked his thumb in the direction of the hotel’s gym and explained, “Still on Tokyo time.”

“No, I mean, what are you doing
in Philadelphia
?”

“We’re opening a new store on Walnut Street.”

All of a sudden I remembered: the construction worker who had ogled my chest, the white mannequins, the long silver shelves.

“The old Ochs store!” I said. “I saw the construction last week.”

“Yeah, just under the wire as usual.” He smiled and extended his hand. “You are?”

“Abbey van Holt; uh, Abbey Lahey; I mean Abbey DiSiano.”

“Are you sure?” he said with a laugh. I laughed too.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, gathering myself. “I’m a big fan.”

“Appreciate it.” He then turned and moved down the hall.

He was almost to the gym door when I found myself, or maybe the wine, continuing to speak: “Actually,” I yelled after him. “I
used
to be a big fan. Not anymore.”

“Oh, really? Why not?” he said, pausing and looking back.

“Well, I bought something of yours, a bag, and, this sounds weird, but it cost me something. It cost me something very dear.”

“Sorry for that,” he said as he moved slowly back to me. “But how do you know that you lost it? Are you sure it’s not still out there? Maybe it’s closer than you think.”

I froze and stared at him, wondering if we were talking about the same thing. He stepped very close to me, his lips near my ear.
I smelled a hint of expensive shampoo and felt his beard tickle my cheek. I heard his breathing, and my own.

“I’ve built an empire giving people what they
think
they want, what they
think
they need,” he whispered. “But it’s all just an illusion. A beautiful illusion. Isn’t it?”

I felt a chill crackle through me like lightning. I stepped back from him, startled. But not realizing the stairs were right behind me, I lost my balance, the heel of my shoe hooked around the wide top step like a claw.

As I tipped backward, my hands pawed the air for help, then grasped the front of his T-shirt. His diminutive frame was too light, though, and instead of acting as a counterbalance, he fell toward me. We tumbled down the pinky-brown steps in a flurry of black, silver, and peacock green.

At the bottom, my head struck the floor and rolled to the side. I saw little yellow lights detach themselves from the flowers in the flocked wallpaper. They floated over to me and surrounded my head, like Gloria had blown them over from a dandelion.

I studied them and felt their warmth. Then everything went dark.

A long and lonely piece of dust, or maybe a long-abandoned spider’s silk, drooped from the corner of a perforated ceiling panel. Beside it, on the muted wall-mounted television, a late-night talk show host told jokes that no one could hear. Near it, some Mylar balloons stirred in the current from a heating duct while a vase of carnations drooped, their graying stems aching for water.