If You Only Knew Page 22

  "Would you like to hold the baby?" Felicia asks, offering him Natalia as if she's a loaf of bread.

  "No, thank you."

  I don't see how he can resist petting the baby, or touching her adorable little foot, which she keeps kicking in his direction.

  "Leo, do you have children?" Ana-Sofia asks.

  "No."

  There's an awkward silence. "Leo's great with older kids, though," I offer.

  "It must be so rewarding, Leo, introducing children to music," Ana says.

  "Sometimes."

  "Tell them about Evander," I suggest.

  He doesn't answer. Does pour himself more wine, though.

  "Evander is an actual child prodigy," I say to cover. "Leo thinks he has great potential. You should hear this kid play. He's amazing. I get goose bumps, and I don't even like classical music." I smile. Leo does not smile back.

  "Jenny, remember when I took you to the Met to hear The Magic Flute, and you fell asleep?" Owen says fondly.

  "I don't remember the opera. I do remember that nice nap, though."

  Talk turns to music, and I feel myself getting more irritated with Leo. After all, he's probably more qualified than anyone here to talk about that particular subject, but he doesn't say a word, just sips wine. Not very slowly, either. Though the others try to bring him into the conversation, his answers are curt.

  I wish I hadn't brought him.

  As Ana-Sofia starts to clear dessert dishes, I stand up to help her--no one else does, I'm irritated to note. "Jenny, please, you're our guest," she says gently.

  "She wasn't always, though, was she?" Leo asks mildly. "She was once the hostess. Probably still remembers where everything goes."

  The table falls silent, and my face burns.

  Then we hear the unmistakable gacking of a dog about to puke. Ooah. Ooah. Ooaaah... And puke Loki does, right under the coffee table.

  "I'll get that," I say, grateful--yes, grateful!--that I can clean dog puke instead of sit there and fight the urge to kick Leo in the shins. Ana-Sofia assures us it's fine, the rug is nothing special, just something she picked up in Syria a few years ago--probably a priceless gift from a tribal lord, knowing Ana.

  But I do remember where the paper towels are, and she's holding the baby now, so yeah, I help clean it up, trying not to dry-heave myself--dinner was good, and leave it to Ana-Sofia to make vegan food not only palatable but delicious.

  Owen helps. Leo doesn't. Leo, the ass, has Loki's leash out and the dynamic duo stands by the door. I assume we're leaving.

  I wash my hands in the kitchen. "Jenny," Owen says, "I don't know exactly what Leo meant, but I hope you know how much Ana-Sofia and I love having you in our lives."

  "No, I do. He's... He doesn't know what he's talking about."

  Owen fixes me with a long look, then takes my hand. Being a surgeon, Owen has always taken very good care of his hands. They're smooth and immaculate, his nails trimmed perfectly. The gold band on his left hand still looks very new.

  I always loved his hands. So gentle and perfect. He used to rub my shoulders almost every night, knowing that at least part of my day had been spent at a sewing machine or bent over a sketch pad, and he'd joke that it was good for his hands, too, to keep them strong for the long surgeries when he'd have to wield his instruments with such precision and care. My favorite part of sex with him was the way his hands would skim across my skin, so gentle and thorough.

  "It's good to see you," he murmurs. "I miss talking every day."

  My throat is suddenly tight. "Well," I whisper. "Me, too."

  "Maybe we can have lunch or dinner sometime. Just us two. Really catch up."

  "That'd be nice." I clear my throat. "I guess I should get going."

  I say goodbye to the other guests, which is horribly awkward with Leo standing over by the door like a kid who can't wait to leave Grandma's. Ana and Owen walk me to where he stands, his face neutral. A weird energy is crackling off him. Dog stress, no doubt. "Thank you for a wonderful night," I say, kissing both of my hosts on the cheek.

  "Very nice to have met you, Leo," Owen says.

  "We hope we'll see you again," Ana-Sofia seconds.

  "Nice to meet you, too," Leo manages.

  "I'll call you about lunch, okay?" Owen says. He takes the baby from Ana-Sofia and makes her wave her tiny fist at me. It might be my imagination, but I think Natalia Genevieve just smiled at me. My heart clenches, and I force a smile, which drops the second the door is closed.

  The dog won't get into the elevator, so Leo picks him up, getting a faint growl. I look at the dog, whose eyes are cloudy with cataracts. Poor thing. First the seizures, now the barfing. Leo probably should put him down. The dog burps at me. Just what I needed. The smell is disgusting.

  The elevator doors open and Leo puts Loki down. I wave to the doorman--Steve, always so nice--and he nods back. Seems he's forgotten me.

  Outside, the air is damp and coppery from a shower. The omnipresent song of the city--cab horns and fire sirens, air brakes and subway rumbling, plays around us. Leo gives me a look. "Ready to go, or do you want to genuflect a minute or two?"

  "You know, Leo, you were a pretty shitty date tonight. I have to say, I thought you'd do better."

  "Didn't I kiss enough ass? I'm sorry," he says.

  "No ass-kissing required, Leo. Polite conversation would've been nice, though."

  "Oh. So I should exploit Evander for dinner conversation? So those people can go back and say 'We know a little black child who's being taught piano for free! Isn't the world a wonderful place?'"

  "No! We were talking about music, and Evander is interesting, that's all. Jeesh."

  "Yeah, well, he's also a child."

  "A child with great musical talent. What was the problem, Leo?"

  "You! Trying to impress those jackasses, and I definitely include your ex-husband in that group."

  Loki barks as a scruffy white dog is led past. The owner gives us a dirty look. "Fine, let's go," I say, fishing in my cute little bag for my keys. By the grace of the gods, we'd found parking just two blocks down. Leo's long legs outpace mine, hobbled in heels as I am, and I don't try to keep up.

  Besides, I miss this neighborhood. The Upper West Side has all the glory when it comes to town houses and prewar buildings, but the Upper East has its jewels, too. I take my time, stopping to look up at a beautiful window or admire a doorway. The buildings are all like old friends, the old brownstones and oak doors, and even if I didn't know a lot of neighbors, I knew a few. This had been my home. Sort of.

  On the drive down, Leo asked me if I'd seen any signs that my marriage was in trouble. One thing I could've mentioned was that throughout the entire course of my married life, I felt like I was playing grown-ups. Look at this great apartment! Look at my husband, the doctor! We're going out with friends! I know Tim Gunn! No, I'm serious!

  That feeling was present tonight, too...this cool dinner party where I was a guest, where I talked with those sophisticated, educated people. The elegant food, the lovely wine, the intelligent--and sure, sometimes pretentious--conversation. So what if they like documentaries and Swedish films? Someone has to.

  And I can hold my own. I'm not some hick with nothing going for her.

  I get in the car in what I hope is frosty silence. Leo gets his smelly dog settled in the backseat, then buckles in. Neither of us says anything as I negotiate my way up to Ninety-Seventh, across the Park and over to the West Side Highway.

  "What I don't understand," Leo finally says, "is why you still want your ex to like you. He rejected you, he burned rubber finding someone else and he popped out a baby with her in record time, and you just can't get enough punishment."

  "What I don't understand is why you want so much for Owen to be the bad guy here. He's not. He's a very nice man."

  "Fuck him."

  "Leo, you're a little drunk, I think."

  "Not drunk enough."

  "Well, you should stop talking, at any rate."
>
  "You wanna know what I think?"

  "No, I do not."

  "I think your ex-husband and his wife keep you close because then they don't have to admit what they did."

  "And what did they do, Leo? Huh?"

  "He dumped you. He told you he didn't want kids, and within a year, he's a daddy. Why aren't you mad about that?"

  "What would that serve? He didn't mean to fall out of love with me."

  "Maybe he was never in love with you to begin with."

  "Thanks. I feel better now."

  "Why don't you tell him how you really feel? Say, 'Hey, Owen, I deserve more than the scraps you throw me, and I won't soothe your guilty conscience by coming to your pretentious fucking dinner parties. You broke my heart. Fuck you and your perfect wife, too.' That's what you should say. You can write that down if you want."

  "I'll pass."

  "I think he's an idiot. Love is a decision. It's not just a feeling."

  "How profound," I snap. "And this coming from the man whose hobbies include lying on a lawn chair from 1975 and drinking too much. A commitment-phobic Juilliard grad who barely scrapes by because his ego is too fragile to play in front of anyone above the age of fourteen and literally cannot change a lightbulb in the building where he's allegedly the super."

  "You don't know anything about me, Jenny."

  "Yeah, you've made sure of that, haven't you?"

  Loki contributes to the conversation by throwing up. Leo turns around. "You okay, boy?" he asks, petting him.

  I sigh. "Leo, how much longer are you going to keep this dog around? Don't you think it's getting selfish?"

  Shit.

  Leo looks at me as if I've just ripped his heart out and taken a bite.

  "I'm sorry," I say, looking back at the road. "That was uncalled-for. I'm really sorry."

  He doesn't say anything back. Which doesn't seem fair; I said something unkind and apologized for it. He also said some unkind things, but he hasn't apologized.

  "Do you think we should go to the vet clinic?" I ask. "Check if he's okay?"

  Leo nods. "Thank you."

  And so my Catherine Deane dress gets to be seen by the staff at the twenty-four-hour veterinary clinic. Loki is deemed "quite healthy for an old guy," despite his pukes, and we're sent home with some pills that should give him some pep and soothe his stomach at the same time.

  When we get home, it's nearly 3:00 a.m. I have a bride who needs to be sewn into her dress in five hours. She broke my cardinal rule of weight gain after her final fitting, but what am I going to do? Let her walk down the aisle naked? My eyes are gritty, my feet hurt, my heart is achy.

  "I didn't mean what I said about Loki," I say as Leo opens the gate to his courtyard. "You're really good to him. I know you're not selfish."

  "No. I am."

  He looks at me, and in the gentle pink light from the streetlamp, his eyes are so sad that my own fill with tears. "Leo, I'm really sorry."

  Then he hugs me, letting go of Loki's leash, a two-armed, full, warm, horribly wonderful hug. I slip my arms around his back and hug him, too, and it feels like my heart goes right into his chest. He smells so nice, soap and shaving cream and red wine, and I wish we could stay like this all night. "I'm sorry, too," he murmurs.

  Then he lets go of me and goes inside, and I climb the steps to my door, doing my damnedest not to cry.

  Rachel

  My sister isn't home when I get there, but I have a key.

  I lug in the two giant duffel bags, then get the girls from the minivan. I took them to Chili's for supper, then ran them around the town park so they'd be good and tired. "Bath time!" I say, and they jump and clap, because Jenny has an old Victorian tub they find quite wonderful. After that, we read stories, and I tuck them into the queen-size bed in Jenny's guest room, the three of them lined up like little flowers against the "million pillows" Aunt Jenny has on the bed.

  "Will Daddy come, too?" Grace asks. "For the sleepover?" She rubs her eyes, yawning.

  "No," I say. "Daddy has to work a lot these days." With his mistress, no less.

  It occurs to me that I'm giving him a whole lotta freedom, leaving like this. But what else am I going to do? Leash him? Put a lock on his stupid penis?

  When the girls are asleep, I pour myself a glass of wine and watch TV. I don't text or call Jenny. She might be on a date, and I'm already interfering with her life as it is.

  I doze off on her big red couch, waking up at the sound of the door. My watch says quarter past three. Yikes.

  Jenny comes in, looking beautiful, as always. "Hey," I say. She jumps a little.

  "Hi! What..." She does the math. "Oh, honey."

  Then I'm crying, it seems, and she takes me in her arms and hugs me. "I didn't want to leave a message," I say against her shoulder. "I had to get away. He's still... They were kissing today at work. I walked into his office, and they were kissing like it was their last day on earth, and I had to leave."

  She lets me cry, murmuring and patting me, and God, she'd make the best mother. Better than our own, who'd only be more upset than I am.

  Finally, I blow my nose, and Jenny gets up. She makes me some cocoa, padding around the small kitchen in her bare feet. I haven't spent enough time with her here, in this lovely new place, not when I've been afraid to leave my husband alone in our house for fear of what he'll do without my angry, punitive presence.

  She sets a mug in front of me, and takes one for herself as well and sits across from me. "I'm really glad you're here," she says, and my eyes fill again.

  "I think I have to divorce him," I whisper.

  She nods and covers my hand with her own. "I think so, too. You deserve a husband who'd cut off his own dick before he'd cheat on you, Rach. You do."

  "Maybe we can put that in my Match.com profile," I suggest, hiccuping on a sob.

  "Definitely." She smiles, and I love her so much, my sister. God, what would I do without her? "I have an idea," she says.

  "Good. Because coming here was my big play. I've got nothing else."

  "Why don't you leave the girls with me this weekend and go somewhere? It's Friday...well, Saturday, now. Just get out of town? Go to... I don't know. Maine. Cape Cod. Somewhere away from the girls, away from Adam, and treat yourself. Read, get a facial or a massage or both, order expensive drinks, sleep in a bed by yourself. What do you think? Adam makes more money than God. Time to use it, don't you agree?"

  I nod. I know exactly where to go.

  And ten minutes later, the Penthouse Suite at the Tribeca Grand is booked for one.

  *

  Without the girls around, home seems like someone else's place. It's Saturday morning; Jenny had to run into the shop to fix a dress, then came back and shooed me out of her house. I suspect she's rescheduled brides for me. I'll have to think about how to pay her back.

  I texted Adam and told him the girls were with Jenny this weekend, and I was going to a hotel to think, and I'd talk to him on Tuesday when I get back--yes, Tuesday. Jenny's shop is closed Mondays, and she insisted that I stay till Tuesday. I asked him not to be at the house when I went over to grab a few things, and he said, fine, take my time, and he was glad I was getting away, and he hoped I'd have a nice time.

  He also left me three voice mails, which I'd only listened to after the texts.

  He's contrite in every one.

  You have to believe me, Rachel, she just threw herself at me. She doesn't want it to be over, but it is. I know how bad it looked, but that was a kiss goodbye.

  Rachel, God, I'm so sorry for what I said. I love you, I love you so much, please call me.

  And the one that got me the most:

  Rachel--a long silence, and then his voice is husky. I'll do anything to make this better.

  Well. I can think about that later.

  I open my closet and take out a couple of dresses. Jenny will be sending me some restaurant recommendations later on. My nicest pajamas, the pink-and-white-striped silk pair that Adam gav
e me for Mother's Day last year. Black trousers and a white blouse, because Jenny says you can't go wrong if you have the right white blouse, and this one is a gift from her--crisp and sleek and something I've only worn once. The red suede booties with metallic heels.

  I shower and blow my hair dry and put on makeup with more care than usual. Instead of my usual "just a little blush and mascara" mommy look, I go all out. Cat's eyes. Foundation. Lipstick.

  When I get dressed and look at myself in the mirror, I look like another person, almost.

  How strange that feels. Strange, and a little exciting.

  An hour and a half later, the concierge of the Tribeca Grand, Sylvia, practically leaps when I give my name at the check-in counter.

  "Ms. Carver! We've been so looking forward to having you!"

  Sylvia is the woman who's taken so many calls from me in the past. And yes, she is Swiss, believe it or not.

  She gestures to a bellboy, who takes my suitcase. I've also brought my laptop and three books. "I hope your stay here will be everything you hoped," she says. "Please don't hesitate to contact me personally if there's anything at all you need."

  "I appreciate that," I say. My voice is low and pleasant. I wonder who she thinks I am. An actress, maybe, someone she can't quite place? Yeah, right. Maybe a screenwriter or producer. An important novelist who needs to be alone with her craft. An executive. A famous lawyer who does guest stints on CNN.

  Probably not a housewife with a cheating husband, pretending to be someone else.

  We ride up in the elevator, and my heart is pounding. And yet my reflection shows a calm, attractive woman who is slim and tall--thanks to the booties--whose bag is expensive but understated.

  No one would guess that I found a clot of dried hamburger in my bra when I got undressed this morning.

  "And here we are," Sylvia says, waving her key at the keypad. She opens the door.

  It's so... It's beautiful. The word doesn't do it justice. Even though I've seen it a dozen times in pictures, the penthouse is breathtaking. It's sophisticated and warm and quietly cheerful. Unusual lamps, interesting coffee tables and huge windows overlooking the jewel of lower Manhattan.

  "Allow me to show you the amenities," Sylvia says, and proceeds to do just that. There are fresh flowers--last night at 3:43 a.m., the person who took my call had asked what my favorite flowers were. I said peonies, and there are no fewer than five flower arrangements throughout the suite, all featuring peonies with twigs of curling cherry branch. The curving brown leather couch would seat ten. There's an entire bar. Another sitting area. The bedroom is immaculate, the bed so perfectly made that I don't want to even set my purse on it.