If You Only Knew Page 23

  And then there's the staircase to the rooftop deck. Up we go, and it's all I can do not to giggle. The deck features lounge chairs and couches and potted palms and the view, that heartbreaking vista of lower Manhattan, Liberty Tower gleaming in the sunshine. Just across the way is a town house, and I can see into the windows of the top-floor apartment. Are they looking back at me? Wondering who that lucky, fabulous woman is? Is that the woman who won the Academy Award last year? No? Are you sure?

  Sylvia encourages me once again not to hesitate to contact her if there's anything I need, then leaves.

  When I worked for Celery Stalk, I traveled a bit. Our company always booked with the Westin, hotels that were perfectly nice and extremely comfortable. Once a year, we'd all go to an educational software conference, and Adele would book a suite for herself (she founded the company, after all). She'd invite us all up for drinks, and lordy, it was fun! I loved those hotels, loved watching TV in bed, which was a luxury I never had unless I was on a business trip. I remember thinking about how amazing Adele's suite was, how much she deserved it and how I'd probably never stay in such a nice place.

  But this... This is amazing.

  I reach for my phone to call Adam to tell him about the hotel, the flowers, the bar, and then remember.

  So, not Adam.

  Well, Jenny, then.

  "Hey!" she says. "So?"

  "It's amazing. I love it. Jenny, I wish you could come down!"

  "No, no. You need the time alone. Just forget your troubles. The girls are being angels--" I hear a crash and a scream "--except Rose, but don't worry, I can handle her. I'm having so much fun! I love them so much! God, I should've sent you away years ago so I could pretend they were mine. You don't mind if I tell people they are, right?"

  I smile. My sister knows just what to say.

  I promise her I won't hide in the hotel, and yes, I will stay until checkout on Tuesday. I promise to indulge myself. "You can call Donna if things get hairy," I tell her. "Or if you need to go into the shop. You have her number, right?"

  "Yes, yes, you left it right here. Now go have fun. My daughters await me. Love you!"

  "I love you, too." I hang up. Walk around the suite again, hang up my clothes, put my toiletries on the vast countertop in the vast bathroom. I make sure everything is tidy, because I don't want to ruin this experience with messiness. Having triplets means that messiness is a fact of life, no matter how hard I try. I'm going to enjoy this tidiness, damn it.

  That all done, I look at my watch.

  It's 11:22 a.m.

  I'm starving.

  I pick up the phone. "How can we assist you, Ms. Carver?" asks a voice.

  They know my name! "Hello. I'd like to order lunch."

  "Of course. What can our chef make for you today?"

  I order a cheeseburger--well, an Angus burger--with bleu cheese and bacon, a side of truffle fries and a green salad. A bottle of... Scratch that, actually. The hibiscus martini, please?

  Twenty minutes later--because I am so fabulous and inhabit the penthouse suite for the next couple of days--room service is delivered. "Would miss like to eat on the patio?" asks the waiter.

  Miss would. And miss does.

  I read my book, which is not a book club selection, but instead a wonderfully fun and engrossing novel about a female assassin in Victorian England. I remember to look up at the view often. To feel the comfort of the chaise lounge supporting me so perfectly.

  For an hour, I eat and drink and read and look and then, feeling a little buzzed, I go back down, go into my bedroom, and strip off every inch of clothing and climb into bed. I never sleep naked, but I will now.

  These sheets must be sixteen-hundred count, I think, and then I'm asleep.

  *

  When I wake up, I take a bath in the glorious tub--there's a special pillow for the back of my head!--read some more, then decide to go shopping. The hotel provides cheery blue bikes, and what the hell? I take one and head out, bumping along on the cobblestone streets. I've never ridden a bike in Manhattan before. It's terrifying and exhilarating. I make it to the bike path along the Hudson without dying and relax a little.

  My head is pleasantly empty. The late-May sun bathes the city in gold and blue, the architectural miracle that is the Big Apple. I never wanted to live here, couldn't understand Jenny's desire to get out of Cambry-on-Hudson, but today, I can see it. I'd live in a little town house, maybe. Or a condo in one of those slick buildings. Get to know my neighbors. Work for Domani Studios, maybe, the top ad agency who once tried to recruit me.

  Every once in a while, a wave of grief washes over me, but I push it back. Jenny's right. I'm going to enjoy myself.

  But I wonder how Mom and Dad did it. I honestly can't remember a fight between them. Dad never even looked at another woman, and he had his chances, God knows. I remember spying on their parties from the stairs, remember how proud I'd feel that my parents were the couple, the happiest, the most affectionate. I can remember one couple who'd snipe at each other, and another who'd ignore each other, and even remember overhearing two women talking about another, who'd slept with someone else, and I was so, so grateful my parents were happy. It made my childhood safe.

  God, I want that for my girls. But I can't do it alone.

  I wonder if Adam has any idea what he's really done.

  I turn my bike around and head for SoHo. Time for some new clothes. Time to be Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, every woman's shopping fantasy. The money I spend is, I imagine, from the money Adam's been putting in his boat fund. Or maybe it's his whore fund. After all, I imagine they have to go to hotels to fuck. I imagine he's bought her a dinner or two. Maybe some jewelry. Definitely some sexy underwear. He has a thing for sexy underwear. Such a cliche.

  So, too bad. No boat for you, cheater. Armani for me instead.

  What some people don't understand about new clothes is it's not about the clothes. It's the promise of how happy you'll be when you wear them, the wonderful things you'll be doing in them, how people will look at you and say, yes, there's a woman who really likes herself. Usually, my clothes are well made and simple and attractive. I'm a well-dressed mother. Today, though, I buy clothes and jewelry and hair clips that say I'm an interesting woman. I'm unexpected and chic. I have style. I'm someone to be reckoned with.

  Back in the suite, I unpack my new clothes and shoes, take a long shower, using the hotel products so I smell different and exotic. Wrap up in the luxurious hotel robe and check my email, ignore the messages from Adam and click on the restaurant links Jenny's sent. Ooh. Fancy. A little scary, too, but beautiful.

  I call Jenny and talk to the girls, listening to them tell me about playing dress-up with Aunt Jenny, baking cookies with Aunt Jenny, sitting in Aunt Jenny's cupboards. I miss them so much it makes my chest ache.

  But it's good for them to be away from me once in a while--I know that. It's just that I always pictured a getaway weekend under different circumstances. Like Adam and me, taking this trip together, because it's our tenth anniversary.

  I picture dressing up again, putting on more makeup, the new clothes, and heading out to one of the beautiful spots Jenny recommended. Alone. With a book, maybe.

  But I'm suddenly weary. I can't. Not tonight.

  But I am starving.

  Once again, I call room service, and when the bellman arrives with my cart, I apologize, saying I've just got too much work to catch up on. Besides, I tell myself, I've always wanted to stay in this hotel. This is a dream come true. Once again, I eat on the rooftop deck, and I nurse my wine until the lights start to go on. The girls will be going to sleep by now.

  I miss tucking them in. I haven't even been gone a day, and I'm homesick. I'll watch a movie, that's what I'll do. In bed. In total comfort, without one single interruption, an entire movie. I'll bring the wine with me and wear my pretty pajamas and how great will that be?

  Tomorrow, I'll go out at one of those restaurants, no matter how beautiful this hotel i
s. Maybe someone will come to the city to meet me. Kathleen, maybe? No, she mentioned her parents were coming to visit this weekend. Not Elle, not Claudia. They'd sniff out something like a shark smells a drop of blood in the water. It's been hard enough, being around them at school.

  Most of the contacts in my phone are child-related. I scroll through the list. Dr. Cato, their pediatrician. Dr. DeSoto, their dentist, just like in the book by William Steig, which the girls adore. Donna, the lovely babysitter. Emily's Mom, whose first name I've never managed to catch but whose daughter comes to play at our house sometimes.

  Gus Fletcher.

  Not child-related.

  Gus Fletcher of the smiley eyes. He emailed me his number after the barfing incident, and I put it in my phone. I did that for a reason, didn't I?

  Without waiting another second, I hit his number. He probably has a date. It's nine o'clock on a Saturday night. If nothing else, he's out with friends. I pray it goes to voice mail.

  "Hello?"

  I jump at the sound of his voice. "Gus?"

  "Yes?"

  "It's... It's Rachel. Rachel Carver. Rachel Tate Carver?"

  "The woman with the pukey kids?"

  I smile. "Hopefully they're not puking right now, but yes."

  "Just for the record, you're the only Rachel I know. The last names aren't necessary."

  "Oh. Okay." My toes curl. It's safe to say I've never in my life called a guy for social purposes. I was always the callee, not the caller.

  "What can I do for you, Rachel?" His voice is warm.

  "Well, I'm staying in the city this weekend, and I was wondering if you might want to have a drink or dinner with me. Tomorrow. Sunday."

  There's a long pause.

  "I owe you, after all," I say. "You were a prince that day. And it was nice to see you again."

  "In that case, yes. I accept."

  "Really?"

  "Yes."

  I'm smiling. "Great! I'm staying at the Tribeca Grand."

  "Nice."

  "You have no idea. Want to come see my suite? It's pretty amazing."

  "Sure. Seven o'clock?"

  "Seven is perfect. See you then."

  I'm having drinks with a nice man tomorrow who is not my husband.

  A slight warning chimes in my brain. Things are messed up enough without me...without me doing...doing what? I would never cheat on Adam. Even now. I'm sure Gus knows that, too, but I'll be sure to reinforce that idea tomorrow.

  Still, the idea of being with him, almost on a date--almost being the key word here--is deliciously dangerous and enticing, like a dark chocolate souffle waiting at the end of a meal.

  You know you shouldn't, but you also know you will.

  Jenny

  I never realized how much I loved solitude until my nieces came to visit.

  Also, how great it was to eat an entire meal without something spilling, breaking, dropping or being flung somewhere. Also, the thrill of going to the bathroom by myself.

  We got through Saturday just fine. Today, they seem possessed by demons. Starting at five forty-three in the morning, no less.

  Because I'm Aunt Jenny, Purveyor of Fun, the girls seem to have morphed from their previously angelic selves--that is, the way they act when my sister is around--to little cyclones of chaos and destruction. Their reverence for my house and its newness is gone. They throw things, eat things, spit things, climb things. After a hectic lunch, I find Grace standing on the counter, hitting the light fixture with a wooden spoon.

  "Grace! Honey, no! That's not safe." I scoop her off the counter, only to see a tiny butt sticking out of the cabinet where I keep the food processor and its razor-sharp attachments. "Rose, is that you?" I pull my niece out by the legs. "Get out, honey, there are sharp things in there."

  "I love sharp!" she says, trying to wriggle back in. "I want sharp! Auntie, you so mean! I! Want! Sharp!"

  Dear God.

  Grace begins hitting the cabinets with her wooden spoon, which I have failed to take from her. She gets Rose in the head, making Rose scream like her fingernails are being pulled off.

  "Oh, honey! Are you okay?" I ask, wrestling the spoon from Grace's hand. "Here. Let me get you some ice. Grace, say you're sorry, baby."

  "I'm not," Grace states, pushing out her bottom lip. "It was a accident!"

  "Well, tell her you didn't mean it, and you're sorry she got hurt."

  Grace looks as though her insides are boiling. "No! It was a accident! Accident!"

  Soon, I shall call the exorcist.

  It dawns on me that Charlotte is missing. "Stay here," I order the wailing duo. "Charlotte? Lottie, where are you, angel?"

  The front door is locked, thank God, so she couldn't have gone outside. Living room, no. Downstairs bathroom, no. Pantry, no. I race upstairs. The guest room, no. "Charlotte! Answer Aunt Jenny right now!"

  If she does answer, I can't hear her over the banshees in my kitchen. "Charlotte!"

  She's in my bathroom, sitting in the sink, idly kicking her feet and looking out the window. "Auntie!" she exclaims happily. "I'm peeing, Auntie!"

  I mutter a curse. She's peed, all right. She failed to take off her overalls, however, and that means a whole new outfit.

  There's a crash from downstairs. I don't have time to change Charlotte, so I pick her up, grimacing, and dash downstairs, where I find three broken mixing bowls, apparently pulled from the cupboard.

  "Is anyone bleeding?" I ask.

  "I bleeding," Rose says. "Right here." She holds up her hand, which is unmarred by blood.

  "You're not bleeding."

  "Inside, Auntie. I bleed inside."

  Shit. Could she be right? Is she hemorrhaging? Should I call Rachel?

  "Here." Grace opens the baking supplies cupboard and pulls out a bag of chocolate chips. "This fixes bleeding."

  "Fanks, Grace!" Rose says happily, tearing open the bag. Two pounds of chocolate chips scatter far and wide.

  "Poop! It poop!" Charlotte shrieks, wriggling like a fish in my arms.

  "It not poop!" Rose screams.

  Grace begins stomping on the chips.

  My God.

  I look at the clock. It's 3:30 p.m. I have four hours to go till bedtime. Minimum! An hour and a half till wine is socially acceptable. But no, I can't have wine! I'm the only adult on the scene. This is terrible news!

  The front door opens and in comes Loki. And Leo.

  "Hey," he says, looking at my nieces. "Shut up, okay?"

  They fall silent. "Who you?" Rose asks, folding her arms over her chest.

  "I'm Leo."

  "Why you here?"

  "I own this building. Why you here?"

  "Aunt Jenny, that why."

  Wait. He owns this building? Since when?

  Charlotte is lying on the floor, eating chips without the use of her hands. Talented child. "Leo," I say, "meet the triumvirate of terror better known as Grace, Charlotte and Rose Carver, my beautiful and angelic nieces."

  "What you dog's name?" Rose asks, sidling up to Leo and looping an arm around his knee as she sticks her thumb in her mouth.

  "Loki. He eats noisy little girls."

  Rose smiles around her thumb at that.

  "He's not very frien--" I start to say, then stop as Loki lies on the floor and rolls onto his back, offering his stomach. Leo kneels down and takes Rose's hand.

  "He wants you to pet him," Leo says, and sure enough, Loki's stumpy little tail starts wagging. Grace and Charlotte join in, chattering at once. "Loki, that's a funny name," "Loki, don't bite me," "Loki likes me," "Loki no eat me!"

  Leo looks up at me. "Want company?" he asks. "My lessons are done for the day."

  "God, yes," I tell him.

  Thirty minutes later, the kitchen is cleaned up, Charlotte is in a fresh outfit and Leo and the girls are sitting at the table, making things out of an organic version of Play-Doh from a kit nauseatingly called Little Minds Create, which I have on hand for their visits. Charlotte is not creating, op
ting to smash blobs of clay into the seams of the table.

  "Sing us songs," Grace demands.

  Leo glances at her. "There once was a girl called Aunt Jenny," he begins obligingly. "Her nieces were Pooh, Plum and Penny. They loved to make messes, and dress up in dresses, which was fine because Jenny had many."

  "Not bad," I murmur. He has a nice singing voice. Of course.

  "Juilliard. Limerick Songs 101."

  "I not named Pooh," Rose says, putting a blob of Play-Doh in her mouth. "I Rose."

  "Not for eating, sweetheart," I say, scooping out the blob. Child care is not for the squeamish.

  "What are you making, Leo?" Grace asks.

  He holds up his sculpture, which is made of pink clay and has bulbous green eyes and four legs. "It's Loki," he says.

  The girls laugh, the sound so beautiful and pure my heart squeezes. "Loki's brown and white and gray and black," Grace says. "Not pink."

  "He has hints of pink," Leo says. "Also, sparkles." He takes some of the sequins that come with the Little Minds Create kit and makes his clay dog a collar. "We can't forget his purple spots," he adds, reaching for the lavender clay.

  "Loki not pupple!" Rose says.

  "Or the yellow stripes," Leo says, winking at her. She smiles back, another female succumbing to his charms.

  In the end, Clay Loki looks like a demon, but the girls adore him. "Can I have him?" Charlotte asks.

  "Mine!" Rose yells.

  "I want Loki the most!" Grace says.

  "It's for your Aunt Jenny," he says, handing the sculpture to me.

  "Girls," I say, "would you like to watch a movie?"

  When they're lined up on the couch, mesmerized by My Neighbor Totoro, I get started on cleaning up the craft mess in the kitchen. Leo comes in, stepping over the real-life version of his dog.

  "Thanks for coming up," I say.

  "I owed you."

  "Did you?"

  He shrugs.

  I get a toothpick to dig out the clay from where Charlotte squished it.

  "Want me to start dinner?" he asks.

  "Um...yeah. Sure."

  "What do the little princesses eat?" He opens the fridge and surveys my stock.