Loves Me, Loves Me Not Page 16

  “I could handle that for her,” he adds. “Private adoption. I don’t think we’ve done any of that in the past, but there’s always a first time.”

  Good old Henry—jumping in to help my friend and making a few bucks while he’s at it. Maybe that’s why he likes babies.

  We stay on the phone for nearly an hour. As we wind down I notice that darkness has covered the city and Trixie is meowing like crazy. She wants to go out. Damn. This is going to be tough. She’ll have to get used to doing her thing inside now and I need to get a litter box because I’ve left her old one at Gina’s.

  Henry is getting ready to ask me out. I can tell because he starts off by complaining about how hard I am to get hold of.

  “If you keep moving like this, how am I supposed to keep track of you?” he asks with that good-natured tone in his voice, that tone that says we’ve made love and enjoyed each other.

  “Well, you’ve got me now, so what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “The weekend. I thought we could go away together.”

  Go away together? This is promising. “Where?”

  “St. Michaels,” he says.

  St. Michaels. A quaint town on the Eastern shore. I’m seeing romantic bed-and-breakfast bedroom in my mind—chintz curtains, rose-scented bath water. Perfect place to tell Henry about Rick after a couple of glasses of wine and a leisurely stroll by the water, and maybe a leisurely stroll through our libidos, too.

  “Sounds good.” We make arrangements to meet. He’ll pick me up at Wendy’s—in the lobby, so he doesn’t need to find a parking spot—around six the next evening.

  Before he hangs up, he says something that hits me like an electric shock.

  “I’m thinking about you a lot, Amy,” he says. Then quickly, “Talk to you later.”

  “Thinking about you a lot?” Is that some windup to saying the L word? I try to remember how it was with Rick and me. Once I got used to feeling loved, I forgot what it felt like not to have it.

  After I hang up the phone, I’m startled to see Wendy standing at the alcove by the kitchen.

  “Do you need something?” I ask her.

  “My throat’s just dry. I was going to get some milk.”

  I rush to get it for her. After all, this is my job now, while I’m looking for another job.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” she admits, after swallowing a glass of milk. “Did you get your stuff in okay?”

  “Yup.” Just then Trixie purrs at Wendy’s feet.

  “Oh, Trixie! I forgot about you!” She picks up the cat and pets her while Trixie meows contentedly in her hands. Looking at Wendy with this small bit of life it occurs to me that she’ll make a good mother. I can see her kissing some kid’s scraped knee, or cooing over his homework assignment, or cheering her on at the school ball game. Wendy might dress up like a sophisticated woman but underneath she’s a mom. Maybe we all are.

  “Has my mother called?” she asks.

  I scurry to retrieve the phone from the couch. “I don’t know. I was using it.”

  After handing it to Wendy, I watch as she punches in the code to retrieve her voice mail. She shakes her head back and forth as she listens to an obviously long message.

  “Yup,” she says after she clicks off. “But it’s too late to call her back. They go to bed at nine.”

  “Is it okay for you to go visit them this weekend?”

  “Uh-huh. She just went through the menus she’s fixing.” Wendy grimaces and for a second it looks like she is going to burst into tears again. Or maybe throw up. “I don’t know how I’ll be able to eat. And then she’ll start nagging me. It’s going to be hard.”

  “Call the doctor.”

  “What?”

  “Tomorrow, call the doctor you’re going to see and explain you’re pretty sure you’re pregnant, and having morning sickness, and ask if she can recommend something.”

  “It’s a he. But that’s not a bad idea.” She smiles. “I better get back to sleep. Let me get you some sheets.”

  “Don’t! I’ll be fine. Just point me in the right direction.”

  The linen closet is in the bathroom, so after Wendy tells me where to find things, I set up my own little bed on the couch, which isn’t quite long enough for even my short body, so I end up spending most of the night in a quasi-fetal position, which has a lot of irony in it given the current circumstances.

  My sleep is further interrupted by Trixie, who meows so much I’m afraid she’ll awaken the entire apartment building. Poor Trix will have to get used to being a city cat. I’ll get her litter box in the morning, or buy a new one. In the meantime, she can use the newspapered corner of the bathroom I’ve set up for her.

  I finally fall into a deep sleep around three and am jolted upright by the sound of water running in the kitchen. In the space of five minutes, four hours have passed. It’s nearly seven and Wendy’s up, fixing coffee and determined to go into the office.

  “I’m feeling much better,” she says chirpily. “How about you? You sleep okay?”

  “Great, just great,” I lie. I try to focus on the room and remember where I am. Ah, yes. Wendy’s. Pregnant Wendy’s.

  “It really made a difference you coming over, Ame. I can’t thank you enough. I feel like I can face the world.”

  “Well, listen, you take it easy today. Don’t overdo. When do you head out?” I yawn and hope I’m making sense. Did I say something or just think it?

  “I’ll head for Connecticut right after work.” She sips at her coffee, warming her hands around the mug. “Mmm, that reminds me. I only have one key!” She holds up the key I left on the kitchen counter last night.

  One key. She must have lost the other one. No, wait a minute, Sam probably has the other one. The schmuck.

  “I guess we could agree to meet here at a certain time,” I say.

  “All right. I’m leaving right at five and I’ll stop here to pick up a few things.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you here then.”

  “You going into the shop?”

  “I was planning on it.”

  “Doing anything special this weekend?”

  “Henry and I are going out.”

  She smiles weakly at me. It must hurt that I’ve got a boyfriend when she has a schmuck. But hey—things might work out for her. Henry could be a schmuck, too.

  “There’s coffee but I usually pick up a bun or something on my way to the office,” she says, opening cabinets looking for food. In the refrigerator, she pulls out a carton of something and throws it in the trash can.

  “That’s okay. I’ll buy something.”

  In a few minutes, she is ready to leave and she looks like the old Wendy—confident, attractive, in control. She wears a short sleeveless black dress and a loose silver chain around her hips, and black flats. She carries a thin attaché case and sunglasses.

  “Don’t forget to call your doctor,” I remind her.

  “Will do. Thanks again, Ame.”

  After she leaves, I take my time getting ready to go. Now that I’m living with Wendy, the pressure to get a job will be greater. Unlike my sister, Wendy doesn’t seem to believe in food. If I want any, I’ll have to buy it myself. That means I’ll need money if I don’t want to dip into my savings or starve to death.

  I mentally calculate how many paychecks I can probably still count on before the shop closes for good. Enough to buy a week’s worth of groceries. I’ll be fine.

  I shower, drink another cup of java and throw on a sundress. After Henry’s call last night, I’m feeling pretty and sexy. As I finish putting in earrings, I hear the phone ringing. But I can’t find it! It’s somewhere in the living room, muffled, under a pillow or something. I must have put it there after Wendy handed it back to me.

  Too late, I locate it on the floor by the sofa. The beep-beep-beep of the voice mail signal taunts me. I don’t know Wendy’s code. I’ll have to wait for her to retrieve the message. Damn. Maybe it’s Henry. Or maybe it’s S
am. Oh, to erase Sam-left messages.

  Note to self: learn voice mail code.

  chapter 13

  Dahlia: Instability

  I think I talked more to Mrs. Squires about wedding preparations than to my own mother. Rick was Emily Squires’s only child and I suspected she longed for a daughter over whom she could fret and fuss. At first, her enthusiasm was charming, and I felt like I was bestowing a gift on her by letting her be such a large part of the planning. But it quickly became clear that involving her created complications and discord. I have always loved gladiolas with their straight, bold lines and tightly held flowers, and I’d wanted them as part of the arrangement at the church. But Mrs. Squires was adamant that gladiolas were “funeral flowers, dear” and steered me toward dahlias and zinnias instead, a compromise I made after Rick interceded on her behalf, promising me a honeymoon suite full of gladiolas to compensate. I wonder if she had gladiolas at his funeral. I couldn’t go. I was still in the hospital then. Gladiolas can mean “you pierce my heart.”

  Not catching that phone call turns out to be a bad thing. But I don’t discover that until nearly ten o’clock on this fine Friday night, nearly four hours after Henry is supposed to pick me up at Wendy’s apartment. Four hours that I spend roaming around her building, looking up the street, tapping my foot, wondering if I should try to find a phone to call Henry, and cursing myself for not buying a cell phone.

  Here’s how it happens: Wendy meets me at her apartment a little after five. Buoyed by thoughts of going away with Henry, I’ve had a great day. I sent off some new résumés, even reaching new creative heights by actually penning a press release in lieu of a cover letter announcing I’m applying for a job at Center Stage.

  I mean, I got to thinking about naked Fred’s advice—that I’ve been out of the job force for two years—and I realize I need to show rather than tell folks I’m capable of working in a public relations office. So I cranked up the shop’s computer and wrote, in perfect press release format, a phony one announcing my application for the job, including all my qualifications and even a pithy quote from me about how excited I’d be working in a premier arts organization in my native town.

  When Wendy shows up a little late, it’s still not enough to chip away at my good mood. She’s nervous about going to her parents and feeling a little queasy, but she did manage to reach her doctor, who told her to drink ginger ale and eat crackers. She’s late because she stopped to pick up some. While she throws up in the bathroom, I throw things in a bag, then she throws things in a bag and I jump in the shower. But she wants to get going because she’s hoping to get there before it gets too dark since she doesn’t like to drive to Connecticut in the dark. What is “too dark” anyway? If it’s dark, it’s dark. Anyway, I leave out plenty of food and water and litter-box stuff for Trixie, and Wendy and I race out the door together because Henry said he’d be by at six and it’s already six-ten.

  In all the confusion, Wendy forgets to give me her key. And she doesn’t check her voice mail. At least not that I know of. If she did, she forgot to tell me about it.

  And that was Henry who called this morning to tell me he’d be in depositions all day, including one scheduled at five-thirty, so could I meet him at his place at seven and we can leave from there and if I don’t call back, he’ll assume that’s okay.

  When I don’t show up, he tries calling Wendy, gets no answer and starts to fume.

  So he’s fuming at his condo and I’m fuming at Wendy’s apartment building. Our fuming is like twin smokestacks against the Baltimore skyline—decorative in a primitive sort of way but ultimately not good for us.

  Now you’re probably wondering why I waited four hours. Simple—what else was I going to do? I don’t have a phone. I don’t have a way of getting into Wendy’s apartment. And I figure I’ll at least wait until ten before calling Gina because that will give her and Fred a chance to do the horizontal mambo for a few hours.

  At ten-o-five, I’m getting ready to walk to a nearby shop to use the phone when I see Henry’s blue BMW come around the corner. He’s honking the horn and looking annoyed. Grabbing my bag, I jump in before the light turns.

  “Where were you?” we ask simultaneously. Unlike in comedic movies, however, we do not then laugh together uproariously. Instead, we throw accusations as fast as darts from a Ritalin-deprived teen.

  “You said six…”

  “I called…”

  “Why didn’t you try me again…”

  “Weren’t you worried…”

  This fast-paced conversation lasts until we hit the outskirts of the city and is then followed by its natural opposite—stone-cold silence. Silence consumes the drive until we hit the highway but finally is replaced by snappy questions when he turns off near the Bay Bridge.

  “Shouldn’t you…” I point toward the big green sign reading Bay Bridge.

  “We’re staying in Annapolis tonight. Since we got going so late, we can’t take the boat over until the morning. I’m not that good a sailor.”

  “The boat?”

  “I wanted it to be a surprise,” he says, with no good humor in his voice. “I have the keys to Squires’s sailboat.”

  Beautiful Dreamer. I think the name of the boat as he says it. I’ve been on this sailboat with Rick. Clammy hands squeeze my heart and throat. I want to jump out of the car. This is not good.

  More silence ensues until he pulls the car into quaint little Annapolis and drives up to a hotel in the center of town. It occurs to me that this is stupid—we could have stayed at his place for the night and left in the morning for the bay. But I keep this observation to myself. Somehow, I don’t think Henry’s in the mood for canny insights.

  He registers us and we lug our stuff up to a fifth-floor standard-issue hotel room. After examining the bathroom to smell the little soaps and shampoos, I ask Henry if he’s eaten yet. He hasn’t.

  “Want to go to a restaurant or order in?” I ask.

  He looks me up and down. I’m still in my sundress and I’m feeling good the way it hugs my body. My forehead cut has healed to a thin ridge by now and I’ve figured out a way to camouflage it with makeup and hair. I might not be centerfold material like Wendy, but I’m not bad. I’ve got all the right curves in all the right places. Henry appears to be noticing.

  “We can order in.” He sits on the edge of the bed flipping through the room service menu. I crawl behind him and wrap my arms around his shoulders. He kisses my hand and places the call to room service, ordering a steak sandwich for himself and holding out the phone to me so I can place my own order. I ask for a burger and fries.

  “Wait!” Henry shouts before I get off. He takes the phone from me and orders a couple of beers.

  “Don’t want to drink too much,” he says after placing the phone back on the hook. “We should get going early tomorrow.”

  Speaking of getting going, Henry doesn’t waste any time. With his eyes locked on me, he peels off his shirt, revealing his rock-hard pectorals and glistening shoulder muscles. Henry has the body of a street fighter. It oozes strength from every muscle. Bare-chested, he pulls me down on the bed and begins to untie the little string that keeps my sundress in place.

  “Room service will be here soon. They said fifteen minutes.” I am motionless, enjoying the feeling of him enjoying me.

  He nuzzles at my neck and my insides have a meltdown.

  “I can do a lot in fifteen minutes.”

  He’s right. He can do a lot in fifteen minutes, and, with my help, he does. He slides off my dress with a deft hand, undoes his belt buckle with the other, and kisses my face, neck and breasts while I fumble to get his pants off.

  Before I can say “yes, yes, yes,” Henry is inside me and I am saying “yes, yes, yes!”

  This man has talent.

  I’m in the shower and Henry has his pants back on when the food and beer arrive. Both of us are in far better moods when we sit down to eat, so is it the perfect time to spring my former-fiancé sto
ry on him and ruin the whole thing? No can do. Looking at Henry’s happy face as he chews, I nix that idea. Another time will have to do. Maybe during sex. I’ll just casually shout it out.

  “How’s Wendy?” he asks.

  “As good as can be expected. She’s going to see her folks this weekend. I think she’s hitting them up for some money—maybe to go away somewhere.”

  “Didn’t you tell me she’s getting her MBA?”

  “Yeah. Working on it. But she’s dropping her summer classes. They were supposed to start in a couple weeks—end of May.”

  He shakes his head and I can’t help but wonder what he thinks is worse—getting knocked up or having to drop the MBA program.

  “It pays to be careful,” he says, smiling. Henry is meticulously careful when we have sex.

  His comment annoys me. Wendy’s problem isn’t about being careless with a condom, I want to scream. Her problem is about being careless with her heart! Sam’s a schmuck! I wonder how much it would cost to place an ad with that message in the Hopkins newspaper.

  After dinner, we take a leisurely walk along the waterfront and Henry locates the boat. Just seeing it makes my heart clutch a little.

  I don’t like boats that much anyway. I have a fear of heights, you see, and I think of a boat gliding across this deep, deep chasm and that the fall to the bottom is pretty steep—there’s just water in the way. I prefer pools, with their known and graduated depths, where everything is neatly confined to a rectangle of shimmering aquamarine.

  He holds my hand and talks about growing up in New Jersey. It’s the most he’s talked about his past. His mother got a good settlement from his dad, so they didn’t want for anything. He went to a private high school, even learned to ride horses, and was given a Mustang convertible when he graduated in the top tenth of his class. His mother is active in local politics and actually has a law degree but doesn’t practice any longer.

  “How did she meet your father?” I ask.

  “Her senior year in college on some exchange program. She was in Colombia studying Spanish literature.”