Authors: Holly Chamberlin

Babyland (25 page)

BOOK: Babyland

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Necessity

“W
ho is this Charlie Nestrowitz?”

Ross called me at my office the next day to tell me he was adding someone to the guest list.

“He's a major player, Anna. Dad's been watching this guy for a few years now. We've finally made a move, and he bit. If we work hard enough we can reel him in before the end of the year.”

Suddenly, I was so tired of Ross's corporate speak. Mr. Nestrowitz was a human being, not a fish.

“He comes with a wife, I suppose?”

“Of course.”

“And we absolutely have to invite them to our wedding?”

“Yes, Anna,” Ross said, “we have to invite them. Look, it's not as if we've done a seating plan yet. The invitations haven't even gone out. I don't understand why you can't get on board with this.”

On board? Ah, yes, wedding reception as corporate maneuver.

“But I've never met him, Ross,” I argued. “It's not like he's a friend or someone you've worked with for some time. Weddings should be about friends and family. Why can't you just take him to dinner or to a show?”

“I have taken him to dinner, Anna,” Ross explained patiently. “No doubt Rob and I will take him to dinner a few more times before September. But Dad thinks it's a tactical move to invite him to a family event.”

Who does Mr. Davis think he is, I thought angrily. A don? He just wants to show off. He wants this Charlie Nestrowitz to see just how much money he has and how everybody adores and idolizes him.

When I said nothing, Ross went on. “Anna,” he said. It sounded as if he were speaking more closely into the phone. “If we get Charlie's business we'll be able to sell the loft in less than a year and buy one twice the size. We'll be able to get an upgrade on the diamond. Trust me, being nice to this guy will pay off in the end.”

I thought, Kissing his ass, you mean. I said, “Fine. Give me his address.”

The Introduction

I
walked into the restaurant at exactly seven o'clock and scanned the bar. There was a man seated alone at the far end. And although Alexandra hadn't described Luke in any great detail, I just knew this man was him. My friend's famous Mystery Lover.

He looked nervous. If he'd been lounging with an arm thrown over the back of his chair and a toothpick hanging out of his mouth, I would have been furious with him.

As it was, I was furious with Alexandra. I'll kill her, I thought. I'll kill her for being late and forcing me to spend time alone with this man I don't know and am not sure I want to know.

You could sneak out, I told myself. He hasn't seen you yet. You could wait around the corner until Alexandra arrives. Why did you show up on time, anyway? You know she always keeps you waiting!

Too late. The man had seen me and was giving me the same curious but tentative look I was now giving him. I took a breath and walked the length of the bar to where he sat.

“Luke?” I said.

“Anna?” He sounded a bit relieved.

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” I said, and extended my hand.

“The pleasure,” he said, taking my hand, “is all mine. Really. I know this must be awkward for you. It certainly is for me. Thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for being straightforward.”

Luke pulled out a stool for me. “Would you like something to drink?” he asked.

I ordered a seltzer with lime. And we looked at each other.

“So,” he said.

“So,” I replied.

“There you are!”

I whirled around to see Alexandra striding toward us, all smiles. “Why don't we sit at this little table? It'll be easier to talk.”

Luke practically jumped from his stool to greet her. I lowered my eyes as they kissed hello. In a moment we were seated at the table.

“You were late,” I said.

Alexandra grinned. “Luke hates the fact that I'm always late.”

“Twelve minutes late.” Luke and I said it completely in sync.

“He thinks it's passive-aggressive of me.” Alexandra eyed us both, waiting.

“So do I,” I blurted.

“So why didn't you ever say anything?” she demanded. “I've told you that I think your constantly checking your watch is obsessiveâcompulsive.”

I smiled brightly and falsely. “Alexandra,” I said, “I think your always being late is passive-aggressive.”

Alexandra nodded, satisfied. “Thank you for sharing your opinion.”

“She has control issues,” Luke stage-whispered to me, and I laughed.

So far so good, I thought.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Luke said when we'd ordered drinks.

“Yes. Thanks.”

“A wedding and a baby. You must be very busy.”

I notedâhow could I not?âthat Luke hadn't said I must be very happy. How much had Alexandra told him about my increasingly disturbing dreams? How much of her low opinion of Ross had she shared?

“Not much more than usual,” I said lightly.

Alexandra smiled at me blandly. I thought back to when she'd asked me to join them that night. She hadn't invited Ross. I hadn't even considered bringing him.

While the lovebirds caught up on their days, I surreptitiouslyâI hopedâexamined Alexandra's beau.

He's handsome, I noted, but not perfect. His earlobes are a bit long. When he gets old they'll be sweeping his shoulders. Okay, his hair is great. And his eyes are dreamy. But he is a bit short for Alexandra. And his laugh is rather loud.

And then I looked at Alexandra's face and it was like watching Elizabeth Taylor gazing at Richard Burton; Heloise contemplating Abelard; Juliet swooning over Romeo. And I wondered why I was picking apart this man she so totally adored.

Because I wanted to understand why he was so special to my friend. But of course the answers wouldn't be found only in his appearance. And of course they could only be fully known to Alexandra.

But I could try to see some of what moved her. I needed to because I was still wary of this person who demanded such devotion from someone I had thought so impervious to love.

I wondered, Was Alexandra a weak person because she was in love? Or was she really far stronger than I had ever been? Love required sacrifice; it demanded selflessness; it needed unwavering commitment. Love, I thought, is very, very hard. For Alexandra it had involved years of quiet sacrifice for one unspectacular person. But maybe that's what true love is all about, I thought. Seeing the spectacular in an average human being and living accordingly for him.

Are we only fully alive when we're loved?

I suddenly felt parched and took a long drink of water. Sitting there with Alexandra and Luke, I was forced, one again, to face the truth that Ross, the man I was going to marry, the father of my unborn child, was not the great love of my life. And by accepting Ross's proposal of marriage I'd effectively eliminated my chances for a great love in my future.

That's okay, I told myself again while the lovebirds cooed on. Over-the-top, erotically charged romance simply isn't in the cards for you. It's simply not your fate to experience intense passion. You, Anna, are just one of those women who are unlucky in great love.

I wondered, Then what was I lucky in? Mediocre love? And what, I thought, was wrong with that?

“Earth to Anna!”

Alexandra's voice called me back to life. I smiled embarrassedly at Luke.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “Something I just remembered, about a job ...”

“You really should try to relax,” Alexandra scolded. “Here, honey, try some of this patÃ©; it's fabulous.”

Luke passed the plate of bread. The conversation turned to health insurance and then to the upcoming show at the MFA. I tried to participate, but one powerful thought kept nagging at my brain. What ifâjust think, Anna!âwhat if great, passionate love, the kind that's eluded you for all these years, is finally here, right in front of you, waiting to be embraced?

The thought was terrifying. Don't be an idiot, Anna, I chided. You've made your decision. And you'll stick with it.

But thoughts of Jack Coltrane would not go away.

Knock Down, Drag Out

I
woke the next morning feeling as if I'd swallowed a watermelon whole. It wasn't just an average case of gas; it was Pregnant Woman indigestion. I defy anyone to be in a good mood with a giant hand grenade in her stomach, especially on an unseasonably warm day. Eight o'clock a.m. and the temperature was already eighty, and the humidity was seventy-six percent; The Weather Channel predicted thunderstorms that evening.

How, I wondered, toddling to the bathroom, am I going to survive being pregnant in August if I feel so bad in May? Briefly I considered working from home (my computers were linked) where I could turn up the air conditioning full blast and avoid the boiling streets. And then I remembered I'd left an important e-mail address on the desk in my office. And that I'd promised to drop off a book of Susan Sontag essays to Jack in his studio.

Of course, I could have called to postpone the visit. But I wanted to see Jack. I wanted to hear his critical take on the senator who'd just been indicted on racketeering charges. I wanted to see the pictures he'd taken that day at the arboretum, when I'd effectively hid from him. I wanted to talk with him about the Sontag book. I wanted to talk with Jack about everything.

I wanted to see his face.

“You don't look very good,” Jack said when I showed up around eleven o'clock.

I gave him a patently false smile. “I don't feel very good.”

“What's wrong? Do you feel sick?”

“Something like that. Trust me, you don't want to know.”

Jack gestured toward the small refrigerator by his desk. “Do you want some water? Sorry it's not cooler in here. The AC is acting up. A service guy is supposedly coming this afternoon. Or next month.”

“Yes,” I said, “thanks.” I hoped I could drink it without burping in his face.

Jack grabbed a cold bottle of Dasani, opened it, and handed it to me. “I see your fiancÃ© got his name in print again,” he said.

I took a long swig of water before saying, “Really? I haven't seen a paper today. I haven't even read the news on-line. Do you have the
Globe
?”

“It's not in the
Globe
,” he said flatly.

I felt a trickle of sweat at my temples. I hoped I'd brought along my finishing powder. “Okay,” I said. “What paper then?”

Jack picked up an oversized magazine from his desk and thrust it at me.

“Ross is in
Outrageous
?”
Outrageous
is a black-and-white weekly that chronicles the nightlife of Boston's wealthier swingers, aspiring socialites, wilder athletes, visiting models, and other dubious luminaries. “I didn't know you read anything so vapid. Do you know there are an average of five typos or misspellings or obvious grammatical errors per page? I've counted.”

Jack grimaced. “I have to keep up on what my clients are doing on their off-hours. Believe me,” he said, “I don't enjoy it.”

The truth was I didn't enjoy the magazine much, either. It really was a rag, but it was an essential rag for those of us in the media-friendly professions. With some trepidation I opened the magazine.

“I'll save you some time,” Jack said. “Page thirty-five.”

I opened to page thirty-five; a trickle of sweat plopped from my brow onto one of the four pictures of my party-hopping fiancÃ©. The photos were dated; they had all been taken over the past few weeks. Ross at dinner with a man I recognized as a celebrity defense attorney; Ross in a bar deep in conversation with one of the most infamous members of the Red Sox; Ross in a tuxedo, at a charity event, posing with several members of the unofficial club of wealthy Boston businessmen; and finally, Ross at a nightclub, dancingâRoss danced?âwith an unnamed buxom blonde who might not have been of legal drinking age.

There really was nothing damning about the photographs. There were no babes sticking their tongues down Ross's throat; he and his dance partner were feet apart from each other. There was no suggestive copy. There was also no mention of Ross's fiancÃ©.

“So?” I said, looking back up to Jack. “Socializing is an important part of Ross's business.”

“It's an important part of your business, too, but you don't make a fool of yourself doing it.”

“Ross doesn't make a fool of himself.” I pointed at the four pictures. “Do you see him doing anything foolish in these pictures? Do you?”

Jack laughed bitterly. “I see him prostituting himself for his daddy's money, which it seems is all he's fit to do.”

I stood there, sweating, trembling; I thought I would throw up; I thought I would pass out. Finally, I found my voice.

“Why did you even have to show me this stupid magazine?” I said. “So you could antagonize me? So you could try to embarrass me? Look, Jack, it's my life. Why don't you just let me live it?”

“Because you're not doing a very good job of it,” he snapped.

“What?” I cried. “How dare you! What gives you the right to talk to me this way?”

Jack didn't answer. His mouth was tight; his eyes were black.

“Look,” I said, “I don't want to hear another word about Ross. I mean it, Jack. I've listened to your obnoxious opinions for too long.”

“If you really were listening,” he began. “Forget it.”

Jack turned away, and I did something I'd never done before. I grabbed his arm and yanked. He turned back; the look on his face was unreadable. I was horrified; I was furious.

“No,” I said. “I don't want to forget it. What were you going to say? That if I were really listening I would have what? Reconsidered my marriage based on the opinion of a forty-five-year-old bachelor who knows nothing about what it takes to make a relationship?”

“Annaâ”

“You're despicable,” I shouted. “I hate you for making me feel so horrible!”

And suddenly, it was as if I'd slapped him in the face. He seemed to deflate from an angry, self-righteous jerk to a confused, penitent man. “I didn't want to make you feel bad, Anna,” he said, voice low.

“Then what did you want?” I challenged. “How did you expect me to react to your so-called constructive criticism?”

“I didn't think,” he said. “I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

Oddly enough, I believed him. Jack isn't a liar. I believed he was sorry for hurting me. But at that moment, his apology, no matter how sincere, didn't mean a thing.

“Apology not accepted,” I snapped. “I'm leaving. Here's the book I promised you.” I flung the Sontag book on his desk and marched toward the door. Wisely, Jack didn't try to stop me by word or outstretched hand. Once on the sidewalk I stopped to breathe; I sat for a minute on the stone steps of the building, blinking against the brutal sun until I was calm enough to pull my sunglasses from my bag.

I felt like such a fool, such a bloated, gassy, sweating fool. I'd actually been thinking romantic thoughts about Jack. I'd actually thought he might have romantic feelings for me. Idiot. Stupid hormones! They'd made me into someone I hardly recognized.

The air was thick; it felt dirty. I'd take a nice cool shower the moment I got home. I'd try to forget the awful scene that had just taken place.

And I'd think about the baby. At least I had the baby. And that made me very, very happy.

BOOK: Babyland

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