Dear Emily (22 page)

Emily woke, her eyes wild as she scrambled from her bed.

She must be out of her mind. Nobody with any sense left a warm bed at three in the morning to go and visit someone else who was sound asleep. And just what in the hell was she going to say when she got there? Listen, Ben, I had this bad dream and I didn’t want to be alone. I have the Queen Mother of all headaches and I need…I need…comfort. Well, hell yes, Ben would absolutely understand that, especially the comfort part. After all, that’s what he’d been doing now for almost two years. Comforting her, making love to her, making her life easier when he could. Ben was her port in a storm. Everyone needed someone like Ben in their life.

Emily parked her car next to Ben’s. She wondered if her stomach was going to rebel. She sat with the window rolled down, drinking in the cold, night air.

The townhouse was dark. Inside she knew there would be a dim nightlight in the kitchen to aid Ben in his nocturnal wanderings looking for sweets. His Achilles’ heel.

Emily let herself into the house, closed her eyes to get her bearings in the dark, and removed her jacket, dropping it by the front door. With the heels of her feet, she kicked off her sneakers.

Cold moonlight sliced into the room through the blinds, outlining the chrome and glass in Ben’s living room. A beer bottle stood out starkly on the coffee table next to a pile of wrappers from a bag of Hershey Kisses. She skirted the table, walked around Ben’s recliner, and made her way to the carpeted stairs. As always, she paused on every third step to stare at the pictures of Ben’s son. One of Ted on his first pony ride, one holding a fish that was almost as big as he was, one of Ted in a pool with his water wings. Her favorite was a snapshot blown up to poster size of Ben and Ted with knapsacks on their backs and wide grins on their faces. Ben was a wonderful father, a wonderful friend, a wonderful lover, a wonderful human being.

Emily stood in the doorway, uncertain if she should call Ben’s name, walk over to the bed, and shake him gently, or just crawl into bed next to him. She shivered, then opted to crawl into the queen-size bed with the brown and white sheets that Ben preferred. She squirmed and snuggled until her backside curved into his stomach.

“Emily?”

“Uh-huh. Sorry if I woke you.”

“What’s wrong. What the hell time is it?”

“Three o’clock, maybe later. I left around three.”

“Are you sick? Is something wrong?” He was wide awake now, propped up on one elbow. Somehow in his maneuverings, he’d turned her around so she was facing him. “Talk to me, Emily.”

“If you were going to give me flowers, Ben, what kind would you give me?”

“You came over here at three in the morning to ask me that? Why didn’t you call? Wait now, don’t take that wrong, it’s okay that you came here. Flowers…Jesus, I don’t know. Colored ones, maybe roses. Maybe those big ones that look like pompoms. This is important to you, isn’t it?”

“I had a bad dream and you were in it. It’s the same dream I always have, but with a few variations.”

“Maybe you should tell me about it,” Ben said, drawing her close.

She told him. There was silence in the bedroom for a long time before Ben spoke. “You need to let go, Emily. I thought when you got your divorce papers, it was all over.”

“I thought so too. I don’t have the dreams as often, but they still come. Especially when I’m tired or stressed out.”

“Part of your dream was true, the part about me. I do love you, Emily. I think I’ll probably always love you. In your heart, in your subconscious, you know that. I can handle it if you don’t love me. It is my…opinion, you won’t ever be able to love anyone until you put Ian behind you. You say you have, but you haven’t, not really. Look, this is going to come at you from left field, but you can, if you want, track Ian down through the AMA and go to wherever he is. I think you need that confrontation. That final ending where you get to say something. I don’t know what that something is. Ted has a saying when we’re at odds. He always says, ‘Dad, I didn’t get up to bat.’ What that means is it can’t be just me talking to him, giving orders. He has a voice and he wants to be heard too. Then, after he has his say, it’s okay for me to exert my parental authority. It works, Emily.”

“Go to see Ian?” Her voice was a harsh whisper.

“I think it’s time to do that.”

“My God, what would I say?”

“Whatever you want. I think it’s safe to say you’ve earned the right to punch his lights out if that’s what you want to do. Of course he might call the cops and you’ll have to deal with spousal abuse or some damn thing. If you decide to do it, you’ll know what to say when the time comes.”

“Do you really think I should do that?”

Ben listened to the excitement creeping into her voice. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes, Emily.”

“Let’s make love, Ben.”

“No.”

“No? Why?”

“Because there’s one person too many in this room. I suggest we go to sleep now and talk some more in the morning. Good night, Emily.”

Emily dutifully closed her eyes, knowing she wasn’t going to fall asleep. Suddenly she wanted to go home, back to her room, the one she’d shared with Ian. She needed to think about what Ben had said. She waited until she was certain Ben was sound asleep before she crept from the bed and let herself out of the townhouse. Before she got back into her car, she looked toward Ben’s bedroom window. She thought she saw him outlined in the moonlight. She waved at the shadow.

It was a quarter to five when Emily carried a cup of tea and her cigarettes to her room. She closed the door, and for some unexplained reason, she locked it.

Aside from the pounding inside her skull, Emily felt buoyant. Ben had just given her permission to seek out Ian. He said she needed to do it, to confront her ex-husband. As if she needed permission. Of course you do, Emily. You could have done it anytime these past years, but you didn’t. You’ve been waiting for someone to tell you it’s okay to do it, which doesn’t say much for you, Emily Thorn. Admit it, you want to see Ian so badly you can taste the feeling. Admit it. Admit it and go on.

Emily started to plan.

A
year later, on the second day of the New Year, Emily Thorn checked into the Plaza Hotel in New York City. She unpacked her bag, then checked the contents of her purse before she locked it in her suitcase. In the pocket of her coat she had a wad of traveler’s checks and forty dollars in cash. Enough to pay for a taxi ride to and from Columbia Presbyterian Medical Center.

Three days before Christmas she’d called the center to make an appointment to consult with a plastic surgeon and was fortunate enough to be given another woman’s canceled appointment for January second to have a face-lift. According to the receptionist, the woman had the flu and had to be rescheduled. Emily had taken the train the day after Christmas, did all of her pretesting, and was home by six o’clock.

Now, here she was. Her heart skipped a beat as she slipped on her coat. She was getting a full face-lift and getting her breasts lifted. Hospital time was three full days, then she would return to the hotel and go back every other day for two weeks until all the sutures and staples were removed. Three more weeks for the bruising and swelling to go down, at which point she could return to New Jersey and try to explain all the lies she’d told everyone. She stared at the mountain of books on the dresser that she planned to read while she hid out. Her eyes burned unbearably as she made her way to the elevator. There are some things you don’t share with anyone and this is one of those things, she told herself.

Emily wasn’t a religious person, but she blessed herself when she entered the hospital. Her surgery was scheduled for noon. It was now 7:30
A.M
.

Surprisingly, there was little pain. Emily slept, drank through a straw, and refused to look in a mirror. When she was discharged three days later, she left the hospital with a colorful Hermes scarf draped half over her face. The bandages had been removed and all she could smell was her own clotted blood. Her hair was matted, glued to her head. The staples felt huge, as if they should be in planks of wood instead of her head. She still didn’t look in the mirror.

The stitches had been removed from her eyes before she left the hospital. Her eyes felt gritty and she felt incredibly dirty for some reason. She bathed, but wasn’t able to wet her face or head.

On the seventh day, the staples were removed and Emily was permitted to wash her hair. She still avoided the mirror and hid in the room, telling room service to leave her food outside the door.

On the tenth day she left the hotel for a walk in Central Park. She sat on a bench and ate a hot dog, the most delicious meal she’d ever eaten. She shared part of the bun with the pigeons who flocked around her feet.

At the end of three weeks, Emily felt confident enough to leave the hotel and venture into the Manhattan stores, where she bought six frilly bras with an underwire, bikini panties, and two Donna Karan suits.

At the end of the fourth week, with most of the swelling and all of the bruising gone, Emily made an appointment at Elizabeth Arden for The Works, with the stipulation that her hair be cut in a room without a mirror.

On the forty-second day, the surgeon discharged her. Emily felt like singing. Five weeks and she was a new person.

Two more days before she was to return to the house on Sleepy Hollow Road.

Dressed in one of the Donna Karan suits, sporting a fashionable haircut, her feet shod in Louis Jourdan shoes, Emily closed her briefcase, which held a list of corporations she planned to visit that day.

Now it was time to look in the mirror. She inched her way into the bathroom, her eyes squeezed shut. Now was the moment. She opened her eyes, stared, then burst out laughing. The surgeon had somehow, miraculously, erased ten years. With a skillful application of makeup, she could erase another five. “Emily Thorn, you are a little devil!” she chortled. The makeup went on with sure, deft strokes. Not too much, less is more, she cautioned herself. Done. She smiled. The Emily Thorn in the mirror smiled back.

Earrings. The last and final touch. She’d brought them with her—wide, thick, solid gold hoops she’d bought herself one year for Christmas when she was still married to Ian. She’d never worn them because they never seemed to go with any outfit she wore and her hair was long then, shrouding the elegant earrings. “You are one classy-looking chick, Emily.” She twirled for the benefit of the Emily in the mirror, then she laughed, a sound so rich in happiness she wanted to cry with the sheer delight she was feeling. “I’m me again. I really am me again.”

Emily sat down on the edge of the bathtub. All the bad was suddenly washed away. Her shoulders were lighter, her smile radiant. I earned this moment.

Emily was aware of the coveted looks she received in the elevator, more aware of the looks she received when she strode through the lobby. The limo she’d hired for the day to take her from place to place was waiting at the curb. She stepped into it, the smile never leaving her face.

If possible, her smile was even more radiant at four o’clock when she stepped from the limo and walked into a fiber-optic firm, whose headquarters were between Madison and Park Avenues.

Emily handed her business card to the receptionist and was ushered into Keith Mangrove’s office immediately. “I can give you exactly ten minutes, Miss Thorn. That is all you said you needed. Is that right?”

“Yes, Mr. Mangrove, that’s all the time I need. Come with me, please. I want a five-minute tour of your facility.” She was moving out the door, down the hall past a large open room and then down a corridor with mini-offices staffed by women who appeared to be middle-aged. “I think it’s commendable of you to hire middle-aged women. Their children are grown, and they’ve elected to go back into the work force to help with college and to buy that vacation home. Tell me what you see, Mr. Mangrove?”

“Women working.”

“What else?”

“Nothing else. Am I missing something here?”

“Yes.” Emily looked at her watch. “Work productivity at this hour of the day is slow. The women appear to be sluggish. How many candy bars and soft drinks do you see on the desks? Look at the women. How many of them can stand to drop ten or fifteen pounds? You have a wide range of porkers in here, Mr. Mangrove. I can use that word because I used to be one of those porkers. When I leave, I suggest you make this tour again, slowly, get a feel for it. And by the way, I have the perfect exercise that can take three inches off
your
waistline.”

Emily looked at her watch again, turned on her heel, and started back the way she’d come. “We have a program called Lunch Hour Physical Fitness. We install and maintain our exercise equipment. You pay for the lease. Our rates aren’t competitive because we don’t have any competition. We are however, reasonable. We guarantee a twenty-five percent productivity rise within the first six months. My staff can be here in seven days. You can be operational in ten days. If you go along with this, I’d suggest you make the program mandatory for your employees. Time’s up.” Emily handed a thin envelope to Mangrove and prepared to leave the office. “You can reach me at the Plaza until tomorrow morning. Or you can call the corporate office in New Jersey. Or if you want to, just call and find out how to take off those three inches.” Emily was in the reception room. She tilted her head, knowing full well Mangrove was behind her. “Ask her how much overweight she is,” she whispered.

“Wait, I have a few more minutes,” Mangrove said. “Miss Devers, how overweight are you?” he blurted out.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Mangrove. That’s a bit personal, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t think any such thing. Answer the question, please. I don’t want you snacking on that caramel corn anymore either.”

“You gave it to me, Mr. Mangrove,” the woman sputtered. “Sixteen pounds,” she whispered. Emily grinned.

“Wait a minute, Miss Thorn, I have a few more minutes.”

“But I don’t, Mr. Mangrove. I said ten minutes and I’m a woman of my word.” When she walked through the doors, she heard him say, “That caramel corn was for clients to snack on.”

In the limo, Emily kicked off her shoes and poured herself a glass of wine from the console. She was so certain she’d locked up all six corporations that she drank to her own success. Wait until she told the others and Ben. They were going to be as delirious as she was. If all six corporations signed on, they were going to be $400,000 richer in a year’s time. If they sold their freeze-dried food, she could double it in a year. She poured a second glass of wine. When she finished it, she asked the driver how far they were from the hotel.

“Eight, ten minutes, depending on traffic,” was the response.

“Good, let me out here. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

Standing on the sidewalk, Emily squelched the urge to throw her arms in the air and shout. Instead she gave her skirt an imaginary twist, tugged at her jacket, and started off down the street. Strut, Emily. You earned this too.

When she reached the Plaza, she was grinning from ear to ear. She eyed the doorman for one split second before she made a wide, dizzying circle and then slapped her knees in glee, to the doorman’s amusement. “I don’t think it gets any better than this,” she said, laughing in delight. People smiled at her, enjoying her happiness.

“It’s my turn at bat,” she called over her shoulder.

She laughed again when someone shouted, “Make sure it’s a home run.”

She was going home in just a few hours. The anticipation was almost more than she could stand as she tried to envision the looks on the girls’ faces and then seeing Ben’s reaction. Lord, she’d missed them all so very much. She wished now that she’d called at least once, but that would have ruined everything. These last six weeks were something she had to go through alone with no support from anyone. Even now as she packed her bags with all her new purchases, she wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing, but it was a done deed.

She’d deliberately timed her arrival for the dinner hour so she could make her grand entrance. Originally, the plan was to leave early in the morning and arrive home as everyone was getting ready to leave, but she wanted to do some last-minute shopping for the women and Ben as well.

Emily looked at the list on the bed of things she still had to do. At the top of the list was a call to Mangrove at the fiber-optics firm to set up an appointment for Ben, get valuables and traveler’s checks from the safe downstairs, check out, call to be sure the limo was on time, then have her bags and boxes carried downstairs. Allowing for traffic, she should arrive home at approximately 6:30. Dinner would be under way, the women buzzing about the kitchen. God, she was excited. She’d plop down, they’d all, as in one, demand details, every single one, and then they’d
ooohh
and
aaahhh
over her new face and hairdo. Maybe she wouldn’t mention the breast lift. Over dessert she’d give them their presents—Chanel handbags—and again listen to the
ooohhs
and
aaahhs.
When the kitchen was cleaned up and they had their last cup of coffee and were all talked out, she’d go over to Ben’s and get his reaction. He’d look at her, grin from ear to ear, scoop her up in his arms and say, This can’t be the Emily Thorn I know and love. She’d squeal and say, Yes, yes, it’s me. They’d rip off each other’s clothes and head for the bedroom, where they would make slow, lazy love for hours. Everything was going to be so wonderful. Wonderful because it was Valentine’s Day.

“Perfecto!” Emily chortled. “I might even accept Ben’s proposal this time. She looked at the special box on the bed that held Ben’s valentine gift and one for his son Ted.

The limo driver said, “Are you sure this is where you want me to drop you off?”

“I’m positive. I’ll walk down the driveway. Just unload the bags and boxes by the mailbox. I’ll take them in later. This is sort of a surprise visit. If I go clunking down the driveway or they see your headlights, it won’t be a surprise.” She handed over a generous tip even though she knew a tip was included in the chit she’d signed earlier. She didn’t care.

She was home. Really home. For the first time in years she really felt like this house on Sleepy Hollow Road was hers; truly hers. Inside where it was warm, her family waited, and less than five miles away her lover waited. “All good things come to those who wait,” she murmured.

Emily sucked in her breath and let it out slowly. Her breathing quickened, exploding in hard little puffs of vapor. Until now, she hadn’t been aware of just how cold it was. Dark and cold. She was also aware for the first time of all the cars parked on the side of the road and in her driveway. She counted six strange cars. What did it mean? Her feet refused to move. She shivered inside her new cashmere coat. She began to feel a curl of fear in her stomach.

Overhead the stars sparkled, the moon a half slice, beaming down directly in the driveway. The sodium vapor lamps on the street cast everything, even the shrubs with their heavy coat of frost, into steely blue objects. Hard and cold. As hard and cold as she felt.

Emily started down the driveway, weaving her way in and out of the parked cars, strange cars she’d never seen before.

Scorching an anger rivered through her when she turned her heel over, knowing full well she’d broken it. She felt her gloved hands turn into clenched fists. This was her house. What the hell was going on here? She looked for her car, saw it three cars ahead, blocked in completely. How was she to get to Ben’s? She couldn’t even take one of her friends’ cars because the strange cars were blocking them in too. “Shit!”

Something was wrong, either with her or inside the well-lit house. She hadn’t felt anger like this since the day she’d received Ian’s termination letter. Now, like then, she felt terminated, displaced.

Emily walked around to the back of the house and up to the kitchen door. She peered through the glass. The table wasn’t set, but the kitchen was a mess. They must be eating in the dining room. They never ate in the dining room. Not even on holidays. Instead of opening the kitchen door, she walked around to the front of the house which would give her a clear view of the dining room. She took another deep breath before she advanced far enough on the walkway to afford her a clear view. Emily blinked at the strange faces seated at her dining room table. Men! Seven of them! Seated next to her friends. Boy, girl, boy, girl. They were laughing and joking as they ate. Turkey, the carcass almost picked clean. A valentine party. In her house. The women were dressed up, the strange men in suits. Nice-looking men, all of whom wore white shirts. Emily swayed dizzily. She gave herself a mental shake. When she opened her eyes again, the rotund gentleman seated next to Helen Demster leaned over and kissed her cheek. Emily gasped. Helen Demster, admitted virgin, smiled coyly. Her twin laughed aloud. The others smiled benignly. A twin of the rotund man blew in Rose’s ear. “Oh my God,” Emily gasped a second time.