Marrying Up (27 page)

He stares at me sadly. “I can’t undo the past, Holly. And I wouldn’t want to.”

“I understand that. It’s a part of who you are…” I touch his chest, just over his heart.

“Ohhh…so
that’s
what this is about!? My beach ball?”

“Yeah. Your beach ball.”

“I got it because that’s what I needed to do at the time. I
was…afraid I’d forget. Now I know that I never will, with or without the tattoo.”

“I don’t know if I can compete with that, Remy. As much as I’m tempted to…”

For a change, he doesn’t have such a quick answer. He just sort of sits there.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to upset you, but it’s been on my mind….”

“Don’t be sorry, Holly. I guess I haven’t thought much about what it must be like for you. I can understand how it probably seems hard or weird or whatever. And you’re right—I
will
always love Sylvia. I guess all I can say is that it was like, I don’t know, another lifetime. That’s how I look at it. I died when she died, only I was born again. So, yeah, she’s gone. But I’m still here, even though some days it’s not easy.”

“And no one should ever ask you or even expect you to get over her. But you also have to understand that I want to be with someone who thinks of me as their first choice, not an experiment in moving on. I think I’d always feel like I was in her shadow.”

“You know, you cast a pretty tall shadow yourself.”

I link my fingers through his and squeeze. “Thanks. That’s very sweet.”

“I’m not trying to be sweet! I just want you to see how losing my wife five years ago doesn’t mean I should be single forever. I’m not ruined, I’m just a widower. Yes, it’s weird. I know. I get it. But so what? Deal with it! I’ve been through counseling and I think I’ve invested enough in the whole process to be sufficiently aware of my own motivations and limitations and I know that I’m not looking for a replacement for Sylvia or anything sad or pathetic like that. I just want what everybody else wants—to hook up with the right person. For the occasional conversation and lots and lots of sex! But if you feel like you can’t deal with me or my big
scary past because of your own trust or self-esteem issues or whatever, then you only have yourself to blame. So thanks, but I think I
do
know my own heart, Holly. It may be bruised, but it’s still beating. Oh—and in case you were wondering, you have plenty of shitty baggage yourself.”

He leans back against the headboard and folds his arms over his chest, pleased with himself for having figured it out yet again and tied it all up in a neat little package. I have to hand it to him, though. The guy knows exactly who he is.

Maybe, just maybe, Remy really is ready to move on.

“You’ve been to therapy? Wow! I must say that I’m quite impressed. So tell me—which school do you prefer? Being an anxiety-prone phobic with a tinge of O.C.D., I’m a fan of the behaviorists, myself, although I can’t say that I’ve ever really committed wholeheartedly to a true course of psychoanalysis….”

“Holly!”

“I’m just teasing! I hear you, Remy. I
get
it. And you’re right, of course, as usual. But how do I know you’re not going to flake out on me some day?”

“Technically, you don’t. But so what?”

“But what if every time I see the beach ball, I’m reminded—”

“Tough shit. It’s a part of me. And so is Fleabiscuit, by the way. The cat stays in the picture!”

I must have pouted unintentionally.

“Come here. Closer… Okay. Now listen carefully, because this is as much commitment as you’re going to get from me for now, and I reserve the right to deny having said it. But since you obviously have such a
huge
problem with this whole beach ball thing, I will say this. Just because I already have one tattoo doesn’t mean there isn’t room for a new one some day, provided the right woman inspires me.”

My heart leaps. “Really? You’d get a ‘Holly’ tattoo?”

“Actually, I was thinking maybe one that says ‘Mom.’”

“Very funny.”

“Who’s joking?”

“But…”

“But what, my little nut job?”

“But the spot over your heart is taken.”

“My pecs are huge. There’s still lots of room…. Oh, for God’s sake! I’m laying it on the line here, Holly! What more do you want? Are you trying to get me to say that I love you? Because I won’t!”

“That’s not what I meant!” I hit him with a pillow.

“There’s green stuff on my shirt now. Thanks.” He smacks me back with the pillow. Hard.

“Watch it—I’m feeling very fragile.”

“Too fragile for this?” he asks, and kisses me on the cheek. Mud mask and all.

“No. That’s fine.”

“What about this?” He kisses me on the mouth.

“I guess that’s okay, too.”

The guy is irresistible; there’s no sense in fighting it any longer. As George would say, “Resistance is futile.” It’s a line some creepy
Star Trek
aliens gave to their terrified prey before assimilating them into robots, which is not unlike how I feel at the moment—in the grips of something much bigger than me, and about to be changed forever. But in a good way, of course.

“Hey, I have an idea! Maybe if you stare at my chest for long enough, you’ll become desensitized….”

He starts to take off his T-shirt, but I stop him. The last thing I need is his body clouding my judgment.

“Actually, I think part of the problem is that I feel like I don’t know anything about your old life. Maybe that’s why I find it so threatening. So…do you think you could tell me about it?”

“Uh…does this mean we’re not having sex now?”

I wipe a smear of mud off his cheek with my thumb. “Yes, Remy. It does.”

“Fine,” he sighs. “Are you sure you want to hear this stuff?”

“Yes, if you don’t mind telling me.”

“Of course not. I suppose it’ll do me some good, too.”

And so he tells me all about her.

Maybe the rarest love of all, grand enough and certain enough to survive anything life can throw at two people, isn’t really so rare. My mother and father have it. Cole and Olivia have it. Asher and Zoe do, too. George and Max? Quite likely. I have no idea if Remy and Sylvia had it, but I hope so for his sake, and for hers.

If true love is the child of chance, destiny makes not one bit of difference. I know from watching the people around me that it isn’t always pretty or perfect, that it isn’t always called true love, that sometimes it’s just called commitment. But I also know that often it works, and when it works, it lasts, and when it lasts you can count on it. And
that’s
what counts, doesn’t it? Soul mates, high-school sweethearts, arranged marriages, second marriages, no marriage at all, two men, two women, three of each, May-December romances, mail-order brides, shotgun weddings, Moneyed Mates, online lovers…what does it matter? As long as it’s working for you, it’s true love.

As for me, who’s to say if I deserve to find true love or any love, or whether it’s something a person can deserve at all. More likely, it all hinges on the willingness to receive it—a concept that takes some getting used to. Remy brings out the best in me, makes me like myself, and want to be a better person. I’d be a fool to hold out on a technicality or two. I love him, whether he loved someone else before me or not,
whether he’s gorgeous or not, whether
I’m
gorgeous or not, whether he has a tattoo of a beach ball on his chest or a sprig of holly on his butt.

Because waiting for the One is hard enough without holding out for the Only.

My Soul Mate Next Door

G
eorge slides into the booth precisely at noon. Although she moved out three weeks ago, it feels like I see her now more than ever.

“So, I finally told her!” she says as she looks over the menu. “Did I get the chef’s salad last time or the Hunter salad? I can’t remember. One had olives and the other had those little oranges….”

“I have no idea, G. Told who what?”

“Chloe! About me and Max!”

“Oh! So how did she take it?”

“She was surprised, all right! But she likes me, you know, so she warmed up to the idea pretty quickly. I told her the entire story, pointing out how it was kind of her fault we hooked up in the first place because she made him go to that launch party the night we met. At the end I just said, ‘Look, Chloe, I love your son and he loves me. Please don’t fire me!’
She thought that was pretty funny. God, I can’t believe I was so worried!”

“Wait—where was Max?”

“He thought it would be better if he wasn’t there. She’s a very domineering woman. He’s still working through it with his therapist, but he’s just not ready for a confrontation yet.” She rolls her eyes and spits her gum out into a napkin. “The funny thing is, it was Chloe who insisted he go see someone to begin with. It was supposed to be career counseling at first, but then he started getting into all these deeper issues…you know how it is. Anyway, I’m surprised she’s still paying for it, frankly, considering they haven’t spoken in months.”

“What is it with all these West Coast men and their mothers?”

She waves me off. “Oh, all the good ones have a thing with their mothers. Strong women raise sons who respect them, sometimes a little too much. It’s mostly a positive quality, though—they treat women well and they usually know how to do the right thing. Guilt is a powerful motivator. Believe me, I know.”

“Well, at least you guys are out of the closet now. Maybe you can help them reconcile, now that it’s officially your business.”

“Oh, I will. After what he did for me and my moms, I’m definitely planning a little revenge intervention. I invited her over for dinner next week. Max doesn’t know yet, but…”

George shares every detail of the menu she’s planned, along with an exhaustive history of Max’s relationship with Chloe so that I understand exactly how momentous an event it will be. It isn’t until the waitress sets the cheesecake down in front of me that I can finally get a word in edgewise.

“By the way, I got a request for a full,” I tell her.

“What? When?”

“Last Monday.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I’m telling you now. But it doesn’t matter anyway because I’m not going to do it.”

Her big eyes grow even bigger with surprise. “Excuse me? Did I just hear you say that you’re turning down the chance to write your book? The book that was going to make you rich and famous? The book that was going to turn you into the writer you’ve always wanted to be? The book that’s actually the
reason
we’re sitting here in this diner a million miles from Buffalo? Are you kidding me?! Why on
earth
…”

“Take it easy, G! I’m just changing my idea.”

“Oh. To what?”

“Promise you won’t laugh, okay?”

“Okay, fine. To what?”

“Finding true love.”

“Oh, Holly. Are you serious?”

“Yeah. I’ve made up my mind.”

She smiles warmly. “So you’re going to trade a millionaire for a soul mate, huh?”

“Yup. I’ve already got the main research down.”

“You do?”

“I sure do. And I even have a working title—
The Soul Mate Next Door: Seeing the Love in Front of Your Face.

“Well, that sounds nice. Too bad no cute guys live next door, huh?”

I push soggy strawberries around on my plate (fruit can ruin a perfectly good piece of cheesecake if you’re not careful) and wait for a better reaction.

“Are you going to eat those?” she asks, picking them off one by one. “Berries are the preferred fruit option for Phase Two of the South Beach Diet, you know.”

“Even when they’re covered with sugar and jelly?”

She sticks her tongue out at me. It’s bright red. “Well, you don’t have to follow it exactly.”

“So do you like my title?” I ask her.

“Sure.
The Soul Mate Next Door.
Sounds good. Didn’t I say so?”

I smile, and she stares at me, confused, until it dawns on her what I’m really saying.

“
Oh! My! God! Remy?
You mean Remy?”

“Yes.”

She actually gets up out of her seat and begins to jump up and down. “I knew it! He was so mean and nasty to you it
had
to be love. And you guys were
so
totally all over each other from day one! It was like, get a room already!”

“We were?”

“Weren’t you?”

“Come to think of it, I guess we were,” I marvel.

Being in a relationship with Remy is something simultaneously strange and perfect. By the end of September, seeing him outside of our house doesn’t feel odd anymore. Now, when we walk down the street holding hands, having girls stare at him, then at me, then back at him is something I’ve grown to enjoy.

At first, he would meet me every day in the park near my office, where we would talk or make out under a tree. (I took the longest lunches I could without having Cinda think I’d walked off the job.) But now that the honeymoon’s over, we usually just go eat at the Burger King down the street. It doesn’t sound romantic, because it isn’t really, but it suits me fine, anyway, since it was there that he first told me he loved me over a Double Whopper with Cheese. Just like that.

That was a good day. The best, actually.

And every day since then, I continue to be amazed by what a difference a year makes. The hard part is the first step. After that, things will just sort of fall into place if you let them. As for that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, it isn’t love,
even though that’s what I happened to have found there, too. Nor is it an engagement ring, or a book contract, or Flipper’s autograph, or breast implants, or even the gold itself. The reward is simply the peace that comes from leaving the doom and gloom behind. A chance to enjoy the process of becoming who you are. Getting happy. And to think—sometimes all it takes to make such an amazing thing happen is an ill-conceived plan, a plane ticket or two and a huge leap of faith.

Today is shaping up to be another good day.

At precisely 2:18 in the afternoon, something wonderful occurs: I finally reach the end of Volume A, the first of the two prototypes Cinda will need to land a commission for a full set of encyclopedias and, possibly, make a long-standing dream come true. But right beside the last line of the entry on the ancient Aztecs, I see something—the Post-it I remember praying I’d never lay eyes on again:
“It’s official! This job sucks.”

This job still sucks. That much is true. But now I can see that it sucks in a good way. I know more about Aardvarks and AIDS and the Antebellum South and Saint Thomas Acquinas than I ever thought possible. And as long as I stick to the schedule, Cinda doesn’t mind if I work on my own book when the inspiration strikes.

I pick up the phone.

“Cinda? I’m ready for it!”

Within seconds, she’s at my door bearing a huge stack of copy.

“Here it is!” she says proudly.

I motion for her to come over and she deposits the pages on my desk.

With a deep breath, I look down at the first word on the first page.

“Zaire.” I say aloud.

“A beautiful country. At least, it looks that way to me.”

“What about Zagreb?”

“I’ll put it in with Croatia.”

“Can you do that?”

“I can do whatever I want. It’s my encyclopedia!”

“Fair enough.”

She turns to leave, but changes her mind and comes around the desk to give me a hug instead. “We’re halfway there, Holly! In a few months,
Z
will be done. Can you believe it? Gosh, I better start learning that Quark program. I don’t think we have the budget to keep that freelance layout person after all, so it looks like you and I are going to be the new art department. We’ll design
Z
on our own! Sound good?”

“Sounds great.”

Her enthusiasm is contagious.

I search through the many zippered compartments of my bag, feeling around for something I know must still be there—something I haven’t seen in a really long time—but my purse is like a graveyard for every bit of paper ever issued to me.

At last, I find the tattered square folded up inside the receipt for a golf lesson at the Ritz-Carlton Golf Resort in Naples ($140 an hour! What was I thinking?). I open it up carefully and begin to read…

Hastings, Holly.
1975–2060. Passed away of chronic liver disease on Friday, December 31, 2060, alone again on New Year’s Eve, since she didn’t have a date, and hadn’t in many, many years. She was 85….

I take a fresh red pen out of the box in my drawer and begin to make some changes.