Mine Are Spectacular! (27 page)

“Sure,” I tell her. Am I the only one not going out tonight? But I'm glad to have Skylar who's more and more fun to have around now that we're getting along. And, joking, I add, “You're definitely welcome if you let me touch that autographed picture that Tobey Maguire gave you.”

“Okay,” she says, laughing. “If I can borrow your LA Works sunglasses to wear to school.”

“Deal,” I say, smiling into the phone.

Skylar spends a few more minutes on the phone filling me in on her “Almost maybe not just yet but I think he could become my boyfriend because he really likes me and I think he's cute Justin.” I listen carefully as I walk quickly from the gym to Central Park, since I'm supposed to meet James for drinks at the Boathouse. We made the plan after he said he had something urgent to talk to me about. But when I hang up with Skylar, I start to wonder if I'm ever going to find the Boathouse. I make three loops around the park before I realize that all the trees look the same—and I'm lost. Discouraged, I flop down on a park bench. I slide off my shoe to rub the blister budding on my heel and try to figure out which path to take next. But then a minute later, James sits down next to me.

I look at him, stunned. “I ended up in the right place?” I ask. “This is the Boathouse?”

“Nope,” James says with a little smile. “But when you didn't show up, I figured you were lost. And I always know where to find you.”

“You find everyone,” I say, glad that he was able to rescue me as easily as he did Dylan. I don't really care which GPS system he used to locate me. I'm just happy that he's here.

“I know you better than anyone,” James says, slipping his arm around the back of the bench. “After all, we're married.”

“Were married,” I say, automatically correcting him and looking out at the pond in front of us where people are sailing model remote control boats. A square-rigged replica of a nineteenth-century ship is gliding by a three-masted schooner.

James starts to say something, and then pauses.

“Would you hate it if we were still married?” he asks.

“That was a long time ago,” I say.

“What if it weren't? What if it were right now?” he asks. “Theoretically. How would you feel?”

“Might get in the way of my marrying Bradford,” I say flippantly.

“Yes, it might,” James says. “Definitely might.”

Something is tugging at the back of my mind, but I let it pass and stare beyond the boats to the huge trees framing the scene, their brilliant red and orange leaves at the peak of their bright beauty. I fasten the top button on my sweater and cross my arms against the crisp autumn breeze.

“You need something warmer,” says James, already draping his rugged flannel jacket around my shoulders.

“Thanks,” I say, not moving away as he slides a little closer to me. We sit side by side as two more sailboats join the fleet in front of us, all of them moving quickly, but managing to avoid a collision. It's such a tranquil, serene setting that I'd like just to stay here all day. But then I remember.

“You said you had something urgent to discuss,” I say to James.

“I did. I do.” He reaches over to the jacket that I'm now wearing and takes an envelope out of the inside pocket. He puts it in his lap but doesn't open it.

“First thing is that I went to a lawyer to talk about setting up a college trust for Dylan. I'm funding it. I don't want you to have to worry. Not at least about that.”

“That's really kind of you,” I say. Whatever else James did wrong, he always tried to keep things right on that score. In the early years when he was gone, he sent regular checks to my bank account. I never spent a dime of the money—just shuttled it into an account for Dylan. In those days I couldn't appreciate his generosity because all I wanted was my husband back. Now I know that in some way, James was always trying to do his part.

“Anyway,” says James. “There's something else. While the lawyer was handling all the paperwork, he made an interesting discovery.” He pats the envelope in his lap. “You filed for divorce at some point. But neither of us ever signed the final papers. According to the lawyer, we're still married.”

I go to speak, but I can hardly catch my breath. In front of me, the sailboats are whirling, faster and faster, cutting unexpected paths through the water. My head is spinning just as quickly. It had all been so complicated back then. Who wanted to deal with a convoluted legal system when I could barely deal with my own emotions? Once I finally accepted that James was gone forever, I somehow assumed that the New York State courts understood that, too. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Or maybe, just maybe, I was still hoping that forever wouldn't be forever.

James holds out the envelope with the unsigned divorce papers, and I reach for it.

“You don't have to take it,” he says, holding onto it tightly. “We could rip it up. And just start again.”

I pull my hand back, but it's trembling.

“Sara, there's got to be a reason this has happened,” James says. “You've let me be Dylan's father again, and I'm grateful for that. But there's one other role I'd like to play in your life. If you'd give me the chance, I could still be your husband. I can't imagine loving anyone else the way I love you. There's never been anyone else in my life. Not seriously.”

I swallow hard, and when the words finally come out, it's only the tiniest squeak. “But I have someone serious in my life,” I say.

He nods. “I know that. But these last few months being with you again have felt so right.” And he doesn't say any more, because he leans in and kisses me, his strong chest pressing against mine. He draws the flannel jacket tightly around both of us and for the briefest moment, all the years fade away. But then I pull back.

“I have to go,” I say, trying to untangle myself from the jacket—and from James.

“Go,” he says. “But take the jacket. It's chilly.” Then he leans forward and strokes his thumb under my eye, wiping away a tear.

“You're crying,” he says.

“I know,” I answer. And I leave James's jacket on my shoulders and rush from the park.

Two blocks later, I call Kate. I know she's in the middle of office hours, but she doesn't rush me as I try to explain what's happened. Despite my sobs and hiccups, she gets the gist.

“Unbelievable,” Kate tells me. “You really never got divorced?”

“That's what James says. We're still married.” I hiccup again, making it almost impossible to say the word.

“Look at the bright side,” says Kate, trying to cheer me up. “You didn't have to plan a wedding.”

“This is serious!” I scream into the phone.

Kate sighs. “I know it is, sweetie. Come on over. I'm almost done seeing patients.”

 

As usual, Kate's waiting room is packed, but her longtime assistant Nina ushers me immediately toward a room in the back I never knew existed.

“Kate said you're upset,” Nina says in hushed tones, “and she prescribed thirty minutes in the Serenity Room.”

That stops me. The Serenity Room? Are the walls padded? Is Prozac piped in through the air ducts?

“This is your relaxation chamber,” Nina explains as she opens the door for me and we step into a softly-lit taupe room. “Now that all the spas in town are offering dermatological treatments, Kate figured her dermatology office better start offering the comforts of a spa.”

Nina goes around the room lighting half a dozen aromatherapy candles—which are labeled Calming, Healing and Harmony. Given their strong individual scents of ylang-ylang, yling-yling and geranium, I'd christen the combination Nauseating.

“You'll love this ‘Garden of Peace' CD,” Nina assures me, as she turns on the Bose surround sound system and the room fills with the annoying melodies of soulful guitar and piercing flute. “It uses brainwave technology and subliminal suggestion to bring bliss to body and soul.”

Subliminal suggestion? I listen carefully, and I'm pretty sure that when the harp starts playing, I do hear an undercurrent murmuring—“Shop at Barney's.”

I settle into a low-slung couch wishing I had a set of earplugs. And nose plugs. But Nina has one more remedy in her serenity arsenal and she hands me two capsules and a mug of tea.

“The tea is an infusion of cinammon and eucalyptus and the Zen capsules contain magnesium, lithothamnions, and . . .” Nina pauses, having forgotten the rest of the magic ingredients. “Well, anyway, it's all good stuff that will battle the negative forces in your life.”

I swallow them whole. Given the state I'm in now I'd rather have the Force be with me than against me.

“One last thing,” Nina says, putting something into the microwave. Could be this whole process is working after all because I finally stop thinking about James for a second and focus on whether Nina's making me a bag of popcorn? But instead she pulls a floral blanket out of the microwave and hands it to me. “My very favorite. The ‘Dream Time Herbal Hug.' All the comforts of a warm embrace.”

I wrap it across my arms and true to microwave form, most of the blanket is toasty warm but it's unevenly heated. Sure enough, I immediately feel a hot spot burning into my left wrist. Is this a metaphor for my embrace from James? Feels good at first, but I have to be careful.

Nina leaves me to soak in some more serenity, but as soon as she's gone I jump off the couch and fiddle with the sound system, switching off that damn soulful guitar and finding an FM radio station that's blaring Led Zeppelin.

“What are you doing?” asks Kate when she rushes in a few minutes later and catches me stamping my feet to the rocking rhythms. She turns off the music immediately and frowns. “You'll destroy the soothing vibes in the room and I'll never get them back.”

With the music off, the quiet balance seems restored, but Kate opens a window, as if I've puffed a pack of Marlboros and she needs to bring in some fresh air. Ah yes, honking taxis and polluted air from Madison Avenue should restore the right vibes.

“So James,” Kate says, circling back in front of me. Doesn't she realize that saying that name in here right now could wreck the feng shui a lot faster than Led Zeppelin? “Did you really have no idea?”

“No wedding band,” I tell her. “How was I supposed to know?” I spin Bradford's engagement ring around on my finger, make a fist and feel the diamond dig into my palm.

“You knew,” Kate says firmly. “Somewhere in your heart or your head or wherever you keep this information, you knew. And I'm even guessing that's why you never made any headway planning your wedding with Bradford.”

I unclench my fist and look down. “I would have sworn to you that all the divorce papers were taken care of. But maybe I'm not so surprised to find out that they weren't,” I say slowly. “I guess my story with James always felt unfinished. No matter what else I told myself.”

“So now how do you want to finish the story?” Kate asks.

I slump down in my seat and then arch my back. Whoever designed this to be a comfortable sofa obviously never sat in it. “I felt something when James kissed me,” I admit to her. “But maybe what I was feeling was just the rush of the past.”

“Or the exhilaration that the guy who hurt you so badly by leaving now wants you back. What a triumph. You should have just stood up and thrown your arms in the air and screamed ‘Yes! I win!' ”

I give a little smile. “Despite all the awful things he did, we had so much fun together when we were married.”

Kate nods knowingly. “Bad boys are always good.”

“And when he came back, he stopped being a bad boy. He's been really solid.”

“Like a Patagonian rock?” Kate asks.

“No, really. I mean it. He still has that wonderful adventurous streak, but now I know I can count on him.”

Kate doesn't say anything now.

“I'd said my life with James was over. I'd moved on. I got engaged to Bradford. But somehow, all the unresolved business was gnawing at me. There was always that empty spot in my heart.”

“And do you want James to fill it?” Kate asks softly. She's uncertain which way I'm going with all this, and she looks worried.

I put my hands over my chest, as if I'm feeling for that empty space. “I think he already has,” I say slowly. “Having him back has let me comes to terms with the past, and I guess that's what I needed to do. But I'm not the person I was back then. I'm never going to be twenty-five again. And I can't be James's wife again, either.”

Kate nods. “So who do you want to be now?”

I think about it for a long moment. And keep thinking. I hope there's not a patient in the next exam room waiting for Kate to come wipe the glycolic acid off her face.

I look up at Kate and finally smile. “I want to be just what I am. A teacher who's also a TV star. A mother who's totally smitten with her funny, frog-chasing son. A lucky woman with great friends.” I pause and go over to close the window since I'm pretty sure the Serenity has been restored. “And I also want to be Skylar's friend and confidante. And her stepmother. And Bradford's wife.”

Kate comes over and gives me a big hug. “Then you should have everything you want.”

“If I don't, it will be my own fault,” I say, surprising even myself with my resolve and striding to the other side of the room. I stop with my hand on the door and turn to Kate. “I know I want Bradford back. Enough time wasted. I have to go try to get him.”

Chapter SEVENTEEN

I'M FIVE HOURS
over the Pacific Ocean when it occurs to me that the Rolling Stones may be right—you can't always get what you want. Other than Bradford, what I want right now is sleep. Unfortunately, having bought my ticket to Hong Kong at the last minute, the best seat I could get doesn't even recline, since it's the middle seat in the last row. The man to my left is so overweight that he snores even when he's not sleeping, and my companion on the other side is a compulsive knuckle cracker. If I were given an eject button for just one of them, I don't know how I'd ever pick.

I squirm around in my cramped quarters and close my eyes. Hello! Who's suddenly lying in my lap? Oh, I see. The seat in front of me does recline, and I'm glad to note that the little five-year-old in it has figured out that if she bounces hard enough, she can get it fully extended.

I look at my watch, even though “real time” has become an abstraction. Fifteen-hour flight. Thirteen-hour time difference. Leave New York at three in the afternoon and arrive in Hong Kong at seven at night. So what if I skip a day or two in there? Actually, I'm looking forward to the return flight, when I arrive home a day younger than I leave. If I do that enough times, maybe I'll start getting carded in bars again.

After I left Kate's office, I was determined to get to Hong Kong as fast as I could, and barely a day and a half later, I'm on my way. I called everyone in the world to make arrangements. My school classes are covered, Dylan's staying with Berni and the twins, and instead of the weekly installment of our cooking show, Ken Chablis has scheduled a “Best of” special. Who would have guessed that Chocolate Surprise would make it to reruns?

But there are two people I didn't call. James and Bradford. I know I won't call James right away because I need to go to Bradford first. Bradford, who doesn't know I'm coming. I play with the AirFone on the armrest, picking it up and putting it down in its cradle enough times to give the knuckle cracker some competition in the obsession department. Bradford's going to be so darned surprised and pleased to see me. At least I hope so. I'm pretty sure I've locked down the “surprised” element, anyway.

If I'm going to show up in Bradford's hotel room unexpectedly, I want him to see me at my best. I rifle through my carry-on tote for Kate's emergency flight kit and pull out her melatonin jet lag pills which come with a two-page timetable on when to take them. It's so complicated that—forget jet lag—I get a headache just from reading the instructions. First problem is that one side of the paper is if you're going west, and the other side is if you're traveling east. What do I do since I'm traveling west to get to the Far East?

For the rest of the flight, I doze on and off and spray my face regularly with the Evian Kate provided. “No moisture in the air on a plane,” she'd explained. “So spritz, drink a lot of water, and keep rubbing on Oil of Olay. If you get a chance, pull down the oxygen mask and sneak a couple of breaths. It'll really plump up those lines around your mouth.”

When the flight attendant isn't looking, I make one surreptitious attempt to find the mask, but instead I hit the call button.

“Everything okay?” asks the beautiful young Asian woman who appears at my side immediately. Her skin is so perfect, she must be knocking back some oxygen in the galley.

“Just fine,” I say, trying to think what I could need. Kate said to drink water, but doesn't wine have water in it? I order a small bottle of merlot and use it to wash down the large bag of Twizzlers I bought at the airport. Mmmm. Taste good together. Maybe because they're both from the red food group.

After being on the airplane for what feels like days, I stagger off, collect my luggage and lumber through customs.

“What's your business here?” asks the immigration clerk, looking from my passport to me.

“Trying to get my fiancé to marry me,” I say, too tired to come up with a more subtle answer.

He makes a big checkmark on my form. “We'll call that urgent business,” he says with just the trace of a smile. Then he takes one more look at my passport photo before handing it back to me. “Good luck,” he says. “And nice change. I like you better as a blonde.”

With that assurance, I throw myself into a taxi and look out the window as the driver weaves wildly through the crowded streets. The city is a blur of movement and neon lights, and when we pull up at the Peninsula Hotel, I'm immediately greeted by a white-gloved doorman. My luggage magically makes its way inside the grand lobby, and I follow, slightly overwhelmed by the majesty of my surroundings. Pillars and palms reach toward a high gilded ceiling that looks as if it belongs in a Parisian palace rather than in a businessman's Hilton. From the balcony above, an eight-piece orchestra serenades me, graciously providing a Haydn concerto as check-in music.

At the registration desk, I have a long rambling story ready as to why they have to let me into Bradford's room. I'm prepared for a fight since I'm not Bradford's wife, I'm not expected, and looking around the lobby, I'm pretty sure that I don't even have the right luggage. At first the young man in charge is pleasant but unyielding. So I plead, show him my engagement ring, give him pictures of Dylan and Skylar, and start to open my bags to pull out the nightgown I bought especially for the occasion. Either I've convinced him of my bona fides or he's worried that the rest of my lingerie is going to end up sprawled across the lobby floor, because he quickly hands over a key and I rush off to the elevator and hit twenty-seven before he can change his mind.

Outside Bradford's door, I take a deep breath and slide in the key card. The door opens effortlessly and I step in, ready with the line I've been practicing over and over since I got on the plane.

“Hi, sweetheart, it's me!”

Now Bradford's supposed to look up in happy surprise and rush over to kiss me on the corner of my cockeyed grin. At which point I will start taking off my clothes. Talking will wait.

Only Bradford isn't here. I spot the initialed gold Tiffany cufflinks that I bought him and see his familiar Canali blazer draped over the wingback chair. I go over and rub my hand across the jacket and smell a trace of his Burberry cologne.

The lights in his oversized suite are dimmed and soft music is playing. Clearly the housekeeper has been by for her evening turn-down service. I walk through the elegantly furnished living room filled with fresh flowers into the bedroom, where I catch my breath at the floor to ceiling windows, providing a spectacular panoramic view of the Hong Kong harbor and twinkling skyline. This is better than anything I ever saw on the Travel Channel. Next to the bed, a pair of fresh slippers has been placed on a white linen cloth spread on top of the lush carpet. If this is meant to provide a touch of homey comfort, nobody's ever been in my house. On the night table, I notice two long-stemmed glasses and a large bottle of sparkling water. You'd think that after all the time Bradford has been here, he would have told the housekeeper that he just needs one glass.

The bedside clock says eight-thirty. Good thing it's dark out, or I wouldn't know if that meant a.m. or p.m. I lean back briefly against the thick pillows and sit back up again. Damn, they're that expensive goose down that makes me sneeze. I'll have to call the concierge for nonallergenic foam ones. I wasn't built for luxury.

But apparently I fall asleep before I can reach for the phone, because the next thing I know, I hear a door opening—and somehow the clock now says nine forty-five. Bradford's here. I try to rouse myself and lightly slap my cheeks. Have to wake up and get some color back. Where's that oxygen mask when you need it? For what that flight cost, I should have taken it with me.

I haven't turned on any lights in the bedroom, so Bradford doesn't know I'm here yet. But I can see a lamp flick on next to the desk in the living room, and my heart skips a beat because in another moment, I'm going to see Bradford.

And then it skips another beat. Because the person at the desk isn't Bradford. I can make out a slim, dark-haired woman in a form-fitting beige suit and matching high heels. She's leaning over the desk, writing a note, and she seems awfully comfortable in the room. I sit frozen for a moment as I watch her, and I panic that she's going to come into the bedroom. How will I explain why I'm here? No, wait a minute. How will she explain why she's here?

The woman seems to have brought Bradford a little present, and I see her adjusting a bow before putting the gift down on the desk. She wriggles her hands down the side of her skirt to straighten it, then glances around the room, smiles to herself, and leaves.

Maybe leaving is what I should do, too. Immediately, before Bradford gets here. I get up and walk over to the wall of windows, staring out at the city lights. I can take the next flight back to New York, and then I don't have to be embarrassed when he comes in and starts to explain why he doesn't want me anymore. What an idiot I am. I've blown the best thing I ever had. I'm in love with Bradford, and I let all my damn insecurities get in the way.

Then I suddenly stop. I'm not insecure anymore. Not the hurt Sara who panicked that once she had something she really wanted she was going to lose it. I'm not going to let myself worry about the woman in the beige suit or anything that's happened before. I'm not jumping to conclusions. But I am going to take a stand. When Bradford walks in that door . . .

“Sara?”

I look up, stunned because suddenly Bradford is standing two feet away from me. The tape playing hysterically in my head was so loud that I didn't hear him come in.

“I love you, Bradford,” I say, in a rush. “I don't care what else is going on in your life. I forgive you for everything. I hope you can forgive me, too. We've been hurting each other, and that's just silly. We're in love. I want to be married to you. Only you.”

I pause. No, now's not the time to explain that being married only to him will take a bit of legal work.

“I'm in Hong Kong to tell you to come home. I miss you and I want you and we belong together. Every second that we're apart adds up to a minute wasted. Enough. It's time to start our life together.”

I finally stop and blink hard, and Bradford is looking at me with a dazed smile.

“You really came eight thousand miles just to tell me that?”

“Yes. And now that I've said it, I can leave.”

“Don't you dare,” Bradford says. “I've missed you. Much more than I ever would have thought.”

“I missed you even more,” I tell him. I wait a moment, then practically holding my breath I ask, “Do you think we can work everything out? I mean, we kept having all those stupid fights before you left.”

Bradford smiles. “They didn't leave any permanent bruises on me.”

“On me, either,” I say, holding out my arms as if to show off my unbruised skin.

“Good,” Bradford says. “Then all that's over and we'll never fight again.”

“Of course we'll fight,” I say with a little laugh. “But we'll know how to do it better.”

“I love you, Sara,” he says, coming over and kissing my lips and my hair and stroking his hands down my body. “I never want to hurt you.”

I hold him tightly, not wanting to let go.

“All this time apart. You're sure I haven't been replaced?” I ask lightly.

“Never,” he says firmly. “Not in my bed and not in my heart.”

That's enough for me. Despite the dark-haired mystery woman, I don't even have to try to convince myself to trust Bradford anymore. I just do. Something deep inside me has finally clicked and I know that our bond is real and can't be broken.

“I can't believe you're here,” he says, his warm embrace creating a space where only the two of us exist.

“This is exactly where I want to be. With you, forever,” I say snuggling against his chest and resting my head in the nook of his arm.

“You will be,” Bradford says. He picks me up and carries me over to the bed. We kiss for a long time, and I feel a dizzying haze of relief and excitement and pure exhaustion. We sink into the soft bed together and as he whispers over and over to me how happy he is, I pull him closer. I feel a stir of desire, but despite my best intentions, all I can manage tonight is using Bradford's great body as a pillow. For the first time in weeks, I fall into a deep, peaceful sleep.

 

My body clock is totally out of whack, and I wake up full of energy at four in the morning. In the bathroom, I think of taking a bubble bath in the enormous tub, but I don't want to be away from Bradford—even if he's sleeping. The Twizzlers on the plane didn't do it for me, and as usual I'm hungry. I don't know if I want breakfast, lunch or dinner so I decide to check out the minibar in the living room. Macadamia nuts are the right choice for any meal.

On my way, I notice the gift that the brunette left behind and the note sitting next to it. Bradford hasn't seen it yet, and I'm certainly not going to read it. I pause briefly, impressed by my new high-minded spirit. I trust my fiancé. I have no reason to be jealous of anyone. No, no, not me.

But look at that. The woman slipped the note into an envelope, but never sealed it. And how do I know that? Because somehow the envelope is now in my hand.

Dear Mr. Lewis,

Thank you for being such a loyal guest of the Peninsula Hotel. As the assistant manager here, it was a pleasure to meet you at the cocktail party last evening. My apologies for any embarrassment I may have caused by my approach to you. I certainly understand that you are about to be married and wish you all the best.

Do enjoy the remainder of your stay.

Sincerely,
Jennifer Scott

I slip the letter back into the envelope. So my honey said no to her come-on, and she left him a bottle of wine to apologize. A win all around—except maybe for Jennifer, who's going to lose her job anyway if she keeps harassing the hotel guests. Still, I feel a surge of gratitude that my deep-felt trust in Bradford is deserved. Clearly, he's stayed steadfast despite our separation. And that should win him my complete honesty. Now and forever.