My Favorite Midlife Crisis (30 page)

No doubt she’d lost it when she lost her position under Seymour.

“Actually, I thought she did a decent job,” I responded.

Look, with my picture up on Fortune’s website and the
Sun
article, I could afford to be magnanimous. Also, I wasn’t inclined to let Seymour get away with gratuitous Bethany-bashing. You want to evict the woman’s toe from your crotch, fine. But there’s no need to kick her to the curb.

“She seemed to have done her homework. She was articulate. Maybe she could have been more comfortable with the camera, but that takes time, practice.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Seymour agreed. “She needs experience. Give her a few years.”

All in all, a very satisfying morning.

***

Wednesday

In the midst of feeding my acid reflux with a tuna sandwich eaten at top speed, I took an interesting phone call. From my old chum, Hollywood’s gynecologist to the stars, Davis Standish of the silver ponytail and deep pockets. I hadn’t seen Davis since the London IAGSO meeting when we’d spent a total of two minutes at the Tate Gallery reception bullshitting. Now, after the small talk, he sprung a surprise on me.

“We put an ad in
Annals
to hire an OB and got bombarded. Everyone wants to live in L.A., right?”

I didn’t say wrong, although I would have to be declared brain dead before I would consent to as much as my beating heart being shipped to Los Angeles.

“Anyway, I’m reviewing CVs and I get stopped in my tracks by your office letterhead. I’m not allowed to ask and you’re not allowed to tell according to that ridiculous HHS rule, but screw ’em. What do you think of this ummm...Bethany McGowan?”

“Bethany? Really?” I blurted. I shouldn’t have been surprised, given the gray outfits accessorized with the matching cloud hanging over her head. But I’d thought she’d tough it out to see if the alleged Seymour/Mindy dalliance might explode so she could pick up Seymour’s pieces. You had to give the woman credit; she had too much self-respect to hang around.

Listen to me, over the brim with sympathy when a few months ago the prospect of Bethany’s moving on would have filled me with glee. But what was to gloat about? It wasn’t as if she were contemplating leaving because I’d racked up a solid win for sweaty maturity over dewy youth. In the grand tradition of women of every age, she’d been trounced by love.

Davis was saying, “Well, I get the feeling from the cover letter that this is very preliminary. My take is she’s scouting around, getting a sense of what’s out there. But I don’t want to miss an opportunity if she’s really good.”

“She’s really good. Her patients love her. She’s a workhorse. And she has a first-class brain.”

“Yeah, I figured. Harvard and Hopkins. Sweet CV. But what about her psychological makeup? Is she self-actualized?” Ah, the land of the fruits and the nuts and the people who treat them. “Is she a team player? I run a happy shop here. She’s not going to screw up my dynamic, right?”

“Your dynamic is safe.”
You, on the other hand, might not be. Bethany’s taste runs to older, libidinous men of influence.
This I thought but did not say.

“And she’s thinking of leaving because?”

I chewed slowly, trying to come up with something plausible. “I can only guess that she’s fed up with Baltimore winters. That she wants a practice with a little more glamour. We’re kind of East Coast stodgy. And the two other partners are OBs. So there’s not much chance to shine here.”

“Sounds reasonable.” Even better than plausible. “She’s smart, she’s young. The PC police will cuff me for this, but she’s attractive, right? I mean, she doesn’t have to have movie star looks, but Californians are really tuned into healthy. So she can’t be four hundred pounds or—”

I cut him off because I was about to gag on my tuna salad. “She’s very presentable, Davis.”

“Super. Listen, you might not want to share this call with her. The ad promised confidentiality.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“I really appreciate this, Gwyneth. Very generous of you. If she joins the practice, I’ll let her know how gracious you were.”

“No need.”

“Next time I get into Baltimore…”

“Yeah, lunch,” I said. And after we hung up, I dropped the remains of mine into the wastebasket.

***

Driving home that night, my cell phone rang. It was Fleur. “Are you sitting down?”

“I’m driving. So, yes, I’m sitting down. Are you all right? Kat’s not having problems is she?” I asked, alarmed.

“Everyone’s fine. Okay, slow down or I’m not responsible.”

I was caught in traffic. There’s always construction around the Harbor to snag you at rush hour. “Consider me slowed. Now what’s this headline news?”

“Oh, baby,” Fleur said. “Stop the presses. You remember we were talking about Dan’s wife’s picture on his desk?”

“Yup.” Months ago. A sudden, ominous feeling made my stomach lurch.

“He’s not married.” She paused, I guess to listen for the sound of metal crashing.

I pulled myself together and called on all my acting skills. “Wow! Dan’s not married, huh? That
is
a surprise. I’m stunned.”

“Me, too. Imagine, no wife. Well, there was a wife, of course. Melinda Pringle Rosetti, one of the Roland Park-Captiva Island-rolling-in-it Pringles. She died three years ago. Back before he started treating my mother. It was very quick. Some kind of stroke.” Here Fleur’s voice struck a somber note.

“That’s terrible,” I said.

“Terrible. And my mother knew. The Pringles are in her crowd. She went to the funeral. Can you believe that osteoporotic little vixen never said a word all this time? I think she was worried if I found out Dan was single, I’d go after him myself and screw up her fantasy of waltzing off with him to Sicily or wherever.”

“Hmmm,” I said. “How did you find out?”

“Not from my mother. Her friend Bettina, the retired nurse, usually schleps Mother to her doctor’s appointments, but Bettina’s down with the flu so I had the pleasure. Well, after Mother’s exam I got some one-on-one time in Dan’s office to discuss her condition. I just happened to comment on the photo, ask after his pretty wife, and boom, the bomb goes off. Widowed.”

I felt myself withering under a sudden onslaught of hormonal heat. Literally in a flash, the implications of Fleur’s prying became sickeningly clear. Dan was going to think I told her about our encounter in his office the week before, about my turning him down for a date. He’d be mortified. No more than I was already. Good Lord, how was I going to face him?

“I’m giving him Connie’s number,” Fleur said.

“What? No. I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I heard myself babbling. I unbuttoned as many buttons as I could get to on my coat. I was dripping.

“It’s a brilliant idea. Look, I’d go for him myself, if I didn’t think my mother would commit daughtercide for screwing with her dream lover. Kat’s dealing with cancer, she doesn’t need any more excitement. Plus I haven’t given up on her and Lee yet. And you, my pretty, have the terminal hots for Simon York, and are therefore out of the running. But I refuse to let a man of Dan Rosetti’s caliber go to waste or get scooped up by some floozy like Jack’s Bambi.”

I leaned on the horn. The colorblind idiot in front of me was sitting at a green light as if he’d rented the space, and I had a SUV growling behind me.

“So we have Connie who’s Italian and fabulous and Dan who’s Italian and incredible. It’s
beshert.
Fated to be. I’ve already left a message on his machine,” Fleur said.

Dan wasn’t the fix-up type, I told myself, struggling to shed my jacket while seatbelted. Fleur’s plans for him wouldn’t get off the ground, I decided, all the while wondering why I wasn’t rejoicing at the possibility of another happy couple. Because no one was good enough for the wonderful Dr. Rosetti, last of a dying breed. That’s why. Not even Constanza deCrespi, Fleur’s kick-ass aristocratic attorney.

“Hold on,” she said, “I’ve got another call.”

I peered into the Honda ahead. The driver was wearing a headset and gesticulating wildly. No sign he was about to move. Fucking cell phones. Making people crazy. I began to inch my way around him.

Fleur was back. “Listen, that’s Dan on the other line. I’ve got to talk to him about Connie. Back to you later.”

“Fleur,” I said. “Fleur! Damn!” But she’d clicked off as the SUV behind me cut around my right fender in a shrieking arc. I flipped the driver the bird, but she’d already taken off, oblivious. Too late. Too damn late.

Chapter 32

Just when I thought I’d never get rid of that last Ziploc of leftover turkey, November bowed out, December blew in, a certain Englishman’s Saab got parked in my space in the Waterview garage, and I was in his arms. At last. Three weeks without Simon had left me hungry for him. And not only for his artful lovemaking. I would have been happy just to sleep in his arms after the rare luxury of enough time together.

He’d promised me three-quarters of a day and a long night before he had to head down to Washington on Sunday for the tea dance honoring his funding foundation. “Let’s just do whatever’s fun in your home town,” he’d said, leaving the scheduling up to me. Fun for Simon was catching the traveling exhibit of Neo-Impressionists at the Walters Art Museum and I’d bought concert tickets for the Baltimore Symphony’s evening performance. After that, we’d have supper in a restaurant where the crab imperial was to die for. Then he’d whisk me home to bed and bliss. That was the plan.

At the museum, we strolled hand in hand, just another couple out for a Saturday afternoon with the clock not ticking. In the East Gallery, I backed off as Simon drew closer to peer at the perfectly arranged points of a Seurat. Suddenly, the way the painting before me cohered from a distance, I saw our big picture: this extraordinary man had come into my life and brightened it, added vivid color and a splash of excitement. And if not a lot of the relationship made sense close up—our demanding schedules, inconvenient geography, and the huge gap in our backgrounds—from the grander perspective, it worked. He made me grandly happy. Swamped by a wave of tenderness, I moved in, reached out, and stroked the boyish back of his neck.

He whirled around and smiled. “Come closer, Gwyneth, you need to see this. The precision of the light fractioning is absolutely scientific. Amazing, yes?” On the upswing of my nod, he pressed his lips against my forehead. “I love being here with you,” he said and drew me to him, which is how I felt his cell phone vibrate against my hip.

“Not now,” he moaned. He gave me a look of desperation and retreated a few steps. “Yes,” he barked into the phone before he even checked the ID window. “It is, indeed.” His voice changed as if someone had buttered it. Straining to listen, I heard, “Actually Baltimore. Ahh, understood. About an hour’s travel. Yes, happy to. No, no, no problem. Don’t trouble yourself over it. Plans were made to be changed, as my dear old dad used to say. Not at all. See you then.”

“Gwyneth,” I saw his Adam’s apple bob as he clicked off. “We seem to have hit a snag.” He flattened his lips to a thin stripe of disappointment.

“Jesus,” I said. “Don’t tell me. The honeymoon is over.”

His hand was already on my shoulder and he steered me to the stairs as he talked a steady stream. “My granting foundation. They’re all in D.C. for the Brubaker event tomorrow and they pulled an ad hoc committee together to meet this afternoon. They want to grill me about my projects. Have no choice, of course. Vital for me to defend them. My work depends upon their funding.”

I almost said, “How about I go with you? I’ll find something to do in D.C. and at least we’ll have the night together.” I’d strung the words in my head, but didn’t say them. I’d accepted scraps from Stan for twenty-six years. Never again.

A man who had honed multitasking to a fine art, Simon didn’t break stride while taking the pink granite stairs at a clip, buttoning his coat, and telling me, as I panted to keep up, “I’ll call you, but I can’t say when. Knowing this crowd, we’ll be working into the night. I’ll be lucky if I can grab a few hours’ sleep. May not touch base until tomorrow.”

I thought of the Seurat we’d just seen. A female bareback rider poised on one foot atop a white horse as it raced around a circus ring. The gutsy woman was smiling, no less. Or maybe she was gritting her teeth.

At the bottom of the stairs, Simon turned and saw my face. It couldn’t have been pretty. He stopped dead in his tracks. “Gwyneth,” he said. “You’re endlessly patient, tolerant beyond the call of duty. I wouldn’t do this if it weren’t essential to my lab. I can’t risk offending my major funding source.”

His funding source. Unarguable.

“Imagine if it were your Women’s Clinic on the line.”

I nodded which was his cue to give me one of his winning smiles, this one tinged with sympathy. “Listen, darling, why don’t you stay? No need for both of us to have our day ruined.”

He had to be kidding.

“Seriously,” he said. “See the rest of the exhibit. I’ll catch a cab to your place to pick up my car.”

“That’s ridiculous.”