Once More with Feeling (37 page)

“Look!” Emily suddenly cried, skipping ahead of the others. She headed toward one of the eight-foot candy canes growing out of the sidewalk that led into Rockefeller Center. “Is it real?”

“Why don’t you bite it and find out?” Simon suggested.

“Yeah, right,” said Zach. ‘Try that and you’ll end up getting arrested.”

“It’s not a real candy cane,” Evan explained with uncharacteristic patience. “It’s made out of plastic or something. And don’t worry; nobody’s gonna arrest you. You’re just a little kid.”

He was fitting into the role of big brother nicely, Laura observed. She and Cam exchanged knowing glances. Or perhaps they were looks of relief.

“There it is,” Laura finally announced, gathering the others around her. “The famous Rockefeller Center Christmas tree. When I was a little girl growing up in the suburbs, my parents brought me into the city to see it every year. It was always the second most exciting part of the holiday, after opening presents on Christmas morning.”

As she stood in front of the tree Laura was surprised to find that her heart fluttered in the same way it had when she’d stood in this same spot decades earlier, wearing a spiffy pair of patent-leather Mary Janes and white tights that kept creeping downward. It was funny how Christmases were strung together, like the bulbs on those strings of lights. Each one was connected to the last, providing a sense of continuity to years that often fit together as haphazardly as patches in a crazy quilt.

What a difference there was between this year and the last. She remembered how braving the holiday season alone had made her feel like the gutsy heroine in a TV movie of the week. When she took on that string of recalcitrant Christmas lights and emerged the victor, she’d felt like Spartacus. She’d been so proud of herself. Not only had she made it through the month of December with no more holiday headaches than in any other year, she’d actually managed to put together a warm and memorable Christmas for herself and her son.

This year, orchestrating a merry Christmas was a piece of mince pie. Evan had settled comfortably into their new life, and she had Cam. Reaching for his hand now, she gave it a squeeze.

“This was a great idea,” he commented, leaning over and sneaking a quick kiss. “I hardly ever get into the city.”

“You’re such a country boy,” she teased. “But you’re doing fine. I must confess, I never thought a plaid-flannel guy like you could look so much at home on Fifth Avenue.”

“See that? I’m pretty versatile.”

“Hey, you don’t have to convince me.”

“Don’t leer. There are children present.”

“Fortunately, they’ve got so many stars in their eyes they’ll never notice.”

“Can we get our pretzels now?” Emily suddenly piped up. “I’m hungry.”

Laura looked at Cam and laughed. “So much for the wonder of Christmas.”

As they stood at the pretzel vendor’s cart, the man in the apron hummed a carol.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, counting out their change. “You and your family have a nice holiday, now.”

An hour later, as Cam zigzagged through the heavy holiday traffic, those words continued to echo through Laura’s head. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Simon staring out the window, half-hypnotized by the steady stream of cars. Emily was asleep, her head leaning against his shoulder. Behind them, Zach and Evan were engaged in a video game, the long, tiring day having taken some of the competitiveness out of them both. And she and Cam, cast in the roles of Mom and Dad, sat at the helm.

“Did you hear what the pretzel guy called us?” Cam suddenly said, his eyes fixed straight ahead. “He thought we were a family.”

“Yes, I heard that.”

He reached over and put his large hand over hers. “Think he knows something we don’t know?”

Laura rested her head back against the seat, closed her eyes, and smiled mysteriously. She hoped that in the dim light of dusk, Cam would mistake her uncertainty for Mona Lisa serenity.

* * * *

Laura sat at her word processor, transfixed by a blinking cursor. Unwilling to allow herself to be dragged down by January doldrums, she’d coped with the inevitable post-holiday letdown by throwing herself into a new writing project. Yet when it came to cooking up a new scheme for a giraffe who’d seen too many
Hart to Hart
reruns, she was stumped.

The ringing telephone was a welcome interruption. It was Claire, wanting to lure her away for another ladies’ lunch at the Sassafras Café.

“Claire says she’s got good news,” Julie announced the moment Laura sat down. “But she hasn’t breathed a word. She insisted on waiting until you got here.”

Glancing over at Claire, Laura saw she looked like the proverbial cat after he’d polished off a canary sandwich. “Is this news I should be sitting down for?” she asked.

Her heart was pounding. Please,
please,
don’t let it be
what I think it is.

Claire was beaming. “Here’s the clue. Something old, something new—”

“Oh, dear,” Laura muttered. “I hope you’re planning a garage sale.”

“Gil and I are getting married!”

“Oh, Claire!” Julie stood up and rushed over to throw her arms around her. “I’m so happy for you! How incredibly romantic!”

“How incredibly
rash!”
Laura remained firmly glued to her seat.

“When’s
the big day?” Julie demanded.

“As soon as I can throw together the most magnificent wedding since Lady Di’s.”

“And we all know how well
her
marriage turned out,” Laura mumbled.

Claire hadn’t heard her. She was too busy pulling a stack of glossy magazines out of her tote bag. All of them featured cover girls wearing bits of white fluff on their heads.

“These magazines are an absolute lifesaver.” Claire’s tone was edged with giddiness. “They tell you everything you need to know. I’ve got them all:
Bride, Today’s Bride, Bridal Monthly, Bridal News...
.”

“My goodness,” Laura commented. “How many articles on ‘Honeymoon Do’s and Don’t’s for the Recycled Bride’ can these editors come up with?”

Despite her cynicism about the precipitousness of Claire’s decision to become Gil Plympton’s better half—or to accept him as hers—Laura had to admit that she’d never seen Claire so happy. She couldn’t help wondering, though, was it real happiness ... or merely some weird hypnotic state, induced by the promise of a cake with more tiers than a Hyatt Hotel and a complete collection of pasta-making machines, fondue pots, and coffee grinders.

“What kind of wedding are you planning?” Julie asked. Her cheeks were glowing with the same vibrancy as Claire’s. Grabbing one of the magazines, she fixated on a four-color spread of garters.

“Don’t tell me,” said Laura. “Ultramodern. I can see it all now. A rap ceremony, synthesizer music, a wedding party clothed entirely in baggy shirts and jeans that are falling off ...”

“Oh, no!” Claire looked horrified. “I’m planning to have the wedding every little girl dreams of! The first time around, I eloped. This time I intend to do it right.”

A faraway look had come into her eyes. “I’m going to wear a long white dress with a train and a veil that trails behind me. There’ll be flowers everywhere. And music. I want a live orchestra. I’ll march down the aisle to ‘Here Comes the Bride,’ of course.”

“It sounds absolutely lovely,” Julie breathed.

“And so original!” Laura couldn’t resist adding.

“But the
best
part,” Claire continued, “is that I want you both to be part of it!”

“Bridesmaids?” The word caught in Laura’s throat.

“Long dresses, coordinating bouquets ... the whole kit and kaboodle!”

“Oh, wow!” Julie replied.

“Oh, no!” Laura moaned.

“I haven’t decided what kind of dresses you’ll wear yet,” Claire went on, “but I promise they’ll be something out of a storybook.”

“What about shoes?” Julie asked excitedly. “I’ve never worn dyed-to-match.”

“I hate to be a wet blanket,” Laura drawled, “but may I ask a question?”

Julie and Claire looked at her expectantly.

“If we can forget about playing Martha Stewart for a moment, can I ask how carefully you’ve thought all this through?”

Claire fingered her copy of
Bridal Monthly
defensively. “I’ve been faithfully following the step-by-step ‘Guide to Planning Your Wedding’—”

“I’m not talking about the decision to go with the chicken cordon bleu or the roast beef au jus,” Laura replied. “I’m talking about the decision to get married again.”

“I think it’s wonderful,” Julie insisted.

“But look at the evidence!” Laura cried. “Claire, your first marriage failed.
My
marriage failed. Julie and George were together for years ... then broke up.” She shook her head. “How can you take a risk like this? How can you be sure?”

“I feel it in my heart,” Claire replied.

“Since when are hearts capable of making critical decisions?” Laura countered. “All they do is go thump-thump, thump-thump.”

“Oh, Laura,” said Julie, “at some point you’ve got to let go of all the debating, the weighing of the pros and cons, the endless obsessing. You’ve simply got to have faith.”

“Wait a minute. Aren’t you the one who not long ago told me you were concerned about Bobby being someone else’s ex-husband? It just so happens that Gil is somebody else’s ex, too.”

“What about Cam?” Claire demanded. “He’s somebody else’s ex.”

“As a matter of fact, he is,” Laura said. “And you don’t see me rushing around, hiring a five-piece combo and renting a wedding dress—”

“I don’t rent,” Claire said indignantly. “I buy.”

“You’re right, Laura,” Julie said softly. “Gil and Bobby and Cam are all someone else’s exes ... but so are we. Just because our last relationship didn’t make it doesn’t mean we don’t deserve a second chance.”

“What about all the doubts you’ve been having about moving in with Bobby?” Laura demanded.

“I’m simply taking my time about making my decision,” Julie declared loftily.

Laura just stared at Julie. I thought you agreed with me. I thought I wasn’t the only one who was afraid to take another gamble ... one in which the odds were anything but favorable.

Laura could see she was putting a damper on everyone else’s fun. So she sat quietly as Claire and Julie continued with their gleeful plans, marveling over what she was witnessing.

Julie, Claire ... even Cam. They’re all falling into the same trap, Laura thought morosely. There seems to be something in human nature that makes us willing, even eager, to take the risk, to go for the long shot. Some stubbornness that believes sooner or later, if we try hard enough, we’ll finally get it right.

Chapter Twenty-two

Laura pulled up
in front of the curb, killed the engine, and jerked up the parking brake. But instead of hurrying out to retrieve her son, she sat at the wheel, staring out the window. Through the relentless drizzle that cast the evening in gloom, she studied the house that used to be her home.

It was Roger’s house now. Roger’s ... and Melanie’s. She studied the changes they’d made in the past four months. The front door used to be painted white; now it was bright yellow. The front steps had two potted plants on them. Running along the front windowsill were ten or twelve pieces of handmade pottery, their glazes the subtle tones of the earth, their silhouettes sleek and perfect.

Staring out through the mist, Laura was amazed at the fact she felt nothing. Not anger, not envy, not even resentment. Instead, she observed the changes with a cold objectivity.

It’s only a house, thought Laura, surprised by her detachment.

The true meaning of that phrase, one she’d repeated to herself over and over, was suddenly glaringly clear. The wood and bricks and shingles and glass were no more than building materials, brought together to create a collection of rooms. Once, those rooms had been the setting for her life.

Now, she reflected, that had come to an end.

As she climbed out of the car an icy wind stabbed at her, a reminder that February held the world firmly in its merciless grip. Laura barely acknowledged it. She was preoccupied with more pressing concerns.

Walking up to the front door, she wondered again what the proper etiquette was for picking up one’s son after his weekend stint with Dad. Staying in the car and honking was the coward’s way out. While that wasn’t entirely without appeal, she had too much pride to be so overt about avoiding Roger. It was even worse to imagine herself face-to-face with the brand-new lady of the house.

And so Laura was relieved that Roger, not Melanie, answered the door. Her good feelings, however minimal, were short-lived. The tension in his face instantly put her on edge.

“What’s wrong?” she demanded.

“It’s nothing, really. Only that—”

“I’m never coming back here again!” Evan shrieked. He came hurtling toward her, his jacket unzipped, his backpack falling off his shoulder. Behind him he dragged his canvas overnight bag, stuffed with balled-up clothes that threatened to tumble out of the gaping opening. “Let’s get out of here, Mom. I wanna go home!”

He was already halfway to the car. Laura stared at Roger, searching his face for an explanation. Instead, he simply looked irritated.

“I don’t understand what his problem is,” he grumbled. “He just can’t seem to adjust.”

In the car, the rhythmic whooshing of the windshield wipers punctuated Evan’s silence. Sneaking a peek in the rearview mirror, Laura saw he was staring out the window, brooding.

“Want to talk about it?” she finally asked.

“I hate it there. I’m never going back.”

“Honey,” she said gently, “he’s your dad. You have to go back. We’ve told you all along that just because we’re divorced doesn’t mean—”

“Yeah, I know. It doesn’t mean you stopped loving me.” He spat out his words. “Well, Dad has.”

“Stopped loving you?” Laura turned to look at him. “Why would you ever think that?”

“For one thing, he gave my room to Lindsay.”

Laura stepped on the brake. “Dad gave your bedroom to Melanie’s daughter?”

“When I showed up on Friday, Melanie had already painted it.”