Out to Lunch (3 page)

Suddenly my dress seems too bright and cheery. Like this woman thinks I should be shrouded in black, rending my clothing, shaving my head. But that’s a little extreme. I had three years to face Aimee’s health issues, and almost six months to prepare for the inevitable end. Of course it sucks, but I knew it was coming. My best friend is dead. So are a lot of people. And since throwing oneself on the funeral pyre isn’t really done anymore, you pick yourself up and go on. Besides, I don’t have time to be all broken about this. I have a business to run, and another that requires I at least check in now and again. I have employees and people counting on me. I can’t let myself be all wallow-y and woe is me-y.

Nancy seems to take my silence for concern about my meds. “I’m not averse to prescribing some things to help get you through this time, but only in small amounts and only connected to talk therapy. I’ll give you enough medication to get you through to our next session, but no more, not until we determine how the drugs work or don’t work for you, and making sure they are a tool and not a crutch. For starters, I want to see if just getting you more restful sleep might not eliminate the other events before we try any antianxiety medication. Because to a certain extent, at this part of the process, you need to feel your feelings. Numb is not going to help long term. And since, as you said, you do not have pressing business or family obligations, let’s get your sleep regulated first and then work on the other stuff.”

Great. If I were a mom or had a real job, I’d get the good drugs. But being semiretired and childless means I get to “feel my feelings.” Fuck my feelings. My feelings suck. I’d like to be able to sleep for more than three contiguous hours, and not worry that I might pass out or crap my pants in the middle of the grocery store for no reason. But I don’t say that. I say “Okay.”

“Okay, good. And what about Aimee’s husband? It must be important for you two to lean on each other right now; how are you handling this together?”

Wayne. Half-Brain Wayne I always secretly think of him. Wayne of the epic Star Wars collection, the massive library of comic books, the laundry list of failed get-rich schemes. Wayne who has had an endless series of two-year corporate employments that read like Middle Management 101, all of which end in either amicable layoffs or quitting to pursue his next “surefire” opportunity. Wayne says “surefire” a lot. Wayne also says “you betcha” and “that’s the truth, Ruth.” Wayne. Wayne said he wished it were him and not Aimee at least once a week for the last three years. I never contradicted him.

“Wayne and I . . . how can I even explain this? Wayne is the only thing about Aimee I never understood.” That seems fair. And I should stop there. But I don’t. “Wayne always felt like the only time Aimee ever betrayed me. It was bad enough when she started dating the guy, but when she called from their trip to Mexico to tell me she married him on the beach, without asking me, without even talking it over, it was the only time in our life together things ever got strained. And Aimee thought I was just hurt that I wasn’t there, that there wasn’t some big wedding to plan and showers and parties and I didn’t get to be maid of honor and all that, but that wasn’t it.”

And it really wasn’t. When I was engaged to Jack, we were planning a tiny, private ceremony. Aimee and I spent enough time dealing with other people’s parties and celebrations. I didn’t resent not being a part of her wedding, I resented not being a part of her decision to marry Wayne.

I take a deep breath. “Wayne wasn’t good enough for Aimee. He wasn’t smart enough or handsome enough or elegant enough or ENOUGH enough. He didn’t deserve her, and she deserved so much better, and I just never got it, and now she’s gone and he’s here and it makes me hate him. I know it isn’t his fault that she got sick, and he was actually amazing with her every step of the way, a really good caregiver, and I was grateful for that. And I know that he truly loved her and she loved him, but I just never got it and now Aimee is gone and I feel like she wasted all these years on this guy who I. Cannot. Stand.” I have never, ever, said this aloud to anyone except Volnay, and it feels horribly, deliciously, wonderful. And it just keeps coming, eight years of built-up resentments and snark and choked-back commentary flooding out of me.

“Wayne is a geek with no chic. He is weird and odd and socially awkward. He can’t hold his liquor. He only eats eleven things. ELEVEN. Total. And he’s proud of it, like it makes him some special cool guy to sit at a dinner party with a shitty take-out burger that he brought with him while the hostess cringes. Wayne can’t keep a job, but he can keep all his strange Dungeons & Dragons friends from high school, with their nonironic, crusty Rush concert shirts and huge 1980s wire-rimmed glasses. Wayne can spot a stupid investment from eighty paces and hand over his life savings, but Wayne can’t ever see that his pants are always an inch too short. Wayne was supposed to be the blind date Aimee and I laughed about and made fun of, he wasn’t supposed to be the one she married, and now she’s gone and he’s here and I sort of hate that he is alive when she is not.” I deflate back into the chair like a morning-after party balloon.

Nancy looks up at me. “Did you and Aimee talk about how you felt?”

I shake my head. “She didn’t know.”

Nancy looks at me over the tops of her glasses, one perfectly groomed eyebrow raised in disbelief. Her tone is that of a gently chiding parent. “Jenna, of course she knew. Friends know these things, and you and Aimee were more than just friends. She knew. And next time, I think we should talk about what it means that she knew and you never spoke of it. Okay?”

Aimee knew. I guess I probably knew that deep down, but it sounds sort of awful coming out of Nancy’s lips. Like an admonition.

Nancy hands me a prescription for a week’s worth of Ambien, and we schedule our next appointment.

I leave through the second door to Nancy’s office, and duck into the small powder room to pee. This requires struggling out of and then back into my Spanx, because I do not care that there is that little split-crotch thing going on, I have never been able to go commando under my girdle. And the one time I tried, I both peed on my hands trying to keep the split open, AND ended up with my skirt stuck in my junk when I stood up from my chair. There is just no classy way to pull your clothes out of your kitten as you leave a restaurant. I’m an all-underwear-all-the-time girl. By the time I am done wedging my butt back into its spandex prison, I am flushed and a little sweaty. But the pink actually takes some of the green tinge from my face, and once I pat the little sweat-bead Hitler mustache off with a paper towel, I don’t look terrible.

Which is good, because in precisely forty-seven minutes I have to be at the lawyer’s office.

Handsome Lawyer Brian, Aimee always called him. I always call him the Lawyer with the Chin. He is Central Casting chiseled attorney guy. Tall, dark hair, square chin, broad shoulders. He’s been handling our business and personal legal stuff for the past five years. I find him annoyingly attractive. Aimee always said he was all face and no heart. He’s not overly warm, very businesslike, the consummate professional. We always liked that he wasn’t a schmoozer, no fakey cheek kissing or outfit praising like some lawyers we’ve met. Just straightforward, clear legal advice and support. For an exorbitant hourly wage. In five years I don’t think I’ve met with him more than once or twice without Aimee, and I know we’ve never had a conversation about anything but business.

But apparently there are things about Aimee’s estate that I have to deal with; I know she made me the executor, but luckily according to Brian, she was very specific about bequests . . . educational trusts for all her nieces and nephews, lump sums for her brothers, jewelry to her sisters-in-law, local charities that get their share. I’m assuming that this meeting is about whatever she might have left me, and after everything I have been through, and the emotional drain of my meeting with Nancy, I just want to find out if I have to find a place for that horrible sculpture or not.

Brian’s office is in one of those monolithic downtown marble and glass monstrosities, and I always get lost trying to find it. Luckily for me, Brian’s assistant, Dawn, happens to be coming in from a Starbucks run just as I arrive, and she ushers me right to his door.

“Jenna.” He reaches out a hand, warm and strong, which envelops mine briefly, and then retreats. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking.”

He looks a little puzzled, but what does he expect? Should I burst into tears?

“It was a lovely service, and your eulogy was very moving.” There seems to be very genuine concern in his voice and manner, and it disconcerts me more than a little.

“It was so nice of you to come.” Like he wouldn’t attend a six-figures-a-year client’s funeral.

“Of course. And you’re hanging in there?” And then, it happens. The fucking head tilt. At once patronizing and paternal. I’ve had THREE YEARS of fucking head tilting and it makes my ass twitch. If one more person head tilts at me, I’m going to start making everyone strap on a neck brace before they can speak to me.

Good grief. Literally! Can’t I just be okay? “Of course. You know, it’s hard, but it is what it is, and I’m just glad she’s out of pain.” Which is the truest thing I know. The last couple of months were ugly and horrible and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone who had not committed genocide.

“Well, that must be a comfort.”

“Yep.”

There is a weird pause. I find myself staring at his hair. He has politician hair. That hair that is so perfect it is almost creepy. Stepford hair. I must really be staring because he suddenly runs his hands over it, as if worried that it’s somehow out of place. Like that could happen.

“But you seem to be hanging in there,” he says.

“Yeah, you know, it’s been weird, but you just do what you do.”

“Well, if you need anything . . .”

Um? Emergency legal advice?

“I’m good, really, thanks.”

“Good. Staying busy?”

“Not so busy, things are pretty quiet.” Not really sure what he is aiming at here.

“Well, maybe we can have dinner or something sometime soon.”

Oy. He must really want to be sure he keeps all the business. I guess I can’t blame him. In this economy, keep the clients happy. Maybe there is a new mandate from the other partners to wine and dine more.

“Yeah, sure.” What else can I say. We pause again, and I wait for him to move things along.

“So, Jenna, I think you know that you’re the executor of Aimee’s estate.”

“She told me she was going to set that up.”

“She did. And the good news is that mostly, it is very uncomplicated and straightforward. I know you already know about her bequests for her family. Her remaining shares in Peerless SBE revert to you, so you now vote those shares in combination with your own as a larger partner. She has also left you her handbags, jewelry, and other personal effects to keep what you want, and distribute the rest to her sisters-in-law and nieces. She has made small cash gifts for all of the employees of The Larder Library, and has bequeathed ownership of the Lincoln Square apartment she rented to your employee Benjamin to him outright. The house, and its contents, as well as the rest of the money, the life insurance payout, all go to Wayne.”

Hallelujah. No sculpture abomination for me! Dodged a bullet on that one. And I get both of her Birkin bags, the big chocolate brown one and the smaller taupe one, which I have to admit I’ve always coveted. Of course I don’t really have anywhere to carry them, but that is beside the point. They are so much better than neon artwork.

“But . . .”

Oh crap on a cracker. There’s a but.

“The way she set up Wayne’s portion of the estate is a little bit unusual.”

And suddenly, looking at his uber-Grant (Cary meets Hugh) face, with its furrowed brow, and such kindness in his impossibly teal blue eyes, something tells me that
unusual
is code for
you’re utterly fucked.

3

T
he letter is on heavy cream cotton paper, with Aimee’s beautiful, rounded, swirly handwriting in charcoal gray ink, one of her signatures. Aimee was a fountain pen girl from the minute we got to college. Part of her transformation from rural Indiana cheerleader to elegant city sophisticate. I’ve read the letter six times since Brian gave it to me yesterday.

Jenna,

Well, isn’t this just a huge bucket of suck? I’m so sorry to have gone off and left you, and in such a terrible, ugly way. Awfully inelegant of me, I know. We were supposed to grow old (but never gray!) together. We were supposed to take amazing vacations and have indulgent spa weekends, and if you had left me like this I would be so fucking angry with you that I would be red-faced and impossible forever.

Since you’re already mad at me, I’m going to do something that will make you even madder. And no, I’m not giving you that sculpture from Miami that you hate so much.

I’m giving you custody of Wayne.

If I’d had kids of my own, you’d have been their fairy godmother, and I’d have needed you to be there for them, to be their memory of me, and go all
Beaches
for me. I just have Wayne, and I need you to take care of him for me. I know that you never really understood him or liked him very much or got why I loved him, and that we never talked about it. On the one hand, I’m so grateful that you never made me defend him, you were never snarky or eye-rolly about him and you never once said “What the hell were you thinking?” even though I know you thought it more than once.

And on the other hand, I wish that during my life you could have gotten to know him enough that you would have never even thought that to begin with. I always thought we’d have plenty of time to talk about it, or that one day it would just click and that would be that. But then this stupid thing happened and there were just no words and no time.

Here’s all you need to know. I loved him with all my heart. He made me laugh every day, and I could always be completely myself with him. He was the best man I ever knew, after my dad, and my deepest wish for you is that someday you will find someone with whom you can have a love affair like I had with Wayne. We were real and powerful and deep and true, as real and powerful and deep and true as you and me, and it’s time for you to start to comprehend that. He needs you now, and now that I’m gone, I need to know that the two people I loved most in the world stay connected to each other. And selfishly, I need to know that you finally understand the only part of me that you never did. For the things that will be annoying and frustrating and maddening, I’m sorry in advance. I know he isn’t perfect and that I’m the only thing you have in common. But I love you. And I’ll be watching out over both of you forever.

Handsome Lawyer Brian will tell you the legal details, but essentially, Wayne is your new charge. The regular household bills, Noah’s support payments, and all of that stuff is on automatic with the accountants. You don’t have to worry about any of that. But any expense over $1,000 that Wayne wants to make has to be cosigned by you. His one credit card has a maximum $999 charge limit per month, and the banks won’t let him open a new one using my accounts, so he’d have to get a job if he wanted more. But I have no-limit cards in your name that you can use on his behalf. The bank knows that there is a $999 maximum monthly total check approval, anything bigger you have to cosign. I worked my ass off to create this business with you, to leave this legacy. You were there when the dream first began; I need you to be there to ensure that our dream continues.

And while it makes me very happy that I can give Wayne the gift of financial independence, you and I both know that he doesn’t have a lick of business sense. I don’t worry for his being able to support himself and Noah while he can work, but I need to know that when he’s old, he’s taken care of. That he will never lack for health insurance or proper care or a decent roof over his head. I want him to find love again, but I need to know that he isn’t taken in by some bimbette with champagne wishes and caviar dreams. Someone sane needs to be there to tell him that his buddy’s new restaurant concept is crappy and won’t last a month, that independent movies are never a good investment, and that Noah needs a Honda and not a Hummer when he turns sixteen.

All I ask is that you really listen to him when he comes to you for something, and that every decision you make about how you deal with things takes into account his current happiness as well as his future security. You know me. You know how I handled Wayne and his desires, when I said yes and when I said no. You can’t just say no all the time and leave it at that; if you know I would have approved, even if I would’ve thought it ridiculous, you have to say yes.

Brian has all the details, but the gist is this: You have to save Wayne from himself; you have to be there for him, you have to stay connected. And if after a year, you really truly can’t take it anymore, you can hand him back over to the estate lawyers.

I know it’s a lot, I know your head is spinning; I know this is the last thing you think you need. But you do need it. Like it or not, Wayne is the only person in this world that knows me the way you do, that gets me the way you do, and no one else is really going to understand what you are going through.

I love you with my whole heart, and I miss you already, and I am so, so sorry for the pain you are in right now. In the meantime, take a deep breath, make a big batch of your carbonara, and prepare to be strong. Be strong for yourself and strong for Wayne. I’m watching.

Your Aimee

Wayne. She gave me custody of Wayne.

So much worse than the horrible Miami sculpture.

If she weren’t dead, I’d fucking kill her.

And she’s right about one thing. I’m making a double batch of carbonara, and I’m going to eat every bite right out of the goddamned pan.