Remember When 2 (5 page)

   “Okay, okay,” Devin laughed out, playing the brow-beaten boyfriend, “The lady knows what she likes.” He gave me a quick wink before placing his order. “
I
, however, would like to give the sturgeon a try.” I may have imagined it, but I thought I saw his eyes slide in my direction on the word “
try
”.

   The waiter clasped his hands together, gave a slight bow and said, “Very good,” before excusing himself to put in our order.

   Devin tucked his glasses back into his pocket and said, “So... We were discussing your recent workload?” He smiled and added, “Have you any thoughts regarding the wedding?”

   Just hearing him say the word “wedding” caused my stomach to drop. I guessed it was the first time he’d used that term out loud, and I must have been excited at the sound.

   I knew I was expected to have been in possession of a slew of bridal magazines that I’d collected over the years, diligently rifling through them from the time I was old enough to walk. But the truth was, I was always more of a tomboy growing up. The whole wedding thing was as foreign to me as it was to Devin. So, no. I had no thoughts regarding our wedding.

   I responded, “Not really. Not yet anyway. You?”

   He chuckled and answered, “No. I guess I hadn’t really thought about it either. Hmmm... Off the top of my head though, I’m thinking maybe the spring? What do you think?”

   Even
I
knew that there was no way to pull a proper New Jersey wedding together in under a year. Besides, my cousin was getting married in May. I thought that expecting my entire family to do the whole wedding thing twice in one season would be asking a lot, and told Devin as much.

   Then I asked, “Oh, hey. Are you coming with me to their engagement party? You were going to check your calendar and see if you were free.”

   Devin finished his sip of wine and asked, “Whose engagement is it again?”

   When I gave him a “
really?
” look across the table, he put his hands up, laughing. “Whoa. I was a little consumed with
our
engagement these past weeks. Can you blame me?”

   I ran a hand over my ring, gave him a fake dirty look and answered, “No, I guess not.” Then, in answer to his inquiry, “My cousin Jack, remember? He popped the question a couple months ago? His fiancée Livia did that photo shoot for us back in the winter. You liked her work.”

   The crinkle in Devin’s brow relaxed. “Ah, yes. Jack and Livia. The party’s on the...”

   I blew out an exasperated breath. “The twenty-ninth. September twenty-ninth. It’s a Friday.”

   He cracked his neck, then looked at me guiltily. I already knew what was coming. “Uh-oh. Layla...
honey
... You’re going to kill me, but I just booked my flight for that conference. I’ll be gone the whole week.”

   I didn’t know if I was surprised, but I definitely knew I was pissed. “Devin! I asked you about this weeks ago!”

   He gave a quick glance to our surrounding area, mouthing a shush in my direction and motioning his hands for me to keep my voice down. “I know, I know. I feel horrible, hon. I really can’t cancel, though. I swear I would if I could.”

   “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

   “I wish I were.”

   As I sat there stewing, the waiter brought our first course. The tartare looked phenomenal, but I had suddenly lost my appetite. Devin, however, dove right in. He took a first bite, closing his eyes and moaning in rapture. He was doing nothing more than enjoying his food, but at that moment, nothing could be more annoying to me than watching him chew. He looked at me then, could see my arms crossed against my chest, the scowl on my face. I hated myself for pouting, all whiny and Veruca Salt, but I hadn’t yet gotten over the slight.

   “Hon. What are you waiting for? You should really try this.”

   When I didn’t make a move, he acquiesced, put his fork down and said, “Okay, you’re mad. I get it.” He placed both hands on the table and looked right into my eyes, giving me his undivided attention to continue. “It was a stupid mistake on my part to forget something so important to you. I wish I could change things, and you have every right to be angry with me that I can’t. But truly, I’m very, very sorry.”

   At that small acknowledgment, my icy veneer started to crack just the slightest bit. It was a genuine apology, a rare and treasured event coming from him. And seriously. Everybody makes hare-brained mistakes from time to time. Lord knows I was certainly no exception.

   I could have prolonged the argument, really dug my heels in and made a big stink about it. I was justifiably miffed, but it wasn’t worth ruining our entire night over one little human error. Devin was normally so incredibly good to me. He’d never try to
deliberately
hurt my feelings. I decided to just let it go.  

   I grabbed my fork and dove into the plate between us. The tuna was perfectly prepared and practically melted in my mouth.

   Devin was treading lightly, trying to gauge my mood as well as my opinion on his appetizer choice when he asked, “Well?”

   I sighed heavily, conceding, and answered in a flat, expended breath, “It’s delicious.”

   Devin laughed out, “That is probably the least enthusiastic enthusiasm I’ve ever heard in my life!”

   Even I had to admit that my words sounded funny. I started laughing along with him, which managed to defuse the last of our confrontation.

   We had a whole wonderful night ahead of us. I decided that there wasn’t any point in going out of my way to try and sabotage it.

Chapter 5

SUBCONSCIOUS CRUELTY

   Do you remember that song, “Summer in the City”? There used to be a 4H or Young People’s Day Camp commercial or something with that song in it that played all the time back in the seventies, advertising their summer program, showing all these blissful, New Yorkian children playing in the sun. It was supposed to be happy and fun and showing what a city kid could do with their summer vacation, with a little help from their organization.

   But I used to watch that ad from the confines of my refrigerated suburban living room thinking that I had it way too good. The kids in that commercial always looked like they were about to melt into the scorching, steaming blacktop. They spent their summers cooling off at a busted fire hydrant, while I had an entire swimming pool at my disposal right in my own backyard. I used to break out into a heat rash just from watching that commercial. Plus, I could never get the lyrics about the back of my neck getting dirty and gritty out of my head.

   I mean, that line pretty much summed up the entire seventies. Just take a look at any Norman Lear TV show, and you can see what we were surrounded with.
All in the Family, Sanford and Son, Good Times
... So much of the seventies was just so
dirty
. Men wore their hair too long and nobody’s clothes matched. It was like everyone was suffering from the effects of all those drugs they took in the sixties. Porn ‘stache, Scotch plaid pants and a purple turtleneck? DYN-O-MITE!

   I’d lived in New York for close to nine years at that point, but still, a hot day never passed without The Lovin’ Spoonful’s song invading my brain.

   During late August in New York, the heat was practically a solid. A thick, squishy, gelatinous muck rising from the blacktop of the street and the grates in the sidewalk, only to be inhaled into its inhabitants’ tired lungs. The car exhaust and pollution would settle over everything like a sprinkling of gothic fairy dust, sticking to the beads of sweat on my skin. There were days when I could swipe my face with a tissue, and I would actually see the ashy residue evidenced right there on the Kleenex.

   New York City was the most awesome place on Earth.

   I loved the energy, the noise, the very living and breathing pulse of it all. The rough edges of its hurried citizens only added to the appeal. If you can make it there, you can make it anywhere. Song lyrics as fact. Art as life.

   More specifically, Greenwich Village was the most awesome neighborhood in the most awesome place on Earth. I felt more cozy and at home down there than I did amongst all that glass and steel uptown. There were no skyscrapers at our corner of the world, just our low-rise brownstones and architecturally interesting squat buildings. It was so incredibly artsy-fartsy and
cool
; a people-watchers paradise. It offered its own unique backdrop, between the music and the smells and the food and the people. Mere steps outside my door, there were art galleries, ninety-nine seat theaters and trendy boutiques, not to mention the beatnik coffee houses, swinging jazz clubs, and super-hip bars.

   My apartment was in the West Village on the top floor of a fourth floor walkup. It was certainly no penthouse, however, but I did have a fire escape balcony—where my plants lived and died—with a staircase that led to the roof. When the weather was just right, I’d station my lawn chair up there for a day of sunbathing, and if I closed my eyes, I could almost pretend I was at the beach. Cocktail in hand, blessed breeze blowing, I’d change out the sound of cars grumbling and horns honking for undulating waves and yipping seagulls.

   But it was Sunday, so I knew I wouldn’t be lounging around the rooftop oasis. Lisa and I had a standing lunch date every week, and this particular Sunday would see me in Jersey.

   She and I had been meeting as a weekly ritual since her recent move back to Norman that year. Even though I was in New York, we were still able to see each other a lot more often, being that we were only a short car trip away from one another. Sometimes, she and her husband Pickford would come into the city for a night out on the town (where they wound up crashing on my futon a time or two), but we had a standing appointment every Sunday regardless. It was awesome to have her back in Jersey.

   Lisa and Pickford had spent what felt like forever out west. Pick had played four stellar years with the Bruins at UCLA, then was drafted by the Suns in an early round. They’d barely settled into their new house in Phoenix when Pick was diagnosed with a shredded Achilles tendon during his second season. It turned out he had bone spurs that had gone undetected for years, eventually doing a number on his right leg. The damage laid him up in the hospital during the rest of the season and required no less than three surgeries over the following years. Even with extensive rehabilitation and months of physical therapy, the injury turned out to be a career-ender. 

   At least as a player.

   Thankfully, it wasn’t long before the New York Knicks came calling. Turned out, Van Gundy was a fan, and asked ex-local-boy Pickford Redy if he’d like to join the assistant coaching staff of the Knicks. He barely had the offer on the table before Pick and Lisa were on the road and on their way home to the east coast. I figured it was a bit of good luck—during a really bad time—that finally got the two of them back home again. Lisa said it was more like a godsend, because the offer in itself was enough to jostle her husband out of the depressed funk he’d been in since the injury.

   They took up residence in the most charming little waterfront home on Lenape Lake, coincidentally built by my cousin Jack. He and his fiancée Livia had just bought a place not far from there, and was the one who tipped them off to the property.

* * *

   Lenape Lake was a private, wooded community within the larger town of Norman. There was a cute little pub on the west side where a peninsula jutted out into the water, giving beautiful views from either the deck out back or through the three glass walls inside the restaurant. It was a place my father had brought Bruce and me sporadically over the years, and had become Lisa’s and my most recent favorite lunch destination.

   I walked out onto the deck where she was already waiting at a shaded table at the edge of the water, reading the
Daily News
. It was a gorgeous day outside—sunny, but cool—and I was grateful that we’d be able to take advantage of the outdoor seating.

   She saw me from across the deck and folded her paper onto the seat next to her. Before I could even sit myself down at the table, she said, “Lemme see that thing!”

   She immediately reached out and grabbed my hand once I was within her arms’ range, and spent an exorbitant amount of time appraising the diamond on my finger. I’d had a manicure a few days prior in order to display the ring to its proper advantage, and I was grateful that it had held up long enough to pass Lisa’s inspection.

   She let out with a low whistle. “Wow. That is some ring. Your man has good taste.”

   I reclaimed my hand and looked down at the shiny, foreign object on it. I still hadn’t gotten used to the feeling of it on my finger, the way that it would tangle in my hair when I ran a hand over my scalp, or the way its sparkle still managed to catch me off guard. I took a moment to stare at the alien entity on my left hand, trying to take in everything about it, from the large, round center stone... to the teensy tiny black dot at the very center of it.