Romance Is My Day Job (17 page)

Suddenly, it's the weekend. With nothing on my schedule, I am ecstatic to spend two and a half days alone. I will eat pancakes, watch television, knit, and edit. Doesn't this sound like heaven? No one will interrupt this schedule, and I'll return to work all refreshed and ready for another week. On Saturday morning, I crawl to the deli to get breakfast. Then I crawl back home to eat it. After movie #1 and proposal #1, I crawl back to the deli to get lunch; this time, though, I'm more conscious of the people spilling out of restaurants, couples indulging in a meal post–night of passion.

That's not me at all anymore. With my lunch, I go back to my apartment, ready for movie #2, then manuscript #1 to start editing. Maybe I'll clean my apartment, too.

What I won't do is think about where I was a year ago. Or two years ago. Or three. My situation is not uncommon. People are alone all the time. I go through periods of running home to my haven, feeling crazy joy that no one is intruding. But after twenty-four hours now of working and watching television, living within the four walls of my studio, interacting with my cat, maybe sending an e-mail or two, I retreat to that sad place, in front of my computer playing solitaire.

It's a bad sign when I pull up the solitaire. Definitely not Darcy Rhone behavior. She would throw on a sexy dress and find someone, anyone, and create a party. I don't know how to do this, where I could go. Within minutes of this repetitive game-playing, the tears flow. I cry for the missed opportunities, the sheer boredom, my father's distant behavior, the fact that I gained ten pounds the second I moved into an elevator building, the sadness of having a knitting injury, the relationships I didn't want to end. Maybe there's lost potential somewhere. Why did I leave New Mexico? Maybe Chris wants me back. Someone might want me back. More tears spill down my cheeks. I feel pathetic, though I know that I'm not really sad. It's the drawback of spending
all
your time alone.

The sky outside turns gray, with light rain against my window. I turn to see it, interrupting my solitaire game for a moment.

What a miserable Saturday afternoon,
I think.

Ding!

The sound of my computer calls me back. Brushing away my tears, I abandon my game and see the instant message:

Hi!!!!!! Red!?!!!?

Holy Jesus. This guy doesn't give up, does he? I start to laugh as more tears roll down my face. The lengths to which the universe will go to get me to stop playing solitaire.

“Hi, Brown!!!” I write back.

Can I call you now?

It's difficult to describe that feeling of gratitude. Someone's been waiting for me. He's not waiting for that girl standing next to me or the better buffet dish who comes after me, but me.

Why wouldn't I talk to Sam on the phone, if he's willing to call me?

Sure, okay.

I refuse to feel badly that I'm home on a Saturday night. This might be a stigma to other people, like Charlotte from
Sex and the City
, but I'm okay with it. Sam and I are just going to talk. Considering my ability to converse with a celebrity stranger, I can talk to Sam. What would Darcy do? She'd absolutely pick up the phone.

I give him my number. My phone rings about thirty seconds later.

“Hello?”

“Hi . . .”

“Sam. What a nice surprise.”

We both laugh. I don't think we ever spoke more than a few sentences to each other during or after the dance. And now we're gabbing away as though we have twenty-six years to catch up on. What about our whole lives? I had no idea that he loved France, that we wrote our master's theses on the same French author (Zola), that he's been married and divorced, that he was a chubby kid and is now thin, that his mother died before he came to Taft. After high school, he went to graduate school and got his PhD at Columbia, wrote his dissertation on Proust. He was teaching at the University of Haifa, took some time off to go to law school, hated that, and is returning to academia, starting with a stint in Switzerland teaching high school for the fall semester. A wandering man, I think, definitely not the same route I chose.

As the content of our conversation lengthens and deepens, it's more the voice that turns me from a woman in mild distress to an attentive listener. I love how he speaks and what he says. There's some self-awareness in his narration and view of the world as slightly ridiculous.

The best part is that his voice makes me feel good on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Is this yet another soothing sign from way beyond? Someone to tell me I'm okay, that this route I'm taking is the right one? Sometimes a phone conversation is just a phone conversation. I don't consider that my interaction with Sam will go further than this.

The funny part is that usually I avoid talking on the phone. It's not that I don't like people or can't maintain a conversation, it's just that I don't know what to say when I can't see my phone partner. My father is the same way. I can time our conversations to two minutes, tops, with the habitual how are you, I'm fine, what do you want to do, come up this weekend, okay, when should I pick you up, 11:55
A.M
., done.

With Sam, though, I forget about that nervousness, the feeling that our conversation should end as soon as possible. I am relaxed in my chair, feet up on my desk, a smile on my face. There is nowhere I have to be. The phone—and instant messaging—is all we have right now. It's all we'll ever have. We are just two people who went to the same high school, having two very different experiences. And sometimes it's just nice to talk on the phone. Doesn't mean it will be a big romance. I'm not looking for that, remember?

By the time we hang up, about two hours later, it's dark outside, and I hear noise outside my window. The evening is starting for some people. My night is ending, and it's one I thought would end with me crying over computer solitaire for a few more hours.

I feel light. Happy. Talking to Sam gives me a boost.

It's an interesting turn of events. In just one week, so much happened. The Tarken meeting, the Sam friending on Facebook—ending with this one phone call. I won't wind up with Sam—how could I since he lives all over the place—but I like how these people keep popping up and giving me new lessons to learn.

I'm still on track, keeping to my own schedule, with this one little break to talk to an old friend. If I were Darcy Rhone, I'd jump on a plane to Israel, casually find myself in Haifa, close to Sam's place. But let's get real: It takes a village to get me to fly anywhere, and I've impulsively taken too many trips for romance. For now, I'll stick with the heroes on the page. For now, Sam is merely a friend who showed up unexpectedly on Facebook.

 • • • 

But then I get nervous when I don't hear from him. It must be because I sound like Marge Simpson. That's why he vanishes after our first phone call. There's no other explanation. My voice grates on the human ear. Or it could be that Sam has other things to do, like move from Israel to Switzerland.

No, it's totally my voice. But whatever.

At first, the dearth of Sam doesn't faze me. Since my expectations are low, my hopes for ecstatic love with the Popular Boy from High School are not dashed. I don't run for the king-size Snickers—just the regular size, and then I go for a run to stir up the endorphins.

We share a few e-mails after the call, but I can feel his interest waning. I try to lure him back with references to French personalities. I even start reading Proust just because he's a Proust scholar, but that's just stupid. I close the book on
Swann's Way
 . . . and Sam.

For a boost, it seems only logical that I revisit the list I made right after my birthday, with that crazy wish. Now that I'm no longer dating, what can I say about my life? I read very carefully, soaking up each word:

If I died tomorrow, I'd be proud that . . .

1. My loved ones know I love them.

2. I enjoy my work.

3. I survived that.

4. I got to live in New Mexico and Paris.

5. I've loved with all my heart.

6. I've never made a really terrible decision.

7. I'm good.

8. I have seriously great hair if it's blown out right.

Do I wish I'd gotten married? I don't know. I've seen far too many bad marriages. Not many good ones. I can't regret something I haven't experienced, what I can't control. Maybe I wouldn't even be happy as a married person. Another human in my space might drive me bananas.

I can't waste any more time.

In restaurants and on the subway, I often hear women pine over lost love, why this guy did or didn't call. It gives me that bittersweet feeling since I've been that girl—I
love
that girl. She wants more from life. For me, “more” means less hassle. So when Sam doesn't call or e-mail me again, I go back to my reading, remembering that
those
books provide an entertaining escape, but, in real life,
romance doesn't exist.

 • • • 

As the weeks go by, I am productive and find deep pleasure in helping with writers' careers. These stories come from talented people. I vow to work even harder and also spend more time with my mother and her academic friends. So, during my mini-depression, when Mom asks me over for one of her soirées, I accept. Being with loved ones is a good first step.

In addition, I start to think about the bigger direction of my life. I'm at that scary age when things start breaking down. Also, is there a next place for me to go, like California? Do I want to drift? Since my love life is over, I consider what I could do to fill up the empty space.

There's always the
Eat, Pray, Love
trip to shake up my world. I could go to an exotic place and accidentally get run over by a hot Hispanic importer who lives in Australia. But I have no vacation time left and don't like flying, so I can't do a world-opening voyage where I meditate, whittle toys for needy children, and live in a hut. But I could be courageous and try something different.

Waiting helps me the most. My circumstances are bound to change, so why not just chill? The answers will come, and, true to my name, I wait for them through most of September. I'm grateful for any push in a new direction—away from Sam and Tarken and toward whatever is next.

In those few weeks of wild thoughts, high highs, and medium lows, my mind keeps going back to Sam and why he contacted me. It could have been the start of an unusual friendship, but nothing happened. In a rash moment, rebelling against waiting, I reactivate all my dating profiles and sign up for nonrefundable months of romantic possibilities on Match, Chemistry, Nerve, and eHarmony. It is a half-hearted gesture, but I figure it's for my own good.

Despite this, I can't stop thinking about the phone call with Sam, how easy he was to talk to, the effect his voice had on me, how he made me feel safe. Why would this person appear on my path and then disappear? My years of romance reading tell me there's a reason, a big reason, but my brain tells me to dismiss him.
Don't even bother with Sam. You already wrote to him. He barely answered.

Because I've ruled him out as Prince Charming, I am allowed to check his Facebook page on a daily basis. Sometimes twice. Okay, twenty times.

I notice that his Facebook status updates become increasingly morose:

It's all about money . . .

It's all frightening . . .

Why would he be blue? The man gets to see the world and speak French. He has the freedom to roam the earth however he wants. I can't read too much into it. But of course I do, and I wonder what would be so bad if I wrote to him again. It goes against all the dating rules. The more I think about it, the more frustration sets in. Maybe I'll make one last attempt at contact.

I don't have a thing to lose. If he blows me off, I will continue as before. One act won't make or break my nonrelationship with Sam. He won't leave me covered in pig's blood in a gym while I have my period.

After my big epiphany, I stay up late and think of ways to casually contact Sam. I channel my favorite Emily Giffin character and do as Darcy would do: meddle to get what I want, break the silence, have more fun. I'm an editor, so I can craft an e-mail and then rework it into effortless, cheerful correspondence.

The Moment reveals itself the next morning. During my scrolling of Facebook, I come across Sam's latest morose status update:

Again, it's really all too depressing.

This makes me chuckle. Good! I'm glad you're depressed, buddy boy. You deserve it. Especially since you blew me off. You should be depressed that you publicize your depression like that. What a lame bid for sympathy.

I make my move by pressing the “Like” button to his status update—having no idea that it will change my life forever.

Within minutes, I get a message from Sam:

You are a woman after my own heart!!!

I smile big. I'm sure this satisfaction is an everyday occurrence for Darcy, but for me, this small risk is a huge victory. Our courtship begins.

September–December 2009

Modern love stories often start over a computer. Eons ago, they might have started over letters or introductions from friends. You could meet someone at a party, a worlds-colliding-in-one-night thing, and you or the other would pick up the thread, go out on real dates, which would expand into bigger dates.

These days, we're a bit lazier. If you just click your mouse, you can embark on a new journey with a new friend. There are more choices, and you don't even have to leave your desk. For a sloth-at-heart like me, this long-distance flirtation with Sam is perfect. Minimum risk for me (what else am I doing at night—
Real Housewives
with a cheeseburger and fries and a bag of knitting projects), maximum enjoyment because my level of investment is not as high as it used to be. In a logical manner, I've ticked through every possible scenario for my future with Sam, though his sudden appearance mystifies me. I'm not sure what's happening. All I know is that I feel good. Every night, I have somewhere to go. Sam is my new secret male friend, my confidant, my evening party.

This sounds like the beginning of an erotica novel, doesn't it?

It should be, except with Sam, it's pure romance. I discover early on that he's a gentleman, respectful of boundaries. He never asks me, “So what are you wearing . . . ,” as a prelude to phone sex. We don't discuss
that
, though I feel chemistry from across the ocean. He says “please” and “thank you” and “I didn't mean to interrupt.” He listens and doesn't vanish for no reason. We talk as strangers might over coffee. It feels like a romance novel with those butterflies, the expectation and fast-and-furious e-mails. As my personal life—once again—becomes complicated, I know of one woman who would appreciate the glory of blossoming love: Marie Ferrarella, one of the authors I edit, who has written more than two hundred romance novels. Over the past ten years, I've spilled the beans about my boyfriends to Marie—because she asks, as would any good fairy godsister in a romance. She cajoles, lifts me up, gives me that one-liner that guides me forward. Each time I crash and burn, I write, “Oh well, it's not meant to be.” She answers promptly that somewhere out there, my husband is waiting for me, most recently writing:
Somewhere in that throng of eight million people there has to be the kind of man you deserve who needs a good person in his life. If I could write you a happy life, I would in a heartbeat, but all I can do is light candles and pray. You are always in my thoughts. Love, Marie.

See what I mean about the fairy-godsister thing? Her e-mails keep me smiling, and she signs each missive with
Love, Marie
.

Many years ago, like fifteen, when I first did research on romance, I saw Marie's name everywhere. In her photo, she was this blond bombshell with a bold stare and feathery hair. She looked right at you, could nail your character with a quick once-over. I heard she only wore high heels and short skirts. I kept picturing her as Ann-Margret and Doris Day mixed together, a woman who purred at her typewriter and loved socializing with the postal workers.

I even read a few of her books before I went to Harlequin, never thinking our paths would cross. At my first Romance Writers of America conference in Anaheim in 1998, I walked into the hotel and stood in the lobby, overwhelmed by the flood of romance writers. Imagine, two thousand women in one hotel, all pitching woo on paper, wanting to sell their books of love. As I scanned the area, I suddenly saw
her
across the way with a herd of Harlequin editors. So many people were paying homage to Marie, the essential romance writer who lived the part. She seemed happy and bewildered by all the attention. To me, it was like seeing royalty. I treasured that first glimpse of her until three years later, one of the executive editors came into my office, closed the door, and sat down.

“We'd like for you to take over working with Marie Ferrarella. We need this to happen right now,” she said.

My hands started shaking, as if I would soon encounter a favorite celebrity, like Duran Duran or Julia Roberts. Are you kidding me? Of course I'd work with Marie. What was the catch?

“You have to be really organized.”

“No problem.”

“I mean, she writes
a lot
, but she's just lovely,” the executive editor said.

“How much is a lot?”

It didn't matter to me how much. I had this covered. Organization was my thing. Hello, those French teachers didn't rap my knuckles for nothing in first and second grade.

“She writes a book a month,” my colleague said.

Oh holy crapwagons, Marie was insane. “So we publish twelve books each year?”

“That's right.”

I sat back in my chair, frightened yet giddy. Me, work with Marie? How lucky am I? Though I also knew that if she were writing a book a month and had done this for many years, she would stay on the treadmill at warp speed for eons. This is the drug of writing romance, and when you have the ingredients brewing in your head, you're going to get it down fast. She
needed
to write a book a month. Only one thing would stop her—the flu or death.

Then I talked with Marie on the phone for the first time. She was like that fun neighbor you want to see every day over coffee to gab about the latest goings-on, the type who brings you soup when you're sick, writes you many e-mails asking how you are, sends you gift after gift after gift for every possible holiday. She's all about chocolate on Christmas and Valentine's Day. For Easter, it's a nice chocolate egg with some kind of sugary filling. I was right; she is definitely that combination of Doris Day—chipper, saying all the right things—and Ann-Margret with her vavavavoom.

When Marie and I first started working together, I was in love with Russell Crowe and did Buddhist chanting so that I would marry him someday (Patrick said this would work). It's true.
The Insider
and
L.A. Confidential
had a visceral effect until he started seeing Meg Ryan, and then I turned away, out of respect for Meg. Marie fed my Hollywood crush, and within a couple of years, I owned most of his movies.

If Marie had a problem, she was apologetic about it. I edited her books with pleasure, though the pace of her work was dizzying. How does one ever keep up with Marie? How does Marie keep up with
herself
?

“Honey, I only need four hours of sleep. I don't have time for more. If I did, my family would starve and my husband would have no clothes.”

Speaking of no clothes, her romances are the kind that readers keep devouring. Though each one is different, there are a few trends in her stories: the perky heroine, often blond, often positive about life (much like Marie). The heroes are gruff yet likeable. She makes her readers laugh out loud. She doesn't often veer from her pleasing romantic stories with babies, law enforcement, teachers, nights of passion, or doctors, but every now and then she'll insert a truly demented element—like a killer carving shapes into bodies or stealing a baby that is still in utero—that makes you wonder what lives in the mind of Marie.

In addition to being an author and fairy godsister, Marie could be a doctor. In the office, several of us consult Marie for diagnoses and treatment for our ailments. When I have a cold, flu, or injury, Marie sends me her recommendations for recovery, then a box of See's chocolate, a book, or a DVD. She counseled me on my insomnia issues, going over all the different drugs on the market. Marie was especially helpful getting me through the stomach flu of 2007, which she did from California.

It's hard to keep from considering her part of my family. She's written books using the names of my brother, me, and several editors in the office. It's kind of hilarious that I'm a heroine in a romance novel—a veterinarian—and that Marie has me hooking up with a hero named Brady. Same for my brother, Detective Patrick Cavanaugh (my real brother is gay, but obviously a hero can't be gay in a heterosexual romance), who winds up falling for Maggie, another cop.

At this very moment, as I'm conducting this strange relationship with Sam, Marie is writing a book featuring the romance-novel version of my mother, “Bonnie Gene,” and “Donald Kelley” (their actual names). I've commissioned her to write a specific story and, for kicks, delivered character profiles of my family to use as secondary characters. The romance itself takes place between a sweet virginal heroine and gruff rancher. Marie is working away, then sends me this. . . .

To:
Patience

From:
Marie

What's new with you? Haven't heard from you in a while and it makes me nervous.

Love, Marie

I reassure her that I'm fine:
Just trying to keep up with you, Marie.
I get this kind of e-mail from Marie every few weeks. This time, I want to confide in her about this latest Sam situation, but it seems foolish. So I'm having a long-distance correspondence with someone from high school. It's a little sketchy on paper, no big deal.

Marie's stubborn insistence that I will find Mr. Right is hard to push aside. She is love's champion. If I were on a desert island, she would assure me that someone would arrive on a boat, wanting to marry me.

For now, though, I keep quiet. Maybe I need a little “Marie” adjustment in my attitude. This is the perfect opportunity to transform into a Marie heroine: cheerful, optimistic, brimming with humor. Maybe I'll wear those high heels and not act as if I'm on stilts. Instead, I'll enjoy how much fun it is to be taller. A Marie heroine lives in the moment. For now, I bask in the excitement of new e-mails from Sam.

I discover early on that Sam is vain, and about the strangest things, too, like the hair on his back or the mole on his nose, which I like. How could a daredevil such as Sam be obsessed with his appearance? He should be trying to jump over twenty barrels on a motorcycle. Of course, I have to tease him about this:

To:
Sam

From:
Patience

Thanks for calling! It brightened up a very dreary day.

Have a great week and a hairless back!

p.

To:
Patience

From:
Sam

Hi, I enjoyed our conversation too. So, you're amused by my male vanity? Last time I was here my great internal debate was whether to treat myself to more (back) hair removal or a sky diving lesson. I did the virile thing and jumped out of a plane. This time, I'm not so sure. . . .

To:
Sam

From:
Patience

Whatever you decide, I won't judge any more than I have already.

p.

I want to tell the whole world about how my stomach jumps every time I see an e-mail from Sam. I really do feel like a heroine, a little like Meg Ryan in
You've Got Mail
. But aren't we supposed to fall in love in a different way? We should meet on a random New York street or at a Taft alumni cocktail party. He'll remember me, come over to talk because I'm in heels and wearing an inappropriately short dress for a woman my age (I do that sometimes, just because). Romance ensues. Maybe not.

A relationship over a computer puts us in this stagnant fantasy place. I present my best self in every encounter, which is easy when you're separated by thousands of miles. He doesn't see me remove my makeup and get into my polar bear pajamas. In real life, I present that best self for an hour or two, with harsh truths slipping out—how I hate pickled beets and that's his favorite, that I'm not the most social person in the world, and is my eyeliner melting down my face? (Why, yes, it is.)

Sam knows so little about me, but over those hours of speaking on the phone, we cover a lot of ground. Even the questionable stuff leaks out eventually . . . and this creates even more cyber-intimacy. I know I'm in danger of becoming attached, more infatuated with this person on a screen. Now my romantic life is complicated again.

At least I have a challenging workload, with three books that need massive editing. This comes in addition to the sea of Marie. I'm grateful. And the end of the year offers those holiday parties, the presents to buy and relatives to see. It's good to be busy. My annual performance review will happen soon, and I have to prepare for this. Really, I can't mess around with this boy at all. And what are the chances he'll want more than a boozy, salacious week in New York with a crazy redhead? Pretty much none.

When I consider every romance novel and every movie, I understand that the romantic heroine hardly ever does the pragmatic thing. She goes back into the house where the serial killer is waiting for her. If the hero is a jerk, she doesn't walk away and ignore him. She confronts him, telling him he's a giant ass, and then he kisses her, because heroes secretly enjoy female rage. As much as I try to keep a tight rein on my love-struck heart, I run home in the hopes that he'll call at our usual time.