Romance Is My Day Job (19 page)

After his divorce, he rushed into another engagement, and that went sour after a few years. He went from one volatile relationship to another, though I know deep down there's a reason why you go out with certain people. His exes must have provided some happiness, and they fit a pattern of sorts. I have my own patterns.

He pours out his heart to me, makes it seem effortless, as in he's done with his past. In some instances, I know he's still upset and confused, but he's the type who lands on his feet, survives, and maintains a sense of humor.

So what about me? What really messed me up? Why am I still single?

Uh, where do I start? It's the most moronic question, really.
I'm single because I'm a complete loser,
I want to say. It would be easy to blame my spinsterhood on my parents' divorce and their remarriages, but that was thirty years ago. People are just messy. I'm messy . . . and trying to avoid repeating my parents' mistakes. I had a lot of growing pains; so does everyone.

But since he's told me so much, I feel like it's time to relay the Big Story, the one I live with every day and in every relationship. It's no longer the most important part of my life, but it's always racing in my blood.

I begin, trying to keep it short, adult, no crying.

Sam listens attentively as I explain how everything might have been different if Jane and I hadn't ventured out for a drink one January night in 1991, a mere seven months after I graduated from college.

Jane and I had gone to school together, partied in the same circles, smoked Parliaments. People billed her as the next great theater director, and, after college, she wanted to put on a play in Cleveland, where I'd moved. Because I lived in the neighborhood, she asked for my help with her show. I hung around rehearsals, ran errands, and helped keep details on track. Most of all, I liked having her as my friend. She created fun wherever she went and this new city was lonely.

At about eleven
P.M
. that Monday night in January, while walking a block to a bar in the Flats—not the most populated or safe part of downtown Cleveland—a car pulled up to us. A man jumped out and pointed a gun at us, saying, “Get in the car.”

For a moment, Jane and I looked at each other. Do we run? We weren't mind-readers and there was a gun on us, so we got in the car with one man driving, another with the gun pointed at us.

This is the end,
I thought.

For the next ninety minutes, we made stops at ATM machines in order to drain my bank accounts. I punched in the numbers while a gun was in my back. They talked in Jamaican accents, played Prince's
Purple Rain
album—one of my favorites—and threatened to find our friends and kill them. At the end of our tour, they stopped in a remote neighborhood and raped us both. They then ordered us out of the car, and we ran, hiding behind cars in a remote parking lot. Eventually, we found a neighborhood bar and the bartender let us call 911.

The rest of 1991 was a blur before I moved to New Mexico. Jane and I spent half the year in court as witnesses, helping put the two men in jail. I won't say it was vindication, though it felt good to know they were behind bars.

There were bumps along the way. One judge rendered a shocking sentence that would release one rapist (whose charge of rape was dropped without our knowledge) early. This caused media controversy, to the point where he wound up staying in jail for a few more years.

Then in 2004, the district attorney's office found me and informed me that my rapist was up for parole. This resulted in crippling insomnia that made me miss a lot of work at Harlequin. I was embarrassed that I couldn't get out of bed. Every time I went outside, I felt this oppressive microscope bearing down on me. I wanted to crawl under the covers, so I did.

On the day of his parole hearing, a Monday in June, I couldn't stay home because I had used up my sick days. My good friend in human resources, another Sam, very kindly gave me the reality check I needed by suggesting I come to work or take some kind of “leave,” which scared me into action. What would I tell my mother? That I couldn't sleep? Mothers don't sleep either. They should be the ones to get the days off, not me. So I hadn't slept in a few days, and no amount of medicine would knock me out. I had to go to work, even on this horrible day.

I dropped off to sleep at two
A.M
. to an episode of
Wings
but woke up at four
A.M
., stiff as a board. After several days of seclusion, I couldn't stay in my apartment anymore, so I showered and dressed. If I could get through the next twelve hours, I'd be home free.

At five thirty
A.M
., I crept to the subway and went to work, thinking it might feel safer to be around people. The DA's office wouldn't find me. I didn't want to get that phone call at work, and I never check my cell phone. Maybe, before everyone arrived, I could sleep on the floor in my office. My legs shook all the way down to Harlequin's office in the city hall area, though I hadn't eaten in a while either. I had turned into this fragile waif, all from a stupid phone call that might tell me
he
would be set free.

Once I reached the office, I closed the door and tried to sleep on the floor, feeling completely insane. Then again, I probably wasn't the craziest one in the room. My stress was understandable, too. How often did I have a meltdown? Not often, so this was okay.

The hours went by, dark turned to light, and my colleagues drifted in. By ten
A.M
., I sat in our editorial meeting, still shaking, feeling as if I might break in half. The doors closed, people started talking, and I did everything I could to pretend I was normal.

My friend and colleague Gail sat near me. She had been at Harlequin for eight years before I started. She is Rhoda, basically—funny, emotional, supportive, and a bright light. She's someone whose conversations you want to overhear because everything that comes out of her mouth is interesting and hysterical. We didn't talk all that often, but for some reason on this day, I pulled her aside after the meeting. We went to my office and I closed the door.

“Do you ever feel as if you're going completely crazy?”

She grabbed my hands—which she always does, and I love it; so does everyone—and reassured me. “Are you kidding? At least once a week. And whatever it is, it'll be fine. I promise. Don't worry, sweetie, okay?”

It's like a standard thing to say, but coming from Gail, it sounded like the wisdom of the ages and meant a lot to me. This was why I never felt too compelled to leave Harlequin. If you had periods where you were sick of romances, there were always the people who worked on those romances. I've met hordes of special people braving the romance deluge and life with me. We visit in one another's offices, congregate in the kitchen, constantly send e-mails to one another, check in through various other means. We read some of the same books, see shows, go out to restaurants, nod conspiratorially at conferences and meetings. Through any upheaval, my friends at work provide continuous friendship.

And Gail was right, as my colleagues are about most things. It
was
fine. I still have those crazy moments. I still get panic attacks and have difficulty sleeping. At night, without medication and fully under my subconscious's reign, I dream about intruders coming into my apartment, my car, pushing guns, knives, into my face, the whirring thoughts that only fear of further violation can unleash in my head. I've tried having tea with my imaginary assailants. Tried telling them I forgive them (I don't, really). Tried to understand the plight of the criminal. All I can say is, “Screw you.” A few times, I've said this, but they still haunt me.

Both attackers wound up in jail for thirteen years. Getting this sentence involved many court appearances, letters to judges, parole boards, and media intervention. After the first few years, I didn't want to know anything more and stopped sending forwarding addresses to the parole board. Usually, though, someone would find me, and by 2004, I knew one or both of them would be released. They had to get out sometime. While I don't have trouble talking about this period of my life, the reality of it—like a phone call from Ohio—can cripple me for a few days.

It's no wonder I sought out the world of romance. These stories are a boost, no matter what mood I'm in, who I'm dating, and what my situation is. And over the years, some authors captured elements of my experience, what it feels like to move on after rape. Claudia Dain's
The Holding
and Justine Davis's
Clay Yeager's Redemption
made me cry buckets because their heroines learn to believe in love again after trauma.

As the words tumble out of my mouth, I feel stronger. There's that tiny part at the pit of my gut that wonders,
Will Sam find me too pathetic now?
I mean, this isn't the cheeriest topic. And it's not as if I haven't told this story a million times—in some instances to create intimacy that wasn't there in the first place—but telling it to Sam feels different. I don't need him to start crying for me. We don't have to keep talking about this either. In fact, maybe we should change the subject. But Sam does react in a way that feels right.

“Three thousand miles seems too far away right now.”

He gives me a smile, the kind that doesn't quite come across a webcam, but I know he cares. It melts my heart. I feel thoroughly enveloped by his signature warmth. This is a good guy. We may not turn into a real couple, but I'm grateful to connect with another human being, no matter how far away. It's worth telling my ugly story.

We talk more about what happened and he asks questions. Eventually, Sam and I do move on from this unveiling, discuss the lighter side of things, his students, the Marie stories I'm always editing, along with managing the romantic suspense romances. He becomes part of my routine. If I don't hear from him, my day isn't the same.

But when he books an actual ticket to New York, arriving December 17, I suddenly realize: This is more serious than I thought. He's going to be here tomorrow. Maybe the next day, too. And the next.

He is planning to stay in New York—with me—for a week. Once the visit is over, he will go back to Switzerland or Miami and look for another teaching job. His crossroad fits perfectly into my schedule. And with my Harlequin hero taking all the risks, I have nothing to lose.

I bite the bullet and tell Marie about this new potential romance. I expect cheerfulness masking disapproval, since our story is a little . . . unconventional. Instead, I get vintage Marie approval:
Can I write your story?
she asks.

Sure, Marie.

Or maybe I'll write it.

Sometimes a wind comes up, blows you off course. You're not ready for it, but if you're lucky, you end up in a more interesting place than you'd planned.

—Nora Roberts,
The Calhouns: Suzanna and Megan

When it comes to romantic comedies, I'm firmly in the Julia Roberts camp. She's like sunshine on the screen. My brother and I see her movies together and for two hours, no natural disaster can stop us from worshipping the goddess.

But from the moment I see Sandra Bullock in
Speed
, in 1994, I think,
Oh God, that's actually me.
Only I'm red-haired and far less vocal.

I am melodramatic during a crisis (though I can drive through Manhattan with a panic attack). I spend a lot of time in my pajamas crying over failed relationships just as Sandra does in
Hope Floats
and
Practical Magic
. I'm so mortified by some of the situations I've been in—dating jerks, traveling through four states to visit jerks, spending thousands of dollars and oodles of time on jerks—that I resort to my jammies and bags of knitting. And as I age, this hermitage gets worse. In addition to being alone (which I like and hate), my body is breaking down. I complain about my joints, for goodness sakes. Does Julia do that? No. Sandra, yes. She may not say it, but she does a fabulous sulk.

I'm also the girl who, when wearing high heels, looks like a bear who's been kicked hard in the ass. And then I'll fall as Sandra does in
Miss Congeniality
. My heart gets broken easily, too, and I cry a lot over stupid things when I'm alone, like when the cupcake frosting is mushed when I take it out of the bag.

Julia cries at beautiful things, like opera with Richard Gere, when talking about Susan Sarandon's precious children in
Stepmom,
the stress of fighting injustice in
Erin Brockovich,
the paparazzi publishing naked pictures of her in
Notting Hill
. Sandra just bawls all day long over stupid men and the crappy hand fate has dealt her.

Julia is the woman you want to be. Sandra is the madcap woman you already are, which is why, I think, so many people love her.

As I converse with Sam over Skype, I try to exude as much Julia as I can, playing up the red hair, the glamorous makeup, optimum black turtlenecks and flattering T-shirts. Behind the scenes, I'm all over the place: Happy and calm because I just feel good. Grateful that this friendship is even happening. Scared of what might not happen. I think of where Sam will go after his one-week visit with me.

It's only natural that I'd turn to both Julia and Sandra during this time of questioning. I rerent
The Proposal,
that story where Sandra is a workaholic, has no social life, then makes her assistant fake-marry her so that she can stay in the country. Sandra plays a Canadian. I work for Canadians. We have so much in common.

The only difference between me and her is—well, a whole lot of things. But as it happens, I'm living in a romantic comedy. There's this interesting new friendship developing quickly. I feel those butterflies, as if a special event is taking place. With the butterflies come the obstacles, like distance and how unlikely it is that I'll trust another boyfriend. Like Sandra, I bury myself in work because it's solid ground. If everything goes to hell, I will at least go to the office and read these luscious romances. I've read love stories even through—especially through—the most devastating breakups. Separation of work and real-life love is easy for me. I have no delusion that my life will be a romance novel. How could it?

But maybe all that love stuff has sunk in too deep. I should be completely neurotic about the whole situation. Why am I not more freaked out? I just feel good every time I talk to Sam. I always have this sense that he will call again tomorrow, so I don't wait by the phone.

He's out in the middle of Switzerland by himself. When he leaves and the semester is done, he wants to start over, find a new school, get a teaching job. What will that look like? If anything, he needs me more than I need him. I've started over a few times. I know I can count on myself. He might disappear from my life, but I will retreat to movies, books, work, and family. No problem.

Maybe I have turned into Julia, after all.

Sam and I remain fast and furious on Skype, talking to each other every day. His ticket is booked, and I've mentioned to a few people what's going on—like Melissa at work, my mother, my brother, my friend Nici, Rachel, and Marie—but I am trying to keep the day-to-day excitement to myself. This whole idea is insane. What could possibly happen with this Skype relationship?

We know what Julia would do. She'd continue to sparkle and understand that the guy will appear.

But because I've been Sandra for so many years, I keep the lessons of her movies in mind. He may show up and it'll be great for a week before he goes for the Pamela Anderson lookalike on the sixth floor of my building. In an Ambien moment, I'll smear cat shit on the door and then hang out in my bathrobe with no recollection of what I did. Of course, Keanu Reeves will be the cop who comes to investigate me for vandalism and harassment.

As the days pass, I see new layers of Sam. He posts photos of himself skiing on Facebook. Because of his daredevil ways, I worry he may die on the slopes. Wouldn't that be perfect? The guy I'm falling in love with hits a tree, mere weeks before he's about to see me for the first time in twenty-six years. He assures me that for once in his life, he's opting to wear protective helmets. If there's anyone who needs one, it's Sam.

Since communication over Skype is far more satisfying, our e-mails are sparse.

To:
Sam

From:
Patience

I got a Snickers bar to celebrate the Full Moon, yeah, that's right. I'll only eat half and bury the other half in a plant. I guess that's a little Wicca-ish.

Happy hiking!

xoxoxop.

The part about burying the Snickers is not really true; I wouldn't do that unless I was feeling very into nature. Julia would give her chocolate to nature. I eat the entire Snickers and tell myself I'm going to hell, which is so Sandra.

To:
Patience

From:
Sam

Subject:
Sending from my yahoo to your hotmail

Doldrums after hike. Was thinking of you on the way back down the mountain. The thought of Patience lifted my spirits. (Won't comment about the Snickers.)

This is a red flag—that Sam is a health junkie. I throw out hints about my rabid chocolate eating and he doesn't seem to share in the obsession. I worry that he's into eating seeds and might be a vegetarian. This is not a deal-breaker, but what a bummer for me since I love cheeseburgers. I've tried vegetarianism many, many times, but because I've been a runner since childhood, when my father took me to the track, I get weak when it's just tofu and vegetables.

To:
Sam

From:
Patience

It's my pleasure to lift you out of the doldrums. Serious about the Snickers.

 • • • 

As the weeks go by, there are feelings I don't dare express.
I want to date you in a normal way. I wish we lived in the same city. I'm falling in love with you over Skype.

These feelings strike me as normal but ludicrous. I've been through this before.
Not really.
I say nothing, though I remain cheerful. It's easy with Sam. He has no problem being effusive with his affection. He even teeters on the edge of “I love you” a few times, but I know it's too soon. I mean, we haven't even met yet. As scared as I am, or rather reserved, I do relay often how much his friendship means to me, no matter what it turns out to be.

During this fall courtship, I have one obstacle in addition to the three books I have to edit: a writers' conference in New Mexico. I accepted the invitation long before Sam appeared on the scene. I wanted to go because I adore Albuquerque and plan on spending my golden years there. Also in New Mexico is my dear friend and mentor Lou, whom I don't get to see much.

But I'm terrified, because what if I die in a plane crash? It would be the ideal ending in a story of unrequited love. Those winds flying into Albuquerque are a nightmare and, I'm sure, could bring down a jet. In the days before I have to fly, I am miserable, very Sandra, crying, cursing, wishing I could cancel due to some unforeseen illness, maybe a blood clot in my leg (not funny, I know). It's shameful because I'm forty-one and still fragile when I have to get on a plane. There has to be a way out.

There isn't. I have to do my job, go to the conference. If anything, the job reminds me to keep my sanity, not give up everything for a guy who may not pan out.

The night before my flight, I buy a card just for Sam and write a heartfelt message:
If I die, please know how much this correspondence has meant to me.

I leave the card on my desk so that my mother will see it once I die and send it to Sam. I even triple the amount of postage so that it would get to Switzerland. A “good-bye and I love you” message for him, even though I haven't yet said
that
to him.

Funny thing: Once I get on the plane I am okay (with a tranquilizer and deep breathing), ready to give my best editor performance. After five hours of air travel, I arrive, put on my faux-leather skirt and aquamarine sweater, and do my conference thing. I give the occasional “weird” talk, as in think too deeply about what I want to say, as if suddenly conference-goers want to hear a more philosophical speech (they don't—they just want to know what you do and how to get published). My talk topic this time is how Facebook might be impeding the writing process. What the hell do I know about it? The more I say, the more I hear the crickets in the room. Big mistake. Huge.

Facebook is important for authors, as is Twitter. In fact, social media is vital for promoting books. Oh, hey, and am I not the one who wouldn't even have this relationship with Sam if it weren't for Facebook? I love Facebook. So why the brain freeze? Oh right, Albuquerque is five thousand feet above sea level. It's the altitude. Live and learn.

The flight home is uneventful, even with my usual impulse purchases in the airport, prayers to the Cosmic Goddess, and sudden yet quiet freak-outs 37,000 feet in the air. When I step on solid ground this time, I feel double the euphoria. I am home safe. I am going to meet Sam. Only fifty-two days left.

Then thirty.

Twenty-five.

With all the expectation, the building of momentum, the deepening of our relationship, this is turning into a real-life romance novel—minus Jake Hunter's millions and Protestant upbringing, and plus the eight years Sam spent in Israel shackled to his first wife. Romance-hero Jake wouldn't be caught dead in Israel. Maybe Afghanistan, and he'd single-handedly bring down the Taliban for all the crimes they commit against women (Cassie gets kidnapped by the Taliban, but nothing bad really happens to her). Sam and I are turning into a romance novel because we are leading up to a happy ending of some kind (though it could go terribly wrong, too). We're taking so much time to get to know each other, time I could have been soaking up the Kardashians and Housewives. If that's not love, I don't know what is.

As the big day draws closer, I blithely forget all my cynicism about romance—that it would never happen to me, that I wouldn't experience that swoon-inducing fairy tale. This whole experience couldn't be more real. With my last few boyfriends, I had the thought,
Well, this is wrong, but I can live with it
. With Sam, I feel no reservations, just free-floating excitement. I
want
to live with what I've seen so far. Of course, we could crash and burn. We both are riddled with problems, but at heart, we are solid people who care about each other.

Sam and I plan for every kind of disaster, too. I joke that he'll kill me in my sleep; he jokes that I'm secretly crazy. Even though we flirt like mad over Skype and talk half-seriously about our life together, we don't kid ourselves. This might blow up in our faces, and we reason that he can always return to Florida, Switzerland, or Israel to teach. I will continue to edit romance novels, and one more failed love story won't destroy me.

With sixteen days left, even with our guards up, Sam goes onto Facebook and posts a picture of himself holding what looks like an IV bottle with the caption:
Swiss saline solution sold in IV bottles saves me money on my contact lens care. The bottles make great canteens afterwards. I love Patience Smith.

By this time, the “I love you” has been said a few times, though with the knowledge that we might hate each other on arrival. Sam said it first in mid-October, first by repeating the word
love
over and over in a sentence and finally just saying, “Sam loves Patience,” in the third person, just like Julius Caesar. For me it took a couple more days, because I don't like to just throw it around, and there's still some after-burn from previous botched “I love you”s. But finally, without reservation, I just said it to him over the webcam, and now Sam has said it to everyone via Facebook. But it's an “I love you” with an asterisk. In the flesh, there could be boredom, ambivalence, revulsion, and “What was I thinking?” The worst for me would be an empty apartment, which is a speck on the timeline of life events. For Sam, it would mean figuring out where to go. He has no plans beyond getting another teaching gig or staying with his father in Miami at some point.