Seeing Julia (11 page)

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says.

“You said I’m
absolutely
fine with that.”

“I am.”

“
Absolutely
fine with what?” I look at her closely.

“He wants to go to Paris for New Year’s,” she says. “I told him he should go.”

“You should go with him. I’ll be fine in Amagansett.”

“No,” she says. “Have we forgotten the little incident with the ocean two days ago?”

“The medication’s kicking in.” I grimace. “I’m really okay. I can take care of myself. You should go with him. New Year’s in Paris would be amazing. Go spend it with him.”

She shrugs in contrived nonchalance. “It’s all … getting so complicated anyway. At first, it was fun going back and forth between Paris and Manhattan. I think that’s why it’s lasted this long, the fated serious for the last six month time table.”

She attempts to laugh, but I glimpse her torment. I sit up straighter knowing this conversation has just turned into something more serious. We’re not talking about New Year’s anymore.

“He lives in Paris. He can’t spend all his time in Manhattan with me. There’s no future in that.” She leans forward looking straight ahead at the lineup of cars for the toll bridge. “I don’t know. I thought opening the Paris office would be the ultimate. And, it’s been great, don’t get me wrong, but I miss New York. I miss you. This whole thing with Evan. It makes you think about what you really want. What’s important.”

“Isn’t Gregoire a part of your life?” She looks over at me and gives me this pleading let’s-talk-about-something-else look. “You can tell me … anything … you know that.”

“There’s nothing to tell. It’s been great, but it’s time to end it.”

She shrugs her shoulders and busies herself with getting the toll for the bridge from her purse. I hand her correct change and she looks surprised for a moment as if she doesn’t know what to do with the money.

“Are you all right? Are we talking about New Year’s or something else?”

“I’m fine.”

Our conversation stalls, while she chats up the toll guy, an earnest twenty-something-year-old with amazing brown eyes and an instant attraction for my little PR queen. Lively banter about the weather, the traffic, and the long lines ensues between them.

I roll my eyes and look out the window and try to hide my irritation. It’s so like Kimberley to avoid any deep conversation if it has anything to do with her, while we can, essentially, dissect my life at every turn. Now, she lasers in on lining up another admirer for future reference. God knows we’ve been preoccupied with my life, but sometimes the way she treats the men who actually might care for her upsets me. She takes his card and gives him one of hers.

“What’s going on?” I ask in irritation when she pulls the car forward with one last-minute seductive look at her newfound friend and drives on to the bridge. “God, if Gregoire saw the way you looked at that guy or my psychiatrist earlier today, you would be in a world of hurt.”

“I’m not married,” she says softly.

Her eyes narrow and she gives me the famous Kimberley-knows-best look.
But does she?
I can feel her spinning out of control right here in the car.

“The Paris office is doing well. I’m putting Frederic Dupont in charge. I’m moving back to Manhattan.” She sounds resolute as she outlines her future plans, but I’m not so convinced.

“Are you doing this because you think you should or because you want to?” I ask. “I thought you really liked Gregoire. It’s been
more
than six months. You met him two years ago.”

“It wasn’t so serious then. We were just having fun.” Kimberley sighs and then takes a deep breath and shakes her head back and forth. “He’s
late
to everything. It drives me crazy. But, he just laughs when I call him out on it.” Kimberley runs her life with a stop watch, so I’m somewhat amused, when she says this. “Then, he has this obsession for white chocolate. Just like you.” She looks flustered now. “He’s got me liking it, too.” She moans at this admission.

“White chocolate isn’t the end of the world, Kimmy.”

She shakes her head and gets this bewildered look. “He knows everything there is to know about wine and food in general. And, he
orders
for me and you know how I hate guys that do that.” I nod, knowing this is true. “I let it go at first because I thought it was some kind of suave French seduction thing. And, it was working.” She gets this secretive look of delight, and then it fades. “But about a month ago, we’re at Daniel and he orders everything, as usual.” She rolls her eyes. “And, I realize I couldn‘t make up my mind about what to eat, even if I wanted to. What is that? And, he always chooses something different that I end up really liking. God, it’s weird.” She grips the steering wheel with one hand. “He’s so … linear.” She moves her free hand across the horizon. “And you know how I’m up and down, up and down. “She makes a zigzag motion. “He’s just so steady like a burning candle lighting the way. The complete opposite of me.”

“Magical like you, but in a different way,” I say. She gives me this withering glance.

“You’re supposed to be helping me out here. Talk some sense into me. This
cannot
happen.”

“You can’t control who you fall in love with,” I say. Dr. Stevenson would be so proud to know, I can, at least, recite his lessons.

“Love.” Kimberley scoffs and makes a dismissive motion with her hand.

I’m momentarily lost in the revelations with Dr. Stevenson from earlier about the powers of attraction and needs and wants and make this inevitable leap to thoughts of Jake Winston. I shake my head to chase them away.

Kimberley glances sideways at me seeing this. “What?”

“Maybe you’re in love.”

“I am absolutely not in love.” She glares at me. “He just drives me crazy.” I start to laugh. “What?”

“Absolutely.” I make the quotation mark gesture in mid-air. “You’re using our code word and everything.”

“You drive me crazy too, you know.”

“I’m sure I do,” I say with benevolence. “And, I know you love me.”

“It’s just so…” She looks away from me and concentrates on the traffic. “Scary.”

I reach out and touch her hand. “I wouldn’t trade any of it, you know. Not one single moment, happy or sad.” There’s this sudden uplifting from deep inside of me as if the heavy weight of grief has left, however temporary, I still feel its absence. “Love’s worth it, Kimmy.” I surprise, even myself, at this assertion. My Hallmark Card psychiatrist would be so proud.

Kimberley looks bleak, undone. The woman is used to being in control. This much I do know; she isn’t going to accept my truth, until she finds it for herself.

“You think I love Gregoire?” She asks after a few minutes of silence.

“He makes you crazy. You can’t stop thinking about him. You’re out of sorts, unbalanced. Eating white chocolate and letting him order for you. Seems like sure signs to me.”

Kimberley groans. “This seems more like a cross between the flu and dementia. I can’t think straight.”

“I believe the term is
see straight
.”

“I can’t see straight, either. Oh God, this can’t be happening.”

“Kimmy, everything’s going to be okay,” I say in my best impersonation of her. We both burst out laughing and for a few precious moments grief retreats a little further away from me.

≈ ≈

After our early afternoon return from Manhattan with two hours of traffic, I sit out on the deck in an Adirondack chair with a thick wool blanket draped over me staring at the grey Atlantic and try not to think about the things and places starting with the letter
A
that continue to haunt me. Talking with Dr. Stevenson has brought all this pain from the past decade to the surface. And now, with my newest revelations about my imperfect marriage and my own inadequacy, pain I thought I’d dealt with long ago emerges now, synchronizing with my latest heartbreak.

Attempting to distract myself from the inner torment, I sip from a steaming cup of coffee Stephanie has doctored with heavy cream. She acquiesced to my request for freedom and allowed me come out on the deck by myself. I just need to be alone for a while I told her. She agreed to listen for Reid, who is taking his afternoon nap, while Lianne set off for the grocery store for more last-minute supplies and a list of presents to buy for me. My nanny promised to take care of everything and her assurance set me free from guilt for a few hours because I can’t do it all today.

Our beach house overflows with people yet I’m alone even surrounded. I wipe away a tear. It’s Christmas Eve day. Late afternoon. My revelations with Dr. Stevenson have moved to the regret stage. Why did I have to share so much of myself with him today? It won’t change anything. I am here. Alone in the after again. Evan is dead. Bobby’s dead. My parents dead. There’s nobody left, hardly even me.

I stare out at the distant waves of the Atlantic, willing it to give me some kind of answer. The white waves splash the shore with renewed fierceness.

“Evan, where are you?” I whisper.

≈ ≈

The opening and closing of the French doors leading out to the deck stir me from my misery. Kimberley’s lyrical voice reaches me above the roar of the crashing waves.

“Yeah, I sent them out. No. Not a problem. Look, once I had the list it was easy. Just a note card stating due to the untimely death of Evan, you were postponing. Well, it would have been a little hard to do from London. Yeah. I got that impression. Look, I’m sorry. Frankly, I think it’s for the best right now. All right. The car service will pick you up at three. Yes.” Kimberley gives me an appraising look and I lift my head in defiance. She has the infamous just-go-along-with-the-plans-Julia look. “Yes. We’ll all be here with her. And Reid. Right. Okay.”

I take a sip of my coffee which is fast cooling off in the bitter cold, attempting to achieve some sort of nonchalance. “I’m almost afraid to ask who that was,” I say through chattering teeth after a few minutes.

“Okay. I won’t tell you.”

I give her a dirty look. “Tell me.”

“No.” Kimberley shrugs then grabs part of the blanket and burrows in to the chair next to mine. “You just continue to wallow in your little pity party by yourself.”

She amazes me with her perceptiveness and I lash out. “It’s Christmas, tomorrow, Kimberley. Give me a fucking break.
Please.”

“We all
know
it’s Christmas tomorrow. That’s why I’m taking care of everything and making it a Christmas you’ll never forget.” She flashes me one of her do-not-fuck-with-my-plans looks.

“Now, I’m really afraid to even ask who you were talking to and what you’re planning,” I say with agitation. She just laughs, her wicked I’ll-never-tell laugh, the laugh that has had the uncanny ability to set me on edge, since our college days. With Kimberley,
anything
is possible. “I don’t want a big party.”

“No big party. Just the inner circle.”

“Fine. Like I have a choice.”

“Being in bed. In the dark. With the covers pulled over your head all day is
not
an option.”

“We … talked about this. The margarita plan. Hanging out. The inner circle. I thought I got to do what I wanted on Christmas Day.” I almost laugh, my whining is so pronounced. Staying in bed all day on Christmas is the exact scenario I had planned. I’ve arranged for Lianne to take care of Reid and planned to shut myself out from the world.

“No.”

My plans evaporate just like that at the unwavering look on her face. I try another tactic. “Who was on the phone?”

“A new client. Jake Winston.” She leans back in the chair, sighs, and closes her eyes.

My body contracts deeper into my own chair. I don’t want to have a conversation about Jake Winston. I don’t want to know why he has become her PR client. I study the Atlantic and count the wave cycles. One. Two. Three. Four.

Kimberley sighs again and leans over in my general direction. “He cancelled his wedding.” She hands me the invitation and the subsequent note announcing its cancellation and waits for my reaction.

I manage to hold it together.

“Evan was supposed to be his best man.” My deadpan tone gives absolutely nothing away about how I really feel about this announcement but I’m reeling inside. How is it possible that I’d forgotten Jake was getting married? Evan had been talking about being in Jake’s wedding for weeks. We were all getting ready to fly to Austin. How is it possible I forgot this? How much of me am I really missing? “I forgot he was getting married Saturday,” I finally say.