Slightly Single (24 page)

“Quit?” I stop walking. “No!”

“Good,” Latisha says. “You just tell him he can’t get away with this stuff anymore. Tell him you’ll report him to human resources if he doesn’t straighten out.”

“I will,” I vow. But I’ve lost a little steam.

I was so angry I hadn’t thought about what I was actually going to do about this.

“Go on,” Yvonne says, giving me a little nudge toward Jake’s office.

I start walking again, with a purpose. They’re right. I have to stand up for myself. Jake is totally taking advantage.

I’m all geared up to tell him off—in a professional way, of course.

But when I get to his office, it’s locked.

In my cube, I find a note from him saying that he’s gone to a meeting at the client’s offices and won’t be back in the office until tomorrow. The note says that I should lock the fishing pole in the storage closet.

I’m tempted to leave it right out in the open and let Myron and company do what they will with it.

But it turns out that I can’t.

I lock the pole into the storage closet.

And I leave the office at five on the dot.

I walk all the way home, swiftly.

I’m soaked with sweat when I get there. I strip off
the dress and toss it into the pile of stuff for the dry cleaner. I put on shorts and a T-shirt.

I put a small potato into the microwave. Then I cut it open, top it with leftover steamed broccoli and a piece of fat free cheese. I dump salsa all over the whole thing. It doesn’t taste that bad when I use enough salt.

While I eat, I read a chapter of
Gulliver’s Travels.

Then I go through my wardrobe, trying on clothes and trying to put together a couple of decent outfits to wear this weekend. I come up with nothing. Half of my clothes are too baggy now—not that I’m complaining—and the stuff that fits looks really dated.

I count the money in my Prego jar. I still haven’t gotten to the bank with it, but I will. This week. Definitely.

I’ve saved almost fourteen hundred bucks so far.

It won’t hurt if I take some out for a new outfit or two. I deserve it.

I count out two hundred dollars and stick it into my wallet. Tomorrow, I’ll go shopping during my lunch hour. Maybe I’ll go over to French Connection.

Hmm.

I count out another hundred bucks.

Then, inspired by the thought of new clothes, I pop my workout tape into the VCR. Now that I know the steps so well, it’s pretty much effortless. Fun, even…when I’m in the mood.

I’m in the mood tonight.

The phone rings just as I’m finishing the cool-down.

I leap for it, knowing it’s Will.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

“Buckley!”

I look at the clock. Will might be trying to call me. But I can talk to Buckley for a few seconds. I don’t have call waiting, but Will will try back if the line is busy.

Of course he will.

And anyway, what are the chances that he’ll choose this particular minute to call when I’ve been waiting at home for the phone to ring all night?

“Haven’t talked to you since Saturday,” Buckley says. “I’ve been on a deadline all week. I still am, actually. But I wanted to call just to say hey.”

“I’m glad you did.”

We talk about his freelance assignment, which somehow segues into a debate about whether Jimmy Stewart is dead. Buckley swears he isn’t, and I’m positive he is.

“I know he died a few years back, Buckley.”

“I don’t think so. That was Donna Reed. They did a whole thing about
It’s a Wonderful Life
on the news.”

“Well, they did it when Jimmy Stewart died, too.”

“It can’t be, Trace. I just saw him on some talk show.”

“So did I. Leno, right?”

“I think it was Letterman.”

“Whatever. It was a repeat. I’m telling you, he’s dead.”

“I’m going to find out,” Buckley says. “I swear to God. I’m going to show you that you’re wrong.”

“What are you going to do for proof? Show up on my doorstep with Jimmy Stewart?”

“Think you’re quite the little Quipster, huh? Actually, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“So who’s going to help you dig him up?”

We both get hysterical, envisioning this whole scenario like something out of the movie
Weekend at Bernie’s.
We’re laughing so hard we both keep making this snorting noise, which makes it even funnier.

I guess you had to be there.

The thing is, I’m having such a good time talking to Buckley that I forget all about Will.

Then I remember.

Then I stop laughing.

“You know what?” I say to Buckley. “I’ve got to go. I’m waiting for this call….”

“From who? Will?” he asks.

I’m surprised Buckley remembers his name. “Yeah. I’m going up there to see him this weekend.”

“Hey, cool. I guess it worked out, then, huh, even though—”

“I made an ass out of myself the night I called him? I don’t know yet. I mean, he seems to have forgiven me, but I’m not sure he gets what was happening.” I’m not sure
I
get what was happening. I need to change the subject. “What about you? How was your date with Sonja on Sunday?”

“So much fun that we went out again Tuesday.”

Really? I thought he was on a deadline.

“Where’d you go?”

“To dinner, and then to this Learning Annex lecture on meditation. I was the only guy there. I can’t figure out if it made me feel like Sean Connery or Just Jack.”

“I thought you were on a deadline,” I’m compelled to say teasingly.

At least, I meant it to come out teasingly.

But for some reason, I kind of bark it.

“Hey, man cannot live by copywriting alone,” Buckley says lightly. “Okay, you’d better go. I know that Will—”

“Yeah, he’s probably trying to call. So what are you doing this weekend? Seeing Sonja again?” I ask casually.

“Nah. This is her weekend to go out to the beach. She’s got a half share in Westhampton.”

Of course she does.

“So listen, have a great time with Will,” Buckley says sincerely.

“I will.”

“How are you getting up there?”

“How else?”

“You’re driving up in your new Beemer?”

“Actually, it’s in the shop so I’m taking a bus.”

There’s a pause.

I know what he’s thinking.

“Trace, you’ll be fine,” he says quietly.

“I hope so.”

“Look, if you have another panic attack, you should really think about seeing someone about it.”

“Seeing someone? You mean a shrink?”

“A therapist. It can help. I have the name of someone who helped me a lot, after my dad died.”

“I can’t go to Long Island to see a shrink,” I say, because I have to say something.

“Her office is here. On Park and Twenty-ninth.”

“Oh.”

“Just think about it, Tracey.”

“Yeah, I will,” I say quickly.

It’s not that I’m embarrassed, because strangely, I’m not. If it were anyone else, I would be. But there’s something about Buckley that removes all my defenses. I’ve been myself with him right from the start, not worried about what he thinks of me. And it’s not just because I’m not interested in dating him, because I’m more comfortable with him than I am with my other friends, like Kate, and Raphael, and everyone at work.

Buckley and I just clicked.

And even though we’ve only known each other a few weeks, I can tell he’s going to be a really good friend—someone I can confide in.

“Go,” he says. “Will’s probably getting a busy signal.”

“How do you know I don’t have call waiting or voice mail?”

“Because I’ve gotten a busy signal a few times
when I’ve tried calling you,” he says lightly. “Have fun this weekend, Tracey. And listen…”

“Yeah?”

“Call me if you need to. Collect.”

“That’s crazy! I would never call anyone collect unless it was an emergency.”

“So if you have an emergency, call me.”

“Buckley, I’ll be fine.”

“I know, but if you’re not, I’ll be here, writing the cover flap for the latest installment in that talking parrot detective series. Trust me. No interruption will be unwelcome.”

“Okay.”

I hang up.

For a foolish moment, I hold the cordless receiver in my hand, looking at it expectantly.

It doesn’t take the hint and ring.

Nor does it ring when I put it down and try to pretend I’m interested in a breaking news bulletin about a plane crash in Japan.

In fact, it doesn’t ring until I’m dozing in front of Conan O’Brien.

“Collect call from Will McCraw,” a robotic voice says.

And for a split second, I’m tempted not to accept it.

But of course I do.

“Trace? Did I wake you up?” Will’s voice asks, unapologetic.

“Of course not. I always stay up till at least 1:30 a.m. on work nights. It helps keep me fresh.”

At least he has the grace to say, “Sorry.” Unapologetically.

There’s a lot of noise in the background.

More noise than the usual cast house banter and giggles.

In fact, I think I can hear a live band.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“At this bar,” he says. “We had a rough dress rehearsal today, and everyone needed to blow off a little steam. I completely forgot I was supposed to call you.”

Normally, I would let him off the hook. But maybe I’m cranky because I’ve been sleeping. Maybe I’m not loving the image of Will blowing off a little steam in some bar with a live band. Or maybe it’s time to stop letting him off the hook.

Whatever. I hear myself say, “Great. Thanks a lot.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I just can’t believe you could forget to call me when you know we have to make plans for the weekend.”

“The weekend is still two days away.”

“And you know I have to work for Milos for the next two nights. I won’t be home till late.”

“So what’s the problem? I’d just have called you late.”

“Obviously, that’s no problem for you.” I hate the way I sound, but I can’t help it. I’m pissed.

“Why are you being so bitchy?”

I don’t answer him. Because I can’t answer him.

“Look, maybe we should just forget it,” he says.

Stab of panic. “Forget what?”

“Your coming up here this weekend.”

Oh. Thank God.

Not that I want to forget the visit, but I thought he meant the whole thing. Us.

“I don’t need this right now. I’m under a lot of pressure to carry this show. I’ve got a lot riding on it, and I don’t need…”

He trails off.

I’m tempted to prod him into finishing the sentence.

But I don’t really want to hear the rest.

“I’m sorry, Will,” I force myself to say.

Because I can’t not go up there this weekend. If I don’t see him this weekend…

Well, I have to see him. That’s all there is to it.

“I’m just exhausted, and it scared me when the phone rang at this hour. I didn’t mean to be a bitch.”

He says, “Okay.”

But not right away.

He pauses a few seconds, and I spend those seconds anticipating rejection.

He tells me he got me a reservation at the B&B where Esme’s parents stayed. He says it’s not far from the cast house. He also says that it costs almost two hundred dollars a night.

“Is that a problem?” he asks.

And I realize that I’ll be paying for my own room.

Well, what did I expect?

He’s not making much money doing theater this summer. Much less than he makes in New York, working for Milos.

And now I’m working for Milos, so I’ve got extra money.

I get his logic.

But there’s a part of me that wishes he would tell me not to worry about what the room costs, because he’s paying for it.

Or even, he’s going to split the cost with me.

But he doesn’t say that.

He says, “Is that a problem?”

And I say, “Of course not. I can’t wait to see you.”

W
hen the bus pulls into North Mannfield, Will is waiting exactly where he said he’d be: on a bench in front of the little luncheonette that doubles as a bus station.

Naturally, he looks fantastic.

But then, so do I.

I’m wearing a new, body-skimming, short summer dress. Black, of course. I tried it on in more colorful shades, but I’m not ready for that yet. Black is slimming. And even though I’m slimmer than I used to be—I’ve lost another two pounds in the past two days, thanks to virtual starvation in anticipation of the weekend—I’m still not as slim as I’d like. I’m not as slim as Esme.

How do I know that when I’ve never seen her?

Trust me. I know.

I know in the same way I know that she’s the one I have to worry about. It’s not that Will has even mentioned her name more than once or twice in passing. But something about the way he’s mentioned her name—or maybe just her name itself,
Esme
—piqued my girlfriend radar. I’m definitely on the lookout for her.

I hurtle myself into Will’s arms when I get off the bus.

“Hey, where’s the rest of you?” he asks, looking me up and down.

I know I should be flattered. He’s noticed the new me.

But it’s the way he says it.

Where’s the rest of you?

I know it’s a compliment, but it’s vaguely insulting to my pre-summer self, who lurks closer than I want to admit. And I feel like I’m betraying her when I grin and say, “I sweated her off back in the city. God knew I needed to lighten my load.”

“You look really good,” he says, and now he’s being sweet, and I don’t even cringe when he hugs me. Usually, all I can think is that his hands are feeling the fat bulges around my bra straps. But this time, I allow myself to savor the feel of his arms around me.

He smells so intensely like Will that I bury my head in his neck and inhale deeply, wanting to get enough
Will scent into my nose so that I can keep it to take back to New York with me.

He laughs.

“What are you doing?”

“Sniffing you,” I say. “Your cologne always smells so good. And you smell different now, too…like coconut lotion or something.”

“Sunscreen,” he says.

That’s when I notice he’s got a tan.

Will never gets a tan. He says it’ll wrinkle his skin, make him old before his time, rule out roles that call for youthful-looking actors.

“You’re tanned, Will!” I inform him.

“It’s not real,” he says with a grin. “Actually, I’m covered in number 45 SPF. But one of the girls uses this self-tanner stuff, and she’s been putting it on me to give me some color.”

Self-tanner stuff? She’s been putting it on him?

I picture Will being lotioned by a strange girl—not woman but girl, as he oh-so-chummily put it.

Will picks up my bag, which I unceremoniously dumped at his feet when I leapt on him.

I notice that the air is far less humid than it was back in New York, and refreshingly cool. I could get used to this.

“How was the trip?” Will asks, leading the way down the street.

Well, I had a panic attack somewhere around Albany.

But other than that…

“Fine,” I say breezily. “I got a lot of reading done.”

We’re walking now. Through a town that isn’t all that picturesque. In fact, it’s kind of dumpy. Besides the luncheonette, there’s a Laundromat, a police-station-slash-post-office, a convenience-store-slash-gas-station, a bar called the Drop Right Inn and a bunch of old houses. Not charming-gingerbread-Victorians, old. Just…old. Crooked shutters. Missing spindles. Sagging steps.

“So what were you reading?” Will wants to know.

“Gulliver’s Travels,”
I announce.

I wait.

For what, you wonder?

Why, for his jaw to drop in awe.

He laughs. “
Gulliver’s Travels?
God, why?”

“Because I’m spending the summer working my way through books I should’ve read long ago. You know, the classics.”

In other words, I’m having the most boring summer of my life, while you’re up here blowing off steam and getting lotion smeared on your loins.

Oh, hell. Why didn’t I lie and tell him I was reading some bestseller? Or, better yet, that I haven’t had time to read?

“That’s great, Trace,” he says. “I’m glad you’re keeping yourself busy.”

I’m glad you’re keeping yourself busy?

I’m glad you’re keeping yourself busy?!

That’s the kind of thing you say to a recently widowed retiree.

“Insanely busy is more like it,” I inform him. “Work’s been crazy…”

“Really? What’s going on?” he asks with what sounds like mild interest.

He’s an actor, remember?

But he asked, and damned if I’m not going to tell him.

Naturally, I skip the part about the pilfered birthday chocolates and the fishing pole escapade.

As we leave the disappointing North Mannfield business district behind and walk down a tree-dappled lakeside country road, I tell Will about the deodorant-naming gig, making it sound as if the future of McMurray-White is resting on my capable shoulders.

“So far I’ve come up with a few possibilities that my boss really likes,” I say.

“Yeah? You know what would be a good name for a product like that?” he asks.

Naturally, I cut myself off on the verge of spouting off my own ideas to ask, “What?”

“Maintain,”
he says, with a significant nod, as if he’s just revealed with absolute certainty the name of the winner on the latest edition of
Survivor.

“Maintain,”
I echo, trying to look impressed. “Wow, that’s good, Will. I’ll keep it in mind in case
Persist
doesn’t work out.”

Actually, it’s not a bad product name.

Maintain.

I go on telling him how busy I’ve been at my glamorous ad agency job, and working for Milos. I don’t linger too long on that topic, afraid he’ll bring up Zoe. Instead, I move right along to provide a pumped-up account of my weekend travels, from the Hamptons to Brookside to Jersey for the wedding.

“How was that?” Will asks. “Did you have a good time with…what was his name?”

“Buckley.”

Buckley, who remembers Will’s name.

Buckley, who said to call collect.

“Yeah, we had fun,” I tell Will. “That reminds me, is Jimmy Stewart dead?”

“Yeah,” he says.

I notice that he doesn’t ask me what reminded me of that. I wonder if he’s even paying attention to the conversation. Or me.

And suddenly, I want to tell him about how Buckley and I were wondering about Jimmy Stewart. I want him to know how chummy we are. I want him to be jealous, dammit.

“Are you sure he’s dead?” I ask Will.

“Jimmy Stewart? Yeah, he died a few years ago.”

“Oh. Because—”

“There it is,” Will interrupts as we round a bend.

And there it is. The Valley Playhouse. There’s a freshly painted, hand-lettered wooden sign in front of a group of buildings that are set back from the road.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Maybe a quaint,
scallop-shingled wooden structure, or even a deco-type circa 1930s place with a marquee.

Definitely not this cinderblock rectangle surrounded by what looks like a couple of Sears sheds and another lovely matching cinderblock dorm-type building.

I should probably be glad it’s not a charming country haven upon which Will will look back wistfully in the future.

But what I’m thinking is…

He left New York—he left
me
—for
this?

Instead of a marquee, there’s a glass-fronted sign board on the lawn in front of the theater—the kind of sign you’d find in front of a church or school. It says “Now laying: Sunday in the ark With George.”

“Looks like somebody’s pilfered your p’s,” I tell Will.

“Huh?”

“The sign. The p’s.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He grunts, unamused, shifting my bag to his other shoulder.

I feel compelled to apologize that it’s so heavy.

Will feels compelled to grunt again.

“It seems kind of quiet around here,” I comment as we approach the cast house.

“It always is, on Saturday. It’s our only day off. Everyone’s off running errands, doing laundry, stuff like that.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to have to wear dirty underwear for a week because I’m here,” I joke.

“Nah, I got somebody to do my laundry for me.”

“There’s a laundry service around here?” Guess the town isn’t as rustic as I thought. I never knew you could pay someone to do your laundry until I moved to New York.

“No, not a laundry service. A friend of mine from the cast said she wouldn’t mind throwing my stuff in with hers.”

“What a friend.” I imagine Will’s underwear whirling chummily in a steamy dryer with somebody’s lace panties—perhaps Ms. Self Tanner Slatherer’s lace panties.

“That’s the theater over there,” Will says, pointing to the cinderblock building that’s not a Sears shed and doesn’t look like a dorm. “This is the cast house.”

We walk past some flowerbeds and up the steps. The door opens into a dim lobby-type room that I’d call a foyer if the house were more homey. In the foyer are the infamous pay phone, and beside it, a bulletin board with lots of messages tacked up.

“That’s the bulletin board,” Will points out.

Gee, good thing he told me, because I thought it was a drinking fountain.

“The cast leaves notes for each other there,” he adds unnecessarily. “Like phone messages and stuff.”

I nod.

It takes a second for that to sink in. By the time it does, we’re in the big rec room off the lobby, and two scantily clad girls are looking up from the couch where they’re giving themselves pedicures.

“Hi, guys,” Will says.

The guys are buxom and wearing tiny spaghetti-strap tops that bare their concave tummies, and shorts the size of bikini bottoms. They have tans that are too rosy and freckled not to be the real thing. Apparently I’m the only pasty ghost in town.

Mental note: Finagle invite to Kate’s beach house. Coat self in oil and sunbathe until golden.

“Hey, Wills,” says the one with the straight dark hair and the slightly peeling red sunburnt nose.

Wills?
I have to grin at that one. Last I checked, he wasn’t heir to the British throne.

That my boyfriend seems to have acquired a ridiculous royal nickname here isn’t all I have to ponder.

Will said the bulletin board is where they leave each other phone messages. Which means the pay phone can get incoming calls.

Assuming Will’s telephone privileges weren’t revoked before he even got here, he misled me. He could obviously have gotten phone calls all along. He just chose not to.

I’m steaming.

Yet, I’m proud to report that I muster a cheery, confident hello when Wills introduces me to the pedicure princesses, whose names escape me once I’ve duly noted that neither of them is Esme.

“This is Tracey,” Will informs them.

He doesn’t add the anticipated—at least, by me—“my girlfriend.” This pisses me off even more. Has he even told anyone about me before now? Or is it like Eat Drink Or Be Married, where his co-workers
treated me as though I had suddenly materialized out of a cave somewhere to stake my ridiculous Will’s got-a-steady-gal claim.

I am asked, “How are things back in New York?”

Which calms me a little, because at least they know where I came from.

“Hot,” I say.

“I’ll bet. I can’t believe I was ever sucker enough to spend the summer there,” says the girl who is painting her toenails electric blue, as opposed to the blood-red peds on her friend.

“Oh, it’s not
that
bad,” proclaims the only sucker in the room. Namely, me.

“All I know is that last summer in New York I was wearing sandals when it rained, and I stepped in a puddle and the next thing I knew, I was in the hospital with some disgusting bacterial infection,” Blood Red declares with a delicate shudder.

Will gives her bare, sun-kissed shoulder a pat and says—no, not and where were your galoshes, young lady? He says, “That doesn’t sound like fun.”

She nods. “It sucked.”

“Like I said, summers in the city suck,” says Electric Blue with a laugh.

“Yeah, they’re for suckers,” I pipe up.

Everyone looks at me.