The Good Girl's Guide to Bad Men (16 page)

I felt trapped and helpless, and that usually puts me on the defense. Today was apparently going to be no exception. "I'm sorry if I haven't been planning my perfect wedding since I was twelve years old. I'm sorry I don't automatically just
know
without a shadow of a doubt that I want a freaking vegetable garden for my theme! I don't know about these things. I wasn't born
knowing
what kind of cake I want. And I've been trying to find a free minute to sit down and give it some honest thought, but I've been totally swamped this week!"

"This week or every week?"

I turned and looked at him. "What do you mean by
that
?"

Jamie shrugged again. But this one was jam-packed with passive-aggressiveness. "I just mean that I'm not sure you want to plan a wedding . . . at all."

His comment stung—and not to mention rendered me speechless. I didn't know how to respond to that. Or even if I was supposed to dignify it with a response. "That . . . what . . . you're . . . that's crazy!" I finally spat out. "I don't fill out a questionnaire for
one
week and suddenly I don't want to get married?"

Jamie sighed audibly and finally turned to face me. But his eyes didn't reveal the same compassionate, understanding patience they usually did. Right now they just looked tired and frustrated. "It's not just the questionnaire, Jen."

"Then what else is it?" I asked, unable to imagine what on earth could have prompted this line of attack.

He shook his head slowly. "It's everything. It's the wedding planner. It's the ring . . ." He nodded toward my empty left hand, and I quickly tried to hide my bare finger between my legs. "And more importantly," he continued gravely, "it's . . .
you."

"Me?"
I shot back. "What about me?"

Jamie looked at me as if I were crazy. As if he couldn't believe I didn't know exactly what he was referring to. "Your little . . . meltdown the other night when we were about to have sex."

I lowered my head. "Oh, that."

"Yes, that," he replied indignantly. "Something changed in you when you went to Vegas. I don't know what it is. But you've been different since the day you got back."

I closed my eyes. Who was I to think I could fool him? Who was I to think I could pull this off? Hide the truth from the only man I've ever loved. That's crazy. And absolutely ridiculous.

But as much as I ached to tell him what really happened that night in Vegas, my mouth remained clamped shut.

So Jamie kept talking. But this time, his voice was significantly softer and gentler. "Look, my Realtor told me that an offer on my loft came through today. But before I accept it and go into escrow, I need to make sure that this is what you really want. And honestly, I'm a little worried. I think you may have some commitment issues."

And now my once clamped mouth was hanging wide open. "What?" I finally gasped, feeling this intolerable desire to defend myself. "I do
not
have commitment issues! Trust me, I
had
commitment issues. I know what it feels like. If I still had commitment issues, believe me, you wouldn't even be here."

And suddenly, Jamie's gentle demeanor was back. The patience on his face seemed to indicate that he actually felt sorry for me right now. He reached and took both of my hands in his. "It's okay, Jen," he said gently. "You've been through a lot. I don't expect you to be perfect. With your parents and your father and—"

"Why are you bringing up my father?" I snapped. "How did he suddenly find his way into this conversation?"

But Jamie just tilted his head and studied my face, clearly not believing me for a second. "So then, you've called him and told him about the engagement? And you've asked for the two of us to meet him and his new wife like we talked about?"

And just like that, he had trapped me. Like a small, helpless, ensnared rabbit, I was stuck.

But fortunately, I knew exactly what it was going to take to get out of it. Because his words were more than just a form of entrapment; they were an irrefutable challenge. He was daring me to pick up the phone and prove him wrong. And if that was what it was going to take to make Jamie believe me, then I was willing to accept that challenge.

"Is that what this is about?" I asked, scrambling to my feet. "Calling my dad? Fine, I'll call him right now. I'll invite him and his
third
wife to dinner. The four of us will go. It'll be a double date."

I stomped my way into the kitchen and grabbed the cordless phone from its charger. Then I marched back into the living room and stood before Jamie, phone in hand, my eyes glaring at him as if we were about to participate in some kind of telephonic face-off.

Jamie hoisted himself over the arm of the couch and looked up at me but said nothing. He simply continued to study me with curiosity. The way a scientist might study a bubbling beaker, trying to determine whether or not the liquid inside would eventually explode.

"Right," I said, clearing my throat. "So here I go." I pressed the "Talk" button and checked for a dial tone, half hoping that maybe the phone line would be dead. Because I forgot to pay the latest bill or because there was a sudden outage in the area.

"There's a dial tone," I announced to Jamie, as if I were required to give him step-by-step directions of how to use a phone. He continued to watch me, but I couldn't tell if his expression was one of disbelief or just plain old-fashioned concern. The kind of look you offer a recovering alcoholic who just walked into a cocktail party to discover they've run out of soda water.

I started punching in the numbers. I was aware that I was moving at a snail's pace, but I played it off, pretending to rack my brain for the right digits.

With my finger positioned on the final key, I looked down at Jamie again. His eyes bored into me, and I could feel my fingertips get sweaty.
Just press the freaking number,
I instructed myself.
Just press it!

I flashed Jamie a weak smile. "I think it's 2127. But it
could
be 2128. For some reason my mind is blanking."

I'm not sure why I said that. I knew the last number was a 7. After all, I had gone through a similar difficulty-of-dialing routine just last week when I tried to call my dad the first time. But I guess I kind of hoped that during my prolonged hesitation, Jamie would suddenly shrug and say, "No biggie, you can just call him tomorrow," and then unmute the TV and go on with our night as though nothing had happened.

But he didn't. He just kept staring at me.

"Definitely a seven," I said with a nervous giggle as I pressed the key and listened to the corresponding tone that went with it.

I slowly brought the phone to my ear and waited. "It's ringing," I announced after a few moments.

Then I heard my dad's voice on the line. "Hello?"

"Hi, Dad," I said brightly. "It's Jen."

"Jenny! How are you?"

I glanced over at Jamie. "I'm fine. Just fine. Everything's good. I was just calling to see if you and . . . and . . ."

Oh God. Suddenly I was completely blanking on the
third
wife's name. It was something with an S. Suzanne? Susan? Summer? It wasn't as though I used the name on a regular basis. I generally tried to avoid her name altogether, substituting the generic title of "the new wife."

"Simone?" my dad offered.

Simone! Yes!
At least I was right about the S part. That had to have awarded me some points on whatever rating system was used to judge this kind of thing. "Yes, Simone," I repeated indignantly, as if I really didn't need to be reminded of her name and was actually offended that my dad would just
assume
I had forgotten it. "I was thinking that maybe you, me, Jamie, and
Simone
could all go out for dinner sometime soon. You know, whenever you're free, no hurry or anything. Next month would probably work for . . ."

I looked down to see Jamie's face start to break into a frown. "I mean, next
week,"
I clarified quickly. "Can you two have dinner next week?"

"Really?" my dad asked with genuine surprise. "You want the
four
of us to have dinner?"

"Yes!" I replied with forced enthusiasm. "Of course! I mean, I've never met her and you've never met Jamie. So I think it's about time the four of us all got together. Don't you?"

"Yes, I know, but . . ." my dad started to say. But whatever protest he was about to make was decidedly dropped, and he finished quickly with, "No, you're right. We
should
get together. Let me just ask her. She's the keeper of the schedule." He threw in a laugh for good measure, and I tried to reciprocate, but it came out sounding completely fake and remarkably like a dying chicken.

There was silence on the phone, and I translated the latest to Jamie. "He's asking the new wife . . . I mean, Simone."

Jamie simply nodded in response.

My dad got back on the phone. "She says Tuesday night would work."

"Great!" I exclaimed. "Tuesday it is, then."

My mind was already calculating how many days of agonizing I would have to endure before then. Four, if you didn't count today. But who was I kidding? It's not like I would be able to hang up and not think about this until tomorrow.

I didn't bother checking with Jamie about the date. I just wanted to get off the phone. If he was going to be so insistent that we all get together, he would have to rearrange his schedule accordingly.

As soon as I hung up, I felt a huge knot already starting to form in my stomach.
What on earth did I just agree to?
Was I crazy? Had I lost my mind? My dad and my fiancé in the same room, for the first time ever. And if that wasn't terrifying enough, he was bringing his new wife! I couldn't even bear to hear my dad
talk
about her over a plate of fried calamari, what made me think I could actually meet her in person?

"There you go," I said triumphantly as I plopped back down on the couch next to Jamie and placed the phone on the coffee table. "Who's got issues now?"

But Jamie didn't really respond to that. He just sort of laughed weakly, shook his head, and unmuted the TV.

As the voice of Howie Mandel flooded back into the living room, filling the awkward silence between us, Jamie reached down and grabbed my left hand again and brought it to his lips.

This time he did kiss it. But the magic was gone.

I've often heard that women tend to be attracted to men who remind them of their fathers. It's inherent in our biological makeup or something. Sigmund Freud even went so far as to give it a complex. The female gender equivalent of an Oedipus complex, or as Carl Jung later termed it, an "Electra complex," after the Greek myth of Electra, who killed her mother to avenge the death of her father. That all seems really messed up and complicated to me, but one thing I do know is that Freud wouldn't find one ounce of Electra in any bone of my body. I'm definitely one of the few women who can say with certainty that when I meet a man who reminds me of my father, I run the other way.

Actually, that's not entirely true. Most of the men Eve met who have reminded me of my father were ones I encountered on one of my fidelity inspections. So I had to stay put because I was being paid to.

But I think it's safe to say that what I fell in love with about Jamie was the fact that he was
nothing
like my father.

My relationship with my dad is a complicated one. He cheated on my mother for as long as I can remember, and Ed only just made amends with it and learned to forgive him about a year ago. That's not to say that we're now magically superclose and share our innermost thoughts and feelings. We don't. We don't really share much of anything. We have dinner, make polite conversation, hug, and say good-bye. And that's it. But that's more than we did two years ago. It's a relationship in progress, to say the least.

But now that my father was about to meet Jamie for the first time, and I was about to meet my new stepmother for the first time
and
break the news that I was getting married, it was confirmed: This "relationship in progress" was about to be put on permanent fast-forward.

The restaurant where we had arranged to meet was called Wilshire, after the street on which it was located. I found the title incredibly unoriginal, but I hardly had any energy left to dwell on it because I was too busy dwelling on the forthcoming dinner that I had so foolishly agreed to participate in.

I arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early. The entire drive here, I had been listening to a meditation CD I had bought at one of those overpriced bohemian-chic stores on Montana Avenue earlier that afternoon, hoping that the soft, soothing sounds of reeds and ocean waves would rub off on me and help me get through this night in one piece. I usually prefer not to leave restaurants in a stretcher.

"Hunter, party of four?" the hostess confirmed after I gave her my name.

I nodded politely, even though my mind was still trying to digest the implication of her statement. Party of
four.
Not two . . . but
four.
Tonight it would not be just me and my father. Tonight there would be four of us. Because Jamie was coming and she was coming. The
third
wife. The one who had replaced my mother three and a half years after their divorce. Although I'd be willing to bet money that given my father's established reputation with respect to relationships, this woman had replaced my mother a long time before that.

The hostess showed me to our table, and I ordered a glass of Chardonnay and attempted to browse the menu. Although I was far too nervous to absorb any of the entrees I was reading about.

My mother had been my dad's second wife. And he had cheated on the one before her, too. Apparently, my father had a hard time with commitment. No, actually, that's not true. He committed just fine. After all, he'd managed to walk down the aisle
three
different times. It's honoring that commitment that seemed to be the problem.

What I couldn't understand, though, is why any woman would
want
to marry someone like that. She has to know. How could she not know? Jane Seymour, the third wife of Henry VIII, knew
exactly
what had happened to the two before that. The first one was divorced and left to rot in solitude until she died, and the other was beheaded. Yet she was still more than happy to become the next Mrs. Henry VIII. And look what happened to her. She died of something called puerperal fever a year later. Clearly, she was cursed to begin with.

So I wasn't sure what this woman could have been thinking. Did she honestly believe she was different? Special? That she possessed some kind of bewitching power that would keep my dad's attention for longer than a few minutes? I love my dad. I really do. It's taken me a long time to be able to say that, but it's true. However, that doesn't change the fact that my dad is who he is. I've learned to accept him despite his apparent flaws. I just wasn't sure I was ready to accept his new wife despite hers.

Jamie called to tell me he was running about fifteen minutes late, and I was somewhat relieved. The thought of meeting this woman under the watchful, analyzing eye of my fiancé/shrink made me even more nervous. Especially after everything that had been going on between us. All I needed was for Jamie to find another reason to question my ability to commit to him.

Neither of us had actually mentioned the argument we'd had on Friday night, but we did both agree that we should postpone our next appointment with Willa Cruz until I had a chance at least to complete the wedding questionnaire.

There was a large part of me that didn't want to deal directly with whatever was going on between us. Eventually, I knew it would all work itself out. I just needed enough time to prove to Jamie that I was completely devoted to him, that I
didn't,
as he so wrongfully speculated, have commitment issues, and that I
did
want to marry him.

I was hoping that if I could just get through tonight's dinner without suffering some type of mental breakdown (at least not an outward one), I might be one tiny step closer to proving my case to Jamie.

But the longer I sat waiting for my dad and
third
wife to appear, the more unrealistic that goal seemed to be.

Then at five minutes past seven, after I had thoroughly
not
read the entire menu at least four times, I saw them.

My dad was following the hostess through the restaurant, and I could just make out brief flashes of black fabric behind him.

When he reached the table, a woman in a tight-fitting dress stepped into view, and I laid eyes on my new stepmother for the first time.

The first thing that popped into my mind was
blond.
The second thing that popped into my mind was
young.
Two things that my mother was not. Blond and young. The only thing she was missing to make the cliché complete was a set of $10,000 double-D's. I never thought I'd be so happy to see a woman's modest B-cup-size chest in all of my life.

"Hi, Jenny," my dad said, leaning down and kissing me on the cheek. "This is Simone."

I struggled to make eye contact as I stood up and politely extended my hand, but apparently, she wasn't having any of the polite pleasantries. Instead, she pulled me into a tight and slightly awkward embrace. Although I must admit, it was only awkward because I couldn't find it in myself to return the gesture. So instead my arms hung stunned and lifeless at my sides while her tiny, Pilates-enhanced limbs wrapped tightly around my body.

"It's just so nice to finally meet you," she cooed earnestly into my ear. Her voice was soft and breathy. Not
exactly
like a phone sex operator, but not exactly like a non-phone sex operator, either.

When she finally pulled away, I was able to speak. "Lovely to meet you, too," I offered with an attempt at sincerity. "My dad has told me so much about you."

A complete and utter lie. But she didn't have to know that.

I sat back down in my seat and watched her float gracefully into hers. As I did so, I tried desperately to discern her age. I searched for a wrinkle, a crow's-foot, anything that would put her in at least the 35–44 age box, but there was absolutely no evidence of that. She was clearly a proud member of my 25–34 box.

"Well," she began breathlessly, as if this whole meeting exchange were the equivalent of running a marathon, "your dad just can't stop talking about you, either. He's extremely proud." She reached out and rested her hand on my father's leg. Not in the safe, appropriate, knee portion of his leg. That I could have handled. I'm talking mere inches from his crotch.

Why couldn't she have started with an arm or a shoulder? Something PG to ease me into the evening. Did she have to go straight for the groin? Actually, I was surprised she didn't just bypass her own chair altogether and climb onto his lap.

Calming sounds. Ocean waves crashing. The music of Mother Nature.

I took a deep breath and forced out a grin. "That's sweet."

"So where's this studly boyfriend of yours?" she asked, glancing eagerly around the restaurant.

I fought a cringe. "Oh, he's just running a little late. He'll be here any minute."

My engagement ring was still stuffed in the inside pocket of my purse from when I'd come into the office that morning. I had planned to wait until Jamie arrived so that we could announce the news together, and then I would put on the ring and let Si-
moan
fawn over it for an hour.

"So your dad tells me you run an agency that finds nannies?" Simone said, resting her elbow on the table and her chin in her palm.

I nodded, glancing past her toward the front door. "Yes. That's right. And housekeepers and tutors, too."

"That sounds fascinating," she replied, her eyes wide. For a minute, I thought they might pop out of her head, so I was careful to make good eye contact. I really didn't want to miss that.

"Tell me more about that."

I pulled a piece of bread from the basket and began smearing butter on it. I thought about Katie at the Stanton residence with those obnoxious twin boys, just biding her time until Mr. Stanton officially made a move on her.

"Nothing to tell, really," I said with a modest shrug. "I interview the families and try to match them with the right nannies." And then for an extra ounce of credibility, I threw in, "I just placed one of my girls with a very nice family in Beverly Hills that has nine-year-old twin boys. It's a fun age."

"I had a nanny once," she replied, looking dazedly off to the side. "She was really nice. I think she was from Sweden. Or maybe it was Norway. You know, one of those countries. She was always dating like seven different guys at once. One of
those
types, you know?"

"Mm-hmm," I replied, taking an oversize bite of bread.

Definitely not a day older than thirty-two.

"So, how did you go from investment banking to finding nannies? That seems like a pretty big change."

I immediately launched into the spiel I had created specifically for my parents when I decided to form the Hawthorne Agency. Investment banking was getting to be too stressful, this job allows me to keep more regular hours, I feel like I'm helping people, blah, blah, blah.

She nodded understandingly. "Definitely. I mean, everyone needs to find good help, right?"

My dad smiled lovingly at her and leaned over to kiss her bare shoulder. "That's right, baby."

I felt nausea creep up in my stomach, and I forced it down with another bite of bread, despite the fact that I hadn't yet completely chewed and swallowed my previous bite.

Who was this woman? Where on earth did my dad find her? He was fifty-nine. And she was barely in her thirties. Did it not bother him that she was practically my age? And did it not bother
her
that when she's forty-five, he'll be collecting Social Security?

The only logical explanation was money. And my dad did have plenty of it. He may not have been Donald Trump, but he could certainly afford to buy her plenty of Botox. But I just couldn't understand how my dad was capable of marrying such a cliché. A blond, thirty-something named Simone with a 900-number voice? Did he not realize how ridiculous he looked flaunting her all over town?

Although I had to admit: To other fifty-something men out there, he probably looked like fucking James Bond.

"So how is everything?" my dad asked, reaching out and gently tapping the table in front of me. Clearly he could tell that my attention was elsewhere.

"Oh," I said, refocusing. "Fine. Just fine. You know, same old, same old." I thought about the ring hiding in my purse. The quicker I got it out, slipped it on my finger, and let everyone gush about it, the quicker I could get out of here. But I knew I couldn't tell them until Jamie was here.

"Work is good?" my dad prompted.

I smiled sweetly. "Oh, it's great. Never been better." I took a long swig of wine. "And how about you . . . um . . .
two
? How is everything going?"

My dad shrugged and started to reply, "Oh, just—"

But he was quickly interrupted with another of Simone's verbal orgasms. "Oh," she gasped, "absolutely amazing. Things have been great. Jack just took me on this gorgeous Alaskan cruise, and of course, I thought, you know
cruise,
time to show off my new favorite bikini! So there I was in like
Nova Scotia,
with a suitcase full of nothing but sarongs and minishorts, and oh, my God, was I freezing! But thankfully we had time to do some shopping in Vancouver, and I bought some really nice sweaters. But the glaciers up there? Oh my God . . ."

I was trying really hard to be objective about this whole thing. So what if the girl didn't know that Nova Scotia wasn't anywhere near Alaska? Maybe she was just nervous. As I listened to her rattle on, I tried to put myself in her shoes. She was meeting
me
for the first time, too, and she probably felt a lot more pressure to impress me than I felt to impress her. Maybe she wasn't really like this. Maybe once you got to know her, she was actually very likable and calm. Some people, like me, get quiet and reserved when they're nervous. Maybe she just gets really . . . annoying.

I braved another glance at her hand in my dad's lap. It was actually moving farther
up
his leg. I didn't think that was possible. And with every sentence she spoke, she somehow felt the need to accentuate them with a squeeze of his upper thigh.