The One That Got Away (36 page)

I raised my head off the pillow.

There, dozing in a beige vinyl chair beside the hospital bed, his legs stretched out before him, arms crossed and hat covering his eyes, was my husband. He was breathing quietly, his chest rising
and falling, while one arm extended toward me, his palm and work-calloused fingers ready to be grasped.

I watched him until the image blurred with tears. When I found I could speak, I whispered his name—“
Jimmy
”—first softly and then louder.

His eyes fluttered open and he looked at me, then leapt to his feet.

“Oh my God!” A smile broke over his tired, unshaven face. “You’re awake.”

Then he pulled me up gently into his arms, folding me into him.

“You’re awake,” he repeated. “You’re awake.”

I began to sob with the pounding, overwhelming joy of coming home.

“I got you, honey, I got you,” he said, mistaking my cries for pain. “You’re going to be okay.”

I pulled back and looked at his face. “I’ll never leave you again,” I told him.

He smelled of sleep, stale coffee, and unconditional love.

A
ny questions?”

I looked for any raised hands in the large conference room of the law firm of Smith, Weldon, Adams & Tuvonec, which everyone around town called SWAT to their faces and SWeAT behind their backs, on the twentieth floor of a colossal glass skyscraper in downtown Philadelphia. The room belonged to a prestigious Center City law firm, but today it was being loaned to an association of nonprofit agencies, some of which were the firm’s pro bono clients.

Jules and I had been asked to speak on the topic of “Small Budget, Big Impact” communications, even though our two-person PR firm was less than a year old. Recently, we had helped raise substantial amounts of money for a community health clinic and landed one of their docters a spot on
The Daily Show
, so we had become rock stars among the nonprofit set.

It was a crowd of about seventy-five people, some sitting at the U-shaped tables directly in front of me and some in rows of folding chairs in the back, some even standing behind them. It was much more than we expected, and the butterflies danced in my stomach.
But so far, I was doing great—speaking confidently and with passion for my subject—and when I did stumble, Jules was there to cover.

At the end of my presentation, several hands shot up.

“How long does it take to get a PR program going?” asked a young woman from a homeless shelter.

“I know people hate to hear this, but you have to be patient,” I said. “Take the time to plan your attack and know your message. Remember, stories live forever online, and every person—more important, every potential donor—is going to find that story. So it had better be a good one.”

Someone standing in the back near the windows cut me off.

“But reporters write stories every day where people aren’t prepared. Isn’t that the whole point? Get press whenever and wherever you can?” The voice came from a man in the back, but I couldn’t make out his face in the darkened room.

“There is that old saying, no PR is bad PR…,” I said, slightly annoyed. “But I think you should aim higher than that, don’t you?”

I shifted from foot to foot—I really had to pee—but continued. “A lot of firms will come in and promise you ink on day one, but anything you get that easy is kind of like that second bottle of wine. It seems like a good idea at the time, but the next morning maybe not so much. And believe me, I should know.” I pointed to my rounded, protruding belly and the crowd cracked up.

We took a few more questions; then Jules walked over to switch the lights back on. I started to search for my heckler but got caught up in a conversation with a museum president. When I finally could break away, I moved around the long table and peered down the hallway, but whoever he was had slipped out.

When the crowd was mostly gone, I motioned to Jules that I would see her tomorrow, then waddled to the bathroom. I made
good time in the long hall in my old scuffed flats, the only shoes that my seven-months-pregnant feet could fit in.

When I came back, the crowd had dispersed and I stood alone in the hallway. I pressed the elevator button and waited, my body relaxing now that the presentation was over. I heard footsteps move down the hall, turn toward me, and stop. I looked up and took in the thick, dark hair, lean physique, crisp shirt, and genuine smile of someone very familiar.

It was Alex.

“Great presentation,” he said casually. “Nice to see someone with an eye on nonprofits. They really need the help.”

I stood there silently exploding, memories moving through my mind like a grainy filmstrip.

“Believe me, I know,” he continued. “All my clients are nonprofits… much to my partners’ dismay.”

As he punched the elevator button again, I managed to eke out a quiet “Thank you.”

He extended his hand. “I’m Alex van Holt.”

Then he cocked his head to one side and peered at me with a half smile: “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

We had sex against a mirror in a walk-in closet
, I thought, blushing. “No. I don’t think so. But I think I saw you in
Town & Country
once.”

Now it was his turn to blush. “God. That. Me and a bunch of polo players.”

The elevator door opened. He held it for me, then followed me in, lugging a worn leather satchel bulging with papers. He looked as handsome as I remembered, only dressed in jeans, a basic blue blazer, and sneakers. He smelled of soap, not cologne.

“I thought your ideas were really creative,” he said. “My family’s foundation could use someone like you. Any chance we can lure you away?”

“I’m flattered. But I’m happy with my little firm. We’re doing pretty well. And it’s hard to beat working with your best friend.”

“Bring her too!”

I laughed, then shook my head. “Tempting, but I’ve got enough changes coming in my life.” I patted my tummy.

“When are you due?”

“April.”

“Your first?”

“Third.”

“I have three too,” he said proudly. “All girls.”

“Really?”

“We love it. My wife only had brothers, so she’s in heaven.” He whipped out an iPhone and showed a photo of himself with three adorable curly-haired little girls. Beside him, smiling widely, stood Larry Liebman.

“Larry!” I said, before I could catch myself.

“Do you know her?”

“Uh, I know of her. She’s a reporter at the
Inquirer
, right? She’s great. And she’s perfect for you.”

“Thanks,” he said with the same funny/sweet look that always made me smile. “I certainly think so.”

We fell silent as the elevator clinked to a stop on the ground floor. He put his hand over the door for me as I exited, and we walked into the lobby.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Abbey,” he said. “Even if you are turning me down.
Again
.”

He winked at me, acknowledging our encounter by the elevator and the awkward phone call all those years before. He
did
remember.

I looked up at him, tears starting to well, not with sadness but with a knowing certainty that all was as it should be. We shook hands, each taking a long last look before he turned and walked
away. I watched him cross the marble floor and disappear, the city sidewalk swallowing him up like a ghost.

The baby kicked inside, and I remembered I had a train to catch. I turned and joined the rest of the commuters rolling on the escalator down to Suburban Station. If I hurried, I might make it home before five, maybe even before Jimmy and the kids. I would wait for them in the kitchen, bracing myself for the clamor of footsteps, the collision of voices, the cold hands and flushed, pink cheeks.

I held tight to the railing.

Thank you to Theresa Park for her belief in this book, and for pushing me to dig deep.

Thank you to Stacy Creamer, for her thoughtfulness and enthusiasm, and for helping me to find my way when the path went dark.

Much appreciation to the early readers who advised me on everything from Congressional elections to Thai endearments to Louboutins: Tobey Pearl, Heather Jacobs, Amy Fonville, Jody Weber, Emily Morrison, Laura Getty, Nimpa Bosch, Gretchen Regan, Sandra McClintic, Sopee Conard, Olivia Rabe, Carol Gangemi, Sara Himes, Rebecca Timme, Katharine Bolt, and Natalie Blanning Weber.

Thank you to Abigail Koons, Emily Sweet, and everyone at TPL, and to Howie Sanders for his passion.

Thank you to my mother for showing me that anything is possible and for always being there, to my father for his joie de vivre and steadfast support, to my brother for his humor, and to my sister, who knows everything and loves me anyway.

All my gratitude to Lulu and Will for their patience—and for being such good sleepers.

But mostly thank you to Joseph Gangemi. You make me want to live this life forever.

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Copyright © 2016 by Leigh Himes

Cover design and illustration by Marlyn Dantes

Cover copyright © 2016 by Hachette Book Group

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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First Edition: May 2016

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The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

ISBNs: 978-0-316-30573-0 (hardcover), 978-0-316-30572-3 (ebook)

E3-20160409-JV-PC