What Was I Thinking? (9 page)

The rest of poem was written on the heavy, white
stationery in remarkably graceful handwriting.

For a while, we both just stared at it. I
blinked and looked again. It really did say that. I wasn’t imagining it. “This
is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me,” I said. “I think it’s
the first time ever that something out of my teenage daydreams actually
happened.”

“It’s certainly the most romantic thing I’ve
ever seen,” she agreed. We stared some more.

Then I shook myself and set the note down.
“I’ll start dinner before we starve. Do you want to pour the wine? The glasses
are in that top cupboard.” I nodded toward it.

She found them and poured, and we worked around
each other companionably to set the table and make supper, sipping now and
then. Susan went over to her own place to get a glass pitcher for the roses
after we had confirmed that I was definitely out of vases and all reasonable
facsimiles thereof.

When we were seated, with the roses standing
beside the other two bouquets on the counter and the note still on the table, I
picked up the envelope again and idly turned it over. A card fell out.

“A calling card,” Susan breathed. “I haven’t
seen one of those outside a museum.”

It looked like a plain note card to me, though
I can’t remember the last time I saw one. My notes come online. In the same
handwriting as the poem, it said, “Miss Hull, please forgive me. It was wrong
of me to take advantage of you, but I assure you that, as the poet said, it was
from the purest of feelings. Please say I may call upon you and apologize in
person.
Your humble servant,” scribble.
I couldn’t
make out the signature.

“What the hell? This is a weird note, and I
still
don’t know who it’s from.”

“Isn’t it from E.X. Roland, whoever that is?”

“What?” I looked at Susan.

She pointed. “That’s what it says on the front
of the calling card.”

“Really?
Isn’t it just…oh, I see.” I
turned the card over. It read only “E.X. Roland” on the front, in small, black
letters. “I know Bert Roland, but not any E.X., and he wouldn’t be sending me…”
I stared off into space.

Would he? Was this from Bert? And was it some
weird apology for his weird reaction to our amazing kiss?

“Susan, what do you know about men?”

“Not much, or at least not much that’s useful.
I’ll tell you my sorry history some time. For the present, let’s just say that
I’m enjoying a break from dating after a stressful marriage.”

“Oh, I’m really sorry.”

She waved a hand. “Don’t be. I finished up my
pity party a few weeks ago, and I’m honestly enjoying the peace and quiet. So
anyway, I probably don’t know anything useful at all, but I’ll be happy to help
puzzle over E.X. if that’s what you’re asking.”

“It is, actually.” I hesitated. I didn’t know
where to begin. The whole thing with Bert was so strange, and last weekend was
humiliating, and then this was truly bizarre—if it was even him. Maybe he had
an insane cousin named Elijah Xavier who had fixated on me from a secret lair
in the Roland House and then…okay, I was creeping myself out.

“The thing is
,
it’s
very strange and very embarrassing. I’ve been having a crappy life lately. It’s
a long story, but if you have the time, I could use some help, either
understanding it or confirming that I need to see a shrink.”

“Sounds like another glass of
wine is in order.”

“I think you’re right. I’ll just stick the
leftovers in the fridge and let’s move to the couch with full glasses.”

And we did. I told her the whole story, in
excruciating detail, except for the bit about time travel. That seemed too odd
to explain, and would lead us into a whole bunny trail about whether I was nuts,
or Bert was, or we both were. So I just told her that it was a very unusual
line of thought, and that I was the first person other than his mother to take
him seriously. That seemed enough to explain the sudden kiss, without veering
off into sci-fi.

She asked the occasional penetrating question,
but mostly just listened. We finished the bottle, winding up with shoes kicked
off and feet up on the coffee table.

It was late when I finished and she didn’t say
anything for a little while. She just stared at her own toes, wriggling in
fuzzy socks. Then she sighed and looked up. “There’s something I didn’t tell
you. It didn’t seem important until a couple hours ago—after all, I don’t know
what you do for a living—but now it seems wrong that I didn’t warn you.”

“That sounds ominous.” I tried to say it
lightly, but didn’t quite pull it off. Whatever reaction I had expected, this
definitely wasn’t it.

“I’m a shrink.”

“Oh, God!
I am
so
sorry!”

“What?
Whatever for?”
Now she looked at me as if I were nuts.

“For making a crack about
needing a shrink and for dumping my whiny story on you.
That’s awful. I would never
knowingly—”

“Oh, that.” She flicked a hand. “I thought you
meant you were sorry like I’d just told you I had two weeks to live and it’s
not everyone’s dream career, but I’ve never had anyone be sorry for me about it
before.

“No, of course you didn’t know, and you didn’t
take advantage. I’m just sorry because I didn’t warn you, and you’ve told me
some very personal things. A lot of people don’t like to have personal
conversations with shrinks.”

I grimaced. “I’m really, really sorry for
calling you that.”

She laughed. “Addie, you have
got
to take a chill pill. I am not,
repeat
not
,
upset
with you. I call myself a shrink, too.
All the time.
If I hadn’t learned to get over myself a long time ago, I would have fallen
completely apart.

“Now, we got sidetracked. Knowing what I do for
a living, and that I’m not just a neighbor, do you still want my reaction?”

“Yes, but after that I want an explanation of
men.” I smiled.

“Sorry. I flunked that semester.” She put her
glass down and straightened up. “I do think the flowers are from Bert. That’s
probably a nickname for some horrible first name he doesn’t like to use. But
whoever sent those flowers and wrote that note is clearly a very formal,
courteous person, and formal, courteous people use their real names on calling
cards, and when signing apologies.

“I also think he meant what he said in the
note—and the poem—and that you did not misunderstand his kiss. He just acted
outside his own comfort zone, and that threw him so much that he didn’t know
anything to do but take you home. Going from the note itself, he thinks he took
advantage of you, and probably thinks you’re horribly shocked and angry. Unless
I miss my guess, he never noticed that you’re the one who initiated the second
kiss, and he’s so wrapped up in his own guilt that it hasn’t occurred to him
that you’re hurt by his sudden about-face.”

I shut my eyes and rubbed my temples with both
hands. “Okay, tell me again why I like men? Honestly, what is
wrong
with them?”

“To be fair, a lot of people—even women—get so
wrapped up in their own feelings that they don’t read others right.”

“See, this is why shrinks get a bad rap. You’re
always being fair when it would be much more comforting to say the other person
sucks, and the person you’re talking to is completely right.”

“Yeah, it’s not as much fun from this side,
either. That’s one of the disadvantages of the profession. It sets up some
mental habits that are hard to shake. I’m enjoying my break from the office,
too.” She nodded at my glance. “That’s why I’ve been home to accept packages. I
took a break from my work when my marriage started messing with my
concentration.”

She yawned and stretched. “But I’m going back next
week, and that will be good. I’m ready. In the meantime, I’d say to give Bert a
second chance. Anybody that romantic deserves a fair shot.”

She stood up, and yawned again. “I’m not used
to long nights anymore. I’d better get back. Thanks for dinner.”

“Thanks for coming and for the advice.”

“
De nada, chica
.
It was good to chat. I’d like
to relearn how to have normal chick chats. Good night, now.”

I closed the door behind her and asked myself
the question I’d wanted to ask her. If Bert was sorry, why the hell hadn’t he
called or emailed to say so? The flowers were nice—very nice—but a phone call
would have been faster, and clearer. It would have saved me days of misery, and
he could have sent the flowers
after.

In any case, it was too late to call him, so I
didn’t have to figure out whether he
wanted
me to call him, if, in fact, it really was Bert. How was I supposed to give him
permission to call if he didn’t call or email? Men!

In the end, I sent him a quick email, saying
only “Bert, did you send me flowers?” I left my email open while I cleaned up
the kitchen, but no reply came, so I shut down my laptop and went to bed.

Chapter Five

Rehearsals and Reversals

There was an answer waiting when I logged in at
work in the morning, but I had time only to skim it before racing into the
meeting Campbell called. He literally called, yelling out over the cube farm,
“Gibson Girl team! C3 conference room!
Now!”
He was
really on a tear.

It seemed our CEO, Mr.
Banerjee
—his first name was available
only on a need-to-know basis—wanted to see a dress rehearsal at his Friday
breakfast meeting, and we were nowhere near ready. We spent the day in frantic
rehearsals, rewrites, and costume fittings. Campbell barked at his admin to
order Subway in for us at one, but other than that we didn’t have any breaks,
or anything to eat, until he was happy with the presentation, at almost eleven
that night.

“That’s it, folks,” he snapped, as if
we
were keeping him there past a
reasonable hour. “That will have to do. We’re on in the boardroom at seven
sharp, so be waiting in here, fully dressed and ready to go, by six-thirty.
Even you, Addie.”

No one laughed out loud—probably too tired—but
there were smirks around the room.

My cheeks burned. It was so unfair. I had never
been late to work before this month. I had always been professional, but did I
get credit for that? No. I just got publicly humiliated the month my life had
gone completely to hell and I’d been unavoidably late a couple times.

As soon as Campbell had disappeared down the
hall, I left without a word, and headed for the ladies’ room, pulling out my
cell on the way. It had buzzed in my pocket a few times during the day, but I
hadn’t even glanced to see who it was. Every time I thought I could sneak a
peak, Campbell was glaring at me.

Now I could finally find out if I’d missed any
emergencies, but getting to the bathroom was more urgent. I scrolled through
the missed calls as I walked. No emergencies, but a call from Cassie, one from
Bert, and three calls from Mike’s Garage.
Probably word about
my car.
It would be good to get it back, if I could afford to ransom it.

I played back messages while I used the
facilities. Don’t tell anybody. It was good to be alone. Cassie needed to
talk—(grr!). Bert didn’t leave a message. The mechanic wanted to know if I was
going to pick up my car today by five.
Um, no.
Guess
they figured that out, because the last call was at four.

I was too exhausted to deal with any of it,
especially since I needed a taxi home—again—get some sleep, and get back here,
by taxi, by six at the very latest. It was hardly worth going home.

Huh. I stopped washing my hands and stood there
staring at the frizzy, pale, sad woman in the mirror and considered. It
was
hardly worth going home. And I was
in the heart of the city, surrounded by hotels. Staying in one would be
expensive, but taxis were expensive too. And losing my job for being late would
be very expensive.

I rinsed off, dried, and hurried back to my
desk, considering. I kept makeup and a hairbrush in my purse and the hotel
would surely provide deodorant. I could sleep in my soft polo shirt, but what
could I wear back here in the morning? I could imagine the remarks if I showed
up again in today’s clothing.

Still…I had to be in costume by six-thirty in
the morning
..
Nobody but the immediate Gibson Girl
team had seen me long enough today to be sure what I was wearing. I could come
back in these clothes, dress immediately in the ladies’ before anyone saw me,
change back after the meeting, and slip out on an alleged Einstein’s run, and
go buy fresh clothes at the Nordstrom’s next door.

Would it work? Yes, it would. Now that I
thought of it, I had a gym bag stashed in my otherwise-empty bottom file
drawer, complete with fresh underwear, bra, and a clean T-shirt. True, the bra
would be a little sturdier than what I ordinarily wore to work, but it would be
clean and I could sleep in the T-shirt.