Arranged (20 page)

“This is my friend, Jack. Jack, this is Jane.”

He bends down, extending his large hand toward her tiny one. “Hi Jane, I’m Jack.”

“Oh, I know who you are. You’re Anne’s hunnban.”

“That’s right.”

“Who told you that, honey?”

“I heard Daddy telling Grandma and Grandpa.”

Great.

“When was that? On the phone?”

“Nah, in the living room.”

“In the what?”

“The living room,” Gil answers for her as he steps into the hall. He’s wearing a gray cashmere sweater, black dress pants, and a gleeful smile. All that’s missing is an unlit pipe and an audience to complete his
Our Town
look. “I’m Anne’s brother, Gil,” he says to Jack, shaking his hand firmly, businesslike. He looks Jack up and down. “You certainly don’t look like the right man for Cordelia.”

“Gil!”

“I’m the new-and-improved model,” Jack tells him.

Gil raises his eyebrows. “I see.”

“Gil, are Mom and Dad in the living room right now?” I ask.

He rocks back and forth on his heels. “Yup.”

“So when I said I wanted you to tell them, and you said no?”

“Changed my mind.”

“And you didn’t tell me because . . . ?”

“Much more fun not to.”

“What would be more fun, dear?” My mother pokes her head out from the living room. She’s wearing a classic pink Chanel suit she inherited from the same aunt who left her the fur coat she wore to my book-deal party. I knew this felt like theater for a reason.

“Anne, what are you doing just standing there in the hall? Come in here. And you, young man, I assume you’re Anne’s . . . husband.” She sniffs the air as if she’s trying to smell whether he’s a good man.

“Mom, cut out the Rachel Lynde impersonations, please!”

Jack mutters to me, “A character from the
Anne
books, I assume?”

“What else? There’s still time to escape,” I mutter back.

“It’s okay, press on, press on.”

I scowl at Gil and follow my mother into the living room. Jane runs back and forth between us, which causes Gil to threaten her with bed. My father is ensconced in Gil’s favorite chair, a large Scotch in his hand. He’s had a few, judging by the amount of vapors in the room.

I introduce Jack to my parents, and we settle into the love seat underneath the bay window. We sit there, wordlessly staring at one another, until Cathy enters the room. She’s wearing a black dress made out of a stretchy fabric that supports her perfect baby bump. Her long blond hair falls loosely down her back.

“What’s going on in here? Gil, why haven’t you gotten Anne and Jack drinks? They look like they could use one, and so could I.” She gives us a big smile. “But since I’m still months away from being allowed to, I’ll just look longingly at yours.”

Gil guiltily takes our orders and walks to the kitchen to fill them.

Cathy sits on the couch next to my mother and rests her hands on her belly. “So, Jack, tell me about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Where are you from? How did you meet Anne? How did you convince her to marry you? That should do for now. And maybe when you’re done, everyone’s tongue will have loosened.”

Jack steals a glance at me and begins to answer her questions. Cathy listens to him closely as my father nips into his Scotch and my mother affects an air of disinterest while simultaneously listening to every word.

Thank God for Cathy, the most normal of all of us. I catch her eye and mouth, “Thank you.”

She shakes her head gently and mouths back, “He’s cute.”

T
hree hours later, we’re at the front door, trying to escape. Though it’s way past her bedtime, Jane is wrapped around Jack’s leg. A groggy, awakened Elizabeth is wrapped around mine.

By the time Jack finished answering Cathy’s questions, my parents had finally drunk enough to overcome their shyness. Unfortunately. My mother has barely paused for breath in the last two hours, shifting from one story to the next without any pattern, and my father has been asking Jack random questions that rival the ones on the Blythe & Company questionnaire. What was his father’s name? What day was he born? Where did he live between the ages of four and six? I finally get him to stop by asking him whether he wants to plot Jack’s zodiac charts.

“What? No. I don’t even know what that means.”

“Why all the bizarre questions, Dad? Why do you care about any of this stuff?”

“Aunty Anne, Aunty Anne, watch me do this flip.”

“In a minute, honey.”

“How else am I supposed to get to know my son-in-law?”

“Aunty Anne, Aunty Anne, I can flip better than her. Watch me, watch me.”

“Girls, please, I’m talking to Grandpa. I don’t know, Dad. Like a normal person.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That reminds me of when Anne was in choir in the third grade,” my mom interjects. “She had the solo, only this other girl, a much worse singer, thought
she
had the solo, and she was about to sing at the same time as Anne, but Anne, such a clever girl, figured out that this girl was about to sing and shushed her and then sang her solo. It was beautiful.”

“What’s normal? Who’s not a normal person?” Dad asks.

I reach down and pry Elizabeth off my leg. “Say good night to Uncle Jack, girls.”

“Good night, Uncle Jack,” they say together. He gives each of them a kiss on the cheek. They giggle and run away shrieking with delight. Cathy and Gil are in for a long night.

“Bye, Mom, bye, Dad. Thanks, Gil.” I shoot him a murderous look, though frankly, I’m glad he did me the favor of telling my parents. Plus, Dr. Szwick will be pleased. An added benefit.

The door closes behind us, and we walk to Jack’s car. Away from the city lights, the sky is full of twinkling stars. I search for the North Star, feeling unsteady on my feet.

“You okay to drive?” I ask.

Jack gives me a look. “Better than you.”

I stand up straighter. “Hey, it was the only way I could get through the evening.”

“And I thought you drank a lot of margaritas in Mexico.”

“Bastard.”

“I think your father established tonight that I’m definitely
not
a bastard.”

We climb into the car. I have trouble doing up my seat belt. Jack takes it from me and clicks it into place.

“Thanks. And sorry about tonight. My parents aren’t always that . . . weird.”

“Forget it.” He starts the engine and backs down the street. “I’ll tell you what your punishment is later.”

“We’ll see. So, did my family scare you off of the whole starting-a-family thing?”

“Your nieces are very cute.”

As Jack drives us toward the freeway, I watch the detached four-bedroom houses roll past. We stop at a stop sign. In the house on the corner, the living room is lit up like a stage set, the TV a flickering strobe. Growing up, I always used to imagine what went on behind the curtains of the houses like mine. Could I pick a door and try on a whole new life?

“Have you talked to Sarah yet?” Jack asks softly.

I wince. “No.”

“ ‘No’ as in ‘I’m never talking to her again’? Or ‘No’ as in ‘I haven’t had the chance, but I’ve been meaning to’?”

“Not sure yet. She really hurt me, you know?”

He reaches over and ruffles my hair. “Keep your chin up, kiddo.”

“Kiddo?”

“What?”

“Where do you come up with this stuff?”

“I’ve got a million more where that came from.”

“Thanks for coming tonight.” I lean in and kiss him on the cheek.

“Anytime.”

Chapter 19

Ready, Set, Go!

A
month passes. I work and hang around with Jack. I make preparations for my book launch and the small book tour I’ll be going on afterward. And though I often start to, though I want to, though it’s killing me not to, I don’t call Sarah. This mix of emotions means I’m having trouble sleeping. I fall asleep easily, tucked into the crook of Jack’s arm, but at three
A.M
. my eyes fly open like clockwork. The only good part is that with all the extra hours I’m getting out of the day, I have more time for writing. But every time I look at the pages the next night, I crumple them up and throw them in the trash.

Tonight I don’t even wait that long. Three pages in, I pitch my latest effort toward the metal basket in the corner. I miss.

“I could trip on that, you know,” Jack says sleepily from the doorway. His chest looks ghostly in the half light of the floor lamp I’m trying to write by.

“I was going to pick it up. Sorry, did I wake you?”

He yawns and scratches his head. “Nah. I always wake up at four in the morning so I can play bad-story basketball.”

“Funny man.”

He picks up my pages, smooths them out, and starts to read.

“Hey, no fair reading something I’ve thrown away. For that matter, no fair reading anything I’ve written that’s not finished.”

He sits down next to me. “You’re right. But why did you throw it away? It looks okay.”

“It’s derivative and boring.”

“That’s a little harsh for the middle of the night, don’t you think? Are you always this down on yourself?”

“Only when I’m on five hours’ sleep.”

“Maybe you should talk to Sarah.”

“Maybe you should mind your own business.”

He pulls back in surprise.

“Sorry. I don’t mean to take it out on you.”

He puts his hands on my shoulders, kneading into the hard knots of tension. I close my eyes and concentrate on the warm strength of his fingers.

“Better?” he asks.

“Um, getting there.”

He moves his hands along my neck, up my face, to my temples, kneading all the while. “Better now?”

“I’ll let you know in a minute.”

“If you’re this tense, I think there’s only one thing that’s going to cure you.”

I open my eyes and smile. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You think you can cure me?”

“I think I can try.”

“Try away.”

W
e’re driving along a wet, bumpy road an hour past Cathy and Gil’s. Through the tall conifers lining the way, I catch a glimpse of the river we’ll be hurtling down. It looks wide. It looks deep. It looks fast. It looks full. And most of all, despite the glorious spring day, it looks cold.

“Is it really safe with the river this high?”

Jack glances at me, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. I look small and scared in the reflection. “You’re not chickening out on me, are you?”

“No, but you know it would really, really suck to die on book-launch day, right?”

“It’s safe, I promise you.”

We pull into the parking lot next to a log cabin that sits on the side of the glinting black river. There’s a group of college kids in board shorts and tank tops playing beach volleyball in a sandpit. A half-dozen women about my age are sitting at two picnic tables, soaking in the sun. Bags of charcoal lie ready next to a barbecue. We go inside the cabin to pay and are handed a release form. Sign on the dotted line, and you have no rights against the rafting company, no matter how negligent. As I read it, I find myself missing Sarah—it’s only because of her that I’m trying to read this legalese in the first place.

We sign the forms and are introduced to our guide, Steve. He’s an athletic-looking nineteen-year-old with honey-blond hair and a tanned face. He’s wearing a red life jacket over a full wet suit. The front of it is unzipped enough to reveal a reassuring set of muscles. He gives us a brief explanation on how to handle ourselves in the boat, then we get outfitted with wet suits, life jackets, and paddles. Jack tightens my life jacket, pulling the straps so snug I don’t move at all when he lifts me up by them to test it.

“That’ll keep you safe,” he says.

“I thought you said it
was
safe.”

“It is. Stop worrying.”

Fat chance.

We carry the bright yellow raft to the river, which is about fifty feet wide and lined with sharp rocks and green deciduous trees. The water looks blacker up close and smells like powdered rocks, as if it just finished carving out the mountains behind it. I sit in the raft next to Jack, second from the front. Steve pushes us away from the shore and commands us to start paddling. Jack tells me to hook my left foot under the strap running along the bottom, just like in the catamaran in Cancún.

“Oh yeah, that worked out well,” I mutter.

“What? You didn’t like capsizing?”

“I’m hoping it remains a once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

Jack’s eyes dart away from mine.

“Jack, why are you making that face?”

He dips his paddle into the river. “What face?”

“Don’t change the subject.” I think out loud. “Okay, you started making that face when I was talking about capsizing . . . Shit! Are they going to flip the boat?”

“Noooo . . .”

“Jack!”

“The guide flips it when we go down the first rapid,” says the man sitting across from me, trying to be helpful.

“Is that true? Jack?”

We’re rapidly approaching a patch of foaming white river at the front of a bend. I can’t see around it, but I have a sinking feeling I know what’s past it. Or what isn’t.

“Calm down, Anne. It’ll be okay.”

“I don’t like this . . .”

The boat starts to bump and pitch and roll as the water roils beneath it. We round the bend, and sure enough, the river disappears 250 feet ahead.

“Paddle hard,” Steve screams.

“Jack!”

“Paddle hard, Anne, paddle hard,” Jack shouts with relish.

I grit my teeth and drive my paddle into the water. My right hand hits the cold river with every stroke. “You’re so going to pay for this . . .”

As we plunge over the edge of the rapids, I give up paddling and hold on tight to the side of the raft. Everyone is yelling. I can’t tell if the others are screaming with excitement or fear, but I know which camp I’m in.

I glance back at Steve. He has a big grin on his face as he wrestles to keep the boat in the middle of the rapids. And then I see him do it. He deliberately flips the boat by placing his paddle in the water and holding hard against the current.

The raft tips sideways, disgorging us. I try to fling myself clear, but I get caught underneath it as it hurtles down the river.

The shock of cold water pushes the air out of my lungs. I struggle to keep my head above the surface in the air pocket formed by the yellow dome of the raft. I bounce and roll and rock down the bumpy water. There’s a loud roar, followed by relative silence as the raft moves into less turbulent water.

The raft is lifted off my head, and I’m pulled into Jack’s arms. His face is white with concern. “You okay, Anne?”

My teeth start chattering. “I think so.”

“I thought you were done for.”

“That’s what you get for convincing me to go on adventures. I told you not to try to kill me on book-launch day.”

“It’ll never happen again.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

I look around me. The river’s calmer, and the sun’s shining brightly, flashing off the water. The water here feels warmer, less aggressive. I realize that, as scary as flipping was, I’m having fun. I like doing these things with Jack. I kind of
am
an outdoor girl.

“Help me back in?”

“You sure?”

I smile brightly. “Let’s have an adventure.”

S
o you really had fun?”

“I already told you a million times I did.”

We’re in a cab en route to my book launch, having made it back to the apartment with barely enough time for me to shower, dress, and dry my hair. The nerves I’ve managed to avoid all day have come back with a vengeance. I slip my hand from Jack’s and rest my chin on the edge of the door, watching the traffic.

“Sorry again about the flipping.”

“Forget it.”

“You nervous?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Maybe you could do the reading for me?”

“I don’t think anyone wants to hear me read your book, Anne.”

“Probably not.”

“Just imagine the crowd naked.”

We hit a pothole, and my chin bangs into the doorframe. I rub it, concerned there’s going to be a mark. “Does that really work?”

“Search me.”

The cab pulls up outside the bookstore. There’s a poster in the window with my author photo on it and a blowup of the cover of my book.
Home,
by Anne Blythe. How the hell did that happen?

Inside, there’s a woman in her mid-twenties—Shelley, her name tag reads—standing at the counter, looking anxious. I’m ten minutes late. I apologize, and she quickly fills me in on where I’ll stand to read, and sit to sign, and stand again to drink and eat appetizers. She leads us up a curved wooden staircase. I can’t keep my eyes off all the other books on the shelves, or really believe that mine will be tucked between them soon. In fact, copies of it must already be tucked in here somewhere. Freaky.

Next to the coffee bar, the tables have been cleared away and replaced by folding chairs, a lectern, and a large stack of copies of my novel. I walk to the lectern and wait nervously beside it. Cathy and Gil are sitting in the front row, and Jack takes a seat next to them. My parents are in the row behind. My dad leans forward and starts talking to Jack.

Poor Jack! He’s probably being asked for his dental records.

I start as someone hugs me from behind. “Heya, A.B.!” I turn around, and William is beaming at me.

“Thanks for coming,” I tell him.

“You kidding? Where else would I be?”

“Drinking?”

“True enough. But the cocktails will wait. There
will
be cocktails, right?”

“Of course.”

He sits down with a group of people from work, more people than I expected—even the Fashion Nazi is here. My book editor and publicist are sitting at the back, next to Janey and Nan. Susan sent her regrets. I wave to them, and they wave back excitedly. I try not to look for Sarah, the one person I really want to be here.

Shelley signals to me that it’s time to begin. I take a deep breath, step up to the podium, and stare out at the crowd. As my eyes flit from person to person,
I
feel naked.

I clear my throat. “Good evening, everyone. Thanks so much for coming. You have no idea how much it means to me. I wanted to say two things before I read something from my book. And before you all buy two copies.”

I pause to cough the nervousness out of my throat. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sarah and Mike taking seats next to William. Sarah gives me an uneasy smile.

“So, first thing. Writing a book is what I imagine being pregnant must be like. You have an idea of what it’s supposed to be like, people tell you what it’s like, but you really have no idea. And everyone you tell wants to know all kinds of things about it. What’s it called? How big is it? When is it going to be delivered?

“After a while, it becomes all anyone ever asks you about, and you kind of wish you’d never told anyone about it in the first place. It gets bigger and bigger, and you sort of just want it to be over. You want to see what it looks like when it’s done. Then it is, and you can’t tell if it’s beautiful or hideous or somewhere in between. This is probably where this analogy falls apart, but anyway, you show it to your friends, and they tell you it’s beautiful. And though you know they’re telling you that because they’re your friends, it’s what gives you the courage to show it to other people. To take a chance. Sometimes that chance pans out, like it did for me.

“So I want to thank the friends who helped me through the pregnancy of this book, but most especially Sarah, who read it more times than I did.”

I’m suddenly nervous again. “Okay, second thing. I know I probably should be telling each of you this individually, but what the hey. For those of you who don’t know, I got married recently, and I want to introduce you all to my husband, Jack.”

Jack stands up amid a few gasps and a lot of very curious stares, and takes a bow. A few people laugh, and a few people clap.

“All right, enough about me. This is chapter one of
Home.

“ ‘I know you have a person like this. I do. He broke your heart and you can’t forget him. Though you try. And you try. So you wonder about him. Wonder about running into him. How you’ll look if and when you do. You want him to want you again. No matter how happy you are with the person you’re with, you always wonder what it would’ve been like if the person who didn’t choose you, did. What change would that small thing have wrought? For me it was Ben. We kept in touch for a while after we broke up, and then I lost track of him, or him of me, and so there are important things I don’t know about him anymore. Where he lives, who he loves, what he does day to day. But I was always sure I still knew the man underneath the unknown life. Silly that, but there it is. There it is and there it was.’ ”