Bombshell (18 page)

“I even cried in the middle of that, too,” I said with wonder. “It's like I've become some kind of a…a head case.” Of course, head cases were Shelley's specialty. She probably thought I was nearly certifiable.

“Now I'm sitting here like some…stupid love-sodden teenager,” I continued, “wondering ‘Is he gonna call, does he like me?' Isn't that
ridiculous?
”

“Yes, it is,” she agreed.

I looked at her, and this time a laugh sputtered out of me. “Thanks a lot.”

She smiled, too, and that was even more amazing. I'd never seen her smile before. It felt like some sort of…reward.

Then she gave me the first real piece of advice I had ever gotten at these crazy sessions. And it sounded an awful lot like the kind of solid, simple advice a friend might give. Or a mother.

“I think you should just call him yourself.”

 

Yes, it was simple advice, yet so hard to follow for some reason. I usually had more balls than most men. Yet here I was acting like a scared little girl. The next morning at work I picked up the phone no less than half a dozen times, trying to think of some cool and casual way to wangle another date out of the elusive Dr. Somerfield—without it looking like I was trying too hard. During my last attempt I imagined pretending I had somehow dialed him by accident, and then chatting him up until I found an opening to ask him out.

Pathetic, right?

Even more pathetic, however, was the sight of Claudia, scurrying into the office a full two hours late and looking a bit jet-lagged from her trip from Milan. Or something. She positively slumped.

I might have said she was back to her old self again, if only because she seemed to have dropped her youthful garb for her former austere yet sophisticated wardrobe. But that was the only evidence we saw of the old Claudia. No shrill orders were barked from behind her desk, no impossible demands made at all hours. In fact, her door stood closed for most of the day, and when she did emerge, it was only to stalk silently to the ladies' room, or to drop some innocuous task into Lori's in-box, before she disappeared behind closed doors once more.

“Do you think she's ill?” Lori whispered to me.

I hoped it was something as temporary as illness. For as much as I despised Claudia's neo-Nazi management style, I couldn't bear this version of her. She seemed positively…meek. And somehow that was worse than her tyranny.

“Is everything all right?” I asked her when I managed to gain entrance to Claudia's office that afternoon to discuss a competitive report I had pulled together.

She looked up from the report, which she had already begun to page through diffidently. Her eyes were weary, and she sighed.

“I'm old, Grace.”

I almost smiled. After all, admitting it was the first step. But knowing Claudia probably wouldn't find any humor in this response, I gave her the standard reply. “You're as old as you feel, Claudia.”

She practically sneered at me. “Well, I feel about ninety today. My body is aching from riding coach from Milan to Newark—can you believe they only had two seats in first class on the return? And guess who got them. I was stuck in coach with Irina's assistant, Bebe, of all people. My head is
aching, and I think I just had my first hot flash in the taxi coming here this morning. I nearly clubbed the cab driver for turning the heat up too high. Then he dumped me off in front of the building and I realized I was still sweating—and it's thirty degrees out there!”

I decided to hone in on what I suspected was the real source of Claudia's malaise. “What happened in Milan?”

She shuddered. “What didn't happen? The minute we stepped off the plane, Bebe came down with some crazy virus. So who do you think had to call all the restaurants in advance to see if Irina's dietary needs could be met? Then there were all the late-night parties Irina begged me to come to, though I have no idea why. She spent half the time voguing for Phillip on the dance floor and the rest of the time on her cell phone, telling whoever would listen what a fabulous time she was having. I was so relieved when she decided we should take a few days in the Lake Country. Then, when we arrived, I overheard the hostess asking Irina—” she squeezed her eyes shut, as if the memory still pained her “—if…if her
mother
would be joining her for dinner in the main dining room that evening.” She scowled. “Do I look like anyone's
mother
to you?”

The menace on Claudia's face in that moment made her look far from maternal. But the truth was, Claudia
was
old enough to be Irina's mother. Not that I was dumb enough to point out that particular biological fact to her. I decided a change of topic was in order. “So how did the shoot go?”

Her features turned placid and her eyes lit up hopefully. “Oh, the shoot. Well, that was lovely. That Phillip…” She sighed. “He is a
genius.
He made me feel so comfortable, so feminine, the whole time the camera was on me. It's too bad he's gay. I bet he could make some woman very happy.”

I smiled. “Well, apparently, he makes a lot of women happy, judging by the number of beautiful portraits he's done.”

“It's true,” she said dreamily, looking almost happy herself—and all the lovelier for it. She really was a stunning woman, but her strong nose, aristocratic features and exotic dark eyes often took on a hard edge from her shrewish temper. A temper that, I sensed, came from always having to fight to get what her money or her power couldn't get for her—and the cynicism that came from failing.

I saw that cynicism come back to her eyes as she regarded me now. “So what's going on with you?”

I shrugged nonchalantly, fearing she somehow saw evidence of all my recent emotional distress and would find a way to mock me for it. “Not much.” Then I filled her in on what had happened in the office while she was gone, from a work point of view. I don't think she was even listening.

Or that she cared. “I would have gone right home to bed after lunch,” she said when I was done, “except I have a conference call scheduled with Dianne, and you know we can't move that. It's the only hour today she won't be chained to her mother's bedside, feeding her pureed vegetables.” She shuddered.

This image troubled me. “So I guess nothing has gotten any better with Mrs. Dubrow?”

Claudia shrugged. “I only know that she isn't coming to the Christmas party this year.”

“Dianne?” I said, shocked that our CEO might not be able to preside over the annual bash the company threw at the Waldorf-Astoria during the week before Christmas.

“No, no. Of course,
she's
coming, and likely dressed in
something Escada designed with her in mind,” Claudia said bitterly, as if she still held the wealth and relative ease of Dianne's life against her, no matter what trials the woman faced. “But her
mother
won't be coming, apparently.”

That drove home to me how ill Roxanne Dubrow was. Despite her retirement over a decade ago, she had never missed the company Christmas party.

It seemed like the end of an era for Roxanne Dubrow now that its namesake was in deep decline.

It made me remember just how short life really was, and I could not escape the fact that I had waited too long for too many things. After all, it had taken me over thirty years to follow up on the questions that had haunted me about my biological mother for most of my life. Only to discover I was too late.

 

It was this thought, more than anything, that gave me the courage to call Jonathan. Even as I did, I formulated a plan. I knew the man desired me—I had seen it often enough in his eyes. Suddenly I wanted—no,
needed
—to confirm what I saw clearly in his gaze whenever he allowed himself to drink me in.

And as I waited for the young student who answered the phone to summon Jonathan, I began to plot. I would cook him dinner. At my place. Friday night.

He wouldn't have a prayer.

“Grace,” he said, sounding surprised to hear from me.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Good, good,” he replied. “Everything…okay with you?” he asked, as if searching for the reason behind my call.

Maybe he was clueless about how much I wanted him. I decided to give him a little hint. “Sure. I was just wondering
if you'd like to join me for dinner Friday night.” Okay, a big hint. “At my place.”

Silence greeted my invitation, and suddenly I wanted to rescind it. Maybe I had gone too far. Or maybe I was too far gone, I thought, remembering how I had lain awake the night before, imagining just what Jonathan would look like once I got him out of those turtlenecks and trousers he favored.

“Actually, I have a previous engagement on Friday,” he began.

I felt myself slump.
Here it comes. The blow-off.

I listened as he explained that the university was throwing a reception for a benefactor of his department, and as one of their tenured professors, he was expected to go. “In truth, I'd sooner have dinner with you,” he said. “This type of affair isn't really my cup of tea….”

He hesitated, giving me time to measure how much consolation I could actually take from this last statement, then completely astonished and delighted me when he added, “I suppose you could…you could come with me? That is, if you want to.”

If I wanted to?
Heeellllllooo.
But because I didn't wish to seem too eager, especially after I had all but offered him my body, I said, in the coolest, most casual voice I could conjure up, “It might be nice to visit my alma mater again.”

 

Angie, of course, was ecstatic, and seemed ready to print up invitations to my wedding, notwithstanding my explanation that Jonathan's invitation was really just a counterinvitation to my own. It wasn't like he had thought to invite me until I called.

“Who cares?” she practically shrieked at me. “You still get
to be with him. And think how romantic it will be! You and him, dancing together…”

I smiled. Yes, it could be romantic.

If I wanted it to be…

B
elieving in romance was one thing. Dressing for it, I discovered, was quite another.

Especially since the only information I had managed to eke out of Jonathan was that the affair was black tie. And that everyone from his department would be there.

Somehow that little bit of information unnerved me. And not just because I hadn't purchased any new formal wear this year. I could always go with last year's fashion for this crowd, who probably thought runway meant the tarmac at the airport. I knew these people, after all. Academics were the crowd my parents ran with all their lives.

All I needed was a little confidence.

And, of course, a great dress.

Fortunately, I had a closet full of them. Unfortunately, none of them seemed quite…right.

And trust me, I tried them all on. At least, all the ones appropriate for the season. There was the gold Cavalli wrap I had picked up at a sample sale, which hugged my curves and highlighted my hair color. But the hint of cleavage became a scandalous allegation the minute I leaned over. Next I pulled on my black Donna Karan sheath, which screamed sophistication—until I sat down to strap on my shoes and realized the slit up the front was a little too risqué. One good leg crossing and I would likely get a building named after my crotch.

When had my formal wardrobe gotten so positively vampy? I thought, standing before my mirror and eyeing the way my breasts were peeking out of the top of that sheath a bit more plumply than usual.

Suddenly I realized that my dresses hadn't gotten slinkier—it was that my curves had gotten a little…curvier since I last hit my closet. “Voluptuous” was the polite term. But when I turned and saw the way the dress was stretched against my somewhat fleshier rump, I was forced to admit I had gained a few pounds since my last formal event. More than a few, I realized, after I slipped into a soft silver halter dress and discovered my gently rounded abs weren't being so gentle on the seams.

While I had updated most of my everyday clothes to accommodate my extra curves, I hadn't had the time to do the same thing for my more sophisticated clothing. And I was certain sophistication was what I needed tonight.

An unease filled me at the thought of the distinguished men and women who would surely fill that party. I had seen
them before, during the infrequent dinner parties my parents threw, or the events they had dragged me to before I was old enough to resist. Suddenly a memory filled me of one such event, a fund-raiser for the school of arts and science that I had been forced to endure at the age of fourteen. I remembered the staid faces of the women and the goggling eyes of the men when I had shown up in a seemingly innocent white frock, though nothing I had worn since I had sprouted to a C cup the year before looked truly innocent. “Where did she get
those?
” I had heard one usually reserved colleague of my father's whisper to his equally straitlaced associate. “Not from her mother,” came the reply, causing me to seek out my mother in the crowd. She looked, as always, petite and lovely and positively perfect in a sedate cocktail dress.

Where did you come from?
my mother had whispered time and time again, as she tucked me into bed or pulled me into a hug. I had sensed her question had been filled with the wonder of a woman who had gotten all she dreamed of when I had come into her life. She had told me so often enough.

Yet somehow the memory stabbed at me now as I prepared to step into my parents' world again. I realized that something in me—something about me—had never really truly felt a part of it.

The phone rang, startling me out of my thoughts. I grabbed for it, hoping for something—anything—to take me from this bad place I had gone.

“It's over, Grace,” Angie said without preamble.

“Over?” I replied, confusion filling me. Followed by fear. It couldn't be. Justin and she were a unit. Soul mates—or as close to soul mates as I allowed myself to believe in these days. Had their hurried nuptials resulted in an even quicker demise?

“The show,” she explained matter-of-factly. “My agent just called. The network decided not to go with a second season.”

Relief sheeted through me, so much so that I was forced to admit to myself how important it was for me that Justin and Angie succeed where no one else I knew—outside of my parents—seemed to. I needed to believe that love happened, at least to some people. And I grew more and more sure of it as I listened to Angie give the details of the end of the show that had given such a boost to her career. She seemed so calm. So not in need of her usual dose of reassurance.

“So I guess this means you get to focus your energies on the film,” I said, making an attempt at condolence any way, for old times' sake.

“Yeah,” she said. Then, “Hey, I just called to tell you to have fun tonight.”

“Fun?” I asked, looking at myself in the mirror once more and practically cringing at how obscenely that dress clung to me.

“Yeah,” she replied, confused. “Isn't tonight your big date with Dr. Somerfield, I presume?”

“Yes, yes, it is,” I said, dismay filling me as my gaze roamed over the myriad wardrobe choices I had strewn all about my bedroom. “But I have nothing to wear!”

Angie chuckled at me. “Gimme a break, Grace. You have more choices in your walk-in than the designer section in Bloomingdales'. In fact, that's your problem. You have too
many
things to wear.”

“Not really,” I said. “Nothing fits right. I gained a few pounds.”

“Who cares?” Angie said. “You know it's not the dress, Grace. It's the girl inside the dress that counts.”

I sighed. “In this case, there might be a little too
much
girl inside the dress.”

“Well, in your case, that's probably a good thing. It's not like you ever let those men get enough of you anyway.”

I knew what she meant. Also knew that was probably the source of my fear. I was allowing myself to step into Jonathan's world. Allowing myself to be vulnerable, when I swore never to open myself up to hurt again.

I hung up a few moments later and made a decision.

Chanel. Nothing less would do. Fortunately, I had one festive suit left over from my Drew days. As I fished through my closet, I remembered those days with horror. Sweater sets and pearls. Who had I been trying to be?

Drew's wife, I remembered with embarrassment. Or at least someone who didn't broadcast
sexpot
every time I stepped out on his pinstriped arm. Maybe that had been my mistake—trying to mold myself into something I could never be in order to please.

God, had I really done that? I thought, my eye flicking up to where my shoes were stacked neatly in boxes and spying a few from a designer known for her elegant yet sensible style.

I shook off the memory, reaching for the soft gray Chanel suit and yanking the skirt off the hanger with something bordering on anger. All those houses in Westport Drew dragged me to, painting some picture of our lives as the supremely successful couple, with a Mercedes in the driveway and 2.5 perfect little children….

I pulled on the skirt and felt a moment of horror when I realized I couldn't even get it past my hips. How long ago had it been? A year?

I couldn't wear this. And not just because it didn't fit. It
was a lovely suit yes, and would be perfect for me someday…when I was president of the PTA. But not for tonight. Tonight, I needed to be Grace.

Grace with a few extra pounds.

Oh God,
what
was I going to wear?

Then I spotted it: a soft gold Ralph Lauren with a sweetheart neck and a somewhat full skirt that might turn my newfound roundedness into tasteful voluptuousness.

Pulling it off the hanger, I slid the dress over my body. I felt relief when the skirt came over my hips, let out a purr of satisfaction when, after only a slight struggle, I got the zipper up, and gave a breathless sigh when I saw my reflection in the mirror.

I looked very much like…a princess.

A princess with cleavage, I thought, adjusting the top of the dress so it held me in a bit more.

Wow. Where had I been hiding this one? I thought, then remembered I had bought it for a wedding Ethan had invited me to go to—a wedding that fell approximately four weeks after our breakup.

Studying the soft elegance of the gown, I realized I was going to make not a few heads turn tonight. Not in a bad way—the dress was tasteful, elegant. But the color would surely make me stand out, and I wasn't so sure I wanted everyone to take notice. Just one man…

The thought of that man—the picture my brain conjured up of his eyes as he took me in—confirmed my decision.

If I was going to catch a prince, then I needed to look like a princess.

 

When the buzzer rang an hour later, I was just putting the finishing touches on my lipstick—a kissable shade of red
with a little shimmer to keep it festive—and I felt a shiver of anxiety fill me.

Goddammit, what was wrong with me? You'd think I'd never been on a date before.

Then I remembered my last two dates with Jonathan, and that bit of hesitancy in his voice when it came to inviting me to this particular event.

That was just it. I knew he desired me, but it was unclear whether or not he really wanted me in his life.

I shook off the thought, taking another glance in the full length mirror in my dressing area and feeling emboldened by the woman I saw there.

She was beautiful.

And Jonathan was incredible, I realized, once I swung open the door and found him waiting there, wearing a black tux and a somewhat uncertain smile.

There was something to be said for formal wear. Because if I had thought this man was good-looking in his scholarly tweeds and turtlenecks, he was absolutely amazing in black and white.

And clearly amazed by me. I saw his eyes take me in appreciatively before coming to rest on my face with a look that seemed to be filled with…pain.

“Can I offer you a cocktail before we go?” I said, feeling a sudden need to soothe him with whatever means I had at my disposal. And I had a whole bar full of soothing means.

He cleared his throat, looking around my living room warily as if fearing that if he walked farther into that soft, romantic space, he might be swallowed up by it. “No, no. We'd better—that is, we should go.”

I smiled to myself, nearly laughing in delight at the desire that clearly had him transfixed. “Let me just get my coat.”

I pulled my most elegant coat from the closet and headed out the door behind a still somewhat befuddled Dr. Jonathan Somerfield.

 

He gained his footing once we reached the relative safety of the street, turning to me on the pavement, which sparkled with dampness under the streetlight. “You look beautiful, Grace.”

There it was again—that tinge of regret in his tone. I shrugged it off. “You're not so bad yourself,” I said, smiling at him as I took the arm he held out.

We headed to the corner to hail a cab, silence sealing in the intimacy that seemed to have sprung between us now that it was safe to bask in it, surrounded by the lights and murmuring traffic of a city street.

The silence continued even once we were enclosed inside a taxi and gliding up the avenue. I would have spoken, but I suddenly felt no need to. Instead, I felt a certain serenity sitting beside Jonathan. Maybe it was the sense that we were sealed off from that world that beckoned beyond, with all its demands and disappointments. Whatever it was, sitting here beside him, somehow, I felt…safe.

But it was only momentary, that feeling. Once we pulled into that stately and familiar campus all my fears rose up again. Crazy! This was my alma mater, I thought, remembering the first time I had come here as a student. I had been filled with all the hopefulness and, I realized, insecurities of a young woman who had enjoyed the privileges of an Ivy league education not only because of her good academic record, but also because of her father's great benefits package, which included full tuition for all immediate family members. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was because I be
lieved I had gotten a leg up in this world due to my parents more than my own abilities. And suddenly I felt vastly out of my element, despite the fact that I had once called this campus home.

It wasn't looking very homey tonight, I thought, as we headed for the hall that housed tonight's event.

Fortunately, I had the benefit of Jonathan's good nature. I enjoyed the way he put his hand at my back as he guided me up the stairs and then took my coat to check before ushering me into the prettily appointed room where the event was being held. Still, I felt a bit wary as I stood beside him on the perimeter of that expansive, crowded space.

Jonathan must have sensed my unease, because suddenly I felt his reassuring hand at my back once more. “You okay?” he said, looking into my eyes. In his own, I saw the same sense of displacement. I didn't understand it, but I was oddly reassured. I wasn't alone in this, after all.

“Jon!” came a deep baritone from behind. A hand clapped Jonathan on the back, and within moments, a rather jowly albeit jolly-faced man who looked to be in his late sixties stood before us. “Glad you decided to finally join the living!” he said, bringing the hand up again momentarily to grip Jonathan's shoulder as his glance strayed speculatively to me.

“Professor Danforth, how are you?” Jonathan replied warmly.

This caused the older man to guffaw. “Jon, Jon—please!” Addressing me, Professor Danforth continued, “Do you know this young man and I have been colleagues for, what is it, now, Jon—nearly ten years?—and he
still
can't bring himself to call me Ignatius.”

I smiled at this, wondering if anyone could wrap their tongue around a name like that.

“Dr. Danforth—” Jonathan began, turning to me. “That is, Ignatius—was on my dissertation committee.”