Goodbye To All That (38 page)

She frowned, as if the possibility had never occurred to her. “Well, he was Melissa’s boyfriend. And she looked fabulous after he did her. I like to have a recommendation, and Melissa’s hair was quite a recommendation.”

Okay. Okay. More deep breaths, and the anger began to wane. Maybe it was as simple as Brooke made it out to be: she’d loved the way Melissa’s hair had looked, so she’d gone to the same person who’d done Melissa’s hair.

Or maybe not. Maybe she’d been so impressed by the way Luc
did
Melissa that she’d decided to have Luc
do
her, too.

Oh, God. That possibility shifted his mood ratios once more. Less anger, but a lot more terror. A shitload of terror.

Eight years ago, he’d married this woman. He’d fallen in love with her because she’d been charming, beautiful and blessedly undemanding. She’d asked of him only security, support, devotion and a credit card with no limit—things he’d been happy to give her. He’d believed marriage was as simple as that.

Not any longer. Not since his parents, whose marriage he’d always viewed as being built on the very same foundation of security, support and devotion, had proven that such a foundation could crumble, that those elements weren’t enough. Now his mother had walked out on his father, and his wife was traipsing down to New York, where people talked funny and littered the sidewalks with empty food wrappers and cigarette butts and cheered for the Yankees and booed the Red Sox, to meet with the incredibly talented hunk who’d
done
Doug’s sister.

Panic seasoned the terror, anger and dread. “What would you do if I told you I really, really didn’t want you going to New York?” he asked, a tamer question than the one burning in his mind:
What would you do if I forbade you to let that man near your hair?
He couldn’t ask that question. Asking it would send any woman storming out the door. And it would make him sound so unreasonable, so bossy. So panicked and angry and terrified and filled with dread.

“Why would you say that? It’s not like the girls don’t love spending the afternoon at Stephanie’s.”

“But
 . . .
” He turned to stare at the fireplace and prayed for his control not to slip. “But New York, Brooke. It’s so damned far to travel just to get something you can get right here at home.” Oh, shit. He’d meant she could get a
haircut
here in the neighborhood. His words hadn’t come out that way, though.

She looked bemused, then suspicious. Evidently she’d figured him out. “Do you think something’s going on between me and Luc?”

The accusation lay between them like a dead cod, wet and slightly smelly. No sense denying that that was exactly what he thought, and what he feared. “You were the one who said he was
doing
Melissa.”

“Doing her hair, you idiot.”

“He was doing more than her hair.”

“Well, he isn’t doing more than mine. For God’s sake, Douglas.”

He felt ashamed and a little ill. Brooke leaned away from him and managed to fit her downturned mouth around the edge of her wine glass so she could drink and pout at the same time.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“How could you even imply—”

“Look. I’m an idiot. Ever since my parents split, I just
 . . .
I’m afraid to believe
anything
is forever anymore. They had the most stable marriage in the world, and it fell apart. We have the most stable marriage in the world.”
I hope,
he added silently. But God only knew. If he hadn’t lost Brooke to Luc’s incredible talents, he might lose her because he’d insinuated that he’d lost her to Luc’s incredible talents. Either way, he lost.

“He’s a nice guy,” she said, her tone softer, less indignant. He sneaked a glimpse and saw that she was pouting a little less. “He’s got an amazing aestheticism when it comes to hair.”

Doug nodded. He didn’t dare to say anything. Whatever he said might land him in even deeper trouble.

“And it’s New York. It’s a whole different place. The trip is relaxing. I listen to an audio book while I’m driving. I don’t have to think about play dates or dentist appointments or volunteering for the class trip to the animal hospital. I just drive. And then I get there, and the city is noisy and gritty and fun. And I get a fabulous haircut and color—although the color could be a little more fabulous. And I come home refreshed. And while I’m in New York, I can treat myself to one of those big hot pretzels. The New York pretzels are better than the ones they sell in Boston.”

“So—it’s like an outing.”

“Exactly. It’s a day away. And Luc is very talented.”

Doug wished she wouldn’t keep reminding him of that. “What, are you bored?”

“Bored? Me?” Her eyes grew round.

“Bored of being home. Bored of the usual routines. So bored you consider trekking all the way to New York City for a haircut exciting.”

“I’m not bored,” she said in a wavering voice.

“Sure you are. The girls don’t need you twenty-four-seven anymore. They’re in first grade. They’ve got their own lives. The cleaning service takes care of the house. There’s only so much shopping you can do. You’re bored.” He felt his anger and panic and dread seeping away as he said this. It made sense. She was bored, and sitting in a contoured chair having a handsome guy fuss over her hair gave her a charge. That was what this was about. A change of scenery for the day. And a fat, hot pretzel.

“If you got your hair done here, the time you would have spent driving to and from New York could be spent doing something interesting. Something new.”

“Like what?” she challenged him.

“Like
 . . .
like helping Jill plan Thanksgiving. Or helping her with Abbie’s bat mitzvah. The place where it’s being held is putting her through the wringer. They’re hiking the dinner price, they’re hemming and hawing about how many hours the DJ can play—I don’t know. I got an earful the last time I talked to her.”

“And I’m supposed to help her how?”

“You’re good at parties,” he said. “You’re a pro when it comes to organizing them. You could be a party planner. Isn’t that what they’re called?”

“A party planner?”

“Remember the party you threw for my parents’ anniversary? The jukebox rock-and-roll party?”

“And now look at them,” she said dryly. “They’re getting divorced.”

“It was a great party, though.”

She contemplated his statement, sipped some wine and apparently came up with no argument. “You’re right. It was.”

The idea was so brilliant, Doug decided to pretend he hadn’t accidentally stumbled upon it in his effort to convince Brooke to have her hair done locally. “A party planner. You’d be your own boss, work only on parties you wanted to, get paid to be creative.”

“Paid? You want me to get a job?” She narrowed her gaze. Fortunately, the pout didn’t return, but she was wearing an emphatic frown. “Is there something about our finances that you aren’t telling me?”

“No. Our finances are fine.” He leaned forward, energized. “People are vain. They want their Lasik surgery. I’m booked solid until we leave for Nevis, and people are already scheduling for next spring.”

“So why do you want me to do this? Why should I get paid to be creative?”

“If you don’t want to get paid, do it for free.” He set his glass on the coffee table in front of the couch and reached for Brooke’s hand. Her skin was velvet-soft, her fingernails pale and oval, like slivered almonds. “Look at my parents. My mother left my father not because she didn’t love him, not because he betrayed her. Not even because he channel-surfs too much. She left him because she wanted her own life, her own identity. She wanted a job.”

“I don’t want a job,” Brooke insisted.

“A hobby, then. Do it as a hobby.” He sighed. “I’m being selfish, Brooke, I know. I’m asking you to consider this because I don’t want to wake up thirty-five years from now and hear you tell me you’re moving out and taking a job as a clerk at First-Rate.”

“I would
never
take a job as a clerk at First-Rate.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t even like entering those stores. The merchandise is so cheap.”

One thing Brooke detested was buying anything that wasn’t overpriced, Doug thought with a wry smile. No wonder she preferred Colonel Ping to Lotus Garden: not because of Colonel Ping’s overreliance on salt and MSG but because its mu-shu pork cost a buck-fifty more than Lotus Garden’s.

“I don’t want you to work at First-Rate,” he said gently. “I want you to do something that keeps you from getting so bored you think going to New York for a haircut is an exciting adventure. I want every day to be an adventure for you.”

She ruminated, her hand unmoving in his clasp, her other hand slowly lifting her wine glass to her lips. Her perfectly shaped lips. Lips he loved, lips he hoped would still be meeting his in eager kisses thirty-five years from now.

She drank, swallowed and smiled enigmatically. “You know what would be an adventure for me?”

“What?”

“Holding the remote while we watched TV so you couldn’t channel-surf.”

He allowed himself a tentative smile, as well. Maybe, just maybe his marriage wasn’t doomed.

“All right,” she said, then sighed. If he could get her to say yes over the phone, when she couldn’t even see his dimples, she was in big trouble.

What the hell. She was in big trouble, anyway. She was going to torture herself by walking through the apartment one last time when she still hadn’t figured out how to cover the down payment. Her hope was that giving it one final viewing would convince her she wasn’t really in love with it, and that standing in its cozy second bedroom wouldn’t fill her with all sorts of wistful ovarian pangs. One more look might prove to her that the place wasn’t that special.

She gave O’Leary the address and agreed to meet him outside the building at six twenty, at which time he could take her someplace cheap for dinner. She’d probably be bummed out after her farewell tour of the apartment—whether because she discovered she still loved it but couldn’t swing the financing or because she discovered she didn’t really love it and therefore couldn’t trust her instincts—so wherever he took her had better have a liquor license.

She was able to leave her office by quarter to six—early for her. Usually she worked until about six-thirty. When she’d been with Luc, he’d complained about her late hours on the days when he didn’t have any evening appointments. She supposed O’Leary’s schedule was similar to hers—eight-thirty to six-thirty, or thereabouts.

As if she cared whether O’Leary worked sixty hours a week like she did. They were having dinner together to celebrate the settlement, period. His career trajectory had no relevance to her. This was not a relationship. It was going nowhere. Plus, the last time she’d seen him, when they’d gone out for a drink after their marathon negotiating session, he’d made that flirty comment about how her hair turned him on. Her ex-boyfriend was her hair stylist. If she got involved with a guy who was turned on by what her ex-boyfriend did
 . . .
well, it would be weird.

She decided O’Leary truly was her adversary when she arrived at the building on East 38
^th
. She’d expected to see her realtor there, and sure enough, Kathy was waiting under the entry’s nondescript awning, clad in a matronly blazer and pleated slacks that amplified her chubby physique. Standing beside her was a tall, dark-haired man in a business suit. The light from the lobby illuminated enough of his silhouette for Melissa to recognize him.

She’d specifically told him six-twenty. What the hell was he doing here? Discussing the apartment—
her
apartment, if she could finagle a way to buy it—with her realtor? Was he planning to bid on the apartment, too? He already owned a place up in the boonies of northernmost Manhattan. Surely he couldn’t want this place, too.