Goodbye To All That (6 page)

She’d met him in August when she’d splurged on a cut and color at Nouvelle Salon and Spa. Her friend Emily had recommended the place, and Emily’s hair always looked fabulous, so Melissa had thought, what the hell, it’s only money. Three hundred bucks of money, as it had turned out, but worth every penny. The stylist she’d been assigned to, a sexy guy with a sexy name—Luc, not Luke, because Lucas was spelled with a “c” and no “e,” as he’d explained to her once they’d reached that level of intimacy—and black hair and eyes the color of blue Curacao and a well-honed physique barely hidden by a dark T-shirt and jeans—much like the outfit he had on now, she realized—had whisked her into a chair and asked what she’d like him to do for her. She’d stared at his reflection in the mirror as he hovered behind her, staring at
her
reflection.
God,
she’d thought,
he’s gorgeous
.

“Make me a new woman,” she’d said.

And he had.

“So,” he said, inching Alan’s car close enough to the hillbilly rig for her to read the words
fuck you
which someone had rubbed into the layer of road dirt between the tail lights, “tell me about who’s going to be at this thing.”

“My sister Jill, of course,” Melissa answered. “Our hostess. She’s very nice. Very calm and undemanding.” When she wasn’t busy bragging about how she was the only calm, undemanding member of the family. “You know how some people always make waves? She’s like oil on water. She calms the waves.” Even if she sometimes treated Melissa like a toddler. Actually, she also sometimes treated Doug, who was two years older than her, like a toddler.

“Her hair could use some work,” she added, wondering if Luc might have an opportunity to assess Jill’s bland brown mop and come up with a few suggestions. A trim here, a snip there, move the part. Highlights. Lowlights. He could transform Jill from a dowdy housewife into a less dowdy housewife.

And then Jill would love him. That would be one vote in favor.

“Jill writes catalogue copy.”

“Huh?”

“The descriptive little blurbs that accompany the photos of clothing in catalogues. Someone has to write those things, and she’s that someone. She’s married to Gordon, who’s a high school English teacher,” Melissa continued, “and they have two children. Abbie’s twelve and Noah’s almost ten. Abbie’s bat mitzvah is coming up next spring. That’s kind of a big deal.”

Would she and Luc would still be together next spring? Would she get to show up at the bat mitzvah with the most handsome man she’d ever dated hanging off her arm? If he accompanied her, she would have to buy a new dress for the occasion. She’d probably have to buy a new dress, anyway, but it would be fun to blame the extravagance on Luc.

“How big a deal?” he asked. “Should I congratulate her or something?”

It occurred to Melissa that he might not know what a bat mitzvah was, other than in the most general sense. He did all those bridal parties, sweeping into the Waldorf-Astoria or the Pierre to create magnificent coiffures for the bride and her attendants, but bat mitzvahs didn’t generally call for private sessions with a hair stylist. Frankly, she couldn’t imagine Abbie wanting anyone, professional or otherwise, messing with her hair. As far as Melissa could tell, Abbie considered winning a soccer game more important than looking beautiful.

“No congratulations until after the bat mitzvah. I just thought I’d warn you—whenever the family gets together, that subject usually comes up. She’s the oldest grandchild, the first one. My parents are pretty excited about it.”

“Okay.” Luc nodded.

A jangle of clashing guitars blasted through the speakers, and Melissa turned down the radio’s volume. “Then there’s my brother Doug, who’s brilliant and arrogant. He does laser surgery on eyes. He has his own clinic and he’s mega-rich. A lot of people want perfect vision without glasses.”

“I wouldn’t want to wear glasses,” Luc said. Of course he was wearing sunglasses, but that was different. Sunglasses you could hide behind. They were optional. Regular glasses were just plain dorky.

Melissa knew this from personal experience; she’d replaced her glasses with contacts when she was sixteen. She’d love to have the corrective surgery done on her own myopic eyes, but it was expensive and she had to save for a down payment on a co-op or condo. She’d once asked Doug if he’d Lasik her eyes, figuring he’d give her a huge discount or maybe even do the job for free, but he’d said smart doctors never operated on their loved ones and he’d be happy to pass along the names of a few colleagues whose success rates he could vouch for. His colleagues would have charged her the usual fee, so she’d let the subject drop and tried not to resent him.

He ought to do her eyes for her, though. He wasn’t
that
smart.

“Doug is married to Brooke, who’s the sort of woman you’d expect to be married to a brilliant, arrogant doctor who earns tons of money.”

“What does that mean?” Luc asked.

Melissa shrugged. “When you meet her, you’ll know. She’s just
 . . .
very polished. Polite and poised and kind of presumptuous. She takes things for granted.” Actually, she was probably like the majority of his clients at Nouvelle, the regulars who waltzed in every week and handed over hundreds of dollars to have him clip two or three wisps of hair when they were done with their facials and paraffin treatments.

Fortunately, Luc didn’t subscribe to Doug’s theory about people not operating on their loved ones. Now that he and Melissa were a couple, he did her hair without charging her, although she had to pay for the coloring products and conditioners, which weren’t exactly cheap.

“Doug and Brooke have twin daughters,” she went on. “Mackenzie and Madison. They’re six years old. No imminent bat mitzvahs for them, but let me tell you, once they reach the right age,
nothing
will be spared. Doug and Brooke’ll probably rent the entire Ritz-Carlton. Or maybe Symphony Hall. Or the U.S.S. Constitution. It will be an event, I promise you.”

Luc nodded.

“And then there are my parents. Ruth and Richard Bendel. They’re
 . . .
” She hesitated. What could she say about her parents? They simply
were
. They loved her. They drove her crazy. They were strict. They were lenient. They could spend hours describing a ten-minute trip to the drug store. They thought rock and roll had peaked with the Beatles, or maybe Elton John, and had been on a long, sad decline since 1973.

“They’re nice,” she finally said, then realized that was hardly adequate. “My father’s a cardiologist and my mother’s a housewife. They finish each other’s sentences. My mother knows when my dad wants her to pass him the salad dressing before
he
knows.”

Luc said nothing. A couple of weeks ago, after they’d made loud, sweaty love at her apartment—they couldn’t do that at his apartment because Alan was there most of the time—she’d pestered him to tell her about his childhood. She’d figured she was entitled, after loud sweaty sex. Luc hadn’t been overly forthcoming, but he’d told her his parents had divorced when he was eight and his father had eventually moved to Las Vegas. Throughout his youth, Luc had visited his father every summer, and he’d seen shows featuring scantily clad dancers in rhinestone bras and feather headdresses and sneaked a few chips into the slot machines when the pit bosses weren’t watching. His mother had remarried and his step-father was “okay,” a word he’d said with a shrug, so Melissa wasn’t sure just how “okay” the guy was.

In any case, Luc’s childhood clearly hadn’t fit the nuclear-family cliché like Melissa’s, with a nice house, a new car every few years and grandparents nearby. She and her siblings had all gone to the same high school, and all three of them had gone to college in New England. Now Doug and Jill both lived within ten miles of their parents’ house in the cozy suburbs west of Boston. To Melissa’s family, New York City was a foreign country, as alien as Las Vegas must have seemed to Luc the first time he’d visited his father there. “Yankees territory,” her father often muttered about Manhattan. The Bendels were, by birth and by blood, a Red Sox family.

Melissa had moved to New York because she’d thought it would be more glamorous than Boston—which it was. The law firms were bigger there and the pay was higher, even if her paycheck magically disappeared every month, absorbed by rent, her MetroCard and the ridiculously high price of dirty martinis at marginally fashionable bars. Dinner out with friends? Bye-bye, eighty bucks. Tickets to a concert? Sayonara, a hundred. Even the museums cost too much money. And a woman needed clothes, for God’s sake. Especially if she was bucking for partner at a major law firm.

But she probably would have moved to New York anyway, just to put a little distance between herself and her family. Just so she wouldn’t have them all nosing into her business. Just so she could get away from a place where high school teachers used to tell her, “You’re smarter than your sister, but she was better behaved.”

At last, they’d reached Connecticut. Melissa always expected something magical to happen when she crossed from one state to another. At the very least, she expected to see a heavy black line painted across the ground, denoting as clearly as a map where one state ended and the next began. Instead, most state borders were marked by a billboard not much more appealing than a highway exit sign saying, “Welcome to Whatever State,” with the governor’s name printed below. Sometimes the road’s pavement would change color at the state line, because God forbid New York’s highway budget should pay to resurface even an inch of Connecticut’s turf, and vice versa.

Connecticut was progress, however. They were one state closer to their destination.

She reopened the folder that had been resting in her lap. “What do you think makes more sense?” she asked. “A one-bedroom with lots of closets, or a two-bedroom that skimps on closets?”

“Closets are good,” Luc answered.

“If you were buying an apartment, you’d go for the one bedroom with lots of closets?”

“If
I
were buying an apartment, I’d want a huge, gorgeous bathroom with lots of mirrors and primo lighting.”

Of course he would. After all, a hair salon was really just a glorified bathroom with lots of mirrors and light, sculpted sinks, sleek counters and no visible toilets. She’d been so focused on the closet situation, she hadn’t really considered the bathrooms in the apartments Kathy had recommended. She’d be willing to bet that, despite their astronomical prices, the apartments wouldn’t have bathrooms that were huge and gorgeous.

That thought depressed her. “Do you think the extra bedroom is a good idea?”

“I don’t know. It’s up to you.” He shrugged. “I’m not buying any apartments in the near future. Not unless I hook up with a really rich chick.” He sent her a mischievous smile and added, “A sugar mommy.”

Swallowing her uneasiness, Melissa smiled back. She never knew how serious he was when he made jokes like that. If he was looking for a sugar mommy, she sure wasn’t it. Her salary was a hell of a lot higher than his, but she had expenses. And he got tips.

She consoled herself with the understanding that he came in contact with dozens of really rich women every week. He wouldn’t have chosen her if he’d wanted a girlfriend with a huge bank account. And he wouldn’t have offered to drive her all the way to Jill’s house if he didn’t at least like her.

Of course he liked her.

And she wasn’t going to think about real estate for the rest of the drive.

THEY REACHED JILL’S HOUSE at a little before noon, right around when Melissa would have been phoning Jill to announce her imminent arrival at the bus terminal. She’d lived in New York City long enough that the suburban tranquility of her sister’s neighborhood unnerved her. All those fat maple and sycamore trees, their leaves burning with fall color. All those shrubs. All those tidy lawns. All that sky. She felt as if she’d made a wrong turn and wound up on the set of a sit-com, or maybe a Disney movie. She half-expected plump little bluebirds to flit out of the foliage, trailing satin ribbons.