Skipping a Beat (12 page)

“So tell me,” I said, keeping my voice light.

“That day in the hospital, when her parents came to take her away, they stopped by my room first and said they were going to tell her about the adoption as soon as she was old enough to understand it. I promised I’d write a letter for them to give to her. I started to do it dozens of times, but every time, I just froze. I couldn’t think of what to say…. And the longer I waited, the harder it got. I kept thinking, What if she hates me for giving her up?” Isabelle’s voice was so soft I barely heard what she said next. “And maybe now she hates me for not writing. Maybe they all do.”

I couldn’t stand to see the pain in her eyes. “She doesn’t,” I said firmly.

Isabelle glanced over at me in surprise.

“You found incredible parents for her,” I said. “That was the most loving thing you ever could have done. Isabelle, Beth knows you love her. She
knows
. “

After a moment, Isabelle nodded slowly.

“When everything happened with Michael, the first person I thought of was Beth. What if I get really sick or die? Or what if she does? What if I miss the chance to tell her I love her because I was too afraid?”

“You could still write the letter,” I said after a moment. “It isn’t too late. You can tell her you were scared to write before, if you want to. Just tell her the truth. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

Isabelle squeezed my hand. “I think I have to.”

We sat there awhile longer, still holding hands, listening to Bruce Springsteen’s gritty, haunted voice singing “Thunder Road.”

“Do you think we’ve scared Neil off for good with all this sobbing?” Isabelle finally asked.

“Probably,” I said, wanting to see her smile again. “But there’s one good thing. I think the two guys at the end of the bar have given up on you. I’m pretty sure they think we’re a couple.”

Isabelle laughed—not a big laugh, but at least she’d stopped crying. “And I just noticed something else,” she said, squinting at Neil and wobbling slightly on her seat. “He brought his twin brother in to work with him. Now we won’t have to wait as long for refills.”

“Another shot?” I suggested.

“Only one?” Isabelle asked indignantly.

She signaled Neil, then looked at me, and I saw sadness cast a shadow across her face again. “I think you should give Michael his three weeks before you decide if you’re going to divorce him,” she said softly. “Anything could happen during that time. Maybe he really has changed. But even if you leave, at least you’ll know you gave it a chance. Trust me, always wondering about someone you walked away from is the hardest thing in the world.”

* * *

“I have something to tell you,” I announced, marching into our living room. I tried to sound dignified, but my hiccups weren’t doing me any favors.

Michael was sitting on a chair near our great white stone fireplace, not reading a book or watching television or anything. Just sitting, as still and quiet as a statue.

“I’m not going to let anything inferte—finterfere … mess up my job,” I said. “I’ve got a big event in a couple days. But after that I’ll spend a little time with you. I won’t make a decision about what I’m going to do for a few weeks. But I’m not promising anything. I don’t think I’m going to be able to get over this.”

Michael stood up so quickly he was like a blur—or maybe that was the vodka creating complimentary special visual effects.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

I turned around and staggered toward our bedroom. I needed ten hours of sleep, one for each of those shots.

“I’ll bring you some water and aspirin,” Michael said, grabbing my elbow and helping steer me into the bedroom.

“I love my heated bathroom tiles,” I told him.

“I know you do,” he said.

“I’m gonna take them with me,” I said, collapsing onto the bed. “If I leave you.”

“Okay,” he said, easing off my shoes.

“Don’t try to humor me,” I said. “I see right through you.”

“Do you need anything? Some crackers?”

“You’re giving away all your money and you offer me a saltine,” I muttered, rolling over and putting a pillow on my head to block out the light. “Charity begins at home, you know. How about a spare million or two to go with the crackers?”

I felt Michael leave, and a moment later, he was back, forcing a glass of water and two aspirin into my hand.

“You’ll feel better tomorrow if you drink this,” he said.

I finished the water and flopped back onto the bed, my eyes closed.

I felt Michael hovering above me. “I know none of this makes sense to you now,” he said, pulling a quilt over me. “I know you don’t believe me when I promise you that you’ll always have everything you need. But you’ll see. You don’t have to be scared, Julia.”

His hand was on my forehead, softly stroking, and it felt so comforting. My mom used to do that when I was a little girl, home sick from school. Her fingers were long and thin and cool, and their steady rhythm always made me feel better.

I miss my mom
, I thought.

“I know you do,” Michael said, and I realized I’d spoken the words aloud. “We’ll go back to West Virginia to visit her, if you want.”

I rolled away from him.

“I love you,” he said, and that was the last thing I heard before I fell asleep in my clothes, the touch of my husband’s fingers still lingering on my forehead.

The opera is a perfect place to hide. No one cares if you sit in your seat crying, as long as you’re quiet about it.

A few nights after I told Michael I’d give him his three weeks, I slipped out alone to see
Cavalleria Rusticana
. It wasn’t just the tragic story of the tenor Turiddu and his love, Lola, that made me weep, though. I couldn’t help thinking about the backstory of the composer, Pietro Mascagni. He was a dirt-poor piano teacher when he wrote it for an opera competition, hoping a win would reverse his fortunes. Like so many artists, he was incredibly self-critical, and he ended up despairing of his work. But his wife believed in him, and she secretly mailed it to the judges. He won, and just like that, his life turned around.

And now mine seemed to be spinning around, too, but in the wrong direction.

Fifteen

“I’LL ALWAYS HAVE MY cell phone on,” I reminded Gene, my thin, energetic, twenty-eight-year-old assistant, who was never too far away from a freshly opened Red Bull.

“Got it,” he said, eager to get back to the game of Internet Scrabble I’d interrupted. He’d flipped screens when I approached, but he was so slow that I’d ruled out a future career in espionage for him. “I’ll call you if anything important comes in.”

“Don’t tell clients I’m working from home,” I instructed him. “Just say I’m out for the moment.”

“Sure,” he said.

“You can e-mail me, too,” I said. “And I’ll check in every day.”

“Gotcha.”

“Even if you don’t think it’s anything important, you should double-check.”

Gene nodded.

“It’s just for three weeks,” I confided. “Then I’ll be back in the office full-time. And I’m only doing this because it’s such a slow month.”

Gene’s fingers began drumming against his desk.

“Right! So, I’ll just, ah, grab something off my desk,” I said, stepping into my office before I flopped down on the couch and Gene started scribbling on a pad and making thoughtful noises and billing me by the hour.

My company didn’t take up much space, just two rented rooms in one of the dozens of nondescript tall office buildings within walking distance of the White House. The outer room held Gene’s desk and a few leafy plants and a pretty peach-and-white striped couch, and just beyond that was a bigger room, where I worked and held client meetings. It was sunny and bright and the perfect space for my little company. Unlike in my house—or my soon-to-be-ex-house—I’d picked out everything in here, from the soft mossy green paint on the walls to the big antique desk with dozens of tiny drawers that held everything from paper clips to my illicit stash of Hershey’s Kisses.

Funny how I’d stumbled into such a perfect job, I thought as I straightened the chairs around the glass table in the center of the room. Unlike Michael’s—he’d planned every aspect of his company—mine had started as a fluke.

I’d become good friends with a woman named Stephenie after we sat next to each other as freshmen in English lit at the University of Maryland. When she got engaged during her senior year, she asked me to help pick out her dress since her sister and mother lived out of town.

“I can’t afford to spend too much,” she’d said. “Just a couple hundred dollars. But it’s my wedding day, you know?” Her voice had grown wistful. “I want something special.”

“Let’s go to a consignment store,” I’d suggested.

We’d ended up driving to five that weekend, but none of the dresses were right. Stephenie was Rubenesque, all generous curves and auburn curls and pale, pale skin. She needed something simple and well cut, but everything we saw was covered in lace and flounces and spangles, as if a group of kindergartners had broken into the craft closet and gone wild.

“Holy God,” I’d muttered under my breath, whipping through the racks. “What bride-hating sadist invented puffy shoulder bows?”

“Usually it’s the bride who’s picky about these things,” Stephenie had joked as she’d modeled yet another gown and I’d shaken my head.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” she’d asked, frowning as she ran a finger over the stiff white skirt with sequins affixed.

“No, it’s worse,” I’d joked. “Just one more store. Then we’ll quit for the day, okay?”

When we walked into I Do, I Do, it was almost as though a magnetic pull steered me to the dress. I gently lifted the padded hanger from its rack, barely daring to hope. I’d seen only a flash of rich ivory, a gentle swirl of a train … I held it up and smiled. This was it. The shawl collar, the elegant sweep of silk—this dress was like nothing we’d seen before. It was old-fashioned and romantic, softly pretty and unique.

“Really?” Stephenie had asked, wrinkling her nose. “Isn’t it kind of …
plain?”

“Just try it on,” I’d begged, crowding into the dressing room with her and fastening the tiny hooks up the back. “A little altering here and there … Don’t look yet,” I’d commanded, smoothing out the train. “Okay. Now.”

“Oh, my God,” she’d said, twirling in front of the mirror. She didn’t say anything else; she just kept spinning and spinning, like a windup ballerina dancing in a jewelry box, while I’d watched her and smiled.

“How did you know?” she’d asked later in her car, her dress draped protectively over her lap. She wouldn’t let go of it for a second. “I never even would’ve taken this off the hanger.”

I’d thought about the fashion magazines Dad used to bring home for me, and how he’d sit next to me while I flipped through the pages.

“A thousand bucks? For a dress?” he’d say. “Tell me why that dress is worth so much more than the one in the window at Sears.”

I’d push the magazine closer to him. “See all the beads around the hem? They’re hand-sewn. But you’re right; it’s way overpriced. Look at how the armholes gape. Not in that picture; the model’s arching her back to compensate. But on the next page her body’s more relaxed, and you can see the dress isn’t well cut. Now, this jacket is worth every penny. You could wear it to the fanciest party ever, or you could wear it over jeans. Check out the buttons. They’re like little pieces of jewelry; every one is different.”

“I swear, Julie, you could design this stuff yourself,” Dad would say, shaking his head. “You see things nobody else does. Now how about my sweater? Is it couture”—he pronounced it “cootie-yer”—“material?”

“Absolutely,” I’d say with a laugh. “You could strut down a runway right now.”

Then I’d flush with pleasure and secretly start thinking maybe I really could do it, someday, maybe I could figure out a way to go to design school or just buy some material and start sewing my own stuff …

Stephenie had been staring at me. “Are you okay? I was asking how you knew this was the dress.”

I’d swallowed hard. “Just a feeling.”

The idea for my business didn’t gel until after Stephenie told me her grandmother’s cameo necklace, which she’d been planning to wear as the “something old” part of her outfit, was missing—stolen by a nursing home aide, the family suspected.

It really wasn’t so hard to find something similar; a Saturday morning walking around flea markets and antiques shops, and then I was pointing at a glass case, saying, “That one. Can I see that one, please?”

When I gave the ivory-and-rose cameo to Stephenie as an early wedding present, she cried. I helped Stephenie cut corners everywhere at her wedding, and brushed off her thanks; the truth was, I loved every minute of it. The bridal bouquet was pale pink cabbage roses bought wholesale and tied with silk ribbon from a five-and-dime, and I discovered dusty cases of champagne glasses at a store’s going-out-of-business sale. “They’re less expensive than plastic, and so much nicer,” I’d told her. “If you want, you could hire someone to wash them after the toast, then give away pairs as favors to your guests, maybe tied with some of that ribbon.”

“So we don’t have to spend money on favors!” Stephenie had exclaimed. “Brilliant! But do you know what I’m really worried about? The caterer’s bill. That’s going to be the biggest expense.”

I’d thought for a minute. “You know, you could just do cake and champagne if you had an evening ceremony. It would be so romantic; you could use little votive candles everywhere.”

Her eyes had lit up. “Perfect!”

One of Stephenie’s cousins approached me at the reception, raving about the wedding and asking if I could help plan hers—“I’ll pay you, of course.” Soon after that the jobs just began trickling in by word of mouth. Weddings, retirement parties, birthday bashes, bar mitzvahs—I did them all.

But I hadn’t talked to Stephenie in years.

I walked over to my desk and opened the drawer that held the
Washington Post
clipping describing our house. Stephenie had called me when the story ran, her voice shot through with tight, high notes of surprise.

“I had no idea,” she’d said. “I mean, I know Michael was really excited about his new business, but … the paper said he’s worth seventy
million?”

“Yeah,” I’d said, and I’d tried to pull off a laugh. “It kind of surprised me, too.”

“I mean, you couldn’t spend that much money in a lifetime, could you?” Stephenie had marveled, almost as though we were gossiping about someone else, some celebrity we’d seen in films and posing on the red carpet.

We’d chatted for a while longer, but by the time we hung up, it felt like one of the seams binding our friendship had split open. I tried to hold our friendship together—I believe we both made an effort. But our lives had veered into completely different directions, stretching us apart even as we reached out to one another. Stephenie had a baby daughter by then and was clipping coupons to make ends meet, and once when I met her for coffee, I’d seen her eyes linger over my new Hermès Kelly bag.

“Did Michael buy you that?” she’d asked, tentatively touching the supple leather, as though it was an exotic animal that might bite.

I’d nodded quickly, then offered to get her a coffee.

“I can buy my own,” she’d said defensively.

“No, of course you can,” I’d blurted, embarrassed. “I just meant since I was going to the counter anyway.” I’d tucked my purse under my chair and wondered if I should bring my old one, which I’d bought at T.J. Maxx, the next time we met. But then I realized that would make things worse.

I was to blame, too. I still flush with shame when I remember how I didn’t invite Stephenie to the first big dinner party we gave at our new home. Part of me knew she and her husband, who worked as an electrician, wouldn’t be comfortable with our new crowd. And a smaller, uglier part of me wanted to show off our house and everything in it—our newly acquired Picasso sketch and enormous flower arrangements and private chef making sushi in our gorgeous kitchen—without worrying if it seemed ostentatious to my old friend. I didn’t want to see her mentally adding up the money we’d spent; I had to work hard enough not to do that myself. That night was our comingout party, and I wanted to revel in it.

She’d found out about the party—I’d foolishly let it slip the next time I saw her—and I still remember the hurt flashing in her eyes.

“It was just a business thing,” I’d lied.

“Sure,” she’d said too casually. Then she’d begun talking about her new playgroup, and the other moms she’d befriended, and it was my turn to feel a sharp pang of jealousy between my ribs. By then Michael had told me he didn’t want children.

Our calls and e-mails grew more and more sporadic, until they trailed off completely. I still missed her, though, and I thought—hoped—that maybe she missed me, too. Now I’d be on the flip side of that same equation. The people we socialized with, except for Isabelle, would drop me. Michael would become an anecdote at dinner parties, gossiped about and ruthlessly analyzed before people forgot about him and moved on to the next juicy story. Besides, I couldn’t run in those circles any longer. I almost laughed, imagining hosting a dinner and inviting Bettina and Dale to my new place.

“Sit anywhere you’d like,” I’d say grandly, gesturing to the cushions on the floor. “The rump roast will be done in a minute.”

Well, maybe that part alone would be worth losing all our money, I thought, reluctantly smiling. I was about to leave my office and head home when my cell phone rang.

“I did it,” Isabelle blurted as soon as I’d found my iPhone in my purse and answered. “I already sent the letter. I put it in an envelope addressed to her parents along with a note asking them to give it to her whenever they decided it was a good time.”

“Isabelle! That’s huge! Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yup,” she said. “I hadn’t realized how fear was keeping me frozen in place, you know? Now I can see how another five years might’ve slipped by, and then maybe five more … and who knows? Maybe I never would’ve done it. It would’ve been the single biggest regret in my life. Well, except for that spiral perm I got in the ninth grade.”

The laughter in her voice conjured my own. “How do you feel?” I asked.

She paused, and when she spoke again her voice was serious. “I think about her all the time. I keep imagining her parents bringing her the letter, maybe at night when she’s in her bedroom studying. I wonder what her room looks like. I wonder if she’s in the popular crowd at school, or if she feels like an outsider. For some reason I imagine she’ll carry the letter around in the pocket of her jeans, so she can take it out and look at it whenever she wants.”

“What did you write?” I asked, before quickly adding, “You don’t have to tell me if it’s private …”

“No, it’s okay. I kept it simple. I took your advice and told her how scared I was to write before. I described what I felt like when I was pregnant—how she seemed to dance inside of me whenever I turned on music—and why I picked her parents. And I wrote that if she ever wanted to get in touch, I’d love it.”

“It sounds perfect,” I said.

I could hear Isabelle take a deep breath. “So now the ball’s in her court.”

“I’m at the office, but I was about to head home,” I said. “Want me to swing by there on the way? We could have a celebratory drink. Or are you still hungover from the other night?”

“Yes,” Isabelle said. “And yes.”

I looked down at the
Washington Post
clipping I still held in my hand, then crumpled it into a ball and tossed it in the trash can as I held the phone tight against my cheek with my other hand. No matter how this turned out, I couldn’t stand losing Isabelle. I’d find a way to fight through the awkwardness. I had to.