Skipping a Beat (7 page)

Our prenup was so straightforward that a lawyer drew it up in an hour: We’d be married, but as far as money was concerned, we were essentially two separate people. Whatever each of us brought into the marriage and subsequently earned would remain divided, as though someone had built a brick wall between our finances.

“I understand why you need it,” Michael said that day, putting the papers in his desk drawer before he changed into his nicest shirt for our civil ceremony in front of a judge at the courthouse. He knotted his tie, and I saw his Adam’s apple bob when he swallowed hard. His neck suddenly looked thin and vulnerable to me, and I felt horrible about starting our married life on this note.

“Let’s not think about it again, okay?” he said, not meeting my eyes.

And I didn’t, not until the day Michael looked up at me from his hospital bed and told me he wanted to give everything away.

There’s an opera called
Arabella
by Richard Strauss, in which a father who has gambled himself into poverty tries to marry off his young daughter to a rich suitor. The daughter ends up with a different wealthy guy instead, but the result is the same—the daughter escapes her father’s legacy and gets everything she could ever want.

I see the story of my father and Michael and me twisted up in that opera. But sometimes I wished Strauss had written a fourth act, because I’ve always wondered what happened after the curtain came down. Did money make her happy? Did Arabella and her husband grow old together, or did they grow far apart?

How did their story end?

Nine

AT TEN O’CLOCK SHARP, I stepped across the threshold of a boutique in Chevy Chase, smiling my thanks at the saleswoman who’d rushed to hold open the heavy glass door for me. I knew I couldn’t focus on work today, so I’d asked my assistant to take messages and contact me only if something urgent came up. Instead, I was meeting Isabelle to help her pick out something to wear for her date with Norm, the guy she’d suspected of substituting rifles for a Viagra prescription. Turned out it had all been a misunderstanding: Norm’s grandfather had bequeathed him a single Civil War-era musket, and it had arrived by FedEx on the very day Norm met Isabelle, which was the only reason why it came up in conversation.

“You thought I was a gun collector? No wonder you canceled on me! I’m surprised you didn’t change your phone number and leave town.” Norm had laughed when Isabelle called to thank him for the gorgeous flowers he’d sent.

“He’s got potential. Most guys send roses
after
the date,” Isabelle said after we’d hugged hello. “Actually, scratch that, most guys don’t do that. But they should. Did they stop because of women’s lib? Should we be blaming this on Hillary Clinton?”

“Either that, or you could subscribe to the theory that guys like women who don’t treat them well,” I said, holding up a delicate gold mesh tank top. “Why don’t you kick him in the groin tonight and see if he proposes?”

Isabelle fingered the top and wrinkled her nose.

“Fine, but you could get away with it,” I said, reluctantly putting it back. I’d never buy it—I was too wholesome-looking for something that exotic—but Isabelle’s cat-shaped eyes and angular body let her dress far more dramatically.

“Anyway, so Norm isn’t compensating,” I said, eager to keep the conversation going so I wouldn’t have to think. This was exactly what I needed; some good girl talk to get my mind off what Michael was doing this morning.

“As far as we know,” Isabelle allowed. “If I decide an investigation is warranted, I’ll give you a full report. We’re having dinner tonight. And I decided if he’s the kind of guy who sends flowers when I cancel at the last minute, the least I can do is show up wearing something new.”

“Noble of you,” I said, waving a silky blue empire-waist dress in front of her. Isabelle held it up against her, and we both shook our heads.

My cell phone buzzed in my pocket, and I started so violently that Isabelle grabbed my arm. “Are you okay?”

“Of course,” I said, but my voice came out shaky and Isabelle looked at me carefully. It was no use; I couldn’t keep up the façade any longer.

“I can’t believe Michael’s doing this,” I whispered, feeling my shoulders slump in defeat. Michael had been released from the hospital yesterday afternoon, and he’d left for his office at 7:00 sharp this morning, as usual. But for the first time, it wasn’t because he was itching to dive into work. He was going to begin extricating himself from his company. He’d scheduled a 10:00
A.M.
, all-hands-on-deck meeting to announce it to his employees. I glanced at my watch: 10:15. He’d probably already given his speech and assured everyone that he’d do his best to ensure they’d still have jobs. To sweeten his announcement, he was giving every employee a piece of his personal company stock. I mean, why not? Why not throw around the money you’d practically killed yourself to earn like it was confetti at a Mardi Gras parade? His employees were probably hoisting him onto their shoulders and parading him around the office right now, maybe hoping he’d slip off and thunk his head again and decide to hand them the keys to his Maserati.

“Take it!” I could almost see Michael yelling. “I’ll ride the bus home! No, take my bus fare, too. I’ll walk! But take my shoes first!”

What had happened to him? Why wouldn’t he listen to me when I told him he was making a terrible, terrible mistake? I’d alternated between arguing and pleading during these past few days, but nothing I said swayed him. It was as if the old Michael had been replaced by a totally different man, one who wouldn’t listen to reason. Everything that had driven him forward in life, all the goals he’d nurtured for decades, had somehow been erased the moment his heart stopped beating.

I picked up another dress and stared at it, but my vision blurred and I couldn’t even have said what color it was. I sighed and rubbed my hand across my forehead as exhaustion crashed down on me. I’d barely slept since Michael had announced his insane plan. My eyes felt gritty, and my jaw ached; I’d probably been grinding my teeth in my sleep.

Isabelle was still watching me. “Let’s sit down for a minute.” She gestured toward the oversize chairs tucked in a corner of the boutique, then turned to the saleswoman who had been discreetly hovering nearby, waiting to whisk our clothing to a dressing room. “Would you mind bringing us two lattes?”

I sank back into the velvety softness of the chair and sighed gratefully.

“I still don’t know what I’m going to do,” I blurted, like Isabelle and I had been halfway through a conversation. In a sense we were; I knew we were both unable to stop thinking about what was happening. It was the same when my father’s gambling addiction became common knowledge. People would look at me, and chat about something innocuous—the weather, or our town’s upcoming Fourth of July parade—but I knew an undercurrent always veined through their thoughts, adding another, uglier dimension to their perception of me:
The gambler’s daughter. The girl from the ruined family
.

My throat felt swollen and sore; maybe I was coming down with the flu. Or maybe it was from the effort of fighting back tears for so many days.

“I keep turning it over and over in my mind, but it only gets more tangled,” I said. “I don’t know if I can bear to stay married to him.”

“What would happen if you left?” Isabelle asked.

“I could file for divorce, and get a judge to try to freeze his assets.” I shrugged. “Of course, that probably means I wouldn’t have any of them for a while either. I’d move to a new house, I guess.” A very different kind of house. I’d have to live there alone. No, not alone. I’d adopt a cat, a little stray who’d be so grateful that he’d curl up on the foot of my bed every night. I’d name him Ralph, and share cans of tuna fish with him for dinner. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

“And if you stayed with Michael?” Isabelle asked.

“I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him much about the future. I’m so mad at him I can barely stand to be around him. I have no idea what he’s planning.”

“Ladies?” It was our saleswoman. She handed us each a delicate china cup.

“Would you care for freshly ground cinnamon?” she asked me. “Or a blueberry scone? They’re warm.”

Suddenly, in those simple sentences, everything Michael was making me give up became real: pretty little boutiques with saleswomen who brought me lattes or glasses of icy cold chardonnay in the afternoons. Vanilla-and-lavender-scented Jacuzzis under a sky full of stars. A new car that smelled like rich leather and gleamed from biweekly polishings. We’d had this glittering life for such a short time.

I hadn’t even learned to embrace it yet; in some ways, I still felt like a fraud. In the mornings, when Naddy, our maid, came in through our kitchen door, I leapt up guiltily, hiding the evidence that I was reading the newspaper, and raced off to make our bed or wipe down my bathroom sink so she wouldn’t secretly think I was a lazy slob. I paid bills the moment they arrived, weeks before they were due, not because I was worried the money would disappear but for the sheer pleasure of writing those checks and knowing there was money to back them up. I still scrutinized the cost of everything I bought, even though I sometimes dared myself to walk into a store and grab something, even just a pair of gloves, without looking at the price tag.

I’d barely dipped my toes into this incredible existence. We’d spent so many years working and planning and striving, and now it was all being snatched away by the very guy who’d made it possible. It was so unfair I wanted to scream. I
had
screamed yesterday while I was driving to the hospital, while I sped down the road so quickly that the trees lining it merged into one hazy, green blur.

“Aah, that tastes good,” Isabelle said after she took a sip of latte. “C’mon, Julia. Have some.”

I looked at my foam-topped latte, knowing if I asked for anything at all—salted Marcona almonds, a laptop to check my e-mail, a back rub by a strapping Norwegian named Sven who’d murmur in concern over the tension I carried in my shoulders—the saleswomen would all scramble to somehow make it happen.

But never again. Not after today.

I blinked hard and silently repeated the words:
Never again
. I stood up and walked over to a shoe display so I wouldn’t have to meet Isabelle’s eyes.

“Julia?” Isabelle was up and by my side in one fluid motion. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look so pale.”

“I … I just wanted to see these,” I told her, reaching for a pair of shoes. But they were farther away than I’d thought and my hand clutched at empty air. Isabelle said something else, but I couldn’t hear anything except the words pounding into my brain like a frantic drumbeat:
Never again. Never again
.

Isabelle was still talking, but her words sounded as garbled as if she was speaking underwater. I gulped in shallow breaths; I couldn’t seem to push the oxygen all the way down into my lungs.

“I’m … I’m …”

I couldn’t get out any more words. Then I saw the worry etched across Isabelle’s face, and my knees buckled. I heard a saleswoman shriek, then Isabelle’s firm voice: “Please give us some privacy.” I felt something soft and warm against my cheek; it was as comforting as the blanket I’d loved as a child. I used to rub that threadbare old blanket against my cheek over and over again before falling asleep. I’d kept it for an embarrassingly long time, but my parents never made me feel babyish for wanting it. Now I rubbed my cheek into the softness again, then realized what it was: the rug on the floor. My face felt wet, and I knew I’d hit my nose when I’d fallen. I was bleeding all over this beautiful rug. I should get up, find some tissues, and clean the rug before it stained, but I didn’t want to move.

I felt something against my back, as gentle as the touch of a bird’s fluttering wings: Isabelle’s hand. Then I realized the wetness dripping down my face was tears.

“It’s going to be okay,” I heard her say, but her voice sounded like an echo from a great distance away. I heard Isabelle make a call on her cell phone, and in what seemed like no time at all, a pair of strong arms was lifting me up and carrying me outside, into the sunlight.

Ten

“IT’S FOR YOU,” MICHAEL said, handing me the phone. He patted me on the shoulder and his hand hovered in the air for a moment, as though it was unsure of where to go next. “I’ll be downstairs if you need anything.”

I ignored him and lifted the phone to my ear to hear Isabelle’s worried voice asking, “Are you better?”

I stretched underneath my cool white silk sheet, flexing and arching my toes and feeling my calf muscles contract while images from yesterday morning flooded my mind: Isabelle’s driver scooping me up off the floor of the boutique and carrying me to the car; Isabelle with her arm wrapped around me as she made a few hushed phone calls in the backseat of her Bentley; the sharp brown eyes of Dr. Rushman looking at me from behind his wire-rimmed glasses while he pressed a stethoscope to my chest. Dr. Rushman had given me a little orange pill—Xanax, I thought, appreciating the irony—and I’d let its bitterness dissolve on my tongue before giving myself up to the blessed darkness. I’d slept through the whole day and woken at 1:00
A.M.
to find Michael dozing beside me. It was one of the few times I’d ever been awake while he slept.

I’d slipped out of bed and wandered downstairs and made myself a cup of coffee. I’d turned on my iPod and slipped in the earbuds and stepped onto our big stone back patio. As the hours passed and I stayed curled up on a chaise lounge, watching the first streaks of color lighten the sky, I began to realize I
was
feeling better. Maybe it was the lingering comfort of the Xanax, but I suspected it was something else, something stronger fighting its way past the fear and confusion: my survival instinct. I’d battled my way out of the dreary, sad life that had claimed my parents. I’d built my own little company from scratch, teaching myself how to incorporate it and advertise and decipher the various taxes. And I’d endured the stark loneliness of my marriage. I was stronger than I’d realized.

And then Renée Fleming’s voice had come through my iPod.

I think Renée is the most beautiful opera singer in the whole world. She has thick blond hair and wise blue eyes and a face that manages to combine strength and kindness in equal parts, but it’s not her physical beauty that makes her so special. She’s a lyric soprano, which means her voice is sweet, rather than, say, that of Maria Callas, whose tones were steely. You’ll find plenty of people who argue that Callas was better, or maybe Beverly Sills, but once you hear Renée sing—well, it’s impossible not to fall under her spell. The best part is that she seems totally normal, like she could be one of your girlfriends, kvetching about those five pounds she gained on vacation or debating whether John Cusack is hotter than John Mayer.

But the way she works at singing—well, her training regime would put an Olympian to shame. She contorts her body into yoga-like positions, making sure she can hit her high notes when she’s bending over and touching her toes, or lying on the floor with all of her muscles completely limp. She memorizes pages and pages of the libretto in all sorts of languages she can’t even speak, and when she’s up onstage, she’s controlling her breathing and remembering how to pronounce foreign words and synthesizing it all with gestures and movements true to her character—and still sending her glorious voice all the way to the last row of a giant opera house. It takes
my
breath away, just thinking of it.

But years ago, Renée nearly threw away her years of training and walked off stage forever. Her marriage fell apart while she was raising two young girls, and then, out of the blue, attacks of stage fright seized her. Renée was terrified she couldn’t get through songs she’d sung dozens of times before. She was scared she’d fail. She would physically shake before performances, fighting her fear as hard as she could, knowing terror was the worst thing for her voice. Then one night, she performed at La Scala, and everything went wrong. The conductor fainted, right there in the middle of the performance. And some members of the audience—not many, but enough for her to hear—began to boo her. Can you imagine? You’re going through a divorce, you’re worried your voice might give out from fear, you’ve begun to have panic attacks, and you’re thinking about just giving up and crawling away somewhere and hiding. And you’re standing under a spotlight, a
spotlight
for God’s sakes, scared and alone but trying to tough it out, and people are booing you. Wouldn’t you quit? Wouldn’t you just walk off the stage and never go back?

But Renée kept putting on her beautiful costumes and practicing her deep breathing, and she rested her voice on the days of her big performances. She never ran away. She’s still singing to this day, in the languages of Puccini and Strauss and Bizet.

Six months after she was booed at La Scala, Renée went back and sang her heart out. They gave her a standing ovation.

As I’d listened to her and watched the sun rise, I’d thought, If she can endure all that—endure and
triumph
—then maybe I could get through this.

I wasn’t going to passively sit back while my husband dictated which direction our lives would take. It was time to start formulating a plan of my own. Right now, I could see only two options: I could try to convince Michael to change his mind, or I could call the lawyer whose card was tucked into my wallet and ask him to contest the prenup. I knew our prenup was rock-solid—I’d made sure of that—but a good lawyer might be able to find a loophole, or get it thrown out in court. I wouldn’t be entitled to all of Michael’s money, but maybe I could get a chunk.

If only I hadn’t been so adamant about keeping our finances separate, I’d thought, burying my face in my hands. I didn’t want my name on the title for either of our houses because Michael had taken out big mortgages for the tax benefits, and some part of me still couldn’t believe he was so successful. In a way, I guess I was waiting for the floor to drop out, and I didn’t want to be hurt in the fall. I was ashamed to admit it, but I wanted to enjoy all the luxuries of our lifestyle without actually being responsible for any of them. Now that precaution was boomeranging back at me.

I’d leaned my head against the couch and imagined telling Michael I wanted a divorce. What would he say? What would his face look like in that moment? I didn’t know what it would feel like to walk away from him, but maybe that was just because we’d been together for so long. Maybe I could learn to live quite happily without my husband.

When Renée finished singing, I’d stood up and switched off the music and gone back to bed. I knew I’d need my strength for what was to come.

“I promise I’m fine,” I said to Isabelle on the phone now, keeping my tone light. I’d worried her enough lately. “You know me. I was just trying to get some attention.”

“Oh, honey, you scared the crap out of me,” Isabelle said, sounding like she was half-laughing, half-crying. “I called last night, but Michael said you were still sleeping.”

“I think it just hit me all at once,” I said. “I’m never going to be able to walk into a boutique like that again and buy anything I want. Hell, if Michael has his way, I won’t be able to splurge at the Dollar Store.”

“He really did it?” Isabelle asked.

“Yep,” I said. “That’s why he’s here instead of at work.”

I heard a gentle tap on the door, and I covered the phone receiver. “Come in, Naddy.”

But it wasn’t Naddy. It was Michael, carrying a tray.

“I thought you might be hungry,” he said, putting it down next to me on the bed. He’d made me French toast and scrambled eggs and coffee. The eggs looked a little rubbery and overdone, but he’d picked some irises from our garden and put them in a little glass vase in one corner of the tray.

There it was: evidence that Michael didn’t know me at all. I hadn’t eaten French toast in years; it was Satan’s breakfast buffet for the calorie-conscious.

Oh, hell, what did it matter anymore? I thought, spearing a bite with the fork. It was buttery and brown, and it almost melted in my mouth.

So Michael remembered it used to be my favorite. So what? It was going to take more than a few wilted irises for me to forgive him, I thought. Then the flowers made me remember Isabelle’s night.

“Let’s talk about you for a change,” I said. “How was your date?”

I could practically feel her smile over the phone line.

“Nice,” she finally said.

“Details,” I demanded.

“It was wonderful,” she blurted. “I mean, aside from the times when I couldn’t stop worrying about you. But we went to dinner, and it felt like we sat down one minute, and the next I looked up and saw we were the only ones left in the restaurant.”

“Wow,” I said. “I haven’t heard you talk about a date that way in … well, ever.”

“We just have so much in common,” she said. “We even both had starter marriages.”

Isabelle had gotten married right after college, and divorced six months later. “Why do they let anyone get married that young?” she once asked me. “Marriage should be like a driver’s license—you should only get a provisional trial marriage until you’re thirty, and then, if you’ve proved you can handle all the bumps and fender benders, you get the real license.”

“I told him about you,” Isabelle was saying now. “I mean, not the specific details or anything. But he could tell I was upset when he came to pick me up, and I didn’t want to cancel on him again. Dr. Rushman said you’d probably sleep through the night, so I knew there wasn’t anything I could do …”

“You did plenty,” I told her, meaning it. “Tell me more about Norm.”

“Are you sure?” She didn’t wait for me to answer; I didn’t think she
could
. The words cascaded giddily out of her, like foam from the mouth of a champagne bottle. “There was this little boy outside the restaurant when we were walking in, and he was so damn cute in his stroller with one of those fake cell phones he was babbling into, and then he dropped the phone and Norm picked it up and handed it to the kid, and said, ’Sir? I think this call is for you.’ And the little boy gave him the biggest smile. It was one of those moments, you know?”

“He sounds great,” I said.
Wow
. Was this really Isabelle gushing? Sharp, funny, nongushing Isabelle?

“But the thing is, he’s
not
perfect,” she said eagerly. “I’d be suspicious of perfect. His nose is kind of big, and he’s a little klutzy. He almost tripped walking into the restaurant. But it makes him seem … I don’t know, more
real
. Then in the car, on the way home, he sang along to the radio, and his voice was awful, but he didn’t care. So I sang with him, and you know I never sing in public. I mean, my voice is a misdemeanor in all fifty states.”

I just sat there, my French toast growing cold, as I listened. Isabelle had dated dozens of guys since I’d known her—men always flocked around her, attracted by her beauty and money and sometimes, for the most confident guys, her brains, too—but she brushed them off after a few dates. I’d begun to assume she’d always stay single. As my marriage grew more distant, I’d secretly harbored the thought that we’d be single together, in a sense, our friendship deepening with each passing decade. We’d drive each other to the doctor if we became sick, sit side by side on rocking chairs complaining about our arthritis, and crack each other up by yelling, “Can you bend over and get me a drink, sonny?” to the muscular young pool boys Isabelle would hire.

I was happy for Isabelle—wasn’t I?—but a shameful sense of betrayal gnawed at me. We were so close. We talked on the phone once or twice a day. We were as comfortable in each other’s homes as we were in our own—which meant I was just as worried about scratching her antique furniture or knocking over a priceless vase as I was about my own. Secretly, I’d begun entertaining the idea that, if I left Michael, I could stay with Isabelle until I sorted out what to do next.

“So are you going to see him again soon?” I asked. I pushed away Michael’s tray. I’d lost my appetite.

“The day after tomorrow,” she said. “He’s surprising me. He just told me to dress casually, and he’s picking me up at lunch-time. Is it horrible that I Googled him? I had to make sure he hasn’t filed for bankruptcy or something awful like—” Isabelle’s voice skidded to a stop.

I broke the silence quickly: “I know what you mean.”

“Not that it’s terrible not to have money,” she said apologetically. “I just wanted to make sure that wasn’t the only thing he was looking for in me.”

There it was: a tinge of embarrassment staining her voice. The first sign of a little fissure between us.

You could argue that a true friendship would endure no matter what, that superficial things shouldn’t matter, but I knew firsthand how emotions like envy and pity and guilt were cancers to a friendship. If I tried hard enough, would I be able to stave off my jealousy when I saw Isabelle living the life I once had? Would Isabelle be as happy about meeting me at a corner deli for dinner instead of a five-star restaurant? Maybe at first, but I’d been on the other side of this equation a few years ago, when Michael had made the quick leap from debt-ridden to insanely wealthy, and I still missed the friendship I’d lost.

I couldn’t let it happen again, I vowed. Isabelle was too important.

“I’m babbling,” she said. “What are you going to do today?”

“Oh, tell me more about last night,” I said, injecting enthusiasm into my voice. “What did you end up wearing?”

As I steered the conversation back into safety, Michael tiptoed into the room and took away my tray. There was a note behind the vase of flowers that I hadn’t seen until now, and it slipped off, onto the bed, when he lifted the tray.

“I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you,” it read. “Please give me one more chance.”

I crumpled the little card in my hand, not caring that Michael saw. I wanted to hurt him. He was ruining everything.