The Life List (38 page)

My stomach rumbles and I pinch the bridge of my nose. “No. Of course not.” It takes me a minute before I’m able to lift my eyes to his. “I’ve got to break Herbert’s heart, don’t I?”

“Nobody said love was easy, kid.” He stuffs the pink envelope into his shirt pocket. “We’ll save this for another time,” he says, patting his pocket. “I’ve got a feeling it’ll be worth the wait.”

M
y stomach is in knots as I wait for seven o’clock—and Herbert—to arrive. Just as I finish feeding Austin, the phone
rings. I jump, hoping it’s Herbert calling to cancel. But instead I hear Catherine’s cool voice. She and Joad must be back from their week in Saint Bart. I put the phone on speaker and prop Austin on my shoulder.

“Welcome home,” I say, patting Austin’s back. “How was your trip?”

“Absolute perfection,” she says. “The resort was an all-inclusive, I told you that, didn’t I?”

“Yes, I think—”

“I’m telling you, Brett, we’ve never been so spoiled. We were able to choose from three five-star restaurants, all of which were divine. If it weren’t for their state-of-the-art workout facility, I’d have gained ten pounds!” She laughs. “Our every need was met half an hour before we even knew we had it.”

“Sounds wonderful,” I say cheerfully, but inside I’m smacked with an image of my own all-inclusive—Hotel Herbert, asking if I need anything, wondering if there’s anything he can do for me.

“It was. In fact, it was one of the best resorts we’ve visited, and we’ve stayed in some pretty spectacular places. You and Herbert really should go sometime. You’d have to be insane not to fall in love with this place.”

A cramp seizes my stomach. I’m insane to break up with Herbert! Any normal person could love him.

Suddenly my mind shifts back to a time nearly thirteen years ago, when my mother and I were in Puerto Vallarta. She took me to the Mexican port town to celebrate my graduation from Northwestern. It was the first time either of us had stayed at an all-inclusive resort. And just like Catherine’s experience, Grand Palladium Vallarta was a glimpse of heaven. A full-service day spa, three infinity pools, and more gourmet meals and umbrella drinks than we could possibly consume. But by the third day, I was desperate to escape. I felt horrible for not loving the manufactured paradise. It must have cost my mother a fortune.

She’d be devastated if she knew what an ungrateful daughter she’d raised.

But that afternoon, when the pool attendant asked us for the tenth time if we wanted another drink, or a dry towel, or a spritz of cool water, my mother shook her head. Ever the clairvoyant, I could swear she read my mind.

“Gracias, Fernando, but we don’t need a thing. No need to check on us again.”

She smiled graciously until he was out of earshot, then she turned to me. “I’m sorry, darling, but I’m going
loco
in this paradise.”

To this day, I’m not sure whether she was being truthful, or if she claimed to be going crazy for my sake. Regardless, I nearly fell off my chaise laughing.

We ran up to our room then, giggling as we threw on sundresses and sandals. We took a rickety old bus to Viejo Vallarta—old town—and haggled with area vendors at the
mercado
. Later we stumbled upon a local joint. A mariachi band, dressed in silver-studded suits and sombreros, played on a dusty wooden platform. My mother and I sat at the bar drinking
cerveza
, yelling out with the band and the local patrons at each interlude. It was the best night of our trip.

The doorbell rings and my heart skips a beat. “Sorry, Catherine, Herbert’s here. Glad you’re back. Give Joad my love.”

I walk to the door with Austin in my arms, grateful for the beautiful memory stirred by Catherine’s call. Is it possible there are two types of people, those who adore all-inclusive resorts and those who find them stifling? And maybe, just maybe, those of us who consider 24/7 pampering oppressive aren’t ungrateful fools, after all.

I
wait until Austin is asleep. When I tiptoe back into the living room, I see Herbert on the sofa, sipping a glass of Chardonnay
and perusing one of my novels. My chest clamps. He looks up and smiles when he sees me.

“Mission accomplished?”

I cross my fingers. “So far, so good.”

I sit down beside him and check out what he’s reading. Of all my wonderful books, he’s selected James Joyce’s
Ulysses
, arguably the most difficult read in English literature. “That was mandatory reading for me back at Loyola Academy,” I say. “God, I hated—”

“It’s been years since I’ve read this,” he interrupts. “I’d love to read it again. May I borrow it?”

“Keep it,” I say.

I lift the book from his hands and place it on the coffee table. As if this were his cue, he leans in to kiss me. With the desperate longing that this time my breath will catch and I’ll feel a flutter of butterflies in my stomach, I let him.

It doesn’t. And I don’t.

I draw back. Like ripping off a bandage, I let loose the words in one quick swoop. “Herbert I can’t keep seeing you.”

He lowers his face to mine. “What?”

Tears well in my eyes and I cover my trembling mouth. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. You’re a wonderful man. The best guy I’ve ever dated. But …”

“You don’t love me.” It’s a statement, not a question.

“I’m not sure,” I say softly. “And I can’t risk your happiness, or mine, waiting to find out.”

“You are not risking …” He stops midsentence and lifts his head to the ceiling, biting his lip.

I turn away and squeeze shut my eyes. What the hell am I doing? This man loves me. I should jump up now, laugh and tell him this was all a joke. But I’m cemented to the sofa and my mouth is sealed shut.

Finally, he pulls himself to his feet. He stares down at me, and
I can actually see his face shift from sadness to anger. He’s suddenly strong … stronger than I’ve ever seen him.

“What the hell are you looking for, Brett? Another asshole, like your last boyfriend? Really? What is it you want?”

My heart quickens. My God, Herbert has balls, after all. I’ve never even heard him swear before … and I kind of like it. Maybe I was too hasty … Perhaps this would work if …

No. I’ve made my decision. I can’t unbake this cake.

“I … I don’t know.” How can I tell him that I’m looking for something so special, when it happens I won’t have to wonder whether I’ve found it?

“You need to think about this, Brett, because you’re making a huge mistake. Deep inside, you know it. I won’t be available forever. You need to figure this out before it’s too late.”

His words suck the air from my lungs. What if he really is the one, and I find out too late? I watch, stupefied, as he crosses the room and drags his Burberry coat from the closet. With one hand on the doorknob, he turns around and searches out my tear-soaked face.

“I truly loved you, Brett. And Austin, too. Give her a good-bye hug for me, will you?” With that, he steps out the door and pulls it shut behind him.

I burst into tears. What the hell have I done? Did I just let the man of my dreams—my beautiful Burberry man—walk away? I curl up in the chair next to the front window and gaze out at the dusty sky, as if searching for an answer, hidden somewhere out there in the dark abyss. Is my mother watching over me right now? What is she trying to tell me? I sit there until two
A.M.
, second-guessing my decision and waiting to hear my mother’s words, “There will be another sky, my love.”

The words never come.

CHAPTER THIRTY

I
nstead of preparing the August 7 wedding that Herbert once suggested, I plan a party for what would have been my mother’s sixty-third birthday. On Friday morning, Zoë and John arrive at O’Hare airport, an arrival scene much different from the one in Seattle. After months of talking nearly every day, we greet one another like the family we’ve become, sharing kisses and tears and bone-crushing hugs. John and I talk nonstop on the drive to Brad’s office, while Zoë sits in the backseat gabbing to Austin Elizabeth.

“You my knees,” she says, taking Austin’s hand in hers.

“Niece,” John corrects her, and the two of us chuckle. Then he turns to me, serious. “How would you feel if Austin were to call me Grandpa? Or Papa?”

I smile. “I’d love it.”

“And Brett, you can call me Dad, you know.”

My cup runneth over.

My dad grips Brad’s hand, and the two men in my life finally meet. But Zoë is much more interested in the view of the city than she is in meeting Brad. She stands before the floor-to-ceiling window, utterly fascinated, and I settle in at the mahogany table, the same table where I sat, bitter and heartsick, almost a year ago. I thought my life had fractured that day, and in truth it had. But just like a fractured limb, it’s stronger now, in those broken places that have healed.

While my dad settles in beside me, Brad moves to the window and squats down next to Zoë.

“Hey, Zoë, want to take a ride on the elevator with me? I’ll show you an even cooler window.”

Her eyes go wide and she looks to her dad for permission.

“Sure, sweetie, but could you wait just a minute? Mr. Midar’s about to read a letter from Brett’s mom.”

Brad rises and shakes his head. “Not this one. You two read it together, alone. I think that’s the way Elizabeth would want it.” With Zoë’s hand in his, he steps from the office and closes the door behind them.

I pull the letter from its envelope and place it on the table before us. My father covers my hand with his, and together, we read the letter in silence.

Dear Brett
,

Thirty-four years ago I made a promise—a promise I have forever regretted. I told Charles Bohlinger I would never reveal the secret of your conception. In return, he promised he’d raise you as his own. Whether or not he upheld his end of the bargain is debatable. But I believe I’ve kept my promise, even now
.

So many times I have longed to reveal the truth. You struggled so with your relationship with Charles. I begged him to let me tell you, but he was adamant. Whether guided by shame or by foolishness, I felt I owed him his dignity. And without knowledge of your father’s whereabouts, I feared it would only confirm your feelings of paternal rejection
.

I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me, and Charles as well. Please understand, it wasn’t easy for him. Instead of seeing the goodness and beauty in you, you were a constant reminder of my infidelity. But to me, you were a gift, a joy, a rainbow after a wretched storm. God knows I didn’t deserve it, but a piece of the man I loved had returned to me, and once again, music infused my soul
.

You see, my world went silent during those weeks after your father left me. It wasn’t until years later that I understood the chivalrous, selfless deed he’d executed on my behalf. I loved him so desperately I would have done anything to stay with him—even something that would have eventually bankrupted my soul. But he spared me, and I’m forever grateful
.

Though I tried, I’ve never been able to locate your father. I hired someone once, after Charles and I divorced, but it was a fruitless search. Somehow, as I write this, I know with certainty that you will find him. And when you do, celebrate. Your father is an extraordinary man. And though I know an illicit affair is a selfish and cowardly act, to this day I still believe that what I felt for your father was love—pure and true and strong as a prairie wind
.

You often asked me why I never had another relationship after Charles and I divorced. I’d smile and tell you there was no need. I’d already had the love of my life. And it was true
.

Thank you for bridging two lives, my beautiful daughter. Your spirit, your kindness, all the good in you comes from your father. I thank him—and you—every day for showing me what love is
.

Forever yours
,

Mom

A
stor Street is a flurry of activity Saturday afternoon. Mother would have adored this day, a day of love past and present, of friendship old and new, and of family—lost and found. Carrie and her brood arrive at noon, followed soon after by her parents, Mary and David. While Carrie, Stella, and I prepare lasagna for fourteen, Mary and David sip drinks in the sunroom with Johnny, laughing and telling stories of old times in Rogers Park. In her swing by the window, Austin gnaws on a rubber fish, watching Carrie’s kids play hopscotch with Zoë in the courtyard out back.

It’s four thirty when Carrie decides to make her flourless chocolate cake. “If my timing’s right, it’ll still be warm when I serve it.”

“I’m already salivating,” I say. “The mixing bowls are on the baker’s rack.”

“I’ll set the table,” Stella says. She disappears into the dining room then calls to me, “Where do you keep your table linens, Brett?”