The Men I Didn't Marry (10 page)

“Hey, if you’re leaving, come with us,” says the first guy, clamping a strong hand on Ashlee’s shoulder. She looks up at the handsome young athlete who’s wearing a striped rugby top that accentuates his muscular upper body.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“Back to campus to toss around a Frisbee.”

“I’m pretty good at sports,” says Ashlee, happy to have something to do other than shop for Bill’s shirts.

The group consolidates and quickly heads to the door. A few minutes later, I’m also ready to say my good-byes. My ice cream is melted and I think I’ve run out of things to say. Besides, it’s only fair that Bill and Adam get their long-planned father-son time alone together after all.

I give Adam a big hug. “Happy birthday, honey. I love you. You’re the best twenty-year-old in the whole world. I couldn’t ask for a more perfect son.”

My son hugs me back and as I walk out, I offer Bill a little smile and bend down to whisper in his ear.

“Have a nice evening,” I tell him. “And don’t let it bother you for a moment that your girlfriend just went off with the entire football team.”

Chapter EIGHT

I STILL KNOW his phone number. I haven’t gotten in touch with Kevin Talbert since eleventh grade, and back then my girlfriends said I should wait for him to call me. I didn’t listen to them then and I still prefer being the caller to the callee, so I confidently pick up the phone and punch in the number. How come I still have these ten digits lodged in my frontal cortex, but I can never remember my four-number ATM password?

After the first ring, I idly twirl the cord (note: You should always have one landline in case of an electrical storm) and think yet again how unlikely it is that Kevin hasn’t moved since high school. Though maybe it’s his mother who hasn’t moved.

Kevin’s mother. I hadn’t thought about that.

I slam down the phone before anyone answers. I’m not always beloved, but I’m generally not someone who inspires hate—except in Jeanette Talbert. From the moment I met her when I was sixteen, she detested everything about me. She accused me of showing off when I became editor of the school newspaper and never forgave me for getting an A in Latin the same term that Kevin failed driver’s ed. She complained about my clothes, and she actively hated my bangs—though heaven knows, she would have loathed my pimply forehead even more.

No, the slightest possibility of having to talk to the judgmental Jeanette is more frightening than facing the Soup Nazi. And why would I call Kevin anyway? I also have the number for 1-800-MATTRES (leave off the last S for savings) in my head, and you don’t see me calling them.

But maybe they’re calling me, because the phone rings.

“Hello,” I say hopefully. Now that Bill’s gone, I realize I’d like a new bed after all.

“Who are you and why are you bothering me?” asks a gruff voice.

The fact that this person has just phoned me—not vice versa—isn’t worth mentioning, because I immediately recognize the snarl at the other end of the line: the dreaded Jeanette Talbert. From the tone of her voice, it suddenly occurs to me that Jeanette didn’t hate just me. She hates everybody. I wish I’d known this when I was younger.

I don’t answer fast enough, because her growl continues across the line.

“Stop pretending you’re blameless. What do you think, I don’t know how these things work? I caught you, I got you. I know you called me. I hit star 69.”

I’m momentarily stopped by Jeanette actually uttering sixty-nine out loud, since this is the woman who called me a slut when she caught me innocently kissing Kevin. Out of all the possibilities for a call-back number, how did the phone company settle on this spicy combination? Is Chris Rock moonlighting as an AT&T executive? Thirteen-year-old boys must have a field day punching in *69 and cracking themselves up. But what number does Pat Robertson use when he wants to find out who called? Oh, right—he just asks God.

“Jeanette, is that you?” I ask, as sweetly as I can manage. “It’s me. Hallie Lawrence.”

“Hallie Lawrence, the slut?” she asks. The woman doesn’t miss a beat. At least she’s not senile.

“No, Hallie Lawrence, the school valedictorian. I used to be friends with your son Kevin.”

“I know who you are,” she barks. “Do you still have those awful bangs?”

“No, don’t need them.” If problems develop now on my forehead, I won’t fool around with bangs. I’ll go straight for the brow lift.

“So what do you want?” she asks.

Kevin’s number. But that’s a little too blunt. “I was just thinking of you and your family and wondering how you are. I always remember those wonderful dinners we had together.” Particularly the chicken salad that was tainted with salmonella, though I’ll never be able to prove she did it on purpose. Looking on the bright side, after twenty-six hours of projectile vomiting, I was two pounds thinner.

Obviously nobody’s ever said anything nice to Jeanette about her cooking before, because she suddenly softens. “They were good times, weren’t they,” she says sentimentally.

“Yes, those were the days of our lives,” I say, equally treacly.

“You could come over for dinner,” Jeanette says unexpectedly. “I could defrost something. And I have some homemade potato salad I made just last week.”

Oh, good. Salmonella and mold in one nutritious meal.

“I’d love to, but I’m on that new diet. I can’t eat any food that starts with ’p,’ ” I say, thinking on my feet to save my stomach.

“No peanut butter?” asks Jeanette.

“Never.”

“Pasta primavera?”

“Doubly bad.”

“Reece’s Pieces?” she asks.

I can tell that’s a trick question. “Nope. You can’t slip in a ‘p’ even in the second word.”

“Strict diet,” she says, impressed.

“I’m trying. But I bet Kevin still devours your potato salad,” I suggest, making a clumsy detour to get the conversation where I wanted it headed in the first place.

“He would, but ever since he moved to Virgin Gorda he’s not home very often. But he’s happy there. So what more could a mother want?” she asks, somehow evoking pride and self-sacrifice in the same sentence.

“Virgin Gorda!” I say brightly. I seem to remember that’s an island in the British Virgin Islands. Or maybe the American Virgin Islands. If they’re all Virgin, they must have tough residency requirements.

“What’s he doing there?” I ask, suddenly envisioning him married to an islander—who, I muse, is named Mary. I can see the wedding announcement now in the local paper: “Kevin Talbert Marries Virgin’s Mary.” Just imagine who their children would be.

“Kevin’s an underwater photographer. Very successful. But he’s so independent. I wish he’d settle down and get himself married.”

I love this woman. I don’t even have to pump her, and now I know everything.

“I’m separated from my husband myself,” I say, the information highway now open. Besides, Jeanette invited me to dinner, so I think she’s started to like me.

Or maybe not.

“Don’t get any ideas,” she says, suddenly gruff again. “You’re not good enough for my Kevin.”

“But you haven’t seen me since high school,” I say, pleading a case I’m not even sure I want to make.

“Kevin lives at the ocean,” she says scornfully. “I don’t care if you’ve given up the p’s in your diet. Or even the q’s, r’s, and s’s. I could never picture you in a bikini.”

“I look just fine in a bikini,” I say, unconvincingly.

“Maybe if you have clothes on over it,” says Jeanette, and now protecting her beach-bum son from the possibly lumpy lawyer, she hangs up the phone.

I used to see my group of Chaddick moms all the time when the kids were in school, but now we have to plan special occasions to get together. For the lunch the next day at my friend Steff’s house, I put on my usual slimming black pants (so I don’t look like Jeanette’s lumpy lawyer) and add a brand-new soft pullover. I’m particularly proud that it’s a bargain, and I can’t wait to share my big insider’s tip —J. Crew sweaters are made from the same cashmere as the wildly expensive ones from Loro Piana. Though I’m not sure if the goats are fed the same hand-churned buttermilk.

“Hallie, I love your little sweater,” says Darlie, the flashy tattletale who told all about Ashlee at our Empty Nest party.

“Thank you,” I say, even though I can hear her condescending tone. Every group needs an outrageous member for the others to bond against, and Darlie is ours. She fingers the brand-new strand of expensive South Sea pearls at her neck, clearly given to her by her fourth husband, Carl, the import-export king. You pay a certain price for being married to a much older man—but he pays for everything else.

Glancing at the other women at the table, Darlie smugly repeats her catty compliment, “Love your sweater. Love your sweater. And love
your
sweater,” she says in succession.

Now I notice we’re all in nearly identical Crew cashmeres. I guess my insider’s tip isn’t exactly exclusive news. Whenever I think I’m in the know, it turns out everyone else knows, too. Forget Bob Wood-ward, my scoops wouldn’t even be news to Geraldo Rivera.

“Yes, we all have good taste. Proper taste,” says Jennifer, staring at Darlie’s highly exposed cleavage.

“Boring,” says Darlie, stifling a yawn. “But I guess at your age, proper is the only look to go for.”

I want to point out that our age is her age. Despite her regular infusions of collagen, Hylaform, Restylane, Juvederm, and other anti-aging injectables, she can’t change her birth certificate. Though if I know Darlie, she’s tried to have that surgically altered, too.

“Here’s to Steff,” says Amanda Michaels-Locke, changing the subject by standing and holding her champagne glass in a toast. “Congratulations on your huge success.”

“Thank you,” says Steff modestly. And in this case, she should be modest. She’s invited us to celebrate her new business, but the party may be a little premature. Right now all Steff has is the idea for her new business—a home ear-piercing kit for teenage girls.

“How did you come up with this brilliant concept?” asks Jennifer.

Steff smiles and leans forward to address the gathered group. “I saw a segment on
Good Morning America
that if you want to be an entrepreneur, you find a need and fill it. The best ideas are right under your nose. Or under your ears.” She gives a little giggle.

“I think it’s a great idea,” says Amanda generously. “Especially now that Devon’s off at Cornell, it’s something new to do. How far along are you?”

Steff looks briefly worried. “I’m looking for somebody to build the machine, though I guess first I need someone to design it. And there are a few other details to think about. My husband, Richard, keeps babbling about budgets, unit price, and profits.” She shakes her head. “Can’t he see the potential? The world is full of teenage girls dying to pierce their own ears. You know how independent they are at that age. Can you imagine? This might be bigger than Barbie.”

We all nod sagely, though it would probably be saner to have pre-pubescent girls piercing Barbie’s ears than their own.

“One other thing. I’m really glad Richard and I are working on this together because it’s important to have a project you can share. It helps keep the marriage close.” She looks meaningfully at me, implying that if Bill and I had only joined efforts and invented a do-it-yourself butt tattoo kit, we might still be living under the same roof. But then she sighs. “I just wish Richard wouldn’t keep throwing up so many road-blocks. In addition to everything else, he’s got a real bugaboo about insurance. He seems to think people might want to sue us.”

“What’s there to sue over a pierced ear?” asks Darlie, touching the four-carat diamond stud hanging so heavily that it looks like it’s about to rip the earlobe. Maybe that will explain at least one of the potential problems.

Everybody turns to me, the lawyer, for a professional opinion. “Nobody’s going to sue our Steff,” I say. And I’m pretty confident I’m right because there can’t be a lawsuit without an actual business.

“I think Steff’s a genius,” says Rosalie, who threw our last party— the one with the handwoven bird’s-nest invitations. Now she’s busy with a crochet hook and already has a stack of small round weavings next to her. “In a few years, I won’t have any more children at home, and I’m not even qualified to get a job. The last time I worked in an office, there was no such thing as e-mail and I still had to lick my own envelopes.”

“Maybe you could make a business out of your crafts,” says Steff, encouragingly.

“Or have another baby or two,” says Amanda brightly. “Best thing I ever did was have that second set of twins.”

“Yes, but you’re a freak of nature,” says Darlie dismissively. “The day Michael and Michaela started high school, you popped out Louis and Louisa.”

“Without in-vitro,” says Jennifer, admiringly. “Just plain old-fashioned sex. Who does that anymore?”

“And no surrogate,” complains Darlie. “I’d never have a baby again without a surrogate. I have the name of the woman Joan Lunden used twice—just in case Carl gets any ideas.” She strokes her three-strand diamond bracelet, making it clear that if Carl did get any ideas along those lines, they would be very costly.

“We’re all at that age where we wonder about what matters and think about what’s next,” says Steff philosophically. True enough. Though I’d like to know what synapse in her brain took her from the meaning of life to at-home ear-piercing.

“There’s always something next,” says Amanda optimistically. “You just have to figure it out. Not get stuck. Have new adventures, try new things.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” says Darlie, nodding avidly. “I used to say I’d never wear any lingerie but La Perla. And now I’ve found this wonderful little shop on the Place Vendôme in Paris that makes everything for me.”

“And maybe in ten years, when you’re in your fifties, you’ll find some fabulous Italian lingerie,” suggests Amanda.

“I’ll never be in my fifties,” says Darlie, who’s already working on how to avoid an entire decade.

“I didn’t imagine I’d ever be in my forties or even my thirties,” I groan.

“A century ago, the average life expectancy for a woman was forty-seven, ” says Jennifer helpfully, “which I guess made you middle-aged at twenty-three.”

Darlie runs her fingers through her highlighted hair. “I read in a magazine that the perfect age is thirty-six. Hollywood may like young starlets, but the article said maturity brings a certain confidence to your beauty. And lucky me, I’m exactly that age.”

We all try not to giggle.

“Thirty-six is when Marilyn Monroe died. Same with Princess Diana,” says Jennifer.

“I didn’t claim everything about it was perfect,” says Darlie defensively. “I could be thirty-five if you prefer.”

Amanda laughs. “Doesn’t matter how old you are anymore. We’re a generation of women without limits. You just have to stay receptive.”

“I stay receptive to everything. Especially when the pro at the tennis club flirts with me,” says Darlie, as usual offering her own spin.

There’s a brief silence at the table.

Rosalie giggles. “Is he cute?”

“Very,” says Darlie.