The Men I Didn't Marry (28 page)

“No,” I say, avoiding his eye. I mumble a quick thanks for his gallantry and hastily turn to get a drink. Bellini shoots me a surprised look then, to make up for my lack of manners, she gushes her gratitude.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asks when she joins me a few minutes later. “That guy was cute. I think he liked you.”

“I know him,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’m mortified. That was Tom Shepard.”

“Who?”

“Eric’s friend. The one who rescued me when I took a hike one day right after Bill left. Remember? He found me crying on the side of the road in Cold Spring and gave me a ride to my car. That’s how I got back in touch with Eric.”

“So now he’s rescuing you again. He’s practically your own personal Clark Kent. That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, fabulous. Last time, I was muddy, swollen from bug bites, and couldn’t find my car. This time I’m the idiot who can’t find her money. Can you imagine what he’ll say about me to Eric? And what’s he doing here, anyway?”

“Who cares? Hallie, dear, you’re a single woman now. When a handsome man offers oysters, you bite.”

I grimace. “Oysters are slimy. And didn’t you notice? He’s wearing a wedding ring.” I glance across the room at Tom Shepard, even better looking in his tux than his Timberlands. But when he returns my gaze, I quickly turn away.

Bellini shakes her head at my awkwardness. “You’re hopeless. But if you’re not going to talk to Tom, let’s cruise.”

“Did you really just say ‘Tom’ and ‘cruise’ in the same sentence?”

“Not on purpose,” Bellini grins. “But Tom Cruise. That could be our secret code when we’re meeting men. Girlfriend talk for ‘Let’s go find someone else.’ ”

Laughing, I take my white wine and stroll with Bellini around the Chelsea Piers ballroom. Looking out of the enormous windows, I’m awed by the stunning view of the majestic Hudson River. But the party offers plenty of distractions from the view. At one end of the room, leotard-clad acrobats from Cirque du Soleil are dangling from three high ropes, and effortlessly twisting themselves into impossible positions. A trapeze artist swings back and forth overhead, and apparently, we’re her only net. As I watch, a slightly tipsy older man with a big belly and even bigger diamond cuff links comes over and throws an arm around Bellini.

“Hey, beautiful, can I buy you a drink?” he asks, looking lasciviously at Bellini. Then eyeing me, he says, “Buy you both a drink. Two for the price of one.”

“Tom Cruise,” I say to Bellini.

“Tom Cruise,” Bellini agrees, and we both break into giggles. As we turn to walk away, we bump directly into Darlie.

“Darlings,” Darlie says, double air-kissing each of our cheeks, and smoothing her hands across her skintight Harve Leger dress. “Fabulous party. I see you’ve met my old boyfriend Hiram. What do you think?”

“He’s exactly the type of man I’d expect you to be with,” says Bellini, managing an honest reply. Personally, I can see why it didn’t work out. Darlie would never have stayed with a man who wears bigger diamonds than she does.

“It was nice of you to bring such an eligible ex,” I say, trying to be gracious.

“He’s not eligible,” Darlie snaps. “Once in love with Darlie, always in love with Darlie.”

I’m not sure how long “always” lasts for my much-married Chaddick neighbor, but she does make a lasting impression.

One look around the exuberant crowd confirms that Bellini’s Bring Your Old Boyfriend party is a big success. Couples who haven’t seen each other in years are flirting again or helping their exes meet new propects. My happily married neighbor Amanda introduces her old boyfriend to just-divorced Steff, and the new twosome immediately fall into animated conversation.

“You have to meet the guest of honor. That’s Inka,” says Bellini, leading me over to a studly blond man who’s interpreted “formal attire” to mean cowboy boots, red pants, and a thin black bolo tie. A throng of admirers is gathered around the famous jewelry designer, who’s glowing and holding hands with an equally hunky blond standing next to him. When Inka spots Bellini, he turns on a thousand-watt smile.

“What an idea. Thank you for this party,” gushes Inka. “Meet my old boyfriend, Aztek.”

As best I can remember, the Incas and Aztecs were separated by a continent, but tonight seems to have brought them closer together.

But it doesn’t seem to be bringing me any closer to Eric. I look at my watch again.

“Think that old boyfriend of yours is going to show up anytime soon?” asks a man coming up behind me.

Startled, I turn around and am suddenly face-to-face with Tom Shepard, who smiles at me and takes a sip of his scotch on the rocks.

“His plane’s late,” I say.

“I can never figure out why Eric keeps that private jet. His on-time arrival record is worse than United’s.” He puts down his scotch. “By the way, in case you don’t remember, I’m Tom Shepard.”

“Of course I remember you. My roadside hero.”

“Eric invited me to come along tonight. He thought I needed to get out of my house and meet some new people.”

“I was wondering what you were doing here,” I say.

“He’s definitely not a Tom Cruise,” murmurs Bellini in my ear as she walks away, obviously to leave the two of us alone.

Tom puts his hand out to shake mine. Despite myself, I feel a little tingle.

“I was a lot muddier last time we met,” I say.

“You clean up nicely. That’s a beautiful dress. Very lovely.”

“Borrowed,” I admit.

“Not at all. That loveliness is all your own.”

I stare at the gold band on his hand. “Thanks for the compliment. But I have to tell you, I’m a little sensitive. I don’t really think married men should flirt.”

Tom looks taken aback, but before he can answer, the net worth in the room rises as Eric arrives, his assistant Hamilton trailing behind him in a flurry of cell phone-ringing, BlackBerry-beeping activity. Eric pulls himself away long enough to give me a kiss on the cheek and grab Tom for a hearty back-patting hug.

“I’m glad you’re here,” I say to Eric.

“Me too,” he says. But Hamilton interrupts our barely started conversation with an urgent question, making me wonder if Eric is really ever “here” when he’s here. Still, Eric looks with satisfaction from Tom to me.

“So you two met up with each other already. Good. My work is done,” he says, as if approving a business merger.

“Your work is never done,” jokes Tom.

“Sure it is. Now you have to do your part,” says Eric. He snatches a mini–hot dog from a passing waiter, dips it in the mustard sauce, and pops it in his mouth. “Mmm, good. I’ve got to have my assistant find out what those are. Maybe we can get some for the plane.”

Tom and I exchange a knowing look and start to laugh.

“Pigs-in-a-blanket, Mr. Billionaire,” says Tom. “You may know them as
petit boeuf en croute
.”

“Don’t give me a hard time,” says Eric with a grin. “I found you a new girlfriend, didn’t I?”

I’m confused. Does Eric regularly find new girlfriends for wedding ring-wearing Tom?

“Not my girlfriend yet. Anyway, I found her myself. Grubby, but with potential,” Tom says, smiling at me.

“And you’ve been talking about her ever since. Thought she was an astute judge of character when she wouldn’t fly off with me to Bermuda. Or was it London?” Eric shakes his head in mock despair. “Great support I get from my best friend.”

Now I’m distinctly uncomfortable. I want to take Eric aside and ask what the deal is with Tom. But, as usual, Hamilton reappears, as annoying as a mosquito you can never quite swat away.

“Mr. Richmond, the president’s on the phone,” Hamilton says importantly.

Eric stands a little taller as he strides away.

“Don’t be too impressed,” says Tom. “It’s probably just the president of Eric’s country club wanting to set up a golf game.”

“Or the president of Moldova,” I suggest. “Asking help from Eric in getting the country on the map.”

We laugh again. Damn, I don’t care what Eric had in mind. I’m not going to start liking this man.

Tom puts a hand on my elbow. “As much as fun as this is, want to get out for a little while? Take a walk and get some air?”

I hesitate. Maybe I’m being overly prudish. Tom doesn’t have to be single for me to join him for a walk. On the other hand, there’s the problem of where that walk could lead.

“Look, I’m a lawyer. I like to get my facts up front. Does that ring mean anything?”

Tom looks at the smooth band and self-consciously twists it around on his finger. “Yes, it means a lot. But if you’re asking whether I’m married, the answer is not anymore. I’m a widower.”

I’m suddenly embarrassed at having been so blunt. “I’m so sorry,” I sputter, apologizing both for my question and his loss in the same meager sentence.

“Thanks. It hasn’t been easy. Eric’s been a good friend. He makes time for our fly-fishing trips and checks in a lot. Harasses me, I might say,” he adds with a little smile.

“Did you lose your wife recently?”

“Five years ago. That’s when I moved upstate to focus on raising our children, get all of us away from the city and all the memories.”

“How are the kids doing?”

“Amazingly well. They’re happy and I love being with them. Unfortunately, they grow up. My second child went off to college this year.”

“Mine, too,” I say.

“A big change, isn’t it? I can’t spend every weekend going to soccer games and swim meets anymore. I guess it’s time to get back into the real world.”

“If you call dating the real world,” I laugh.

“And I’m not very good at it. For example, I’m standing here with a beautiful woman, and all I can think to offer her is some fresh air.”

“Well, you already gave me fifteen dollars,” I say, thinking of the cabbie.

“You’re a lawyer. Fifteen dollars only buys me a minute and a half of your time.”

“Let’s make the most of it,” I say.

As we step outside, I give a little shiver, and Tom takes off his tuxedo jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. Rescuing me again— which, as Bellini pointed out, is kind of nice.

We stroll along the pier, talking animatedly about our children. In short order, I find out that Tom is an internist and has spent the last few years working quietly in a small practice as a country doctor. Now he’s thinking about moving back to the city and accepting a teaching job he’s been offered at Columbia Medical Center.

“I’m finally ready for a fresh start,” he says.

“It’s funny, our kids are supposed to be the ones with their whole lives in front of them, but I’m feeling ready for anything.”

“Me, too. It’s a good way to feel,” says Tom, steering me up some steps.

We go inside, but I haven’t been paying attention, and instead of returning to the party, we seem to be in a different part of Chelsea Piers.

“Do you like bowling?” Tom asks with a mischievous grin.

“I haven’t tried since I was about twelve,” I say, wondering how my eight thousand-dollar dress will look with bowling shoes.

A few minutes later, I find out.

“I think the silver and green shoes are very becoming,” says Tom, smiling as I stand up in my rented size eights. It feels good to be out of my high heels, no matter what I’m wearing.

“Bowling’s a lot different than I remember,” I say, looking around the alley, which seems more like a disco than a sports center. Rap music is playing and a fog machine is pumping out atmospheric clouds of wispy smoke. Instead of unflattering fluorescents, the alley has black lights and Day-Glo-painted pins.

Tom takes my ball off the rack and I go to the line, trying to mimic the classic bowler’s one-handed form. But the ball’s a little too heavy and my dress a little too tight for any fancy maneuvers. So holding the fifteen pounds of solid ceramic in both hands, I bend over, drop it on the lane, and give it a little shove. The ball ambles slowly down the center of the smooth alley.

“Strike!” calls Tom delightedly, as the pins all drop and the score-board starts flashing.

“Beginner’s luck,” I say, strutting back to him.

On Tom’s turn, he releases the ball with great style, and it starts promisingly down the middle, then careens precariously over to the edge of the gutter. One pin down. Second try produces the same result.

“Not your fault. It’s hard to bowl in a bow tie,” I say encouragingly, when Tom comes back.

“Don’t patronize me, ye ballgown-clad woman who got the strike.”

“A strike,” I say with a shrug. “Nobody wants to get a strike in baseball. Nobody wants a labor union to go on strike. Who decided a strike was the best in bowling, anyway?”

“I have no idea. Maybe the same person who decided we should strike a deal or strike up the band.”

In the next frame, our fortunes reverse. Tom manages a spare but the best I can do is throw two gutter balls.

“I guess I’m the all-or-nothing type,” I say, looking at my score on the overhead electronic board.

“You definitely deserve to have it all,” Tom says, putting his arm around me.

“I do,” I say, and then going for it all, I lean in and give him a light kiss.

Tom looks delighted. “If you like a woman, take her bowling. That’s what I’m going to teach my son,” he says, flashing me his dimpled smile.

“Not standard advice, but it’s working for me,” I admit.

We look at each other, wondering what will happen next. And, sure enough, something does. Tom’s cell phone rings. He looks at the number.

“I wonder what Hamilton wants,” he says as he takes the call. Tom listens for a moment then snaps his phone shut and grabs my hand.

“Hamilton’s in a panic. Emergency. They need a doctor. Eric’s choking on something.”

“Probably a hot dog,” I say, figuring that Eric probably doesn’t know how to chew anything but caviar.

We dash out of the bowling alley and we’re halfway down the pier before I realize that I’m not having any trouble running.

“I’m still in my bowling shoes,” I say in surprise.

“Shoot, you’re right,” says Tom, who’s also in his. He looks down briefly. “We’ll have to exchange them later. We don’t have time right now.”