The Refrain (The Bridge Series) (10 page)

C
HLOE AND
J
AMIE
walk ahead of me, laughing and commenting on everything around them. They can finish each other’s sentences, start each other’s thoughts and inspire each other’s creativity. She writes, he paints and the end result is always artistic gold. When they’re together, the world is their stage, and I’m perfectly fine with being in the audience . . . because it’s always a good show.

We’ve been a threesome since junior high, and during one pot-fueled night in 1995, we almost
had
a threesome. Jamie was confused with his sexuality, Chloe wanted to change him and I was basically just invited to the party. Luckily, it got weird really fast and it never happened, but the following week, Jamie and Chloe broke the barrier of virginity in a seedy motel outside Ottawa.

Jamie was definitely gay. And Chloe was definitely in love with him. And it would make sense that our dynamic would completely change, but friendship always beats out uncomfortable sexual pretense sprinkled with teenage angst. Always.

September 22, 2003

M
ONDAYS SUCK. EVERY
socialite in the tri-state area calls at exactly 10:15 a.m. Monday morning to schedule an appointment for their upcoming
big
event. And every client thinks
their
event is the
Vogue
party of the year. Currently, I’m planning a Roarin’ Twenties Bat Mitzvah, a Halloween party in Sleepy Hollow, and my favorite, a White Trash engagement party.

Molly and I have two clients coming by today to finalize their details and bitch about the price – the richer they are, the less money they want to spend. And then I have to haul ass to Queens to meet with an authentic Greek caterer that also serves kosher and halal – um? But first, I check my emails.

Rien.

I haven’t received a letter or email from Zach in two weeks. He mentioned in his last letter that prior to his furlough, he might be isolated and he may not have access to anything. But I guess I expect Zach to find a way.

“Natalie, you have a visitor.” Molly floats through the door in a leopard cape hugging a tangerine dress that probably cost twice my weekly salary. Damn, I want her wardrobe. She hands me a latte and smiles excitedly. “I told him to come in, but he insisted on staying in the waiting room. Natalie, he looks like an angel!”

“Are you sure he asked for me?” Jamie left a week ago and most of the guys I know look like metrosexual-bisexual-druggie-stockbroker-hockey players – no angels.

“Yes, you silly goose,” Molly says as she proceeds to her desk.

I minimize my computer screen, smooth out my shirt and take a quick peek at my reflection in the mirror above my desk. Is it normal to have bags this dark at my age? But my bags won’t stop my enthusiasm to meet an admirer, unless it’s that crazy hobo that shakes his boot at me or an officer of the court serving me pap—

Oh, it’s Pete.

Cherub Pete with the amazing body and inappropriate timing. Cupid Pete, smiling adorably and holding a tiny bag in his large, capable hands. The Pete that was to remain a sexual fantasy in my head for solo nights. Fuck.

“Hey Natalie,” he says cautiously. “Before you yell and scream or do that thing with your nose, just listen.”

I grab his arm and lead him to the hall. “How do you know where I work? And why –  why are you here, Pete?”

“You told me where you work. We had an actual conversation at the bar, Natalie.” Pete shakes his head and crosses his arms. “I’m a chef and you wanted to know if I’d consider catering – for your events – you gave me your card. God, please tell me you remember something.” Irritated, he takes a step back and frowns.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry, I just thought we agreed to sort of . . . not do this.”

“Right. Anyway, I found your necklace and wanted to return it to you.” He hands me the bag and I pull out my little gold star. Pete helps me clasp it around my neck and things just feel better. “I’m not your enemy, Natalie. In fact, I was hoping we could be friends.”

“I don’t know. Look, without sounding overly dramatic, I have a lot of confusing shit going on right now and your friendship will only complicate things. Can you just give me some time to think about it?” I really like Pete. He’s sweet and funny and very creative in bed, but I don’t need any added guilt on top of the dirty thoughts I’m thinking right now.

“Sure. Oh, and I talked to Adam – well actually, we’re not in a habit of talking about our feelings, but he did say he had to leave the bar because it was uncomfortable. That’s all I got from him.”

Holy shit. Things got real. “Wow, okay, well – um, tell him to fuck off. No! I didn’t mean that. Tell him he’s only hurting Chloe and he’s a big hairy pussy for being so weak. Wait – tell . . .”

“Natalie, it’s best to drop it. And just because I like you, a guy doesn’t give another guy relationship advice.”

“You’re right.” I sigh. “Pete, thank you for returning my necklace. I have to get back to a meeting.” I reach up to hug him and he sweetly rubs my back – it’s like he knows that I’m conflicted and confused. “Thank you for everything,” I say into his neck.

“No problem. Take care, Natalie – maybe we’ll cross paths again someday,” he says hopefully.

“Maybe.” After a few seconds of awkward silence, I walk back to the waiting room. I pause, turn back to look at him, but he’s gone. This will be easier than I thought.

“Details, please!” Molly exclaims.

I close the large door that leads into our office and wave her off. “Molly, it was just a guy that found something of mine. Where are we on the Metcalf Barn Dance?” I ask, quickly changing the subject.

“Oh? Oh. Well, I found two barns in Westchester that are serviceable for a large party, but we really need to get them to limit the number of guests.”

“That’s great news. I’m meeting with them on Thursday and I will make sure they trim the list.” I sit down at my desk and busy myself with a catalogue of western décor.

Molly taps her nails against her desk, waiting for my attention. “So Natalie, I was thinking we could throw a party for Zach in December. It’ll be tough with our holiday commitments, but wouldn’t it be nice?” She has been extremely delicate approaching the subject of Zach because she knows I’m a little unstable. One minute, I’m happily playing the role of the hero’s lover in a dreamy state of euphoria and then without warning, my unfiltered mouth starts announcing my plans to protest in D.C. It’s been a year of emotional turmoil that has challenged me, surprised me, and devastated me. But with all my pain, I never show weakness and I never lose hope.

I put down the magazine and smile. “Yes. Zach would love a small party. We can book The Bridge for the night, I’m sure of it.” It’ll be nice to busy myself until he returns, and a coming home party is just the thing.

Molly claps her manicured hands, causing her bangles to shimmy around her wrists. “What’s his favorite band? Whichever it is, I’ll get them!”

“I don’t know – he likes all music. What about a stripper or a magician?” I ask sarcastically. “Seriously Molly, Zach will just want to drink a few beers with his friends.”

Molly shakes her head in agreement. “That sounds lovely. Do whatever you think he’ll like – but I’m paying for everything! Deal?”

“Molly, you’re an amazing person. Do you know that?”

“Oh sweetie, you make an old, Southern lady blush. Zach purposely left you in good hands, and I couldn’t be happier.”

It’s true. Most dreams are simply a pursuit of happiness.

A
STORIA,
Q
UEENS, IS
an urban center set against the backdrop of 1970s Europe. And I mean that in a good way – actually, no I don’t. The butchered goat heads in the storefront windows make me want to barf, and I’m fucking lost in a neighborhood without a goddamn woman to be found.

I pop into the nearest bakery for some directions and chocolate baklava for my guilt gut. It smells delicious and maybe I can convince my clients to have a dessert party instead of their requested menu of lamb gyros and falafels. I smile at a cute older woman behind the counter. She seems normal enough to help a crazy Canuck like me.

She returns my smile and waves me over. “Hello, koukla mou! What can YaYa get you?” Her accent is thick and scratchy but surprisingly, very comforting.

“I’m lost,” I say.

“YaYa knows.” She winks.

I glance around the socialist-looking bakery to make sure there are no KGB informants or eavesdroppers, and then, whether she wants to hear it or not, I let my heart explode. “The man I love is fighting a never-ending war in the mountains of Afghanistan and yet I can’t seem to keep my legs closed. I slept with a really decent guy for no reason except to have the numbing pain leave my body for a short time.”

YaYa hands me a napkin and small square of baklava. Tears start to burn my eyes as I shove the nutty cake in my mouth. “I convinced my sweet cousin to move to New York and follow her dream of being a famous musician, but she’s working in a bar – and I don’t care as long as she stays with me. She met a great guy, like she really likes him and he’s incredibly gorgeous – and I would know because I slept with him, too! I think.” YaYa lowers her chin to her neck and peers at me through her tiny glasses. “I know. I’m a selfish, horrible person. Can I have another one?”

YaYa picks a gooey Loukoumade and places it on a napkin. “Koukla mou, would you like some advice from an old lady?”

“Yes,” I say while shoving the second pastry through my salty tears.

“You need to go home.”

“Like Toronto?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “What I mean is, men come and go, but family is with you until the end.” YaYa takes a pastry for herself and joins me on my side of the counter. “Many years ago, my sister Anna fell in love with a rotten boy. He was awful, a real
Malaka
, but she married him anyway. He had a woman for every day of the week and while she was visiting me here in the States a few years ago, I begged and pleaded for her to leave him and stay here, with me. Horrible things were said that day and we haven’t spoken since. Anna’s husband eventually ran off with their neighbor and then my dear Dimitri passed away last month . . .” YaYa kisses a wedding ring hanging on a chain around her neck. “Now I’m alone. Well, I have my five sons, three of which won’t get the hell out of my house. But my dear sister, my best friend, doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“That’s horrible, YaYa. So, you’re saying I should tell Chloe I slept with Adam?”

“What? Of course not! You know the old lady in Titanic? The one that tosses her necklace into the Atlantic Ocean?” I nod my head – movie references are my favorite. “She says something like,
a woman’s heart is an ocean
. And what I think she means is, some secrets are meant to be buried deep beneath the surface – untouched.”

Wow. The baklava is delicious, but YaYa’s wisdom is perfection.

“Thank you, YaYa. I know what I need to do.”

“Are you still lost?” she asks.

“No, I’m going home.”

I
STUMBLE INTO
the apartment after a delightful two-hour subway ride with a refreshing forty-minute stop somewhere underground between Lexington and 53
^rd
. Luckily, I was thoroughly entertained by a blind man playing a harmonica and a tiny Asian woman shouting loudly about her awesome batteries for
one dolla
. Never fucking again.