What We Leave Behind (22 page)

“Marty’s there now.”

“How
is
Marty?”

“Fine.”

“Now that’s a vague response. Do tell.”

“I think I like him.”

“Your boss, the womanizing philanderer?”

I nodded, but she couldn’t see. I squeezed the phone tighter in my hand.

“We kissed last week.”

“He’s not harassing you, is he?”

“It’s nothing like that, entirely consensual.”

“Do you think it’s a good idea to stay there, working with him and dating him?”

My voice of reason had spoken. “If it gets serious,” which it already had, “then I’ll make that decision.”

“Six years, and you’ve finally managed to move on, a miracle. What’s with you and these Jewish boys anyway?”

She didn’t say his name. She never did.

“Let me clarify one thing. Marty is nothing like the last Jewish boy.”

“Then I suppose I can tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“They got married.”

I processed this carefully.

“Are you there?” she asked.

“Yeah,” but I wasn’t. I was on a hill atop Mulholland Drive with wind whipping through my hair.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“How do you know?” I asked

“I read it in the paper…last year.”

“A year? You kept this from me for a
year
? The effort you put into protecting me makes me want to jump on a plane and come give you a big hug.”

“Well, you may have to be coming out soon, because he’s not the only one with marriage on his mind.”

“Paul proposed? How long have you been keeping
that
from me?”

“Just a few days.”

“Well, it took him long enough.”

“Doesn’t matter, I’d have waited forever.”

Beth had fallen in love the first day of college. There she was carrying her suitcases up the steps of her dorm at BU, and he appeared, offering a hand. I’ll never forget the day she called me and said, “It’s better than the movies. One hundred percent.”

“I’m so happy for you, Beth. You deserve this.”

“We haven’t set a date but as soon as we do, you better book a ticket. You have a big job to do.”

“What’s that?”

“Maid of honor, and don’t make that face I’m betting you’re making, because I won’t have it any other way.”

“Do I have to wear a dress?”

“Yes, and it won’t be pink or peach, I promise. Oh shoot, Jess, that’s probably Paul’s parents clicking in. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“You better. I want to hear about the proposal. Knowing Paul, I’m sure it was something extravagant.”

“I love you. I miss you,” she yelled before the phone went silent.

“Me too,” I said, putting the phone down, the impact causing a whole new spattering of petals on the Formica. When I finally exhaled, I knew the air would never feel as compressed as it once had, and my heart, once heavy, was now lighter than it had been in years.

It only took me three days to accept Marty’s proposal. When you’re that sure about someone you’ve known for such a short period of time, the decision is easy. It’s the explaining to everyone why you’re jumping into something “so quickly” that’s the cumbersome part. So even though my heart had said an impetuous yes when he proposed, it took another two days to convince my mother and Beth that I was doing the right thing.

“It’s simple,” I told my mother, who picked up her telephone as she heard the word
marriage
reverberating from my mouth and bouncing off her answering machine.

“I thought you weren’t there.”

“I was screening.”

“Screening from whom?” I asked, knowing that my mother loved to gab on the phone with
anyone
who bothered to call.

“Does it matter? Did I hear you say you’re getting married? You’ve only known this man a few months.”

“Eight,” I corrected her.

“That’s not enough time, Jess. You can’t possibly know him that well, and marriage, it’s a whole different game, a whole new set of rules.”

I could hear the concern in her words, the mother’s need to protect her child, but I wasn’t a child anymore.

It was a surprise, to say the least, but I’d come to rely on Marty’s direct and innovative approach. He took me to dinner under the guise of discussing this lawsuit that had the capacity to complicate things for SixthSense, some confusing breach of contract thing that could have several employees in the company subpoenaed as early as next week. He tried to assure me that these types of lawsuits never panned out, but the idea of Marty being questioned and scrutinized terrified me; and because I worked so closely with him, would I be subpoenaed also? Marty just came right out and told me not to worry.

“How can I not worry?” I asked. “I might have to testify
against
you!”

“I have it all taken care of.” But I wasn’t a believer.

“Jess,” he said, and I should have noticed the twinkle in his eyes, the way his lip seemed to curve a tiny bit as if stifling a smile, “they can’t question you.”

“How do you know that?”

“A wife can never testify against her husband.” And with that bold statement out of the way, the fear that had gripped me turned into something else, something happier. He then placed a perfect diamond on my finger and asked me to be his.

“You’re not using me to stay out of jail?” I said, before kissing him square on the mouth.

“That’s a low one, even for me, but since there’s no case, you won’t have to worry about that.”

“There’s no case?”

“I had to figure out a way to trick you, so you wouldn’t see this coming.”

“You made that all up?” I said, before giggling and grabbing him in my arms.

I thought it best to leave the details of the proposal out of this conversation with my mother. She was saying, “Marriage is hard enough, and statistically you’re reducing your chance for a good one by jumping into it with someone you barely know.”

“I’m in love,” I said.

“I’ve heard this before,” she said, unconvinced.

Marty was what I had been looking for all this time and it did manifest quickly, but I wasn’t about to question what felt so nice and uncomplicated. I had paid a high price for allowing myself to love again.

“Can’t you just be happy for me?” I asked. “Can’t you just, for once, let me relish in the moment? Haven’t I earned this? Don’t you want me to spend the rest of my life with someone who adores me and only wants to please me?”

“Well, it would be nice if I could meet him.”

“Is that was this is about?”

“Maybe.”

“Geography’s the only reason you haven’t met him,” I said. “Trust me, you will love him.”

It was over a family dinner at Marty’s home in the hills that I finally and officially gave Marty the affirmative answer that he was waiting for. He empathized with my mother’s concern and set out to make things right. In less than twenty-four hours, she was squired away on a plane headed west to meet the man who had stolen my heart. He also invited his parents, a couple in their seventies who talked endlessly about their time in Palm Springs. The warmth of family around us eased the answer out of me, and when I saw my mother flitting around Marty, practically stepping over herself for his attention, I knew I’d made the right choice. Selma and Ezra Tauber were welcoming and kind, and I watched them lost in deep, loud conversation.  There was no doubt we would have a full and happy life.

“Where are you right now?” Marty asked. He was seated next to me, nudging me with his shoulder. “You’re off somewhere.”

I faced him, seeing his eyes as they appraised me with a kindness any woman would envy. “I’m with you.”

“Where are we?” he asked, a faint smile crossing his lips as his hand dropped into my lap, caressing my bare leg. I searched the table, but my mother had now joined Marty’s folks in conversation, and no one appeared to notice that the host and hostess had gone off to a secret, private world. His fingers grazed my skin lightly.

“In a good place.”

“Yeah,” he continued, softly stroking my inner thigh, “and what happens in that place?”

Nothing about Marty inhibited me, and I would have shouted this across the table if it were just the two of us, but it wasn’t. I didn’t want to share with anyone the emotions he brought out in me, the things he made me feel. I whispered in his ear, running my fingers through his thick hair, relishing in the ownership of that gesture, knowing that it would always be mine. “We love each other and we’re happy and some R-rated material I’ll tell you about later.”

He may have kissed my cheek, or maybe I brushed my lips against his. It was a light, promising touch, and when I turned my head, I sought the eyes of those seated around us, and they were staring at us, awed in part by the moment we were sharing and the embarrassment at being caught. They couldn’t turn away. Their illicit stares were of envy and joy. When Marty kissed his hand and touched it to my chest, an act both private and protective, the embarrassment turned to appreciation.

“I love your heart,” he said to me.  And I understood the raw affection was nothing less than pure devotion. My heart had once betrayed me, the disconnect between its needs and its desires as vast as the pain that proceeded it, but it all made sense to me now. I could feel the gentle, consistent beating in my chest. It had been waiting for Marty Tauber to hold it in his generous hands.

We got married on a clear spring afternoon on a Polynesian beach surrounded by nothing but sparkling ocean and the sound of the man officiating. We were going to have the large, lavish affair, but in finding Marty, I needed nothing more than to recite vows and make him legally mine.

“I do,” he said.

“I will,” I decided, because I would.

We spent two weeks devouring and discovering each other. I couldn’t figure out how such a delinquent little kid ended up luxuriating in so much happiness. I asked myself if I had ever known happiness
at all
, and the answers would come to me in memories, times I thought I’d been happy, now faded, fragmented. Life had changed me. My work was going well. I was professionally where I wanted to be, and with that came a healthy identity and well-defined purpose. I needed Marty in my life, but that need was overshadowed by the pure
want
to have him there. There is a big difference between needing and wanting, especially when it comes to subjects like love.

We walked on the beach for hours, talking about everything and nothing. When we weren’t making love or talking about making love, we were venturing through the islands hand in hand, feeding each other with our bare hands, listening to music, lounging lazily in the hammock outside our villa. I did not miss my work. I did not miss the telephone. I did not miss life. That is, the life before Marty came along and the one that was existing around us.

I was disappointed when the two weeks came to an end and we had to return from paradise. I didn’t want to share my husband with the world again. We boarded the plane, and as I reached for the overhead compartment, my pocketbook dropped to the floor; the contents spilled across the carpet. Kneeling down to pick them up, I placed the personal bits of my life back in the bag and found my seat.

The flight attendant popped her head in our row. “Miss, did you drop this?” It was my gold compact, a gift from my mother. It must have rolled across the aisle. “Yes,” I heard myself say, opening the clasp to see if the powder had crumbled.

It didn’t, but when I saw my shattered image in the broken mirror, I froze.

Marty said, “We’ll buy you a new one when we get home,” and returned to his magazine.

I quickly closed the compact, pretending I hadn’t seen it, pretending it wasn’t there. 

It was a silly superstition anyway.

Yet, it nagged at me the whole way home.

We were celebrating our two-year anniversary and were at the top of our game, having racked up award after award for our work on several major motion pictures and their soundtracks. SixthSense was plastered across most every entertainment trade magazine; if I wanted to learn something new about the company or our current status, all I had to do was open a magazine and there would be the information I was searching for. It was surreal to be so sought after, eerie to be so closely watched. Marty and Jeff were the high-powered household names, but I’d found a niche for myself that was spreading across the industry. I was told I was an
expert
in the field of music, that I was the authority for hit songs, and with that, doors opened. Radio stations loved me, film studios courted me, record labels wanted me on staff, and songwriters pursued me at every turn.

And then the subject of kids.

I was twenty-
four
years old, almost twenty-five as I liked to say, and the question of children had come up on numerous occasions. Actually, every time Beth or my mother returned my phone calls, it was with the assumption that we were announcing our impending pregnancy. “Marty looks amazing for his age,” they’d tell me, “but he’s not getting any younger.”

We had decided to forego protection and have fun. If it happened, it happened.

Therefore, it was no surprise when a doctor’s appointment confirmed what my usually punctual and now excessively tardy period had already conveyed to me—I was pregnant. Marty was working late, again, negotiating yet another deal, this time for the rights to the remake of
Hair
.  Swarms of attorneys from the label side and the production side were in the office that afternoon, and I’d snuck out early, feeling tired and weepy. The label wanted close to a million dollars for some of the songs.  Nowadays, that wasn’t entirely unheard of, but led to continuous debates over commercialization versus art. Marty could spend hours on that topic and apparently had been for the last few nights, picking up where my queasy stomach had left off.

“I wish you’d come home,” I bellowed into the telephone, fretting at the thought that I had become one of
them
, one of those wives that complained for her man to come home early.

“I’ll be home soon, babe. We’re almost finished here. No more than an hour.”