Arranged (21 page)

C
anapé?”

“Yes, thank you.” I take a shrimp roll from the platter and pop it in my mouth. The tangy Asian sauce burns my tongue. I take a large gulp of my white wine, trying to stanch the heat spreading through my mouth.

“Hi,” Sarah says. She’s wearing one of her blue power-lawyer suits and has her hair pulled back from her face. She looks serious and sad.

“Hi, Sarah.”

“It turned out really well.”

“My book?”

“The book, your speech. Everything.” She waves her hand around the room in a vague way.

“Thanks.”

“How’ve you been?”

“Okay.”

“You didn’t return my phone calls.”

“I know.”

“You’re not going to cut me any slack, are you?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

She gives a resigned nod. “I wasn’t going to come tonight.”

“Why did you?”

“Jack convinced me to.”

“Jack?”

“Yeah. He called me. He told me I should be here. He said you’d want me to be.”

“I didn’t know.”

Her voice catches. “I guess he doesn’t know you that well, huh?”

She waits for me to say something. And when I don’t, she turns to leave.

A glimpse of her sagging shoulders is enough to melt away the little anger I have left. “Sarah, wait. I’m really glad you came. I mean it.”

I put my hand on her shoulder, and she turns toward me, relief written on her face. We hug, and I hold her to me tightly. “Maybe the two of us,” I say, “can have lunch when I get back?”

She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “I’d like that.”

“And maybe you can give Jack a chance?”

“At least ten.”

“Make it an even dozen, and we have a deal.”

M
uch later that night, after dinner with Sarah, Mike, William, Janey, Nan, Gil, and Cathy, and wine, wine, wine, I’m fumbling with the key to our apartment. On the third try, Jack takes the key from me.

“Here, let me do that.” He concentrates and, in a smooth motion, fits the key into the lock. He pushes open the door, straightens up, and gives me a sloppy grin. “See, it was easy. You must be drunk.”

I put my arms around his neck. “Why is it so sexy when you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Put a key in a lock. Open a door for me.”

“What else is sexy?”

“I don’t know. Other manly things?”

He bends down and swoops me up into his arms. “How about this?”

“Definitely.”

He carries me over the threshold and into the living room, putting me down on the couch. He puts my feet in his lap, takes off my heels, and starts massaging my feet. “And this?”

“Oh, yeah.”

I enjoy the feel of his fingers working on my feet, ankles, and calves. Then his hands start to work their way up my legs, and I like that feeling even more. Jack scootches over so my legs are draped across his lap and starts to kiss the hollow of my throat.

“Good turnout tonight,” Jack mutters between kisses.

“Um-hmm. Hey, I have a bone to pick with you, mister.”

I can feel his grin against my skin. “Interesting choice of words.”

I push him away. “You called Sarah. You asked her to come tonight.”

“I did.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because someone had to.” He undoes the buttons on my sweater and leans toward me.

“I’m mad at you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I might be.”

“Hush,” he says into my ear.

And so I do.

M
y head is resting on Jack’s chest as he breathes deeply. Moonlight plays on the hardwood floor. Outside, the city hums.

“You asleep?” I ask.

“Pretty much.”

“Thanks for calling Sarah.”

“Welcome.”

“Did you set the alarm?”

He kisses the top of my head. “I’ll make sure you get up, don’t worry.”

“Thank you for today, Jack.”

“Anytime.”

I let the rise and fall of his chest lull me to sleep. And then, as I’m on the verge of slipping away, I hear myself say, “I love you.”

Jack’s arms stiffen around me, and I can feel the quickening of his heart. Or maybe it’s my own. Those words seem to crash down on me like the cold water in the river this afternoon, and I’m having trouble breathing.

Why did I say that? And what is Jack thinking? Why hasn’t he said anything?

This isn’t what we agreed to, his silence implies.

Love is not what we agreed to at all.

Chapter 20

It All Makes Sense Now

J
ack drives me to the airport the next day. We talk of trivial things on the way: my itinerary, how many book signings I’m doing in each city, what we might do on the weekend after I get back. Jack promises to water the plants and plan something adventurous but not too adventurous. He sounds excited and chats away while I chew my nails and look out the window and try not to ask him about what I said last night.

“So you’re going to write?” I ask distractedly.

“Yeah, I told you. I’m in a good groove right now.”

“Right, sorry. I wasn’t listening properly.”

“You okay?”

I sit up straighter. “Sure, I’m just preoccupied.”

“Nervous?”

“A little.”

“Do what you did last night, and you’ll be fine.”

My heart skips a beat, but he means the book launch, not last night in bed. When I told him I loved him. Stupid,
stupid
thing to say.

He stops the Jeep in front of the sign for the airline I’m flying and puts it in park. We get out, and Jack pulls my suitcase from the back, setting it on the concrete. I check my purse for my ticket, wallet, and cell phone. Everything’s where it should be but me.

“You afraid of flying?” Jack asks.

“No.”

“You’re acting kind of strange.”

I’m having trouble looking him in the eye. “I’m just tired.”

He places his hands on my shoulders and waits for me to look at him. When I don’t, he takes my chin and lifts my face so I don’t have a choice.

“What’s going on?”

I speak through the enormous lump in my throat. “Nothing.”

“Is this about . . . what you said last night?”

So he did hear me. I’d been half hoping he hadn’t. That I’d only imagined the rigidity of his body or the implication of his silence.

“Oh, that,” I say, and try to laugh. Instead, it sounds like I’m choking. I clear my throat. “I had too much to drink, and old habits die hard, I guess. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Anne—”

“Just forget I said it.” I kiss him hard on the mouth to cover what I’m feeling. If only I knew what it is I’m feeling.

He breaks the kiss. “Will you just listen to me for a second—”

“I’m going to miss my plane.”

“Come on, Anne—”

“I can’t right now, okay? Can we talk when I get back?”

I smile at him to show him I’ll be fine. I can see his indecision.

“Yeah, all right.”

“I’ll call you tonight.”

“Sure. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

I grab the plastic handle recessed into the top of my suitcase, and it clicks into place. I pull the suitcase along behind me, clacking over the concrete toward the sliding glass doors.

And when I turn back, Jack’s gone.

I
spend the next three days talking, smiling, signing my name, and reading the first chapter of my book over and over, until I have it nearly memorized. My state of mind isn’t helped by reading aloud the things that make you start falling in love for the first time. Things like the way the wool of a boy’s sweater smells. The way you see, just in a flash, how he’ll be when he’s a man. And the flashes are so short you think you’ve imagined them. But something between you changes. Some thread connects you, and you both know it’s there.

You can feel its pull.

“So how did the day go?” Jack asks during our fourth nightly phone conversation.

I’m lying on the bed in my hotel room with the phone propped under my ear. “Hi, my name is Anne Blythe. What? Yes. That’s right. Anne Blythe. Yes, like in the
Anne
books. No, I’m here to read from my book. Yes, my mother was obsessed. Oh, you too? Yes, it’s funny that I have red hair and green eyes. My mother has magical powers. No, my husband’s name is not Gilbert, that’s my brother. Yes, my mother
is
odd. Right, so, here we go, chapter one.”

“Sounds like another excellent day.”

“I wanted this, right?”

“This and a lot more.”

“I sound like a brat.”

“You sound tired.”

“I am.”

“Why don’t you turn in?”

“I’m going to. But first I need something to eat. I’m starving.”

“I’ll let you go, then.” He sounds disappointed.

“Sorry, I’m just really hungry.”

“It’s okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. And see you in two days.”

“Right. ’Night, Jack.”

“ ’Night, Anne. Sleep well.”

I hang up the phone, collect my room key, and go down to the hotel bar to shake off the day. It’s one of those English-hunting-scene places, with a mahogany bar and forest-green walls. There’s a fire in the fireplace, and the burning-wood smell almost covers up the years of spilled beer and malt whiskey. The room is empty except for a female bartender in a white shirt and black apron. She’s wiping down the top of the bar, looking bored, while she listens to the radio. Top-forty, by the sound of it. I decide to sit at the bar rather than at one of the small tables scattered about. They look lonely in a way a seat at the bar doesn’t.

I order a pint of Harp and a pastrami sandwich with a dill pickle and open the newspaper I brought with me to pass the time.

“Mind if I sit here?” says a man with a British accent.

“Suit yourself,” I reply, glancing sideways at him. He has short black hair and an ordinary profile.

He turns toward me. “Thanks. You eating or just drinking?”

I look into his blue, blue eyes. He might look ordinary in profile, but straight on, he looks like a man who belongs with me. “I’m waiting for a sandwich.”

He smiles. His teeth are straight, dazzling. “That sounds just right.”

He waves the bartender over and orders a Guinness and a roast beef sandwich. While his attention is diverted, I check out the rest of him. He’s wearing a very well-tailored black suit and a still-crisp powder-blue shirt. He’s loosened his navy tie at the throat and undone the first two buttons on his shirt, showing just the right amount of dark chest hair.

He turns back to me. “So, what brings—”

“A nice girl like me to a place like this?” I laugh. “You can do better than that!”

“You’d think so, but no, I can’t.” He laughs along with me, a deep, infectious laugh.

Shit, shit,
shit.

“I’m on a book tour.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Not the answer I was expecting.”

“What, you thought maybe I was a lady of the evening?” I’m wearing old, loose jeans and a simple black V-neck sweater.

He shakes his head. “My name’s Perry.”

“I’m Anne.”

The bartender brings our sandwiches. As we eat, Perry tells me about his business trip (client development) and his business (corporate investigations), and I tell him about my book (not his cup of tea, but he listens politely) and the book tour (more interest here), and we spend an easy hour together. Between the bites of pickle and pastrami and the next two beers, I decide he looks most like John, but I can’t tell whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing. All I know is that the noise in my head has quieted down for the first time all week.

“So,” he says as I finish the last dregs of my third pint. Our stools are close enough that his thigh is brushing against mine. We’ve had this much contact for several minutes, ever since we both moved toward each other at the same moment. “Time for one more drink?”

“I should be getting to bed. I’ve got another round of signings in the morning.” I stand up. My feet feel uneven.

“Steady there.” He puts his hands on my shoulders. I feel the heat of his hands through the fabric of my sweater, and I understand the look in his eyes. I might have the same look in mine. Everything seems to slow down in this moment, and I feel hyper-aware. I smell old beer and dust. Christina Aguilera is singing on the radio.

Then something shifts, and I’m hit by a wave of déjà vu. My book-deal party. The way everything—even my skin—was attracted to Aaron. I check Perry’s left hand to see if he’s wearing a wedding band. His ring finger is bare, but mine isn’t.

“Can I walk you to your room?” he asks.

“Sure.”

What the hell am I doing?

“Shall we go?”

I turn to leave, and two steps in, I feel dizzy. “Let me go splash some water on my face first. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be right here.” He sits back down on his stool, a smile playing on his perfect face.

I walk toward the bathrooms at the back of the bar and push through the swinging door. The music from the radio is piped in through a tinny speaker, and it bounces off the tiles. I turn on the water to wash my hands as Christina holds her last note and the music switches to a mellow guitar.
A song about mockingbirds flying away.

I recognize it right away. It’s the song Jack and I danced to on our wedding night. The song he sang to me.

I look at myself in the mirror as I let the words wash over me. My face looks strange, like a word you say over and over until you’re not sure it’s a real word anymore.

My God, my God, what am I doing? Why can’t I move past the ridiculous, infantile attraction I have to this particular type of man? I’m not like this. I don’t cheat. I don’t pick up men in bars. Then again, I don’t marry strangers either. Goddammit! What do I want from my life? What do I want from Jack? From my marriage? From this day?

I realize I’m crying, and I wipe the tears away. My hands smell like the soap I just washed them with, and it makes me think of Jack. My hands smell like he smells. His soapy, woodsy smell.

I look at myself in the mirror and face the truth. I know what I’ve been trying to ignore. What I’ve been pushing away. What I’ve been afraid of. Why I’ve been distracting myself with Perry, being an earlier version of myself.

I love Jack.

I
slip past Perry, who’s flirting with the bartender in my absence (a backup plan?) and return to my room for a hard hour of self-reflection.

At the end of it, I’m stuck with two things: I love Jack, and that scares the shit out of me.

The love part is easier to understand. I’ve been in love before. Too many times. And Jack and I fit together in a way I haven’t with anyone else. But the fear—where does that come from? Am I worried Jack doesn’t love me? No. I know with a quiet certainty that he does. Despite his silence the other night, we think too much alike for us not to feel the same. He was probably even trying to tell me he loved me at the airport, and I was too freaked out to let him. And since then, whenever we’ve spoken, I’ve kept him at arm’s length.

So what is it? Why am I terrified?

God, I wish I could talk to Sarah. But what could I say? I just realized I’m in love with my husband, and that’s freaking me out? It wouldn’t take more than five minutes for her to strip away my Blythe & Company facade. And as much as I need to talk this out, I have no desire to expose the way Jack and I met.

Speaking of Blythe & Company, emergency phone sessions with Dr. Szwick should really be included in the ten-thousand-dollar cover charge.

What would Dr. Szwick say if I
could
call him? He wouldn’t let me get away with telling myself I don’t know why I’m terrified. And shouldn’t I be able to do this on my own? Shouldn’t I know my own mind by now?

I do. I know why I’m scared of love. It’s because that’s when it always starts to go wrong. When it starts to deviate from the fairy tale. After the happy ending comes . . . disappointment. I don’t think I can stand another disappointment. I did this crazy thing, married a stranger, so I could avoid it, so I could get my happy ending.

So save yourself, Anne. One more time.

I
n the morning, I call the airline and change my flight so I can leave right after my last signing.

I decide not to tell Jack I’m coming home a day early. I want to surprise him. Surprise him and tell him that I don’t take it back, that I love him, that I hope he feels the same way.

After ten anxious/happy hours, I push open our front door and call out his name. “Jack?”

My stomach churns with nerves and longing, but there’s no answer. I try to suppress my disappointment as I walk into the empty living room. Jack has set up a sawhorse in the middle of it, but he’s made minimal progress on the shelves. I smile as I look around at the mess, because right now I love even his messiness.

I wheel my suitcase into the bedroom and find more chaos. The bed is unmade, there are clothes all over the floor, and Neil Young is whining through the clock radio. I turn off the radio and look around for some sign of when he’ll be back. There isn’t anything, because he doesn’t know I’m coming home today. I think briefly of calling him until I notice his cell phone sitting on the night table. Damn. I can’t even let him know I’m here.