Facelift (24 page)

I imagine my friend Elise utilizing this situation to her advantage, maybe give a little bounce, a twittering laugh, a come-hither glance. But that’s not me. “So you know Elise Whitfield?” I could kick myself for speaking her name at this inopportune time. “I mean, I saw her at the park the other day. I didn’t know—”

“Yeah, before her divorce her husband was one of my clients. She’s a nice lady. Has had a rough year.”

Uh-oh. Do I hear sympathy? Protectiveness? “She’s looking good now.”
No, Kaye! Don’t point out her attributes!
“I mean, um—”

“Yeah.” His voice dips. “I’m glad.”

I frown. I just bet he is!

“She needs it after her diagnosis.”

My frown deepens. “Diagnosis?”

“Breast cancer. That’s why she ended up with . . . well . . . reconstructive surgery.” He stares at me. “You didn’t know?”

I lay back on the bed, totally shocked. “No idea.”

“I didn’t know it was a big secret. I thought everyone knew.”

Placing a firm hand against my jiggling belly, I allow guilt to squeeze through the sudden cracks in my jealousy. “I’ve been preoccupied the last year or so.”

“Well, if you don’t mind, don’t say anything. In case I spoke out of turn.”

“Sure.” When the hum of the bed is the only communication between us, I offer, “I’m really sorry about this, Jack.”

“About what? The bed?” He laughs. “Don’t worry. I’m just glad you didn’t see me in the role of Don Juan.”

But do I? “Or Rock Hudson, right?”

His laugh deepens. “Definitely.”

We lie there, side by side, with a wide space between us. I admit only to myself that he does look roguish lying sprawled across this bed with rumpled hair and those intoxicating eyes.

“Speaking of”—he rolls sideways, facing me fully, and props his hand under his head—“how is your Romeo?”

“If you mean Cliff, we’re having dinner tonight.”

“Terrific. That’s why you’re dressed up?” His gaze never veers off track. “You look great, by the way.”

A blush surges up through my chest and expands outward. “Oh, thanks. I, uh . . .”

He rolls onto his back again. And the tension in my chest eases slightly.

“It’s been a long time since I dated.” My confession is easier without his direct gaze upon me.

“You worried? Nothing much has changed.”

“Oh?” I tug at the bottom of my skirt, which with the vibration has risen slightly up my thighs.

“Everybody has their agenda.”

“That’s what my mother always said. Beware of those boys . . . they just want one thing. Is that true?”

“For boys, I suppose. But a man wants companionship that doesn’t have to do with a sport or spitting.”

I laugh. “Hopefully there will be no spitting tonight.”

“Yeah, restaurants frown on that sort of thing.”

His remark about agendas makes me wonder suddenly what Cliff wants out of tonight. To be cozy again? To talk about his mother? Daughter? Or could he want to get back together? How easily I jumped to the conclusion that it was the latter. But it could be something totally different.

“You okay?” Jack studies me, his gaze astute.

“Yeah, sure. Why?”

“You got this strange look. Sort of panicked like.”

I shake my head as if I can shake off the fear as easily as the bed continues to shimmy and shake beneath me. “I was just thinking about tonight . . . and what Cliff wants.” Tears flood my eyes, and Jack’s image blurs. I sit upright, trying to blink the tears away and banish them to some hidden place within my heart. Where did they come from anyway? Maybe the bed jarred them loose. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

Jack sits upright beside me and loops an arm around the back of my shoulders. “Did I say something? I’m sorry.”

His words knock the tears aside, my vision clears. I shake my head, an attempt at an answer, and yet really it’s just a way to sort out my thoughts and emotions into some semblance of order. But I’m amazed that Jack so easily could apologize for nothing. A line from an old movie comes back to me: “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” Ironic that the name of the movie was
Love Story.
But I’ve learned all these years that love
is
saying you’re sorry. It’s how we find reconciliation.

It’s frankly how we find redemption.

And the thing is, looking into Jack’s intense gaze as he watches me like I might crumble within his embrace, I discover something that rattles me more than this crazy bed or when I learned Cliff was leaving me.

I could love this man.

“Can you forgive me?” His words are tender, even as his expression is fierce with what appears to be concern.

I’m taken aback by his intensity . . . insistence. “There’s nothing to forgive. You just made me think realistically. That’s all.”

“Are you worried Cliff just wants one thing?”

“The direct opposite. I’m afraid he wants everything but.” I lean into Jack’s shoulder, feeling a raw need to be closer to him, as if I’m secure and safe in that place beside him. And I haven’t felt safe since I was an innocent eighteen-year-old. I stare into those passionate eyes, then my gaze drifts down along the solid features of his face to his square and solid jaw, to his firm mouth. He makes a tiny almost imperceptible move toward me. My stomach tilts. Or maybe it’s the bed. As if I’m drawn toward him, I feel my body leaning, my chin lifting, and all I can think of is touching my mouth to his, tasting him, loving him.

“
Muh
-ther!”

My spine straightens. I spring off the bed as if an electrical spark hit my backside. Izzie stands in the doorway staring at us, her hands propped on her hips as if she’s in the parental role now. “What are you doing?”

I blink at her as if trying to make sense of the situation. But sense seems to have flown the coop. “Nothing!”

Jack rises from the bed more leisurely, as if he’s not aware of the implications. Or not aware of what might have just happened. And I’m not sure which is worse. The hum of the bed vibrates through the room and sounds as loud as a jackhammer. Gabe joins Izzie in the hallway. It seems to take forever before Jack turns off the vibrator. The silence only accentuates Izzie’s shock and disapproval. I suppose it’s one thing to try to set your mother up with men to date and quite another to find her sitting on a vibrating bed about to kiss some guy. Even though Jack is far from just “some guy.”

But it’s also in that moment that my decision is clear. I could kiss Jack. I could fall in love with him. I could probably even marry him. But that’s not what Izzie needs. She needs her own father, her real family. Didn’t I just learn I was focused on the wrong thing, the wrong reason? And so, no matter how much I am drawn to Jack, no matter how much I could fall in love with him, I must walk away from those possibilities, even if it might be what I’ve been looking for my whole life.

“I should go.” I keep my gaze on Izzie, not daring to look at Jack. Would he look disappointed, relieved . . . or even indifferent? I gather up my purse. “I’ll call the company and get them to pick this up and deliver . . . well, the right furniture.”

“Sure.” His voice is slow, sure. “No problem.”

“Izzie, are you ready?”

“Not yet.”

Gabe steps forward from the hallway. “I’ll take her home, Mrs. Redmond.”

“Okay, well,” I check my watch, “I should go. Yes. That’s right.”

“You said that already, Mom.”

“I did? Oh. Yeah. Okay then. I’ll see you.” I brush past my daughter. My heel wobbles and makes my footsteps faulty.

Chapter Fifteen

It’s not a surprise that Cliff is late and that I’m early. Typical. So sitting at the table all alone gives me plenty of time to sit and think, fret and worry, anticipate and regret. My thoughts flit back to Izzie’s horrified expression when she caught Jack and me about to kiss. If that’s what was about to happen. Maybe it was good for me to see that kind of reaction from her. Deep down, she really does want her father and me to get back together.

My father was the first to date after my parents’ divorce. Or the first to advertise it. Come to find out, he’d been seeing the “new” woman-in-his-life, who eventually became his wife, for years before my parents split.

Mom was slower to get her feet wet in the dating scene. But when she did, she took a dive off the deep end. It embarrassed me how she gushed about this strange man. Watching them kiss and hold hands in public made me uncomfortable. She’d never behaved that way with my father.

In many ways I divorced myself from my parents’ antics while I immersed myself in my own dating dramatics during my college years . . . year. I wound up pregnant in my freshman year, which ended my career goals. Not that I really had any real goals at that point. I was just trying to discover myself. Instead of figuring out what I wanted to do, I discovered I was going to be a mother.

I didn’t know I had it in me.

Now I don’t regret Isabel. In spite of the challenges she’s brought during her teen years, I’ve loved her, enjoyed having her in my life. But there
are
a few regrets. Should I have attempted parenthood alone? Was my marriage doomed from the beginning? My parents thought it was. They warned me, pleaded, and even suggested an abortion, which was never an option for me. Maybe that’s another reason I’ve pulled away from them.

Today I’m glad my parents are happy and content in their new respective relationships. They’ve both remarried and have even remained friends. They kept their distance as if saying, “You’re on your own,” after I married. And I admittedly haven’t tried very hard to bridge the gap. When I announced Cliff had left, even though they closed ranks and offered to help, I got the distinct impression they were whispering, “We told you so.” The discomfort is all mine. And maybe it’s simply that I don’t trust in outward appearances anymore. Maybe I don’t trust at all. Is that why I’ve grabbed hold of the reins and tried to force Cliff and myself back together instead of allowing God to move and work a miracle?

“Serious thoughts?” Cliff slides into his seat across the table from me.

I give myself a shake then smile. Maybe we can have a new beginning. A fresh start. A clean slate. Isn’t that what God teaches? I give him a perky smile, the kind he always liked. “How was your day?”

Not dazzled by my pearly whites, he checks his cell phone. “Close to making a deal. That will be . . . well, it could make my year.”

“That’s great. I’m glad work is going well.”

“So”—he leans back, stretching his arms wide across the back of the booth’s seat—“how’s your little business? You haven’t gone belly-up yet, have you?”

That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement. “It’s growing. Surprisingly.”

“No surprise there, Kaye. You were always good at shopping and stuff. I ought to ask for a commission on every deal you make and client you sign because I gave you all that practical experience.”

My smile congeals. He did help me learn how to create an illusion. Now I create a fantasy of how perfect life could be. But Cliff doesn’t like serious discussions. I glance around at the black and white décor. “I’ve never been to this restaurant.” It’s an Asian and Mediterranean mix. “Have you?”

“Oh, sure.” The waitress brings him a drink, and he claps his hands as if ready to move on. “You ready to order?”

Wasabi salmon sounds intriguing to me, and he orders a Kobe steak and ginger potatoes. He has a penchant for fattening foods despite his mother’s attempt to raise his taste buds out of the middle class. “A few starches on the side?”

“Gotta get what you want, kiddo. Life is short.”

Is that what our divorce was about? Him going after what he wanted? A sexy young thing? And what is it that I want? Love. The all-encompassing, self-sacrificing, friends-and-lovers kind of love. When do I get that?
How
do I get it?

In many ways our marriage seemed like I was the only one sacrificing, but I’m sure Cliff feels like he missed out on things he wanted to do—golfing with the guys, drinking with his college buddies, and going out with younger women. So, obviously, we didn’t share the 1 Corinthians 13 kind of love, rather we were more self-serving than self-sacrificing.

I’ve been trying so hard to do the right thing—fire up the grill of the blackened coals of my marriage, stir up a career from scratch, raise a daughter. Sixteen years have passed since I started college, and I’m still trying to find myself, figure out what I want out of life. But my choices seem increasingly limited, as if I’m rummaging in my refrigerator and finding only expired meat, overripe fruit, limp vegetables, and moldy bread. This is what I’ve been left with.

Cliff’s decisions have determined my future. Or did God calculate all of that into His will for my life? It gives me a headache in my left temple.

“So how’s that new client of yours? The one who was at dinner the other night?” Cliff snaps his fingers in quick succession. “Joe? Jake?”

“Jack. He’s fine.”

“You know who he is, right?”

“Yes, I believe we’ve met.”

“I looked him up. Asked around.”

His admission surprises me. What was he doing that for?

“He’s got a multi-million dollar travel company. He creates these once-in-a-lifetime tours for the rich and shameless. Of course, his clientele can afford a once-in-a-lifetime event every six months. Wouldn’t mind a little piece of that action. I’m sure I could put a deal together that would benefit us both.”

Warning bells go off in my head.

“Would you mind hooking us up?”

I blink. Disappointment, as raw and distasteful as uncooked broccoli, lodges in my throat. “Is that what this is about? You want an inside track to one of my clients?”

“What is it to you, Kaye?” He leans forward, bracing his forearms on the edge of the table. “If I make a good deal, then Izzie benefits. Maybe you too.”

More like Barbie, or someone like her, benefits with a trip to Bermuda or the Bahamas or wherever Cliff’s latest whim takes him. But I refrain from speaking my mind.

He props an elbow on the table, dangling his fork over his plate and frowning at me. “You like this guy, don’t you?”

I shake my head. Too quick to deny it. “He’s a client. That’s all.”