I'm Your Man (19 page)

“Actually, I was wondering if we could do it after Sheila's wedding. Remember when she tried to announce her engagement, and everyone else had big news and kept upstaging her? I don't want to steal her thunder again. If we do it after the first trimester, that's just a couple of weeks before the wedding. Can we delay the announcement until afterward?”

“I guess,” Gretchen said, giving me a measuring look.

“What?” I asked. “Too long to wait?”

“If it's Daniel you're worried about, I don't think our news will affect him as much as you fear,” Gretchen said. “This probably isn't the best time to tell you, but Daniel's been seeing someone else.”

I sat quietly for a minute, trying to figure out exactly how that made me feel. In spite of having known he was with someone the day I saw him in Whole Foods, I'd been encouraged by Sheila's assurance that she knew of no new lover in his life. In any case, I didn't want it to spoil the momentous news that Gretchen and I had just received.

“I don't want to talk about it,” I said.

“I don't know how serious it is, but I felt you should know,” Gretchen explained.

“I'm glad you told me, but I really don't want to talk about it. I need to go.”

“Blaine, I'm sorry. Please don't leave upset.”

“I'll admit that I've been on a seesaw about Daniel lately. But that's not why I'm leaving. I have to get ready for my trip. I'll call you from Colorado,” I promised. Remembering her favorite way to relax at the end of the day, I added, “And no wine for you.”

“So it begins! You haven't even known I'm pregnant for an hour, and you're acting like an oppressive male,” Gretchen teased. “I'll be good. Just think, in a few days, tax season will be over and I'll be a woman of leisure again.”

“Again? Tell it to someone who doesn't know you.”

When I was back on the sidewalk, I felt torn between rapture and depression. I went to the only place other than the gym that I knew would help me clear my head.

I wanted to pack my office before leaving for Colorado, but when I arrived at Breslin Evans, I was surprised to find boxes sitting outside my door. They were labeled with my name and Lillith Allure's new Chelsea address. Violet wasn't at her desk. The door to my office was open, and Charlie, the maintenance man, was removing my nameplate from the door.

“Hi, Charlie,” I said.

Charlie's hand slipped from the chisel he was using to pull the plate from the adhesive and wood of the door. He cursed under his breath and removed his glasses as he turned to me.

“Hello, Mr. Dunhill. I sure am sad to see you going.”

“In a way, so am I. It's for the best, though. Have you seen Violet?”

“I haven't seen her in a half hour.”

I walked into my office for what would be the last time. I opened the drawers of my desk to make sure nothing had been overlooked. When I opened the lower left drawer, I saw a piece of paper wedged between the bottom and the side. It was from the phone message pads that had been phased out of use in the office two years before, when nearly everything became electronic. I flipped it over and couldn't help but laugh. It read, “Mrs. Dunhill called.”

I recalled the awkward moment when Daniel had taken the message after speaking to Sydney for the first time. That had been before he and I started dating, and my confession about my doomed marriage to Sydney had helped break down barriers between us. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

“Why the hell did I hang on to that?” I asked. I crumpled the message and tossed it over my shoulder, not caring where it landed.

I looked out the window. I felt very little actual sadness about leaving. I categorized the moment as a stepping-stone in my career. It was time to move on. I said a silent goodbye to the bare walls, then walked out the office door, which no longer held my nameplate. I strode down the hall toward the elevator. Just as I reached the glass doors that would let me out of the suite, I heard someone call my name. I turned around to see Mitzi, the receptionist, standing behind her counter and waving at me. She had an envelope in her hand.

“Blaine Dunhill, come here,” Mitzi ordered. She took her ever-present wad of gum from her mouth and dropped it into her wastebasket. By the time I reached her, she'd taken off her headset and walked around her counter.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

She threw her arms around me and wailed, “You're leaving!”

“I didn't know you cared,” I said, trying to keep my face passive as I extricated myself from her hug.

“You're taking Violet,” she blubbered.

“Oh, geez,” I muttered. “Mitzi, dry your eyes. You and Violet can always get together after work.”

“It won't be the same,” she sniffed. “She's already gone. She asked me to give you this envelope.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Okay, then, I'm out of here.”

“Tell Daniel hello,” Mitzi called as I made it to the doors again. This time I didn't turn around, just waved my hand and kept going. While I waited for the elevator, I opened the envelope to find a clipping of Lola Listeria's latest column. I groaned and started reading.

“Start spreading the news! There's a new kid in town!” If this was going to be an entire column of song lyrics . . . I read on, exasperated. “The always alluring—get it?—Lillith Parker will be relocating Lillith Allure's offices from that drab old building in Baltimore to lavish digs in our own Chelsea. Guess the glam face of Sheila Meyers is keeping them in the black, huh? Speaking of black, word has it that our fave supermodel is being considered for a role in the sequel to
Men in Black.
But she'll be wearing white come July, when she walks down the aisle to yummy photographer Josh Clinton. Or will she? Why do those rumors about Ms. Meyers and luscious suds star Daniel Stephenson keep bubbling up? The latest is that our gal refused to go on Howard Stern's show after his comment that Daniel is one Angus—get it?—who should be sent to the slaughterhouse posthaste. Surely the blond beauty knew the shock jock was talking about the soap character, not her longtime ‘friend,' Danny Boy.”

I rolled my eyes, fearing that the trip to Colorado with an angry model was not going to be, as Lola herself might have said, a Rocky Mountain high.

I
parked my rental car in the driveway of my parents' house, checking under the flowerpot where they kept the extra house key. Even though I was sure my mother was at home, I didn't know if she was mobile enough to answer the door.

I let myself in quietly, then looked around. I hadn't been in the house since my divorce from Sydney, but not much had changed. It was a great old house, five stories if I counted the basement and attic. It had been built in the 1920s, but my parents had made numerous upgrades in the forty-five years since they'd bought it as newlyweds. My bedroom, as well as my brothers', had been on the third floor. My parents' room and the guest room, along with a study and my mother's sitting room, were on the second floor. The first floor had a den, formal living and dining rooms, and an enormous kitchen with a breakfast nook and oversized pantries. After growing accustomed to the small residences of Manhattan, it amazed me that only two people inhabited so much space. I assumed my father thought the location, size, and maintenance of the house were signs of his success. Even though my mother had always had a maid, I knew she probably still supervised the housekeeping with her exacting demands for cleanliness and order.

I thought about the time Gretchen had rented
Mommie Dearest
for us to watch, and the way Daniel had snickered through Joan Crawford's obsessive cleaning scenes. He might not have found it so amusing if he'd grown up with it.

I wandered through the rooms, trying to find any sense of warmth in the expensive, tasteful furnishings, but all I felt was sadness. The house had never felt like a home, even during the days when my parents hadn't been disappointed in me. My brothers had been too much older to provide a sense of camaraderie; my father had been distant when he was home; and my mother had always treated me like she expected me to break something. At school, I'd never lacked for friends or dates. But every time I came through the back door, I felt like the entire weight of the house rested on my shoulders. Which was probably why I spent every moment I could at the Meyers house. Though Jake's parents were strict, they'd provided a fun, loving environment for him and Sheila, and they'd treated me like one of their own.

I turned from the custom-built cabinets where my mother's Wedgewood dishes were displayed when I heard someone coming from the kitchen. I wasn't sure who was more surprised, me or the woman who stopped short at the sight of a strange man in the house.

“I'm sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn't mean to startle you. I'm Blaine Dunhill.”

She smoothed her gray hair then said, “Grace Fields. You're Mrs. Dunhill's son?”

“Yes, and you're . . .”

“Her home healthcare worker. I should have recognized you. You look like your brother, Shane.”

“How's my mother?” I asked.

“She's doing well. She's probably awake; shall I tell her you're here?”

“Yes, please. I guess it's not a good idea to surprise someone who's just had heart surgery, is it?”

She didn't crack a smile, and I decided she and my mother must share the same lack of a sense of humor. It promised to be a fun visit. I waited downstairs until Grace returned.

“Your mother asked if you could give her about ten minutes,” she said, and I nodded. When she went back to the kitchen, I took the stairs to the third floor to look at my old bedroom.

Nothing was the same. My mother had a tendency to redecorate about every five years. The changes to my room started as soon as I went away to college, when my father had moved my sports trophies, ribbons, and awards to the display case at Dunhill Electrical. I'd never felt like that had much to do with his pride in my accomplishments, even though excelling in sports had been my way to seek his approval. Instead, my mementos provided conversation starters with prospective business associates and offered proof that he'd sired a “real” man. I wondered if, in the deepest recesses of his mind, my father suspected that I was gay, and that was why he had a need to authenticate that I'd actually been involved in what he saw as manly pursuits. Certainly I'd never gone hunting with him, as Wayne had, and I wasn't a chip off the old block, like Shane.

I thought about Shane's serial adultery, wondering if that was another way he was like my father. I'd never heard any rumors that my father was unfaithful. My mother wouldn't have acknowledged such a thing, much less discussed it with any of her sons.

I frowned; the last thing I wanted to think about was my parents' sex life, or lack thereof.

After one last look around to establish for myself that there really was nothing of mine left in the room, I went down one flight of stairs and knocked on my parents' bedroom door, walking in when I heard my mother's voice.

She was sitting up in bed, several books scattered around her. I kept my face blank as I bent to give her an awkward hug, noticing the titles:
Managing Chronic Pain, Mayo Clinic Family Handbook, Complete Home Medical Guide, The Pill Book, Everything You Need to Know Before You Call the Doctor.

I'd once attempted to explain my mother to Daniel, and he was a lot more sympathetic than I was. He saw hypochondria as my mother's terror about illness and aging. I tried to understand, but I had too many memories of the way she'd used her imaginary illnesses to avoid things. Not just disagreeable things, like arguments, but even those things that might have given us pleasure as a family, like holidays.

“This is a surprise,” my mother said, her tone making it sound like it wasn't a particularly welcome one, either.

“I'm on my way to Colorado for business. I wanted to see how you're doing,” I explained in a cheerful tone that I hoped didn't sound as forced as it was. I pulled a chair over and sat next to the bed, trying not to be too obvious as I scrutinized her. She didn't look like she'd had heart surgery only a few weeks before. In fact, she looked like the picture of good health and much younger than sixty-three.

“I suppose I'm as well as can be expected for someone in the shape I'm in. It's nice of you to show an interest.” I didn't know what to say to that, so I didn't answer. After a few moments, she said, “Your visit is timely. After the scare I've had, your father and I decided to make a few changes to our estate plan.”

“Mom, I don't need to know—”

“Of course, you still have your trust,” she went on, ignoring my interruption. “Your father has always kept that up for all three of you. If I predecease him, which seems likely, naturally everything goes to him. But we've made some changes to our bequests should both of us die.”

“You've cut me out of the will?” I asked, trying not to sound sarcastic.

“The business will go to your two brothers. Since you've never been part of it, your father is sure you'll understand why you won't have a third interest in it. We've set up our insurance policies so that money will go into trusts for the grandchildren. Of course, if you and Sydney had stayed married . . .”

I fought my urge to tell her that she was going to be a grandmother again. Gretchen and I were more than capable of providing financial security, and though it might be fun to watch my parents squirm over the details of the conception, I already felt protective of my baby. I could not foresee any circumstances that would cause me to bring the disparate parts of my life together.

“What about the house? The stuff that's in it?” I asked.

“That will be divided equally between Shane and Wayne.”

I gave a little laugh and said, “So you really have disinherited me. This is all because of my divorce?”

“You'll have your trust. It's not insubstantial. It's not as though you want the house. And you've never expressed any interest in our valuables. Your brothers have stayed in Eau Claire and helped your father's business thrive. A lot of what he and I have is because of their hard work. It only seems fair that they should be rewarded.”

“I'm not arguing with you, Mom. It's your money. Your stuff. Your business. Do whatever you want with it.” She shifted impatiently, and
The Pill Book
landed on the floor at my feet. I picked it up and decided to change the subject. “After your surgery, I started thinking about how many years you've suffered through so many illnesses. It doesn't seem like modern medicine has offered you much in the way of relief.”

“I've learned to live with it,” she answered in her stoic tone.

“Maybe you should try something different. In fact, I could get you all kinds of information from my boss. She's an expert on alternative healthcare,” I said, thinking that Lillith would faint from happiness if I asked her to help me gather information for my mother.

“I've been to an acupuncturist,” my mother said, her voice dropping as if she was confessing something shameful.

“Oh, that's just the surface,” I assured her. I found the idea of my mother delving into alternative healthcare very satisfying. She could probably spend a small fortune chasing down one remedy or another, which would make my father insane. But she also might find a little more compassion and acceptance than she had from the medical community.

“I liked the man who did the acupuncture,” my mother admitted. “I just don't think it was very effective.”

“I think those treatments have to be ongoing,” I said. “It's not a one-visit-fixes-all thing.”

“It's a shame you couldn't have been here yesterday,” she said, changing the subject. “But I suppose if this is just a detour on your business trip—”

“It's not just a . . .” I stopped myself, knowing it was pointless. “Why? What happened yesterday?”

“Sydney spent the afternoon with me.”

“Sydney?” I blurted. “I thought she was in Europe.”

“She's back. She came here, instead of going straight to Chicago, because she said she was worried about me.”

“Oh, please,” I muttered.

“I can't tell you how much I appreciate it,” my mother said, pretending she hadn't heard me, “that she makes such an effort to visit me. I remember when the two of you were married. She was like the daughter I never had. She treated me better than my own children ever did.”

I shut off my brain. Berating her children to me as if I was an uninvolved stranger was one of my mother's habits that upset me the most. I had long ago learned that there was no useful way to react. Assuring her of my love was as futile as arguing with her. All I could do was wait it out.

“She was like a breath of fresh air,” my mother went on. “Full of amusing stories about her travels. But I could tell something was troubling her. Other than my health, I mean. I finally convinced her to admit that she's having financial worries with her gallery. You know her own parents think it's a money pit, so I'm sure they won't help her. But I admire her for trying to be successful. I even offered to help her out, but she wouldn't hear of it.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, sure that it was only a matter of time until I got a call from Sydney asking me to bail her out again. Her visit to my mother was meant to remind me of the power she had over me.

“She's a courageous young woman. Not at all like most young people these days.” When I didn't respond, too wrapped up in trying to figure out how long I could dodge my ex-wife, my mother went on. “I guess it's our own fault. After our parents came through the Depression and a World War, they taught us to be frugal and responsible. We foolishly tried to protect our children from harsh realities and raised a selfish, careless generation who thinks only of its own pleasure.”

Before I could stop myself, I snapped, “Selfish? I can't speak for an entire generation, just my friends. We have a good time, and we probably do spend a lot of money to have comfortable lives, but I wouldn't say we think only of our own pleasure. My friend Daniel spent over ten years raising money for AIDS groups, even though he could barely make ends meet. Nobody bankrolled him. He took a break from that, but he still volunteers his time to Parks and Recreation in Manhattan, helping maintain green space in the city. Jake has been a Big Brother to a single-parent kid for six years. Sheila donates ten percent of her earnings to the American Foundation for AIDS Research. Another friend, Andy, volunteers his time and uses his nightclub to help raise money for Gay Men's Health Crisis. My friend Blythe pulls shifts every week for a group called God's Love We Deliver. She helps prepare and package foods for people with AIDS.”

I took a breath and stood up, refusing to look at her so that I couldn't see her reaction to what I'd said or if she was hearing everything that was remaining unsaid. Then I went on.

“Adam Wilson, the computer guy who contracts Dunhill Electrical on jobs? Most of the Web sites he designs donate valuable advertising space to not-for-profits of all kinds. A couple of other friends, Jeremy and Ethan, do community outreach to at-risk teens, trying to keep kids alive, off drugs, and out of gangs. And my friend Gretchen is amazing. There's nothing she won't do to help kids. From letting children impacted by AIDS use a resort she owns for summer camps, to donating her business expertise to pediatric AIDS groups, to rocking crack babies and AIDS babies in hospitals. One of her best friends, a television producer, did a documentary about women like Gretchen that aired on cable. It generated millions of dollars in donations. I don't know, Mom, call me crazy, but none of that sounds selfish to me.”

I finally looked at her. Her eyes were a little glazed over as she stared beyond me. I waited, wondering which of my comments had gotten through to her. I wanted her to ask questions. For the first time in my life, I was ready to give her honest answers.