Love and Miss Communication (18 page)

“You’re my best daddy,” Olivia said. The pure love and free exchange of affection between father and daughter was enough to make Evie crumble.

“Well, I better get her face cleaned up before we get caught,” he said, gesturing toward the sticky layer of pink sugar stretched across Olivia’s cheeks. Evie was sad to see them go. She happily
would have chatted with them longer, let anyone passing by think the three of them were actually the perfect little family.

“I’m not done with my lolli yet, Daddy!” Olivia exclaimed. She looked at Evie. “Are you a teacher here? I love my teachers. Yesterday I got three stars in school because I was the best at cleanup.”

“Mommy forgot to tell me that last night,” Dr. Gold said, looking at his daughter, who had settled herself on the bench where Evie had been sitting previously. She was blowing air into her cheeks like a blowfish.

“Nope, I’m not a teacher. I’m a lawyer. I’ll let your daddy explain what that is. It’s not nearly as cool as being a doctor. Or a teacher.” Turning to Dr. Gold she said, “I know you’ve got to get to your interview. It was nice to run into you. I’ll see you next week for the surgery Dr. Gold.”

“Please, it’s Edward. It was good to see you too,” he said. She thought she saw him look her over approvingly, and she was grateful that she had on one of her Eleanor-inspired outfits today. He didn’t know she was mimicking a sixteen-year-old.

“Bye, Olivia,” Evie said, wishing she had a little toy or something to give her.

“Cheerio,” she responded, full-on British schoolchild. She hopped off the bench and started to gallop down the street, pulling her father along with her, leaving Evie to wonder what the story behind that accent was.

Dr. Gold turned back to wave to her as he was dragged away. Evie gave him a sultry smile that was not an altogether appropriate way to communicate with a married man being led away by his child. She stood quietly watching their figures get smaller as they walked hand in hand down the street.

“Excuse me. I think you may have left your bag on that
bench—or someone did.” A middle-aged woman with a wild streak of white hair running through a jet-black bob tapped Evie on her arm, breaking her steady concentration on the retreating figures of Dr. Gold and his daughter.

“What?” Evie asked.

“Your bag,” the woman said, pointing to Evie’s tote, which in fact she had left unattended on the bench.

“Oh, yes, thank you. I was distracted.”

“You’re welcome,” the woman said. She looked vaguely familiar to Evie. Maybe she was a Brighton parent and they’d seen each other in the hallway?

“I’m just glad you didn’t leave it behind. I carry my entire life around in my bag.” She lifted her weighty red leather satchel for Evie to see the overflowing papers inside.

That’s how she knew her! In the bag, Evie spied dozens of brochures from Allman-White, one of the city’s top real estate brokerage firms. This woman, with the unmistakable skunklike hair, was the broker for the apartment Evie had been drooling over online.

“You’re the broker for that one-bedroom on West Sixty-Sixth Street, aren’t you?” Evie asked. “I remember your picture from the listing.”

“That’s me. Emmeline Fields, at your service. Were you interested in seeing the apartment? The owners have just reduced the price by five percent.” She produced a business card from her wallet and placed it in Evie’s hand. “This is definitely a buyer’s market.”

“Oh, um, not really anymore. I had been considering it a while ago.”

“Well, I’m doing another open house on Sunday, so please come by. For the free bagels, if nothing else. Take a show sheet. It has all the information you need.” Emmeline placed the pamphlet directly into Evie’s tote bag so she couldn’t even protest.

“Thanks, but I don’t think I’m going to be able to come,” Evie said, feeling uncomfortable. She tried her best not to look at the brochure in her hand, but the photo of the streaming sunlight pouring in through the southern exposure windows in the living room was irresistible.

“You know what’s better than sex?” Emmeline asked.

“Uh, no. What?”

“Manhattan real estate. See you Sunday.”

It was only a matter of days before the details of the teenage drama Evie witnessed outside the school office unraveled. Evie ventured into the Klieger Teachers’ Lounge, no doubt named for Eleanor’s family, after she discovered with disappointment that the outdoor bench she favored had been sold earlier that morning. She overheard a few middle-aged teachers discussing the rift between Eleanor and Jamie. They were so engrossed in the gossip nobody even looked up when Evie entered and settled herself at an empty table with her lunch bag.

“Apparently, someone put a photo on Facebook
of a Labor Day Hamptons barbecue at the Matthews place in Montauk, right on the ocean, and you can see Jamie in the background kissing another girl. I heard she goes to boarding school in Switzerland and her family was staying with the Matthewses. This was while Eleanor was away with her family in St. Tropez.” The teacher who was speaking, a haughty-looking woman Evie recognized from the day of her interview, appeared tickled to have the scoop. Peddling teenage dirt, she didn’t seem quite as intimidating as she had a few weeks ago.

“So are they breaking up?” another teacher, dressed in a dowdy navy skirt and ill-fitting floral blouse, asked breathlessly, as though the outcome of Jamie and Eleanor’s relationship might have even the slightest impact on her life. The other teachers huddled in closer.

The teacher with the inside track spoke again.

“Well, apparently Jamie is trying to claim that this all happened the summer before, and now Eleanor’s friends have been Skyping with some kids they know in Europe who go to school with this mystery Swiss girl to determine if he’s telling the truth.”

Evie was simultaneously intrigued and shocked. Eleanor and Jamie were good-looking enough to warrant attention for sheer attractiveness, let alone their social standing. But to see these teachers discussing their students’ personal lives with lust was still uncomfortable. Was it possible that her teachers at Pikesville High, like Mr. Londino or Ms. Robidoux the French teacher with the permanent runs in her stockings, chatted about Evie and her friends during their free periods? Probably not. The Manhattan teens provided far more interesting fodder.

A man who had been sitting one table over rose to join the group. Evie knew from studying the yearbook she had found in the office that he was Mr. Molinetto, the physics teacher. He was
a nerd from central casting, with Coke bottle glasses and a faded short-sleeved button-down adorned with a polyester brown tie.

“It’s from this summer,” he said authoritatively and waited for all the teachers to give him their full attention. “One of the students left their Facebook account open in the library, so I took a look. You can see a guesthouse if you look closely at the photograph. I distinctly remember that just last December Jamie’s family was involved in a lawsuit with their neighbor over the construction of a guesthouse. Apparently the neighbor claimed the additional structure on the Matthews property would interfere with the sound of the waves crashing. It was covered in all the Hamptons blogs.”

Which you follow? Evie questioned, stifling a sharp wince.

The other teachers looked at Molinetto in awe. They were obviously impressed with his detective skills and didn’t seem remotely troubled that he had looked at a student’s Facebook photos.

“Then it’s settled. He did cheat on her,” one of the teachers said emphatically. “The only question is how long it will take Eleanor to prove it. It’s probably best they break up anyway. If they ever got married, it’d be sure to violate antitrust laws.”

“Oh, she’ll figure it out soon enough,” another teacher said. “There are no secrets on the Internet.”

With that sentiment, Evie could strongly agree.

# # #

A few days later, Paul’s number flashed on her cell phone as she was walking toward Bette’s apartment after work. Bette’s surgery was scheduled for the next morning, and Evie was feeling thoroughly nauseated. So much was riding on whether the cancer had spread, not to mention that the surgery itself had many attendant risks. It was difficult to sleep, difficult to eat, and certainly
difficult to concentrate at work. As much as Evie was dreading the next day, she also couldn’t wait for it to pass already.

“Where were you last night?” Paul demanded when she answered.

“I was in pajamas watching TV. Where were you?”

“I was at Caroline’s place, with everyone else, celebrating Annabel’s engagement. I was hoping to set up the dinner plans we talked about. Why didn’t you come?”

Annabel was Jerome’s daughter from his first marriage. Evie had only met her a few times. She knew Caroline liked her well enough. Things were awkward between them in the beginning because they were only five years apart, but after some missteps they decided to embrace the weirdness and become friends.

“Oh shit. I don’t even remember getting an invitation. I wish Caroline had reminded me.”

“There was no invitation. This isn’t her real engagement party. It was just a little impromptu thing to celebrate, since her fiancé just proposed this week. Caroline e-mailed everyone about it with details. She wanted us all to be there because Annabel’s mom was coming and she needed protection.”

So that’s what things had come down to. How many other things had she missed because she hadn’t been checking e-mail or responding to Facebook invites? Her own closest friends couldn’t even remember to call her for a party. No wonder she’d been sitting home alone so much the past few months.

“Anyway,” Paul went on, “you missed my big announcement.”

“What’s that?” she asked, not actually that curious.

“Marco and I are having a baby!” he shrieked into the phone.

“What?” Despite the noise of the traffic whizzing by, she could swear she heard her eggs, nestled inside her aging ovaries, crack open. And she barely had enough good ones left to spare.

“You’re going to be an honorary aunt. How excited are you?”

Not as much as I should be.

“You there?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m here. That’s great news. But how?” It was the best response she could muster. Her voice had a thinness she couldn’t mask.

“Well, obviously we were dying to become parents. So we started researching. And we found this group of women in Alabama, of all places, that are willing to be surrogates for couples trying to conceive. They’re called the Belly Bringers. Isn’t that name brilliant?”

“Brilliant,” Evie responded, enthusiasm wanting. Paul didn’t seem to notice.

“So, basically, we flew down to see Ann, our Belly Bringer, last spring to deliver our sperm to her. It took, and she’s due in late January. We didn’t want to say anything until after the wedding and when we were sure the baby was healthy. Anyway, she got injected with both of our sperm, so we will never know which one of us is the biological father.”

Evie pictured Paul, skinny, tall, and pale, and Marco, shorter, muscular, and dark. She didn’t think the baby’s real daddy would be quite the mystery that Paul imagined.

“So what do you think? Amazing, right?”

Evie knew exactly what she should say. She should tell her friend, who had never been anything other than kind to her, that she was thrilled for him. That he’d make an excellent father. That the baby was lucky to have him and Marco as dads. That she couldn’t wait to play with the little cutie and buy him or her tiny socks. That she might even take up knitting to celebrate the arrival of this glorious child. But she couldn’t find a way to bring those words from her brain to her mouth. So instead, she said something quite different.

“Don’t you think you’re kind of rushing into this? You just got married. Don’t you want to enjoy the child-free life a little?” She didn’t offer Paul a chance to defend himself. “Listen, forget I said that. I’m so happy for you guys. Honestly, congrats. But I’m on my way to visit my grandma so I can’t really talk. I’ll call you back.”

She walked the rest of the way down to see Bette in a huff, aggrieved by the pedestrians too busy texting to walk a straight line. Paul and Marco didn’t even have biological clocks to worry about, so why were they in such a damn hurry?

She dialed Caroline from the base of Bette’s building on the pretense of asking about Annabel’s party. Mostly she wanted to know if Caroline thought Paul’s baby news was as absurd as she did. He and Marco had been married for approximately ten minutes. After a dash of small talk about Pippa’s ballet recital, Evie asked about the engagement party oversight.

“I feel terrible about that, I really do. But honestly, it was such a last-minute thing—I didn’t even remember that you don’t have a computer anymore. It was just a small gathering anyway. You didn’t miss anything. There was no one there worth meeting.”

“I do leave the house for reasons other than to meet a guy, you know,” Evie said hotly.

“Of course you do. That came out wrong. I just mean it was the same old crowd. You would have been bored.”

“Well, was Harry there? The guy you were going to set me up with?” She tried to sound casual and breezy. “I never heard from him.”

Caroline’s mind churned audibly into the phone, click click click.

“Oh, sorry ’bout that. I think he’s back with his ex-lady now. That’s what I’m hearin’ from Jerome.” There was the Texas twang. Enough said.

“Care, tell me the truth. Why didn’t he call me?”

“I told you, back with an ex. Some long-distance somethin’ or other,” Caroline said, sticking to her story like an alibi.

“Care, it’s me. I can take it. You’ll be helping me by telling me the truth.” Evie hoped Caroline wouldn’t parse that argument, since it wasn’t clear how it would help her at all.

“Fine,” Caroline capitulated. “But it’s ridiculous.”

Evie heard high-pitched crying in the background. The cause, from what she could hear through the phone, was a lost princess costume. In the time it took Caroline to soothe her crying toddler by promising to replace the Cinderella outfit first thing tomorrow, Evie thought she would burst from a mixture of dread and curiosity.

“Okay, I’m back. Pippa is a hysteric. She could be your daughter,” Caroline said, chuckling. “Anyway, I’ll tell you, but you can’t take this seriously. He found some picture of you online and then asked how old you were. I guess he thought you were younger.”

Evie was equal parts incredulous and indignant.

“You and I are the same age!”

“I know that. I guess he didn’t realize how old I was either. I swear I was too mad on your behalf to even be flattered. It’s stupid. He’s stupid.”

Evie pictured Caroline’s line-free smile and taut body, her platinum hair and wrinkle-free lids. The skin probably came from some high-priced dermatologist pumping rat poison into her and the body was the result of seven days a week of SoulCycle, but nevertheless, the results were age-defying good.

“So he thought you were like twenty-something and then saw my ugly mug and decided he better check my birth certificate?”

“Evie, stop. These finance types like dumb young models. Forget him.”

“Forget the guy who thinks I need a walker? Gladly.”

They went back and forth until Caroline offered to put Jerome on the phone to assure her of her youthful looks, which Evie declined before hanging up. She was no longer in the mood to dissect Paul and Marco’s news.

Which picture of her was it that sent Harry running for cover? She was desperate to find it and call Google headquarters to demand its immediate removal. But she was powerless. Not that she’d even know which photo of hers he had found so unappealing. Even though she had quit the web, the goddamn Information Age was still killing her love life.

Her phone rang a minute after she hung up. It was Caroline calling back.

“I know you’re annoyed right now, but I wanted to mention that Annabel met her fiancé on OkCupid. He’s a statistics professor at NYU. And pretty cute,” Caroline said. “There’s really nothing taboo about online dating. Maybe you ought to give that a try again.”

“Well you can tell him, and Annabel, that based on my experience, I believe it is ‘statistically’ impossible that I will find someone online,” Evie said. “I’m too preoccupied with my grandma to date right now anyway.”

“All right, I was just suggesting. Did Paul tell you his great news yet? About the baby? Gracie and Pippa are going to be so excited to have a little baby to play with.”

“Yes, yes. It’s thrilling all right. Listen, I’m gonna hang up,” Evie said, ending the call abruptly. Obviously Caroline did not share her reservations about the new baby. She leaned her head back against the exterior of the building and closed her eyes, letting the harshness of the bricks massage her skull. She did not share Annabel’s luck in the cyber-dating complex. A month after her breakup with Jack, when she found herself still dreaming of
his creamy sauces and succulent desserts, she made a date with someone whose profile listed his occupation as “culinary industry.” He was, in fact, a busboy at Katz’s Delicatessen on Houston Street. To say he was a poor-man’s Jack was the understatement of the century.

“Waiting for someone?”

Evie opened her eyes and saw Edward Gold, dressed in his white coat and khakis, peering down at her.

“No, no,” Evie said quickly. “I was just making some phone calls before going up to see Bette.”

To her surprise, Edward settled himself down on the curb next to her.

“Well, then I hope it’s okay if I join you. I’ve got my dinner in here,” he said, lifting a white plastic bag. “I just finished meeting with one of my research assistants at the office and I’m starving.”

He pulled out a Styrofoam container of piping hot Chinese food. It smelled heavenly. Evie was sure it was from one of the sketchy-looking places around the hospital where she would never eat.

“Of course not,” Evie said, secretly thrilled. Since their encounter near Brighton, Edward had been on her mind more than she liked to admit. She found herself bringing him up in conversation, telling Bette how precious his daughter was, and mentioning to Tracy that he was applying to Brighton.

“Want some?” Edward asked, holding lo mein noodles under her nose with his chopsticks.