On Grace (11 page)

That’s so not what I’m doing,
I think and log off of Facebook.
It was just a short, friendly, unsolicited exchange with Jake Doyle
, I convince myself.
So why are you blushing, Grace?
I can’t help myself so I Google Jake to see if there are any recent photos of him floating around. His Facebook profile photo is of a surfboard. There are a few listings of articles from art journals about his latest opening, and a search result that leads to his own website, which I click on. I’m taken aback by photos of his art—beautiful, vibrant, large-scale canvases in the abstract expressionist style, which is my favorite. And I’m even more taken aback by the photo I find of him. He’s standing on the beach, his dark hair is longish and blowing in the wind, and his face looks a bit weathered, but the unmistakable resemblance to Rob Lowe is still, most definitely, there.

The bottom line, though, is that Jake just gave me butterflies, and they feel really, really good. I haven’t gotten that feeling from Darren in quite a while. It’s not that I don’t love him; it has nothing to do with that. It’s just that butterflies fade as a relationship deepens. But what replaces that new-relationship glow is arguably even better: the patina of contentment, of safety, of knowing that the person you love is truly there for you physically, emotionally, forever.

I spend the afternoon working on my piece for Nicole. I decided to make it about starting a mindful meditation practice. The boys play DS, build Lego ships, and play baseball outside. Darren works for a while, and, later, joins the boys for batting practice. If someone like Lorna were watching us through binoculars, and I wouldn’t put it past her, we’d look like the picture of family bliss. Just goes to show that you have no idea what’s really going on inside anyone’s marriage by appearances alone.

When I sit down at my makeup mirror to get ready for my date, I gasp in surprise. One of the boys has been playing at my vanity again and turned my mirror to the 10x magnification side. Once a woman hits thirty-five, it’s rarely a good idea for her to look at her face magnified 10x—there’s absolutely nothing to gain—unless she has to pluck her eyebrows or squeeze her blackheads. I could join the ranks of my peers booking Botox appointments, getting fillers injected into their frown lines, and opting for plastic surgery on their lips, chins, eyelids, eyebrows, and cheeks. But I don’t really mind how I look. At least not yet. At regular magnification. I won’t say I’ll never call a plastic surgeon, but I hope that when I do start minding how I look, I will be old and wise enough to feel like the wrinkles give me a sort of street cred, that I’ll not succumb to the trend of making fifty- and sixty-year-olds look like weird, molded twenty-year-olds. Or, for that matter, like the cast of
The Hills
.

I opt for a pair of flattering, dark-rinse jeans, an off-the-shoulder sheer black blouse with a black camisole underneath, and strappy black wedges. After going back and forth about it, I decide to wear the necklace Darren gave me for our ten-year anniversary: a sapphire heart rimmed in diamonds on a gold chain. I check myself out in the mirror. It had never crossed my mind before that Darren would consider a younger, sexier, skinnier version of me. But that’s all changed. I know he loves me for who I am right now, but I can’t help thinking that if my man strayed once, my man could stray again, and I may have to work a bit harder to keep that from happening. I wouldn’t be the first woman to do so.

Darren takes me to Moderne Barn in Armonk. The restaurant has a great New York City vibe and it’s packed with a chic crowd. I love the decor of the dining room, which is lined with Roberto Dutesco’s stunning and evocative, oversize, black-and-white photographs of wild horses. I’m happy I decided to accept Darren’s invitation.

After we’re seated and order drinks, a scotch for Darren and a glass of chardonnay for me, I excuse myself to the ladies’ room.

“Hi, Grace,” a woman says as I open the door.

I turn to see Margaret White, the HR Director who had so unceremoniously canned me from the
Westchester Weekly,
applying lip gloss.

“Hi, Margaret, how are you?” I ask. She’s wearing a little, emphasis on
little
, black dress and black stilettos. She pulls them both off quite well. Her dark hair hangs pin-straight to her shoulders, and her legs are tanned and toned. She is as beautiful as I remember.

“I’ve been better,” she says with a small smile. “I worked for the
Weekly
for nine years. It’s hard being on the job market again.” She turns back to her reflection and continues with the lip gloss.

“I’m so sorry. I still can’t believe that Matthew sold the company. I thought it was doing so well.”

Margaret looks under the bathroom stall doors, and when she confirms we’re alone, she leans into me and says, “Can you keep a secret?”

“Yes,” I say, leaning in with anticipation, despite the strong smell of alcohol on her breath.

“Matthew didn’t sell the company,” and here her voice gets sharp. “His ex-fucking wife, pardon my French, got her goddamn lawyer to take him for everything he had, including their house in Rye, their house in Aspen, and his magazine.”

“So Monique owns the magazine?” I’m a little confused, and Margaret seems particularly emotional about this whole thing. But she did lose her job and all, so I guess that makes sense.

“For now, I guess. But the goddamn bitch will probably sell the name and the holdings. She won’t even get that much money for it. She just closed the magazine out of spite because Matthew fell in love with someone else, and she couldn’t handle the humiliation.”

“Wow, I don’t even know what to say.” I guess Ellen Statler’s account of the affair was true after all.

“Anyway, you didn’t hear it from me. But it was good to see you, Grace. Good luck with everything. I better get back.” She sticks her lip gloss in her clutch, takes one final glance in the mirror, and turns to leave.

“Thanks, Margaret. Good luck to you, too.”

When I get back to the table, I tell Darren about what just went down in the bathroom.

“That’s a coincidence. While you were in there, I was looking around, and I could have sworn I saw Matthew O’Donnell at the bar.” Darren takes a sip of his scotch and gestures toward the enormous bar that lines the entire right side of the restaurant.

I follow his gaze and am shocked when I see Matthew sitting at the bar talking, and laughing, and, whoa, now kissing a woman with pin-straight dark hair and a little black dress.

“Well, that explains everything, I guess.” I say this with a stilted laugh as I take a sip of my chardonnay.

“Cheers,” Darren says. “I would like to make a toast.”

I tilt my glass toward his and he continues.

“I know that I dropped a bomb on you Tuesday night.”

“To say the least,” I say.

“Okay, let’s change that to an atomic bomb,” Darren says regretfully.

“Let’s.”

“And I just want to thank you for being here with me tonight, for hearing me out, for being fair,” he pauses, “and graceful.” He smiles. “Thank you for realizing that I love you, and for giving me another chance.” He clinks his glass against mine and starts to take a sip of his scotch.

“I will drink to all of that, except the part about giving you another chance. I haven’t quite made up my mind on that one yet,” I say seriously.

Tears well up again in Darren’s eyes as he lifts his glass in the air again and says, “Well, then, let’s toast to hope.”

I decide that is a perfect thing to toast to, and I clink his glass and take a long, satisfying sip of my wine. I’m looking forward to it taking the edge off of what has been a stressful week.

When our waiter comes around, I order the Caesar salad and almond-crusted cod, and Darren orders the beet and goat cheese salad and hanger steak. Darren also orders a side of the rosemary sea salt fries because he knows I love them. Again, got to give the guy props for trying so hard.

“You look really pretty tonight,” Darren says, staring into my eyes.

“Thanks,” I say, a bit sarcastically.

“Why do you say it like that?” he asks, spreading butter on the bread the busboy just brought us.

“Because, you don’t often tell me I look pretty, so when you do, I feel like you have an agenda.”

“I do, too, tell you you look pretty.”

“Not so much.”

“Well, whether I say it or not, I always
think
you look pretty. I always have.”

“Did you do it because of the butterflies?” I ask him, and I feel the warmth of the wine spreading through my body. It’s a welcome feeling.

“What do you mean?” he asks, straightening up a bit.

“I mean, did you sleep with the cocktail waitress because being with someone new gave you the butterflies? Did she make you feel attractive in a way that doesn’t happen anymore when you’ve been married for ten years?” It’s a bold question, but it gets to the heart.

“I’m not sure. Maybe. I hadn’t really thought about it like that before.”

“Do you ever long for the excitement of a new relationship? The butterflies?”

“Do you?” he asks me as he creases his brow in a worried look.

“I asked you first.” I take a bite of bread. I was going to try not to eat bread tonight, but the wine eliminated my willpower.

“No.”

Good answer.

He continues, “When I met you, Grace, I was done with dating girls I didn’t see a future with. I was looking for a lasting relationship. I’m not interested in someone new just to have that feeling that never lasts anyway. I like what we have. It’s better.”

“Do you remember the movie
It’s Complicated
?
”
I ask, as the waiter brings our first course.

“Sure, with Meryl Streep and Billy Baldwin.”

“Alec,” I say laughing. “You never could get those Baldwin brothers straight.”

He laughs and takes a bite of his salad, “Yum, you want a taste?”

“No, thank you. Anyway, Alec Baldwin leaves his wife and goes off for the hot, young thing and then realizes that he really misses the familiarity of his marriage and the maturity of his wife. He realizes that even though what he and Meryl had wasn’t ‘exciting’ anymore,” (I use my hands to make quotes in the air for emphasis), “what they had was even better. A lot of movies show men leaving their wives, but not too many show that the grass, though possibly better landscaped, is not always greener. Plus, what is new and exciting with the replacement woman will fade at some point anyway.”

“Grace, I’m not interested in finding someone new. I’m interested in doing whatever I need to do to stay with you.”

“I just wish you had thought of that before you seduced your cocktail waitress,” I say, with the intention to sting.

“C’mon, that’s not fair,” Darren says sharply.

“Really, since when did fairness become part of this situation?”

“I thought you were trying here, Grace.”

Seriously? Now I’m pissed.

“Darren, I’m sorry if you haven’t noticed, but I’m trying really hard. I’m trying to sit here calmly when all I really want to do is punch you in the face. I’m trying not to tell the kids that their father fucked up, literally, and that now I have to forgive him or else they will grow up without a dad in their house. I’m trying to give you the benefit of the doubt because you keep telling me that you love me. And all the while I’m doing all this trying so that
you’ll
be happy, I’m making myself absolutely crazy,” I say, with obvious frustration in my voice.

“I know,” he says.

“No, you don’t know. Because you’re not in my shoes right now. If you were, you’d know how damn much they hurt.”

I flag down the waiter and order another glass of wine. Darren gets up to go to the bathroom, prompting a much-needed time-out. While he’s gone, my wine comes, and I take a few big sips. I just want to get out of my head. I decide to back off and just get through the rest of dinner. When Darren returns, we talk more about us, calmly. We talk about my job. We talk about the kids. We share a tiramisu. We even laugh a little. And when we get home, we make love. My wine-impaired brain convinces me that being intimate will make me feel closer to him. Afterward, he holds me and tells me he loves me. But when that part is over and we separate to our own sides of the bed, I turn away from him and quietly cry myself to sleep.

The rest of the weekend passes uneventfully. We go to the movies with the boys on Sunday, and then Darren takes them to the market. Later, as Darren prepares his weekly Italian feast, the boys get their last fix of screens, and I put the finishing touches on my assignment. I’m not sure if it’s going to get me the job, but I think it’s pretty good. I’ve also made a list of ten ideas for additional articles. I print out the article, the ideas list, and my resume and put them neatly in a folder and then into my purse. I take another quick glance at the website to make sure I’m well versed in the company, and then head downstairs where Darren is carefully layering his lasagna and belting out
The Barber of Seville
.

On Monday, I arrive at Nicole Winters’s office ten minutes early. My heart is beating wildly, but I’m not sure if I’m nervous or excited. Probably both. After I apply lipstick and recheck that the folder is in my purse, I head into the office building. It’s a small two-story building on one of Armonk’s side streets, not far from the Moderne Barn. I fantasize about staff lunches and after-work drinks at the bar.

The lobby directory shows a mix of small businesses: an interior designer, a landscape architect, a speech therapist. I head to
Well in Westchester
’s office and knock on the door.

“Come in!”

I open the door slowly, and there’s a forty-something woman with an ill-fitting suit and an out-of-date hairstyle standing in front of me.

“Grace May?” she asks curtly.

“Yes,” I reply, wondering what I could have done in that one second to possibly offend her.

“Nicole said you’d be coming. She ran out to get a coffee. Why don’t you sit right there? She’ll be back in a minute.” She gives me the once-over and gestures to a small conference table against the left wall of the large room.