Results May Vary (26 page)

“Good grief, jealous of me? What on earth for?”

She lowered her chin and peered at me from under her brow. “You really have no idea?”

“I really don't. You and I were pretty similar, if you think about it.”

“Yeah, except that you were perfect. You had this great boyfriend who adored you and this gorgeous friend who obviously also adored you—”

“Mmm,” I said, as I poured the hot water for the cocoa into our waiting mugs. “As I'm sure you heard me tell Farren earlier, Adam and I are getting divorced. He cheated on me for months, and lied to me about all kinds of stuff. Even back in college he was lying.” It was odd to remember there had been a time when I was embarrassed to tell her about it. By now, the thought of trying to hide it made me uneasy. It was my life, and I had to own it. Otherwise, I was no better than Adam.

“Oh, wow. That's horrible. I am so sorry to hear that. Really.”

“And Jonathan and I still do not want to screw each other.”

“I don't know what's wrong with you,” she said, with a flicker of humor. Lord, even Diana was one of the legions. “But that was only part of it. You just came off like you had everything all lined up and the waters were going to part on command for you. It drove me nuts. I like you now, though,” she added, from behind her cocoa mug.

“Oh, thank you, Diana,” I said tartly, before I remembered who I was talking to.

“Hey, you asked,” she said, palms spread wide.

“I did. I most certainly did.” I circled the island to sit next to her, then realized I'd unconsciously mimicked her elbows-on-counter posture. It made me feel like we were two old cronies at a bar, trading stories. “You know what, though—Adam made that same comment recently. In the middle of the breakup. He'd been doing all this great writing without telling me, because he thought I'd think it was beneath him, and he said the reason why was because I wouldn't understand uncertainty…or the concept of someone changing their mind about what they want. I don't know what I did to give the impression that I'm so rigid.”

“Not rigid, really, just…smooth. Bumpless.”

“Now you're making me sound like a shaving cream ad,” I said, and she laughed. “I guess I'm not exactly bumpless anymore, though.”

She took a long sip of her cocoa, both hands wrapped around the mug. “That's not always a bad thing.”

“No,” I said. “It is not always a bad thing at all.”

From Adam himself, it was still silence. Several times a day, I considered calling him, but set my phone down every time. The truth was, my instinct told me he wasn't ignoring me to be childish. He was either developing the tactics for his very last stand, or—what felt, finally, and astonishingly, like the most likely thing—he was having the papers reviewed as a prelude to signing them. Either way, I figured I could leave him alone a little while longer.

Three days after the visit with Farren, I returned from my lunch break to find an envelope on my desk. For an instant my heart vaulted into my chest at the thought that it might be Adam's papers, but of course he wouldn't have sent them here. The envelope was from Crush, Inc., and I knew what it was by the weight of it. With shaking fingers, I tore it open.

And then I stared. My eyes skipped all over the page, not comprehending the notes scribbled on it. Scrawled in silver marker though they were, the marks didn't change or disappear, no matter how long I looked at them. Neither did the smaller, lighter piece of paper that had slipped out of the envelope along with the menu.

I needed another pair of eyes. In a haze, I walked the now-familiar route to Neil's office…and found it empty. A bolt of pain shot through me at the sight of that empty chair, but I sucked in a deep breath and reminded myself that the only reason I hadn't spent last night sleeping with the man's lovely arm around my waist was my own decision. Not a decision that made me feel good, but still the right one.

“It's pretty shocking I haven't killed that plant yet, huh?” said Neil. From right behind me.

Startled, I turned to face him, my mouth opening and closing pointlessly.

“Care. Can I come into my office, please?”

I shuffled aside as he circled his desk and sat down. He was wearing a fitted white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms, and it made him look professional and competent and sophisticated and, frankly, offensively hot. How on earth could there ever have been a time when I hadn't noticed him?

“So, what can I do for you?” He swiveled his desk chair to the side, one ankle on the opposite knee.

And, finally, I remembered why I was there. Mutely, I set the envelope on his desk and shoved it toward him.

His eyebrows climbed higher and higher as he read, then he dropped the menu card on his desk and looked up.

“Holy shit,” said my professional, competent, sophisticated colleague. “Holy
shit.
All of it?”

Afraid to speak in case it woke me up from a dream, I nodded.

“All of it. Even Farren!”

“Of course Farren,” I snapped, ignoring the tiny flash of humor that curled Neil's lips before it vanished. “Diana loved her. Because she's amazing.”

“This is awesome, Care. Absolutely awesome. I never expected that she would come through with this much.”

“I never expected that she would come through at all,” I confessed. “Before she called to ask about meeting Farren, I'd pretty much given up on her.”

“Well, you were right that she was interested in the craftsmanship aspect. You nailed it.”

I shifted my weight on my feet, not wanting to leave yet but not able to think of a decent reason to stay. “Okay, so I guess…you know what to do with that check. Do we send her some flowers or something to thank her?”

“Sure. Yeah.”

“And maybe Farren will make her a small piece.”

“Yes. By all means ask her.”

“Or, hell, I'll give her mine.”

“I don't imagine you'll have to do that,” he said, with a quiet smile.

For a long moment, we just stared at each other. I felt like I was waiting for him to say something, and he seemed to be waiting for
me
to say something, but there were no more words to be said. I'd been right to end things between us, and we both knew it.

“Well, anyway,” I mumbled, “I guess I better get back to work. If I can make myself concentrate instead of floating around my office the rest of the afternoon.”

“No kidding,” he said. “Good luck with that.”

I lingered in his doorway another few moments, just to push it extra far beyond the point of awkwardness, but right as I finally turned to go, I heard him call my name. Instantly I popped my head back into the doorway.

“Yeah?”

“Fantastic job,” he said, smiling. I waited another second or two.

But that was all he had to say.

All I care about—honest to God—is that you are happy and I don't much care who you'll find happiness with. I mean as long as he's a friendly bloke and treats you nice and kind. If he doesn't I'll come at him with a hammer and clinker.

—Richard Burton to Elizabeth Taylor, June 25, 1973

There was a certain kind of winter evening that I loved, but which had mostly always proved elusive to me among the demands of work events, family, social life, and Adam's perpetual restlessness. But, in the stillness of Adam's absence, I was free to make these evenings, as often as I liked, and so I had been. It was the best way I knew to carve something out of my loneliness that I enjoyed.

When I got home from work, I would change into my favorite cashmere sweatpants (a gift from Adam, but somehow, I didn't mind anymore), my red shearling slippers that Ruby had given me that Adam teased me about, and my enormous fifteen-year-old Williams sweatshirt that both Ruby and Adam deplored. I would pour a glass of inexpensive Hudson Valley Cabernet that Neil had stumbled on during one of his stab-in-the-dark wine purchases, which I enjoyed in defiance of Adam's long-standing “Anything under fifty dollars is vinegar” guideline. I'd put on some quiet music, set a fire in the woodstove, and curl into the corner of the couch with a book in my hand and my favorite blanket draped over my lap. The blanket was a fuzzy wool plaid whose rich colors reminded me of that time in the fall when all the leaves are down but the snow hasn't come yet: acorn brown and pine needle green and the purple-gray of naked branches.

Sometimes I'd read, but often I'd find myself staring into the fire, mesmerized by its flickering glow and perfectly happy to be that way. If it was snowing, which it seemed to do every couple of days at this time of year, sometimes I'd just stare outside, past the pale reflection of my face, and watch the flakes drift in and out of the spill of light from the window.

It was an evening like this in early February, when I had a fresh glass of wine and a brand-new novel with a beautifully gowned historical lady on the cover, when I heard the thump of a car door outside. There was a hurried stomp of feet up the porch steps, a hesitant knock on the door, and then, as I rounded the corner to the front hallway, I saw him through the narrow windows that flanked the front door—Adam.

When our eyes met, he gave me a sad, one-sided smile, and the kind of wave that's just a lifted palm.
Hi. I used to live here with you. It's cold out, would you let me in?

“Hey,” I said, as he unzipped his coat and kicked the snow from his sneakers onto the sturdy gray welcome mat. Sneakers, in February. Adam never really did give in to the demands of the winters up here. “How come you didn't tell me you were coming? I would have made sure I was here.”

He shrugged, not looking at me. “I wasn't sure you would see me. I guess I could have just mailed it, but…”

My eyes flicked to the leather messenger bag he had set on the floor. So this was it, then.

“No,” I said, my lips trembling with the urge to cry. “No, I'm glad you're here.”

He hesitated, and I realized he was staring at his shoes. If he lived here, he would have kicked them off already, knowing how I hated having dirty melted snow tracked across my hardwood floors. But it felt too casual to him, now, stripping down to his socks. Too familiar. It was the dumbest little thing. I never would have guessed a pair of sneakers could break my heart.

“Adam, you can take off your shoes,” I said. And then I turned away before I started crying.

In the kitchen, I turned the heat back up on the Dutch oven I'd left to cool on the stove. “I made a braised pork shoulder,” I called, as if he were a normal husband home from a late day at the office. “It was pretty good, you want some?”

“Nah,” he said, from the other side of the island. “I grabbed something along the way.”

I had no idea whether this was true or not, but I wasn't surprised he didn't fancy a nice cozy home-cooked meal. I turned the stove back off. “Some wine, though?”

“Sure,” he said automatically.

I poured him a glass. He didn't comment on the label. When he took a sip, he didn't wince. And I didn't make a comment about it. Sometimes, it was so much easier to let things go.

“Do you want to go sit down?” I said, and he nodded.

“Ella Fitzgerald, huh?” he said, briefly lifting up my iPod as he settled into the couch—his usual end of the couch. “Since when do you listen to jazz?”

Suddenly I remembered that I'd mentioned Neil to Adam that night in Vegas, as a weapon. As an angry, drunken brag. I hated that I'd cheapened my relationship with Neil like that. “My friend introduced me to her.”

“Your friend?” Adam said, the faintest pause between the two words. Asking the question as if he hadn't known the moment I said it. Adam knew all of my friends; I would have referred to them by name.

“The guy I was seeing,” I said. “Who is still my friend.”

The muscles worked around his mouth, but he kept silent. I watched him swallow it down, all of it, drop by drop. I watched him look around, absorbing the fact that I'd spent time with someone else in this house, cooked and dined and laughed with someone else, made love with someone else—under the roof that was supposed to be ours.

For a long time, Ella's wistful voice was the only sound between us. A log shifted in the fire. Adam took a deep sip of wine, and I heard the noise his throat made.

“You were partly right, you know,” he said at last, tapping his wine glass with one finger while he stared into the fire. “About what you said in your letter—that I was hiding things from you because of my dad's influence. I absorbed a lot from him growing up, about what a man should be, and what a successful writer should look like. And I bought into it all. I think I was…obsessed with living this perfectly assembled life: writing the right kind of stuff, being married to the right kind of woman. In my mind, the stuff that contradicted that—I didn't think of it as concealing it from
you,
specifically….I was concealing it from everyone. I had this need, I guess, to control and select what I displayed to the world. Ghostwriting celebrity memoirs wasn't a part of who Adam Hammond should be—I mean, who would ever be proud to write something where they didn't even get their own name in the big type?” His voice was taut with bitterness and disapproval, and though I didn't know if Theodore had ever said those words to his son, I could easily imagine it.

“And,” he continued, “wanting to sleep with men
definitely
wasn't part of it. God, I spent so many years telling myself that was just a minor aberration.”

“It wasn't just Patrick, was it?” I said quietly.

He sighed, deeply, and turned his face to me. His eyes looked dark in the soft light; his face looked leaner than usual. “No. There were a couple of people in college. And every now and then since we've been married.”

Even though Ruby's revelation about Brett Kerson had led me to suspect this might be the case, that didn't make it any easier to hear. “How often is ‘every now and then'?” I said, hating the way my voice trembled.

“I don't know. Maybe three or four times. And it's the truth that I'm not sure, because it was the last thing I wanted to think about, once it had happened. But Patrick was the only—Christ, I can't believe I'm saying this—the only real affair. I'm so sorry, Caro,” he said, as I turned my face to the ceiling so I could blink back the hurt and disappointment. “I'm so sorry. I know it's meaningless, but I am.” He was silent for a long moment, then continued. “This is the thing I couldn't explain to you about all of this. I couldn't even admit it to myself for a long time, because I was still clinging like hell to the idea that I was a straight guy who also liked men every once in a while. So when you pushed me to be honest about it, I just shut down. But that's not really who I am.”

“You're bisexual,” I said, but he flipped his palm back and forth. Maybe yes, maybe no.

“Yeah…but not in the way I kept insisting I was. The honest truth is, I'm on the other side of the Kinsey scale. The reason I kept thinking of myself as, I don't know, straight with an asterisk, is that I'd loved you, and loved sleeping with you, for so long. You were the person I wanted to share my life with, not some guy. But, sweetheart—you're almost the only woman I've ever been attracted to.”

While I struggled to assimilate this, he continued.

“That's why I idolized you the way I did. I never told you, but you weren't the first person I had sex with. The summer before—”

“I know,” I said, abruptly cutting him off. “Brett Kerson. Ruby told me.”

His lips parted with surprise, but then he swallowed. “That's right; she was friends with his sister, wasn't she?”

“Yeah. Evidently Brett was heard to express informed surprise that you were about to get married.”

“So…you knew?”

“Absolutely not. Ruby kept that little tidbit all to herself until a few weeks ago.”

He blew his breath out slowly. I knew he had quickly grasped the full range of implications of this; whatever his faults, Adam had always been highly perceptive. “Wow. No wonder she never liked me.”

I waved it away with one hand. “That wasn't it. You two were just never each other's cup of tea. She knew about Brett, but I'm sure she never thought—”

“That I was doing exactly what I was doing. God, it's such a cliché,” he said, rubbing his hands over his face, elbows jutting into the air. “The guy who can't admit to himself that he's gay, so he cheats on his wife until he takes it too far to keep it secret.” He let his hands drop, leaned over, and took my hands in his. “I am so sincerely sorry, Caroline. I hate how much I hurt you. I know that what I've done has damaged you, and even though you are healing up even stronger than you were before, I should have treated you fairly in the first place. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to be honest with us both. We didn't have to end up here; it was me that led us.”

“Are you sorry you married me?” I whispered.

He shook his head, eyes gleaming with tears. “Never. Everything I said, I meant. I've loved you more than anyone else in my life. I was going to say, before—that summer, with Brett. He was over one time, so we could fool around while Mom and Dad were out of town. Except they got back early. They didn't catch us literally in the act, but it was one stop short of that. I had time to grab my pants but not to put them on, so I remember I just wadded them into my lap to cover my crotch. It was so fucking humiliating. And the way my dad looked at me, Caro—I will never forget it. Just…this…
disgust.
I doubt you can imagine what it feels like to have your parent look at you that way.”

I had my arms around him before he'd finished the sentence, and he clutched me, tears and breath hot against my neck. “I'm so sorry,” I whispered, and held him tighter. “Adam, I'm
so
sorry. I hate that he failed you like that.”

“It could have been worse,” he said, on a shuddering breath. “It could have been way, way worse. He didn't hit me or kick me out of the house or disown me. And even afterward—after the initial shock, they just walked upstairs without saying anything, and Brett left, and I went to my room. They came in after a little while, and he sat in my desk chair and he said, very calmly, ‘I don't want anything like that to ever happen again. You're young and confused, but things like that are not appropriate. Do you understand me?' And that was it, Caro, that ‘Do you understand me?' Because I did. It was all he had to say.”

I understood it too. Adam's father had always been kind to me, but he was a stern and unbending man. Profoundly intimidating to his sixteen-year-old son in a way that the thirty-four-year-old son had still not fully freed himself from.

He took a deep breath and loosened his arms. “And so that's—that's when I started trying to crush it. I'd kissed a couple of girls before, but I'd never wanted to do much more than that, except to satisfy my curiosity. So I figured the problem was that I hadn't found the right girl. I started looking at porn more, and it was definitely interesting,” he said, a note of wry humor in his voice. “I decided that I was going to get myself a girlfriend. I didn't like the kind of girls my friends liked, with their giggling and their cliques, but there was this girl in my English class.”

I smiled a little, knowing what was coming.

“She didn't talk a whole lot, but when she did, the things she said were so smart that I was completely impressed. She was beautiful, but she didn't draw attention to it like the other pretty girls; it was obvious that her brains were what she valued about herself. And she had this dignity about her, as if she knew full well that high school was nothing but one long embarrassment we all had to get through before we could get on with becoming adults. I liked this girl more and more. So, I asked her out.

“For our first date I took her on a picnic up at the Cloisters, because I knew she liked art. It was one of those fall days that's so perfect you can barely even believe it's real. We sat under a tree that was blooming with gold leaves, and talked and talked and talked, long after we finished our food. And then we lay on our backs on the blanket and stared at the deep blue sky through the leaves, and I reached over and took her hand, and I could feel my whole body come alive.” He took my hand, interlacing our fingers. “And then when I kissed her, I knew. This was my girl.”

He cupped my face with his free hand. My eyes drifted closed as our lips met, and I leaned into the kiss with a sigh. I kissed him slowly, committing him to my memory once and for all.

Oh, Adam. My beloved storyteller. How I was going to miss him.