Second Time Around (25 page)

Then, one sweltering Saturday in July when Jamie walked back to their current crappy rental house (Jersey shore) from her current crappy job (scooping ice cream for tourists) to shower and slather on too much makeup before heading out with her current crappy boyfriend (a college sophomore/ tortured aspiring songwriter named Brent), she’d opened the
mailbox to find a thin white envelope from her father. Enclosed was a newspaper clipping announcing a scholarship to some snooty college for “promising students who represent the first generation in their families to attend college.” Her father had scribbled a note in the margin:
Thought of you
.

“That’s it?” Jamie had said aloud, turning the scrap of newsprint over and over. But here was irrefutable proof that her father did think about her. So she spent the next six weeks before her senior year of high school working on her Thurwell College scholarship application. She lost patience with Brent’s ballads of existential woe and dedicated all her spare time to writing and rewriting her application essay.

A few months later, she received the official approval from the scholarship committee: fifty percent tuition reimbursement, provided she kept her GPA high and her disciplinary record spotless. Her teachers were thrilled; her mother told everyone that “we Burton girls are brainy
and
beautiful, and don’t you forget it.” Jamie overnighted a copy of her acceptance letter to her father, but he never wrote back.

So she stopped contacting her dad and headed off to college, where she caught the attention of another very powerful man. She captivated him, Terry confessed. He couldn’t stop thinking about her. She was irresistible. This time, she was going to win out over the “real family.”

Except she didn’t. Terry gradually stopped talking about leaving his wife, and then he stopped returning Jamie’s calls, and when she tearfully asked him if he still loved her, he’d stroked her hair and said, “If anyone finds out about us, Jamie, anyone at all, I’ll lose my job and you’ll lose your scholarship. I can always find another job, but you … This is for your own good, sweetheart. This is for the best.”

Six months later, Jamie graduated with a B.A. in English,
an impressive collection of student loans, and a secret that gnawed at her conscience for the next decade.

She heard Anna’s voice at the door again. “I’ve got your tray and I’m leaving it right here by the door.”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, and please tell Sarah that I got the wedding cake topper her mom sent from Vermont.”

“Will do.”

“Although I have to tell you, I’m a little nervous to take it out of the box, let alone stick it on top of a layer cake. I get the impression her mom spent about a thousand bucks on it.”

Jamie tried to muster enough energy to yell back. “Her mom thinks any wedding-related item worth less than a thousand bucks is tacky crap from the dollar store.”

“Got it.” Anna went quiet for so long that Jamie thought she might have left. But then she piped up with, “And Jame? Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to get you out of seclusion and back to being our take-no-prisoners woman of the world.”

Jamie sat bolt upright when she heard that phrase, which resonated all the way back to her childhood. Twenty years later, and here she was—another sassy, brassy woman of the world ready to give up and move on as soon as the going got rough.
Just like my mother
.

Galvanized, she swung her frigid feet onto the floor. “I’m up.”

N
ow this is the way to plan a wedding: doing shots in a bar with my event planner.” Sarah Richmond slid into the wooden booth, her cabled cashmere sweater and diamond
earrings striking a jarring contrast to the neon-lit ambiance of Thurwell’s Pine Street Pub.

“
One
shot,” Jamie reminded her. “And you better stick to half a shot, if our last planning session was any indication.”

“What’ll it be?” asked the waitress.

“Two shots of tequila,” Jamie said.

“Patrón, if you have it,” Sarah added. “We need the good stuff.”

“And two huge glasses of water,” Jamie said.

After the waitress returned, they clinked their glasses and threw back the shots. Sarah coughed and sputtered as she swallowed.

“You okay?” Jamie asked. “Raise your hand if you need the Heimlich maneuver.”

“I’ll be fine.” Sarah dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. She didn’t seem at all fazed by the hard rock blaring over the speaker system or the water-spotted silverware. “Wow, I needed that. I have had a
week
.”

“Last-minute wedding stress getting to you?”

“Oh, no, the wedding’s fine.” Sarah dismissed this with a flip of her long, dark hair. “As I said, my mom’s the one who’s all worked up about who’s RSVP’d and who hasn’t and what the corsages are going to look like and are the napkins monogrammed in the right typeface.”

“I can check on the cocktail napkins for her.” Jamie whipped out her planning binder and prepared to jot this down.

“Don’t worry about it. She’s obsessed with my wedding being perfect, but it’s never going to be perfect because my dad’s not here, so she’s channeling her energy into micro-managing the tiniest details.” Sarah’s smile was a bit lopsided.
“She just wants me to have everything she never did. I mean, you know how mothers are.”

Jamie nodded politely and waited for the bride to continue.

“I need a shot of tequila because I just gave notice at my job today. The movers are coming to pack up my apartment next week, and I told my landlord that I won’t be renewing my lease.” Sarah laced her hands together and stretched her arms out over the table. “Yep. In two weeks’ time, I’ll be married and living in the sticks and unemployed for the first time since college.”

Jamie chewed on the end of her straw. “You sound kind of ambivalent.”

“It’s just a lot of change all at once. New town, new people, new role. I never really pictured myself as the demure little faculty wife. It’s going to be more work than I anticipated, all the traveling and entertaining and fund-raising. I had no idea what a hotbed of politics and scandal academia is.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Sarah tucked her hands back under the table. “At least I’ll have you to hang out with once I take up residence in The Manor. It’s such a relief to know there are other uprooted city girls out here. We can go skiing, get mani/pedis, maybe we can even double-date. Me with Terry and you with all the men you must have lining up.”

Jamie flagged down a passing server. “I’ll have another shot of Patrón, please.”

Sarah’s eyes widened. “I can’t keep up with that.”

“I don’t want you to,” Jamie said. “I just want you to sit back for a second and try to keep an open mind. There’s something I have to tell you.”

“Uh-oh.” Sarah laughed. “Sounds ominous. Dun, dun,
dunnn
.”

Jamie remained deadly serious. “Here’s the thing. I’m glad you’re happy and I don’t want to interfere with your relationship in any way, but …”

Sarah mirrored her grim expression. “Spit it out.”

“You should know that, back in the day, Terry had a little bit of a reputation.”

“Oh, that.” Sarah looked relieved. “Yeah, his first marriage was miserable.”

“Yes, but it was more than that.” Her kingdom for a cigarette. “He kind of breached the sacred trust.”

“Say no more.” Sarah’s tone was still friendly, but her eyes had darkened. “I see where you’re going with this.”

“You do?”

“You’re talking about that student, the girl with the weird name. What was it? Arielle? Artemis?”

“Arden,” Jamie said softly.

“Arden.” Sarah lifted her chin. “I’ve been to a lot of college functions since Terry and I started dating. The trustees like to gossip and the alumni council members are even worse. So yes, I know he has some regrets in his past.”

Jamie was startled to hear that term applied to her: a “regret.” Such a gentle, tactful term for such a sordid act.

“That makes it sound like it was a minor mistake.” Jamie leaned forward. “It was an affair with a twenty-year-old student, not an administrative oversight.”

“It wasn’t an affair, it was a vicious rumor.” Sarah got more detached with every syllable. “If he had breached anything, he would have been fired immediately. I’ve heard Terry’s side of the story, and that’s all I need to know.”

Jamie had to hear this. “What’s Terry’s version?”

Sarah stopped looking at her. “The whole thing is ancient history. I love him, I trust him, and I don’t need to listen to any more unfounded speculation.”

“But actually, you do. Because Arden was one of my best friends and—”

“Before you continue, let me ask you one question. Are you telling me all this for my sake? Or for yours?”

“Yours, of course.” Jamie paused. “I thought you needed to know.”

“In that case, thank you for your concern, but I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.” Sarah nodded crisply to indicate that the subject was closed.

Jamie was debating the wisdom of pressing her point when a voice behind them broke through the music and Friday night chatter. “Jamie Burton? Is that you?”

Jamie flinched before she even turned her head, because she knew who that voice belonged to.

“I’ve been trying to call you.” Jeff Thuesen materialized at the side of the table. He looked very tall, very handsome, and very resolute.

“Oh,” Jamie said. “I haven’t been checking my voice mail.”

“I asked Brooke for your number when I saw her a few weeks ago.” Jeff braced his hands on the back of a chair and seemed ready to sit down and join them. “Did she tell you she ran into me?”

“She might have mentioned it.”

He stared down at her, obviously waiting for her to ask why he’d been trying to get in touch. When it became equally obvious that she wasn’t going to take the bait, he said, “I need to talk to you.”

Jamie deflected with, “What are you doing out here in Thurwell, anyway? I thought you lived in Manhattan.”

“Brooklyn, actually, but yeah, I work in the city. I’m here to interview candidates for one of my company’s summer internships.”

“Oh. Okay. Great.”

“But I went to the memorial service, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

She feigned total innocence. “No. I didn’t see you there. But it was so crowded, you know, and such a difficult day.”

“It was.” His hands opened and closed on the back of the chair. “Look. I know this is awkward, but I have some questions that I’m hoping you can answer for me.”

“Listen, Jeff, I’d love to chat, but I’m right in the middle of something here.”

“Hi.” Sarah waved. “I’m Sarah Richmond. She’s planning my wedding.”

“Yeah? Congratulations.” He turned right back to Jamie. “What about tomorrow?”

“No good. I’m booked solid. Meetings with the caterers, finalizing everything for the bridesmaids’ tea.”

“Next week, then.” Jeff wasn’t asking. “I’m coming back for the last round of interviews on Friday.”

Jamie toyed with her earring. “I’d love to, but I’m just—”

“Next Friday, high noon,” Sarah assured him. “She’ll be here.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Jeff said. “See you next week.”

“Bye!” Sarah trilled after him. Her exuberance vanished when she got a load of Jamie’s expression. “Uh-oh.”

“You have no idea what you just did to me.”

“Set up a date for you with a hot guy?”

Jamie gave her a look. “First of all, you’re walking down the aisle in two weeks, so you’re not supposed to be scoping out hot guys.”

Sarah laughed. “I’m engaged. I’m not blind.”

“And second of all, it’s not a date.”

“It sure seems like a date. Hot guy, single woman, prearranged social meeting.”

“Things aren’t always what they first appear,” Jamie said. “Which brings us back to the subject of Terry and his—”

“Stop.” Sarah crossed her arms. “I like you, Jamie, and I want to continue to like you. So unless
you
slept with my fiancé, I’m not going to discuss this further.”

“Will you kindly excuse me for a moment?” Jamie grabbed the emergency pack of cigarettes in her bag and stepped outside to light up. White tendrils of smoke unfurled into the chilly night air. Jamie shoved one hand into her jeans pocket and inhaled as deeply as she could, gulping down the warm, pungent fumes until her lungs burned and her hands stopped shaking.

When she returned to the table, Sarah was waiting for her with a peace offering of artichoke dip.

“Let’s start over.” Sarah handed her a napkin. “Why don’t you dazzle me with all the details of the bridesmaids’ tea?”

“Fair enough.” Jamie cracked open her wedding-planning binder and recommitted to her long-standing policy of noninterference. “Let’s talk tulle.”

A
nna used her chef’s knife to slice open the cardboard box that Sarah Richmond’s mother had sent, unspooled yards of bubble wrap to make sure that the porcelain bride-and-groom wedding cake topper (hand-painted, one-of-a-kind, heirloom-quality European craftsmanship, according to Mrs. Richmond) was still intact, then turned her attention back to the gelatinous mass of dough oozing slowly across the pan. She could master any cake or cookie, but breads were hit or miss. Her sole attempt at croissants had ended in charred, leaden triangles of flattened pastry and a wine-fueled tirade against the French.