The Men I Didn't Marry (3 page)

My ascent is steady and, in just a few minutes, I seem to be at the top. I should have brought a flag to plant. Smugly I take in the panoramic view of craggy rock cliffs and verdant mountains. This wide field must be where I get to sit and eat my lunch. But I’m confused. A seven-minute climb is what Bill and the kids bragged about? I start to take off my backpack to lie in the sun when a few feet away from me, I notice a wooden sign that says “Trailhead to Taurus”—and has an arrow pointing to a serious path on a steeper hill. So this little climb was only the prehike hike. How Zen. Just when you think you’ve arrived, you realize you’ve only made it to the starting point.

I retie my sneakers, adjust the straps on my backpack and set out full of energy and determination. I quickly realize that I’m supposed to follow yellow markers on the trees. For the first few minutes of my trek, the path is well-worn, and even though the blazes on the trees are farther apart than I’d like, I’m not worried. But as I get deeper into the woods, the trail becomes more overgrown, and the dense canopy of autumn leaves obscures whatever yellow signposts might be ahead. I stop for a minute and look around, trying to get my bearings. Aha. There’s a yellow swatch now. Heading off again, I plunge through some prickly thick vegetation and just barely manage to make my way through a mass of brambles. Am I the only person who’s ever gotten this far? I struggle on for fifty yards and when I finally look up again, the yellow marker has disappeared and I’m standing under an oak tree whose leaves have just started to change. To yellow, goddamn it.

I’m not going to panic. I just have to get back on the trail. But the more I try, the farther away from it I seem to wander. Still, this isn’t exactly the Lewis and Clark expedition. I dig into the pocket of my jeans and pull out my cell phone to call 911. I don’t know how to pinpoint where I am, but surely the rescue squad will be able to find me. I flip open my high-tech, Internet-connecting, game-playing, video-streaming, picture-snapping phone, and confront a very low-tech message: NO SERVICE. Helpfully, however, the camera still seems to be working. At least I can photograph my last hour alive on earth.

No, I have to be realistic. I have water with me, plus two granola bars and a cheese sandwich. And given the number of Oreos I’ve eaten lately, I could live off my body fat for the next four months. Cheered that my chubby thighs could be lifesavers, I keep walking, and twenty minutes later I’m at another tree whose leaves are changing to yellow— though, for all I know, it’s the same tree and I’ve just walked in a circle. If I ever get out of here, I’m moving to Manhattan. At least the whole place is on a grid. Nobody ever got lost walking from 62nd Street to 66th.

I’m getting tired and bend down to get myself a walking stick. I reach for a long branch lying on a pile of leaves and plant it firmly in front of me. Just the right height. This will help. But as I keep walking, my hand starts to feely itchy, and I look down to see that I have measles. I look closer. Shit! Even measles would be better than what’s really on my arm—bright red creepy-crawly ants. They’re feasting on my flesh and moving at warp speed up my elbow.

I jerk back, giving a loud yelp and throwing the stick over my shoulder. Suddenly, I’m under attack from a new, bigger, more aggressive enemy. The stick has apparently hit a hornet’s nest and the hive’s inhabitants are on the warpath. As they attack my face, I scream at the top of my lungs, but the angry hornets don’t care. I stamp my feet and spin around, trying to swat them away, but they get madder and sting more vehemently.

“Help! Help!” I scream. I charge away, running blindly through the woods until my foot catches on a rock and I go sprawling, facedown, into a trickling stream. I lie there for a moment, trying to catch my breath. This is the part in the movie where Sam Shepard is supposed to swagger along and rescue me. I lift my head, but Sam must have missed his cue. At least the hornets are gone and the cool silty water feels soothing against my burning stings. Really good. I pat some of the muddy muck against the swollen bites on my face and then, just for good measure, I slather some on my neck and arms. If only I had a jar I’d take the stuff home and save the thirty-seven bucks I usually spend on that celebrated Mud Mask from the Dead Sea. It’s probably the same basic formula, anyway. All I’d have to do is add some kosher salt.

I feel around for my foot, which apparently is still attached to my body. But my ankle is swelling. I don’t think I broke it, but it’s certainly sprained. Between my face and my foot, I’m practically a one-woman medical experiment. Maybe the Mayo Clinic is researching it right now: “Hornet Bites or Clumsy Fall—Which Causes More Extreme Swelling?” But I need to look on the bright side. With all my other body parts blown out of proportion, at least my waist will look thin.

I’m glad Emily can’t see me right now. But I do hope she gets to see me again. I have to get myself out of here. I run my fingers through the stream, and then it occurs to me: I may not be Nature Girl, but a stream always runs downhill—and downhill should lead me toward the base of the mountain and my blessed car. Half-walking, half-crawling, I start to follow the stream. I’m achy, I’m miserable, but I don’t have a lot of choice. Maybe singing camp songs will help. I warble “Frère Jacques” in both French and English, but have a little trouble making the rounds sound right all by myself. I kick into “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” and for the first time ever, I actually make it all the way down to two.

But I don’t get to one because suddenly I see the road.

I’m so happy, I could jump up and down. Actually, I couldn’t. Given my ankle, I’ll have to settle for hobbling to my car.

Out of the woods at last—quite literally—I look up and down the highway for the small parking area where I left my Saab. I sigh. No Saab. But there is a sign for Cold Spring, and even with my bad sense of direction, I realize I didn’t come out where I started and I’m at least a mile away from where I left the car. And that does it. After all this bravery, bravado, heroism, and stoicism, I give up. I’m tired of being an independent woman. It’s time to plunk down and cry.

And I do. Right there on the side of the road. I just put my head in my hands and let go with long, loud, wailing sobs.

“Are you okay, miss?”

I look up, startled, and see that a green Jeep Cherokee has pulled up next to me and that a good-looking man is leaning out of the window. I try to wipe away my tears, but that just makes more of a muddy mess.

“I had a little trouble in the woods,” I say, in case it’s not obvious.

“Let me guess. You got on the wrong trail. Your car’s in the lot by the park entrance. Happens to everybody,” he says kindly. “Can I give you a lift?”

Cars are whizzing past, and I realize it’s not safe to be sitting where I am. On the other hand, given my luck today, what are the chances that this good Samaritan is really a serial killer? Ninety percent? Ninetyfive percent? At least that gives me a five percent chance of getting home safely, which is better odds than I had an hour ago.

“Thanks,” I say, limping over to the passenger door. As I start to get in, he looks a little more closely and realizes how mucky and grubby I am.

“Hang on a sec,” he says, reaching into the back and grabbing a towel. He lays it over my seat, as if he’s protecting the worn leather from either a grimy six-year-old or a peeing puppy. But by now nothing can embarrass me.

“I live up the road,” he says, trying to make me feel comfortable in case I’m worried about getting into a strange man’s car. “I’m the local doc. Name’s Tom Shepard.”

I give him a grin. So Sam Shepard couldn’t come, but he sent his brother. And this one’s almost as handsome. Tall and dimpled, with that slightly craggy outdoorsman look. He’s even wearing Timberlands. I try to tuck my Nike-clad feet under the seat so he doesn’t notice.

“Hi. I’m Hallie Pierpont,” I say. And then I change my mind. I’ve survived a day alone, and I’m going to survive a lot more. If I don’t have a husband anymore, I’m not going to use his name. “Actually, I’m Hallie Lawrence,” I amend, extending my hand.

“Nice to meet you.” Now he returns my grin. “Hallie Lawrence. I went fly-fishing with a friend of mine last month, and he told me all about a college girlfriend of his with that name.” He shifts the car into drive and heads down the highway.

“I hope he said nice things,” I offer.

“The best. My friend’s Eric Richmond. Any chance you’re the same Hallie he was talking about?”

“Could be,” I say, weakly.

Tom glances over, surprised. “Wow, how about that. So you do know Eric? I mean, not just from reading about him in
Forbes
?”

“I don’t read
Forbes
,” I try to say, but my throat seems to be closing. Either these hornet stings are causing anaphylactic shock, or I’m getting choked up at the memory of Eric, my great college romance, my first lover—who I dumped senior year, for reasons that I can’t quite remember.

“I do know Eric,” I say. “I mean, knew him. In another life.” Come to think of it, if I’d stayed with Eric, I would have had a different life— that probably wouldn’t have included climbing this stupid mountain.

Tom Shepard glances over at me, and I want to tell him that I clean up well. He’s got to be wondering how the weepy, swollen, fumbling, mudwoman next to him can be the Hallie Lawrence he’s heard about from the smart, hunky—and
Forbes
-worthy—Eric Richmond.

“Small world,” says Tom, pulling into the parking lot where my Saab, my blessed Saab, is waiting.

“If you see Eric, say hello for me,” I suggest, reaching for the door handle even though I’d like to sit here for a while and find out how my rural rescuer happens to know my college boyfriend. Two guys on a fishing trip talking about old girlfriends. Did Eric tell him about that night we got drunk on single malt scotch—he had fine taste even then—and slept together on the beach?

Unfortunately, Tom, like most men, isn’t a mind reader. And instead of answering my unspoken question, he says, “Need anything else? Will you be okay getting home?”

“Of course,” I say, trying to sound again like the confident, composed Hallie I was back in college. In fact, the confident, composed Hallie I was until a few short weeks ago.

I try not to grimace as I maneuver out of the high-set Jeep and land on my aching ankle. “Listen, you saved my life,” I tell Tom. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“No problem. But if I were you I’d pick up some Benadryl on the way home. That face isn’t looking too good.”

At first I’m insulted, but then I laugh. “Thanks, doc,” I say. Sure, I’m less than camera-ready at the moment, but this day wasn’t so bad after all. I lost the battle with the hornets and the big hill, but I survived and I’m here. I made it. And best of all, now I get to go home.

Tom waves and drives away and I reach into my jacket pocket for my car keys. When they’re not there, I fumble through my backpack, pulling out the contents piece by piece. Where could they be? I take a moment to think rationally, and then I spot them—locked safely on the front seat of the Saab.

I sigh. The adventures just keep coming.

Chapter TWO

I CALL THE LOCAL POLICE DEPARTMENT with my now cooperating cell phone to explain my problem.

“Maybe you could give me the phone number of a locksmith?” I suggest.

“Don’t worry, ma’am. We’ll send someone,” says the desk sergeant efficiently.

Crime must not be much of a problem in Cold Spring, because almost before I hang up, three siren-blaring fire trucks, two speeding town patrol cars, and one mounted state trooper rush down the road to save me. The posse, however, doesn’t include an ambulance, so I guess I’ll have to buy the Benadryl on my own.

By nightfall, I’m finally home. I throw my dirty clothes in the laundry and my unsalvageable Nikes into the wastebasket. Standing in front of the refrigerator, I eat some leftover Nutella, straight from the jar. It occurs to me that when I thank Emily for nudging me out of the house, I’ll spare her the less spectacular details of my day of independence, such as the fact that getting me home required one generous man in a Jeep and the entire Cold Spring rescue squad.

I turn on Vivaldi’s cello concertos, wrap an ice pack around my ankle, and carefully slip the rest of my battered body into a warm jasmine-scented bath. With my foot dangling over the edge of the tub, I put a soothing gel pack on my face and run my fingers through the foamy bubbles. Closing my eyes, I finally relax.

When, of course, the phone rings. It has to be one of the kids. Any mother knows that when your kid calls from college, you pick up immediately. If you miss it and try to call back five minutes later, you’re sure to be sent to voice mail limbo—also known as maternal hell. So I brace my arms against the side of the tub, keep my injured ankle outstretched in front of me, and try to lift myself up. I manage to hoist my body out of the bath along with about four gallons of water, and I careen across the Carrera marble floor toward the trilling bedroom phone.

“Hello,” I say, eager to chat with one of my children.

I hear a click and then a deep male voice. “Hello, Hallie Lawrence Pierpont. I know you weren’t expecting this call, but can I take just a minute of your time?”

“No, you can’t have a minute of my time,” I snap angrily. Damn, I got out of the tub for a telemarketer. “You can’t even have a second of my time,” I add venomously, preparing to slam down the receiver.

But I hear a chuckle. “So you haven’t changed a bit, Hallie. Are you still as sexy as you used to be?”

Oh god. Can it be? Reflexively, I look down at my naked body and do the inventory. Tummy’s fairly flat, breasts aren’t sagging, but the thighs are a little generous. I start to run my hand over my hip. Wait a minute. Am I talking to who I think I’m talking to?

“Excuse me, do I know you?” I ask sheepishly.

“You told Tom Shepard you did,” he says in a booming baritone.

Water is now dripping off my legs onto the antique Persian bedroom carpet. I start shivering uncontrollably, but maybe it’s not from the cold.

“Eric?” I ask in a small voice.

“It’s me. Hold on a sec,” he says.

I hear muffled voices in the background and then Eric telling someone that he’s busy now and the call from the ambassador will just have to wait. Good. It’s been twenty years since I talked to him. I shouldn’t have to wait another minute.

“So,” he says, coming back, “what’s been going on?”

I’m not sure of our time frame here. Does he mean since I got out of Tom’s car or since the last time I saw him?

“Tell me everything,” he urges.

Let’s see, I definitely had some high points in my post-college life. I attended Columbia Law School, wrote three law journal articles, and argued a case before the Supreme Court. Okay, the State Supreme Court, but it was precedent-setting. I took Adam and Emily to Mommy and Me, Gymboree, soccer meets, and high school graduation—all within a week, it seemed. I learned how to bake banana bread. I finally read
Ulysses
. And I figured out which pipe to turn off when the washing machine overflows.

So where to begin?

“I have two wonderful kids,” I tell him. “I had a terrific marriage until the jerk walked out.” I take a deep breath. “And since Tom mentioned your name, I’ve spent the entire day thinking about you.”

Oh no, did I really just say that? I didn’t mean to flirt. Apparently, I’ve been married so long that I’ve lost my six-second censor delay— where you actually stop to filter what you’re going to say before you blurt it out.

Clearly, Eric doesn’t mind. “You’ve been thinking about me only today?” he asks suggestively.

I find myself smiling. “You might have crossed my mind a few other times.”

“That sounds more promising,” he says.

“So what have you been doing?” I ask.

“More interesting is what I’m doing next weekend,” he says, ignoring the question and getting to the point. “I’m coming to New York. I just bought a new pied-à-terre on the sixty-seventh floor of the Time Warner Center with two-hundred-eighty-degree views of the city.”

“Too bad you couldn’t afford the three-hundred-sixty-degree view.” I laugh.

There’s silence on the other end of the phone. Apparently I’ve hit a sore spot. “They were all taken,” he says tersely.

“I’m sure it’s nice anyway,” I say appeasingly. “I know it’s the new number-one address in town.”

“Why don’t you come see it,” Eric says. “I’ll give you the grand tour of my apartment, and then we could get a nice little dinner. There are two fabulous restaurants in the building. Per Se’s always good. Or Masa. Your choice.”

Eric’s not exactly living above the dim sum take-out place. Per Se’s so exclusive that you need a copy of your financial statement just to get a reservation. As for Masa, two people can’t eat there for less than five hundred bucks. And it’s sushi. They don’t even cook the fish.

“I’d love to. What time?” I ask, surprised to hear myself agreeing so readily. Clearly the filter’s still turned off and I’m going out with a man.

“Around dinner. I’ll call you when I get in, and you can just come over.”

“Great, you’ve got yourself a date. I mean an appointment,” I say, quickly amending my bold statement. Have we made a date? Probably not. Best guess is that Eric’s married and is just meeting an old friend for dinner.

“Good,” Eric says.

I play with my wet hair for a moment, twisting it around my finger.

“Before we get together, you have to tell me at least something about your life,” I say. “Where do you live when you’re not in New York? Are you married? Do you . . .”

I’m just starting to ask if he has any children, when I realize that I’ll have to wait and find out in person. His mission accomplished, Eric clicked off the phone after the word “good.”

By the next day, my ankle’s feeling better and my face is almost back to normal, although, frankly, a case might be made in favor of the swelling. At least it plumped out the lines in my forehead. I could go back to work, but I’ve already told Arthur that I’m taking off the week. And I have a plan for today. My new motto: Don’t get mad, get even. I’ve decided that I’ll definitely feel better if instead of sulking, I do something completely vile to Bill.

I go to a box of old videos in the basement and pull out
The First
Wives Club
. After twenty minutes, I turn it off. Way too tame. What I need is
The Godfather
. How satisfying to think of Bill and Ashlee waking up to a dead horse head in their bed.

I go online and Google “revenge” and I’m stunned to see ten thousand four hundred thirty-two websites come up. Clearly there’s a multimillion-dollar industry being built on the idea that instead of turning the other cheek, you should slap someone else’s. Eager online entrepreneurs have stepped in, offering to provide gifts that FTD never thought to deliver—dead flowers, doggie poop, or for those willing to splurge, cow patties from Hereford’s Dairy (delivered to the door, fresh and warm). One idea does capture my fancy. According to the website, if I slip frozen shrimp inside a curtain rod in Ashlee’s apartment, within two weeks the stench of decaying fish will render the place completely unlivable. She and Bill can hire all the fumigators, exterminators, or private investigators they want, but nobody will ever find the source. Yummy. A new use for shrimp that doesn’t involve cocktail sauce.

Just reading about the revenge seems to have done the trick. I can stay above-it-all for the moment, knowing I have options just a click away. Besides, isn’t living well the best revenge? And evidently living well is what I’m going to do next weekend. Per Se, Masa, Masa, Per Se. Maybe Eric and I will have dinner in one and dessert in the other and— well, a nightcap in his apartment. No, I’m not going there. I mean, I’m going to his apartment, but I’m not going to think about what might happen. Two decades since our college love and a lot has changed. Forget about his being married. What if he’s bald?

Before my rendezvous with Eric, I have another engagement to think about—my maiden voyage at a party as a single woman (though am I still a maiden at forty-four, after twenty years of marriage and two episiotomies?). I pull out the boxed invitation that I received from my neighbor Rosalie Reilly a couple of weeks ago. Rosalie invited all the parents from Emily’s high school graduating class to her get-together and the note, handwritten in gold leaf calligraphy, says, “Now that our little birdies have flown off, please come to our Empty Nest Party!” The note is sitting inside a handmade woven raffia bird’s nest. Who but five-year-olds, mental patients, and lonely moms have enough time for arts and crafts?

I drive over to Rosalie’s house because there’s an unwritten law in the suburbs against walking, unless you have a dog at the end of a leash. Since she lives around the corner, I end up parking practically in my own driveway.

I ring the bell and smooth my perky polka-dot skirt; I might as well look cheerful. I’m armed with a bottle of Cabernet and a cover story.

“So good to see you,” says Rosalie, kissing me on each cheek at the door. She steps inside and puts the wine on her foyer table, to join the anonymous lineup of a dozen other gift bottles. Next time I’m going to put a discreet “X” on the label and see how many parties it takes before the bottle ends up back at my house.

“Where’s Bill?” Rosalie asks.

“He’s in the city tonight,” I say, not lying. Because why should I say any more? I’m not ready for all the sympathetic clucking and the “oh, my poor darling”s that my story is sure to elicit. Everyone will feel bad for me, and they’ll even be sincere when they offer advice and names of divorce lawyers. But then tomorrow I’ll be the lead item to gossip about over morning lattes.

I head toward a group of parents standing together—all of them the moms and dads of friends Emily made in her high school advanced placement classes. After the Ivy League-bound kids clicked, the grown-ups became a clique, too. I look around and realize that all the adults at the party are grouped according to their children’s abilities. The parents of the kids who starred in all the school plays are standing by the bar, gesturing theatrically to each other. The jocks’ parents are raucously drinking beer in the kitchen and jabbing each other good-naturedly. And those whose progeny were the school potheads are suspiciously gathered outside on the patio, doing God-knows-what. Lighting up and talking about rehab?

“Hi, Hallie,” says the chorus of academically inclined parents as I join their circle. We kiss all around.

“Where’s Bill?” asks Steff Rothchild (mother of Devon, now at Cornell.)

“Yes, where’s Bill?” echoes Amanda Michaels-Locke (mother of twins Michael and Michaela, Princeton and Hofstra. Michaela had a tough senior year.)

“Bill, that’s right. I haven’t seen him on our usual 7:42 train this week,” pipes up Jennifer Morton (Rory’s mother. Duke).

Bill, Bill, Bill. This is the conversation I get from the intellectual parents? Maybe I’ll go out to the porch.

“He’s in the city,” I say as brightly as I can muster, four words that I’m hoping will get me through the night.

“Oh, working late,” clucks Steff. There’s that judgmental cluck, and she doesn’t even know the real news. “You can’t let him do that. When the children are gone, hubbies and wives have to stay closer to each other.” She tucks her arm smugly through her husband’s, a woman who’s clearly spent too many afternoons watching Dr. Phil. Her Richard takes a gulp of his vodka tonic.

“That’s right,” whispers Jennifer. “We don’t want our men straying.”

The vodka tonic must have gone down the wrong pipe because Richard starts coughing.

A tiny smile crosses Amanda’s face, but she puts her arm around me. “So everything’s good with you and Bill?” she asks solicitously. “You aren’t missing Emily and Adam too much?”

“We’re perfect,” I lie.

Just then, redheaded Darlie rushes over, decked out in four-inch-high Jimmy Choo sandals and a Gucci miniskirt so tiny there’s probably barely room for the designer label. Her half-dozen gold bracelets clang loudly at her wrist and, in its own way, her diamond necklace is no less quiet. But, then again, nothing about Darlie, the third wife of import-export king Carl Borden, is subtle.

Including her reason for joining us.

“Hallie, I heard about you and Bill,” she hollers so shrilly that Rosalie’s golden retriever, lying in the corner, yaps in pain.

Is it my imagination, or does the whole room stop to find out what daring Darlie has to say?

“Dumped, dumped, dumped,” she exclaims, clamping her hand on me so firmly that her crimson-colored talons dig into the flesh of my upper arm. “I can’t believe Bill left you like this.”

Now the parents who had been grouped together by their children’s activities have a more common interest. Me. They all drift closer to get the scoop.

“What in heaven’s name are you talking about? Bill’s just in the city tonight,” says Steff. I can’t decide if she’s rushing to my defense or egging Darlie on.

“Am I the first to know?” asks Darlie proudly, scanning the room. She shakes her head. “Bill leaving and moving in with that Ashlee. Ashlee with two Es. I myself was horrified when I heard. She’s twenty-eight. Barely older than your children.”