When We Fall (5 page)

“Um, definitely.” She smiled demurely. “I'm debating between the roast beef and the chicken salad.” She pointed to two hearty sandwiches made with thick slices of French baguette. When they'd lived in the city, there was nothing Allison had enjoyed more than sharing a fresh-from-the-oven Zabar's baguette with Logan, while they sauntered up and down Broadway window shopping. If it was a nice day, they'd wander back to the East Side through Central Park, taking their time to absorb the sights, sounds, and even smells of Manhattan's heart and soul.

“I see.” He raised an eyebrow. “That's a tough one. Those are my two favorites.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Mmmm. So that's what you think of me.” He laughed. “How about you buy one and I'll throw in the other for free?”

“Oh, that's so sweet, but you really don't have to do that.”

“I insist.”

“Won't your boss be upset if you give free food away to all your customers?”

“Why don't you let me worry about that?” He lifted both sandwiches from the case and started wrapping them in paper. “And, for the record, I don't give free food to
all
the customers.”

“Well, thank you,” she replied coyly, aware that he was flirting with her. It wasn't the first time since Jack had died that a man had come on to her, and it probably wouldn't be the last. She couldn't lie. It felt nice. But that was the extent of it.

“My pleasure.” He rang up one of the sandwiches, slipped both of them into a plastic bag, and handed it to her. “Come back soon, Ali.”

“I will, thanks.” She turned to walk away. “Wait, how did you know my name?” She swiveled back around.

“I guess you don't remember me?” He smirked, and she searched his face, narrowing her eyes on each and every feature in the hope that something would jar a memory. There'd been a time when she could recall everyone she'd ever met. Their names. Their stories. Even what they'd been wearing when she was first introduced to them. But after Jack had died, there'd been a decade of people who'd passed through her life in a blur.

“I'm so sorry. I'm usually really good with—”

“Dempsey. Dempsey James. We went to high school together.” He nodded. “I was the loner with the rockin' mullet. I think we were both in Ms. Lorman's biology class. Actually, I know we were. You were the only thing worth concentrating on for an hour.”

“Of course. Dempsey.” Allison tilted her head. “You look different.”

“You have no idea who I am.” He laughed.

“I do!” She laughed with him.

“Nah, you don't.” He shook his head, still smiling. “Not to worry. We can change that.”

“T
his doesn't look right.” Charlotte sighed, rearranging the blocks of Brie, smoked Gouda, and Camembert on her grandmother's sterling silver cheese platter—her fifth and final attempt. “Janna, can you please come in here?” she called out, endeavoring to manipulate the olive-oil-and-rosemary-infused crackers she'd picked up at the gourmet shop into a fanlike pattern lining the rim of the platter. To her dismay, the result was no less chaotic than before. “Janna!” she bellowed with mounting urgency.

It was baffling to Charlotte how there never seemed to be anyone within shouting distance except when she wanted to be alone. Then it felt like everyone in the house was huddled in one section of one room, pestering her with their needs, wants, and have-to-haves—even if Charlie, of able mind and body, was right there. For example, why would Gia ask her father—who was standing next to the refrigerator—to get her some juice when she could just as easily summon Charlotte from the other side of the kitchen? More mind-boggling
still was the fact that Charlie had become accustomed to the same treatment. He'd once told her that he spent five days a week at the office taking orders from entitled clients and the very last thing he wanted to do on the weekends was take orders from his entitled daughter.
Join the club,
she'd thought but hadn't said.

Sometimes, Charlotte wondered if Charlie actually liked being a father, which was ironic given that
he'd
been the anxious one all those years ago. Shortly after they'd first met, Charlie had professed to her—over two Sashimi Deluxe Specials and three pitchers of hot sake at Sushi Samba—that he wanted to start a family before he turned thirty. He'd explained that his own parents had been young when they'd had him and that he felt strongly about following suit. “I don't want to be the old man on the playground who can't kneel in the sandbox.” This declaration had endeared him to her immediately. What man confessed on a second date that he was ready for daddyhood ASAP? At twenty-four years old, most of her girlfriends were struggling to find a guy who'd pay for dinner and, if they were lucky—no less than a year into the relationship—vaguely commit to the idea of getting married. Someday.

Charlie's attitude had been such a departure from anything Charlotte had experienced that by date number four, she'd found it impossible to picture her life without him in it. She'd yearned to fall asleep in his warm embrace every night and wake up there every morning, their bodies and minds dovetailing, yin and yang. And the fact that their names were practically the male and female versions of each other, well, that, according to Charlie, was serendipity.

Before long, they were finishing each other's sentences and guessing, with surprising accuracy, what the other one was going to order from any given menu, at any given meal. “You're thinking about the eggs Benedict, but you're going to pick the French toast,” Charlie would announce, grinning like the Cheshire cat.

“You're thinking about the western omelet, but you're going to have the granola. With a side of apple-smoked sausage,” she'd counter, pleased with herself for getting it right. And extra-pleased that she and this gift of a man knew each other so intimately, so immediately.

Charlie had proposed two months later, with a stunning four-carat, cushion-cut diamond that, back then, had seemed the size of a cantaloupe. Now, more than a decade later, her ring paled in comparison to those of her friends in Wincourt, most of whom were older and had gotten married in their thirties.

But the ring had never been important to her. All she'd cared about was him. All she'd craved was him. Charlie's scent had been an aphrodisiac, his gaze a suggestion, and his touch an overture. She'd been captivated by his prowess for living life to the fullest and the unrestricted passion he'd exhibited toward his job, his friends, what little family he had, and now her. Charlotte loved to be loved by him—an unpredictable emotion for her, since she'd spent the majority of her formative years avoiding physical affection.

It wasn't like she was a virgin or anything that drastic. She'd had a boyfriend in high school who'd been her first. They'd done it one time and one time only on a pullout couch in his friend Jerry's partially finished basement. Jerry's
parents had been out of town, and Jerry had been upstairs in the living room watching
Die Hard with a Vengeance
. If the sex had been anything beyond pitiful, the frequent explosions reverberating through the drainpipe-covered ceiling might have provided an appropriate soundtrack.

After that, Charlotte had met Billy during her sophomore year at Cornell and they'd become fast friends. With benefits. Billy was a junior and her go-to guy for sorority functions or a lonely Saturday night. She was his go-to girl for Budweiser-induced booty calls at two in the morning. There was nothing romantic about it, which suited them both just fine. Last year, Billy had sent her a friend request on Facebook, which she'd accepted excitedly, her stomach doing a little flip. She was eager to see where he'd ended up and whom he'd ended up with. And wasn't it always flattering to hear from an old flame, even through social media?

She'd expected to find a matured version of the Billy she remembered, sporting fresh tufts of gray hair and, most likely, an ample beer gut—Billy had been a heavy drinker. Instead, she'd been confronted by an attractive and exceptionally fit-looking man whose profile boasted that he was married, had two adorable little boys, and had recently achieved his lifelong goal of completing the Ironman triathlon. Huh? She'd never seen Billy run so much as a block, unless the corner store was low on six-packs and smokes. Even more surprising was that his wife was one of those all-American, Neutrogena-ad-evoking beauties—the type with skin so luminescent you wanted to head straight to the drugstore and buy every magical face-clearing serum on the market.

Charlotte had pored over every photo, searching for one where the entire family didn't look airbrushed-perfect, but she'd come up empty-handed, which had unsettled her. It wasn't that she wanted to be with Billy. She hadn't particularly wanted to be with him in college. Still, he looked happy, and even though she didn't begrudge him that, something about his flawless existence was a jagged pill to swallow.

“I here, Mrs. Charlotte,” Janna, her devoted Filipino housekeeper, whispered, startling Charlotte. Janna had an untrained talent for sneaking up on people, which Charlotte had once told her would make her an excellent spy. Janna had giggled nervously at the suggestion, probably because she had no idea what that meant.

“Oh, thank God.” Charlotte motioned to the platter and then secured the two large Velcro rollers in her hair. “I'm hopeless.”

“I fix it for you.” Janna set to work shuffling cheeses and crackers while alternating skewered slices of strawberry and pineapple from the refrigerator with a flourish of fresh flowers, until the presentation was Martha Stewart–worthy.

“Thank you.” Charlotte smiled gratefully, marveling at the way domesticity came so naturally to Janna. “I have to run upstairs and take these out.” She pointed to the rollers. “Please set everything up on the table in the great room.”

“Yes, Mrs. Charlotte. I make everything lovely for you.”

•   •   •

And
lovely it was when Charlotte came downstairs twenty minutes later with her naturally wavy hair wrestled into a long, straight bob, just the right amount of volume at the roots, thanks to the rollers. She'd taken extra time on her
makeup and selected an outfit that conveyed casual chic—dark-washed blue jeans, black Gucci ballet flats, and a powder blue Ralph Lauren cable-knit sweater layered over a white T-shirt. She wasn't sure why she felt the need to impress Allison. Maybe it was that Allison and Charlie were old friends. Or that she was new to Wincourt and Charlotte wanted to stake her claim before Allison had a chance to meet the other moms at school. Either way, there was something different about Allison that appealed to her, and more than anything, Charlotte wanted Allison to like her. And for Charlie to notice.

The bell chimed and Charlotte rushed to answer it. She'd actually considered whether or not to have Janna greet her guests, but Sabrina and Missy—who practically let themselves in these days—would have balked at the pomp and circumstance. Even though they both let their housekeepers and nannies deal with everything.

“Hellllloooo!” Sabrina and Missy chorused, standing in the doorway proffering matching bottles of prosecco.

“Can you believe we brought the exact same thing?” Sabrina rolled her eyes. She'd confided in Charlotte years earlier that she was convinced Missy wanted to be her and had pointed out every circumstance since that time that evidenced her claim.

Like when Missy had shown up to Parker Gresham's Fabulous Fifth birthday party wearing the same Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses that Sabrina was
certain
Missy had seen her sporting in a Facebook photo from their trip to Turks and Caicos three weeks earlier. Or, nine months later, when Missy had hosted a fund-raiser to benefit the Wincourt
Museum, decked out in a sleeveless gold Carolina Herrera cocktail dress, which Sabrina was
certain
she'd earmarked in the most recent copy of
InStyle
magazine. Which she'd lent to Missy. “Obviously, imitation is the highest form of flattery. But at some point, get your own identity, girl!” Sabrina had remarked time and time again. And time and time again, Charlotte had nodded in agreement, well aware that if this was the way Sabrina talked about “one of her two best friends in the whole wide world,” then she ought to be at least a little wary. Not that Missy was an innocent. Charlotte had spent entire lunches listening to her bad-mouth Sabrina. But when the three of them were together, the only targets of their slander were those not present. Belong or beware.

“As if we won't drink it.” Missy chortled, surveying Charlotte from head to toe. “Cute jeans.”

“Thanks.” Charlotte smiled and noted the compliment, which very well may have been veiled disapproval. “Let's move into the great room. Janna set up a gorgeous spread. Wine?”

“Obv.” Sabrina rolled her eyes again and they both followed Charlotte. Missy had once commented that no one's eyeballs got a better workout than Sabrina's—up and down, round and round—they revolved more often than the door at a Bergdorf Goodman shoe blowout.

“So where's the new girl?” Missy settled into a white linen club chair by the granite-rimmed gas fireplace, crossing her toned, albeit stubby legs before reaching for a carrot stick. No matter how hard Missy worked at it, she'd never be stick skinny like Sabrina or most of the other women in Wincourt. And it wasn't for lack of trying. Every morning after
dropping her daughter, Miley, at school, she headed directly to the sports club for an hour-long spin class, followed by another hour of free weights with her personal trainer. She shunned gluten, sugar, wheat, and dairy—basically anything with more calories than a stalk of celery. Her only vice, which she insisted she couldn't sacrifice, was alcohol. “It helps me forget how hungry I am,” she maintained. Charlotte could understand. She too had tried countless diets to no avail, always returning to the weight her body seemed most comfortable at, which—as it happened—was thirteen pounds of comfort she could do without.

She could also appreciate Missy's unwillingness to forego her nightly glass of wine, or two. Or three. There'd been a time when Charlotte barely drank anything, save for when she and Charlie were celebrating a milestone. And she'd often wondered why so many of her parents' friends, including her own father, “needed” their nightly scotch, whisky, gin, vodka, whatever their pleasure, to take the edge off. What edge? That was until she and Charlie had started bickering, then fighting, and finally parenting—while bickering and fighting. Nothing tasted better, then or now, than a chilled glass of sauvignon blanc at six p.m.—no earlier and certainly no later.

“She should be here any minute,” Charlotte replied, just as the doorbell rang again. “Speak of the devil.” She started to walk toward the foyer, until she heard Janna's muffled voice and then Allison's.

“I'm so sorry I'm late.” Allison appeared, smiling reticently, her dewy complexion and light gray eyes glistening
under one of Charlotte's thoughtfully aimed recessed spotlights.

“Not at all. Come join us.” Charlotte ushered Allison toward them, kissing her on the cheek and half hugging her awkwardly. “Allison, this is Sabrina. And this is Missy. Sabrina is Gabriella's mom and Missy is Miley's mom.”

“Hi.” Allison waved. “I guess that would make me Logan's mom.” Sabrina and Missy nodded knowingly.

Charlotte had told them Allison's story. Part of her had wanted to keep it private out of respect for Allison and Logan, but she'd been unable to hold it in for more than a day. She'd tried to impart the information in the empathetic manner she'd rehearsed. Unfortunately, Sabrina had rushed it out of her, citing an imminent waxing appointment, which she'd subsequently canceled in order to feast on the fodder. Within seconds, Sabrina had conferenced in Missy and the two of them were haranguing Charlotte for not telling them the moment she'd found out. Then the line of questioning had commenced.
How did he die? Did he drown? Did they find his body? Did she know she was pregnant? Did he know she was pregnant? Did he leave her any money?
Charlotte had attempted to answer their litany of queries, mainly Sabrina's, but their thirst for the nitty-gritty details had been insatiable.

“Well, aren't you gorgeous?” Sabrina grinned broadly. Charlotte had speculated that Sabrina would be instantly envious of Allison's undeniable physical beauty. That she would view it almost as a personal affront. Charlotte had also speculated that, for that reason alone, Sabrina would be desperate to befriend Allison.