By the Numbers (19 page)

He begins to wheel out of the kitchen, and I watch him maneuver past the doorframe, careful not to ding the paint. “You'll just go back to Stassi's, right?”

“Yeah, probably not.”

“Because of the stairs?”

He turns back to face me. “No, because of the breakup.”

“What? What happened?”

He runs his good hand through his hair. “Stassi said she couldn't handle my injuries. She said she wasn't going to be able to take care of me. She said she truly didn't realize how old I was until I was helpless.”

“Are you freaking kidding me?” I point to his lap. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but it's just a broken leg and torn ACL right? The bruises aren't that cute, but those will be gone in a week. Otherwise, you're good, and the girls said you can do the whole, you know, bathroom thing by yourself. Wait, you didn't sprain anything . . .
else
, right?”

The tips of his ears turn red. “All of my parts are functioning normally, thank you. And here I thought we were going to avoid awkwardness.”

“I'm sorry, but she's a bitch!” I fume. “That is
bullshit
. That is
ageist
. That is
not right
. I thought you were serious with her. I thought marriage was a possibility. In sickness and in health, for better or worse? Well, this is worse and a little bit of sickness and her first instinct is to cut and run? Not cool. One thousand percent not cool.”

Chris takes a deep breath and he suddenly looks very fragile in his chair. “Ultimately, it's my fault for not choosing well. Actions have consequences, and I have become painfully aware of them. Okay, I'm going to make some calls and figure some things out. I can probably go to my sister Sophie's. She's the closest, and she's already going to take me to physical therapy anyway until I can drive.” He does a three-point turn and goes to leave, but I catch his wheelchair by the handles before he can roll off.

Before I can even think through my idea, I find that I'm already talking. “Listen, I could actually use your input. There's a lot going on with our daughters, and neither one of them will tell me anything. Kelsey's left Milo and I have no idea why. And I suspect Jess has gotten herself into some trouble in New York. I saw a couple of weird comments on her blog about her owing people money and now the whole site is down. She says it's a technical glitch, but I have a bad feeling there's more to the story. Between them and whatever is up with my folks—I can't even begin to pick apart that mystery—having you tool around the first floor really would be the least of my problems. I know you're going to have to find your own place at some point because you guys broke up. I'm just saying it doesn't have to be today. Take a minute. Slow your roll.”

I can't read Chris's expression as he searches my face. “I'm not sure what you're trying to say, Penny. Do you want my input, or do you want my
help
? I realize it's hard for you to admit you require assistance, but I'm here; I just need confirmation.”

I have to swallow hard to get the words out. They feel foreign on my lips. “I want your help.”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Then I guess you've got yourself a temporary new roommate.”

“One thing, though?” I ask.

“What's that?”

“If anyone asks, I don't smoke.”

• • • •

“Penny Bancroft, my goodness, it's like you're still twenty-three years old,” Wyatt says, greeting me with a brief formal hug.

Time has been kind to Wyatt, rounding out the places where he
was once too angular. The fire of his ginger hair has softened and the volume thinned, but not drastically. He's definitely matured, but he also appears a lot less anxious than he used to. He no longer seems on the cusp of being shaken down for his lunch money.

“You flatter me, but it's Penny Sinclair,” I remind him. “Married. Divorced, but first married.”

“Penny Sinclair, Replicas Ninny.”

“You can say that again.” I motion toward the bar. We'd decided to meet on his turf, at an elegant old English-style pub on the first floor of a timbered Tudor boutique hotel in downtown Lake Forest. The walls are covered in dark panels of oiled wood, and beneath them, the banquettes are comprised of tufted leather. All of the gilded framed paintings are of hunting dogs. What is the North Shore's obsession with making everything look exactly like the local country clubs? Doesn't anyone else get tired of all the plaid and brass? Would all of Lake County implode if someone decorated modern or minimalist for once?

“Shall we sit?”

He pulls out my chair and we're seated. “I'm sorry. I didn't know what to order for you; it's been a very long time. I mean, Zima and ice beers have come and gone since I saw you last, although no one would know that to look at you. I hope you don't mind that I got started,” he says, holding up his rocks glass.

“Oh, please, how could you remember what I drink? It's been more than twenty-five years! What are you having?” I ask.

“Right now, club soda with a twist of lime.”

“Whoa, slow down there, cowboy. Hope you're not driving tonight.”

He smiles at me over the rim of his glass. “It's wonderful to see you, Penny. What are you in the mood for? I hear they make
a nice Moscow Mule here, which is vodka, lime, and ginger beer served in a copper cup.”

“Mmm, that sounds nice.”

“But wait—before you decide, their signature cocktail is the French 75, which is gin, lemon juice, simple syrup, and prosecco. The story is that it's supposed to pack such a kick that drinking one felt like being shelled by a French 75-millimeter field gun. If I may be so bold, might I suggest we get one of each, we taste them both, and decide from there who drinks what?”

“You have a beautiful mind,” I reply.

Hold up, is that flirting? I can't tell if I'm flirting. Holy cow, I'm rusty at this. Is this a date? I'm not sure, since we're not actually consuming a meal. Let's say it's a date, though. If this is a date, then it would stand to reason that I would act the coquette. Maybe my body is involuntarily reacting to this situation by making me say flirty things, sort of like how my pulse would quicken and dump cortisol and adrenaline in my system and my muscles would automatically contract to protect me from pain if I were in a situation where I felt fear. Also like if I were on a date.

(Is it too late to go back to my idea of getting fifteen cats?)

Wyatt
is
someone I used to quite like. He and I have been exchanging e-mails all week, and his witty banter is reminding me of what I enjoyed about our relationship. Did he ever rock my world, in so many words? No. Yet there's something to be said for quiet, clever companionship. And let's be frank here—I'm a fiftysomething actuary who's basically married to her job. Hot monkey sex is not at the top of my to-do list. Karin says it should be, but Karin spends way too much time talking to Ryan and Sasha about their hookups. (Which is disturbing, if you ask me, and exactly why we never let our kids watch HBO.)

He places our order and I'm reminded of what a gentleman he always was. While I'm loath to do the Wyatt-did-this and Chris-did-that comparison, I do recall Wyatt having impeccable etiquette. Chris was always my hero—until he wasn't—but Wyatt was certainly diligent in his own way. I forgot how well mannered he was. I don't think I touched a car door or picked up a check once the entire time we dated, no matter how hard I protested. At the time I found his chivalry painfully old-fashioned, but now I grasp the appeal.

“Sounds like you have a bit of a three-ring circus going on at your house,” he says. I've been giving him the broad strokes so I didn't just spring my bizarre new living situation on him in person.

“Yes, a total circus, complete with wild animals. My daughter brought home this wrecking crew in a black shag coat. Caroline—that's the dog—ate my phone in the middle of the night. She literally snuck into my room and chewed it to bits. This is problematic for a number of reasons, but mainly because I use my phone as my alarm clock. Normally I'd have just woken up on my own—I'm an early riser—”

“Still?”

“Still,” I confirm, blushing a bit, having forgotten that I've woken up with this man before. However, it seems too soon to delve into that portion of our past, so I acknowledge this comment no further. “Thing is, I was exhausted because she kept waking me up all night with her incessant barking. I guess she heard an owl hooting outside? Anyway, I missed a huge breakfast meeting this morning because of this. Slept right through it. And no one could call me because my phone was in thousands of pieces.”

Wyatt chuckles politely. He never did let out giant guffaws like Chris, which isn't a bad thing. “You missed your meeting
because your dog ate your phone? That's one shade past your dog eating your homework. Did people believe you?”

“Would
you
believe me? I've never in my life been late for a meeting, let alone missed one, and this was with a big new client we've been trying to land. Luckily one of my colleagues was there and she covered for me, so it was fine for the firm, but not so great for me.” Vanessa was practically running victory laps around the nineteenth floor by the time I arrived at the office at noon.

“I'm sure no one will judge you too harshly for one indiscretion.” He gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

“I hope not.”

Except I haven't had just the one indiscretion. Chaos has ensued over the past five days since Chris has been in the house, and truly none of it has been his fault. For example, I had to rearrange this initial client meeting more than once to make some accommodations, such as when the girls were using my car to bring Chris to his doctor's appointment, which would have been fine had they told me first. Stassi did bring up Chris's truck, but apparently neither of them can drive stick shift. Nor can I, which would have been good to know before I tried to take it to the train.

And then there are my parents. I was able to get my dad in to see the gerontologist, but only because of a midday cancelation, which meant I had to take a day off at the last minute, hence more rescheduling. Max surprised me by coming to the appointment without complaint and then was sharp as a damn tack the entire time the doctor ran his evaluation. While we were there, Dr. Vora drew blood and took a urine sample and we're waiting for those results. Once we know what's happening there, we can proceed with next-level testing to check on his memory skills and problem-solving
abilities, and if those prove inconclusive, we move on to a CT scan and possibly an MRI.

In a private conversation, Dr. Vora wanted to know if there was a possibility that my dad might have trended a bit bigoted because of the times in which he grew up. He says this isn't terribly unusual in his patients and thus far that seems to be his only issue. I'll have to talk to Foster and Judith about this, because . . . maybe? I'm not sure what to root for here, dementia or small-mindedness. The doctor also wanted to know if my father had been under any undue stress lately, but what kind of strain could he be facing, unless Bunky Cushman suddenly, drastically improved his short game?

Regardless, my personal life is wreaking havoc on my work life right now, which has never been an issue with me. I am not Personal Problem Gal. I am not Crying in the Bathroom Lady. I am not Woebegone Sigh as You Walk Past My Desk So You'll Ask Me What's Wrong Woman. No one even knew I was divorcing until someone noticed I no longer wore my wedding ring. (Thanks to Vanessa, I learned long ago to stop mentioning anything vaguely home-related in the office.) And yet despite my best efforts, home is now having an impact on my performance. I mean, this afternoon, Mr. Waterstone stopped me in the hallway to ask if everything is okay with me and if I needed to take any of my vacation time. I'm desperately unhappy about having registered on his radar, particularly so close to our upcoming meeting about my promotion, and that needs to stop right quick.

Our drinks arrive and Wyatt sets them both in front of me.

“Please, ladies first. You have the honor of choosing.”

“I'll try the Moscow Mule, but you have to taste the French 75 at the same time so we can toast,” I say.

“If you insist.” He lifts the cocktail, which is served in one of
those wide old French champagne glasses, and says, “May we kiss those we please and please those we kiss.”

Aha! Looks like I'm not the only one trying to flirt here. I give him a coy smile, and we clink glasses. We each take a sip of our respective drinks. Mine tastes strongly of ginger, which I appreciate. I always forget I enjoy the flavor of ginger, having relied on it so heavily to settle my stomach when I was pregnant. Chris was forever on the lookout for ginger-based food and drink back in the day. The day he found ginger root in the grocery store? You'd have thought he'd located the Dead Sea Scrolls.

Wait, why am I thinking about Chris right now? Stop it.

“Mmm, very citrusy,” he says of the 75.

“Shall we switch?” I ask. We swap and I take a sip of his, which I immediately want to spit out because it's like a mouthful of liquid Lemonhead candies. His face is equally puckered after his taste of the Moscow Mule. Without a word, we each take back our original drinks.

Wyatt wipes his mouth with a napkin and clears his palate with some wasabi peas. “I have a small-world story for you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mmm-hmm. Apparently my neighbors bought your parents' old place in West Palm.”

“I beg your pardon?” He has to be mistaken. My parents haven't sold their place in West Palm. They would have mentioned it. You don't just conduct a major real estate transaction and move out of the state without telling your kids.

Unless there's a problem the gerontologist has yet to diagnose.