Coming Home to You (13 page)

“I was just making sure you knew about the company banquet tomorrow night?” she ventured.

I nodded again, hoping she would take my answer and leave, but it seemed she was ready for a chat. Ursula shuffled the rest of the way into my office and perched on the visitor’s chair just inside the walls of my minuscule cubicle, smoothing a wrinkle from her pencil skirt. She reached up and tucked an errant lock of thick black hair behind her ear, the fluorescent lights overhead glinting off the diamond solitaires in her earlobes.

“Zoë,” she started, sounding almost uncertain.

I kept my eyes locked on her, wondering what she might be about to say that would actually give her pause. This was a woman who never thought twice about saying anything, so I could only imagine. And I wasn’t imagining good things.

“Zoë,” she said again, ready to plow on. “I have someone I want you to meet.”

I stared at her.

“Meet?” I asked dumbly.

She nodded. “I think it would do you good to get back out there, you know?”

“Get back out there?” I realized I was repeating almost everything she was saying at this point, but I was so completely and utterly taken off guard that I didn’t really know what else to do. Formulating sentences of my own seemed almost impossible.

“You need to start dating again, Zoë,” she shifted uncomfortably on the chair, “and I think I have just the guy.”

Again I stared, unblinkingly, waiting for whatever would come next before I collapsed in hilarity.

She took my silence as encouragement and smiled conspiratorially, leaning forward. “My cousin is in town. He’s actually moving here,” she began in a near-whisper. “And I really think you two would hit it off.” She resumed her proper upright posture and beamed with the radiance of the self-satisfied. She was probably having visions of us skipping down the aisle.

I leaned toward her, my eyes never straying from her flawlessly made-up face. “Why are we whispering?”

The smile slipped from her lips. “Zoë, if anyone in the office knew I was actually trying to set you up with my cousin, it could cause all kinds of problems,” she said in a tone that conveyed unquestionable seriousness.

I raised an eyebrow. “Such as?” I prompted.

“Such as others here thinking that perhaps I was showing favoritism,” she replied impatiently, obviously annoyed at my ignorance. She paused. Maybe she was rethinking the entire set-up. “Now, you and I both know that this is not to show any kind of preferential treatment. But I would still appreciate it if you kept this between us.” She rose from the chair and tugged the bottom hem of her silk blouse into place, lest there be any pouffing that might give anyone the mistaken impression that she was chunky.

I watched wordlessly, wondering if my lack of any true response would be construed as agreement to this whole train-wreck or if I was going to be given an opportunity to consider and subsequently refuse. From the look on her face, I was guessing not.

She flashed me a chemically-whitened smile and strode out of my cubicle, leaving me to consider my fate. I sank low in my chair, swiveling small arcs back and forth, the base of my skull resting against the top of the chair back while I stared up at the ceiling. I wasn’t really looking at anything, just staring. And wondering how everything had fallen so far beyond anything resembling normalcy.

What was I supposed to do about any of this? Was I supposed to give Sam the chance at absolution he so obviously wanted? Was I supposed to just shut up, be the good little soldier, and take one for the team by going out on a date with Ursula’s cousin?

I closed my eyes.

Maybe this was my fate, and I was going to have to resign myself to it.

Change. Change is good. Change can be painful, change can be scary, but change is ultimately good.

Right?

To: Neil Epstein

From: Zoë Trent

Subject: Unbiased Advice

Dear Neil,

I know you said to write if there was anything I needed to know about the house, but I thought you might like to be kept abreast of all the things going on back here in this booming metropolis of ours. I also thought it might be nice to get to know one another a little better, since I’m staying in your house, and it might make things a little less awkward. And who knows, it might even put your mind at ease a little more, having regular direct contact with the person you’ve entrusted your home to for the next few months. I know we’ve gotten off to a slow start, but better late than never, right?

I gather from all of the running medals in your room that you’re an avid runner. Running races was something that I used to do regularly, as well, before I lost my fiancé. I don’t know if that’s something that Ray told you about, but I was engaged last year. His name was Paul. He’s actually one of the reasons I’m writing.

Paul was twenty-nine when he died. He was handsome and successful and healthy, so none of us expected that he would die so young. He and his best friend were out one afternoon, and he just collapsed. He was dead by the time he got to the hospital. They told me when they called that it had been an aneurism, that he had gone fast. I hope that’s not something they just tell you to make you feel better, to alleviate the worry that the person was in a lot of pain or knew for a long time that they were dying. What makes them so sure?

Paul’s best friend disappeared after it happened. The last time I saw him was at the hospital, and he didn’t come to the memorial service. He never picked up the phone to check on me or to talk, not even once, in the past year. I don’t understand how someone who’s lost his best friend can just do that, but that’s the way Sam handled it. Even thinking about it makes me angry and confused, and I’m really not sure how I’d react if I ever saw him again face to face.

Which brings me to the advice I need from you.

I received an e-mail from Sam this morning, asking me to forgive him for disappearing after Paul died. He also wants to meet with me, for some reason. Today is one year, exactly, from the day that Paul died. A whole year has gone by. Do I owe him this? Please tell me what you think I should do.

I need the advice of someone who’s unrelated to all of this, someone who’s not my mother or my best friend—someone who doesn’t know me at all. Someone who can look at the situation objectively and tell me what the good and upright response would be. Someone like you, I think, which is why I’m asking you for your counsel.

I think maybe Paul would want me to forgive him, but it feels so hard.

Be safe, Dear Neil. Wherever you are.

Zoë

To: Zoë Trent

From: Neil Epstein

Subject: RE: Unbiased Advice

Zoë-

This is certainly something I’ve never been faced with, the sudden death of someone I planned to spend my life with. I hope that I never find myself in your situation. I can’t imagine that this has been an easy year for you, and the lack of support you received from your fiancé’s best friend could only have complicated matters more for you. It was disrespectful, weak, and selfish of him to abandon you when you needed him most. I can’t imagine that he would want to meet with you now, after all this time, for any other reason than to alleviate some of the guilt he is feeling at his own actions. My first reaction is to tell you to show him no mercy and refuse his request, but I think in the long run, the healthiest and most respectful thing you can do for yourself and the memory of your fiancé would be to meet with this Sam character. If nothing else, at least you’ll be able to console yourself with the knowledge that you’ve been the bigger and stronger person.

I hope that I’ve been of some help in your need for advice. If I was in your position, I’d be mightily tempted to beat the crap out of the guy for being such a coward, so I guess it’s good that I’m not. I think you’re right, though. Even if you don’t really do it for him, do it for yourself and for Paul.

Take care and let me know how things go.

Neil

Chapter 13

I glared at myself in the mirror, trying to decide whether the dress I was holding was a good idea, or if it would make me look like I was trying too hard. I shook my head in frustration. This was way too much work, too much stress. I hadn’t done this in so long I had forgotten how.

Was complete dread normal before a first date, or was I just misdiagnosing the nauseous feeling I was having?

Maybe I was sick.

Maybe I was dying.

I touched my hand to my forehead, hoping that it might feel feverish.

No such luck.

Zoë, Zoë, Zoë. You are pitiful
, I thought derisively.
Be an adult and go knock his socks off—even if he’s a complete dud
.

Captivating. Captivating
.

You are captivating
, I thought with determination.

I looked at the reflection of the young woman staring back at me and squared my shoulders, standing up straight and trying to look self-assured. If you look it, you act it. And if you act it, you feel it.

Or so was the hope. What was that rule?

Fake it ’til you make it.

I pulled on the dress and pulled my curls into a loose, low ponytail at the nape of my neck, pausing to reassess. Not bad, but I needed a little color on my lips. I scanned through the meticulously arranged collection of lipsticks I’d put on top of the dresser and selected a merlot shade that had been used so often it was nearly empty. Perfect, I thought, allowing myself a small smile of satisfaction as I smoothed it on.

Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe I would actually enjoy myself tonight, despite the fact that this hadn’t actually been my idea.

I carefully applied the lipstick, then wandered to the closet to find a pair of shoes. I stood and contemplated my options, rows of heels and flats and boots lined up along the front of the deep closet.

They were all there, in Neil’s closet, with Neil’s shoes behind them. It struck me, as I stood there staring at all the shoes, that I had gotten used to them. The sight of all of Neil’s things mixed in with mine. A happy co-mingling of possessions that seemed so normal to me now, after three months of living with them.

It was going to be so strange not to see them anymore. No matter that these were the possessions of a man that I’d never met. No matter that my things really had no place here, that this was a temporary arrangement. It was another loss I was going to have to learn to cope with.

I shook my head, trying to clear it of the morose thoughts that I felt closing in on me, and I bent to reach for a pair of strappy little heels that I knew would make my calves look good.

As I straightened, the corner of something shiny caught my eye, trapped haphazardly between the wall and a box I’d shoved to one side of the closet to make more room for everything I’d needed to put in there. I scooted the box over as much as it would allow, mere centimeters, but it still made just enough space for my fingers to reach and grab whatever had fallen there.

My breath caught as I stared at what I now held in my hands, a wrinkled photograph that looked as though it had been folded and re-folded many times over.

Two people smiled brightly at the photographer, their faces awash in the glow of streetlights above them as they stood tightly embracing, the romance of the Parisian city line behind them.

I turned the picture over, hoping to find something that gave me some clue as to the identity of this happy couple and when the picture was taken.

Neil and Sara—Paris, May 2004.
It was scrawled in smudged ink on the back, a loopy script whose writer could only have been female. I stared at the names, then turned the picture again, sinking to the floor as I became lost in thought.

Neil and Sara. I peered closer at the faces of these two people, the man whose identity left me with so many idle curiosities and a woman I’d never known existed.

She was beautiful in an unconscious, uncontrived way, her large brown eyes fringed with thick eyelashes that boasted no need for mascara. She had porcelain skin and shiny espresso-colored hair tucked up in a French twist, effortlessly sleek and pulled together. She was tall and lithe looking, like a dancer.

The man she held so tightly had eyes whose intensity seemed to reach beyond the paper of the photograph. They were a pale shade, not quite gray and not quite blue, like a drizzly day in winter. His face was more striking than handsome in the traditional sense, edged by a strong jaw and laid bare by a shaved head. It worked for him, somehow, in ways that would have failed many other men, lending itself to the raw masculinity that seemed to be running like an undercurrent in his gaze. His slender frame was banded with muscles chiseled by miles, a quiet reminder that strength wasn’t always defined by brawn. I realized, as I reviewed the running description of his features in my head, that I might have been cataloguing him too closely for my own good. I shook my head at my foolishness and tried to shift my brain down to detached curiosity, though it seemed to be completely unsuccessful.

So this was Neil.

Who was Sara? Was she still a part of his life? What had happened between them?

I felt my eyes narrow in a frustrated scowl. Finding the picture had left me with even more unanswered questions, more mysteries. It might have been absolutely none of my business, but I was intrigued, nonetheless.

My phone rang in my purse, and I was reminded that I was supposed to be getting ready to leave. Not that I really wanted to go to this dinner now. I would much rather have called Ray to pick his brain about all the details of Neil and Sara.

I got up from my place on the floor, still barefoot, wondering at the probability that the story between these two lovers might not be one with a happy ending. What else would be the reason that I was here now instead of Sara?

I dug my phone out of my purse, taking note of the number on the display. Ursula. I smiled and shook my head in amusement. She was quite the persistent one, wasn’t she?