Dancing Naked in Dixie (25 page)

My stomach drops. “Hello?” I say again, perplexed at the silence.

The connection begins to fuzz out as we drop deeper inside the building. Fifth floor, fourth floor.

Between crackles, I can hear him say something. “Em?” I make out. His voice is gruff and I can tell he’s older. His tone is familiar, but I can’t quite place it.

“No, it’s not Em,” I reply, making my voice cool. “Who is this?” I start to ask, but before I can get the words out, he’s gone. On my screen, the number flashes, signaling I’ve lost the call. Instead of five bars, my cell has none. Lips pursed, I exhale, blowing all of the air out of my lungs.
What in the world is going on?

The doors open at the second floor, and a man in a dark suit steps inside. He offers a curt hello, but I’m too upset to do anything but nod and grimace.

I called the right number, but it was definitely not Shug who answered. And who is this mysterious “Em”?

With a jolt, the elevator stops at the first floor. After another ding, the double-doors heave open. I blink and step into the bright lobby, the heels of my boots click on the marble tile. I stop and stand still, craning my neck like a goose, searching for a glimpse of Shug’s dark hair and broad shoulders.

Oh, I am going to give him a piece of my mind…

Someone taps my shoulder. I whirl around, holding out an accusing finger, ready to launch into a mini-tirade about the phone call and “Em.”

But it’s Andrew.

“Looking for someone?” He smiles and takes my limp hand. He’s holding yet another bunch of flowers, perky white daisies and bright pink tulips, this time.

“Andrew!” I widen my eyes and try to form something else to say. My brain is stuck in reverse. I want to go back upstairs, back to my office, back to David’s office, even.

He laughs, showing off his perfect teeth and boyish dimples. I can feel a few jealous looks as we stand in the middle of the lobby. Andrew always attracts admiring glances with his sea green eyes and blonde hair.

“I know we’re supposed to meet a little later,” he grins and rubs his gloved hands together, “but I called your office and arranged for you to have the afternoon off.”

I bite the inside of my cheek and I try not to look furious.

Andrew takes me by the elbow, turns me around to face him, then leans in and nuzzles my forehead. I used to love that, I think to myself. I used to love everything about him. I swallow the gigantic bubble in my throat.

“Who? How—?” I sputter out and shake my head. We begin to walk toward the street and I’m glad I don’t have to look Andrew straight in the face.

He chortles. “Oh, I have my ways.”

I nudge his ribs with my elbow, encouraging him to tell the rest of the story. I need to know who I am going to have to kill when I come to work in the morning.

“Marietta?” I ask.

“Nope,” he raises his chin in satisfaction. “I talked to the top man. Your new boss. He was in a great mood, said you just finished a fantastic assignment.”

I slow my pace. “You. Talked. To. David.”

“He was great. Seems like he really likes you,” Andrew winks down at me like we’ve just shared a juicy secret.

It’s my turn to laugh. Of course, it comes out sounding more like a sharp, halting bark. Like a dog that’s had his paw run over with a child’s bicycle wheel.

Andrew holds the door open for me and gives me a curious look. “What’s the matter?” he asks and frowns.

The December wind whips my cheeks and, for once, I’m glad, because it helps me calm down. I take a deep breath and review the facts: Andrew doesn’t know David. They never met. By the time we started dating, my father had already left.

But David could have warned me. Given me a sign. A clue.

Andrew whistles and waves down a yellow taxi. As the cab pulls up, wheels gripping the packed snow, I step back from the curb and wait. Always the gentleman, Andrew opens the door and beckons me inside.

“So, did David, my lovely new boss, happen to mention his last name?” I ask as I slide inside the back seat.

Andrew pauses for a moment, then shuts my door. He leans forward to the cab driver’s open window, murmurs an address, and walks around to the other side of the taxi. After he’s settled in next to me, he thinks for a moment. He’s usually good with names. He remembers everyone. He drums his fingers on the seat beside him. “Sanders, Sherwood, Silver?”

“Try Sullivan,” I say.

“Sullivan, that’s it,” Andrew snaps his fingers in delight.

I don’t respond. I watch him. And wait for it all to click. Not thirty seconds later, Andrew gets it. The name. My name. The whole story. His eyes meet mine. “As in?”

With a small nod, I acknowledge he’s correct. “Yes. David’s my father.”

Chapter 28

In my pocket, my cell buzzes. Andrew hears it, I can tell, but he doesn’t ask who’s calling me. I pull out my phone, and my fingers fumble to shut it off.

Without looking at the screen, I power it down. “Not important,” I say. And right now, no matter who it is, I owe Andrew my full attention. And an explanation.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

Andrew gives me what passes for a broad, but uneasy smile. “Don’t you want to tell me more about the big reunion? With David?”

He doesn’t really expect me to talk. Andrew is well aware that my father isn’t quite stellar in the categories of parent and husband. David is an expert at leaving, my own wanderlust proof of his lineage.
At least I have someone to blame it on.

Andrew reaches across the seat to squeeze my hand. I don’t pull away, though I’d like to sprint back up 5th Avenue, head back to West 57th and Central Park. My comfort zone is calling.

I chew my bottom lip and shake my head. “Not much to say. It was a bit of a surprise.” I actually smile, remembering my reaction—a cross between sick and shell-shocked. “I’m over it now. He’s there. He’s staying. He’s really smart and will do a great job.”

“What about you?” Andrew gazes at me.

I shrug. “I’m gone so much. On the day I found out he’d been hired, he sent me off on assignment. I’m leaving Wednesday for New Orleans.”

“Happy holidays from the Big Easy, eh?” Andrew murmurs. He’s not thrilled.

“Something like that,” I say. “I don’t have all of the details yet.”

The cab driver eases to the side of the street and parks. We’ve arrived in the Flatiron District, East 20th Street, to be exact. Andrew glances at the fare, peels off a few bills from his wallet, and gets out of the taxi.

He walks around the cab to my side, opens the door, and offers me a hand. Safe on the sidewalk, we watch the cabbie drive away. “Thanks. So, where to?” I ask, raising my eyebrows at the buildings surrounding us.

I’d suggested O’Reilly’s for the casual atmosphere and proximity to work. I’m actually longing for the simple menu at McGee’s on West 55th Street or The Gin Mill on Amsterdam.

The sumptuous Gramercy Tavern looms ahead. Any other evening, I’d be thrilled to be dining on Shrimp or Sea Bass. I adore the restaurant’s Bok Choy and have been known to polish off an entire course of Snapper with a side of Radish, Turnip, Bacon, and Beet Broth.

Despite my voracious appetite, and the huge bill when we leave, Andrew takes me here once a year. It’s our special place, as those things for couples go, and my heart sinks a little lower in my chest with every step we get closer to the entrance.

I’ve already meandered though our relationship with no intention of long-term anything. In my defense, I’ve been honest. I’m a commitment-phobe. Certifiable. More broken relationships than anyone I know. And Andrew entered into this knowing it.

But our unheard of stretch of romantic bliss has survived because we’re long-distance without being long-distance. I have an apartment in the City and a job that takes me around the world. The separation doesn’t make my heart grow fonder, it helps me endure. I know that I’m leaving, and therefore, can commit to another day, another week, another month.

But it’s not fair to Andrew, who, on more than one occasion, has stated his desire for domestic bliss, a house in the suburbs, and two point two children. True, I’ve overhead him saying it to friends or colleagues. He hasn’t addressed it directly with me. Not yet.

I think he still believes he can change my mind about marriage and forever after.

Tonight, I have to let him go.

We’re seated at the bar while we wait for our table. The table, covered with a lovely, crisp cloth, fresh flowers, and shiny silverware. The table that I have no intention of going anywhere near. The bartender takes our order—Andrew’s scotch on the rocks, my glass of Pinot Noir. As we wait, I run my hand along the smooth mahogany wood and try to settle my nerves. With a sly glance, I eye the slight bulge in his jacket pocket. A small gift? Some jewelry? My chest tightens. An engagement ring?

Our drinks arrive, and while Andrew takes a conservative sip and chats up the overweight man beside him, I down the entire pour in one gulp. The bartender eyes me and I nod vigorously, conveying my urgent need for a refill.

After the second glass in five minutes, I’m loosening a bit. My shoulders relax and I’m able to stop clutching my purse. As it turns out, Andrew’s new friend is quite funny, and we spend the next twenty minutes laughing at his off-color jokes. At one point, I have to dab at my eyes with a cocktail napkin. I can’t even remember the punch line.

I’m on my third glass—or perhaps my fourth—when the hostess sidles up to inform Andrew our table is ready.

“No, thank you,” I grip the stem of my wine glass and flash a look of pure terror at the restaurant worker. My stool seems to shift to the right and I try to sit up very straight. I put a hand on the bar and steady myself. The hostess takes a step back, frowns, and decides to ignore me. She’s drilling her eyes on Andrew, who’s making short work of vacating his seat.

“Julia?” Andrew touches my arm. His hand burns on my bare skin. I contain a yelp and pull away, sloshing my wine and nudging the innocent bystander to my right.

Andrew’s brow furrows. He sweeps a hand through his blonde hair, confused. “Julia,” he repeats. “Ready?”

“I’m not,” my voice strains above the crowd. I grip both sides of my chair for emphasis and lock my feet on the legs of the stool.

Andrew pivots at my acrid tone. For a moment, he looks stunned. Or perplexed. The wine’s altered my judgment, so I’m not able to read his expression with any clarity. I decide on basic unhappiness.

“Can we go?” I plead and pull on the sleeve of his navy sport coat.

He brushes off my hand. “Julia,” he hisses. “I don’t understand.” His jaw is set, eyes hurt.

“Not here,” I say and sweep a hand to indicate we’re in a crowd. Of course, my judgment of spatial relations is impaired, and I manage to knock off a row of six martinis the bartender’s just poured and garnished.

The crash and shatter of glass momentarily stuns the entire room full of people. The counter becomes a lake of gin and vermouth. A toothpick full of olives rolls by as the martini river continues to run toward unsuspecting elbows. The bartender chases the liquid with a dishrag, shooing patron’s elbows and hands along the way. I shrink down in my seat and raise my eyes to meet Andrew’s, expecting disappointment or disapproval. He’s not one for scenes, and this is a doozey.

Andrew’s face has lost all color. He’s as white as the cocktail napkin under his scotch and fluorescent lights. “Julia,” he says, voice tight and intense.

“I’m sorry,” I wince and close my eyes. “Andrew, I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time.” There’s no response. My eyelids flutter open. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at my knees, or my lap. “Andrew,” I clear my throat, trying not to get irritated that he’s not paying attention. “I really care about you, but—”

“Julia,” Andrew grabs my hand tight and drops to one knee.

“What are you doing?” I pipe up. “Do not propose, Andrew. I can’t accept.”

Instead of whipping out a small jewelry box with a bow, Andrew shoves me of my barstool, wraps my hand in a white towel he must have grabbed from one of the wait staff, and points me toward the front door. “You’re bleeding,” he yells in my ear. “I think you need stitches.”

I drop my eyes to my hand. Bright red liquid is soaking through the wrapped fabric. Blood, my brain tells me. Not wanting to accept it, I decide to ask anyway, hoping that someone spilled a bucket of cherry Kool-Aid. “Is that…?” My voice trails off and I gasp.

“Yes,” Andrew says, whisking me out of Gramercy Tavern.

Beneath the bandage, my palm begins to throb.

A dozen stitches and a cup of coffee later, I am very sober and completely mortified. We’re standing on the concrete steps of my apartment. Thanks to a Novocaine block, I can’t feel anything below my wrist, and for that I am grateful. For the fiftieth time this evening, I wish there was something similar for my brain.

“So,” I finally say, “you were never going to propose.”

“No,” Andrew shakes his head. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a letter. “I’ve been offered a job in London. Great opportunity, and I’ve decided to take it. I wanted to tell you myself. Face to face.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“You are a wonderful girl, Julia,” he continues. “But, I don’t see a future for us. Maybe you can come visit. Or someday we could try—”

I stand on my tiptoes and put a finger to his lips. “Shh. It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. Go to London, meet someone wonderful, get married. You deserve it. You deserve to be happy.”

Andrew pauses, reading my face. His eyes redden. With an awkward grin, he takes me in his arms, hugs me tight, and kisses the top of my head. “Be good.”

“You too,” I murmur as he releases me. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Andrew runs a finger along my cheek, his face full of emotion, and turns to leave. “Anytime.” His voice breaks a little.

I wave, tears coursing down my cheeks. Then, I clutch my bandaged hand, smile, and watch him until he disappears into the ink-black night.

“Good-bye,” I say to the night air. He didn’t say the words, but it is obvious. He’s moving on. He’s leaving. And I didn’t try to stop him.