Happily Ever After? (8 page)

“You don’t give up, do you?”

“Never say die.” She grinned. “That’s my motto.”

After Diana left, I realized she’d succeeded in distracting me from our conversation about Michael Avila. I wondered what
she knew about him. It makes me sick to think it might be something bad. In the meantime, I await his call.

’Til next time,

V

Will wonders never cease? C.J. Patterson called me to apologize. She admitted that I was right about Big Head Johansen and
begged my forgiveness. She told me that the coach had quit the team, quit his job, and moved with his family to Wyoming. Then
she invited me to her
house for tea Wednesday afternoon. I accepted the invitation, then wondered what the hell I could possibly talk to C.J. Patterson
about for two hours.

’Til next time,

V

I met with Nancy Cooperman, a financial advisor with Barlowe Associates. Omar had recommended her, said that her clients include
Bruce and Babs Alexander (they own half the county), Elgin Wiley (he owns the other half), and Marcus Osten (owns most of
the McDonald’s franchises in this part of the country). I still can’t believe that I’m now part of this elite club. Nancy
sketched out an elaborate but sensible plan, and all but guaranteed that she would double my money in eight to ten years.

I told her I wanted to buy a summer house and she suggested Figure Eight Island on Cape Fear in Wilmington, North Carolina.
I never heard of it. Nancy said she’d have a realty directory sent to me at once. What service!

Saw Michael Avila at the bagel place. He was leaving as I walked in. He awkwardly apologized for not calling, said he’s been
swamped with work. He told me again how much he loved my short hair. I did not believe him this time.

’Til next time,

V

C.J. Patterson doesn’t really want to be my friend.

I figured this out after I had started on my second chocolate chip scone. She asked if I’d consider making a twenty-five-thousand-dollar
donation to the hospital foundation. She said that my name would appear on a brass plaque by the reception area. “It’s an
investment in our community,” C.J. intoned, “an expression of your commitment to the health and well-being of our precious
community. It’s a legacy that will live on forever, a legacy for your children, and your children’s children.”

I’d done enough fund-raising for the Center to know that you don’t just flat-out ask someone to donate $25,000. You cultivate
them. You shmooze them. You ask them to join the board, or a committee. This kind of cultivation can take months, even years.
And when the moment is right, you absolutely do not send someone like C.J. Patterson to “make the ask.” It’s an art, a science,
as profound as a marriage proposal, as delicate as a butterfly wing. Two weeks ago, C.J. Patterson was calling me names. She
wasn’t a friend. She wasn’t even someone I respected. And once I realized that it wasn’t my company she wanted but my money,
I knew I had to leave. I stuffed the rest of the scone into my mouth and washed it down with lukewarm strawberry tea.

“Thanks for having me, C.J.,” I told her as I gathered
my jacket and bag. “Delicious scones. You’ll have to give me the recipe.” I didn’t say anything about a donation. I left the
hospital brochure on her coffee table. When I told my mother what had happened, she said I’d better get used to it.

Michael left a message on my machine. He has two tickets for the ballet this Saturday and wondered whether I’d like to join
him. I called back and left a message on his machine. “Absolutely!” I said, a little too enthusiastically, I fear.

’Til next time,

V

I was just getting into the shower when the phone rang.

“Don’t hang up.” The voice was small, thin, male.

“Who is this?”

“You’ve forgotten me already, have you?”

It was Roger. His voice was so choked and shrunken I would have never guessed it belonged to my arrogant ex-husband.

“What do you want?”

“I wouldn’t be asking you this if I weren’t desperate,” he began, and I knew the rest.

“No, Roger,” I interrupted. “I won’t bail you out.”

“Wait! Hear me out. Please. I beg you.”

Anger rose like bile in the back of my throat. There
was so much I wanted to say. Instead, I hung up the phone and disconnected the wire from the wall.

’Til next time,

V

I started the day at the mall, and ended with a Jeep full of shopping bags. I don’t care if my body is less than perfect.
It still deserves to be adorned.

It’s been so long since I’ve dated that I decided I needed a refresher course. I went to the library in search of helpful
hints for newly single women and found
The Ten Commandments of Dating.
I vaguely remembered that this book was met with considerable criticism when it first appeared, and as I flipped through
its pages, I understood why.

Commandment Three: When he finally calls, tell him you’re unavailable.

Commandment Seven: If he leaves a message on your machine, don’t return his call for forty-eight hours.

Commandment Nine: Don’t even consider having sex until you’ve dated at least a year.

Is this author deranged? Does anyone actually follow these commandments? What’s the point of waiting a
year to have sex? Why would anyone cancel a date with someone they actually like? I was mystified. Yet oddly intrigued. I
took the book home and plan to read it tonight.

’Til next time,

V

Hunter is signed up for the second session at the Gibson Prep School camp and now Pete wants to go too. Actually, it’s not
really a camp, not in the traditional sense. There’s no pool or playground, no hiking or arts and crafts. It’s more like summer
school without grades or tests. There are two classes a day with an hour break for lunch. Hunter is taking a class on the
Civil War, and another on the Vikings.

I called the camp but the secretary insisted that there were no openings. I offered to pay double the fee. She put me on hold,
returned five minutes later, and told me that she could, in fact, make an exception, given my willingness to compensate the
camp appropriately.

’Til next time,

V

I wish I could freeze this feeling forever.

It is 12:09
A.M.
I have been with Michael Avila for six
utterly transcendent hours. I’m too wary to say I’m in love, but I’m definitely enchanted.

Even with all my new clothes, I couldn’t find anything formal enough for the ballet. I finally settled on a long black skirt,
cream-colored embroidered top, short black velvet jacket. Michael looked sleek and delicious in a jet-black tux.

Michael gave me a bouquet of pastel roses, Asiatic lilies, and alstroemeria, and when I went to hug him, he kissed me on the
cheek and it felt soft and warm. He told me that I looked even prettier with short hair, that it brought out the green in
my eyes. I
felt
pretty under his gaze. I felt tall and slim and attractive and special and sparkly.

I think he was expecting to meet Pete, but I’d arranged for Pete to sleep at Drew Steuben’s house. (Pete had begged me to
let him stay with Hunter, but I’m still feeling icky about Lynette and Curtis.)

We started the evening at Bellamy’s and I took it as a rather romantic choice, since this was where we had our first date,
the one my mother had engineered. Though pricey, the food at Bellamy’s is consistently good and is prepared by actual trained
grown-ups— noteworthy in a town where most restaurants are staffed by college kids whose culinary repertoire is limited to
“three minutes on full power.”

Michael suggested we order two dishes to share, another happy signal. Roger
hated
sharing food. He thought it was unhygienic. We started with a bottle of
Möet Et Chandon and appetizers: sauteed almonds and marinated roasted olives (yum!), then moved to the chicken fricassee with
ginger, scallions, sweet peppers, onions, and shiitake mushrooms (sublime), and gnocchi with wild mushrooms, truffles, and
scallions (perfect). For dessert, one crème brûlée, two spoons (his choice, above my protestations that I needed to watch
my weight).

By 8
P.M.
we were settled into our plum-colored velvet seats at the Performing Arts Center.
Appalachian Suite,
I learned from the program, focuses on a younger pioneer couple in early-nineteenth-century Pennsylvania. Composed by Aaron
Copland for Martha Graham, the music was strong and optimistic. The program included a quote from Martha Graham, who wrote
that the
Appalachian Suite
“is essentially the coming of new life. It has to do with growing things.” She said that spring was the loveliest but also
the saddest time. I thought about the coming of my new life, the growing of a new relationship. I was enchanted by the loveliness
of this moment with Michael, but I was also sad. Was I grieving for what I’d lost? Or because I suspected that happiness would
always elude me, that even this budding relationship was doomed?

I suggested Starbucks after the ballet; I didn’t want to leave him. I noticed that women seemed drawn to him—the counter girl
at Starbucks actually gave him a plate of lemon tarts for free. I also noticed that Michael didn’t eye anyone, not even the
striking girl in the slim
black skirt and stiletto sandals, or the Polynesian-looking beauty working on a laptop at the table next to ours. Nor did
he flirt back when the counter girl said she was sizzling hot and wished she could go skinny-dipping. More happy signals!

I told him about Jerry Johansen and he listened intently (“with both ears and both eyes,” as Pete’s teacher likes to say).

There was one more uncomfortable topic I’d wanted to get out of the way. “I think we have a mutual friend,” I started.

“Really? Who?” Michael asked.

“Diana Pierce.”

He looked at me blankly.

“Dark hair? Slim? Pretty?” I continued.

Michael shrugged. “Sorry. Don’t know her.” He looked into my empty cup. “I’m getting a refill. Want one?”

“No thanks,” I told him. I watched him walk back to the counter and admired his firm round buns.

After coffee, Michael invited me to see his new house, but—remembering commandment number four—I politely declined. He frowned.
“You sure?” he asked, picking a bit of fuzz off my jacket.

I hesitated, then smiled. “I’m sure. Maybe next time,” I said, amazed by my self-restraint.

He drove me home and walked me to the porch, then gave me a long hug. He kissed me first on the cheek, then lightly on the
lips. I had to stand on my
toes to reach him. He said he’d call me soon, mentioned something about football tickets. I was elated, and to hell with the
ten commandments of dating. I wanted to ask him inside. Instead, I watched him walk back to his car. He waved as he pulled
away from the curb.

I know I should go to sleep now but I think I’ll just sit here and feel this quiet joy.

’Til next time,

V

Nancy Cooperman says that at the rate I’m spending, I may be broke by the end of the year. She was being facetious, of course,
but I took it as a warning. She sent me a book about millionaires, said it was an early Christmas present. The author says
that many of the wealthiest people in America live most modestly. They drive older model cars, shop at Sears, live in middle-class
neighborhoods. They got rich by investing conservatively and spending frugally, and while this doesn’t mean I have to go back
to recycling bra straps, Nancy said I probably shouldn’t spend $200 the next time a Girl Scout comes to the door selling peanut
brittle. (But I
had
to! I felt so sorry for the little girl. She said she never sells anything and therefore never wins any of the
prizes. This year, thanks to me, she’s guaranteed to win the Barbie sleeping bag!)

I’d like to be the kind of millionaire that lives modestly … someday. But first I’m reveling in my wealth. I can buy any damn
thing I want and nobody’s going to stop me. I’m going to replace the white tile in my kitchen (aka the dirt magnet) with Mediterranean-style
tile that looks rustic and dirty already and hides everything. But the smaller luxuries are the ones that really thrill me:
A Gore-Tex winter cap. Vanity Fair dinner napkins. A twelve-pack of mechanical pencils. A new pair of shoes (and not because
I needed them).

And I love being able to give to charity. I’ve sent a thousand dollars to the library fund at Pete’s school, another thousand
to the women’s shelter. I plan to talk to Nancy about setting up a endowment for the community kitchen. I
love
spending money this way!

’Til next time,

V

It’s almost midnight and I’ve been playing Solitaire ’Til You Drop on my computer for over an hour. I’m completely addicted
to this game. I’ve come to realize that it’s a metaphor for life.

Sometimes the cards all seem to be in your favor—all
the aces fall into place, the kings line up just right— and even then you wind up losing because there’s a glitch, some critical
card isn’t dealt and you’re stuck. Other times it looks like you’ve been dealt a losing hand, but you play it anyway and suddenly,
against all expectations and odds, you’ve won the game.

After playing for years, I’ve only recently discovered that you can undo all your moves right up to the first one. If only
life were that easy.

I’ve decided to call C.J. Patterson. I’m not done with Jerry Johansen yet.

’Til next time,

V

The phone rang at 8
A.M.
I roused myself, frantically tried to clear my throat, did not want to sound like a braying donkey in case it was Michael
calling. It wasn’t.

“So how was your date with hunky Detective Avila?”