I'm Your Man (48 page)

“We do have another surprise for you,” Robby smoothly interrupted. “We'll be bringing her out after this message from ToothTape, the revolutionary new denture adhesive from Seaforth!”

“We're off,” the producer said.

Robby and Rhonda sprinted to the side of the stage to confer with their producer, and I felt my stomach tie into a knot. I wondered what else could possibly be in store for us.

“Why don't they let Robby bake his cookies, already?” Daniel asked impatiently.

“Where are Lillith and Bonnie?” I asked. “They got us into this. They need to—”

“The fun's just beginning,” Gretchen insisted, her eyes glittering in a way that made me even more nervous.

Robby and Rhonda joined us again. “Ready to wrap this up?” Robby asked me.

“You can't imagine,” I said.

“We hope you've had fun,” Rhonda said. “We sure have enjoyed having you all on the show!”

“Thank you,” Daniel said, exchanging a look with Robby.

When taping resumed, Robby addressed the camera. “There's been a lot of publicity about this young dynamic couple. Some of it has been true, some of it has maybe been stretched a bit. Haven't they been good sports to answer our questions today?” The audience applauded on cue. “But we'd hardly have a show if it wasn't for the tenacity of one reporter who introduced us to this amazing story in the first place.
Manhattan Star-Gazette
columnist Lola Listeria!”

As Daniel went pale, I felt my own face flush. Lola came onstage in a yellow suit, her flaming red hair spilling out from under a huge, yellow-feathered hat, making her look like a cross between Bette Midler and Big Bird. The chairs on the set had been arranged so that Lola sat on the other side of Robby and Rhonda, apart from the rest of us. Wise choice.

“Hello, Lola!” our hosts chorused.

“Hello, darlings! Lola is so happy to be here! You know, since I broke this story, poor Lola's phone hasn't stopped ringing!”

“Neither have my ears,” Daniel muttered.

“Why does she talk about herself in third person?” I heard Martin whisper. “Who does she think she is? Bob Dole?”

“Our little lovebirds thought they could hide in their nest, but Lola knows what the people want to hear, and Lola knows how to deliver!”

“Like Domino's,” Martin added a little louder. Lola shot a scathing look his way.

“How do you get these stories, Lola?” Robby asked.

“Darlings, all I had to do was look into Daniel's résumé. It didn't take long before I could see all the good he'd done for his community. I felt that shining some light on his perfect relationship would be an example for all to aspire to. I just needed to give him a little push.”

“I'd like to give you a little push. Right off the Brooklyn Bridge,” Martin muttered.

“But you know, darlings, Lola's eyes and ears can't be everywhere—”

“—like her hat,” I said.

“—like her nose,” Gwendy added.

“—like her ass,” Martin said at the same time. The three of us exchanged admiring glances, and Daniel laughed.

“I've noticed you rely on a lot of anonymous sources for your stories,” Gretchen spoke over us. “It must be difficult to balance the public's right to know with an individual's desire for privacy. I was speaking to my dear friend Jane Gorman, the Hollywood producer. Maybe you've heard of her?” When Lola gave her a vacant look, Gretchen continued. “Jane's an out lesbian, but she talked about what a tough time all women have in the entertainment industry, which is why so many Hollywood lesbians prefer to keep their sexual orientation private.”

I wondered if Gretchen's plan involved boring the audience to death with some political rant, but my eyes were drawn to Rhonda, who'd scooted to the edge of her chair. Her eyes were wide, and her complexion had suddenly become blotched with red spots.

“I think Lola wants to introduce us to one of her sources,” Rhonda quickly followed up Gretchen's remark.

“I wonder which Hollywood lesbian Rhonda slept with?” Daniel said in an undertone.

“Yes!” Lola gushed. “I want to give credit where it's due, so I'd like to take this opportunity to welcome and thank a new friend who worked tirelessly with me on this story, the renowned artist, Sydney Kepler-Dunhill!”

I literally saw red, since Sydney strolled onstage from the opposite side of the set wearing a bright red dress. My pulse doubled when I looked at her, and I felt my heartbeat pounding out a rapid rhythm in the veins in my neck.

“Redheads should never wear scarlet,” Martin said disapprovingly, applause making his comment inaudible except to our group.

“Especially not in front of an angry Taurus,” Daniel said.

I tore my gaze from my ex-wife to look at him. I was in no mood for astrological jokes, but once I saw his amused expression, I couldn't help but return his smile, because it was genuine. He'd obviously decided to stop letting any of this get to him. I wasn't sure I'd ever loved him more than I did at that moment, because his smile was all it took to make my anger evaporate.

“Hi, Sydney,” Robby greeted her after she settled next to Lola. “Is it just a coincidence that you share a name with one of our other guests?”

“It's not a coincidence,” Sydney said. “It was more like a mistake. Wouldn't you say, Blaine?”

“One of my biggest,” I answered dryly.

“Sydney helped so much on the legwork of this story,” said Lola. “She's quite a resourceful gal, and very handy with a camera.”

“Speaking of cameras,” Gwendy said, facing the camera and emulating Robby and Rhonda's cheesy banter, “here's a woman who's no stranger to cameras! Her husband is a major fashion photographer, and she's the daredevil spokesmodel for Zodiac Cosmetics. Let's welcome Sheila Meyers and her friend, Faizah!”

The audience, though perhaps confused about who was hosting the show, reacted accordingly and applauded when Sheila and Faizah strode onto the stage. They bypassed Robby and Rhonda, who were gaping at them, and sat down in the chairs that Martin and Gwendy vacated.

“Hi, Robert,” Sheila said, reaching over to pat his arm. “I think it's so fantastic that you landed this hosting job. I mean, a person can only do so many performances of
Anything Goes,
right? Oh, wait. Did that close?”

“Child,” Faizah drawled, “Faizah saw Robby in that show. What a bomb! And I don't mean that in the street slang kind of way. It stunk up the theater like burnt cookies! And Faizah should know what—”

“Cookies!” Rhonda trilled. “Isn't it time to bring out Mrs. Fields?”

“Why?” Martin asked as he situated himself into a kneeling position at Gretchen's feet. “Is she the famous lesbian you're sleeping with?”

“Mrs. Fields is a housewife!” Robby gasped.

Faizah shook her head in disbelief and said, “Don't you know better than to call an entrepreneur a housewife? If my mama heard you, she'd snatch you baldheaded.” Faizah turned to Gretchen and said, “Mama sold Avon back home in Maine. Only thing on earth that kept those mosquitoes away.”

“Faizah! You can't talk about Avon when this show is sponsored by Lillith Allure. Or while I'm on it,” Sheila reprimanded.

“Why not?” Faizah asked. She pointed to Lola and Sydney and said, “They look like an Avon representative's wet dream. Look at those clogged pores. Faizah feels like she just performed a lunar landing.”

Sydney's upper lip curled as if she was channeling Billy Idol. Lola looked miffed. Though I imagined she was more upset by Faizah's commanding use of the third person, rather than the slight to the condition of her skin.

“Sydney and I have been exchanging makeup tips since we were girls together in Eau Claire, Wisconsin,” Sheila said. “I remember how pretty she was the day she married Blaine. I was
invited
to their wedding.”

“Robby. Rhonda,” Faizah said, leaning forward in an inviting manner, “what you may have missed in Sheila's polite statement is the underlying tone of anger and betrayal she feels because Sydney not only crashed her wedding, but took pictures with a camera. Obviously not a good camera. If she had used a good camera, it would be one thing. No. She used one of those cheap cameras. Disposable. Just like her integrity.”

“Sheila is appalled,” Sheila chimed in. Faizah nodded and high-fived her friend.

“Well,” Rhonda said, trailing off and looking to Robby for help.

“Anything Goes
did
not
bomb,” Robby said. “The revival I was in had one of the most successful runs in Broadway history.”

“Faizah stands corrected,” Faizah said. “I meant you, specifically. If you plan on singing during this little gabfest, Faizah's out of here.”

“Who invited you?” Sydney asked.

“You're one to talk!” Sheila exclaimed. “You crashed my wedding. I crashed your show.”

“It's our show,” Rhonda said, gesturing to herself and Robby. “Just in case anyone was wondering. Let's get back on track.”

“Yes. Let's!” Gwendy said. “I want to hear about Sydney's illustrious art career.”

“Thank you for asking,” Sydney said. “I just had my first successful—”

“—face-lift,” Martin interrupted.

“—independent thought,” Gwendy interjected.

“—orgasm,” I said at the same time.

“—show in London,” Sydney continued, glaring at us. “It received rave reviews.”

Sheila extracted some folded pages from her jacket pocket and said, “I took the liberty of downloading a few of those reviews. Would anyone like to hear the highlights?”

The audience applauded while Sydney blanched. Rhonda looked offstage to her producers for guidance. Robby slumped back in his chair, apparently having given up trying to maintain control of his unruly guests.

“The
Guardian Unlimited
called Sydney's work ‘trash that never should've left the sidewalk,' ” Sheila read.

“Ouch,” Daniel said.

“They didn't understand what they were seeing,” Sydney protested.

“Neither did you when you put on that dress and looked in the mirror,” Martin said.

“The
Telegraph
says, ‘If great art is like giving birth, this is afterbirth. ' ”

“Speaking of birth,” Sydney said, her voice rising above the laughter of the audience, “shouldn't one of you be enough of a gentleman to proudly claim paternity of Gretchen's baby?”

There was a brief pause, until Daniel and I chorused, “I am.”

“They're lying,” Martin said. “It's me.”

“You're all wrong. Faizah's Gretchen's baby-daddy,” Faizah said.

“Back off, Amazon queen,” Gwendy said.

“Really. I'm the father,” I said, laughing because it was true, but nobody would believe it now.

When Gretchen held up her hand, we all held our collective breath and waited to hear her answer. She inhaled deeply and said, “I think my water just broke.”

“Oh, my god,” Martin said. “What a cliché.”

S
he was one month old, and as I rested on the bed next to her, I realized that the past four weeks were a blur. I tried to make linear sense of it, but all I got were images. I could barely remember
The Robby and Rhonda Show,
but I never was into drama, and that day was over the top—both the show and Gretchen's sensational exit from it.

My most vivid memory of the day my baby was born was how amazing Gwendy had been. Calm, funny, and strong. Both of us stayed with Gretchen during labor, and any resentment or anxiety I'd felt about Gwendy disintegrated when I saw how tactfully she managed to support Gretchen without making me feel extraneous. Both of them laughed at me after the baby finally made her entrance into the world and I stood there speechless at the realization that my son was a daughter.

Looking at her now, it was hard to remember that I'd spent nine months certain she was a boy. She was exactly who she should be; I wouldn't change a thing. The day after she was born, with Gwendy and me flanking the bed, Gretchen looked up from nursing her and said, “As lovely as the name is, I'm afraid I can't inflict her with Civil Liberty. Any thoughts, Blaine?”

“I only had a boy's name picked out,” I admitted.

“Some boys' names work for girls,” Gwendy said. “What was it?”

“Rex Stetson,” I said. Gwendy looked confused, and after Gretchen recovered from her laughing fit, I said more seriously, “Kenneth.”

“For Ken,” Gretchen said, looking down at our daughter. “That would have been sweet, Blaine. But I'm not naming our daughter Kenneth. Ken's been on my mind a lot, though. He and I used to talk about names, back when we thought we'd be doing this together.”

“Did you ever agree on a girl's name?” I asked.

Gretchen nodded and said, “Emily. He said it was feminine and traditional and might protect her from some of the craziness of life with me as her mother. I'm sure he could never have imagined how unconventional her conception, birth, and family were going to be. Lucky child.”

The three of us looked at the baby, then Gwendy and I met each other's eyes. It was clear she was biting her tongue, and I grinned at her.

“I like the name ‘Emily,' ” I said.

“Emily Dunhill Schmidt,” Gwendy suggested.

Gretchen looked at the two of us and said, “We're all in agreement?” When we nodded, she smiled. “I hope that's a sign of things to come. Maybe not such a lucky baby. It won't be easy growing up with three strong-willed, stubborn parents.”

“I'm sure she'll be the alpha infant in no time,” Gwendy said.

It is true that there is something tyrannical about babies. They determine the schedule, mood, and activities of a household. I knew it was tougher on Gretchen and Gwendy, who were with her all the time. Although I saw Emily every day, I didn't live with her. I could go home and sleep through the night. I could go about my daily schedule, losing myself in work or the gym or the other activities of my normal, adult world.

The biggest change in my life was that Emily's existence buffered me. I had no idea if anyone was still talking about Daniel and Blaine, Supercouple, or if there had been any fallout from
The Robby and Rhonda Show.
I didn't know what movies were being rushed to the screen in time to be Oscar contenders. For the first time in my professional memory, I had no idea how much Super Bowl commercials were going to cost. The final outcome of the presidential election barely registered with me, although I was sure my friends were in shock.

It was actually my friends who helped keep me out of touch. Along with Gavin, Violet, Lillith, and Frank, they were letting me take a vacation from the world on Emily's behalf. I could focus on my work while I was in the office, then I either went to Gretchen's or to the gym and then Gretchen's. Gwendy and I pampered “our two girls,” as she called them, cooking, taking care of household duties, or making sure visitors didn't wear them out.

There were a lot of visitors. Gretchen's father came from Pennsylvania to meet his only grandchild. I liked him; it was easy to see that he was the reason for Gretchen's down-to-earth, sensible attitude. Years before, she'd been at odds with her family, but began visiting them after her mother became ill. By the time her mother died, they'd made peace. Mr. Schmidt didn't ask many questions about Gwendy and me. He seemed satisfied with the knowledge that his grandbaby was going to be well loved.

If my family knew about the baby, I had no indication of it. That was fine with me. Emily would have her Cousin Nick to represent the best of the Dunhills. He loved his new school and was coming into his own in New York. He sometimes joined me at the Tribeca loft, doing his homework while the rest of us treated Emily like she was better than
Must See TV.
Even though he affected teenage indifference, I often caught him watching me when I held Emily and talked to her. On those nights, I'd insist that we walk home instead of taking a cab, eager to give him my undivided attention while he talked about whatever came into his head.

One night after Gretchen teased me about Emily's gender, Nick was quiet on our walk. We were waiting for a light to change when he finally said, “Does it bother you that you had a girl? Did you think it was a boy because that's what you wanted?”

I redid his scarf to provide better protection against the winter chill and said, “It doesn't bother me. After all, I got my son, too, didn't I?”

He rolled his eyes, but when he turned his head to step forward as the light changed, I saw his pleased smile. I, myself, was grinning like an idiot. The next day, he and Gavin helped me put a baby bed together, although Gretchen wouldn't allow Gwendy or me more than a five-minute walk with Emily, and then only if the sun was shining. I had no idea when my daughter would be allowed to come to my apartment, which was supplied with everything she could possibly need. The baby bed sat in my room as a reminder that I needed more space. I'd promised Violet and Gavin that we could resume the apartment search after the new year.

Sheila adored Emily and visited her often, bringing Josh and his camera so that every nuance of my daughter's waking and sleeping moments could be captured for posterity. Adam and Jeremy also visited when they were in town for the holidays. I knew that Martin came, too, but only during the day, when he was sure that I'd be at work. I did run into Blythe one night, smiling when she explained that the pastel pink streak among her magenta strands of hair was in honor of Emily's birth.

Frank liked to drop by a couple of evenings a week, bringing Rowdy, who would lie at the feet of whoever happened to be holding Emily. On a night that one of Frank's visits coincided with Sheila's and Josh's, Josh snapped a picture of Frank and Emily that I loved. She was holding tightly to one of his fingers, staring up at him as if spellbound. I had that one matted and framed, keeping it on my desk at work. Every time I looked at it, I was reminded of how I'd realized at Sheila's wedding that families were often what we created from the best parts of our lives.

Lillith, of course, had her own retinue of people who needed to be involved. Fortunately, Emily's mothers found humor in the smudging, aura fluffing, charting, and blessings that Lillith deemed necessary. The most profound of these events occurred when my daughter was two weeks old. I'd just finished filling the dishwasher when Gwendy took a call and handed me the phone.

“I'm sorry for doing this to you,” Ethan said, “but would it be okay if I stopped by with a couple of friends? It's a necessary step to restore harmony to the universe.”

I was intrigued by the amusement in his voice, and after clearing it with Gretchen and Gwendy, I gave him the go-ahead. A half hour later, he entered Gretchen's loft with Bonnie and Lillith, looking altogether too satisfied with himself.

“Where is that precious angel?” Lillith asked, and she and Bonnie practically ran over each other in their attempt to be the first to reach the sofa, where Emily was sleeping on Gretchen's lap.

“Beast,” I said to Ethan.

“I apologized in advance,” he reminded me.

Bonnie managed to claim the space next to Gretchen on the sofa, so Lillith sat on the coffee table, saying, “Bonnie and I have a gift for your daughter. Ethan?”

He shrugged off his coat, pulled a black velvet pouch from his pocket, and walked across the room to them. Both women reached for the pouch, but he held it away from them with a stern look and handed it to Gretchen. Gwendy and I walked behind the sofa to watch as Gretchen untied the silk cords and pulled out a pendant hanging from a thick copper chain.

“The amulet,” Bonnie breathed, her eyes glittering.

“The stone is lapis,” Lillith said. “It traveled between our families from prehistoric times, providing protection, before it ended up in Egypt, where it was set in faience, which is a ceramic. The sheen comes from a copper glaze. It's thousands of years old, Gretchen.”

“I can't possibly—”

“We know it's not the kind of thing you want lying around the house,” Bonnie said, cutting Gretchen off. “It's priceless. It's also caused quite a bit of controversy over the centuries. With your permission, Gretchen—”

“And Blaine,” Lillith said.

“And Blaine,” Bonnie concurred, “we want to donate it to the Metropolitan Museum's Egyptian Art collection. The placard will state that it's the gift of Emily Dunhill Schmidt, daughter of Gretchen Schmidt and Blaine Dunhill.”

“But we've also commissioned a replica, which Emily can keep for her own protection, and pass down to her descendants,” Lillith said.

“Thank you; Emily and I accept,” Gretchen said.

“I'm honored,” I said. I didn't believe in their past-life nonsense for a minute. I suspected they'd seen the piece—and each other—for the first time at some gem show and tried to outbid each other for it. After the fact, one of them had no doubt invented an ancient feud to justify her greed, and the other had followed her lead. I met Ethan's laughing eyes and asked, “What I really want to know is, where did it turn up? Who had it?”

“That,” said Ethan, “is a story I will carry to my grave.” The grateful looks Lillith and Bonnie cast his way made me certain that his position as their spiritual sovereign was guaranteed for life. At least this lifetime.

Louis and Joyce Stephenson flew in from Wisconsin for a few days before Christmas. It was obvious that they regarded Emily as their grandchild, which gave me a pang. She could have been theirs through Daniel and me. Instead, she was theirs through Gwendy and Gretchen. They'd taken Nick with them when they returned to Wisconsin, but he flew back to New York immediately after Christmas, seeming none the worse for having spent time with his family.

As for Daniel, I knew he hadn't seen Emily because Gretchen would have told me. Nobody talked about him when I was around. I didn't know if they were uncomfortable or didn't want me to be uncomfortable. I let it slide, appreciating the break from a year's worth of roller coaster experiences and emotions where he was concerned.

“You'll love Daniel,” I whispered to Emily as she lay sleeping. “He's Gwendy's big brother, so I guess he's your uncle. But he's your father, too. He was with me the day you were started.”

I wondered if Emily would ever know or understand the way she came to be. Maybe by the time she was old enough to hear it, no one would be having babies the old-fashioned way. It was overwhelming to think about the world my child had inherited and how it might change in her lifetime.

I looked up as Gwendy came into the room to check on us. “You're not asleep either?” she asked. “Gretchen tried to doze, but I think she has cabin fever.”

“I do not,” Gretchen said, walking in to sit on the bed next to us.

I sat up to give her more room and said, “You both look exhausted. You're supposed to catch up on your sleep when she naps.”

“I can't believe it's snowing again,” Gretchen said. “Ten inches brought in the new year—”

“Not in front of the baby!” I gasped.

“Hush. We don't have ten inches of anything around here but snow,” Gwendy said.

“You don't know what you're missing,” I said.

“I know you're shy of ten by several inches,” Gwendy said.

“If you're going to disparage my manhood—”

“Oh, what's it like to be outside in the snow?” Gretchen moaned. “Any other time, I'd be out walking in it, getting into a snowball fight, enjoying it before it turns to slush.”

“Then do it,” I said. “Here you are, with the woman you love. The city's blanketed in white. The two of you should go out and play. Stop somewhere for hot chocolate. Talk about legal briefs and quarterly taxes, or whatever it is you talk about when Emily isn't dominating you. Take a break. I'm here.”

“I wouldn't get ten feet from the door before I'd be overcome by separation anxiety,” Gretchen said.

“It's true,” Gwendy said. “I've tried to send her out for walks, Blaine. She won't go.”

“Sounds like it's time for me to put my paternal foot down. In fact, I'll make it harder for you to run back. Let me take Emily to my place for a couple of hours.”

Gretchen put her hands around her throat as if she were strangling and said, “Stop. I can't.”

“You stocked my place with everything I'd need,” I said. “I'll take bottles of your expressed milk. Emily can travel in the sling, under my coat, dressed in warm clothes. Traffic is light. Cabs have been ordered by the city to drive slowly. We'll be buckled up and safe. You can take your cell phone and call if you panic. And I can call you if I need anything.”