Love and Miss Communication (21 page)

“I’d love to.”

Evie and Edward exited the hospital and walked two blocks together in silence. Their lack of conversation wasn’t totally awkward, but it didn’t relax Evie either. They settled into a red-vinyl booth and Edward ordered two egg creams and a coffee for himself from a waitress on roller skates. A few other white-coated doctors from Sloan Kettering and nearby New York-Presbyterian were scattered around the restaurant. Edward nodded his acknowledgment to several of them but didn’t stop to chat.

“The food is great here. You’ve just got to ignore the ambience a little,” he said.

“It’s cute,” Evie said, even though it was obviously cheesy. “Thank you so much for everything you’ve done for Bette.”

“Of course.”

“You’re so lucky you love what you do. I think maybe I’m just not cut out to work.”

“Well, you’ve only tried one thing. There are a million options out there,” Edward said.

“I guess so,” Evie said. “But you didn’t do anything before being a doctor.”

“That’s not true.”

“Really? What did you do?”

“Well, it was just for one year, but before I went to medical school I was a journalist. I was a science reporter for the
San Francisco Chronicle
. I wanted to try out the West Coast, since Manhattan was all I’d ever known. Some of my articles are still online if you’re ever having trouble sleeping.”

Evie laughed. She never would have guessed Edward had been anything besides a doctor. If she’d Googled him, as she’d been tempted to do many times, she’d have known that. It was refreshing to learn something new about him directly—a fact he chose to share, not something she discovered through covert research. It was so much more satisfying watching his story unfurl like a blooming onion than to crack him open like a piñata.

“Wow, that’s really cool. What else don’t I know about you?” She tried to give him an opening to share what she’d been wondering, really hoping for, all along—that his marriage was stumbling, or he couldn’t get her out of his mind.

“Nope. I’m quite the open book.”

Evie was disappointed.

“So, former reporter, what should I do for my next job? What information have you gathered about me that will help me choose a new profession?”

“If you want to hear what I really think . . .” His voice trailed off as he stirred his coffee with skim and two sugars. It was the same drink he always seemed to choose, if she was deciphering the Magic Marker–coded Starbucks cups in his office correctly. Evie, on the other hand, liked to mix it up. One day she’d order a creamy latte with an extra shot, the next day an icy decaf espresso. It was like their coffee orders were reflections of their personalities—Edward consistent and Evie erratic.

“I do want to know what you think,” she exclaimed. She was dazzled by the feeling of Edward taking a genuine interest
in her life. Shamefully, she wondered if he ever thought about her outside of work, when he was picking up his daughter from gymnastics, or maybe even when he was lying in bed next to Mrs. Gold.

“I think you should be an interior decorator.”

“What?” Evie gasped. “Why in the world would you think that?” She was an attorney, for crying out loud. Designing homes—which, in fairness, she did in her head all the time—was a hobby, if that.

“Bette told me what you did with her apartment. Every time I see you there’s a stack of interior design magazines in your bag. I bet that tube you’re carrying around has something to do with design.” He pointed at the rolled-up posters she had placed next to her in the booth.

“Oh, that’s different. Those are posters for my friend’s classroom at Brighton.”

“See! You probably don’t even remember this, but the first time we met in my office, you rearranged the pillows on my couch, fanned the medical journals I keep on my table, straightened my diplomas, and angled the chairs in front of my desk differently. It actually made a big difference.”

“I did?” Evie gasped. “I’m sorry!”

“You did. It was when I got a phone call. You seemed to be doing it on autopilot.”

“I’m so embarrassed. I usually just want to redesign people’s spaces. I had no idea I actually did it without permission. The thing is, I’m a lawyer. I went to school for that. I’ve invested over a decade in the legal profession. Anyone can buy throw pillows. All you need is a credit card.” She doubted any of her Columbia Law School peers were choosing paint colors for a living. She shuddered to think how the Class Notes would read.

Evie Rosen, after being passed over for partner at Baker Smith, got her start as an interior decorator by designing her ailing grandmother’s crappy pied-à-terre. Other projects include her own apartment and a random classroom at the Brighton-Montgomery Preparatory School. She encourages all fellow classmates to contact her if they are considering buying a new couch.

“Besides, even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t know how to pursue it. I’m not very good at things that don’t have clearly marked paths. College, law school, internship, law firm associate, then partner or in-house counsel. That makes sense. Breaking into something entrepreneurial or less defined—that’s just not me.”

Even as she resisted Edward’s suggestion, she had to admit she was impressed with the way the chenille throw in powder blue, the ready-made velour window valance, and the grass cloth pillows adorning the plastic-covered love seat really did make Bette’s temporary home more livable. She knew her grandmother appreciated the effort and was proud to tell visitors that her granddaughter had done all of this for her. Evie herself had really enjoyed the process—from combing Home Goods and Target to making the on-site improvements. Turning a pleasurable activity into an actual paying job was a whole other story. Switching professional gears entirely was terrifying.

“All I’m saying is that I think you’d be great at it. You could figure out a way to make it work if you wanted to,” Edward said. “And trust me, not everyone can do what you do. You should see my apartment.”

Evie knew nothing about where he lived, though she had always imagined the suburbs. She pictured the Golds living in
a white picket fence home in Westchester, probably Rye or Mamaroneck. Their master bedroom—a place she was ashamed to admit her mind had visited—was a symphony of neutral tones and rich textures. Their kitchen was large and sunny, with top-of-the-line appliances custom built into bleached-wood cabinetry with hunter-green marble countertops. The window treatments were floral, not what she would have chosen, but perfectly appropriate and tasteful.

Now she was hearing that Edward lived in an apartment where the decor left something to be desired. Was that a little dig to the Mrs.’s taste? Her mind started to convert the tidy suburban home with its full pantry and straw welcome mat into a messy New York City apartment with IKEA furniture meant to be replaced years ago but that was still clinging to the floorboards. She wondered again what that earlier Twitter comment at the hospital was all about. Edward was proving to be full of surprises.

“Well, I appreciate the compliment, but I’m not sure how viable a career option that is for me.”

“I’d buy stock in any Evie Rosen venture.” Edward sucked down the remains of his egg cream and put a twenty-dollar bill on the table.

“You think I’m a safe investment?”

“My track record isn’t perfect. But I’ve got a good feeling about you, Evie.”

Too bad I can’t join your portfolio, she thought.

After two weeks at the framer’s, the movie posters were ready for hanging in Tracy’s classroom. Tracy’s doctor had ordered her to stop working the week before. Evie hoped it would be a nice treat when she returned from maternity leave, and hopefully sooner if she visited the school with the baby. After happily lugging them to school, Evie propped them up against one wall of her cubicle and stood back to admire her own creativity. Edward was correct in identifying a passion of hers. His ability to parse the layers of her psyche and piece together clues about her interests was bittersweet. She needed this interest
in her life to come from a man who wasn’t off-limits. From someone whose wife Evie didn’t imagine casting into a magician’s box and disappearing.

“Those are lovely,” a voice, faintly accented, startled her.

“Thank you,” Evie said before she even turned around.

“What lovely frames. And the matting is an unusual choice. I’d love to see those hung up.”

Evie looked back and came face-to-face with Julianne Holmes-Matthews. She was even more spectacular in person than she appeared in magazines and on the dust jackets of her books, each of which Evie owned:
Paris at Home, Living with Style, Signature Holmes
.

Julianne was a waif of a woman, delicate in her cream cashmere turtleneck and gray suede pants ingeniously belted with an Hermès scarf. Oversize sunglasses covered much of her face, but her enviable bone structure was apparent. She carried a Céline bag in one hand and a tote bag bearing her company name in the other. Evie wondered if it would be too solicitous if she offered to carry them for her.

“Julianne,” Headmaster Thane exclaimed, emerging from his office. “You’re looking marvelous on this cold day. Thank you so much for coming up here. I’m really excited to show you the new building. Your team sent over some great ideas already.”

“Always a pleasure to be of service, Thomas. I just want to see my darling son before we head off. He’s coming to meet me here.”

“Hi, Mom,” Jamie called out. He bent down and gave her not one kiss on the cheek, but two. She really did bring Paris home!

“Jamie, sweetheart, are you keeping out of trouble?” Turning to Thane she said, “I’ve been all over the globe recently and haven’t been able to keep as close an eye on this one as I’d like.”

“He’s been fine, Julianne. Our new employee, Evie Rosen, has been keeping him busy.” He gestured to Evie and she blushed.

“Please continue to do so,” Julianne said to Evie.

“I will,” Evie responded, pleased they exchanged an actual bit of dialogue.

“Shall we?” Julianne said, looking at the thin gold watch on her tiny wrist.

“Let’s,” Thane said, holding the office door for Julianne. They were halfway out the door when Evie, without any forethought, grabbed Jamie’s hand. He looked at her in surprise. She cocked her head toward the doorway.

“Um, Mom. Can we come along too?”

“Well I don’t see why not.”

Evie giddily grabbed her coat, and the four of them set out together.

The future computer lab and student lounge was still set up as an art gallery. It was a three-story brownstone with large windows and a winding central staircase. They stood in the center of the top floor, a column-free expanse with an airy glass roof. The gallery used this space as its office because the direct sunlight was too harmful for the paintings. Brighton was going to use this floor for the computers. The second floor would house the student lounge; the first floor was slated to have private study cubicles, like a college library.

Julianne closed her eyes and put her hands in prayer, as though she were summoning the design gods for inspiration. Everyone else was quiet, for fear of interfering with the divine spirit.

“Thomas,” she said slowly, tucking her hands under her chin. “I am having a vision. This room. We can’t let this light go to waste. Would Brighton consider a hydroponic greenhouse? How fabulous would that be for the students? These city children don’t know a thing about gardening.”

“I love it,” Evie exclaimed, even though the question was directed to the headmaster. “We can showcase some of the plantings
on the outdoor steps leading up to the front door. Also, take a look. The railing of the central staircase has a vine pattern. So it all ties thematically. The second floor could be a combination lounge and computer room because, honestly, socializing and going online are pretty much synonymous these days. And the glare from the glass roof would make it hard to work on computers up here anyway.”

“Very good,” Julianne said approvingly. “I hadn’t even noticed the vine detail yet. And you factored in the light correctly. You’ve got a great eye. Who are you again?”

“I’m Evie Rosen. Acting general counsel for the school.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Evie. Thomas, you should bring her along when we have our first proper design meeting.”

“Thank you,” Evie said, looking over at Jamie excitedly to share the moment.

He flashed her a thumbs-up.

An hour later, after returning to the main office, she still should have been jumping for joy—having her talents recognized in front of the headmaster and making such a great impression on Jamie’s mom. But instead, she found herself with a pounding headache and an uneasy feeling. Tracy kept a drugstore’s supply of meds in her desk, and Evie headed to her room to filch some Advil.

She sat down in her friend’s chair in the empty classroom, swiveling around until she got dizzy. How had she gotten to this place? This postapocalyptic world in which Jack was married, she worked in a school, her grandmother had cancer, her aunt had a baby, Julianne Holmes-Matthews told her she had a great eye, and she hadn’t used the Internet in five months. She never looked up Edward’s old science articles, though she would have liked to see his byline in print. She missed his face terribly, from the three lines across his forehead to the connect-the-dot freckle
map she had memorized on his nose, and especially his dimple. The old Evie would have found a picture of him on the hospital’s website and masochistically stared at it late into the night.

With Bette’s surgery over, she knew she would be seeing Edward less and less. Exactly seven tension-filled days after the lump was removed, she, Fran, and Bette had regathered in Edward’s office to discuss the results. Evie almost felt guilty about the amount of effort she put into her appearance before heading to Sloan, wondering how she could possibly have the presence of mind to try on six outfits and choose between four lipsticks all while her grandmother’s fate hung in the balance. Evie sat clenching her grandmother’s hand, the rapid pulses in both of their wrists drumming against each other.

To Evie’s surprise, Edward had greeted them in jeans and a hooded zip-up sweatshirt. He explained that after their meeting he was headed to chaperone Olivia’s nursery school class trip to the Bronx Zoo. Are you trying to destroy me? Evie wanted to ask him. Do you need to be so damn perfect every time I see you?

Edward said Bette’s nodes tested negative, which meant the cancer hadn’t spread beyond the tumor. Evie, Fran, and Bette hugged each other tightly and Evie felt her shoulders melt back to their proper alignment for the first time in a month. It had been agonizing trying to remain calm around her grandmother following the surgery, and Evie found herself picking fights with Bette’s deer-in-the-headlights home attendant over how much liquid her grandmother had had to drink or when her bandage was last changed. Edward reported that Bette would still need radiation for six weeks, and then hormone therapy for the next five years, but chemotherapy would not be necessary. The immediate threat was over, but even when Evie heard the news and squeezed Bette’s liver-spotted hand in joy, she recognized their time together was still limited by life’s natural cycle.

Evie vowed to make the most of having Bette in the city for the next few months and promised herself she would get to Boca at least twice a year for extended stays. Maybe she and Bette could hit Art Basel Miami together and return to their old tricks—this time pretending to scout Hirsts and Murakamis for billionaire clients. Edward concluded their meeting by saying he needed to help keep some four-year-olds’ fingers away from the lion cage, and they all embraced in an awkward group hug. She missed his arms around her, even if Bette and Fran were squeezed in there too. All of this she thought about while she rotated herself around in Tracy’s desk chair like she was meat on a spit, waiting for the pain reliever to kick in.

“Hello?” a female voice sounded.

Evie looked up and found Eleanor standing in the doorway to the classroom.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just wondering if you knew where Jamie was. We were supposed to meet in the cafeteria and he didn’t show.”

“I saw him a few minutes ago with his mother. Maybe they left together,” Evie suggested. She actually knew that to be true, having seen the two of them step into a chauffeured town car parked outside the school.

“Oh,” Eleanor said. “I didn’t realize Jules was back. Thanks.”

Jules?
Eleanor’s familiarity with the Holmes-Matthews clan made Evie feel spiteful for absolutely no good reason at all.

# # #

Life fell into a comfortable rhythm after Bette’s surgery. The work at Brighton continued at a manageable clip, and Evie made acquaintances with some of the younger teachers. She continued to enjoy long walks to work and found her way over to Bette’s at least once a week after school for a quality visit. Bette seemed
eager to return to Florida, griping about the cold, but Evie wondered if her desire to go home had something to do with Sam. Fortunately Evie and Fran convinced her to stay local while she convalesced, though no exact time frame was agreed upon.

Edward kindly dropped in on Bette several times during her recovery, but it seemed like the timing was always off for them to catch up—he’d be leaving to do rounds just when Evie arrived. When
Antiques Roadshow
came on in the evenings, she daydreamed about calling him to watch it together. Sometimes she thought of fictitious questions to ask about Bette’s treatment but worried that Edward would see through them. What would she do if Mrs. Gold picked up his cell phone? Of course she would never act on anything with Edward. She just missed hearing his voice. And listening to him rattle off medical jargon on a phone call. And seeing him in scrubs. She missed the way she felt in his presence—noticed, special, worth analyzing. In his presence, her memories of Jack vaporized; only Edward could morph Jack from lifelike zombie to translucent ghost.

Jack.

Sans the web, she never did find a photo of his wife, whose name, Zeynup Kayatani, Stasia had triumphantly discovered through means Evie wasn’t quite clear about (the Turkish Records Bureau came to mind). She also didn’t look at the photos of Wyatt that Aunt Susan said she had sent her, even as Evie found herself missing the sweet little baby and wondering what new milestone he’d reached in New Mexico. He’d only stayed with her for two days before Susan whisked him back to Santa Fe (days before Bette’s results were even known), but it was enough time for the adorable infant to settle himself into Evie’s heart. She even missed the way his baby accoutrements filled every inch of her apartment. Looking at the pictures of Wyatt Susan had e-mailed was truly tempting, but that would mean logging into her e-mail,
where she’d inevitably comb her inbox for word from Luke Glasscock, or the orthodontist she’d botched the date with, or even a message from Jack confessing his marriage to Zeynup was a huge mistake. If she had to guess which of those messages was likely to be there, she’d have to choose (D): None of the above.

Which is why she was fortified in her decision to keep her distance from e-mail until she reached the looming finish line of her birthday in May. And it wasn’t just Gmail that she was better off for cleansing. She no longer patrolled eHarmony, JDate, or Match for hours. She didn’t self-flagellate by combing Facebook for enviable photos and posts. Nor did she creep around the Internet looking for news of divorces or scandals, the sort of searches she used to do in secret when she was feeling particularly bad about herself. She hadn’t been on
BigLawSux
since her own humiliation, though she would have relished the comment threads about the grueling hours and abuse from power-trippy partners. Abandoning the web had undoubtedly started with painful withdrawal, and while she sometimes got the urge for a fix, it was proving to be a positive adjustment in her life. She was definitely less obsessed with what everyone else was doing when she didn’t have the virtual yardstick to measure herself against.

But still, she wasn’t happy. Something was missing. It wasn’t the web. But it was something.

# # #

After autumn took its leave, winter showed its face quickly with a snowfall that dusted the city canopies like confectioners’ sugar. The old radiator in the Brighton main office started pumping heat into the air, and Evie started to suspect that Jamie had a crush on her. He volunteered to help out in the office twice a day and would often pass by to give her an ironic salute en route to
class. She used it to her full advantage, often prodding him for details of his mother’s projects while she had him look up phone numbers, e-mail signature pages, and Google contract terms. How did his mother get her start in interior design? Where did she source her antiques? What was Bono like? These were just a few of her nagging questions, but Jamie didn’t seem to mind.

This week her task had been to mark up the contract from the construction team that would be renovating Brighton’s new building and circulate a draft to the board members. The legal work wasn’t particularly challenging, and Evie found she did most of it on autopilot. Up the penalties on the contractor. Stretch out Brighton’s payment schedule. It wasn’t rocket science. She was grateful for the paycheck and to have her days occupied, but lawyering in this capacity wasn’t any more exciting or suited to her interests than M&A had been.

“Evie,” Headmaster Thane said, surprising her from behind one morning. “I need to speak to you about an important matter.” He motioned for her to get up.