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by Isabelle Peterson
Copyright © 2013 Isabelle Peterson
WARNING: EROTIC ROMANCE… This book contains subject material of an adult nature intended for readers of 18 and older, maybe even 21 and older. In these pages you will find graphic language and sexual encounters that some readers might disagree with: regular sex, BDSM, oral, sex toys, anal and threesomes. You’ve been warned. Happy reading!
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. It is not based on my life, nor any person living or dead. Names, characters, places, and events are the creation of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously, and any resemblance is entirely coincidental. Any reference to historical events, real places or real people are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
PROLOGUE
Elizabeth sat at the desk, in her cozy Napa Valley living room, staring out the window, as the spring rain formed rivulets down the panes. She took a deep breath, picked up her pen, and slowly released the air burning in her lungs. With a trembling hand, attempting her neatest penmanship, she started…
Dear Greg -
There’s no easy way to say this -
Oh, that’s not right! Angrily, Elizabeth crumpled the sheet of stationary and threw it into the fireplace.
The large photo that hung above the mantle caught her attention. Her lovely, perfect family. Greg, her husband of twenty-two years, and their three beautiful children. Bradley was only twenty-one years old, in his last year of college earning a business degree. Carter, twenty years old, was a sophomore in college studying anthropology. And Phoebe, now nineteen, was a freshman in college studying dance and physics - she was always the diverse one. As much as she wanted to, Elizabeth couldn’t smile at the picture. A lone tear escaped her eye and mimicked the raindrops on the window pane.
With another breath, Elizabeth pushed away the tear with the back of her hand and once again picked up the pen.
Dear Greg -
You are patient, generous, and loving under all conditions. You are successful, handsome, and smart. And you are perfect. Not always right, but always perfect.
When we met in college, I knew… I knew you would provide, protect, and care for me. You were safe. Comforting. Full of promise. I said “I do” without reservation, even though everyone warned me. And I’ve loved being married to you.
She stopped and looked at her left hand. She contemplated the platinum and diamond solitaire, and matching platinum band, that had sat so comfortably - yet uncomfortably - for more than two decades.
I’ve always known just what to expect with you. What to buy you for your birthday and Christmas. What you like to eat. What you are willing to try. How much starch to use on your shirts.
But as much as I know, there is so much I don’t know. I went from my parents’ house, to the dorm, to your house. I never lived on my own, made my own way, or depended on myself. I don’t know who I really am. I know that I’ve worked very hard for the past twenty-four years to be the perfect girlfriend, then wife, for you. And although I love that, this past year in this house with all the kids gone has shown me that I am mainly a keeper.
And kept.
I don’t live.
I exist.
I know that you feel the distance, too.
The problem is me - it’s not you. I know that sounds cliché, but it is the God’s honest truth. For as long as I can remember, all I’ve done is take care of others - and seldom have I taken care of me. I think I may have forgotten how.
I love you. But over the past several months - I’ve come to realize that I don’t know if I’m in love with you… And, I need to be.
I need some time to sort my thoughts. I’ll be back. We’ll talk through this. But I need to know who I am and what I am capable of. I want a job, and to pay my own bills and provide for me. I don’t know if I will be successful, but I know I need to try. And I don’t know how long it will take. Three months? Six months? Longer?
I know that you will be able to track me down through credit cards and my cell phone. I’m asking that you don’t. I have Daddy’s money, I’ll be just fine.
I need this.
We need this.
I’ll be in touch soon.
Yours,
Elizabeth
She carefully folded the two page letter and tucked it into an envelope, then shuffled the letter amongst the mail of the day.
Slowly, she made her way through the first floor toward the garage door. She turned and looked one last time at her comfortable, safe home. There were the photos of the kids through the years. There was the furniture she had painstakingly shopped for. There was the wall with the markings of the kids’ growth inside the laundry room… With a deep breath, Elizabeth turned and then proceeded to her car in the garage.
She climbed into her black Lexus SUV and opened the garage door. With a trembling hand, she started the car, put it in reverse, and backed out in search of new dreams.
CHAPTER 1
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to New York’s JFK Airport. The local time is seven twenty-four in the evening and the temperature is fifty-eight degrees. We thank you for flying United Airlines and hope that your flight was a pleasant one. Your baggage will be at carousel number …”
I watched as all around me passengers fired up their phones and started to collect their bags from under the seats in front of them. I grabbed my purse and pushed my Kindle inside, not like I’d gotten anything read in the six and half hour flight from San Francisco. Just like I couldn’t pay attention to anything the crabby flight attendant was saying. Something about shifting luggage and connecting gate information. I couldn’t think at all.
Had I really, impulsively, left my husband? I mean, I’d thought about it for years. Especially in the last couple of weeks. Not for anything he’d done, but more for all the stuff he hadn’t done… and maybe a little that he did. I’m pretty surprised that I’m not a wreck. In fact, I felt pretty good. Nervous, but excited. I’m in New York. I’m starting a new chapter in my life for however short or long lived it might be.
As I made my way through the airport, following the signs for the baggage claim, I thought about the last time I was in this airport. I had been with Greg, and we were only on a brief layover to catch a flight to Paris for our tenth wedding anniversary. This time the feeling was very different.
Figuring it would take a while for the bags to come around, I stopped in the ladies room to freshen up. While washing my hands, I couldn’t help but study the reflection in the mirror. My long brown hair, which surprisingly wasn’t riddled with grey, hung limply over my shoulders. Its soft wave, that everyone loved, but drove me nuts, especially on humid days, was in rare form after the flight. Frustrated, I reached into my purse in search of an elastic hair tie to collect the frizzy locks into a pony. My hazel eyes appeared bright and ready for anything, but I saw the sadness there. Did anyone else? I wondered. I reapplied a touch of lipstick and headed to the baggage claim.
I scanned the boards, and locating my flight, made my way to carousel number eight. Most of the people around me were businessmen and women. I guess that was because it was a Monday. There was only one family with two small kids, one of whom was wailing and carrying on about who knows what. Boy! I didn’t miss those days! I felt bad for the parents, who looked like they wanted the day to be over.
Most everyone else was on their phones, checking email or texts or calling for their rides. I felt like blending in, so I pulled out my iPhone and turned it on. While I waited for it to boot up, I found that I was holding my breath, not knowing what to expect. Finally, the phone buzzed to life and I saw a couple missed calls and texts from Greg. Did he come home early? Does he know already?
Putting on my big girl panties, yet playing it safe, I opted to read the texts. Just a couple of mundane texts.
4:43PM
Can you pick up my dry
cleaning? I think the pants
I was looking for this morning
might be there. Thx. G.
5:13PM
Going to be late. Aaron needs
the final numbers for the Wilson
project by start of day tomorrow.
Should be home by 8:00p. Hope
that doesn’t mess up dinner. What
is for dinner anyway? G.
5:48PM
Hey. Been texting and calling you.
Are you home? Out? Why haven’t
you answered or picked up? And
your cell is going straight to vmail.
Did you run out of battery
again? G.
Well, I’m safe from the inquisition, for a little longer at least. He won’t know for another few hours that I’m not home, and that I won’t be… indefinitely. I’m assuming that the voicemails are a repeat of the texts. He always does that - echoes his text in a voicemail. What’s the point in that?
An alarm signaled and the baggage carousel starting up, so I shoved my phone into my bag and kept my eyes open for my red suitcases. Two of them. Cost $180 in extra baggage fees, but “ya gotta do what ya gotta do.” Better than going shopping for all new clothes, right? Not as much fun, but more practical. The money in my personal savings account, that held my inheritance money from when my father passed, had to last me as long as possible, and a trip to Fifth Avenue would not help the cause.
I saw the first of my two bags come down the belt and I positioned myself to pull it off. Just as I was about to grab my suitcase, my purse fell off my shoulder and I missed grabbing the bag. Ugh! Now I’d have to wait for it to go around again.
Suddenly I see a man’s hand reach down and pull the bag off the belt. I looked over at him alarmed that he was stealing my bag! What nerve!? Welcome to New York!
“Hey!” I shouted and marched over to where the bag had been pulled. A gorgeous blond businessman walked up to me.
“Here you go. I saw you missed grabbing it.” He peered down at me with startling blue eyes, chiseled jawline and perfect hair. Okay, so New York had some nice people, too.
“Um, thanks,” I weakly stammered. Why was I flustered because someone did something nice for me? Ridiculous!
“Not a problem.” He flicked a glance at the belt. “Ah, here’s mine.” He reached over gracefully and pulled what looked like a golf bag off the belt. One more smile in my direction and he was gone. Weird.
I glanced around to see if anyone else witnessed what had just happened. Nope. Okay, maybe I dreamed it. I was waiting for my second bag when my phone rang again in my purse. I pulled it out and read the screen. Greg. Again. He’s never called me so many times in one day. He must be nervous. I pressed the option to “Decline” the call, dropped the phone in my purse, and turned my gaze back to the belt.
How could I explain it to anyone - this running thing? It’s so stupid. Maybe I should just book my return flight and go home. Go home to what? An angry husband. And how can he be mad at me? Our relationship was nothing more than roommates at this point. He was an excellent provider, but I could be just any woman – all he needed was for someone to cook, clean, and be a hole in the mattress on Friday nights for six and half minutes during Letterman. After our anniversary disaster maybe people would understand. Then again, maybe they would think I was simply unsupportive.
Just then I noticed my second suitcase, reached in and pulled it off the belt, successfully this time. I balanced my purse on my shoulder, collected both of my suitcases and made my way to the taxi stand and waited for a cab.
When it was my turn, a short cabbie jumped out and grabbed my bags. I chuckled to myself as he lifted them and stuffed them into his trunk. Those things were nearly as big as he was. I tucked myself into the backseat of the car and was overwhelmed with the smell of the cabbie’s dinner. Curry. Great.
The eager driver hopped into the front seat and started the meter as he turned to me. “Where to, ma’am?”
Where to? Um… Good question. Why hadn’t I figured that part out? Where was my brain? Back in Napa, I guess.
“Ma’am? Where are you going?”
Surely my grandmother would get a kick out of this. She forever laughed at my impulsive nature. “One of these days it’s gonna bite you in the derrière,” she’d say in her French accent. Consider me bitten, Grand-mère.
Greg usually stayed at Hyatt Hotels when he traveled for work and loved them. “Hyatt Hotel, please.”
“Which one?” he asks, eyeing me in his rear view mirror.
“Um, the one in New York City?” This wasn’t going well. I looked like such a tourist.
“Grand Central Hyatt? Or the one on 48th? Or the one on 36th Street?”
Figures there’d be more than one, I groaned inwardly. “Grand Central Hyatt, please,” I guessed, trying to sound as confident as possible. Must have worked because he swiftly pulled ahead into traffic and we were off.
Watching out the window, I tried to get my head on straight, but my mind was about as clear as mud. After about fifteen minutes, I got my first glimpse of the skyline. The famous New York City skyline. I finally started to relax. I was here. I’d done it. Even though there would be chaos erupting back home before the day’s end, I was here, and there wasn’t any going back.
My mind returned to the wild imaginings it had been running through on the flight. How will Greg take it? Will he shrug? Will he cry? Will he get angry?
And what would happen when my mother found out? She was a pillar of propriety, with all of her southern breeding and ways. She would never understand. She would never have left Dad, even if he was sleeping with every trollop on the block. Which he didn’t. He was an adoring husband, but if he had, she would have just kept quiet and made like everything was perfect. With her, it was always about saving face and appearances. The right clothes. The right friends. The right man. It didn’t matter how about how you felt. But neglectful marriage is no fun. I’d been there and done that. For the past twenty years. I was tired of it.
And the kids. At least they were all away at college and not home to deal with the fall-out.
And dear Jessica, my best friend since the third grade and married to Greg’s best friend. We’d been through everything together. I hadn’t even told her I was going to do this. We’d joked about it from time to time. But to be honest, I hadn’t even been sure that this was what I was going to do today.
Before I knew it, the taxi stopped and we were in front of the Grand Central Hyatt. The building looked rather plain. Not what I’d expected, but I was good with it. I stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Darkness was just falling. People were still rushing all around. Looking up and down the street, I recalled watching the Mary Tyler Moore show with my mother when I was younger and the show’s opening: Mary turning joyfully and tossing her hat with a big grin and outstretched arms, ready for her Minneapolis adventure. And so was I, although I was in New York City, of course. And not tossing a hat.
I was instantly in love with the sounds, the lights and even the smells. A far cry from suburban Boulder, Colorado where I grew up. Or Napa where I had been living since I got married. Sure, Boulder and Napa were nice, but this was New York City. The possibilities seemed endless.
The cab driver deposited my bags at my feet. I paid the $45 set rate fare, and gave him a $10 tip to make up for my ridiculously heavy bags. It was worth every penny.
Feeling stronger, I pulled up the handles on my bags and headed into the hotel. Stepping into the lobby at the Grand Hyatt a giant smile broke out on my face. Okay, this was what I was expecting. The waterfalls… the gleaming granite… the hustle and bustle. Taking a deep breath, I made my way to the reception desk.
*****
Where could Elizabeth be? I wondered, checking my cell phone for the twentieth time this hour. I had been trying to reach her all day. She didn’t answer the house phone or her cell. She still hadn’t replied to any of my texts. Or voicemails. I was starting to get worried. She always texted right back or answered her phone, even if it was to say, “I can’t talk.” And now it was almost four-thirty in the afternoon.
Maybe she and Jessica went to the spa and I missed that conversation? I considered. It was possible. I sometimes found it difficult to listen to her, as she prattled on over dinner about a variety of things that had nothing to do with me. I had to admit that I’d fallen into the habit of humming responses when she paused, and I’m not really listening, but thinking about work.
Glancing at the calendar, I noticed that Elizabeth’s birthday was coming up and that her best friend, Jessica, was always trying to get Elizabeth to go to the spa with her. Maybe that’s where she was. But I know my Bets, she didn’t go for that stuff. She might get her nails done every once in a while. But facials and massages? No. Good luck, Jessica.
I tried pushing aside thoughts that her car was in a ditch somewhere, and contemplated other reasons she wouldn’t have texted or called. Maybe she forgot to plug her phone into the charger last night and the battery died. Or she went to run errands and left it at home.
I was only trying to do the responsible thing and let her to know that I was going to be late for dinner. A reasonable message. Well, that and the dry cleaners, which closed in a half an hour. I really want those charcoal pants.
I grabbed a file folder for my five o’clock meeting and wondered what Elizabeth had planned for dinner? I would have to hope that she got the message that I’d be late, because I’ve never been a fan of re-heated meals.
CHAPTER 2
The gods were smiling on me because they had a room available. Before I knew it, I was letting myself into my residence for the next week or longer. After the double take on the bill, I was hoping to find an apartment to rent as soon as possible.
An hour later I was unpacked, something I always did when I checked into a hotel, I freshened up and put on a pair of slacks and a nice button down shirt. My stomach was rumbling and I realized how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten all day, letting my nerves get the better of me. But now, I was feeling good about my decision, and really wanted to sink my teeth into some dinner. Now, to decide what kind of food to eat.
I hit the streets and started walking. I wasn’t worried about getting lost. I felt so free. No plan, no time constraint. Just me. Greg would have been online scouring for a place with incredible reviews and so on, then called for reservations and then we’d be rushing to get there in time. I liked not having that pressure.
I wandered up and down the streets, taking it all in, until I came across a quaint Italian place. The menu posted by the door looked tasty and the prices fair, so I let myself in.
“How many in your party?” the young hostess asked.
“Just one, thank you.” Suddenly, I was very self-conscious of my single status. What was she thinking? Was she wondering why I didn’t have a date? But she just smiled, not giving it a second thought.
“Is a table by the window okay?”
“Sounds great,” I replied, following her to a small table for two by the window. She collected the second set of silverware and glassware and left with a quick smile.
The place was quiet, maybe because it was a Monday. It smelled heavenly, the air laden with rich aromas from fresh bread, red sauce, and garlic. The waitress came by and pitched the specials for the night. I simply ordered a glass of Chianti and ordered the Eggplant Parmesan, then sat back to watch the people on the street and ignored the sporadic vibrating of my phone.
The food was phenomenal. After finishing my meal, I smiled since I didn’t have dishes to do. Greg and I rarely ate out, and while I liked cooking, I didn’t like dishes. Curiosity got the better of me and I checked my phone. In the hour and fifteen minutes since I left the hotel, there were four missed calls, as many texts, and a couple emails.
I took note of the time. It was ten-thirty, so it was only seven-thirty back home. Greg said he was going to be at the office until eight. I still had a half an hour or so until the shit hit the proverbial fan.
“Can I get you an espresso, or gelato?” the waitress offered.
“No, thank you. Just the check please,” I answered.
I paid my bill and leisurely walked back to the hotel. As much as I wanted to explore the city that never sleeps, I was more than a little tired from the flight.
Curled up in the comfortable chair in my room at the hotel, I nervously checked my evil phone one last time. I scrolled through the missed calls. A total of eight from Greg, a missed call from Jessica, and one from my mother. It was eleven fifteen, so that’s eight fifteen back home. I guess it was show time.
The voicemail time stamps from Greg’s calls placed them each about five minutes apart. Guess he had run out of patience. Part of me wanted to ignore all of them — delete them all and pretend that nothing had happened. But the adult in me know what I had to do. After all, this whole escaping to New York was to see what I was made of.
I scrolled through the lists of voicemails, skipping the earlier ones, knowing they’d be mundane repeats of his texts about dinner and the dry cleaning. I decided to go for the big ones. Calls and texts that came in after eight o’clock, when he would have been home already.
“Hey, Elizabeth, I just got home. Where are you?” He must have not gone through the pile of mail yet. His voice set me on edge. He seemed irritated that I wasn’t there to greet him or something. I deleted that message, swallowed and pressed play for the next message, knowing that it would be ‘the big one.’
“What in the hell is this?” Yup, he’d gone through the mail this time. “You’re leaving me? What is this ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ shit! Call me right away. Please!” Oh - swearing. He’s mad. He seldom swore. And never over anything trivial. Can’t he read? It was all laid out very clearly, or so I thought, in the letter.
I let the next message play. “Why haven’t you called me back, yet?” he barked, his voice so harsh in that one. I was very glad to be thousands of miles away.
Next message: “If you love me and I’m perfect, why did you leave? Where are you? Call me. We need to talk.” Okay, he sounded rather pathetic and desperate in that one.
I couldn’t listen to another message right now. I set the phone aside and went to take a shower and rinse off the day. Letting the hot water run over me and calm my nerves, I did my best to recall the letter I’d written, but it was mostly a blur. Why did I say he was perfect? He wasn’t. He tried to be. He was kind. He was careful. He gave us a nice home, vacations, and things. He had planned our future very carefully. He never demanded anything from me. He didn’t make me feel inferior. But all those things didn’t make him perfect. Why did I say that? I guess I was just trying to be kind. Or maybe with the distance I was able to recognize the imperfections.
Dried and in my nightgown, there were three new voicemails waiting for me. I took a deep, cleansing breath and listened to the next message. “J. F. K.!!!!” his voice boomed down the line. “You’re in New fucking York? Who in the hell is in New York? You don’t know anyone who lives there! Do you? Is it a man? Are you…are you… God damn it! Call me!” Whoa! The ‘eff-bomb?’ And he knows I’m in New York. He must have done some digging. Crap! And was he slurring there? That would mean he’s drinking. And on a Monday no less. But even if he followed me here, New York was so big, finding me would be like finding a needle in a haystack. And I was careful to use my money for all of this. My inheritance money.
And Greg’s right. I don’t know anyone here. But that’s the point. I want to stand on my own two feet. I can’t do that staying at a friend’s house.
Feeling fairly certain that the rest of his messages were as manic as this last couple, I chose to delete them. I opened the text app, ignored all of the unread texts waiting for me, and started a message to Greg. What do I say? I owe him something.
I stared at the blank screen with his name at the top, the cursor flashing in the ‘Text Message’ window. My thumbs were trembling. My mouth was dry. My mind was whirling. Filtering through the swarm of thoughts buzzing in my head, I opted for simple.
11:42PM
I landed safely. I’ll call u when
I get settled. The car is parked in the
short term west lot at San Fran Int’l
in the back corner where you always
park for ur trips. E.
Send.
Okay, maybe that’s not enough. I chew on my lip and take a breath.
11:43PM
I need to do this.
Please understand.
I do love you.
Send.
Feeling slightly better at having been pro-active, adult, and mature, addressing Greg, I decided to listen to Jessica’s voicemail. “Hey, Bets. Greg just called me wondering where you are. Where are you? Give me a call. Later, hon.”
I decide to just send her a text message, too. I wasn’t really in a mood to talk to anyone.
11:44PM
Hey, J. I just needed to get away
and clear my head. I’ll call you soon.
Take care of Greg for me, please.
TTYL.
Send.
I thought about my sister and my mother. I should let them know I was safe and not abducted or anything. God knows, Greg probably called them in hysterics already. I couldn’t talk to either of them, they wouldn’t understand. I texted Suzie, said I was good and taking a break, and asked her to call mom to let her know I was okay.
I set my phone on the night stand and it started to ring. It was Greg… again. As much as I had been an adult in sending him a message, this time I took the wimpy route and hit “Decline” on the screen, letting the call go to voicemail. I flopped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. The phone chirped that a voicemail had been left. What a surprise. Then I remembered that there was a voicemail from my mother. I just didn’t have the energy for that one, so I didn’t go there.
I heard the ding of another notification coming through my phone, this time a text. From Greg. Guilt and curiosity getting the better of me, I glanced at the screen.
11:45PM
Where are you? I’ll come
and get you. I love you
too. We’ll fix this. G.
Tears sprung into my eyes. With more than an ounce of shame, but still the knowledge that I was doing the right thing, I switched my phone to “Do Not Disturb.” I dug out my charge cord and plugged it in on the nightstand, then climbed into the huge, comfy bed.
I was doing the right thing… right?
As I lay in the king size bed, I continued to ponder what I’d done. I left. No discussion. No effort to work things out in therapy or anything, I left. Not the most level headed method of handling the situation, but I couldn’t stay. I was suffocating there. I was dying. Daily my internal light grew more and more dim.
The way Greg sounded in a couple of those voicemails, I wouldn’t be surprised to be chased down by a lawyer with divorce papers in the next few days.
But that last text. We’ll fix this. Was it possible? Did I want to fix it? Yes. But what he wants to fix wasn’t what I was trying to fix. I needed to fix me. I needed excitement, responsibility, strength. I needed my spirit back. My spark. My fire. I had no passion left. Greg always fought change. Trying to change things at home subtly would be futile. Even when I changed brands of orange juice he’d balk. Trying to get him to change how he’s been for the past twenty years? He needed something more intense. A wake up call on the extreme. A ‘come to Jesus’ moment.
Most people that saw us thought we were a perfect couple. That my life was a dream. Successful husband. With perfect kids. And a great house. But it wasn’t like that. I felt lost.
Every time I’d talked about getting a job, Greg acted like I was out of my mind. “You need to be home for the kids.” “It’s not necessary; you do a great job taking care of the home.”
Every time I talked about heading to the theatre, either a movie or musical or play, he’d come home with a DVD to watch instead.
Every time I wore a nearly sexy dress or top, he’d look at me disapprovingly. He wouldn’t say anything. In fact, he’d say I look great “…but I like that (fill in the blank with a conservative top description like ‘blue cardigan’) better.” If it were up to him, I’d be dressed in long pants and turtlenecks year-round.
Then there were glaring problems. Primarily, his lack of attention to me. I wasn’t asking to have a husband who doted on me, but to have a meal with the man, without his dang cell phone as the third person at the table, would be nice. Our anniversary dinner started to creep into my head and made my blood boil. Yes. I was doing the right thing.
Three weeks ago had been our twenty-third anniversary. Not a major one, but our first as empty nesters. I insisted we go out. For our anniversary, I didn’t want to be washing dishes.
The first zinger was the restaurant he chose. He didn’t ask me for my input either. It was a place we’d been to before, and I had never been a fan of it. But it was his favorite place, half of a block from his work. We’d always leave the place with him asking, “Isn’t that place great?” And I’d always shrug and say, “It’s okay.”
Then, when we ordered drinks, he raised an eyebrow at the Cosmo I ordered. “Starting with the hard stuff, huh?” he asked. What? It was a freakin’ cocktail! It was our anniversary!
He didn’t order a bottle of wine, just two glasses because it was cheaper, and we didn’t need a whole bottle, he reasoned. “Especially since you’ve already had a martini,” he chided.
When our meals came, he repeatedly stole bites of shrimp from my plate of Scampi. He didn’t ask, just helped himself. It wasn’t like the plate was overflowing with the pink morsels, either.
But the worst part was that third dinner guest. The phone. It vibrated the whole night long. Texts, emails, and even a phone call. He never let a message go unattended. And never a word to me about what was going on. He barely even excused himself each time he went to reply. Always taking care of everyone and everything.
Finally halfway through dinner, he groaned, almost comically. “Bets, I gotta go to the office and fix this. Wilson got the wrong account files, and - never mind. Suffice it to say, I’m the only one who seems to know what is going on over there. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes.” And then he left. Our anniversary dinner. For work. I didn’t finish my dinner, but I certainly had a couple more drinks.
When he returned twenty minutes later, he gave me my anniversary gift. It was the same thing I got every anniversary, Christmas, and birthday. A card with gift card for the mall. “Because it’s so versatile,” he always said. Really? I spent what I wanted with his credit card as it was. What was the difference?
Didn’t he know how much that night hurt me? On the ride home, I was quiet, only saying as much as was absolutely necessary. I fussed with the radio more than usual. I was super quick when I brushed my teeth and washed my face. I practically ran to bed, then pretended to be asleep by the time he crawled in. And guess who came to bed with us? Yup. His cell phone.
Deep down, I knew the Wilson account was a big one. Anyone in town would know that. But, were the Wilsons more important than one night with me? Or was I being overly sensitive? It was my husband’s exceptional account handling and attention to detail that had gotten him to the position he was in, with a paycheck to match. I did get to reap the benefits in our gorgeous home, our cabin in Lake Tahoe, my annual new car and so on. But, I didn’t really care about all that. I often found our house too big. The skiing was his thing. I didn’t really care if my car wasn’t the newest model, or had a tiny scratch or ding.
It was like he didn’t know me at all… Or, maybe he just didn’t care anymore. And quite frankly, after twenty some years of it, I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t know who I was. I knew that I was Mrs. Gregory Fairchild, but where was Elizabeth Morris? Did I care? Yes, I did. And now, I was going to find her. I was going to find me.
*****
I knew she listened to my voicemails and read my texts. She had to have by now. Why wouldn’t she talk to me? None of this made any sense.
What did I do? I’d always been kind. I went out of my way to make things easy for her. I protected and provided. And this was the thanks I got?
Well, screw her and the horse she rode in on! I poured myself another gin and tonic and looked at her letter again.
But she was the mother of our three beautiful, smart, and successful children. She made food better than a five star restaurant. She knew everything about me.
I loved her.
Why was she doing this? She said in her letter she loved me. She said it a few times. And she said that I’m perfect. So, what in the hell was going on?
And New York? Why would she have gone there? She didn’t know anyone there, did she? It had to be a man. Plain and simple. You didn’t jet across the country to figure out what you’re made of, to New York of all places, unless you’re stupid, or a guy was there waiting for you. Elizabeth wasn’t stupid. It must have been a guy.
My calls to Jessica and her mother were fruitless, too. How had she gotten them to be so tight-lipped? Well, Jessica — fine. Friends since the beginning of time. But Clarissa Morris? She would never stand for this little prank. Why was she protecting Elizabeth? I just wanted my Bets back.
I snatched up the letter, re-reading the part about “it’s not you, it’s me” shit. Cliché? Absurdly cliché.
I didn’t even know what I felt as I drank the last of my fifth, or was it sixth, gin and tonic. Confused? Definitely. Angry? Yes. Sad? Sort of. I think I was too confused and angry — and drunk — to be sad.
CHAPTER 3
The sounds of car horns woke me the next morning. At first the sounds annoyed and confused me. Our neighborhood was always quiet. I opened my eyes, and peering around the hotel room, my head cleared a little. New York.
I smiled to myself, until I noticed the sun was shining into the window. I groaned and wished I’d thought enough to close the curtains the night before. I rolled over and looked at the clock. It was already after nine thirty. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept in like that. Then again, it was only just after six-thirty back home, so that wasn’t too bad.
First order of business: coffee. Second order of business: find a job.
Cleaned up and dressed, I evaluated my reflection in the mirror. My hair was cooperating today, simply brushed smooth. A light touch of make-up. A great pair of slacks and a tailored shirt. Jewelry that was not outlandish and comfortable pair of pumps. I was feeling good.
Grabbing my cellphone from the charger, my good feeling crashed. A dozen voicemails from Greg. Just as many texts. Even a couple emails.
There were several missed calls and one voicemail from my mother. Did I dare? I did. She’s my mom.
“Elizabeth Marie Morris Fairchild. What in the world is going on? Why aren’t you answering my phone calls? Or Greg’s for that matter? Where are you? Greg is out of his mind. Suzanne said you texted her that all is fine. If that’s so, why aren’t you talking to anyone? Young lady, you have some explaining to do. You call me as soon as you get this message. Don’t worry about waking me up. You just call.” Her southern drawl cut right to my heart. Yup. Good feeling officially deflated.
Appetite also squashed, I chose to just grab a coffee, I was no good without coffee, and made my way to the hotel’s Business Center. I was grateful that no one was in the room and a computer was available, but then I sat, stumped, staring at a blank Word Document page. For several minutes I contemplated how I was going to draft a respectable resume.
Greg and I met my sophomore year at Colorado State. We got married a month after I graduated with my degree in advertising and marketing. He had graduated two years earlier and was working for a well-established financial management company. Three months after we got married, his company moved us to Napa Valley, California.
In Napa, I started working at a small design firm, but I didn’t know that I was pregnant when I started there. Doing the math, it seems I was one of the lucky ones who got pregnant in her first month of marriage. I was so sick with the pregnancy early on, I only lasted at the company for three months. It wasn’t a big deal, because we had decided that I would be a stay-at-home mom.
Bradley was born two months before our first wedding anniversary. And then, just before Bradley turned one, Carter was a second bundle of joy added to the mix. And, almost a year to the day after Carter, I was blessed with my little girl, Phoebe. In a three year span, I’d had a baby almost annually. I used to joke that I needed to stop sharing the bar of soap with Greg, a joke he never cared for.
When Phoebe was born, I decided to add another couple of days to my hospital stay and get my tubes tied. We’d certainly done our share for population replacement. And Greg’s hours seemed to be getting longer and longer, meaning that he had less and less time to be home and help with our growing family. Greg refused to have the procedure to solve things on his end. But he had no problem letting me go through the invasive procedure.
I shook myself out of my self-pity and focused on the task at hand. A resume. What do I put on it? With all my ‘stay-at-home’ mom time, I had never gone back to work. Twenty-some years technically unemployed. That’ll look great on a resumé! I groaned. Time to get creative.
Under ‘Employment History’ I chose to list my PTA positions and the responsibilities I’d held as Treasurer, then Secretary. I even put down the lame waitressing job I’d had in college. To further fill in my nearly laughable resumé, I listed other skills I thought I had: computing skills, multi-tasking, budgeting, et cetera. Reading it over, I hoped that I’d assembled a moderately impressive resumé.
I sighed loudly as I sent the document to the printer to print a dozen copies, and sat back in the chair.
“Headed to a rough meeting?” I heard someone say behind me. Startled, I turned in my swivel chair and came face to face with a harried-looking middle-aged man. How long had he been there? I hadn’t heard him come in.
“Oh, uh, no. Not yet at least. Job hunting. You?” I replied.
“No. I’m in town for my boss, and I have to give this presentation. It’s one of those ‘make or break’ kind of meetings, and I’m almost out of battery on my laptop,” he said, raising the silver MacBook that was tucked under his arm, taking a seat. “It wouldn’t be such an issue if this client company had Macs or Apples but, they’re all PC. Now I have to migrate my KeyNote into a PowerPoint and put it on this flash stick. It should be a rule that all companies have both PC and Apple compatibility, you know?”
“Well, I can help you get it transferred, if you want,” I offered. “But, you may get lucky at the concierge desk. People leave cords behind all the time and they usually have an impressive collection in the lost and found.”
“Great idea! I hadn’t thought of that! You’re a gem!” He popped out of his seat and started toward the door. Before he left, he turned to me and flashed a friendly smile. “And good luck with the job hunting. With your quick thinking, you’re a shoe-in wherever you interview.”
“From your lips, to God’s ears… Thanks,” I smiled back.
I spent the next half hour scavenging the internet for job opportunities in Manhattan. Selecting several real possibilities, I mapped out addresses, then collected my resumes and went to talk to concierge to figure out how to navigate this city. A few minutes later, I had several great iPhone apps, yup, there’s an app for that, and I was on my way.
Two banks, four professional offices, and a temp agency later, I was exhausted, no real leads, and attitudes saying thanks-lady-but-we’re-just-going-to-throw-away-this-waste-of-paper-resume-two-seconds-after-you-leave. I was starting to understand why people said that New York would chew you up and spit you out.
As I passed a large plate-glass window, I caught a glimpse of my hair. Frizzing. Great! No wonder they all thought I was a nut job. I looked around to see who might have seen me studying myself and, in the reflection, spotted a small hair salon. That’s it! I’m cutting it all off!
In a huff, I crossed the street and walked in. The trendy girl behind the desk tore her eyes from her iPad and smiled.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’d like to get my hair cut. All of it.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but -”
“That’s okay.” She checked the appointment book in front of her. “We’ve actually had a cancellation. If you can wait for fifteen minutes, Bobbie can take you.”
“Thanks, that’d be great,” I said. I took a seat and started flipping through style magazines.
Ten minutes later I was getting my hair shampooed. Taking a seat in Bobbie’s station, she turned me to the mirror and pulled the towel back.
“So, what are we doing for you today?” she asked in an absurdly chipper voice, flipping her long, sleek, blonde hair over her shoulder.
“I’d like my hair cut. All of it. It’s way too frizzy, and I’ve had it.” I handed her the magazine I held in my hand. It was open to a picture of Anne Hathaway, just after she’d cut her hair off for the movie Les Miserables.
“Wow. This will look amazing on you, with your cheekbones and elegant neck. My boyfriend would kill me if I cut even an inch off my hair. What will your boyfriend say?”
Ha! That’s a laugh. Greg would hate it! He had always loved my hair. “I don’t care what he thinks. I hate it,” I said, feeling bold.
“That a girl!” She pulled my hair together and put it in an elastic hair band. “You have quite a bit of length here and it’s in good shape. Would you like to donate it? Maybe Locks of Love?”
I smiled. “Yes. That would be great. Thank you.”
She pulled out her scissors and looked at my reflection squarely. “Are you sure? Last chance…”
“Go for it!” I grinned.
While she cut my hair, she asked me all sorts of questions. I revealed that I was new to New York, married, but my husband stayed back in California for work, and that I was job hunting today. She didn’t judge one bit that my husband hadn’t traveled across the country with me and went on to talk about her boyfriend and when she first moved to New York.
Forty minutes later, I was turned in the chair to see my reflection. I was stunned. I looked like a whole new person. I felt like a whole new person. A trendy person. And I felt like I’d had about twenty years cut off. Twenty heavy years.
“You’re a magician with those scissors, Bobbie. I love it!” I turned my head, checking the style from the sides. I looked chic… and young. She’d kept the bangs on the long side and styled the pixie into a very modern shape, with pieces pulled down over my forehead, pointing this way and that. It made my eyes seem alluring instead of too big.
“And you can even play with this style,” Bobbie said. “With a little pomade, you can make it a bit spikier for when you want to go out on the town. Or you can play with the shape and go with a roaring twenties vibe,” she continued as she moved my hair here and there. “You can blow it dry and make it very soft looking… I would love to do this with my hair. What will your guy say? Aren’t you excited for when he sees it?”
I shrugged and smiled. He would probably freak out. It felt good to be rebellious, even if it was just with my hair.
With the attitude of a whole new woman, a spring in my step, and a hundred and twenty dollars lighter, I sauntered back onto Lexington Avenue. I loved the gentle breeze that blew along my neck and shoulders. My whole head felt fantastic and I continually checked out my reflection in the windows as I went along.
Walking to my next opportunity with renewed vigor, I passed by the most heavenly scent. Steak. I looked up and saw the sign. Ed Scott’s Steak House.
I glanced down at my phone and noted the time. There were four new voicemails and a few texts, all from Greg. I shook my head and chose to just ignore them for now, yet again. It was already two-thirty. No wonder was so hungry. I mean, how long can coffee carry a person?
I stepped inside and was enveloped with a sumptuous, meaty aroma. The place was rather busy considering it was fairly late, but maybe ‘Late Lunches’ were really a thing here in New York. I noticed a man in his thirties, who was quite frazzled with his hair mussed, top collar undone, and tie pulled loose. Standing next to him was a petite, intimidated hostess. The two were thumbing through a stack of papers.
“What did you think of this one? She looked okay?” the hostess suggested.
“But her work history? She’s not maintained a job for longer than three months at any one place. No,” he growled back. He looked at the stack of papers in his hand and started to lay them down like playing cards. “To be honest, there’s not a good one in the stack! Horrible manners, too much perfume, not enough soap, not enough clothing…” he listed.
I was getting hungrier by the minute, standing there and watching people eat juicy steaks, and fluffy baked potatoes, so I cleared my throat to get the attention of the duo at the hostess stand.
The man looked me up and down, then barked, “Do you have your resume?”
Omigosh. They’re hiring here? He thought I was here for some job? Serendipity? Before even asking about the job that I would be ‘here for,’ I politely smiled and dug into my bag. “I do,” I said, pulling out my folder and handing him a resume.
“So, Elizabeth. I see your restaurant experience is more than twenty years old? You know that we use computers these days, not hand tickets, right?” he snapped.
“That’s fine. That’s good actually. I’m very tech savvy.” I thought that was a good answer.
“Have you ever tended bar before? Do you have your license or certification? What’s your specialty drink?”
I felt as if I were the target of a firing squad, with one marksman. He was pelting me with questions. I’m not sure how I filtered through, but I replied with, “Well, I do make some spectacular martinis.” In our book club back in Napa, I was always the bartender, something I was suddenly very grateful for. And most of the time when we got together for “book club” there was very little dishing about the book, unless it was a steamy read, as was our current trend. Often it turned into a cocktail party, designing and drinking new creations.
“Spectacular, huh?” he shot back.
Oh, I hoped I hadn’t oversold myself here. “May I show you?” I asked, gesturing toward the bar.
He seemed taken aback with my confidence. Maybe it was the haircut talking. I hoped I could deliver. He held open the pass-through counter and we both scooted in, with him leading the way. Leaning against the bar with his arms crossed, he called out to the blonde with a high pony tail on the other side of the bar, who was listening to a customer.
“Shelby, this is Elizabeth. She’s going to make a ‘spectacular martini.’ ”
“Have at it, girl,” Shelby smiled.
I quickly scanned the shelves, spotting what I’d need. Grabbing a martini glass, I filled it with a few ice cubes, and soda water and left it to chill. Next, I filled a martini shaker with ice, snatched a jigger and started measuring vodka, blue curaçao, and simple syrup. I popped the top on, and gave it a good fifteen second shake.
I eyed the manager; he seemed dubious. I dumped the icing water, with a nice shake to clear as much water from the glass as possible, and poured the bright blue liquid into the frosty glass.
“Pretty short,” he snorted.
I shot him a cheeky grin and wink. “I’m not done.” I picked up the small bin of maraschino cherries and carefully poured a thin stream into the glass. Due to its density, it sunk straight off to the bottom, filling the bottom quarter of the glass. With the tongs, I popped in a cherry and slid the drink over to him.
He looked the drink over. “What do you call it?”
“A Firecracker. It’s more a Fourth of July drink, but -”
“That’s fine,” he said cutting me off. “Shelby, what do you think?”
“The drink’s got flair. Her technique could use a little work, but that’s easy.”
He reached over and tasted the drink. He smacked his lips. “Not bad,” then slid it over to Shelby.
She tasted it then licked her lips and took another sip. “I’d say it’s really good, John.” Ah, the angry man in charge is John. Okay.
Shelby and John grilled me on several other drinks, from a simple Old Fashioned and a Cosmo, to a White Russian. Then Shelby handed me the recipe book for some of the house specialty cocktails and asked me to mix up a couple.
“What’s your wine knowledge like?” she queried.
“More than adequate,” I replied confidently.
“What’s your favorite varietal?”
“Well, depends on what I’m eating, but my favorite ‘go-to’ is a red zinfandel or a Malbec, but on warmer days I’ll take an oaky chardonnay.”
My eyes darted between the two. John looked my resume up and down, and then me. He noticed the rings on my left hand. “You married?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Hopefully that means you won’t be screwing the staff.”
“Omigosh, no!”
“I guess you’ll do. I don’t have any more time to waste on this. Can you start Thursday?”
“I’d like to clarify the pay.”
“Sixteen an hour. Forty hours a week. Plus tips. You’ll start on tables. The servers tip out fifteen percent when you move up to the bar.” He paused as if he expected me to complain or haggle. “Can you start Thursday?” he continued.
“Absolutely.”
“Be here at 10:30. The uniform is all black: shirt, slacks, no jeans, and shoes” he said, scrutinizing my shoes. “And I suggest more comfortable footwear. Don’t be late. And don’t give some lame L train excuse either!” he grunted, shoving a file folder at me. “Employment packet. Bring the papers all filled in on Thursday. And study our menu. Oh, do you have your certificate?” he asked, sticking his hand out to me. I stood rooted to the spot. “You are certified?” He glared at me, clearly exasperated.
“No, I’m not but -”
“Shit!” He sighed loudly and ran a hand through the little hair he had left. “We can register you. As long as you’re registered you’ll be good. You’ll be taking the next bartending class that’s available. I’ll let you know the time and place. Tuesdays will always be your days off, and one other day, which will fluctuate.”
I stood stunned, rooted to the spot. I just got a job. Not what I had gone for, but I got a job. Must have been the haircut.
I cautiously took the packet from him and slid it into my bag as we walked back to the hostess stand. I stood there for a moment before he barked again.
“What?”
“I’m hungry. I’d like to eat. May I have a table?”
“Fine, but your employee discount doesn’t start until after your 30 day probation.”
“Okay,” I smiled.
Twenty minutes later, I was eating a divine steak salad and enjoying a gorgeous glass of cabernet. I kept reaching up to my neck, thrilled with the absence of the hair that normally hung there. As I surveyed the tables all through the restaurant, I noticed that a majority of the clientele here were seemingly well-to-do business types. Many were on their smart-phones, or laptops, having a business lunch. I decided to pull out my iPhone to try and blend in.
I was not surprised to see another missed call from Greg, another one from my mother, one from Bradley… Oh, good grief. Did Greg call our kids about this? There were also a couple new text messages from Greg. The man never had the time to text and call me like this before. Figured. In the texts app, I ignored Greg’s ever growing list and opened the one from Jessica:
1:29PM
Hey, hon. You finally bit the bullet
and ran away? Best of luck, talk
to you soon!
I would have to call her later tonight and fill her in on my wild adventure of the past twenty-four hours. I started to contemplate my new job. A bartender. Well, hey, at least it’s in a nice place and not at all like any of the stuffy offices I’d applied to earlier today. And the tips in a place like this were probably pretty good too.
I took into account my projected wages, not including tips, and started to calculate how much that would boil down to in my paycheck so I could start to search for an apartment tomorrow. I figured the paycheck would pay for rent, my tips could pay for everything else. And I always had my inheritance fund if I came up short.
I tried not to feel too guilty that I would not even be staying in this job for a year, although part of me wondered if I would be here that long. I was tucking my iPhone back into my purse when I noticed someone at the bar looking at me. No, looking wasn’t the right word. Studying…inspecting…ogling was more like it. He wasn’t what I would call a pervert, but I was still more than a little uncomfortable with the untoward attention. I tried to look away but couldn’t.
He had startling handsome features that were familiar, but I couldn’t figure out why. He was probably ten years older than me, with salt-and-pepper hair, grayer on the sides and darker on top. His face was gorgeous with a chiseled jawline that perfectly displayed a warm and charming smile. His eyes were dark and intelligent. Even his nose had a graceful elegance. He was the sort of man you could just stare at, and he seemed confident enough that he wouldn’t mind one bit. Of course, dressed in the suit he was wearing, that fit him like a glove, who wouldn’t be confident. He must have had that suit custom made.
He simply sat at the bar practically ignoring the man sitting next to him, who was going on and on. Mr. Handsome paid little attention to him. All of his focus was on me. I felt nearly naked. I hope he’s not a regular.
“Can I get you some coffee and dessert? Ed Scott’s cheesecake is one of New York’s best,” my server offered as she cleared my dishes.
“As delicious as that sounds, I’d better not. I haven’t made it to the gym today,” I joked with her, pulling my eyes from the man at the bar. She was a sweet gal, maybe a couple of years younger than myself. “Just the check will be fine, thank you.”
After paying my check and leaving a nice tip for my server, I quickly made my way out onto the street. I had to get away from him. I don’t know why, but he made me nervous. Like I wasn’t in control of myself with those dark eyes focused on me.
I headed toward the subway station a few blocks from the restaurant, but along the way I passed a real estate office, with the front window displaying many listings. Feeling bolstered from having landed a job, I decided to head in and check out rentals in the area.
Inside I was greeted by a woman who gave the impression that she’d rather be anywhere in the world than behind her desk, and that she’d been sitting at said desk for the better part of her life. She was shuffling through stacks of paper and muttering under her breath. Desperately hoping that she was not the agent I would be assigned to, I cleared my throat to get her attention.
She peered over her reading glasses, and looked me over. “Can I help you?”
*****
Lunch meetings at Ed Scott’s were a luxury of the job, but once I saw her, I couldn’t focus. I’m sure what Peter was talking about was important, but I hadn’t heard half of what he said. And now, even after she left, I’m still thinking about her.
I loved her short pixie cut showing off her delicate cheekbones and her beguiling eyes. And her skin was flawless. The way she kept running her fingers over her neck. God, how I wanted that to be my hand on her neck. I wondered what she smelled like… what she tasted like.
My cock was still twitching in my slacks as I thought about the way she chewed her lunch. Her full lips, her tongue darting out to catch a drop of dressing. I could just imagine how her plump lips and lithe tongue would look around what I wanted to feed her.
The smile she flashed at her server could light a room.
I see beautiful women all day. Part of the job. Nice work if you can get it. But there was something about her. Slightly awkward, yet elegant in the same breath. She didn’t just catch my eye, or make breathing a bit more labored, there was something oddly familiar about her. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I was drawn to her like a bee to a rose. And I was hungry for her nectar.
I’ve not had her in the biblical sense. I was certain of that. Was she in the industry? If she worked in front of the camera, surely I’d recognize her. But perhaps behind? Not her attitude. No. Where did I know her from? It was going to drive me nuts!
I would love to get her in front of a camera. But not for the world to see, for my eyes only.
I decided that I would be eating at Ed Scott’s more than usual. I just hoped I’d see her again.
CHAPTER 4
“I’d like to speak to someone about renting an apartment.”
“Sure thing, hon.” She leaned back in her chair to glance down a hallway, then picked up the phone and pressed a couple buttons.
“Sarah, a new client is in here in reception… A rental… I didn’t ask. That’s your job, darling… Yeah, good enough.” She hung up the phone and got up from her seat to come around her desk.
“I’m going to seat you over here in a conference room. Sarah will be right with you. Can I get you something to drink? Water? Coffee?”
“I just had lunch, but thank you very much,” I replied. I followed the receptionist to a small room with a table and a phone.
I only waited two minutes before a young, petite woman, perhaps in her early twenties, came whirling through the door, laptop in hand. Her hair was pulled up in a hairstyle that I didn’t recognize. Must have been a heck of a day already for her. I stood to meet her.
“Hi. My name is Sarah Devereux. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Please sit… sit. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Your receptionist already offered, but I’m fine. Thank you.”
Sarah plopped down in the chair opposite mine and let out a sigh. “Been one of those days already! Spring season can do that to the real estate market. What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.” I smiled. I liked her. She reminded me of Jessica, always in a hurry and finding the glass half full. “It’s Elizabeth Fairchild.”
“So, Elizabeth, what are we looking for?” she asked, opening a file folder and filling in my name at the top of some sort of worksheet.
“Well, I was hoping you could help me find an apartment to rent.”
“Sure, I can do that. Is your husband joining us? Should we wait?” she asked, eyeing the door.
“My husband?” How rude! I thought. Why would she ask that? Did she ask all the women about their husbands?
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She gestured toward my left hand and the symbols that sat there. The rings that were meant to signify forever. “I saw your rings, and assumed… I’m… ” she stammered, getting all red in the face.
“Oh, geez. No, I’m sorry. I just didn’t expect the question. I’m here on my own,” I answered, putting on my best game face.
Sarah seemed a little taken aback, but then stuck a big smile on her face and redirected her attention to the worksheet in front of her. “Okay, then. How long of a rental term are you looking for?” she asked.
Okay? Was it really okay that I left? What have I done?
“A year? Longer, shorter?” she asked, bringing me back to the table.
“Well, at least a month. But maybe two? Longer? Is that possible?”
“Of course. There are terms of all sorts out there. We’ll just have to see what the listings say. What else will you be needing in your apartment?”
About an hour later, after discussing the size of apartment I’d need, my budget and where I’d like to look, I was on my way back to the hotel. Sarah was going to schedule some appointments for us to go and see a few apartments the next day.
Returning to my hotel room, I was feeling quite accomplished. I was sure that it was going to take me a few days to find a job, yet here I was with a job, and going apartment hunting tomorrow. And I had only gotten lost twice today. Maybe I was more self-sufficient than I had been giving myself credit for.
I decided to take advantage of the fitness center in the hotel. since I wasn’t sure when I’d find time to exercise in the next few weeks. I shucked my outfit, put on shorts and a T-shirt, then headed downstairs. It was fun to not have to pull my hair into a ponytail to workout.
After a good three-mile run on the treadmill and some general nautilus weights, I was good and sweaty, feeling re-energized. I stopped at the snack store in the lobby, grabbing a yogurt, banana, and water, then headed back to my room to take a shower.
Squeaky clean, and dressed for bed, eating my ‘gourmet dinner,’ I put my big girl panties on. Toying with my new short locks, I grabbed my phone to listen to a few of the more than two dozen calls from Greg, my mother and Jessica that had come in throughout the day.
Greg’s calls were all over the map. Odd: “Who do you call for Chinese takeout?” Desperate: “Bets, I get it, you need a little break. Take your time. I’ll be here when you’re ready to come back home.” But that call was immediately followed by an irate: “Is there another man? Is that what this is about? Are you fucking another guy and you ran off together for some sick, romantic tryst? God help me if you’re sleeping with another man!”
I deleted the voicemails without listening to anymore. Yeah. I’m gonna call you when you’re unstable and accusing me of adultery. Another man?! Who did he take me for? At the mere mention of another man, my mind wandered to the gorgeous man sitting at the bar. However, I did not run off to be with another man!
I pushed those thoughts aside and sat to fill out all of the employment papers. Temporary address, permanent address, deductions and withholding calculations… All the blanks were making me nervous and my head spin. I was regretting even more my lack of real world work experience.
Wouldn’t it be nice to call Greg and have him help me fill these out, like he helped the kids with theirs? I had to mentally slap myself for that one! I was here to learn to stand on my own, not lean on someone else. I buckled down and filled in the blanks as best I could. When I felt they were good to go, I pulled out the restaurant’s menu and started to study.
I woke on Wednesday morning, without an alarm, at eight o’clock, to find myself slumped over the menu and all the lights still on. I must have been more tired than I thought. I didn’t even remember closing my eyes.
I got up and dressed. The most exhilarating part of my morning was deciding how to style my hair. I opted for the soft blown look, and I was amazed that it had been as easy as Bobbie had said it would be.
After a light breakfast in the coffee shop near the hotel, which was much cheaper than the hotel’s restaurant, I met up with Sarah in the hotel lobby at ten o’clock. With any luck, I’d find an apartment today.
By four-thirty, we’d been to seven different apartments. All were fully furnished, as I’d requested. Some way over budget, some on streets that left me nervous in broad daylight. One was a bit too far from work and had me concerned that I’d be late and give the dreaded “L Train excuse,” whatever that was.
Ultimately, I settled on a cute one bedroom apartment. It was tastefully decorated in neutrals and it was quiet. The unit was actually the most expensive one we saw, and the smallest, but it was the cleanest and safest. There was a rooftop patio, but it was closed today because it was being painted for the season, so we didn’t get to see it.
The kitchen was little more than an “efficiency,” barely big enough to make breakfast in, but it was updated, as was the bathroom, with this amazing waterfall shower head that I’d been trying to get Greg to install in our bathroom at home. The bed was very comfortable and new, still wrapped with packaging from the store. When we had stopped and talked to the doorman, Dominic, on our way in, he was as nice as could be. As we chatted, I noticed several residents come and go through the lobby, and they seemed quite pleasant. The whole building had a very quaint mood.
Back at Sarah’s office, she put in a call to the agent who was responsible for listing the apartment. Some quick talking on Sarah’s part, and it was a done deal. The best part was that I’d get to move in on Friday, which would save a bundle on my inheritance savings. After finalizing all the paperwork for the rental, with credit and background checks, it was a quarter after five.
“Thanks for all your help, Sarah. You’ve been a doll! I’ll see you on Friday for the keys, then?”
“We’ll meet at the building, eight in the morning,” she assured me with a bright smile.
I grabbed a slice of thin crust pizza and a soda on my walk to the hotel, battling for space every inch of the way. Rush hour was no picnic, that’s for sure.
On my walk back to the hotel, I passed an H&M Department Store. I stopped to pick up a few black slacks and shirts so I wouldn’t have to do laundry every other day. Then I stopped at a shoe store and bought a good pair for work.
Back at the Hyatt, I tried to make it an early night, but I was bothered by all of Greg’s voicemails and texts. I know, I should be. I’d left. Without warning. Without much explanation. I didn’t even have the courage to talk to him about how I was feeling face-to-face. Or with a therapist.
I had so much I wanted to talk about right now, but really no one to talk to. Jess wouldn’t be around. It was Wednesday night. Book Club night. It was Michelle’s week to host. Undoubtedly, they would all be drinking up a storm and talking about anything but the book. Would Jessica tell them where I was? She tended to get loose lips after a martini or two. Would the girls understand? Did I understand? No, I didn’t. It was the most impulsive thing I’d ever done. But, in my heart of hearts, I knew I was doing the right thing. I think.
*****
I tried not to stare. In Texas it was almost expected, but I’d never subscribed to that principle. Abuela wouldn’t have stood for it. But there I was gawking. I know I did, and I hope she didn’t see me. Sometimes, however, there are things that are so beautiful that demand attention and she was one of them. Her neck, her smile, her eyes… I wondered who she was here to visit.
I admit, I was a little ashamed that I’d been so smitten right from first sight. I’d always prided myself on being drawn to people for who they were, not what they looked like. But she radiated beauty from within, not just on the outside. I loved observing how she carried herself — confident, but not boastful. She was shy, yet strong. I admired how she was cautious, however there was a clear sense of adventure in the way she stood.
I stopped near Dominic’s stand to re-tie my shoe. I know, a juvenile move, one my middle school students might use, but hey, it seemed effective at the moment. Carefully eavesdropping, I overheard her asking questions that that sounded like she would be moving in.
Oh I hope she’s looking at the apartment on the sixth floor, I thought as I stood and headed for the elevator. Safely inside the car, I was relieved at the opportunity to adjust my jeans. I wanted to look back, but I didn’t want to look like some sort of creeper. But heck, she was beautiful. Her sassy hair, her fair skin. Elegantly tall. Dominic would never tell, but I’d have to see if I could pull some information from him.
Copyright © 2013 Isabelle Peterson
WARNING: EROTIC ROMANCE… This book contains subject material of an adult nature intended for readers of 18 and older, maybe even 21 and older. In these pages you will find graphic language and sexual encounters that some readers might disagree with: regular sex, BDSM, oral, sex toys, anal and threesomes. You’ve been warned. Happy reading!
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. It is not based on my life, nor any person living or dead. Names, characters, places, and events are the creation of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously, and any resemblance is entirely coincidental. Any reference to historical events, real places or real people are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
PROLOGUE
Elizabeth sat at the desk, in her cozy Napa Valley living room, staring out the window, as the spring rain formed rivulets down the panes. She took a deep breath, picked up her pen, and slowly released the air burning in her lungs. With a trembling hand, attempting her neatest penmanship, she started…
Dear Greg -
There’s no easy way to say this -
Oh, that’s not right! Angrily, Elizabeth crumpled the sheet of stationary and threw it into the fireplace.
The large photo that hung above the mantle caught her attention. Her lovely, perfect family. Greg, her husband of twenty-two years, and their three beautiful children. Bradley was only twenty-one years old, in his last year of college earning a business degree. Carter, twenty years old, was a sophomore in college studying anthropology. And Phoebe, now nineteen, was a freshman in college studying dance and physics - she was always the diverse one. As much as she wanted to, Elizabeth couldn’t smile at the picture. A lone tear escaped her eye and mimicked the raindrops on the window pane.
With another breath, Elizabeth pushed away the tear with the back of her hand and once again picked up the pen.
Dear Greg -
You are patient, generous, and loving under all conditions. You are successful, handsome, and smart. And you are perfect. Not always right, but always perfect.
When we met in college, I knew… I knew you would provide, protect, and care for me. You were safe. Comforting. Full of promise. I said “I do” without reservation, even though everyone warned me. And I’ve loved being married to you.
She stopped and looked at her left hand. She contemplated the platinum and diamond solitaire, and matching platinum band, that had sat so comfortably - yet uncomfortably - for more than two decades.
I’ve always known just what to expect with you. What to buy you for your birthday and Christmas. What you like to eat. What you are willing to try. How much starch to use on your shirts.
But as much as I know, there is so much I don’t know. I went from my parents’ house, to the dorm, to your house. I never lived on my own, made my own way, or depended on myself. I don’t know who I really am. I know that I’ve worked very hard for the past twenty-four years to be the perfect girlfriend, then wife, for you. And although I love that, this past year in this house with all the kids gone has shown me that I am mainly a keeper.
And kept.
I don’t live.
I exist.
I know that you feel the distance, too.
The problem is me - it’s not you. I know that sounds cliché, but it is the God’s honest truth. For as long as I can remember, all I’ve done is take care of others - and seldom have I taken care of me. I think I may have forgotten how.
I love you. But over the past several months - I’ve come to realize that I don’t know if I’m in love with you… And, I need to be.
I need some time to sort my thoughts. I’ll be back. We’ll talk through this. But I need to know who I am and what I am capable of. I want a job, and to pay my own bills and provide for me. I don’t know if I will be successful, but I know I need to try. And I don’t know how long it will take. Three months? Six months? Longer?
I know that you will be able to track me down through credit cards and my cell phone. I’m asking that you don’t. I have Daddy’s money, I’ll be just fine.
I need this.
We need this.
I’ll be in touch soon.
Yours,
Elizabeth
She carefully folded the two page letter and tucked it into an envelope, then shuffled the letter amongst the mail of the day.
Slowly, she made her way through the first floor toward the garage door. She turned and looked one last time at her comfortable, safe home. There were the photos of the kids through the years. There was the furniture she had painstakingly shopped for. There was the wall with the markings of the kids’ growth inside the laundry room… With a deep breath, Elizabeth turned and then proceeded to her car in the garage.
She climbed into her black Lexus SUV and opened the garage door. With a trembling hand, she started the car, put it in reverse, and backed out in search of new dreams.
CHAPTER 1
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to New York’s JFK Airport. The local time is seven twenty-four in the evening and the temperature is fifty-eight degrees. We thank you for flying United Airlines and hope that your flight was a pleasant one. Your baggage will be at carousel number …”
I watched as all around me passengers fired up their phones and started to collect their bags from under the seats in front of them. I grabbed my purse and pushed my Kindle inside, not like I’d gotten anything read in the six and half hour flight from San Francisco. Just like I couldn’t pay attention to anything the crabby flight attendant was saying. Something about shifting luggage and connecting gate information. I couldn’t think at all.
Had I really, impulsively, left my husband? I mean, I’d thought about it for years. Especially in the last couple of weeks. Not for anything he’d done, but more for all the stuff he hadn’t done… and maybe a little that he did. I’m pretty surprised that I’m not a wreck. In fact, I felt pretty good. Nervous, but excited. I’m in New York. I’m starting a new chapter in my life for however short or long lived it might be.
As I made my way through the airport, following the signs for the baggage claim, I thought about the last time I was in this airport. I had been with Greg, and we were only on a brief layover to catch a flight to Paris for our tenth wedding anniversary. This time the feeling was very different.
Figuring it would take a while for the bags to come around, I stopped in the ladies room to freshen up. While washing my hands, I couldn’t help but study the reflection in the mirror. My long brown hair, which surprisingly wasn’t riddled with grey, hung limply over my shoulders. Its soft wave, that everyone loved, but drove me nuts, especially on humid days, was in rare form after the flight. Frustrated, I reached into my purse in search of an elastic hair tie to collect the frizzy locks into a pony. My hazel eyes appeared bright and ready for anything, but I saw the sadness there. Did anyone else? I wondered. I reapplied a touch of lipstick and headed to the baggage claim.
I scanned the boards, and locating my flight, made my way to carousel number eight. Most of the people around me were businessmen and women. I guess that was because it was a Monday. There was only one family with two small kids, one of whom was wailing and carrying on about who knows what. Boy! I didn’t miss those days! I felt bad for the parents, who looked like they wanted the day to be over.
Most everyone else was on their phones, checking email or texts or calling for their rides. I felt like blending in, so I pulled out my iPhone and turned it on. While I waited for it to boot up, I found that I was holding my breath, not knowing what to expect. Finally, the phone buzzed to life and I saw a couple missed calls and texts from Greg. Did he come home early? Does he know already?
Putting on my big girl panties, yet playing it safe, I opted to read the texts. Just a couple of mundane texts.
4:43PM
Can you pick up my dry
cleaning? I think the pants
I was looking for this morning
might be there. Thx. G.
5:13PM
Going to be late. Aaron needs
the final numbers for the Wilson
project by start of day tomorrow.
Should be home by 8:00p. Hope
that doesn’t mess up dinner. What
is for dinner anyway? G.
5:48PM
Hey. Been texting and calling you.
Are you home? Out? Why haven’t
you answered or picked up? And
your cell is going straight to vmail.
Did you run out of battery
again? G.
Well, I’m safe from the inquisition, for a little longer at least. He won’t know for another few hours that I’m not home, and that I won’t be… indefinitely. I’m assuming that the voicemails are a repeat of the texts. He always does that - echoes his text in a voicemail. What’s the point in that?
An alarm signaled and the baggage carousel starting up, so I shoved my phone into my bag and kept my eyes open for my red suitcases. Two of them. Cost $180 in extra baggage fees, but “ya gotta do what ya gotta do.” Better than going shopping for all new clothes, right? Not as much fun, but more practical. The money in my personal savings account, that held my inheritance money from when my father passed, had to last me as long as possible, and a trip to Fifth Avenue would not help the cause.
I saw the first of my two bags come down the belt and I positioned myself to pull it off. Just as I was about to grab my suitcase, my purse fell off my shoulder and I missed grabbing the bag. Ugh! Now I’d have to wait for it to go around again.
Suddenly I see a man’s hand reach down and pull the bag off the belt. I looked over at him alarmed that he was stealing my bag! What nerve!? Welcome to New York!
“Hey!” I shouted and marched over to where the bag had been pulled. A gorgeous blond businessman walked up to me.
“Here you go. I saw you missed grabbing it.” He peered down at me with startling blue eyes, chiseled jawline and perfect hair. Okay, so New York had some nice people, too.
“Um, thanks,” I weakly stammered. Why was I flustered because someone did something nice for me? Ridiculous!
“Not a problem.” He flicked a glance at the belt. “Ah, here’s mine.” He reached over gracefully and pulled what looked like a golf bag off the belt. One more smile in my direction and he was gone. Weird.
I glanced around to see if anyone else witnessed what had just happened. Nope. Okay, maybe I dreamed it. I was waiting for my second bag when my phone rang again in my purse. I pulled it out and read the screen. Greg. Again. He’s never called me so many times in one day. He must be nervous. I pressed the option to “Decline” the call, dropped the phone in my purse, and turned my gaze back to the belt.
How could I explain it to anyone - this running thing? It’s so stupid. Maybe I should just book my return flight and go home. Go home to what? An angry husband. And how can he be mad at me? Our relationship was nothing more than roommates at this point. He was an excellent provider, but I could be just any woman – all he needed was for someone to cook, clean, and be a hole in the mattress on Friday nights for six and half minutes during Letterman. After our anniversary disaster maybe people would understand. Then again, maybe they would think I was simply unsupportive.
Just then I noticed my second suitcase, reached in and pulled it off the belt, successfully this time. I balanced my purse on my shoulder, collected both of my suitcases and made my way to the taxi stand and waited for a cab.
When it was my turn, a short cabbie jumped out and grabbed my bags. I chuckled to myself as he lifted them and stuffed them into his trunk. Those things were nearly as big as he was. I tucked myself into the backseat of the car and was overwhelmed with the smell of the cabbie’s dinner. Curry. Great.
The eager driver hopped into the front seat and started the meter as he turned to me. “Where to, ma’am?”
Where to? Um… Good question. Why hadn’t I figured that part out? Where was my brain? Back in Napa, I guess.
“Ma’am? Where are you going?”
Surely my grandmother would get a kick out of this. She forever laughed at my impulsive nature. “One of these days it’s gonna bite you in the derrière,” she’d say in her French accent. Consider me bitten, Grand-mère.
Greg usually stayed at Hyatt Hotels when he traveled for work and loved them. “Hyatt Hotel, please.”
“Which one?” he asks, eyeing me in his rear view mirror.
“Um, the one in New York City?” This wasn’t going well. I looked like such a tourist.
“Grand Central Hyatt? Or the one on 48th? Or the one on 36th Street?”
Figures there’d be more than one, I groaned inwardly. “Grand Central Hyatt, please,” I guessed, trying to sound as confident as possible. Must have worked because he swiftly pulled ahead into traffic and we were off.
Watching out the window, I tried to get my head on straight, but my mind was about as clear as mud. After about fifteen minutes, I got my first glimpse of the skyline. The famous New York City skyline. I finally started to relax. I was here. I’d done it. Even though there would be chaos erupting back home before the day’s end, I was here, and there wasn’t any going back.
My mind returned to the wild imaginings it had been running through on the flight. How will Greg take it? Will he shrug? Will he cry? Will he get angry?
And what would happen when my mother found out? She was a pillar of propriety, with all of her southern breeding and ways. She would never understand. She would never have left Dad, even if he was sleeping with every trollop on the block. Which he didn’t. He was an adoring husband, but if he had, she would have just kept quiet and made like everything was perfect. With her, it was always about saving face and appearances. The right clothes. The right friends. The right man. It didn’t matter how about how you felt. But neglectful marriage is no fun. I’d been there and done that. For the past twenty years. I was tired of it.
And the kids. At least they were all away at college and not home to deal with the fall-out.
And dear Jessica, my best friend since the third grade and married to Greg’s best friend. We’d been through everything together. I hadn’t even told her I was going to do this. We’d joked about it from time to time. But to be honest, I hadn’t even been sure that this was what I was going to do today.
Before I knew it, the taxi stopped and we were in front of the Grand Central Hyatt. The building looked rather plain. Not what I’d expected, but I was good with it. I stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Darkness was just falling. People were still rushing all around. Looking up and down the street, I recalled watching the Mary Tyler Moore show with my mother when I was younger and the show’s opening: Mary turning joyfully and tossing her hat with a big grin and outstretched arms, ready for her Minneapolis adventure. And so was I, although I was in New York City, of course. And not tossing a hat.
I was instantly in love with the sounds, the lights and even the smells. A far cry from suburban Boulder, Colorado where I grew up. Or Napa where I had been living since I got married. Sure, Boulder and Napa were nice, but this was New York City. The possibilities seemed endless.
The cab driver deposited my bags at my feet. I paid the $45 set rate fare, and gave him a $10 tip to make up for my ridiculously heavy bags. It was worth every penny.
Feeling stronger, I pulled up the handles on my bags and headed into the hotel. Stepping into the lobby at the Grand Hyatt a giant smile broke out on my face. Okay, this was what I was expecting. The waterfalls… the gleaming granite… the hustle and bustle. Taking a deep breath, I made my way to the reception desk.
*****
Where could Elizabeth be? I wondered, checking my cell phone for the twentieth time this hour. I had been trying to reach her all day. She didn’t answer the house phone or her cell. She still hadn’t replied to any of my texts. Or voicemails. I was starting to get worried. She always texted right back or answered her phone, even if it was to say, “I can’t talk.” And now it was almost four-thirty in the afternoon.
Maybe she and Jessica went to the spa and I missed that conversation? I considered. It was possible. I sometimes found it difficult to listen to her, as she prattled on over dinner about a variety of things that had nothing to do with me. I had to admit that I’d fallen into the habit of humming responses when she paused, and I’m not really listening, but thinking about work.
Glancing at the calendar, I noticed that Elizabeth’s birthday was coming up and that her best friend, Jessica, was always trying to get Elizabeth to go to the spa with her. Maybe that’s where she was. But I know my Bets, she didn’t go for that stuff. She might get her nails done every once in a while. But facials and massages? No. Good luck, Jessica.
I tried pushing aside thoughts that her car was in a ditch somewhere, and contemplated other reasons she wouldn’t have texted or called. Maybe she forgot to plug her phone into the charger last night and the battery died. Or she went to run errands and left it at home.
I was only trying to do the responsible thing and let her to know that I was going to be late for dinner. A reasonable message. Well, that and the dry cleaners, which closed in a half an hour. I really want those charcoal pants.
I grabbed a file folder for my five o’clock meeting and wondered what Elizabeth had planned for dinner? I would have to hope that she got the message that I’d be late, because I’ve never been a fan of re-heated meals.
CHAPTER 2
The gods were smiling on me because they had a room available. Before I knew it, I was letting myself into my residence for the next week or longer. After the double take on the bill, I was hoping to find an apartment to rent as soon as possible.
An hour later I was unpacked, something I always did when I checked into a hotel, I freshened up and put on a pair of slacks and a nice button down shirt. My stomach was rumbling and I realized how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten all day, letting my nerves get the better of me. But now, I was feeling good about my decision, and really wanted to sink my teeth into some dinner. Now, to decide what kind of food to eat.
I hit the streets and started walking. I wasn’t worried about getting lost. I felt so free. No plan, no time constraint. Just me. Greg would have been online scouring for a place with incredible reviews and so on, then called for reservations and then we’d be rushing to get there in time. I liked not having that pressure.
I wandered up and down the streets, taking it all in, until I came across a quaint Italian place. The menu posted by the door looked tasty and the prices fair, so I let myself in.
“How many in your party?” the young hostess asked.
“Just one, thank you.” Suddenly, I was very self-conscious of my single status. What was she thinking? Was she wondering why I didn’t have a date? But she just smiled, not giving it a second thought.
“Is a table by the window okay?”
“Sounds great,” I replied, following her to a small table for two by the window. She collected the second set of silverware and glassware and left with a quick smile.
The place was quiet, maybe because it was a Monday. It smelled heavenly, the air laden with rich aromas from fresh bread, red sauce, and garlic. The waitress came by and pitched the specials for the night. I simply ordered a glass of Chianti and ordered the Eggplant Parmesan, then sat back to watch the people on the street and ignored the sporadic vibrating of my phone.
The food was phenomenal. After finishing my meal, I smiled since I didn’t have dishes to do. Greg and I rarely ate out, and while I liked cooking, I didn’t like dishes. Curiosity got the better of me and I checked my phone. In the hour and fifteen minutes since I left the hotel, there were four missed calls, as many texts, and a couple emails.
I took note of the time. It was ten-thirty, so it was only seven-thirty back home. Greg said he was going to be at the office until eight. I still had a half an hour or so until the shit hit the proverbial fan.
“Can I get you an espresso, or gelato?” the waitress offered.
“No, thank you. Just the check please,” I answered.
I paid my bill and leisurely walked back to the hotel. As much as I wanted to explore the city that never sleeps, I was more than a little tired from the flight.
Curled up in the comfortable chair in my room at the hotel, I nervously checked my evil phone one last time. I scrolled through the missed calls. A total of eight from Greg, a missed call from Jessica, and one from my mother. It was eleven fifteen, so that’s eight fifteen back home. I guess it was show time.
The voicemail time stamps from Greg’s calls placed them each about five minutes apart. Guess he had run out of patience. Part of me wanted to ignore all of them — delete them all and pretend that nothing had happened. But the adult in me know what I had to do. After all, this whole escaping to New York was to see what I was made of.
I scrolled through the lists of voicemails, skipping the earlier ones, knowing they’d be mundane repeats of his texts about dinner and the dry cleaning. I decided to go for the big ones. Calls and texts that came in after eight o’clock, when he would have been home already.
“Hey, Elizabeth, I just got home. Where are you?” He must have not gone through the pile of mail yet. His voice set me on edge. He seemed irritated that I wasn’t there to greet him or something. I deleted that message, swallowed and pressed play for the next message, knowing that it would be ‘the big one.’
“What in the hell is this?” Yup, he’d gone through the mail this time. “You’re leaving me? What is this ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ shit! Call me right away. Please!” Oh - swearing. He’s mad. He seldom swore. And never over anything trivial. Can’t he read? It was all laid out very clearly, or so I thought, in the letter.
I let the next message play. “Why haven’t you called me back, yet?” he barked, his voice so harsh in that one. I was very glad to be thousands of miles away.
Next message: “If you love me and I’m perfect, why did you leave? Where are you? Call me. We need to talk.” Okay, he sounded rather pathetic and desperate in that one.
I couldn’t listen to another message right now. I set the phone aside and went to take a shower and rinse off the day. Letting the hot water run over me and calm my nerves, I did my best to recall the letter I’d written, but it was mostly a blur. Why did I say he was perfect? He wasn’t. He tried to be. He was kind. He was careful. He gave us a nice home, vacations, and things. He had planned our future very carefully. He never demanded anything from me. He didn’t make me feel inferior. But all those things didn’t make him perfect. Why did I say that? I guess I was just trying to be kind. Or maybe with the distance I was able to recognize the imperfections.
Dried and in my nightgown, there were three new voicemails waiting for me. I took a deep, cleansing breath and listened to the next message. “J. F. K.!!!!” his voice boomed down the line. “You’re in New fucking York? Who in the hell is in New York? You don’t know anyone who lives there! Do you? Is it a man? Are you…are you… God damn it! Call me!” Whoa! The ‘eff-bomb?’ And he knows I’m in New York. He must have done some digging. Crap! And was he slurring there? That would mean he’s drinking. And on a Monday no less. But even if he followed me here, New York was so big, finding me would be like finding a needle in a haystack. And I was careful to use my money for all of this. My inheritance money.
And Greg’s right. I don’t know anyone here. But that’s the point. I want to stand on my own two feet. I can’t do that staying at a friend’s house.
Feeling fairly certain that the rest of his messages were as manic as this last couple, I chose to delete them. I opened the text app, ignored all of the unread texts waiting for me, and started a message to Greg. What do I say? I owe him something.
I stared at the blank screen with his name at the top, the cursor flashing in the ‘Text Message’ window. My thumbs were trembling. My mouth was dry. My mind was whirling. Filtering through the swarm of thoughts buzzing in my head, I opted for simple.
11:42PM
I landed safely. I’ll call u when
I get settled. The car is parked in the
short term west lot at San Fran Int’l
in the back corner where you always
park for ur trips. E.
Send.
Okay, maybe that’s not enough. I chew on my lip and take a breath.
11:43PM
I need to do this.
Please understand.
I do love you.
Send.
Feeling slightly better at having been pro-active, adult, and mature, addressing Greg, I decided to listen to Jessica’s voicemail. “Hey, Bets. Greg just called me wondering where you are. Where are you? Give me a call. Later, hon.”
I decide to just send her a text message, too. I wasn’t really in a mood to talk to anyone.
11:44PM
Hey, J. I just needed to get away
and clear my head. I’ll call you soon.
Take care of Greg for me, please.
TTYL.
Send.
I thought about my sister and my mother. I should let them know I was safe and not abducted or anything. God knows, Greg probably called them in hysterics already. I couldn’t talk to either of them, they wouldn’t understand. I texted Suzie, said I was good and taking a break, and asked her to call mom to let her know I was okay.
I set my phone on the night stand and it started to ring. It was Greg… again. As much as I had been an adult in sending him a message, this time I took the wimpy route and hit “Decline” on the screen, letting the call go to voicemail. I flopped back onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. The phone chirped that a voicemail had been left. What a surprise. Then I remembered that there was a voicemail from my mother. I just didn’t have the energy for that one, so I didn’t go there.
I heard the ding of another notification coming through my phone, this time a text. From Greg. Guilt and curiosity getting the better of me, I glanced at the screen.
11:45PM
Where are you? I’ll come
and get you. I love you
too. We’ll fix this. G.
Tears sprung into my eyes. With more than an ounce of shame, but still the knowledge that I was doing the right thing, I switched my phone to “Do Not Disturb.” I dug out my charge cord and plugged it in on the nightstand, then climbed into the huge, comfy bed.
I was doing the right thing… right?
As I lay in the king size bed, I continued to ponder what I’d done. I left. No discussion. No effort to work things out in therapy or anything, I left. Not the most level headed method of handling the situation, but I couldn’t stay. I was suffocating there. I was dying. Daily my internal light grew more and more dim.
The way Greg sounded in a couple of those voicemails, I wouldn’t be surprised to be chased down by a lawyer with divorce papers in the next few days.
But that last text. We’ll fix this. Was it possible? Did I want to fix it? Yes. But what he wants to fix wasn’t what I was trying to fix. I needed to fix me. I needed excitement, responsibility, strength. I needed my spirit back. My spark. My fire. I had no passion left. Greg always fought change. Trying to change things at home subtly would be futile. Even when I changed brands of orange juice he’d balk. Trying to get him to change how he’s been for the past twenty years? He needed something more intense. A wake up call on the extreme. A ‘come to Jesus’ moment.
Most people that saw us thought we were a perfect couple. That my life was a dream. Successful husband. With perfect kids. And a great house. But it wasn’t like that. I felt lost.
Every time I’d talked about getting a job, Greg acted like I was out of my mind. “You need to be home for the kids.” “It’s not necessary; you do a great job taking care of the home.”
Every time I talked about heading to the theatre, either a movie or musical or play, he’d come home with a DVD to watch instead.
Every time I wore a nearly sexy dress or top, he’d look at me disapprovingly. He wouldn’t say anything. In fact, he’d say I look great “…but I like that (fill in the blank with a conservative top description like ‘blue cardigan’) better.” If it were up to him, I’d be dressed in long pants and turtlenecks year-round.
Then there were glaring problems. Primarily, his lack of attention to me. I wasn’t asking to have a husband who doted on me, but to have a meal with the man, without his dang cell phone as the third person at the table, would be nice. Our anniversary dinner started to creep into my head and made my blood boil. Yes. I was doing the right thing.
Three weeks ago had been our twenty-third anniversary. Not a major one, but our first as empty nesters. I insisted we go out. For our anniversary, I didn’t want to be washing dishes.
The first zinger was the restaurant he chose. He didn’t ask me for my input either. It was a place we’d been to before, and I had never been a fan of it. But it was his favorite place, half of a block from his work. We’d always leave the place with him asking, “Isn’t that place great?” And I’d always shrug and say, “It’s okay.”
Then, when we ordered drinks, he raised an eyebrow at the Cosmo I ordered. “Starting with the hard stuff, huh?” he asked. What? It was a freakin’ cocktail! It was our anniversary!
He didn’t order a bottle of wine, just two glasses because it was cheaper, and we didn’t need a whole bottle, he reasoned. “Especially since you’ve already had a martini,” he chided.
When our meals came, he repeatedly stole bites of shrimp from my plate of Scampi. He didn’t ask, just helped himself. It wasn’t like the plate was overflowing with the pink morsels, either.
But the worst part was that third dinner guest. The phone. It vibrated the whole night long. Texts, emails, and even a phone call. He never let a message go unattended. And never a word to me about what was going on. He barely even excused himself each time he went to reply. Always taking care of everyone and everything.
Finally halfway through dinner, he groaned, almost comically. “Bets, I gotta go to the office and fix this. Wilson got the wrong account files, and - never mind. Suffice it to say, I’m the only one who seems to know what is going on over there. I’ll be back in about twenty minutes.” And then he left. Our anniversary dinner. For work. I didn’t finish my dinner, but I certainly had a couple more drinks.
When he returned twenty minutes later, he gave me my anniversary gift. It was the same thing I got every anniversary, Christmas, and birthday. A card with gift card for the mall. “Because it’s so versatile,” he always said. Really? I spent what I wanted with his credit card as it was. What was the difference?
Didn’t he know how much that night hurt me? On the ride home, I was quiet, only saying as much as was absolutely necessary. I fussed with the radio more than usual. I was super quick when I brushed my teeth and washed my face. I practically ran to bed, then pretended to be asleep by the time he crawled in. And guess who came to bed with us? Yup. His cell phone.
Deep down, I knew the Wilson account was a big one. Anyone in town would know that. But, were the Wilsons more important than one night with me? Or was I being overly sensitive? It was my husband’s exceptional account handling and attention to detail that had gotten him to the position he was in, with a paycheck to match. I did get to reap the benefits in our gorgeous home, our cabin in Lake Tahoe, my annual new car and so on. But, I didn’t really care about all that. I often found our house too big. The skiing was his thing. I didn’t really care if my car wasn’t the newest model, or had a tiny scratch or ding.
It was like he didn’t know me at all… Or, maybe he just didn’t care anymore. And quite frankly, after twenty some years of it, I didn’t care anymore. I didn’t know who I was. I knew that I was Mrs. Gregory Fairchild, but where was Elizabeth Morris? Did I care? Yes, I did. And now, I was going to find her. I was going to find me.
*****
I knew she listened to my voicemails and read my texts. She had to have by now. Why wouldn’t she talk to me? None of this made any sense.
What did I do? I’d always been kind. I went out of my way to make things easy for her. I protected and provided. And this was the thanks I got?
Well, screw her and the horse she rode in on! I poured myself another gin and tonic and looked at her letter again.
But she was the mother of our three beautiful, smart, and successful children. She made food better than a five star restaurant. She knew everything about me.
I loved her.
Why was she doing this? She said in her letter she loved me. She said it a few times. And she said that I’m perfect. So, what in the hell was going on?
And New York? Why would she have gone there? She didn’t know anyone there, did she? It had to be a man. Plain and simple. You didn’t jet across the country to figure out what you’re made of, to New York of all places, unless you’re stupid, or a guy was there waiting for you. Elizabeth wasn’t stupid. It must have been a guy.
My calls to Jessica and her mother were fruitless, too. How had she gotten them to be so tight-lipped? Well, Jessica — fine. Friends since the beginning of time. But Clarissa Morris? She would never stand for this little prank. Why was she protecting Elizabeth? I just wanted my Bets back.
I snatched up the letter, re-reading the part about “it’s not you, it’s me” shit. Cliché? Absurdly cliché.
I didn’t even know what I felt as I drank the last of my fifth, or was it sixth, gin and tonic. Confused? Definitely. Angry? Yes. Sad? Sort of. I think I was too confused and angry — and drunk — to be sad.
CHAPTER 3
The sounds of car horns woke me the next morning. At first the sounds annoyed and confused me. Our neighborhood was always quiet. I opened my eyes, and peering around the hotel room, my head cleared a little. New York.
I smiled to myself, until I noticed the sun was shining into the window. I groaned and wished I’d thought enough to close the curtains the night before. I rolled over and looked at the clock. It was already after nine thirty. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d slept in like that. Then again, it was only just after six-thirty back home, so that wasn’t too bad.
First order of business: coffee. Second order of business: find a job.
Cleaned up and dressed, I evaluated my reflection in the mirror. My hair was cooperating today, simply brushed smooth. A light touch of make-up. A great pair of slacks and a tailored shirt. Jewelry that was not outlandish and comfortable pair of pumps. I was feeling good.
Grabbing my cellphone from the charger, my good feeling crashed. A dozen voicemails from Greg. Just as many texts. Even a couple emails.
There were several missed calls and one voicemail from my mother. Did I dare? I did. She’s my mom.
“Elizabeth Marie Morris Fairchild. What in the world is going on? Why aren’t you answering my phone calls? Or Greg’s for that matter? Where are you? Greg is out of his mind. Suzanne said you texted her that all is fine. If that’s so, why aren’t you talking to anyone? Young lady, you have some explaining to do. You call me as soon as you get this message. Don’t worry about waking me up. You just call.” Her southern drawl cut right to my heart. Yup. Good feeling officially deflated.
Appetite also squashed, I chose to just grab a coffee, I was no good without coffee, and made my way to the hotel’s Business Center. I was grateful that no one was in the room and a computer was available, but then I sat, stumped, staring at a blank Word Document page. For several minutes I contemplated how I was going to draft a respectable resume.
Greg and I met my sophomore year at Colorado State. We got married a month after I graduated with my degree in advertising and marketing. He had graduated two years earlier and was working for a well-established financial management company. Three months after we got married, his company moved us to Napa Valley, California.
In Napa, I started working at a small design firm, but I didn’t know that I was pregnant when I started there. Doing the math, it seems I was one of the lucky ones who got pregnant in her first month of marriage. I was so sick with the pregnancy early on, I only lasted at the company for three months. It wasn’t a big deal, because we had decided that I would be a stay-at-home mom.
Bradley was born two months before our first wedding anniversary. And then, just before Bradley turned one, Carter was a second bundle of joy added to the mix. And, almost a year to the day after Carter, I was blessed with my little girl, Phoebe. In a three year span, I’d had a baby almost annually. I used to joke that I needed to stop sharing the bar of soap with Greg, a joke he never cared for.
When Phoebe was born, I decided to add another couple of days to my hospital stay and get my tubes tied. We’d certainly done our share for population replacement. And Greg’s hours seemed to be getting longer and longer, meaning that he had less and less time to be home and help with our growing family. Greg refused to have the procedure to solve things on his end. But he had no problem letting me go through the invasive procedure.
I shook myself out of my self-pity and focused on the task at hand. A resume. What do I put on it? With all my ‘stay-at-home’ mom time, I had never gone back to work. Twenty-some years technically unemployed. That’ll look great on a resumé! I groaned. Time to get creative.
Under ‘Employment History’ I chose to list my PTA positions and the responsibilities I’d held as Treasurer, then Secretary. I even put down the lame waitressing job I’d had in college. To further fill in my nearly laughable resumé, I listed other skills I thought I had: computing skills, multi-tasking, budgeting, et cetera. Reading it over, I hoped that I’d assembled a moderately impressive resumé.
I sighed loudly as I sent the document to the printer to print a dozen copies, and sat back in the chair.
“Headed to a rough meeting?” I heard someone say behind me. Startled, I turned in my swivel chair and came face to face with a harried-looking middle-aged man. How long had he been there? I hadn’t heard him come in.
“Oh, uh, no. Not yet at least. Job hunting. You?” I replied.
“No. I’m in town for my boss, and I have to give this presentation. It’s one of those ‘make or break’ kind of meetings, and I’m almost out of battery on my laptop,” he said, raising the silver MacBook that was tucked under his arm, taking a seat. “It wouldn’t be such an issue if this client company had Macs or Apples but, they’re all PC. Now I have to migrate my KeyNote into a PowerPoint and put it on this flash stick. It should be a rule that all companies have both PC and Apple compatibility, you know?”
“Well, I can help you get it transferred, if you want,” I offered. “But, you may get lucky at the concierge desk. People leave cords behind all the time and they usually have an impressive collection in the lost and found.”
“Great idea! I hadn’t thought of that! You’re a gem!” He popped out of his seat and started toward the door. Before he left, he turned to me and flashed a friendly smile. “And good luck with the job hunting. With your quick thinking, you’re a shoe-in wherever you interview.”
“From your lips, to God’s ears… Thanks,” I smiled back.
I spent the next half hour scavenging the internet for job opportunities in Manhattan. Selecting several real possibilities, I mapped out addresses, then collected my resumes and went to talk to concierge to figure out how to navigate this city. A few minutes later, I had several great iPhone apps, yup, there’s an app for that, and I was on my way.
Two banks, four professional offices, and a temp agency later, I was exhausted, no real leads, and attitudes saying thanks-lady-but-we’re-just-going-to-throw-away-this-waste-of-paper-resume-two-seconds-after-you-leave. I was starting to understand why people said that New York would chew you up and spit you out.
As I passed a large plate-glass window, I caught a glimpse of my hair. Frizzing. Great! No wonder they all thought I was a nut job. I looked around to see who might have seen me studying myself and, in the reflection, spotted a small hair salon. That’s it! I’m cutting it all off!
In a huff, I crossed the street and walked in. The trendy girl behind the desk tore her eyes from her iPad and smiled.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes. I’d like to get my hair cut. All of it.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but -”
“That’s okay.” She checked the appointment book in front of her. “We’ve actually had a cancellation. If you can wait for fifteen minutes, Bobbie can take you.”
“Thanks, that’d be great,” I said. I took a seat and started flipping through style magazines.
Ten minutes later I was getting my hair shampooed. Taking a seat in Bobbie’s station, she turned me to the mirror and pulled the towel back.
“So, what are we doing for you today?” she asked in an absurdly chipper voice, flipping her long, sleek, blonde hair over her shoulder.
“I’d like my hair cut. All of it. It’s way too frizzy, and I’ve had it.” I handed her the magazine I held in my hand. It was open to a picture of Anne Hathaway, just after she’d cut her hair off for the movie Les Miserables.
“Wow. This will look amazing on you, with your cheekbones and elegant neck. My boyfriend would kill me if I cut even an inch off my hair. What will your boyfriend say?”
Ha! That’s a laugh. Greg would hate it! He had always loved my hair. “I don’t care what he thinks. I hate it,” I said, feeling bold.
“That a girl!” She pulled my hair together and put it in an elastic hair band. “You have quite a bit of length here and it’s in good shape. Would you like to donate it? Maybe Locks of Love?”
I smiled. “Yes. That would be great. Thank you.”
She pulled out her scissors and looked at my reflection squarely. “Are you sure? Last chance…”
“Go for it!” I grinned.
While she cut my hair, she asked me all sorts of questions. I revealed that I was new to New York, married, but my husband stayed back in California for work, and that I was job hunting today. She didn’t judge one bit that my husband hadn’t traveled across the country with me and went on to talk about her boyfriend and when she first moved to New York.
Forty minutes later, I was turned in the chair to see my reflection. I was stunned. I looked like a whole new person. I felt like a whole new person. A trendy person. And I felt like I’d had about twenty years cut off. Twenty heavy years.
“You’re a magician with those scissors, Bobbie. I love it!” I turned my head, checking the style from the sides. I looked chic… and young. She’d kept the bangs on the long side and styled the pixie into a very modern shape, with pieces pulled down over my forehead, pointing this way and that. It made my eyes seem alluring instead of too big.
“And you can even play with this style,” Bobbie said. “With a little pomade, you can make it a bit spikier for when you want to go out on the town. Or you can play with the shape and go with a roaring twenties vibe,” she continued as she moved my hair here and there. “You can blow it dry and make it very soft looking… I would love to do this with my hair. What will your guy say? Aren’t you excited for when he sees it?”
I shrugged and smiled. He would probably freak out. It felt good to be rebellious, even if it was just with my hair.
With the attitude of a whole new woman, a spring in my step, and a hundred and twenty dollars lighter, I sauntered back onto Lexington Avenue. I loved the gentle breeze that blew along my neck and shoulders. My whole head felt fantastic and I continually checked out my reflection in the windows as I went along.
Walking to my next opportunity with renewed vigor, I passed by the most heavenly scent. Steak. I looked up and saw the sign. Ed Scott’s Steak House.
I glanced down at my phone and noted the time. There were four new voicemails and a few texts, all from Greg. I shook my head and chose to just ignore them for now, yet again. It was already two-thirty. No wonder was so hungry. I mean, how long can coffee carry a person?
I stepped inside and was enveloped with a sumptuous, meaty aroma. The place was rather busy considering it was fairly late, but maybe ‘Late Lunches’ were really a thing here in New York. I noticed a man in his thirties, who was quite frazzled with his hair mussed, top collar undone, and tie pulled loose. Standing next to him was a petite, intimidated hostess. The two were thumbing through a stack of papers.
“What did you think of this one? She looked okay?” the hostess suggested.
“But her work history? She’s not maintained a job for longer than three months at any one place. No,” he growled back. He looked at the stack of papers in his hand and started to lay them down like playing cards. “To be honest, there’s not a good one in the stack! Horrible manners, too much perfume, not enough soap, not enough clothing…” he listed.
I was getting hungrier by the minute, standing there and watching people eat juicy steaks, and fluffy baked potatoes, so I cleared my throat to get the attention of the duo at the hostess stand.
The man looked me up and down, then barked, “Do you have your resume?”
Omigosh. They’re hiring here? He thought I was here for some job? Serendipity? Before even asking about the job that I would be ‘here for,’ I politely smiled and dug into my bag. “I do,” I said, pulling out my folder and handing him a resume.
“So, Elizabeth. I see your restaurant experience is more than twenty years old? You know that we use computers these days, not hand tickets, right?” he snapped.
“That’s fine. That’s good actually. I’m very tech savvy.” I thought that was a good answer.
“Have you ever tended bar before? Do you have your license or certification? What’s your specialty drink?”
I felt as if I were the target of a firing squad, with one marksman. He was pelting me with questions. I’m not sure how I filtered through, but I replied with, “Well, I do make some spectacular martinis.” In our book club back in Napa, I was always the bartender, something I was suddenly very grateful for. And most of the time when we got together for “book club” there was very little dishing about the book, unless it was a steamy read, as was our current trend. Often it turned into a cocktail party, designing and drinking new creations.
“Spectacular, huh?” he shot back.
Oh, I hoped I hadn’t oversold myself here. “May I show you?” I asked, gesturing toward the bar.
He seemed taken aback with my confidence. Maybe it was the haircut talking. I hoped I could deliver. He held open the pass-through counter and we both scooted in, with him leading the way. Leaning against the bar with his arms crossed, he called out to the blonde with a high pony tail on the other side of the bar, who was listening to a customer.
“Shelby, this is Elizabeth. She’s going to make a ‘spectacular martini.’ ”
“Have at it, girl,” Shelby smiled.
I quickly scanned the shelves, spotting what I’d need. Grabbing a martini glass, I filled it with a few ice cubes, and soda water and left it to chill. Next, I filled a martini shaker with ice, snatched a jigger and started measuring vodka, blue curaçao, and simple syrup. I popped the top on, and gave it a good fifteen second shake.
I eyed the manager; he seemed dubious. I dumped the icing water, with a nice shake to clear as much water from the glass as possible, and poured the bright blue liquid into the frosty glass.
“Pretty short,” he snorted.
I shot him a cheeky grin and wink. “I’m not done.” I picked up the small bin of maraschino cherries and carefully poured a thin stream into the glass. Due to its density, it sunk straight off to the bottom, filling the bottom quarter of the glass. With the tongs, I popped in a cherry and slid the drink over to him.
He looked the drink over. “What do you call it?”
“A Firecracker. It’s more a Fourth of July drink, but -”
“That’s fine,” he said cutting me off. “Shelby, what do you think?”
“The drink’s got flair. Her technique could use a little work, but that’s easy.”
He reached over and tasted the drink. He smacked his lips. “Not bad,” then slid it over to Shelby.
She tasted it then licked her lips and took another sip. “I’d say it’s really good, John.” Ah, the angry man in charge is John. Okay.
Shelby and John grilled me on several other drinks, from a simple Old Fashioned and a Cosmo, to a White Russian. Then Shelby handed me the recipe book for some of the house specialty cocktails and asked me to mix up a couple.
“What’s your wine knowledge like?” she queried.
“More than adequate,” I replied confidently.
“What’s your favorite varietal?”
“Well, depends on what I’m eating, but my favorite ‘go-to’ is a red zinfandel or a Malbec, but on warmer days I’ll take an oaky chardonnay.”
My eyes darted between the two. John looked my resume up and down, and then me. He noticed the rings on my left hand. “You married?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Hopefully that means you won’t be screwing the staff.”
“Omigosh, no!”
“I guess you’ll do. I don’t have any more time to waste on this. Can you start Thursday?”
“I’d like to clarify the pay.”
“Sixteen an hour. Forty hours a week. Plus tips. You’ll start on tables. The servers tip out fifteen percent when you move up to the bar.” He paused as if he expected me to complain or haggle. “Can you start Thursday?” he continued.
“Absolutely.”
“Be here at 10:30. The uniform is all black: shirt, slacks, no jeans, and shoes” he said, scrutinizing my shoes. “And I suggest more comfortable footwear. Don’t be late. And don’t give some lame L train excuse either!” he grunted, shoving a file folder at me. “Employment packet. Bring the papers all filled in on Thursday. And study our menu. Oh, do you have your certificate?” he asked, sticking his hand out to me. I stood rooted to the spot. “You are certified?” He glared at me, clearly exasperated.
“No, I’m not but -”
“Shit!” He sighed loudly and ran a hand through the little hair he had left. “We can register you. As long as you’re registered you’ll be good. You’ll be taking the next bartending class that’s available. I’ll let you know the time and place. Tuesdays will always be your days off, and one other day, which will fluctuate.”
I stood stunned, rooted to the spot. I just got a job. Not what I had gone for, but I got a job. Must have been the haircut.
I cautiously took the packet from him and slid it into my bag as we walked back to the hostess stand. I stood there for a moment before he barked again.
“What?”
“I’m hungry. I’d like to eat. May I have a table?”
“Fine, but your employee discount doesn’t start until after your 30 day probation.”
“Okay,” I smiled.
Twenty minutes later, I was eating a divine steak salad and enjoying a gorgeous glass of cabernet. I kept reaching up to my neck, thrilled with the absence of the hair that normally hung there. As I surveyed the tables all through the restaurant, I noticed that a majority of the clientele here were seemingly well-to-do business types. Many were on their smart-phones, or laptops, having a business lunch. I decided to pull out my iPhone to try and blend in.
I was not surprised to see another missed call from Greg, another one from my mother, one from Bradley… Oh, good grief. Did Greg call our kids about this? There were also a couple new text messages from Greg. The man never had the time to text and call me like this before. Figured. In the texts app, I ignored Greg’s ever growing list and opened the one from Jessica:
1:29PM
Hey, hon. You finally bit the bullet
and ran away? Best of luck, talk
to you soon!
I would have to call her later tonight and fill her in on my wild adventure of the past twenty-four hours. I started to contemplate my new job. A bartender. Well, hey, at least it’s in a nice place and not at all like any of the stuffy offices I’d applied to earlier today. And the tips in a place like this were probably pretty good too.
I took into account my projected wages, not including tips, and started to calculate how much that would boil down to in my paycheck so I could start to search for an apartment tomorrow. I figured the paycheck would pay for rent, my tips could pay for everything else. And I always had my inheritance fund if I came up short.
I tried not to feel too guilty that I would not even be staying in this job for a year, although part of me wondered if I would be here that long. I was tucking my iPhone back into my purse when I noticed someone at the bar looking at me. No, looking wasn’t the right word. Studying…inspecting…ogling was more like it. He wasn’t what I would call a pervert, but I was still more than a little uncomfortable with the untoward attention. I tried to look away but couldn’t.
He had startling handsome features that were familiar, but I couldn’t figure out why. He was probably ten years older than me, with salt-and-pepper hair, grayer on the sides and darker on top. His face was gorgeous with a chiseled jawline that perfectly displayed a warm and charming smile. His eyes were dark and intelligent. Even his nose had a graceful elegance. He was the sort of man you could just stare at, and he seemed confident enough that he wouldn’t mind one bit. Of course, dressed in the suit he was wearing, that fit him like a glove, who wouldn’t be confident. He must have had that suit custom made.
He simply sat at the bar practically ignoring the man sitting next to him, who was going on and on. Mr. Handsome paid little attention to him. All of his focus was on me. I felt nearly naked. I hope he’s not a regular.
“Can I get you some coffee and dessert? Ed Scott’s cheesecake is one of New York’s best,” my server offered as she cleared my dishes.
“As delicious as that sounds, I’d better not. I haven’t made it to the gym today,” I joked with her, pulling my eyes from the man at the bar. She was a sweet gal, maybe a couple of years younger than myself. “Just the check will be fine, thank you.”
After paying my check and leaving a nice tip for my server, I quickly made my way out onto the street. I had to get away from him. I don’t know why, but he made me nervous. Like I wasn’t in control of myself with those dark eyes focused on me.
I headed toward the subway station a few blocks from the restaurant, but along the way I passed a real estate office, with the front window displaying many listings. Feeling bolstered from having landed a job, I decided to head in and check out rentals in the area.
Inside I was greeted by a woman who gave the impression that she’d rather be anywhere in the world than behind her desk, and that she’d been sitting at said desk for the better part of her life. She was shuffling through stacks of paper and muttering under her breath. Desperately hoping that she was not the agent I would be assigned to, I cleared my throat to get her attention.
She peered over her reading glasses, and looked me over. “Can I help you?”
*****
Lunch meetings at Ed Scott’s were a luxury of the job, but once I saw her, I couldn’t focus. I’m sure what Peter was talking about was important, but I hadn’t heard half of what he said. And now, even after she left, I’m still thinking about her.
I loved her short pixie cut showing off her delicate cheekbones and her beguiling eyes. And her skin was flawless. The way she kept running her fingers over her neck. God, how I wanted that to be my hand on her neck. I wondered what she smelled like… what she tasted like.
My cock was still twitching in my slacks as I thought about the way she chewed her lunch. Her full lips, her tongue darting out to catch a drop of dressing. I could just imagine how her plump lips and lithe tongue would look around what I wanted to feed her.
The smile she flashed at her server could light a room.
I see beautiful women all day. Part of the job. Nice work if you can get it. But there was something about her. Slightly awkward, yet elegant in the same breath. She didn’t just catch my eye, or make breathing a bit more labored, there was something oddly familiar about her. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I was drawn to her like a bee to a rose. And I was hungry for her nectar.
I’ve not had her in the biblical sense. I was certain of that. Was she in the industry? If she worked in front of the camera, surely I’d recognize her. But perhaps behind? Not her attitude. No. Where did I know her from? It was going to drive me nuts!
I would love to get her in front of a camera. But not for the world to see, for my eyes only.
I decided that I would be eating at Ed Scott’s more than usual. I just hoped I’d see her again.
CHAPTER 4
“I’d like to speak to someone about renting an apartment.”
“Sure thing, hon.” She leaned back in her chair to glance down a hallway, then picked up the phone and pressed a couple buttons.
“Sarah, a new client is in here in reception… A rental… I didn’t ask. That’s your job, darling… Yeah, good enough.” She hung up the phone and got up from her seat to come around her desk.
“I’m going to seat you over here in a conference room. Sarah will be right with you. Can I get you something to drink? Water? Coffee?”
“I just had lunch, but thank you very much,” I replied. I followed the receptionist to a small room with a table and a phone.
I only waited two minutes before a young, petite woman, perhaps in her early twenties, came whirling through the door, laptop in hand. Her hair was pulled up in a hairstyle that I didn’t recognize. Must have been a heck of a day already for her. I stood to meet her.
“Hi. My name is Sarah Devereux. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Please sit… sit. Can I get you something to drink?”
“Your receptionist already offered, but I’m fine. Thank you.”
Sarah plopped down in the chair opposite mine and let out a sigh. “Been one of those days already! Spring season can do that to the real estate market. What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.” I smiled. I liked her. She reminded me of Jessica, always in a hurry and finding the glass half full. “It’s Elizabeth Fairchild.”
“So, Elizabeth, what are we looking for?” she asked, opening a file folder and filling in my name at the top of some sort of worksheet.
“Well, I was hoping you could help me find an apartment to rent.”
“Sure, I can do that. Is your husband joining us? Should we wait?” she asked, eyeing the door.
“My husband?” How rude! I thought. Why would she ask that? Did she ask all the women about their husbands?
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She gestured toward my left hand and the symbols that sat there. The rings that were meant to signify forever. “I saw your rings, and assumed… I’m… ” she stammered, getting all red in the face.
“Oh, geez. No, I’m sorry. I just didn’t expect the question. I’m here on my own,” I answered, putting on my best game face.
Sarah seemed a little taken aback, but then stuck a big smile on her face and redirected her attention to the worksheet in front of her. “Okay, then. How long of a rental term are you looking for?” she asked.
Okay? Was it really okay that I left? What have I done?
“A year? Longer, shorter?” she asked, bringing me back to the table.
“Well, at least a month. But maybe two? Longer? Is that possible?”
“Of course. There are terms of all sorts out there. We’ll just have to see what the listings say. What else will you be needing in your apartment?”
About an hour later, after discussing the size of apartment I’d need, my budget and where I’d like to look, I was on my way back to the hotel. Sarah was going to schedule some appointments for us to go and see a few apartments the next day.
Returning to my hotel room, I was feeling quite accomplished. I was sure that it was going to take me a few days to find a job, yet here I was with a job, and going apartment hunting tomorrow. And I had only gotten lost twice today. Maybe I was more self-sufficient than I had been giving myself credit for.
I decided to take advantage of the fitness center in the hotel. since I wasn’t sure when I’d find time to exercise in the next few weeks. I shucked my outfit, put on shorts and a T-shirt, then headed downstairs. It was fun to not have to pull my hair into a ponytail to workout.
After a good three-mile run on the treadmill and some general nautilus weights, I was good and sweaty, feeling re-energized. I stopped at the snack store in the lobby, grabbing a yogurt, banana, and water, then headed back to my room to take a shower.
Squeaky clean, and dressed for bed, eating my ‘gourmet dinner,’ I put my big girl panties on. Toying with my new short locks, I grabbed my phone to listen to a few of the more than two dozen calls from Greg, my mother and Jessica that had come in throughout the day.
Greg’s calls were all over the map. Odd: “Who do you call for Chinese takeout?” Desperate: “Bets, I get it, you need a little break. Take your time. I’ll be here when you’re ready to come back home.” But that call was immediately followed by an irate: “Is there another man? Is that what this is about? Are you fucking another guy and you ran off together for some sick, romantic tryst? God help me if you’re sleeping with another man!”
I deleted the voicemails without listening to anymore. Yeah. I’m gonna call you when you’re unstable and accusing me of adultery. Another man?! Who did he take me for? At the mere mention of another man, my mind wandered to the gorgeous man sitting at the bar. However, I did not run off to be with another man!
I pushed those thoughts aside and sat to fill out all of the employment papers. Temporary address, permanent address, deductions and withholding calculations… All the blanks were making me nervous and my head spin. I was regretting even more my lack of real world work experience.
Wouldn’t it be nice to call Greg and have him help me fill these out, like he helped the kids with theirs? I had to mentally slap myself for that one! I was here to learn to stand on my own, not lean on someone else. I buckled down and filled in the blanks as best I could. When I felt they were good to go, I pulled out the restaurant’s menu and started to study.
I woke on Wednesday morning, without an alarm, at eight o’clock, to find myself slumped over the menu and all the lights still on. I must have been more tired than I thought. I didn’t even remember closing my eyes.
I got up and dressed. The most exhilarating part of my morning was deciding how to style my hair. I opted for the soft blown look, and I was amazed that it had been as easy as Bobbie had said it would be.
After a light breakfast in the coffee shop near the hotel, which was much cheaper than the hotel’s restaurant, I met up with Sarah in the hotel lobby at ten o’clock. With any luck, I’d find an apartment today.
By four-thirty, we’d been to seven different apartments. All were fully furnished, as I’d requested. Some way over budget, some on streets that left me nervous in broad daylight. One was a bit too far from work and had me concerned that I’d be late and give the dreaded “L Train excuse,” whatever that was.
Ultimately, I settled on a cute one bedroom apartment. It was tastefully decorated in neutrals and it was quiet. The unit was actually the most expensive one we saw, and the smallest, but it was the cleanest and safest. There was a rooftop patio, but it was closed today because it was being painted for the season, so we didn’t get to see it.
The kitchen was little more than an “efficiency,” barely big enough to make breakfast in, but it was updated, as was the bathroom, with this amazing waterfall shower head that I’d been trying to get Greg to install in our bathroom at home. The bed was very comfortable and new, still wrapped with packaging from the store. When we had stopped and talked to the doorman, Dominic, on our way in, he was as nice as could be. As we chatted, I noticed several residents come and go through the lobby, and they seemed quite pleasant. The whole building had a very quaint mood.
Back at Sarah’s office, she put in a call to the agent who was responsible for listing the apartment. Some quick talking on Sarah’s part, and it was a done deal. The best part was that I’d get to move in on Friday, which would save a bundle on my inheritance savings. After finalizing all the paperwork for the rental, with credit and background checks, it was a quarter after five.
“Thanks for all your help, Sarah. You’ve been a doll! I’ll see you on Friday for the keys, then?”
“We’ll meet at the building, eight in the morning,” she assured me with a bright smile.
I grabbed a slice of thin crust pizza and a soda on my walk to the hotel, battling for space every inch of the way. Rush hour was no picnic, that’s for sure.
On my walk back to the hotel, I passed an H&M Department Store. I stopped to pick up a few black slacks and shirts so I wouldn’t have to do laundry every other day. Then I stopped at a shoe store and bought a good pair for work.
Back at the Hyatt, I tried to make it an early night, but I was bothered by all of Greg’s voicemails and texts. I know, I should be. I’d left. Without warning. Without much explanation. I didn’t even have the courage to talk to him about how I was feeling face-to-face. Or with a therapist.
I had so much I wanted to talk about right now, but really no one to talk to. Jess wouldn’t be around. It was Wednesday night. Book Club night. It was Michelle’s week to host. Undoubtedly, they would all be drinking up a storm and talking about anything but the book. Would Jessica tell them where I was? She tended to get loose lips after a martini or two. Would the girls understand? Did I understand? No, I didn’t. It was the most impulsive thing I’d ever done. But, in my heart of hearts, I knew I was doing the right thing. I think.
*****
I tried not to stare. In Texas it was almost expected, but I’d never subscribed to that principle. Abuela wouldn’t have stood for it. But there I was gawking. I know I did, and I hope she didn’t see me. Sometimes, however, there are things that are so beautiful that demand attention and she was one of them. Her neck, her smile, her eyes… I wondered who she was here to visit.
I admit, I was a little ashamed that I’d been so smitten right from first sight. I’d always prided myself on being drawn to people for who they were, not what they looked like. But she radiated beauty from within, not just on the outside. I loved observing how she carried herself — confident, but not boastful. She was shy, yet strong. I admired how she was cautious, however there was a clear sense of adventure in the way she stood.
I stopped near Dominic’s stand to re-tie my shoe. I know, a juvenile move, one my middle school students might use, but hey, it seemed effective at the moment. Carefully eavesdropping, I overheard her asking questions that that sounded like she would be moving in.
Oh I hope she’s looking at the apartment on the sixth floor, I thought as I stood and headed for the elevator. Safely inside the car, I was relieved at the opportunity to adjust my jeans. I wanted to look back, but I didn’t want to look like some sort of creeper. But heck, she was beautiful. Her sassy hair, her fair skin. Elegantly tall. Dominic would never tell, but I’d have to see if I could pull some information from him.
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