The Best Laid Plans (30 page)

“Are you all right, ma’am?” the concierge asks, holding out his hand to steady me.

“I’m Tru Newman, Peter, my husband, his room …” The lobby whirs around me. Then suddenly I feel another sharp cramp in my stomach as I faint to the floor and land on top of my suitcase.

“F
LU,” SAYS A MAN
whom I can only hope is a doctor. He’s wearing shorts, sandals, and a red-striped polo shirt, but he does have a stethoscope and he seems to be writing a prescription. “In twenty-four hours you’ll feel like new. Or at least as good as your old self.” He chuckles.

“Oh thank goodness, darling, I was so worried,” Peter says, rushing across the bedroom to take my hand. Except that as he approaches my bedside I realize that the tall, silver-haired, deeply tanned man isn’t Peter.

“Who, what …?”

“Confusion, perfectly normal with her fever,” the sandal wearer says as he walks toward the door. “I’ll be on the golf course if you need anything.” The second stranger thanks him for coming and promises that I’ll get plenty of rest and fluids.

I struggle to sit up and take in the scene. The room, which is about four times the size of my bedroom at home, is decorated in soothing shades of cream and blue, and through the floor-to-ceiling-windows I see an oversized lanai and a stretch of ocean dotted by white sails. But who’s the mystery man and how did I get here? Images from an endless parade of movies-of-the-week swirl before my eyes—movies in which an unsuspecting heroine puts down a soda can at a frat party and damn if before you can say “Diet Pepsi,” she isn’t immediately drugged and date raped. Still, I don’t think that any of those heroines were tucked into a cozy carved cherrywood bed or attended to by a guy solicitously pouring her a tall glass of Gatorade.

“You need your rest now,” says the attractive-as-Harrison-Ford fellow, urging me to lie back on the pillows that he’s freshly plumped. “By the way, I’m Jeff Whitman.”

“Jeff Whitman. Naomi’s Jeff Whitman?” I say with a start.

“The very same.”

“But how?”

“The concierge took you to your husband’s room, but Peter’s away until tomorrow, working on another island. Then the concierge saw the envelope in your purse that had my name and number on it so he phoned me. Get some rest, Tru,” Jeff
says, patting my hand. “We’ll talk about it more in the morning.”

“Okay, Jeff Whitman, I think I’ll get some sleep now,” I say, sinking into the pillows as instructed, way too tired to resist. “By the way, how do you know my mother?”

“Ah Naomi.” Jeff Whitman sighs wistfully as he drapes the top sheet over me and turns down the bedside light. “She was my first love.”

I
N THE MORNING
, I awaken to a stream of bright sunshine pouring through the window and Jeff Whitman asleep, his six-foot frame sprawled awkwardly over the rattan chair just a few feet away from my bed. The doctor was right; except for the unsteady-on-your-feet feeling of having been in bed for almost twenty-four hours, I’m feeling much better. I’m wrapped in a hotel robe that I remember stumbling into sometime in the middle of the night, but now, I slip out of bed to find something more appropriate to wear. I check my suitcase, which is empty. Guessing that Jeff or someone from the hotel has helpfully unpacked for me, I fling open the closet looking for a sundress or maybe a pair of shorts—but all I see are the purple body-hugging knockoff Versace cocktail dress I wore to Lincoln Center, my tightest white jeans, and assorted rainbow-colored miniskirts and a see-through leopard-print blouse, which I’ve never laid eyes on before and that still have tags on them. The loose hoodie and sweatpants I wore on the plane are nowhere to be found, and the drawers are filled with sexy lingerie and only my skimpiest bathing suits. A quick check of the shoe tree tells me that yup, I have the requisite twenty pairs, but there’s not a sneaker or a flip-flop in sight.

“That’s what I get for letting my mother pack.” I laugh,
pulling out a stretchy baby-sized tee and a bright orange mini, wondering how I’m going to get through the next few days dressed as Charo.

Jeff Whitman lets out a sigh, and I see him flopping around trying to find a way to make himself comfortable in the chair, which is about two sizes too small for his body.

“Jeff,” I say gently, shaking his arm. “I’m going to take a shower. Why don’t you move to the bed, you’ll be more comfy.”

Half-asleep, Jeff thanks me and takes me up on my offer. I’ve just started running the water when I hear the door swing open and the thump of a bag landing on the polished stone floor.

“Peter!” I say, running out to greet my husband. And then before he has a chance to think or react or know what hit him, I pull him toward me and kiss him like there’s no tomorrow.

“Peter, I’ve missed you, I love you, I don’t care that you didn’t tell me about your job, and I hope you can forgive me for not telling you about mine. I want to, I will, I’m going to tell you everything. No more secrets, just like you said. But I’m not going to let the last few months wreck twenty years,” I say determinedly, stepping back and finally coming up for air.

Peter reaches for me and runs his hands across my body, as if he’s reacquainting himself with a familiar landscape, or he just wants to make sure that I’m really here in the flesh.

“I love you too, Tru,” he says. “I’ve missed you like crazy. All this fighting—I’ve been trying to make sense of it.”

“Maybe it’s because we’re in the adolescence of our marriage.”

Peter looks at me quizzically.

“Oh, I just read that on the plane in one of Naomi’s magazines. How somewhere around the midpoint of a long
marriage, people push and poke at each other, testing, just like a teenager does with his parents.”

“But teenagers are getting ready to leave,” says Peter, wrapping his arms around me even more tightly. “And I’m not going anywhere. Not if you’ll have me.”

“I’ll have you and have you and have you,” I laugh, reaching up for Peter’s lips.

We still have a lot of things left to say, but we’ve said the most important. I let the robe slip off my shoulders and Peter lifts me in his arms with the eagerness of a groom. We’re kissing and cooing when my handsome husband bends over the side of the bed to set me down and we hear a
thwack
.

“Oooh,” Jeff Whitman moans as I hit him like a sack of potatoes. I quickly pull the sheet around my body to protect whatever modicum of modesty I have left. Jeff instantly recoups his savoir faire and plants a big smile on his face. Then, as he’s sitting cozily next to me in bed, I feel his arm reaching around my shoulder.

“Stop that,” I say, lightly smacking his fingers.

“What’s going on? Who is this man?” Peter demands as hurt, confusion, and anger flash across his face.

Jeff Whitman, on the other hand, looks merely amused. “I was just going to ask the same question, darling. Who is this man? Is this
the husband
?” Jeff asks in a tone that suggests that whoever “this man” is he’s no more an important figure in my life than the toll taker I see from time to time on my drive up to Woodbury Commons.

Jeff swings his legs over the side of the bed and faces off with Peter.

“Peter, sweetheart, there’s a simple explanation,” I say.

“That’s right,” says Jeff Whitman, reaching for my hand. “I’m in love with your wife.”

“I thought you were in love with my mother!” I protest.

“That was then, this is now. Peter, I’m in love with your wife.”

“What the fuck?” mutters Peter.

“Jeff, are you crazy? You sound just like Faye Dunaway in
Chinatown
. Your mother, your wife. Are you going to make me slap you?” I ask, remembering how Jack Nicholson got Faye’s character in the movie to make up her mind. Then I burst out laughing at the absurdity of the whole scene.

Peter takes a step closer to Jeff to try to get to the bottom of things. He fastens his hand under Jeff’s chin and pivots it from side to side. “He does look a little old for you.”

“I am neither too young nor too old,” Jeff exclaims. “I was in love with the mother and now I am in love with the daughter. It is a perfectly natural situation.”

“Perfectly natural if you’re French,” Peter says.

“I am half-French,” Jeff parries.

“Gentlemen, please. This isn’t about your heritage, it’s about my future. Peter, I love you. I came out here to make up, I got the flu, the concierge let me into your room, and he found a piece of paper with Jeff’s name and phone number on it in my purse. Naomi masterminded this whole fiasco. My guess is she wanted to make you jealous. Help me out here, Jeff. Am I on the right track?”

“Yes, my darling, you’re absolutely correct! My job was to bring you two back together, and I can see that I’ve done that,” Jeff says, missing the point that this half-baked scheme might just as easily have wrecked everything. He leans in to kiss me on both cheeks, “the French way.” Then he pats Peter on the back and hangs the DO NOT DISTURB sign on the doorknob as he makes his exit. “Ah,
amour
. I envy you two lovebirds the making up. You are about to have the most wonderful, wonderful sex.”

J
EFF MIGHT NOT
have had the right idea about how to bring us back together, but he was 110 percent on the money about makeup sex. Peter and I spend the next few hours in bed kissing and caressing, teasing and pleasing each other with an intensity that makes me understand what people mean when they say that the earth moved or “I felt liked we merged into one person”—empty-sounding clichés until they happen to you. Despite the air-conditioning and the whirring overhead fan, Peter and I are drenched in a pleasant shared sweat that makes our smells and our bodies indistinguishable from each other’s.

“I can’t move.” Peter chuckles as he strokes my salty skin.

“I think we’re going to have to.” I nibble at the tip of his finger. “I’m starving.”

“Oh, Mrs. Newman,” Peter sighs, turning to face me and pretending to feed me his entire hand. “You are so
sexy
when you’re hungry.”

“And you’re so corny,” I say with a giggle.

“I know, just one of my many lovable qualities.” Peter pauses. “I do still have some lovable qualities, right? Tell me I haven’t ruined things completely, it must mean something that you’re here?”

I look at my husband, really look at him. How could he ever imagine that I’d want to be anywhere but with him? If anyone had asked me six months ago which one of us was the vulnerable one, I would have had to say me. Still, I’ve changed in these last few months; I’ve had to. The old Tru wouldn’t have had the nerve to come down here after Peter or to start the Veronica Agency, but after everything that’s happened I’ve learned you have to fight to keep the things that are important. And truth be told, I was probably never the hothouse flower that either of
us made me out to be. Just as Peter is more, much more, than the I’ll-take-care-of-everything Wall Street banker. Molly could see that her father was the kind of man a girl should marry—even if she was momentarily sidetracked by that smarmy Brandon. And like daughter, like mother.

“Sweetheart, how can you even think you have to ask?” I say, leaning in to kiss him.