You Were Meant For Me (29 page)

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Pushing
the stroller down the hill toward Seventh Avenue, Miranda couldn't stop looking at the costumes that flitted, trotted, and cavorted by. Along with the witches, ghouls, and
monsters, she saw children dressed as mermaids and Barbie dolls, as dragons, a Lego piece, and an iPhone. A family dressed as flowers and their baby was dressed as a bee; another baby was costumed as a chicken with a pair of yellow rubber gloves as feet. She'd always gone to the parade as an observer, to gather ideas for the magazine. But today, with Celeste in her own costume, she felt like a participant.

On the avenue, the crowd grew thicker. The merchants handed out candy to the parade-goers, and the Häagen Daz store on the corner of President Street was giving out coupons for free ice cream cones. Had it been colder, she would have saved the coupon for another time. But the balmy temperature made the thought of eating ice cream irresistible, so Miranda stopped in for a single scoop of coffee in a sugar cone. She knelt down and let Celeste have a lick; Celeste clamored for more, so Miranda let her eat the rest of it, soggy, leaking cone and all. When the cone was gone, she cleaned the baby's face with one of the premoistened towelettes she always kept in her bag. “Your first Halloween with Mama,” she said to Celeste, who was now pulling at a tail feather. “Isn't it fun?”

“Mama!” Celeste put her sticky hands on Miranda's face. “Mama!”

This was the first time Celeste had used the word directly in connection with Miranda; before, she'd been making
mmmm
sounds quite randomly. But her meaning now was clear: Mama meant Miranda. She knew. She
knew
.

Later, as the parade wound down, Miranda ran into Heidi, a woman she remembered from the food co-op. Heidi was pushing a child in a stroller too; he was dressed as a fireman, though he had his red hat in both hands and was chewing on the visor.

“Auggie and I are going to stop in for pizza; want to come?” Heidi took Auggie's hat and put it back on his head.

“Sure.” Miranda followed her inside Roma's Pizza. Over the slices the women dissected and fed to the children—a bit of cheese, then a bit of crust—Heidi told Miranda about a regular single mommy's group she was organizing.

“Sounds great,” Miranda said. “I'd love to join.”

By the time they got home, Celeste was asleep in the stroller. Most of the peacock feathers were gone; there were crumbs in her hair and her face was streaked with tomato sauce. Miranda managed to get her inside and into her crib without waking her; she'd bathe her first thing in the morning.

Then she opened up her laptop, knowing that what she was about to do was a bad idea. She also knew that she was going to do it anyway. Although they had broken up and he had not responded to her phone calls, Evan had not unfriended her on Facebook, and it was his page she opened now.

It was from Facebook that she'd learned about his new girlfriend, Thea. Miranda had hated her instantly. She was impossibly thin, the sort of woman who subsisted on celery and lettuce; a carrot or some shredded beets were probably what she considered a big splurge. And she was annoyingly athletic, as evidenced by the pictures of the two of them rock climbing, Rollerblading, and, most shudder inducing of all, camping. Miranda loathed few things as much as she did camping and saw no reason, after all the progress made by civilization, to spend a night outside on the cold ground, a hapless target for insects, wild animals, and a whole range of other natural disasters.

Evan and Thea did not seem to be living together, but he certainly looked smitten with her. No wonder he had not
returned her calls; he was in love with someone else. Miranda started at the expression on his face. She recognized it quite well; it was the way he had once looked at
her
. She hated herself for scrolling through the recent posts, yet she was unable to stop. Here were Evan and Thea bowling. Bowling! Also playing shuffleboard and windsurfing. The pictures galled her. How had she been so adroit in articulating the problems between Courtney and Harris and so utterly dense about her own romantic life?

Enough. This pity party was over. She navigated away from Evan's page and turned to the more neutral realm of e-mail. But there was a decidedly not-neutral surprise waiting for her: a message with the subject line
Wie gehts?
It was from Luke.

Miranda had not heard from him in more than a year, and just seeing his name sent her stomach into freefall. Quickly, she scanned the message and then read it a second time, more slowly. The art scene in Berlin had proved to be less stimulating than he'd envisioned. His work was being met with the same polite indifference there as it had in New York. Also, the city was unfriendly, the weather bad, his job in a bar dead end. And Liesel, the cute little
fräulein
he'd followed across the ocean, had dumped him. He'd never given up his place in Brooklyn, only sublet it; he decided he would be moving back. Maybe they could pick up where they'd left off?

I realize I treated you shabbily, Miranda, and I am truly and deeply sorry. I didn't appreciate your loyalty and depth, the way you fed not only my body—I'm still tasting your spaghetti alla carbonara, your spiced mocha nut cake—but my soul too. You believed in me
and that's worth everything. Can you ever forgive me? I promise we could make a new start of it. A new beginning.

A new beginning. Had this entreaty come a year or even a few months ago, Miranda would have leaped at the chance. Luke, with his perpetual air of entitled, even proud dissatisfaction, his touchiness, his moods, his lofty pronouncements. Luke, who could reduce her to a quivering puddle of Jell-O with a single heated kiss. Luke, whose lazy sidelong glance completely undid her. Luke wanted her back. The irony of it. The sweet,
sweet
irony. She let herself savor it before she began to compose her reply.

I'm sorry to hear things didn't work out for you in Berlin. That must have been hard. Maybe you'll get that new start back in New York; I sincerely hope you do. But it's going to be without me, Luke. I've moved on and I no longer want to rekindle what we had together. And if things pick up for you, I'd really appreciate the return of that money you “borrowed” when you used my credit card. I won't say stole, because I want to believe better of you. Please don't disappoint me—again.

Miranda was not the same woman Luke had so cavalierly left behind. She had been changed—by Evan, by Jared, and most of all, by Celeste. She hit
SEND
without any hesitation. Then she turned off the computer and went to bed.

Lying in the dark, she did not think at all about Luke, whom she had banished from her mind with the ease of a
keystroke. Instead, all her thoughts coalesced around Evan. Those eyes of his. Those enormous hands that had touched her—and Celeste—with such surprising delicacy. The attentive way he looked at the world, the way he listened to her. But this was futile; she needed to stop.
I won't think about him,
she told herself.
I won't.
And with a vigorous punch to her pillow, she rolled over and willed herself to sleep.

O
n the following Sunday morning, Miranda woke early and sat up straight in bed. It had rained heavily the night before, leaving a brilliant autumn day in its wake. Opening the window, she poked her head out and squinted into the sun. The bright sky and clear air seemed like good omens. Somewhere in Manhattan, she knew Courtney was rejoicing. Then she heard a sound from Celeste's room. “Mama!” Celeste called. “Mama! Mama!”
That's me,
Miranda thought happily, and hurried in to fetch her girl.

Several hours later, they were both dressed and ready to go; Miranda had called a car service and was waiting in front of the house. Mrs. Castiglione was standing outside with them, a thick plaid coat zipped over one of the three housedresses she typically wore.

“You both look lovely,” she said. “Let me take your picture.”

Miranda handed over her phone. She did love the dress she'd eventually settled on. Bea had chosen a forest green silk sheath, to set off her hair, and Lauren had opted for a similar dress in midnight blue. Miranda wanted the dress in gray, but the raw silk somehow leeched the color from her face. “I have an idea,” Solange had said, and she brought out a bolt of shimmering gray satin, the color of pewter. “What do you think? I can make up the same style using this.” The result—an elegant, simply cut dress in the most sumptuous of materials—was perfect. And Solange used some of the leftover fabric to fashion a matching frock—that was the only word to describe it—for Celeste.

Mrs. Castiglione handed Miranda the phone as the car pulled up. “Have a wonderful time,” she said, pulling the coat more tightly around her small frame.

“Thanks!” Miranda put in Celeste's car seat and climbed in next to her.

The car sped up the hill, past Grand Army Plaza and up Eastern Parkway before stopping at the entrance to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. She would be the only one of the four friends at the wedding without an escort; Bea and her restaurant manager had gotten pretty serious and were looking for a place together. Had Evan still been her boyfriend, he would have accompanied her. But he was not. She was going to enjoy the day anyway; she had a personal stake in it.

As Miranda was paying the driver, she saw several other wedding guests milling around the newly designed entrance. Miranda didn't care for that entrance; it was too modern and seemed at odds with what was beyond the gate. But the garden itself, with its meandering paths, manicured flower beds, and expanses of green, was one of her favorite places in the
city. She picked Lauren out of the small crowd, Sophie and Max right beside her. Toting the car seat, Miranda hurried over as fast as she could.

“Sophie, you are going to make such a wonderful flower girl!”

“Mommy says I have a very important job.”

“Your mommy is right,” said Miranda. Celeste started kicking in her seat.

“She's so cute,” Sophie said. “Can I touch her?”

“Hold out your finger and she'll grab it,” said Miranda. Sophie complied, and when Celeste grabbed her finger, she giggled.

“You can play with her after the ceremony, okay?”

“Okay!” Sophie hopped from one foot to the other. Then Lauren took her by one hand and Max by the other; Lauren's husband, Dave, came up beside them and they all walked into the garden. They stayed on the main path until they reached the Palm House, the grand, domed glass conservatory; in the waning autumn light, it was lit like a castle.

“Pretty, pretty, pretty!” sang out Sophie as she loped around the circular fountain that stood in front of the entrance.

A classical quartet was playing Bach as Miranda walked in, and once she'd hung up her coat and stowed the car seat, a slender girl with ballerina-straight posture introduced herself as Jordan and asked if Miranda wanted her to take Celeste to the room set up for all the children.

“That would be great,” Miranda said. “I'll stop in to check on her.” She attempted to hand the baby over, but Celeste buried her face in Miranda's neck when Jordan reached for her.

“Maybe I'd better go with you,” Miranda said when
Celeste lifted her face and turned, coyly, toward Jordan again. This time, she let herself be picked up and taken away. As Miranda stood watching them go, a waiter stepped up carrying a tray of glasses filled with white wine. “May I offer you a drink?” he asked.

“You certainly may.” Miranda took it and began to circulate. There was Lauren and her husband, Dave, and there was Bea, with her restaurant manager beau; she looked like a sprite, all her crazy hair barely tamed for the event. Miranda's own long hair had been done up in a loose topknot, and she wore pearl-drop earrings that had belonged to her mother, along with her grandmother's triple-strand pearl choker.

“Isn't it beautiful?” Bea raised her glass and gestured around the space; small lights twinkled above the guests, and the setting sun was turning the panes a brilliant orange.

“Courtney's finally come to appreciate this much-maligned borough,” said Miranda. She raised her glass in a toast. “Here's to Brooklyn weddings!” They all drank to that. More waiters had begun to circulate—with wine, with appetizers—and there were various tables of food toward which people had started to gravitate. Miranda decided to head for the crudités first. On her way, she was offered baby lamb chops, crab cakes, and toasted coconut shrimp. She accepted only a single shrimp; there would be so much more to eat later on, and she didn't want to fill up now.

The shrimp was succulent; maybe she would have just
one
more; she downed the last delicious bit and was looking for the waiter who had produced them when she ran right into the last person she had expected to see tonight. Evan! She was still holding the shrimp tail and wished desperately to get rid of it.

“Nice to see you, Miranda.” Evan, who did not look at all surprised, had the advantage.

“Who invited you?” Her cheeks were starting to flush. Surreptitiously, she dropped her hand to her side and let the shrimp tail—along with the greasy, balled-up napkin that held it—fall to the floor.

“You did.” He seemed to be enjoying her discomfort.

“
I
did? Are you crazy?”

“Your invitation said plus guest, didn't it? Well, I'm your guest.”

“This is the first I'm hearing about it.”

“I could use a drink,” Evan said, and from his lofty height, he was able to signal to a waiter, who quickly materialized with a tray. “How about you?”

“Definitely,” Miranda said and reached for the proffered glass. She'd already had one, but if there was ever a moment when she needed a second drink, this was it. “So how are you?”

“I'm fine.” He seemed to consider the contents of his drink as integral to his reply. “Listen, I heard about your father and I'm sorry. He was a sweet man.”

“Thank you.” She sipped again; the drink was nearly gone. “Who told you that anyway?”

But Evan didn't answer; he swiveled around, surveying the room, before turning back to her. “I heard about Celeste too. That's wonderful. Really wonderful. You must be so happy.”

She drained her glass. “I brought her with me. She's here tonight.”

“Can I see her?”

Miranda nodded. “Later. After the ceremony.” Who had the advantage now? She didn't know for certain who had been
feeding Evan his information, but she could guess. And clearly he was as interested in keeping tabs on her as she had been in keeping tabs on him. Then, across the room, she spotted Courtney's mother, whom she hadn't seen in more than a decade. “Will you excuse me?” She handed her empty glass to a passing waiter. “There's someone I want to say hello to.”

“Sure.” He remained unflappable. “Catch you later.”

Walking quickly away, Miranda was aware of his eyes following her. God, but she was grateful to have made her escape. Courtney must have found him somehow; found him, invited him, and never breathed a word to Miranda. What if she had known? Would it have changed anything? How strange: she'd been tracking Evan for weeks, carefully following his every electronically documented move, but now that he was actually here, she'd wanted only to get away from him.

She chatted with Courtney's mother, younger brother, and some assorted cousins she'd never met but had heard plenty about. She managed to avoid Evan for the rest of the cocktail hour—after Courtney's family, she moved on to other mutual college friends and one of Courtney's colleagues who actually had worked at
Domestic Goddess
. But she was aware of him the entire time. If he'd come to see her, why wasn't he making more of an effort? Apart from that initial greeting, he had not approached her again. Disconcerting. And just the slightest bit hurtful.

Soon it was time to file into the even larger, central room—also glass paned—for the wedding ceremony. Miranda sat with the wedding party in a designated area off to the side. She would be walking down the aisle with Peter, one of the groom's attendants. They'd met for the first time last night. Evan had found a seat near the back. In case he wanted to bolt? But didn't he want to see Celeste?

The musicians had moved into this room and the strains of Pachelbel's Canon began to fill the space. Miranda and Peter stood, and he nodded. It was time. They began their decorous walk down the aisle toward the altar, decorated with a crimson cloth and strands of bittersweet, tiger lilies, goldenrod, and tiny, jewel-like rosebuds. Even though Courtney had shared the details of the decor with her, Miranda was not prepared for the actual sight of the thing and moved toward it as if toward some glowing oasis. Would she ever walk down an aisle where the man she loved waited? It did not seem likely. But that was okay.
She
was okay.

Down the aisle came Lauren and Bea with their escorts. Courtney's mother followed, accompanied by her brother. Sophie performed her task with great enthusiasm; some of the red rose petals ended up in her hair and one landed right on her nose. The little ring bearer accompanied her solemnly, the bands of gold balanced on a red velvet pillow. Next was Harris with his parents and, finally, Courtney, on the arm of her favorite uncle. She really did make a striking bride, and the assembled guests murmured appreciatively as she slowly walked toward her groom. But Courtney seemed unaware of them; she was utterly focused on Harris. During the ceremony, she kept looking at him, and when it was time for the kiss, she had to duck a bit because even in flats she was taller than he was. Something about this—the awkwardness in this picture-perfect moment—struck Miranda as the best, most authentic moment of the entire ceremony; her eyes welled.

On the receiving line, Courtney was alternately beaming and hugging. When Miranda reached her, she whispered, “Love you,” in her friend's ear. And then, “What's with Evan?”

“Love you too,” Courtney said before the next well-wisher moved in. She ignored Miranda's question.

Miranda made her way to the dinner tables, which had been decorated in a similar fashion to the altar; the tablecloths and napkins were red, and the centerpieces were clusters of tiger lilies, red rosebuds, and goldenrod, into which acorns and pinecones had been woven. As she sat down, she saw the place card right next to hers read Evan Zuckerbrot. Courtney had struck again.

Evan sat down just as the salads were being served. But because they each had table mates on either side, it was impossible to exchange more than small talk. There was a break before dessert, and as Miranda got up to check on Celeste, he followed her.

They went down a flight of steps into the room where Jordan and another girl were attending to the kids. Max had dozed off on an armchair while Sophie and a few others were coloring with crayons. Plates of partially eaten food were scattered around, along with glasses of juice, one of them spilled. She spied Celeste in a playpen that had been set up in one corner. As soon as she saw her, Celeste called out, “Mama” with evident joy. Miranda lifted her up so Evan could see her.

“Look at you!” He turned to Miranda. “She's grown so much. And she's talking now.”

“
Mama
was her first word. It's pretty much her only word. But still.”

“And the matching dresses—love it.” He took the ever-present camera from his shoulder and held it up. “Do you mind?”

“No. Knock yourself out.” Miranda stood patiently while he snapped several photographs but could not understand the point of all this. Why had he come? He was in no hurry to tell her. Evan was different, she realized. There was something more self-contained about him. More remote and less open.
The slight reserve made him seem more appealing somehow. Sexier. It was an unsettling thought.

“I'm going back upstairs.” She kissed Celeste on the forehead and handed her to Jordan. “They'll be cutting the cake soon.” Evan didn't say anything, but he followed her to the room where an elaborate, three-tiered cake had been set up on a crimson-covered table. Courtney stood next to Harris, a knife in her hand. Miranda watched while she made the first cut, extracted a slice, and fed it to him. There was a cheer and a server deftly took over. Waiters began circulating with trays of champagne, and guests were drifting back to their tables, where platters of truffles and cookies had been set out.

“No cake?” Evan took a bite of the piece on his plate.

“Not now.” Miranda scanned the room. A band had replaced the quartet and was tuning up; soon the music—and dancing—would begin. “Let's get out of here.” She took Evan by the hand and led him away.

“Where are we going?” He was still eating the cake.

“We can take a walk,” she said. “In the garden.”

For a moment she thought he would say no. But he set down his plate. “All right.” They retrieved their coats and stepped out into the night. The sky was filled with puffed, charcoal-dark clouds through which the moon—not quite full—peeked. She turned to Evan. “Why are you here?”