Bombshell (17 page)

“Yeah, I do, too. I was thinking of adding them to my portfolio,” she said, gazing fondly on them.

“Portfolio?”

She looked up at me, her smile frozen on her face momentarily, before she finally relaxed. And confessed. “The truth is, I've always dreamed of being a photographer.”

This was news to me. Probably because the only ambition Lori had revealed to me when I interviewed her almost two years ago was that she wanted to work in marketing in the fashion industry. But I suppose she had been in need of a job.

“Well, you are clearly talented,” I said, looking her in the eye.

Perhaps it was my encouragement that made her come completely clean. “Thanks. Apparently the admissions committee at the School of Visual Arts agrees.” She smiled shyly. “I've been accepted there for the fall….”

Now I understood the true source of her angst over Dennis's leaving. She had been deciding between Dennis and her dreams.

Clearly she was still angsting over it. “I did look at schools while I was in London, too. I mean, it can't hurt to apply other places,” she added, her eyes a bit uncertain. “The London School of Photography has an excellent program, though it's very small. Which has its advantages…”

“Better than the School of Visual Arts?” I asked.

“Well, they are comparable,” she said with a frown. Then, looking up at me, she continued, “But the London School is a short tube ride away from Dennis's campus. I mean we could get a flat together, somewhere in between….” Her voice trailed off and her eyes held a mixture of hopefulness and…sadness. I wondered at that.

“Of course, then I'd have to leave my job,” she said, dropping her eyes as if this admission were a bit too premature to be making to her employer. “And my family…”

I smiled, realizing the true source of her sadness. Like your prototypical Long Islander, Lori was just as devoted to her family as I had always been. Because despite the rebellions of my youth, I had chosen a school a mere train ride away
from my mother and father, as if the idea of being farther from them was somehow unthinkable. Of course, now that my own parents were off living their dream life in New Mexico, I knew that despite the lonely holiday I had suffered, no matter how far away your family was, they were still your family. This reminder comforted me. Buoyed me even. So much so, that I found myself taking Lori's hand in mine and giving it a quick squeeze.

“It's so difficult isn't it? When life is full of possibility?” I said.

She bit her lip, then sighed as she began gathering the photos up. “I guess I better put these away before that slag gets in….”

My eyes widened, and this time it wasn't at her Briticism. It seemed her trip to London had toughened Lori up a bit, at least where Claudia was concerned.

“That
slag,
” I said, mimicking her accent, “is in Milan. With none other than Irina and Phillip.”

Now it was her turn to gawk. “Really?”

“Uh-huh. Until Wednesday at least. Apparently Phillip is going to take her portrait while he's there. For
W.
”

Her eyes widened even farther and I filled her in on Claudia's coup d'etat, at least from a publicity point of view.

“Wow,” she said, suddenly losing her British accent. Then she shrugged. “Well, Phillip Landau is a genius with a camera,” she continued. “I'm sure he could make even Claudia look human.” Then, as she remembered that Claudia likely wasn't human enough to understand her future change in career plans, she added, “You won't tell her, will you? About my going to school? I haven't decided if it will be in London or New York. I mean, I have the whole winter really to make up my mind.”

Hell, she had her whole life ahead of her.

Then, for the first time in a long time, I realized that I did, too.

 

It seemed Lori wasn't the only one with news.

“Okay, Grace, you ready for this?” Angie said sitting across from me on one of three couches that littered the apartment she shared with Justin. Justin sat beside her gazing dreamily at the soft red fabric that covered the couch they lovingly called “Sofa #3.” I had given Angie little argument when she'd summoned me here after work, as I had missed her over the weekend. Besides, she mentioned she and Justin wanted to trim their Christmas tree, and I thought maybe a little holiday cheer after my less than cheerful holiday would be good for the soul.

Angie grabbed Justin's hand and he smiled at her, then she turned to face me once more.

“We're married,” she said, her eyes barely containing the happiness those two words had brought to her.

“What?”
I said, shell-shocked. “What happened to the…the swanky affair in Brooklyn? The disco ball and crystal chandeliers? Hell, the swan of ice?”

She laughed, as if the thought of doing the chicken dance with all her Brooklyn relatives no longer frightened her. “Oh, I'm sure we're not going to escape that circus in the making,” she said, snuggling closer to Justin, who wrapped his arms around her as she spoke.

She turned to look at the man she had just tied her life to. “Justin and I decided we didn't want to wait. So we took a side trip to Vegas from L.A. And voilà!” She kissed Justin's cheek tenderly before turning back to me. “You should have seen it, Grace. We got married in a pink chapel. I think the
altar was made of polyurethane! All we needed was an Elvis impersonator to complete the deal—but we settled for a pastor in a white Armani suit.” She giggled. “Thinking about it now, it was probably gaudier than anything even my mother could dream up. But it was all ours. Every crazy, beautiful minute of it.”

For a moment I got caught up in it—that look that passed between them, that silent communication that said what they shared was theirs alone and could not be spoiled by the madness of a DiFranco wedding.

But the thought of that family snapped me right out of it. “What did your mother say?” I said, imagining her disappointment—and downright outrage. Angie was her only daughter and her last unmarried child. I was certain Mrs. DiFranco saw planning Angie's wedding as her inalienable right.

“Umm, we didn't exactly tell her…” Angie said, biting her bottom lip.

“And the best part is,” Justin said, standing up, “we don't even have to.”

I looked at Angie the moment Justin disappeared into the bedroom. “You're not going to tell your mother you got married?”

She sighed happily, staring at the door Justin had just walked through, then popped up to join me on my sofa, sitting cross-legged in front of me. “I know it sounds crazy, but I feel calmer inside since we did the deed. It's the best of both worlds really. Now my mother can have her wedding, and I can have my peace of mind—”

“Wait a second, back up, I'm not getting this.”

“Okay, let me start at the beginning. We're in L.A. We just had a meeting with some investors, and though every
one seemed interested, no one had jumped on board. But since we had gotten the business part of the trip out of the way, we spent the rest of the time puttering around, enjoying the city. We had just hit the beach to relax when my mother calls to tell me that the catering hall she wanted to book doesn't serve the Italian sausage she wanted for the cocktail hour—something about the place being kosher and the sausage non-kosher. I mean, she's hysterical over it, too! Yelling stuff like—”

“Whoever heard of a catering hall that won't serve Italian sausage!” Justin mimicked in his best Brooklyn accent, returning from the bedroom with a box labeled Ornaments.

Angie nodded frantically, glancing over at Justin as he laid the box on the floor and returned to the bedroom. “Then she's going on and on about how we needed to pick a date immediately because there was only one other hall she liked that wasn't kosher and that could hold the whole family. By the time I managed to calm her down and get off the phone, I was a mess. Suddenly I'm worrying—and not just about sausage. Like how Justin and I are going to manage together after the wedding. What's going to happen with the movie…with us. I mean, everything just felt so up in the air, and suddenly I was freaking out. So Justin and I got into a doozy of a fight, right there on the beach. Of course, we packed up our stuff and left—I think we were causing a scene. You know, Californians don't seem to get upset about
anything.
It's just not natural. I mean what kind of people are these?”

Justin popped into the room again with yet another box, this one bigger than the last. “There's nothing wrong with a little inner peace, Ange,” he said, plopping the box on the floor next to the other one.

“I know, I know,” she said, rolling her eyes at Justin's retreating back. “So anyway, we head back to the hotel, and there was tension between us—and not the good kind either. I never felt such a…a disconnect between Justin and me.” Her eyes started to well up at the very memory. “He was mad at me for letting my mother's craziness come between us, and he was right—why
was
I letting her make me insane?” She sighed. “When we went to bed that night, everything felt wrong. Mostly because Justin and I never went to bed so…irritated with each other. But when we woke up in the morning, Justin looked over at me with those beautiful eyes—” she smiled, her eyes filling with fresh tears “—and I realized he was the man I would always love, no matter what happened. And he must have been feeling the same way about me, because suddenly he pulls me close and tells me he wants to get married—immediately. At first I thought he'd gone mad, but then there I was, throwing everything into a suitcase and hopping a plane with him to Vegas.” She beamed, her gaze locking on mine. “As it turned out, he was right. I haven't had a care since we said ‘I do.' It was like something…settled inside me. I wasn't even upset by the string of answering machine messages from my mother—apparently the Italian wedding band my brother Sonny had used for his wedding had disbanded and my mother didn't know if she could find anyone better. And how could we have a wedding without some short, bald Italian guy singing ‘Amore'?”

Justin came back into the room again, this time with two boxes labeled Ornaments. Angie looked over at him and he smiled at her before returning to the bedroom, whistling “Amore” as he went.

When her gaze returned to mine, her face lit with a soft
smile, I saw, for the first time since I had known her, that the little hamster of anxiety that lurked behind her eyeballs was—miraculously—gone.

And I felt a certainty, too. That Angie had found with Justin a love that could weather whatever the future might bring.

A crash came from the bedroom.

Angie and I both looked at the door to see Justin, his face paralyzed with worry, as he lumbered in with a box big enough to hold a large screen TV. He put the box down quickly, opening a flap that was clearly labeled Ornaments. “God, I hope I didn't break any of these….”

“Justin!” Angie said, finally realizing that their living room now looked like Manhattan mini-storage, with all those boxes lying around. “What are you doing? We don't
need
this many ornaments—”

I glanced around, realizing that what they really needed, was a tree.

“Umm, where are you planning on hanging all these ornaments anyway?” I asked.

Justin looked up at me, a broad smile displacing the worry lines on his face. “On Bernadette, of course,” he said, gesturing at the large plant that sat on the windowsill.

Bernadette was the azalea bush that had, inadvertently, brought Angie and Justin together. As part of a plot to win her last boyfriend's affections, Angie had ordered a dozen long-stemmed roses in a vain attempt to make Kirk jealous—and had wound up with an azalea that Justin had not only repotted and nurtured from day one, but had named and written a few songs for. Songs, I sensed now, that were really intended for Angie.

“Justin, Bernadette has gotten big, but not that big,” Angie
said, clearly exasperated. “What are we going to do with all these ornaments?”

Justin looked down at the boxes at his feet, as if never occurred to him that one little azalea couldn't possibly contain all that holiday adornment. “I dunno…I figured we could go through, pick out the best ones….” Then, as if he had just spied one of his favorites, he reached down and pulled out what looked like a stuffed Santa on a set of skis, his long fluffy beard yellow with age and one of his ski poles long gone. “Hey, my aunt Eleanor gave me this one when I was like,
five!
” he said joyfully, picking his way through the crowded room toward Bernadette and hanging the sadly worn Santa on a branch, front and center.

Angie looked at me then, and I knew from her expression that she was swallowing down the fact that her Christmas tree might not be the best one she'd ever had.

But her smile as she turned to her husband said that it just might be her best Christmas yet.

A
ngie, of course, made a similar prediction for me, when I filled her in on my coup d'Jonathan, probably because I had embellished the tale of our would-be romance by beginning at our first chance meeting in front of the Chevalier painting my parents had met in front of forty years earlier. Which was probably a mistake, because Angie took it as an out-and-out sign of romantic happiness for me.

I got so caught up in that warm and fuzzy vision of the future Angie saw for me that I found myself taking measures to insure
something
happened between us, choosing a black wrap dress and a pair of knee-high stiletto boots for my date
with Jonathan that evening. It was tasteful, but with just enough sex appeal to be…deadly.

Though the concert was somewhere up near Columbia—he hadn't said where exactly—he picked me up at my door, since he had no classes that day and he lived, I remembered with delightful anticipation, right in the neighborhood.

When he showed up, wearing dark trousers, a wool overcoat and a somewhat befuddled expression on his face, I knew I had hit my mark.

“Grace, you—that is, you look wonderful. Beautiful,” he finished, though that last word sounded a bit…resigned. I didn't question it though, because his eyes told me everything else I needed to know.

He had it bad.

I smiled with pure female satisfaction. Even better, when we were seated in the back of the cab, the slit in front of my dress fell away to reveal a healthy length of leg. His eyes widened and I thought he might choke on his tongue as he sputtered, “112th and Amsterdam, please,” to the driver.

When we pulled up in front of a church a short while later, I almost choked myself. “Oh, is this it?” I asked, realizing we were in front of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine.

Okay, so I was dressed a bit vampy for a church. But, at least, as far as churches went, St. John's was pretty sexy, with its Gothic spires and dimly lit, beautiful interior.

In fact, I had never felt so sexy in a church in all my life. We sat up in the balcony, and as the strains of Mozart's
Esultate Jubilate
wafted up to us from the orchestra and soloist at the front, I found myself overcome by a longing to press myself more firmly against the solid shape of Jonathan, who sat beside me looking handsome and subdued, except for the
rapturous expression that came over his face as the music swelled.

Which only made me wonder what he would look like when he…

Uh-huh. I was going to hell.

And looking a little too forward to the burn.

“Are you enjoying the music?” Jonathan said during the brief break between pieces. I nodded, a bit too fervently. And whether because he shared my fervor, or was feeling some fervor of his own, he grabbed my hand and held it. And just in time.

For the music had begun again, and it was a piece I immediately recognized, having heard it enough times in my childhood during concerts my mother often took part in, when the demands of being a wife and mother didn't interfere. I remembered the first time I had gone to see her play, at a church that was not as grand as this one, though just as packed. I had been five at the time and sat in one of the front rows with my father, listening to the rise and fall of the melody and watching the dreamy expression come over my mother's face as she leaned into the cello to play.

I remembered thinking how different she looked. As if she were a stranger to me. And when the music reached a crescendo, as it did now, I remembered how my mother seemed to vibrate with it, her eyes closing, as if she were being transported to a place far, far away from where I sat beside my father in the crowd.

I had burst into tears at the time, bawling so loudly my father had to whisk me outside.

Of course, I could be forgiven. I was only a child at the time.

Whereas now…

“You okay?” Jonathan whispered close to my ear.

I wondered at his question, until I realized tears—tears!—were rolling down my face. Clearly, I had gone insane. Not five minutes ago I had been aching with desire. And now…

Now, I was just…aching.

What the hell was wrong with me?

Since I didn't know—and probably wouldn't have shared it if I did—I nodded briskly, accepting the fresh Kleenex Jonathan procured from his coat pocket—so sweet!—and wiped from my cheeks the remaining evidence of the emotion that swirled through me.

And when the piece came to an end I cleared away any misconceptions Jonathan might have harbored about my response to the music, assuring him that it was simply nostalgia, even though in my heart I sensed it was something more. “My mother used to play that Elgar concerto when I was a child.”

“It is a beautiful piece,” he said, his eyes searching mine.

For what? I wondered, staring into those soft hazel-brown depths. What did he want to know? Suddenly I was filled with the feeling that I would tell him anything tonight. If he asked.

But he didn't. Which was okay, too. Instead, once the concert was over, we left the church and walked in companionable silence for a few blocks, as if savoring the evening.

At least
I
was savoring it. For the second Jonathan stopped, I turned to him, hoping, perhaps, he might share my romantic feelings as we stood in front of a tree that twinkled with white Christmas lights, beneath a sky that glowed with the promise of snow.

But he only stepped to the curb and raised a hand to hail a cab.

I shivered, feeling a bit bereft.

“You cold, Grace?” he asked.

I wasn't. Not exactly. Still, for a moment I considered par
laying his question into an opportunity to step beneath that black overcoat and gain a little body heat. But as luck would have it, a cab pulled up just then, and I yielded to Jonathan's gentlemanly attempt to usher me inside.

When the cab pulled up in front of my building, he gave me an all-too-brotherly hug. To hide the disappointment that washed through me, I ducked quickly out of the cab with a mumbled good-night.

 

“A hug is good! It's progress!” Angie said when I had lowered myself to that female vice of analyzing the male. In fact, I had called her bright and early the next morning to discuss this latest development. Or nondevelopment. I couldn't help myself. Because Dr. Jonathan Somerfield had me utterly perplexed.

“He probably thinks I'm a…a basketcase.” Then I explained—worrying over the explanation as I did—the emotion that had come over me.

Angie was silent for a few moments, which scared me further. “Have you spoken to your parents lately?”

Now she was sounding like Shelley. “Not recently.” I would have called, only the last time we spoke they had seemed so busy packing and making plans, I didn't want to destroy their merriment with my recent malaise. And now…now, I just wanted to protect whatever little happiness I had found by not placing too much on it. Because one mention of my recent outings with my father's former protégé, and I was certain my dreamy-eyed mother would turn it into the romance it was clearly not.

“I think I'm just…premenstrual,” I said finally, rationalizing that perhaps it was the cyclical rhythms of my body that were making me feel so vulnerable.

Not that the feeling went away. It only seemed to multiply over the course of the day, so that as I sat listening patiently while Lori excitedly explained how she was readying her portfolio to send to the London School of Photography, all I could think about was whether Jonathan would be calling for another date.

I was positively wound up by the time I got to Shelley's that night.

Her attitude didn't help matters.

“I want to talk about last week,” she began.

“Last week?” I said, blinking at her. It seemed like a million years ago. So much had happened. And not happened. “We didn't meet last week.”

“That's right. That's what I want to talk about. Your reasons for canceling the session.”

“It was a holiday—you know, Thanksgiving?” I said, latching on to the first excuse I could find for why I had blithely called her voice mail to cancel.

“Oh,” she replied, studying me. “Did you go out of town? To see your parents?”

“No, no. It was too much of a bother, with them leaving for Paris so soon after. Besides, New Mexico isn't exactly a hop, skip and a jump. Do you know there's no direct flight from New York? It's a full day of travel, and it seemed like a bit much for just a long weekend….”

“So you stayed home then?”

“Yes, if you must know,” I continued, frustrated with this line of questioning. “Had a little turkey.” I didn't mention that the garbage disposal had had more. “Some wine. Got caught up on some work. You know, I think I may have figured out the key to the downturn in sales for Youth Elixir—the campaign I'm working on?” Then, eager to get on to the sub
ject—i.e., the man—that was foremost on my mind, I continued, “Anyway, I was glad I did stay home. Because on Friday I—”

“So you could have come on Wednesday evening but decided…not to?” she asked, hanging on like a dog with a bone.

I blew out a breath. Clearly, this therapy business was for the birds. Wasn't I coming here so I could find a little peace of mind? And something about my last date with Jonathan had unsettled me. I felt a need to talk about it. And if I was paying for this session, I should at least have the benefit of angsting over a man when I chose to. “Look if it's the money you're worried about, I'll
pay
you for the missed session,” I said finally.

“Is that what you think? That I'm upset about the money?”

“Well, you're acting pretty pissy about something. Look, I could pay you the fucking money—” I paused, and in a somewhat calmer tone, added, “I mean, if that's what you want.”

“I want to understand why you're so angry.”

“I'm not angry!”
I yelled, then felt like a fool when she just stared at me. “Look, I'm sorry if you schlepped all the way out here from Brooklyn. You can charge me for car fare, too—”

“Brooklyn? Grace, I don't live in Brooklyn. I just told you a session or so ago that I live downtown.”

“Brooklyn, downtown. What's the difference—”

“Well, there's a very big difference between Brooklyn and downtown Manhattan.”

Didn't I know it. “Sorry if I…insulted you,” I said sarcastically. “From a real estate point of view.”

She stared at me.

“Not that there's anything wrong with Brooklyn,” I babbled. “I mean, I lived there for a little while. Apparently, I was born there, too.”

She raised her eyebrows. “So why do you think you said Brooklyn when you know I live in the Village?”

I had no idea where the hell she was going with this, but it was clear she saw some warped psychological motive here. So I stared back, trying to see into her head, to give her whatever stupidity she was looking for so we could just move on. I landed on it almost immediately.

“Oh, I get it. Kristina Morova.” It always came back to her, didn't it? “So you think that Brooklyn slip was some kind of reference to her.”

“I don't think anything. I'm asking you.”

“Look, if it makes you feel better, I didn't go to Brooklyn either. I mean, Katerina called, but I told her I had plans.” I blew out a breath. “I just didn't feel like seeing anyone last week, okay? And I didn't want to talk about it. Isn't that okay sometimes? If I don't come? Isn't this about making
me
happy, not you?”

“Were you trying to make me unhappy?”

“This is crazy. Okay, yes. I was trying to piss you off. Out of some warped need for revenge against Kristina. Okay? Can we move on now?”

“Interesting.”

Interesting? Not very. “Look, can we change the subject?”

“I want to ask you something first.”

I braced myself.

“If I
were
Kristina Morova, what would you want to say to me?”

I bit back the retort that had stood ready on the tip of my tongue, and suddenly found myself speechless. Because the truth was, I had no words for her, this woman who had given me life. She was just a shadow, a stranger….

“Look,” I began, an ache rising up in my throat. “All I
wanted to tell you tonight was that I…that I met someone. Someone I really like…” I felt strangled suddenly and then very, very hot. Maybe I
was
premenstrual.

Then a sob shook through me, so uncontrollable I was powerless to stop it. And mortified. Even more mortified than I'd been last night, weeping over a goddamned piece of music.

The moment the tears broke free, I buried my face in my hands, as if I could hide my sudden weepfest from Shelley. But there was no hiding anything anymore. I was on a crying jag. And afraid. But of what?

Of wanting things, I realized. Things that seemed so impossible to have.

That thought sent another shudder of tears through me, and I let it flow. What else could I do? It was a fucking downpour.

And once it passed—because it did,
finally,
pass, I felt incredibly silly, crying like this in front of this woman, this stranger….

So I got a hold of myself, but then I saw a look of compassion on Shelley's face that made me want to cry even more.

As if she sensed it, she grabbed the box of tissues on her desk and held it out to me.

The gesture alone was enough to stop the tide, so ridiculously grateful was I for her acknowledgment that I was hurting. I just hoped I wasn't going to be asked to explain it, because I couldn't. Just as I couldn't have explained it to Jonathan last night.

“So tell me about this man you met,” Shelley said.

Which surprised me even further. Finally we got to talk about something
I
wanted to talk about. So I told her about how we'd met, our day at the museum, the concert last night.