“Yeah, and there aren’t many of us, so we have to stick up for each other.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You do know that this conversation never happened.”
“Even though I’m very glad it did.”
“Hope I see you soon, Molly.”
“Me, too.”
I hung up and grinned at the phone. A promotion and an indication that Kyle would be open to getting back together. It was turning out to be a pretty darn spectacular day. But as I started to dial Kyle’s number, my excitement did a nice little tuck and roll and transformed into anxiety. What was I going to say? How was I going to start? Was it going to look like I was calling today because of the new job? How many wrong ways could he take that? Confronting those questions made my stomach flip again, so I dialed Cassady instead.
“It’s about damn time,” was her response to my news. Cassady’s a lawyer and I always appreciate her incisive take on things.
“The job or the call from Ben?”
“Both. Your stars are aligning, sweetheart, and you better take advantage.”
“I know, but I can’t exactly call Kyle and say, ‘Just wanted to let you know I got the job you were dreading when we were together. Wanna come back?’”
“Then don’t say that.”
“Thank you, counselor.”
“What’s wrong with calling him to let him know you’ve been thinking of him, then just allowing the job news to work its way into conversation in due course? Besides, this is a murderless story. Doesn’t that solve a lot of problems right there?”
“I hope so.”
“Call him.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Of course it is.”
“How many times have you called an ex just to say you were thinking of them?”
“I never think of my exes.”
“Comforting.”
“Yes, but I come from the scorched-earth school of dating,
while you are one of those irritating girls who can be taken home to Mother when things are going well and remembered fondly after they tank.”
“Do I apologize at this point?”
“Not to me. But you could always run a mea culpa past Detective Edwards.”
“Wait. It’s not all my fault.”
“No, but there’s this fascinating concept we call ‘contributory negligence’ which might apply.”
I had no worthy response. It was easy to say that my relationship with Kyle winding up on the rocks wasn’t all my fault, but it was impossible to say I wasn’t partly to blame.
“I’ll take your silence as an admission that you’re at least going to think about it. Nothing wrong with a little show of vulnerability, Molly. I happen to think Kyle struggles with your lack of it, so he might respond to a quick flash here.”
“Maybe.” I did need to think it through, though, rehearse it in my head a bit. This conversation was too important to improvise.
“Don’t start thinking,” Cassady said presciently. “You’ll talk yourself out of it and that would be a huge mistake.”
“Did Ben call you?”
“No, but he should have. Great minds and all that.”
“Could we move on for the moment? Will you join Tricia and me for a little celebration this evening?”
“Only if you’ve called Kyle by the time I see you.”
I hesitated, trying to manufacture a plausible excuse, but Cassady cleared her throat impatiently. “I promise.”
“That wasn’t so hard.”
“That wasn’t calling him.”
“That won’t be hard either.”
“Says the woman who’s never done it.”
“Show me the way. The Bubble Lounge at six.”
“Bring Aaron, too,” I added. Aaron was a droll physicist who was demonstrating impressive longevity in the role of Cassady’s boyfriend. It can be difficult to integrate new men into our circle, but Aaron had slid into the dynamics with ease and bemusement.
“I believe he has a seminar, but I’ll ask, just to show you care. Will you be bringing Kyle?”
“Pace yourself. And me,” I requested before exchanging good-byes and hanging up.
I left my hand on the phone, as though breaking the connection would let what resolve I’d summoned while talking to Cassady drain away. Was I making this all too hard? Was it really as simple as calling Kyle and saying, “I miss you and I’d like to see you”? But that wasn’t simple at all—if, in fact, that was even the question to ask. Had years of writing an advice column in a woman’s magazine taught me nothing?
Dear Molly,
Why are the most important questions in life the hardest ones to ask? Like, “Am I happy?” and “Is this really what I want out of life?” and “Do you still love me?” If I hesitate to ask these questions, is it because I’m afraid of the answer or because I already know the answer? Is it better to have called and asked than never to have called at all? Signed, Reach Out and Touch No One
Framing my problem as someone else’s letter always gave me clarity and perspective and this time was no different. I wasn’t being proud, I was being a coward. If I was really that afraid of Kyle rejecting me, then it was better to get it out in the open and get it over with. Yank the Band-aid off instead of peeling it back, bit by painful bit. I took a deep breath, lifted the receiver, and began to dial his number.
“Sorry, am I interrupting?”
My finger hovered over the last digit and I plunked the receiver back down, embarrassed by the accompanying sense of relief. I smiled at Dorrie Pendleton, the editorial assistant who fidgeted before me, frowning nervously. Dorrie did everything nervously, but she also did it dependably and well. She even dressed dependably and well, just this side of tweeds and sensible shoes, which made her stand out in our pool of burgeoning fashionistas, but she seemed oblivious to the contrast. “What can I do for you, Dorrie?”
“Is it true that staffers are going to be given an opportunity
to submit work for consideration for replacing you on ‘You Can Tell Me’? Not that anyone would really replace you, but—”
Impressed by how efficiently the rumor mill was operating, I held up my hand. “I appreciate that, but I’m sure one of you will prove quite capable of filling my Kate Spades. Eileen’s going to circulate a memo about the process.”
Dorrie perched in the chair beside me, leaning forward to create the illusion of intimacy. She had to be just as aware as I was of the number of our colleagues who were suddenly easing back in their chairs to catch a snippet of our conversation. “Your column sets this magazine apart. It’s crucial to maintain its integrity and insight.”
“Thank you.” I smiled, bracing myself for the pitch for herself as leading candidate that had to be coming.
“And I’m so relieved that the rumors about Eileen forcing you out turned out to be wrong.”
My smile locked into something that felt more like a grimace. “Yeah, me, too,” I managed out of one side of my mouth. Hearing my private paranoia voiced as office gossip was unsettling, even in light of this afternoon’s events. Had talk about my leaving the column because of my new position been misunderstood or had Eileen really been trying to get rid of me? Either way, why was I the last to know?
“You’re an inspiration,” Dorrie continued, but her adulation was making me uncomfortable now and I started edging out of my seat.
“Thanks again and good luck in the competition,” I said as I stood up, even though I wasn’t sure I knew where I was headed.
“No. Thank you,” Dorrie said and she quickly slipped back to her desk, leaving me to stand awkwardly beside mine and realize that at least four people had dropped the subterfuge of working while eavesdropping and were staring directly at me. I considered blowing them a big kiss, but discretion being something I’m not known for, I gave it a try; I grabbed my cell phone and headed for the elevator.
There’s nothing like not wanting to confront one problem
in your life to make you willing to confront another. I’d barely stepped out into the constant rumble of Lexington Avenue before I’d flipped open my phone and speed-dialed Kyle. I had no idea what I was going to say, but I was determined to say it.
He answered on the second ring, before I had a chance to change my mind. “Hey,” he said and my knees wobbled and my eyes dampened with the sudden sharpness of missing him.
“Hey,” I replied with all the eloquence I could muster. “Am I interrupting?”
“No. How are you?”
“Miserable,” I said without thinking.
“Good.”
“What?”
“’Cause I am, too.”
“Sounds like something we should talk about,” I said, resisting the impulse to shout over the blood rushing in my ears.
“Good idea. What are you doing tonight?”
Anything you suggest
, I thought, but I swallowed hard and said, “I’m meeting Tricia and Cassady for drinks at six. Care to join us?”
“No. No offense to them, but I just want to see you.” I was about to break a cardinal rule and offer to cancel on them, but he continued, “Where are you meeting them? I can meet you somewhere near there afterwards.”
“The Bubble Lounge.”
“Champagne before dinner? Why? What happened?”
The downside of being involved with a detective, but hesitating now would only make it worse. “I got promoted. They’re making me a feature writer. My first article is about this woman, Olivia Elliott, who’s trying to protect her late father’s legacy. It’s not about his death, he just happened to die and now she’s trying to make sure he gets remembered properly,” I over-explained, wanting it perfectly clear that this was a homicide-free assignment and nothing to worry about.
There was enough of a pause for sweat to bead along my spine before he said, “Russell Elliott, the music guy?”
“Yes.”
“I loved Subject to Change Without Notice.”
“Yeah, me too.”
“That’s great.”
“Our similar taste in music?”
“Your new job.”
“Is it?”
“Isn’t it?”
“I hope so.”
“Then it will be.”
“Thank you.”
“Okay, count me in for the champagne. But I’d like dinner to be just the two of us.”
“Absolutely,” I said, wondering if my hands would have stopped trembling by then.
“See you there.”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad you called.”
“Me too.”
I stood there on the sidewalk, catching my breath and blessing Ben Lipscomb at the same time. The tiny helium balloons returned and I felt like I could float all the way to Central Park with one decent gust of wind. I had to do something with all the adrenaline that was coursing through me or I was apt to start grabbing strangers as they walked by and hugging them, inviting them to dance, and otherwise making a fool of myself. Determined to channel my energy a bit more productively, I fished Olivia Elliott’s business card out of my pocket. I considered calling her office number, but decided it would be simpler to leave a message on her cell phone than to explain myself to a receptionist.
“Olivia Elliott.”
Her voice had the dusky richness of a jazz DJ and caught me by surprise. I hadn’t expected her to answer, so it took me a moment to frame my response. “Ms. Elliott, my name
is Molly Forrester and I’m a writer for
Zeitgeist
magazine. Henry Kwon talked to you—”
“Yes, yes, and Henry spoke highly of you. I’m so pleased you’ll be doing the article about my dad.”
“Thank you. I was—am—a fan of his, especially his work with Subject to Change.”
“Very kind. Though I need you to understand from the outset that I’m not interested in participating in an article that will be yet another rehash of Dad’s so-called glory days.”
By the end of the sentence, all silkiness was gone from her voice, replaced by a sharp, bitter edge. I waited a respectful moment before replying. “Henry and I discussed your concern that his contributions to contemporary music are being overlooked, so I thought we could focus on your role in assuring your father is remembered properly.”
“And I can’t really do that until he’s buried properly, can I?”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“Ms. Forrester, I assumed Henry had chosen you for this article because of your body of work. I thought you’d be more attuned to the central issue here.”
“And that issue is?”
“No one seems to care that my dad was murdered.”