Life After Yes (8 page)

The Tower stood tall and quiet, a lone soldier, only yards from me. Even in the early morning, guards swarmed like ants around its base, protecting it from evil. I'd seen it before—while on vacation with my family, on my European tour with
the girls after high school graduation, but that morning it was different. It wasn't the cliché, the trite image stamped on one too many postcards displayed on twirling wire racks. No, unlike my disoriented and shivering self, it was full of power. It was a symbol—of human accomplishment, and of national pride. Its shape was simple and exquisite, phallic. It was at that moment—when I found myself comparing France's national treasure to the male anatomy—that I relived the night before.

Sage had proposed.

The stone on my finger caught the light of the rising sun. I remembered the words. I remembered how it all happened.

The balcony was an icebox in the air. Goosebumps spread over my skin. Wind blew my robe. But I couldn't stop staring at the stone; I was mesmerized. At twenty-seven, I was as captivated as I was at six when Mom and Dad caved and bought me the Easy-Bake Oven for Christmas. Maybe Mom, forever paranoid, was scared of exposing her little girl to fire. More likely even, the feminist in her did not want me to tread the domestic path at such an impressionable age. But I already had a little lawyer in me even if my powers of persuasion had only just begun to bloom. I begged my parents to the point of sheer annoyance and wrote a surprisingly articulate letter to Santa begging him too. My persistence paid off.

I went back inside. Shifting sheets marred the perfect silence. Sage curled up—a lovable lump under the pile of sheets—and shielded his eyes from the sun I had ushered in. In that moment, as he bridged the worlds of night and day, I loved him more than ever.

Sage was still sleeping. He was a gorgeous creature that morning, even more so than usual. He had picked me. Proposed to me.

He stirred, stretching in the canopy bed, limbs poking out from sheets. Through the thickening fog of my obnoxious hangover, I flashed back to the night before. He had looked into my eyes with a new brand of love.

Even forever had a beginning.

His touch had been softer and his lips, sweeter. His strokes were gentler, his grip on me protective.
This is it
, I'd thought as I felt his strong body move on top of me, two halves becoming whole. For the first time in too long, I felt safe.

The reality of it all was daunting and delicious. He'd take out our garbage. I'd wash his smelly gym socks. Well, maybe. He'd father my babies.

 

“You, my pretty pastry, can tell a story,” she says, handing me half of her black-and-white cookie.

“Well, there's a footnote to that story,” I say. “An important one.”

“Do tell.”

“I had a dream that night. After he proposed,” I said. I told her about the dream—the bizarre courtroom wedding, the lineup of grooms, that diminutive bailiff in black.

It was that dream that tugged at me, a detectable tarnish on the beautiful morning. Immediately, I chalked it up to my hangover. Even then, though, I knew in the back of my aching mind, my symptoms wouldn't vanish with Excedrin and carbohydrates.

I plunked down on the burgundy velvet chaise that ran the length of the window, pulling my knees tight to my chest. I stared out the window, this time past that Tower. I was worried. I'd always preached to Sage and my cynical friends about the importance of dreams, about how they reveal bits and pieces of the truth, shadows of feelings we all try to bury.

While Sage showered that morning, singing Johnny Cash's “Walk the Line,” tone deaf as ever, I found a stack of hotel stationery in the precious little antique desk and scribbled away. Every detail of the dream I could remember.

“Quinn, it was a goddamned dream. Relax,” Kayla says, and takes a sip of her coffee. “All of a sudden you're a believer? You think psychic powers are tingled during REM?”

I shrug.

“Look, I'm sure this is all very normal. I hear everyone freaks out when they are getting married. Hell, I would break out in permanent hives. It would be very sexy,” she says. “If your dream was prophetic, can I have one of the leftover grooms? Phelps, preferably?”

I laugh. “Sure, he's all yours.”

But something in me still thinks:
No, he's all mine.

“Good, I'm going to hold you to it,” she says. And then she's quiet for a moment and sadness creeps over her perfectly lined eyes. “I thought I was your other half.”

I smile.

Kayla looks at me now, searching my eyes. “What are you so scared of?”

And I hate her and love her for this question.

“Being trapped,” I say.
In a career? In an office building? In a marriage?

“Hence the sublimely symbolic handcuffs,” she says, nodding. “You know, Q, people spend their lives trying to find the right person to trap them, to stand still with.”

“You're right,” I say, nodding. Because maybe she's right. Maybe there's a fine line between feeling trapped and feeling safe.

“So, the sex is still good?” Kayla says, killing our silence.

It's snowing outside now. I think of that little groundhog
and how good he has it. If he sees his shadow, if he senses bleak and uncertain times, he can just crawl back in that hole and wait for brighter days.

“Yes,” I say, no doubt blushing. “Sex has never been an issue.”

“Can't build a good marriage on a foundation of bad sex,” Kayla says.

“Since you're the authority?”

She ignores this one. “Bet the sex in Paris was more unbelievable after he gave you that ring,” she says. She'd be right at home at my gym's locker room.

“Well, yes it was as a matter of fact.”

“Figures. Who knew? Diamonds and guilt bring out the little sex kitten in you,” she says.

“Guess so,” I say.

“So, what's the problem then?” Kayla asks, slurping the rest of her coffee. “Good sex, good ring. Good man who is pussy enough to quote Plato.”

“K!”

And suddenly the dire fog has lifted and I'm no longer fixated on the alarm bells of a bomb threat and an unwelcome reverie. For a brief and delicious moment, we eat bagels and cookies and giggle like girls.

Until now, I haven't noticed the man next to us. He stops fumbling with his crumbling croissant and stares at us now, seemingly shocked by the candid and colorful exchange between two preppy lawyers cloaked in basic black.

C
an't beat the white stuff,” Kayla says, sniffling.

A few months ago, this statement would've alarmed me. Kayla had a brief but intense fling with Cap'n C (her stealthy code name, not for Cap'n Crunch) when we started at the firm. Said it kept her going. I opted for coffee.

Tonight, it's snowing. Times Square, the rainbow mistress, is momentarily cloaked in innocent white. Kayla and I wind our way through clusters of tourists, dodging the usual rush hour behemoth. Normally at this hour, we're at our desks, hunkering down for a night of document review or due diligence, debating delivery options. But tonight, we're out early heading to our firm's Winter Party.

“Dad always said they ruined this place when they got rid of the strip clubs and Disney-ed it up,” I say.

“Who knew Daddy O'Malley was a fan of the vintage peep show?” Kayla says, and smiles.

For a brief moment, the streets are charming. Hardly Main Street, U.S.A., but still. I take a calculated risk and share my thought with Kayla. “Snow is magic,” I say.

She smiles. “Someone woke up on the right side of the bed this morning.”

“You have a choice,” I say, rubbing a few flakes between gloved fingers. “You can see this as a nuisance, curse the traffic, the soaked clothes, the ruined heels. Or you can see it as a reminder of nature amidst the man-made. Plus, everything looks good in white. Even this hell.” Days ago, I was cursing that little groundhog for the prediction that this stuff would fall. Now it's bringing out the poet in me.

Kayla looks at me like I'm a Martian. “And while we're at it, a sign that maybe global warming ain't that bad, huh?”

It all depends on how you look at things, really, and I've decided to experiment with something new and foreign, decidedly less dangerous and less sexy than Cap'n C: optimism. Sage's drug of choice.

Everything in moderation, right?

After all, my life is hardly a sob story. I'm healthy. I'm financially secure. I have a man willing to put up with me for a lifetime.

So, tonight, the seedy haven is hot-cocoa-and-marshmallow innocent. The swarms of wide-eyed tourists wielding guidebooks and camcorders and fanny packs are welcome guests. Their infestation is a good sign. Mere months after disaster, the city is back. A concoction to drink in. Not a poison to avoid.

Tonight the flashing fluorescents are beautiful and dramatic, beacons of light and hope, casting an effervescent glow on the mosaic of faces. Not a sign of commercialism-gone-mad, epilepsy-waiting-to-happen.

Tonight the gigantic stock ticker is a reminder that here we are in the financial capital of the world. Not evidence of our obsession with the bottom line, the dollar. Or yen. Or euro.

Tonight the streaming headlines are bold symbols of truth and information. (This is Times Square, after all. Named after the best paper in the world.) Not clues that the world as we know it is beginning to crumble.

Tonight the American flags—flashing and flying—are emblems of unity, of patriotism, of national pride. No, the ubiquitous stars and stripes aren't bizarre tokens of a premature and permanent Independence Day, a proclamation that we're the best; not a red-white-and-blue screw-you to the other nations out there.

“If you ask me, this place right here,” Kayla says, pointing around us, “
this
is why they hate us.”

I don't have to ask her who this “they” is. Most people wouldn't dare say something like this to someone whose father that nebulous “they” so recently killed. But Kayla isn't most people. And, even in this moment, I love her for it. It's First-Amendment-all-the-way, no-censorship-crap with this girl.

Kayla and I wait on a corner for the light to change. A tall man in a long black coat carrying a vast black suitcase sneaks up behind us and mumbles something only a New Yorker could decode. “Louis Vuittons.”

He opens the suitcase a crack and I see the telltale brown and tan logo. He's selling fakes.

“Very authentic,” he says, his breath condensing in the night air.

“They're either authentic or they're not,” Kayla mutters. She grabs my arm, but we've missed our light.

“No thank you,” I say to the man, and he disappears. Kayla looks at me as if I've committed a crime by being polite to this man. “He's just trying to make a living.”

“Ah, Project Optimism,” Kayla says. “Guess NYPD has bigger fish to fry these days.”

“Indeed.”

“Now,
that
makes me optimistic.
Yum
,” Kayla says, pointing to the tan Adonis on the corner wearing nothing but tighty-whities and a cowboy hat. The Naked Cowboy. He's become quite the cement celebrity.

“Selling sex in the snow,” I say. “How precious.”

“He's just trying to make a living,” she says, and smiles.

Tonight, Kayla is an endearing girl trying to find herself, unwittingly airing insecurities about love and sexuality and life via constant cakey cynicism and
Sex and the City
chatter. Not a selfish debutante who dabbles in the law and who has been given unfair quantities of money and education and intelligence.

Tonight, we are two friends, bantering, laughing, strolling the streets, taking our city back. Not two overworked, over-privileged bottle blonds following the scent of free booze.

The streets swirl with bits and pieces of conversation, sirens, fading cologne, and roasting chestnuts. Trash cans over-flow with crushed Starbucks cups and mangled umbrellas. A homeless man crouches on the pavement in front of a newsstand. I drop a twenty in his shoebox, and tell myself that he will use it to buy food or to find a job. Not to fund addiction. Just as I'm really beginning to enjoy this new view of things, I see a little figurine of the Twin Towers in the window of that newsstand. Written in black ink on a little index card: “Remember what was.”

All of a sudden, I'm nauseous. About to faint. I sit down on the pavement, next to the homeless man. He moves his bag of soda cans to make room for me.

Kayla turns and sees me popping a squat by a bum and presumably thinks I'm just taking this exercise in optimism a bit too far. She grabs my hand and pulls me up.

“You okay?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say, unsure if I mean it. I don't tell her about the little Towers. That she can make comments about 9/11 and hatred for the West and Dad liking porn, but that I see a little index card in the front of a bodega and I'm about to turn into a faucet.

“Maybe you need to eat more. You're looking kind of thin,” she says, rolling a calculated compliment into her expression of concern. She stares deep into my eyes where tears begin to gather. But she knows me. Knows now's not the time. “Good thing there are calories in wine,” she says with a smile.

 

We arrive at our destination, a vast midtown hotel. Young men wearing matching long black coats, maroon ties, and newsboy caps jog into the street and back again trying to hail cabs for a bulging line of bundled hotel guests. Frustration is plain on rosy red faces as traffic inches by, kicking up yellow slush in its slow-forming wake.

“Future actors of America,” Kayla quips.

“One of them could be the next Brad,” I say. Because this is true. Here, everyone has a dream, a talent, another self just below the surface. No one is just a bellhop or bartender.

The lobby carpet is deep purple and smells of stale smoke. I think of Paris. And Sage. And smile. Elevator music crackles over the sound system. Tired families with plastic bags from Niketown and Macy's congregate on couches. In the far
corner, a baby cries. A very old man in a wheelchair sleeps and snores. He wears a navy sweatshirt that says “New York” across the front in silver italics.

“Maybe he needs the shirt to remind him where he is,” Kayla says.

“Or maybe he likes this place and wanted a souvenir,” I say.

“Could be, Optimissus,” Kayla says, and links her arm in mine.

We ride to the hotel's top floor. In the corner of the elevator, a tall blond woman in a magenta coat chats with a woman in short red leather skirt and fishnet stockings. The blond woman has impossibly long nails, with painted stars and rhinestones on the tips. The women are vaguely familiar. It takes me a minute, but I realize that they are secretaries from our firm.

As the large silver doors part, we hear music and muffled voices.

Tonight, the Winter Party is a time-out from the grind, a chance to celebrate for celebration's sake. An all-personnel event, so everyone is here. We're one big firm family tonight; lawyers and secretaries, catering staff and maintenance workers. Tonight, with a few top-shelf cocktails, the sharp hierarchy will go blurry. No, the party's not a part of the executive committee's plot to cut a fat check and make us forget. About our often miserable jobs. Or the fact that we rarely see our own families. Or about what happened a few short months ago.

Typically, this annual attempt at blending Whalen personnel is defeated by one thing: wardrobe. Partners arrive in freshly dry-cleaned pinstripes. We associates stick to the prudent palate of safe and boring shades—grays and blacks and navies and tans. Tonight, the nonlawyers among us are
bold as ever, and we have a rainbow of leather, a sprinkling of short skirts, stacked heels, and blue eye shadow. The color is a welcome change, a sign that not everyone is obsessed with conformity, with convention. Not a blatant attempt to catch the wandering eye of partner.

Kayla and I hand our things—our coats and scarves and bags—to a man with a mustache hostage in the small coat check station.

“Keep your BlackBerry,” Kayla says, holding on to hers.

Dad's wine-fueled words of wisdom find me now:
Don't become one of them. A Berry Baby.

“Not tonight,” I say, and this baby abandons her Berry, stuffing it in the inside pocket of my coat, feeling wonderfully rebellious. Now the man smiles.

“Let's get you some pinot,” Kayla mumbles.

Kayla links her arm in mine.
You know every man fanta-sizes about two girls
, she's said.
Even old saggy lawyers.

Truth is, however lubricated one is at these events, awkwardness reigns. In the office, professionalism is the rule. Decorum disguises idiosyncrasies. When you add party dresses and alcohol to the mix, things get more interesting.

In the corner by the bar, a group of fifth-year litigation associates gather.

“Ahhh, the Little Gators,” Kayla says. “Waiting to bite.”

Each is dressed in a black pantsuit. These girls are always dressed in black pantsuits. Each balances a skinny flute of champagne in her right hand.

“Look at them,” Kayla says. “Hovering and gossiping, their skinny asses in their matching little suits. I bet they're trying to get a good look, trying to estimate the wattage on your hand. They are the kind of chicks who are probably holding out for five carats, waiting for their prince investment
banker to come along, so they can quit this bullshit. Those girls would give their pinky fingers to have a wedding announcement run in the
Times
,” she says.

“Is that the way you look at Sage? My i-banking prince?” I ask.

“No, of course not, Quinn. Sage a prince? Hardly,” Kayla says, and giggles.

At one point, I was hopeful that there would be no room for cattiness in the working world. But I learned. And fast. In this world, cattiness would only be more defined, and its perpetrators, only better dressed.

But tonight their faces are friendlier, the impasse between us silly, simply a matter of age and relative legal experience. The competition, the dirty looks, the sizing up—all natural, nothing more than good old Darwinian survival of the fittest.

I smile at them.

And, shocker: a chorus of smiles in return.

Nancy Finnerman raises her glass and walks over. She's a Boston native, quite preppy, and refreshingly kind. She lives alone in a brownstone apartment in the West Village and writes poetry in her spare time. I worked with her on a recent case. On September tenth, the night before everything happened, Nancy and I spent hours holed up in a conference room, cocooned in a sea of cardboard boxes, delirious, laughing, bingeing on Mexican food, rifling through mind-numbing financial reports and e-mails looking for the smoking gun we knew we'd never find.

How quickly things can change.

I got taken off the case. Replaced by someone who would be more focused. I haven't talked to her since.

“How are you?” she says softly, her voice condescension-and fakeness-free, putting a hand on my shoulder.

“Hanging in there,” I say. And pause. “I'm getting married.”

She smiles. “Good for you. That's incredible news.”

Kayla returns and hands me an overflowing glass of pinot. “I made it a double,” she says.

Nancy clinks my glass with her flute and excuses herself.

“My family money radar is going crazy,” Kayla says. “Did you see those diamonds?”

“Nope, didn't notice.”

“I want my friend back,” Kayla says. “Seriously, the bling, the brownstone, the easy-breezy attitude. It's a no-brainer. She's a trust fund baby.”

“Takes one to know one,” I say.

Kayla smiles. “Cheers,” she says, and clinks my glass. It's half full.

 

The ice sculpture is massive. It's shaped like a snowman and it must be five feet tall. It towers above us at the center of a long rectangular table dressed in cranberry silk. The table is covered in silver trays of miniature desserts; éclairs, cheesecake, individual soufflés in little white cups, and white chocolate–covered strawberries. Every time someone grabs something from the table, a waiter with a bow tie and a sandy-colored ponytail scurries by and replaces whatever has disappeared.

“That table,” I say, as we watch the feeding frenzy, “is just like our firm.”

“How so? Bad for the waistline and bad for the heart?” Kayla says. “Snow is magic. Law firm like a pastry table. What's up with you?”