The Night I Got Lucky (26 page)

“What’s this?” I said, taking a step closer.

“It’s my desk!” Alexa was beaming, as if she’d said,
It’s my new Porsche!

“Wow, great.” But I was ashamed. What I had in my life, both before and after the frog, could easily be termed an “embarrassment of riches.” I hadn’t worried about money in years.

Alexa, on the other hand, was scraping by, supporting an entire family, and was thril ed about a desk made from a door.

“So you’re working from home?” I asked her.

“I know it isn’t much, but I’m determined to open my own firm, like I told you on the phone, so here…” She moved behind the makeshift desk. “Let me show you.” She picked up one stack of papers after another, displaying them for me. “Here’s my application for a smal business loan, and here’s a lease on this tiny office I found if I get the loan. Say a prayer.”

“This is great,” I said.

She held up a two typed sheets of paper. “Then here’s a list of potential clients, and this is a list of people who might give me capital, like Carlos Ortega. Do you know him?”

I shook my head no.

“Wel , he’s big-time around here. He used to be an alderman, now he’s into venture capital and real estate. I’m too smal -fry for him, but you gotta aim high, right?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “You amaze me, Alexa.”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” But she smiled as she placed the papers onto neat stacks already on her desk.

I couldn’t help but think of Alexa’s clean cubicle, the one I’d inhabit on Monday. “Look,” I said, “I have to tel you something.”

She looked at me. “Of course. God, I’ve been going on and on, and you didn’t come here to see my paperwork. Hey, what happened with your dad?”

“It was real y…Wel , it was wonderful for what it was. Thanks for asking. But that’s not what I have to talk to you about.”

“What’s up?”

“I demoted myself today.”

“What?” Her eyes went big.

“Yeah, I know it sounds weird, but I asked Roslyn to take away my VP position and give me my old account exec job back.”

Alexa surprised me by hooting and clapping her hands. “Holy shit! Roslyn must have lost it!”

“She was pretty good, al things considered, but there is something else.” I took a deep breath, and plunged ahead. “She said I’d have to take
your
job. It’s the only opening.”

Alexa’s head snapped a little as if someone had startled her.

“But you know what?” I said, rushing in with my words. “I don’t think I can do it. I told her I would, but now…”

She watched me closely. “Now what?”

“I like you, Alexa. I like hanging out with you.” I paused. She remained stoic. “And I don’t want to ruin that by taking your old position. So forget it. I’m just going to have to look for a new job. I can’t take yours.”

She shook her head. “No, that’s ridiculous. There are no jobs in this town, remember?”

“I know, but—”

“Look, Bil y…” She smiled briefly. “What I said on the phone a few days ago was true. I think you did me a favor by firing me. I am going to get that PR firm of my own. I don’t know how and I don’t know when, but I’ve realized how much I want it since I left Harper. So let me do you a favor in return. Take my job. Enjoy it.
Really
enjoy it, you know?”

That was exactly what I wanted—to take pleasure in my job without the mental machinations of how to slide into a VP spot. “You’re sure?” I asked.

She stood and reached out her tiny hand, squeezing mine. “I’m positive.”

We stood there a moment, our hands touching, and I recognized something in Alexa right then. Here was a friend.

“Hey,” Alexa said, “how about a beer? It’s almost five.”

I shook my head. “I’d love it,” I said, “but I’m hoping I have plans with my husband.”

I
saw Chris appear at the edge of Grant Park’s green lawn. He turned his head this way and that. Final y, he seemed to notice me, sitting cross-legged on a blanket, our picnic basket next to me. He paused. He was too far away for me to read the expression on his face, but that pause scared me. I sat up tal er and waved. Another pause. I gestured for him to come to me. His body was stil .

“Chris,” I cal ed out, waving again.

It felt suddenly as if I were in a bad dream, one where I could feel Chris, I could see him, but he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, see me.

At last, Chris raised his hand slightly. That hand floated up to his chest and sank again. It made an arc in the sunlight. Then he took a step onto the green.

“What’s al this?” he said when he reached me.

“A picnic. It’s a beautiful Friday evening, and I thought we could use it.”

He nodded.

“Sit, please,” I said.

He sank on his knees onto the green tartan blanket.

“I got al your favorites,” I said. I flipped the latch of the wicker picnic basket. I took out the items I’d picked up just a half hour ago—a creamy Tomme de Chevre cheese, delicate rice crackers, star fruit, a long, thin loaf of French bread.

“Nice. Thank you,” Chris said. The formality between us was kil ing me.

I pul ed a bottle of Merlot from the basket and handed it to Chris with a corkscrew. He went to work on the wine, while I set out glasses and plates for the food. I’d purposely brought the silver wine goblets we used as toasting glasses during our wedding. Chris noticed, his eyes locking on them, then rising to meet mine. He gave me a slight grin. He took the wrapper off the cheese. I slid the bread from its paper sleeve. We did this al in quiet preparation for what we both knew wouldn’t be a whimsical, easy picnic in Grant Park. This was a summit meeting.

Once we each had a glass of wine, and I’d set out the food, there was nothing else to busy our hands.

“Chris,” I said, and again my voice sounded formal, even ominous.

He looked at me. There was something sad in his eyes.

I couldn’t think of how to start. There were too many things to say, none of them the right jumping-off point.

Chris saved me. “Tel me about the rest of your time with your dad.”

I smiled grateful y. He gave me a smal lift of his mouth in return.

“Wel , it was interesting,” I said. I told Chris everything about the night with my dad and Lil ian and Kenny. I told him how I’d been cruel to my father, and how it had felt both good and horrible. I told him how kind and wise I thought Lil ian was. I told him about my conversation with Dustin, and how, despite my sister’s warnings, I was glad I’d found our father.

“And I came to some realizations while I was out there,” I said.

“Like what?”

“I realized that I don’t know what a great marriage looks like. I was only around my mom and Jan for a year before I went to col ege, and obviously my mom and dad didn’t help me out. In some ways, in my mind, I think I set us up to fail. I was afraid you’d do the same thing as my dad.”

I’d been playing with my glass, but now I looked up at Chris.

He nodded at me to continue.

“We may not have a perfect marriage, Chris, but we have so much. We have money and our health and an amazing home and families who love us.”

Chris watched me, his eyes intent on mine.

I took a gulp of air. “But more importantly,” I said, “we have something special between you and me. It’s love. I don’t just mean that I love you like I love my mom.
I am in love with you,
Chris. And I think that’s a big distinction. I nearly forgot that after we first got married. I forgot it recently with the whole…” I couldn’t bring myself to say Evan’s name.

Chris winced a little. “Go on.”

“What I’m trying to say is we can’t blow this. We can’t take this gift for granted.” I got a catch in my throat. I wil ed myself to plow forward. “Look, I know what happened at the beginning, from my point of view anyway. I expected you to run, and in a way you did, but I need to know why. You said something the other night about how during the wedding I cared more about place settings than I did about us. And you said that afterward I cared more about work. Then you shut down. Is that real y what you felt?”

Chris took a sip of his wine and looked across the park. A pack of joggers ran by. A lone biker rode past. But on the patch of lawn, we were alone. Now it was my turn to stay silent.

“I don’t know how to describe it,” Chris said, “and this is going to sound, wel …sil y. But I felt left out during the wedding. You and your mom were the fearsome twosome. You were planning that event for the whole year, and I rarely got consulted. I started to wonder whether you wanted to marry me, or whether you just wanted to get married.”

“That’s crazy. I’ve never been one of those girls who was just looking for a ring.”

“I know, I know. But I started to wonder. I felt so isolated from you during that time.”

“I didn’t think you wanted to be that involved. I had no idea you felt left out. Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugged. “What guy wants to get al worked up about flowers and tablecloths? I can see now that I should have talked to you, but I thought I’d wait it out. I just wanted to be married so things could get back to the way they were before.”

“But they never did get back that way. You stayed distant.”

He took a bite of cheese, his jaws moved sharply as he chewed. “Not always.”

“No, you’re right, not always, but…”

“I know what you mean,” he said. “I was…what’s the word? Removed. A lot of the time. It was kind of easy to be that way. You were working your butt off to make VP.”

“And you were working your butt off to make partner.”

“I know. We didn’t put our marriage first.”

I looked down at my glass. I thought of my mother’s words about lack of blame. “No, I guess we didn’t.”

“I held myself back from you more and more,” Chris said. “I hated it, but I didn’t know how to change it. And I missed you, Bil y. I mean I real y missed you, even though you were right there.”

I nodded. I knew what he meant.

“The days slipped by,” he said. “It’s such a lame excuse, but I got used to acting that way.”

“We should have talked about this before,” I said, mastering the world of understatement.

He nodded.

“Do you think it’s too late?” I had to ask.

Chris stared at Lake Michigan, then turned toward me. “Do you?”

In his brown eyes, I saw memories. The blind date when we met, with Tess and her husband smiling proudly across the table. The walk home down Sheffield Avenue, when Chris loosened his yel ow tie and stopped me on the sidewalk, saying, “Can I please, please kiss you?” Chris with his shirtsleeves rol ed up, making me sea bass and salad in our condo. The times when we’d lie nose to nose in bed, talking about our day.

“No,” I said. “I want to try.”

His hand slid across the blanket and touched mine. “Me, too.”

“Would you go to therapy?” I said this quietly. I’d brought up the topic before, but he was always reluctant.

“Yes,” Chris said without hesitation.

I gripped his hand. “You would?”

“Yeah,” Chris said. “You’re my wife.”

Those words—
my wife
—sent me soaring to the sky.

Chris and I had enjoyed the picnic in the park, but now we had to clean up. Literal y and emotional y, there were dishes to be scraped, food to be thrown away, the blanket to be folded and stowed. And none of it was neat. Crumbs were everywhere, the blanket had grass sticking to it, and spilt wine made it al sticky.

The rest of Friday evening was beautiful, as if Chris and I were lit by candlelight. Saturday morning, however, brought harsh sunlight.

“Why can’t you put this stuff away?” Chris said through the open door of the bathroom. I was stil in bed, stretching like a cat and ready for our pasts to be over, for the rest of our life to start.

I blinked at the irritated tone of his words and pushed myself up on my elbows. The first thing I noticed was the frog, stil on my nightstand. I looked past the frog to Chris and saw that he was holding a white bottle of face cleanser I’d left near my side of the vanity. “I always leave that out,” I said.

“I know. And it bugs me.” He made a big show of opening the maple medicine chest and placing the bottle firmly on a shelf. He closed the cabinet with something nearing a slam.

I flipped the covers back and went into the bathroom, slipping my arm around his waist. “What’s up?”

His body was tense. “Nothing.”

“C’mon.”

“Nothing.”

I turned him to face me. “Chris, we decided yesterday that we wouldn’t say nothing’s wrong if it is, and I know it’s not my face soap. So tel me.”

His eyes roamed my face. “It real y is nothing. Nothing specific. I just think it’s going to take some time to get over everything.”

I felt a sinking of my spirits, then the familiar desire to hide. Or run from what we had right in front of us. Instead, I paused and thought about the concept of time and what Chris had said.

“I get it, okay? You need to trust me again, and that’l take time. In some ways, I feel the same. It’s going to take me a little while to accept the fact that you withdrew from me years ago and didn’t tel me why. And I have to get over that I didn’t do anything about it.”

His face was impassive.

“We’re in this together,” I said. “That’s the whole point. We have to start from right now.”

“It’s not going to be easy.”

“I know.”

His eyes studied mine, then something in his face relaxed. He put his arms around me and pul ed me into his chest. “I fucking love you,” he said into my hair.

At that moment, I realized that our relationship, if we could get it to work, would never be as perfect as when we were first dating. But then I was also coming to recognize that our life back then probably hadn’t been perfect either. I’d just wanted to see it that way.

And since I was redefining words and concepts, like “marriage” and “accomplishment,” maybe I needed to redefine “perfect” too. “Perfect,” in the context of our relationship, didn’t have to mean a marriage free of conflict or tension. But it would, hopeful y, mean a marriage free of apathy and of deception. It would mean a relationship heavy on trust and affection.

Something made me turn and glance at the frog then, and I could swear I saw it wink.