You Were Meant For Me (20 page)

M
iranda was still in bed when Courtney called. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “I thought you and Harris were going to Southhampton.”

“We were. But there was a crisis at the office and he couldn't get away. Just as well; gives me time to do a little wedding shopping. Come with?”

“That depends.” Miranda was grateful that her rough patch with Courtney seemed to have been smoothed over; she had even agreed to be one of the bridesmaids at the November wedding. But did she really want to spend the day at some massive bridal chain store, fighting her way through the trains, bustles, and veils? She did not. “Where are you going?”

“NoLIta,” Courtney said. “Elizabeth Street, to be exact.”

“What bridal shops are down there?”

“It's not a bridal shop. Her name is Solange Repassier, and she does custom work—some bridal but other things too. Very
understated, very chic. I think you would approve. And then we can get lunch down there. You can tell me all about seeing the baby. Please say yes.”

Miranda hesitated. The sheets were smooth, the pillow soft. The late-summer sun dappled the parquet floor. She had been savoring last night's visit with Celeste—Lily—and replaying certain details in her mind. It had been such a sweet reunion. And if she handled things well, it could become a regular occurrence.

But she supposed it was time to get up. “All right,” she said, warming to Courtney's idea. “It sounds like a plan.” Somewhere in the back of her mind she remembered that she'd made tentative arrangements with Evan. He'd want to know about her meeting with Masters, and she wasn't sure she'd be able to lie. Better to put him off—at least temporarily.

The shop on Elizabeth Street was exactly as Courtney had described it. Not a bolt of lace in the place. No sequins or rhinestones or ruffles either. Instead, Courtney was able to consider a fitted strapless number with a skirt that belled out at the ankles, or another with a high waist, square neckline, and the simplest of lines; its only embellishment was the gleaming satin bow in the back. Miranda perched on a tiny gold chair and was offered a glass of prosecco and chocolate-dipped strawberries as she watched Courtney model the dresses. She was surprised—pleasantly—by the direction the wedding was heading, especially when Courtney said they had scaled the guest list way back. “We don't want it to feel like a mob scene,” she said. “Harris and I both want something more intimate.”
Score one for Harris,
thought Miranda as she nibbled on a strawberry. And the choice of venue truly shocked her: the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.

“Are you kidding me?” she said. “I thought you considered Brooklyn strictly second-rate.”

“I never said that.” Courtney was studying her reflection in the mirror. She had narrowed down the choices to two and was weighing their respective merits. “Anyway, it looks like the perfect place to have a wedding. The trees should just be turning color then; the Japanese maples will be scarlet.”

“I'm aware of that,” Miranda said. “I've seen them a few times.”

Courtney was too caught up for the sarcasm to penetrate. A saleswoman appeared at Miranda's side to refill her wineglass. “Perhaps you are in the wedding party? And would like to see a dress too?” She had a discernible French accent.

“Oh, that's such a good idea!” Courtney turned away from the mirror. “Why don't you try something on?”

“All right.” Miranda set down the wine and stood up. She liked this place already, and when she began to try on the dresses—a sheath in burnt orange watered silk or moss green brocade, a scoop-necked dress with tiny accordion pleats all around—she liked it even better. These were bridesmaids dresses that went beyond the wedding day; she could imagine wearing any of them again.

Courtney decided to sleep on her choices, and they both thought Bea and Lauren should be there before any of the bridesmaids' dresses were selected. But it was altogether a satisfying outing, and Miranda was glad she'd come along.

The Butcher's Daughter, where they went for lunch, was almost empty, and Miranda gratefully sank into a seat at the scarred farmhouse table. Wine in the middle of the day was a sure way to get tipsy fast. She needed to eat and was glad when the waitress took their order right away.

“So now that we're sitting down, you can tell me everything. Did you see her?” Courtney asked.

“I did; Jared Masters invited me for dinner last night. I got to hold her, feed her, and put her to sleep. It was hard.” She paused for a drink of water. “But not as hard as I thought it would be. And you were right. It's better to have a little of her than none at all.”

“What's he like?” Courtney had ordered a green juice made with algae, and she was sipping the vividly colored elixir through a straw.

“Nice. Kind of nervous.” Miranda was careful at first. But she couldn't keep it in. “Also, one of the sexiest men I've ever laid eyes on.”

“Where is that coming from? What about Evan?”

“Evan is a great guy and he'd be a wonderful father. He was so interested in Celeste—I mean Lily—right from the start.”

“So where does Jared Masters fit in?”

“He doesn't. I just wasn't expecting him to be so good-looking. And he's also kind of modest and unassuming, like he's not entirely aware of how attractive he is. Which, of course, only makes him more attractive.”

“Nothing happened, did it? Because if it did, that would be about the stupidest thing you ever did.”

“No, of course not.” Miranda remembered wishing Jared had kissed her. But he hadn't.

“Good!” A long pull on the straw and she had finished the drink. “So what did you talk about?”

“He told me about Lily's mother. She was a very troubled woman.”

“Well, that's an understatement. She left her newborn baby in a subway station. I'd say nuts was more like it.”

“He said that too, actually. Though not in those exact words.”

The food arrived, and Miranda dug into her kale salad. This was a good, unpretentious little place; maybe she would suggest a small mention in the magazine.

“Do you think he'll let you see her again? Do you want to?”

“Yes and yes.” Miranda looked around for the waitress. “Do you think I could get some balsamic vinegar?” she asked when the woman appeared at the table. Then she looked back at Courtney. “You haven't asked any more about Evan.”

“All right. I'm asking now.”

“I like him. I really do. He's incredibly sweet. Fun to be with. Supportive too.”

“It sounds like there's a
but
ready to swing around the corner.” Courtney devoured her melted cheese sandwich; bits of warm, gooey cheddar had oozed out the sides and onto her plate. She had one of those enviable metabolisms; even after a meal like this, she'd have no trouble fitting into her size-four wedding gown.

“Not really . . .” Miranda was hedging.

“Yes, really. I can tell. What is it? The sex? You're still comparing him to Luke-who-left-you-
and
-stole-your-money?”

“That's not it.” At least about this Miranda was being truthful. She really had not been thinking about Luke or comparing Evan to him. If she did, Evan would come out way ahead. And it wasn't like she didn't enjoy the sex they had. “Maybe it's because I've never yearned for him. He's always been right there. And maybe, just maybe, there's something just the tiniest bit dull about that.”

“So you're saying you preferred the seesaw of Luke.”

“I didn't say that. I'm just commenting.”

“Men like Luke are not worth your emotional investment.
While Evan, well, he sounds like a keeper.” Courtney had finished her sandwich and was now eating the jicama and apple slaw that had come with it.

“Oh, he is,” she quickly agreed. So why was the thought of kissing Jared Masters still buzzing, like a gnat, around the periphery of her brain?

Miranda did not get home until close to four o'clock, and when she checked her phone, she saw that Evan had texted her. Twice. Poked by guilt, she texted him back immediately
. I want to tell you about seeing Celeste/Lily. Come
over for dinner and we'll talk.
Dinner meant staying the night; she hoped she could summon an enthusiastic enough response. She was willing to tell Courtney about her reaction to Jared, but she did not want to tell Evan. After all, what she thought and felt was her own business. A harmless fantasy. She was an adult, after all; she could control herself.

To compensate, Miranda went completely overboard with dinner. She grilled artichokes, made a salad of cold lobster meat, corn, and grape tomatoes, the small yellow and red flecks vibrant on their bed of greens. For dessert she baked a blueberry cobbler whose burst berries turned a dark and luscious purple that bubbled over the crust; she topped it with a silky crème anglaise speckled with the tiniest bits of pulverized vanilla bean.

Just when she was putting the finishing touches on the meal, she had a text from Evan.
Just got word about a freelance job shooting a band in Williamsburg. Have to cancel tonight. Rain check?

Of course,
she texted back.
No worries.

That she felt a flood of relief when she'd sent it was nobody's business but her own.

I
t was late on the Thursday afternoon before Labor Day and the city had already begun its ritual emptying out. Traffic was light into Brooklyn, and Jared was able to find a spot practically in front of Miranda's house. He eased the car into the space before putting it in park and turning off the ignition. “We're here,” he said to Lily, who was strapped into her car seat in the back. “Time to go and see Miranda.” Unbuckling her from the seat, he wondered whether Lily would have any memory of this place; for the first several months of her life, it had been her home. But then he decided babies didn't remember stuff like that.

With a backpack over his shoulders, Lily in one arm, and a bag of her stuff in the other, he practically bounded up the stairs. He'd stay for a little while; he didn't want to seem rude. But then he'd be free, free as a bird. He was going to leave Lily with Miranda for the weekend, while he headed out to Southampton, to stay at the house of Tripp Parris, an old buddy
from his Haverford days. Tripp was going to be away, but he'd been happy to let Jared have the place for the weekend. “All I ask is that you keep it on the tame side,” he'd said. “I remember what a party animal you were.”

“Those days are long gone. I promise: no crowds,” Jared said. “Just an intimate little dinner—or maybe drinks.” But just how intimate was not something Jared thought he needed to share. Isabel Clarke was going to be in Southampton for the weekend. True, asshole Brandon would be there too, but they had already figured out a way around that inconvenient little fact. Isabel had scheduled a ninety-minute massage in town so there would be ninety sweet minutes alone in Tripp's well-appointed house, ninety minutes in which she could turn off her phone and not answer to anyone. The beauty of this plan was unassailable, and Jared congratulated himself mightily for coming up with it. Damn, he was good.

When Jared reached the landing, Miranda was standing at the open door to greet him. Her smile was both generous and tremulous at the same time; maybe that was what got to him.

“Who's my baby girl?” She reached for Lily.

“Thanks so much for doing this.” He followed Miranda into the apartment and looked around. Not huge, but well laid out. Good light. Nice floors, lots of original details. He'd bet the landlady—it was always a landlady—lived downstairs and was either Italian or Irish. He knew the type—lived in the house for decades, maybe even born here. Stayed on after the kids had grown and the husband had died. Took great pride in the house: vacuumed the hallways, swept the stoop and even the sidewalk, taking the falling of the leaves every autumn as a personal affront.

“Look what I got for you,” she said, slipping Lily into a bright blue plastic ring that was suspended from a doorframe.
Inside the ring he saw a cloth seat and two holes to accommodate her legs. Her toes, in their pink socks, grazed the floor until she realized she could press off with the soles of her feet and set the thing bouncing. The sound of her laughter—resonant and surprisingly low—filled the room; Jared exchanged a smile with Miranda.

“It's called the Jolly Jumper,” she explained. “The salesman at Toys ‘R' Us said she would love it.”

“Guess he was right.” Jared watched as Lily bounced and chortled, chortled and bounced. Why hadn't he thought to buy her something like this?

“Do you want a drink of something before you go? I've got iced tea, but I could make lemonade too; I have lemons.”

Jared glanced at his watch. She wasn't going to offer him booze, not when he was about to get on the road. But lemonade would be nice. He followed her into the kitchen, where she used a small handpress to squeeze the lemons. After a few deft movements, she had handed him the fresh, sweet-tart drink, which he sipped from a frosted glass she had pulled from the freezer.

“Damn good lemonade.” He drained the glass and set it down on the counter.

“I could make you another one.”

“Not necessary—”

“It's no trouble; here, I'll just refill your glass.”

Jared drank the second glass more slowly and decided to stay while Miranda fed and bathed Lily. And then, once Lily was asleep in her crib, for the pizza topped with duck, fig, and goat cheese that Miranda was making for her own supper. He might even make better time if he went later.

“This is so good.” He reached for another slice.

“Thanks. It's a recipe I'm considering for the magazine.”

Jared nodded; his mouth was too full to reply. But he noticed her expression had changed and she now looked troubled. Anxious even.

“There's something I have to say to you.” She was not eating.

He swallowed and then stopped eating too.

“What?” he said. “Is something wrong?” For a few brief, crazy seconds, he decided that she had somehow found out about the night he had left Lily alone. The shame-soaked memory was not something he wanted to revisit; was she going to report him to Child Services?

“How well do you know Geneva Bales?”

“Geneva?” He was not expecting this. “I don't know. Not that well, I guess. She did that article, and then she called me a couple of times. Why?”

“Did it seem to you that she had a particular interest in Lily? An unusual, maybe even inappropriate interest?”

“I don't know what you're getting at.”

“I'll show you.” She got up from the table, and Jared could hear her opening and closing a drawer in the other room. She reappeared with a sheaf of papers, and without saying a word, placed them next to Jared's plate. On top was what looked like a wedding picture. Something about that slight, waiflike blonde looked familiar. Jesus—it was Carrie! He'd never seen her with her hair so long. Then he looked at the bride in the center. Geneva Highsmith Bales.

Jared put aside the photo and began to skim the material he'd been handed. When he was done, he looked up at Miranda. “Geneva is related to Carrie? And to Lily?”

“Sister.” The word sounded strangled. “Aunt.”

“Jesus.” Jared put the papers down. His half-eaten slice of
pizza remained on the plate; his appetite had vaporized. “Did she know?” Miranda shrugged. “And if she did, why? Why did she do this? It's so—perverse.”

“Try manipulative. Or cruel?”

“It doesn't make sense.” Jared looked down at the papers he still held; when he looked up, Miranda's cheeks were pale and her eyes had filled with tears.

“Hey.” He got up and went over to put an arm around her. “It's all right. Really, it is.” He had no idea what he was saying. What was all right? Lily? Miranda? But he felt the need to offer comfort. She turned her face and, still weeping, pressed it into his shirt; when he felt her shoulders shake slightly, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world for him to put the other arm around her too.

Holding her was so different; she was much fuller than the women who usually appealed to him. But the feeling of her breasts against his chest was arousing, and the way she smelled—of something sweet, something fruity—was arousing too. Her shoulders stopped trembling, and he thought her crying had tapered off. He tipped a finger under her chin to find out, and when she raised her face to look at him, he kissed her.

Jesus. Where had that come from? But she kissed him back, softly at first, and then with greater urgency. He moved his hands up to touch her hair. A sound from the other room made him freeze—Lily. “I'll go.” She extricated herself from the embrace.

*   *   *

Standing
by the window with Lily in her arms, Miranda tried to calm down. So she had been right: he felt something for her too. What was it, though? Just because she had been
imagining that their coupling could result in a new configuration—mommy, daughter, baby daddy—didn't mean he was too. Maybe his desire was more specific—and more short-term. Yes, they wanted to sleep with each other. That was evident. But then what?

She didn't want a one-night stand with Jared, yet she couldn't imagine how it would play out between them if she gave in to her lust. Would it make seeing Lily easier—or awkward? And what about Evan? Was she ready to end it with him? Because that was exactly what she'd have to do. It was all so complicated. Maybe it would be better to walk back in there, finish the conversation about Geneva, and then tell him good night.

She sat down in the rocker. Gradually, the baby's whimpers dwindled and soon she was asleep again. Miranda's own heartbeat slowed, but when she saw Jared standing in the open doorway, it started to accelerate again. He said nothing but waited until Miranda set Lily down in the crib, and then they both went into the other room. He sat back down on the sofa. She remained standing.

“How did you find out about Geneva and Carrie?” he asked.

“I didn't.” She sat down on the sofa too, but at its far end. “It was Evan. My boyfriend. He did a lot of research online and this was what he came up with.” Her use of the word
boyfriend
was intentional.

“I still am not getting it. Did she know Lily was her niece?”

“I have no idea,” she said. “But I feel so confused. Used, even.” She was equally confused by her feelings for Jared. Sitting in the other room with Lily, it had seemed very clear what she needed to do. But now she felt herself drawn to him all over again.

Miranda leaned her head back against the couch and closed her eyes. Then, sensing that he had moved closer, she opened them again. He was looking at her with such a frank mixture of curiosity, surprise, and yes, desire. He wanted her too; it was that simple. He kissed her, and her mouth opened of its own accord. This was
stupid
; this was
wrong
; this would lead to nothing but trouble, and yet she let the kissing—heated, delicious—go on for several minutes. And when he moved his mouth down her throat and began to nibble, she allowed that to happen too. Tentatively, she touched his hair; it felt so soft and spongy under her fingers. It was only when he changed the pressure and the nibbling turned to a little nip that she shot up and away from him; her elbow inadvertently struck him in the eye.

“Oh God, did I hurt you?”

“No. I'm okay.” He was cradling the upper part of his face with his hands.

“Let me get you some ice.” Miranda fled to the kitchen and returned with several ice cubes wrapped in a clean dish towel.

He took the towel and pressed it to his eye. “Sorry if I misread the signals.”

“You didn't misread them at all.” She began to coil her long dark hair into a knot at the nape of her neck. “I find you unbelievably . . . attractive. But how could it ever work between us?” She shook her head, and the knot of hair loosened. “You'd better go. Now. Before we both regret that you came here.”

“You're right.” He handed her the damp towel and started looking for his backpack.

“Are you sure your eye is okay? You'll be able to drive?”

“I'm fine.” He hoisted the backpack over his shoulders.
“I'll call you when I get there. And I'll check in with you about Lily, okay?” He was at the door now. “Have a good weekend.”

“You too.” She did not get near enough for a kiss or even a hug, but waited, tensed, until she heard the front door of the house open and then close. Then Miranda walked into Lily's room and looked at the sleeping baby. Lily lay on her back, arms and legs spread wide, chest rising and falling peacefully. She needed adults who could—and would—take care of her. Not a pair of hormonally addled, overgrown teenagers succumbing to their lust. Still she stood there, letting herself mourn for the moment that she had pushed rudely away instead of grabbing with both hands. For the second time that night, the tears welled up in her eyes—and then spilled.