You Were Meant For Me (22 page)

“Maybe I did,” she said tiredly. “Maybe I did.”

“I don't think Isabel's been happy for a long time,” Jared said. “That's why she got involved with me.”

“What do you know about her, real-estate boy? What gives you the right to weigh in on whether my wife is happy or not?” He'd been pacing the room, ricocheting from window to door and back again, but he stopped to face Jared.

Something inside Jared went cold and glinting. He knew that tone all too well—he'd heard it at Saint Crispin's and later at Haverford. The tone let him know that the liberal we're-all-the-same, race-doesn't-matter mask had slipped, and underneath, the true face was revealed. That face and that tone were
united in their derision:
No matter how many of our schools you attend, how many A's you get, or how many of our girls you bang, you'll never be one of us. Never.
“She wasn't happy in your bed, man. Not by a long shot.” And he kind of smirked as he said it.

The punch, when it landed, took him totally by surprise. He'd been so smug, so damn pleased with himself for answering that white-guy sneer in kind, for
telling it like it is
, that he didn't even see Brandon's fist coil or his arm draw back. All he knew was the blow that exploded in his jaw, splitting his lip and sending waves of pain radiating through his head.

“Oh my God, you hit him! He's bleeding. He's bleeding!” Isabel rushed to his side.

“He's all right,” Brandon said. “It's just his lip.” But he didn't sound so sure.

“How do you know? Call nine-one-one. No—I will.” She dove for her bag and began digging for the phone that was buried in it.

“Don't.” Jared put his hand to his lip, which was dripping blood and starting to swell. And his head hurt like a bitch. But no teeth were loose, and he'd been in enough fights as a kid to know the damage here was minimal. He turned to Isabel. “I'm okay. Really. Why don't you go with Brandon? I don't think anyone feels like talking right now. I know I don't.”

“Are you sure? I don't want to leave you.” She was hovering anxiously, her small hands fluttering in front of her.

“I'm sure.” He'd fished a handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to stanch the flow. Then he waited stoically while the two of them went to the door and quietly left. When he was alone, he went into the bathroom to survey the damage. The lip—fat, busted—looked like hell but would heal quickly. He went to the kitchen for ice to press against it and also to
make that drink. After he'd finished it, he marched into the bedroom, lay down, and almost immediately fell into a deep, trancelike sleep. There were dreams—some of his mother, one of Carrie—and the perpetually startled cry of a bird in some neighboring yard wound in and out of them.

It wasn't even light when he awoke, but he bounded from the bed, a whirlwind of cleaning, straightening, tidying. Even though Tripp had said his housekeeper would be coming in, Jared stripped the mattress and made it up again with fresh sheets. He scoured the traces of blood still on the floor, washed the few glasses he'd used, and then tossed his stuff in his bag. He'd get coffee and breakfast on the road; right now, he just needed to get out of here.

The dark was lifting as he swung onto the Long Island Expressway. Sunday morning, and the outbound traffic was sparse—he'd make good time getting back to the city. What he'd do when he got there, though, was anyone's
guess.

T
he morning after Jared left, Miranda awoke to Lily's wailing, and all her efforts—changing her, rocking her, feeding her—did exactly nothing to help. It was like those early days, when the crying jags just went on and on. She steeled herself for a long, tense morning; somehow she'd have to cope. A tap on the door distracted her; Mrs. Castiglione had heard the cries. “You're sure she's not hungry? Or thirsty?” she asked.

“I tried feeding her and offering her a bottle.” Miranda desperately jiggled the squalling baby in her arms. “Nothing worked.”

“So you can't do anything to soothe her?”

“Maybe riding in a car.” Miranda remembered that time when Bea was driving. “She seems to like the motion.”

“We could call a car service.” Mrs. Castiglione sounded doubtful.

“Or I could run with her.”

“Wouldn't she be—heavy?”

Even through the wails, Miranda smiled. “I have Lauren's baby jogger. It's in the basement.” And leaving Lily with a rather flustered Mrs. Castiglione, Miranda hurried down to get it.

Mrs. Castiglione followed her out to the street while Miranda brought Lily, still crying, downstairs. The day promised to be hot—the temperature was predicted to be in the high nineties—but Miranda didn't care. Between what had almost happened with Jared last night and the screaming baby this morning, she had to get out of her apartment. The run would do them both good. She slathered Lily with sunscreen and packed extra water bottles in the diaper bag before they set off for Prospect Park. She would have put a hat on her too, but when she tried, Lily twisted away and cried harder, so Miranda stuffed it in the already bulging diaper bag.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Mrs. Castiglione said anxiously. “It's going to be a scorcher.”

“I'm ready for it.” Miranda looked down at herself. There had been no opportunity to take a shower, and she had dressed hurriedly in a scoop-neck tank, shorts, and a baseball cap with a big visor. “We'll be fine.”

Miranda started slowly; she'd used the baby jogger only a couple of times before, and maneuvering it took some getting used to. But soon she settled into a good, steady rhythm, and the sound her sneakers made on the jogging path—
clip-clop, clip-clop
—was calming. And it calmed Lily too. Pretty soon her cries had tapered off and Miranda stopped only once, to wipe her sticky, wet face, before continuing on. The park was sparsely populated at this hour, though as the day wore on, it
would fill up with picnics, barbecues, cyclists, joggers, dog walkers, and skateboarders. There had been a lot of rain this summer, so the trees were still a vibrant summer green. Lily looked up, dark eyes focused on the canopy overhead.

Clip-clop
,
clip-clop
. Miranda allowed herself to think of Jared, the way he had kissed her, the feel of his lips on her neck. One hand moved up to touch the place that he'd bitten, and the baby jogger veered off course; quickly she put her fingers firmly back on the handle. Sweat gathered at the base of her spine and under the baseball hat; the outpouring felt good, cleansing somehow. Soon she came to the carousel—not yet open—and sped up to get past it. But the thoughts it sparked weren't so easily outpaced.

The last time she'd been here had been with Evan. Just thinking of him ambushed her with guilt. No, she had not actually,
technically
, cheated. But oh, how she had wanted to. Still, she hadn't. And it was action, not the heated realm of fantasy, that counted. She would call him as soon as she got home. Maybe they could take Lily somewhere this weekend. New playground? Zoo? He was so interested in the baby; that had been evident on their first date.

The more she thought about this outing—which was now growing more elaborate in her mind and included renting a rowboat—the better she liked it. She moved easily and effortlessly, running away from Jared, toward Evan and the easy, secure domesticity he offered.

Miranda slowed at the Third Street exit from the park and ran a baby wipe across her sweaty face. Then she refastened her ponytail, high on her neck, and started down the hill. Lily was dozing, and Miranda was already thinking about the baby's lunch and how they would spend the afternoon. So she
was surprised—jolted really—when she found Evan sitting on the stoop of her house, his bicycle locked to the gate.

“Hey.” He stood up, all six foot whatever of him, and grinned. “Did you forget?”

“Forget?” Clearly she
had
forgotten, but what?

“You asked me to come by today; I was going to help you with those books.”

The books! In her ongoing quest for more space, Miranda had once again winnowed her personal library, and Evan was here to help her lug some of the boxes to the basement and others to the Housing Works store on Garfield Place. They had made the plan a few days ago, but it had completely flown from her mind.

“I'm so sorry!” Miranda hoped her memory lapse had not hurt his feelings. “I took Lily and went for a run; have you been here long?”

“Not too long.” Evan looked down at Lily. “It's okay; we can go up and do it now.”

“I can't believe I forgot. Everything's been so busy at work, and then Jared was coming by last night and I had to get everything ready for Cel—I mean Lily.” She could not meet his eyes as she spoke but stared at the fraying laces of her sneakers.

“So she's here for the weekend? Jared Masters left her with you? You didn't mention it.”

Just hearing Jared's name made Miranda's heart skid, and she nodded, not trusting herself to say anything. Lily dozed on, and Miranda sat down on the stoop. After a second or two, Evan sat back down too.

“That's good. You'll get to see her from now on, right?” Again Miranda nodded. She was still feeling so awkward.
But it would pass; she would make it pass. “What's he like, anyway?” The question was casual, almost an afterthought; he was now busy adjusting something on his ever-present camera.

“Who?” Miranda could hear the way her voice scaled up.

“Jared Masters,” Evan said. “Who else?” He stopped whatever he had been doing to the camera. “Is something wrong? You seem kind of . . . uncomfortable. Upset.”

“Upset? No, I'm not upset. I'm just—”

“What's that?” He was staring at her neck.

“What's what?” Her hand went to her throat; she was aware that her hair, gathered into its high ponytail, had left it bare. Oh God, had Jared left a
mark
?

“That.” He gently pried her fingers away.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“It looks like a hickey,” he said. “Who did that to you? It wasn't me.”

Miranda felt the flush begin at the crown of her head and descend over her forehead, cheeks, and chin like an ugly stain.

“It was Masters, wasn't it? That's why you're acting so weird. You let him screw you last night.”

“I didn't
let
him do anything,” Miranda flared.

“What, then? He
raped
you?”

“Are you crazy? No! You're distorting everything. He came over and, well, we kissed and—”

“And then you had sex with him.”

“No, Evan. I did not have sex with him. Unless you consider kissing and this”—she touched her neck lightly—“sex. I was attracted to him and I—”

“Spare me.” He crossed his arms tightly over his chest.

“Could you let me finish? Please? I didn't go through with
it because I knew it wasn't right. Not for me, not for Lily—and not for you. I didn't want to hurt you, Evan. And so I didn't do it.”

“Why would you expect me to believe you?”

“Because it's the truth.” She looked at his hurt, angry face. How to explain what had happened last night? Did she start with the first time she'd laid eyes on Jared? The way she'd felt pulled into his orbit, revolving with an energy that wasn't entirely hers? “He brought Lily over last night, and I told him about Geneva. I wanted to know if he'd had any clue about her relationship to Lily's mother.”

“And did he?”

Miranda shook her head. “He was as surprised as we were. Then I started crying, and he put his arms around me—to comfort me; that was all. But it turned into something else and he kissed me.”

“I'm not buying it. Not for a minute.”

“What right do you have to interrogate me? To judge me?”

“Do you think I'm an idiot? That you can just lie to me and I'll swallow it? I'm supposed to sit back and say, ‘Sure. Go ahead and sleep with him. I don't mind a bit. No sir. I'll just cheer you on. I'll just
applaud
,
for fuck's sake.'” He got up, unlocked his bike, and pushed the kickstand savagely with his foot.

“Don't swear at me. I don't have to take this—”

“That's right. You don't have to take any of it. You don't have to take
me
.”

“Evan!” Miranda stood. “Please don't go! We can talk more about this. I think we
should
talk more; I never meant to hurt you.”

“Jesus,” he said. “I'd hate to see what you'd do if you had.” And he looped his long leg over the bike and pedaled away.

Miranda remained where she sat, waiting for the flush to subside and her breathing—she'd been practically panting—to return to normal. Had Mrs. Castiglione heard this conversation? A quick glance to the window, with its humming, outsized air conditioner, reassured her that she had not.

Then Lily woke up and began to squirm; Miranda instantly shifted into maternal mode, checking her diaper, offering water. It was only after Lily had guzzled nearly an entire bottle and then batted it away that Miranda realized how thirsty, no
parched
, she was. She took a long, cooling drink from the bottle she'd brought for herself. Better. Much better.

But when she got to her feet, she swayed slightly and the sidewalk tilted up at her in a new, perilous way. Evan was a good and decent man; in the months she'd known him, he'd been nothing but kind, protective, and caring. She had never been weak-in-the-knees in love with him; what they had was sweet but gentler. And then, just like that, she'd wrecked it.

But no. That wasn't fair. She hadn't slept with Jared. She'd stopped herself. She'd said no. The heat of the day pressed down on her as she locked the baby jogger to the fence—she'd put it away later—and picked Lily up. The stairs to her apartment suddenly felt so steep; every step was a supreme effort. What, oh what, had she done?

*   *   *

Evan
pedaled demonically across the Brooklyn Bridge. He'd called Audrey, expecting her to be out in Sag Harbor, but to his amazement, she and Emma were still in the SoHo loft. “She's got some stomach bug,” Audrey explained. “And she gets so carsick anyway, even with the Dramamine. I told Gwen to take the two other kids, and if Emma's better, I'll bring her out tomorrow.”

Entering the loft, Evan carefully positioned his bicycle so
that it did not touch the walls, which were as pristine as everything else in here. But when he went to sit down on the sofa, he noticed the faint, pinkish outline of a stain that had not been there before. “What happened?” he asked.

“Emma threw up,” Audrey said. “I told Gwen a white sofa was a bad idea. She'll just have to deal.”

“Where's Emma now?”

“Napping. The poor little thing is just worn-out.” Audrey settled on the sofa next to him. “So what's going on? You said it was urgent.”

“It's Miranda. She slept with Lily's father last night.”

“She told you that?” Audrey looked incredulous.

“No. She claims she didn't. But there was a hickey on her neck as big as the state of Texas. And since I haven't been near her in a week, I knew it wasn't from me.”

“Well, that stinks.”

“It sure does.” He leaned his head against the back of the sofa. It wasn't very comfortable.

“Evan, I have to say this, even though you are not going to like it.”

“What?” He opened his eyes.

“Do you think that maybe, just maybe, she was giving you signals that she was not
the one
? Signals that you, with your tender, loopy, romantic-as-a-Hallmark-special heart, were hell-bent on not reading?”

“No!”

“Okay. Okay.” Audrey raised her open palms in a gesture of surrender. “I just had to ask, you know? Because it is kind of a pattern with you.”

“Well, it could be.” He was not ready to concede entirely, but he lowered his voice. “And maybe there were signs, but I
wasn't seeing them. I don't know.” He looked at Audrey beseechingly. “I thought we were getting somewhere. It's so easy being with her. She's smart. She's fun. She's a great cook. And that body . . .”

“You're in pretty deep,” Audrey said. “So the question is, what do you want to do about it?”

“I'm not getting you.”

“Can you forgive her?”

“Should I?”

“Only you know the answer to that.” She turned in the direction of the doorway. There stood Emma, fists rubbing her eyes and blond curls a blurred halo. “Hi, sweet pea; come to Mama.” Emma remained rooted where she stood, so Audrey got up and led her by the hand to the sofa. “Do you remember Evan? He read you the unicorn book.”

Emma studied Evan for a moment before burying her face in Audrey's shoulder. “She's still sick,” said Audrey. “Don't take it personally.” But Evan did take it personally. And he took it even more personally when, a few minutes later, Emma disengaged herself from Audrey and like a nimble, blond monkey, climbed into his lap.

“I threw up on the couch,” she said by way of greeting. “Mommy is going to be mad.”

Evan patted the curls. “Maybe not,” he said. “It wasn't your fault.” His mind darted back to Miranda and Jared Masters. Had what happened been her fault? Maybe she'd been so caught up in having Lily back that she'd gotten confused. But then he remembered the large, plum-colored patch on her white skin. Masters had taken off her clothes, pushed her down on the bed, let his mouth travel all over her. . . . Evan practically had to shake himself to get the lacerating images
out of his head. He turned to Audrey. “Is it too early in the day for a drink?” he asked. “It is a holiday weekend, after all.”