You Were Meant For Me (23 page)

“Have you eaten anything?” When Evan shook his head, she added, “Let's order in for brunch. There's a good Tex-Mex right around the corner; I can make the Bloody Marys while we wait for it to be delivered.”

After a plate of huevos rancheros, tortillas, and slow-cooked salsa washed down by three strong and spicy Bloody Marys, the pain had receded—at least enough to get through the rest of the god-awful day. He didn't think he should bike back to Red Hook in that condition though, and his hand wasn't steady enough to use the camera that was always on his right shoulder. So after he left Audrey's, he ducked into the Angelika cinema on Houston Street, where he paid to sit through three different movies, though he didn't exactly watch any of them and fell asleep partway through the last. When he emerged, the sky was just starting to darken—despite the heat of the day, it was September, not July—and he splurged on a cab back to Red Hook. He'd need to get his bicycle from Audrey's, but that could wait until tomorrow; he'd moved it to a locked storage area and she'd given him a key.

Sitting in the backseat of the taxi, he glanced down at the cell phone he'd set on mute while he was in the movie theater. Just because he was drunk didn't mean he'd turned into the kind of jerk who ruined everyone else's movie-going experience with a chiming phone. He saw three voice mails and four texts—all from Miranda. Should he call her back? What would he say? He didn't know if he could or should forgive her; he didn't want to be her doormat. Reliable old Evan, you could wipe your feet all over him and he'd still flash you the welcome sign. He slipped the phone back in his pocket and told himself he would not take it out again until he got home.

The camera sat lightly on his shoulder; he let one hand rest possessively, even caressingly, across its top. This camera was the most stable and the most loyal thing in his life. Women? They couldn't be trusted. Work was what mattered; work was what endured. Outside the taxi window, he could see the faint ghost of the rising moon, a powdery disk in a salmon sky, and he forced himself to look at it, and not the screen of his phone, for the rest of the
ride.

“O
f course I'll take her.” Miranda got up from her desk to close her office door. “You know I'm happy to do it. And you've cleared it with Supah?”

“She's totally fine with it.” Jared must have been talking from some busy street corner; Miranda could hear a bus or a truck lumbering by.

“Perfect. When did you plan on dropping her off?” The idea that she would get a whole week—maybe even ten days! with Lily—made her want to skip around the office and hug everyone on the staff. Even Marvin.

“A week from today—next Monday.”

“Monday is fine. Perfect, in fact.” After they said good-bye, she sat looking at the closed office door. Well, that wasn't as bad as she had expected. Jared made no mention of that night when they'd nearly slept together and neither did she. Why would she? It was an incident best buried by both of them. Except that
the fallout from that evening had cost her the relationship with Evan. She flamed, just thinking of him. He was so stubborn! So judgmental! But her anger was quickly replaced by remorse. Had she perhaps taken him for granted, just the slightest bit, and now she was missing him? Yes. She was.

But why was she dwelling on that? She had made the overture; now it was his turn. And anyway, Lily! Ten days! Where was Jared going? He'd been quite evasive in their conversation, and she hadn't been able to pin him down. Then there was still the Geneva connection. She was no closer to understanding that woman's motives than she had been when Evan first presented her with the facts.

A knock on the door halted the small tornado of her thoughts. “Miranda? Alan Richardson is here.”

“Bring him right in,” Miranda said. She'd been angling for this visit for months, and she wasn't about to spoil it; she'd have to deal with her personal life later.

Claudia opened the door and Alan Richardson came striding into Miranda's office with a flourish. “Cupcakes!” he announced. “Ready for the unveiling?”

“Of course!” Miranda moved aside some papers, and Alan set down the Tupperware cupcake holder. He and Miranda had been in steady communication about the exclusive cupcake he was creating for the Mother's Day issue of
Domestic Goddess
. But he hadn't wanted to share too many details, so she hadn't actually seen the cupcakes before; today was the big reveal. “Let me just get a few other people in here too.” She buzzed Sallie and Marvin, and they all clustered around the desk as Alan took the lid off.

There sat twelve perfect pink and red cupcakes, nestled in red paper liners. They were iced with creamy white frosting
and each decorated with a rose that had been fashioned from fruit chews that had been cut, shaped, and dipped in decorating sugar. Tiny green leaves—also fruit chews—peeked out from the petals. Clustered appealingly together, they looked like an edible bouquet.

“They're gorgeous,” said Sallie. “Our readers will love them.”

“We're going to do a link to a video showing how to make the roses,” Miranda added. “And we're going to roll out the click-through feature on the recipe.” The click through had been Miranda's idea; it would allow the online readers to click to products used in creating the cupcake—a silicon frosting spreader, nesting mixing bowls, rolling pin—and order them on the spot. The retailers had loved this idea—naturally—and ad sales were up as a result.

“I'm already imagining the layout,” added Marvin. “Lush!”

“We'll do another batch for the shoot,” Alan said. “I just wanted you to see them first. And taste them too.”

“You don't need to ask twice!” Sallie began handing out the cupcakes. Miranda brought one out to the receptionist at the front desk, who actually squealed when it was placed in front of her. When Miranda returned, Sallie was halfway through her cupcake. “Great work,” she said. “I think this is really going to be a hit.”

Miranda reached for a cupcake and smiled. “Thanks. They're even better than I had hoped.”

“Keep up the good work.” Sallie finished eating and dabbed at her lips with the pink napkin Alan had brought. Then she turned to go back to her office. But Marvin, Claudia, and Alan were still enjoying the cupcakes—Marvin was in an
atypically affable mood—and Miranda was tempted to take another; there were still three on the tray. It was a celebration, right? A small but satisfying professional triumph. Before she could reach for one, though, her cell phone buzzed. She hesitated; maybe she should let it go to voice mail. But what if Jared was calling?

Instead it was Eunice, calling from the nursing home. “You'd better come quickly,” she said. “He's had a massive stroke, and they don't think he'll last long.”

Miranda endured the fifty-minute ride up to Westchester in tense, wretched silence. When a woman sat down next to her on the train, she jumped up like she'd been singed. Her dread of what faced her made the company of someone—anyone—else intolerable; she had to change her seat. Once she arrived, she climbed into a taxi and used the ten-minute ride to prepare herself.
He may already be gone by the time you get there,
she kept saying to herself. The words were an inoculation.
It may already be over.

But it wasn't. Her father was in the hospital wing attached to the home. When she walked into his room, his eyes were closed and his skin so translucent it seemed to be dissolving right in front of her. Eunice was seated at his bedside, a balled-up wad of tissues in her fist. “You can talk to the doctor if you want, but they said there's nothing they can do. His brain is too damaged. His heart too.” Miranda looked at her father. No tubes, no wires, nothing at all. “He signed a
do not
resuscitate
order, you know,” Eunice added. Miranda nodded; she did know. There was another chair in the corner of the room, and she pulled it over toward the bed. Then she sat and waited.

From time to time, someone came in—a nurse, a doctor, an elderly rabbi who offered to sit with them—but Miranda
remained focused on her father and only her father. Not this shrunken shell of a father though. No, she reached inside and brought out the memories, laying them all out before her like playing cards—a royal flush's worth. “Do you remember that summer on Cape Cod, Dad?” she said. “The waves were so big and gray; I asked you if they were dirty. You thought that was hilarious. And we ate fried clams at the little place we found—the one with the striped awnings and the lawn chairs? Mom didn't like it. She said it was tacky and she wouldn't go in. But we loved it. Remember? You do remember, don't you?”

Her father remained silent, breathing lightly. She tried again. “And what about when the skunk got into the cottage and we all ran out in our pajamas? Mom had that green goop all over her face and didn't want to go outside at first, so you carried her. She was laughing so hard you nearly dropped her.” Miranda reached for her father's hand and squeezed it. He did not squeeze back. But he did not withdraw his hand either. Then his eyes opened and he saw her—really saw her. She could tell by the way he was looking at her. It was the way he used to look at her before . . . before all
this
. “Miranda,” he said clearly. “Girl of mine.” His lips moved in a strange grimace; Miranda gasped softly when she realized it was a smile.

“Daddy!”

His hand tightened around hers and his eyes closed again. He began to move, shaking and twisting that grew more and more agitated, almost violent. “What's happening?” she said to Eunice in a panicked voice. But she knew. Eunice hurried out to get a doctor.

Miranda was alone with her father—
this
father, the aged, ruined man, not the adored and adoring father of her girlhood. For a terrible few seconds his back arched, thrusting his
chest forward and his hand, still in hers, squeezed tighter and tighter until he was hurting her. She did not remove her hand, but let it remain in that avid grip. Then all at once he let her go. His body sank back and his breathing grew slower and slower—until it stopped. By the time Eunice returned, a white-coated doctor hurrying in her wake, Miranda's father was dead.

*   *   *

They
came, her good friends, cooing, tending, organizing. Bea, back from her out-of-town gig, Lauren, kids consigned to her husband's care, Courtney, wedding dresses and seating charts set temporarily aside. They helped her choose a funeral home, pack up what remained of her father's earthly possessions; they were there when the plain pine box was lowered into the ground and stood nearby when she let the first shovelful of dirt cascade down onto the casket, the sound unnaturally loud in her ears. They rode back with her in the black town car, set out the sandwiches and pastries she had ordered for the shivah. There was one large white box whose origin no one could figure out; inside were three dozen cupcakes, half covered in simple, dark chocolate swirls, the other half, vanilla, and a note from Alan Richardson:
So sorry for your loss.

“At first I thought they might be from Evan,” Courtney said. “In fact, where is Evan? I was frankly kind of shocked that he wasn't at the cemetery.”

“Evan and I are taking a little break.” Miranda looked at the cupcakes, which Courtney had arranged on a tray; sending them was such a tasteful, thoughtful thing to have done. In fact, Evan didn't know about her father's death because she had not reached out to tell him.

“What are you talking about? You didn't tell me!”

It was true; Miranda had not told anyone about her night with Jared and the breakup with Evan; she was too ashamed. “I can't go into it now.”

Courtney gave her that
what-bullshit-story-are-you-trying-to-put-over-on-me
look. “Does he know about your dad?” Miranda shook her head. “Because if he did, that might change things.”

“No, it won't. He doesn't want to hear from me right now.”

And then Courtney had to drop it because Miranda would not say anything more.

By Sunday evening, it was all over. Her father had been buried and she'd finished sitting shivah—she'd opted for an abbreviated, three-day version of the ritual. Bea and Courtney packed up what remained of the food, and Lauren cleaned the kitchen. They all hugged as they said good night in Miranda's doorway.

“Wait—forgot something,” said Courtney, who darted back toward Miranda's bedroom. She stayed there for several minutes and emerged only after the others had gone.

“What did you forget?”

“Nothing. That was a ruse.”

“A ruse?” asked Miranda.

“You're stonewalling me!” Courtney looked exasperated. “I feel like there's something you're not telling me.”

“There's a lot I'm not telling you,” said Miranda. “Pull up a chair and settle in.” Courtney was right. She had been stonewalling her, but now she needed to unburden herself. She poured them each a glass of white and told Courtney about Geneva's relationship to Lily and then moved on to her unexpected encounter with Jared and Evan's subsequent discovery of it.

“You didn't actually sleep with him, did you?”

“I wanted to, but no, I didn't. Still, Evan doesn't believe me.”

“What does he want—forensic proof?”

Miranda smiled. “Is that Harris talking?”

“I guess it is. I still think Evan would come around if he knew about your dad.” Courtney finished her wine and poured herself a refill.

“I'm not so sure. And anyway, telling him about my father would be manipulative.” Miranda paused. “Wouldn't it?”

“Not if you love him.”

Miranda thought about that. “I do love him but maybe not quite in the way he loves me.”

“Maybe he thinks whether you did or didn't go all the way with Jared is beside the point. Maybe what he feels—
knows
—is that this guy floats your boat in a way that he doesn't. And it hurts.”

“You could be right. . . .”

“Listen, I believe that Jared Masters is gorgeous, sexy, and makes your little heart go pitter-patter. But do you think he's up for being a part of your fantasy family?”

“I don't know. But Evan is.” Miranda contemplated the pale gold liquid in her glass. “Of course, now I don't even have Lily—at least not on a full-time basis.”

“Would Evan care?” When Miranda shook her head, Courtney said, “Call him. Soon.”

“I'll think about it, okay? It's been a long day.”

Courtney got up from the table. “Of course it has. You just lost your father. But don't let Evan get lost too.”

When she had gone, Miranda peeled off her clothes and left them in a trail as she made her way to the bathroom. She'd pick them up later, of course. But right now, she needed to
immerse herself in a steaming tub, with the rest of that wineglass and a verbena-scented candle for company. Her breasts rose and bobbed on the water's surface. Oh, the heat felt so good, so comforting. “Here's to you, Daddy.” She raised the glass. “Rest in peace.”

Later, she wrapped herself in an ancient plaid robe she had plucked from his possessions. She'd also taken his Waterman fountain pen, a pair of silver cuff links, a green silk tie with a pattern of leaping fish, a box of his important papers, including his will, and the white, gold-embossed album that held her parents' wedding photos. She put it on the coffee table next to the linen-covered album Evan had made for her. He really had been attached to Lily; she might not find a man like that again so soon. Or ever. Maybe Courtney was right and she should try to contact him again. But she had tried reaching him. More than once. Wasn't it time for him to take a step in her direction now?

Seated on the sofa, she reached not for the wedding album, but the other one, which held pictures of Lily. Yet instead of focusing on the baby in the pictures, Miranda was more aware of what she could not see: Evan, invisible behind the lens, absorbed in his task of seeing, of recording. What had she said to Courtney about never having yearned for him? Well, she was yearning now. Before she could change her mind, she reached for her phone and punched in his number. She waited tensely for a few seconds while it rang and then the call went to voice mail; Miranda hesitated but did not leave a message. If he wanted to talk to her, he'd call her back.