You Were Meant For Me (28 page)

C
eleste was especially clingy on the morning of Halloween; when Miranda attempted to hand her to Supah, she wrapped her arms tightly around Miranda's neck and would not let go.

“She be fine with me. Go to office.” Supah extricated Miranda from the baby's grip and then, when Celeste started to howl, bounced her in her arms as Miranda stood there in her coat, stricken with indecision. Leave now and assume that Celeste would be fine once she was out the door? Take the morning off and go in this afternoon? But that would be setting a bad precedent; much as she might have liked to stay home with Celeste, she did not, even with her father's money, have that luxury.

“Mommy will be back,” she said as Supah attempted to distract Celeste with various stuffed animals. “We'll go to the Halloween parade and see all the costumes.” Celeste batted
the toys away and cried harder. Miranda left, the sounds of Celeste's wailing an awful echo in her head the whole ride into the office.

When she arrived, late and perspiring—the temperature had spiked and her wool coat was much too warm—she saw with some dismay that her desk was crowded with bottles of olive oil: estate-produced olive oil from the hills of Chianti Rufina, first-day-of-harvest oil from Spain, oil infused with orange, with cardamom, coriander, cumin, and cinnamon. They were doing a feature story on olive oil and she planned to have a tasting party later in the day, only she'd forgotten the loaves of bread she'd meant to pick up. Another thing to deal with.

Moving some of the bottles aside, Miranda cleared a place and got to work. Lunch was a yogurt at her desk; when her cell phone buzzed around two o'clock, she was tempted not to answer. Then she saw it was Courtney's number on the screen; the wedding was just a few days away and she sensed it might be important.

“Can you talk?” Courtney sounded very agitated.

“For a few minutes.” Miranda looked at the layout she'd been considering, splashed across her computer screen, and the bottles of oil, which she had not even had time to bring into the office kitchen. “You sound upset; what's going on?”

“It's Fluff.”

“Is he sick?” Miranda knew how much Courtney adored that odious little Pomeranian of hers.

“He's gone!”

“What do you mean, gone? Did he escape? Or run away?”

“No, it was Harris. You know he's never liked him.”

“You've mentioned that. . . .” This was an understatement;
Harris had an extreme aversion to the yappy little animal, and for once, Miranda was on his side.

“Well, this morning I had an appointment with the hairdresser, and when I got back, Fluff was just gone! I nearly went crazy looking for him until I found Harris's note. He said that he couldn't live with him anymore. The barking drove him insane, and this morning, after I left, he snapped at him. But that's because he was wearing those shearling slippers again!”

“The dog has a problem with Harris's slippers?” Miranda was not following.

“For some reason, the smell gets to him. So I told Harris he had to get rid of them. But did he listen to me? No! Instead, on his way to work, he dropped Fluff at what he assured me was an
excellent foster
home
and said that we could figure out what to do about him after the wedding. Right now, there isn't going to be a wedding because I'm ready to call the whole thing off!”

“Have you phoned Harris?”

“Only about fifteen times! He's in some meeting or other and
can't be
disturbed.
I don't believe it for a second! I'll bet he just doesn't want to deal with me—and he's right because I am so furious I might set his office on fire!”

“Courtney, I know how angry you are—”

“Not angry! Enraged! Seething! And this isn't the first time he's pulled something like this.”

“What do you mean?” Miranda was curious. Courtney had never indicated that there was anything wrong with the perfect guy she'd snagged; she praised everything from his Ivy League education to his taste in ties.

“He's an autocrat. Instead of discussing, he just decides.
He gave a chair I like to Goodwill because he said it was uncomfortable. He dumps my junk mail; I know it's just junk mail, but still, it's mine to dump. He even got rid of a sweater whose color he said made me look wan—his word. And now Fluff—that's the last straw!”

“Why did you put up with it?”

“You know why.” Courtney's voice was no longer angry, but small and sad.

“I do?” Miranda was confused. Certainly she had put up with plenty from Luke, but she'd always shared her misgivings with her friends; Courtney had not.

“Because you're not the only one feeling a little desperate; my clock is ticking too, Miranda. I wanted to get married, start a family, and so does Harris. And there are so many things I do love about him. . . . But now I don't know. I just don't know. I think I should tell him the wedding is off.”

A few months ago, Miranda might have cheered at that statement. But where would that leave Courtney? “Listen. I want you to promise me—and I mean
promise me
—that you will not do anything until I call you back. You need someone to help you through this, and I've just been elected.”

“I want Fluff; he had no right to take him.” She was crying now.

“No, he didn't—at least not without telling you first. Now, just sit tight.”

She got off the phone and sprang into action. First, she sent a group e-mail postponing the olive oil tasting until the next day. Then she called Harris—she still had his number—and when she was told that he was in a meeting, she went into Sallie's office and told her she'd have to leave for a few hours. “Personal crisis,” she said.

“Not the baby?” Sallie looked worried.

“No. Not the baby. But something urgent that just can't wait.”

Then, leaving her coat but grabbing her bag, she hurried downstairs, flagged a taxi, sweet-talked the security guard downstairs by saying she had a surprise for her fiancé—one of the attorneys—and did not want to be announced. Then she took the elevator to the twenty-first floor, where Wickham, Stephens and Grotstein had their offices.

“Do you have an appointment?” asked the receptionist.

“No, but it's an emergency. Tell him Miranda Berenzweig is here to see him.”

“I'm sorry, but he left very clear instructions—he was not to be disturbed.”

Miranda tried to read the woman's face, but it was opaque. “Fine.” She turned and settled herself on the leather sofa at the far end of the reception area. “I'll wait.”

“He might be some time.”

“That's all right.” Miranda picked up the copy of
Architectural Digest
from a pile that sat on a table. “I'm in no hurry.”

Miranda went through all the issues of
Architectural Digest
that were on that table, and then she moved on to
Vanity Fair
. When she had nearly gotten through the second issue, three men in dark suits emerged from behind a closed door. Harris was one of them. Miranda stood, sending the magazine sliding to the floor. Hastily, she picked it up and walked right over.

“I need to see you,” she said quietly. “Now.”

“Miranda, hi. I'm afraid this isn't a good time—” He looked nervously at his companions, both of whom seemed just a little too interested in what might be about to happen.

“Yes, it is. In fact, it's an excellent time. Is there somewhere we could talk that's more private?”

Harris looked wretched. “I suppose so.” He turned to the other men. “You go ahead without me; I'll catch you later.” Then, to Miranda, “We can go into my office, but it's got to be quick.”

Miranda said nothing until she was seated on the other side of his wide mahogany desk, door closed quietly behind him.

“Is this about the dog? Did Courtney send you?”

“No, and it's better that I came without her—you wouldn't want her here now.”

“I guess it wasn't the best way to handle it—”

“You mean kidnapping her dog when she was out? No. I'd say that was about the worst way. She's about to cancel the wedding—that's how mad she is.”

“She wouldn't.” Harris looked anxious, though.

“Oh? I wouldn't bet on that. When's she's angry, Courtney is a force of nature.”

“Don't I know it.” Harris rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. “But the dog is a menace, and Courtney just will not hear it. From day one, that animal has had it in for me—snarling and snapping all the time. And then there's the peeing on the floor, the sofa, even the bed; and the chewing, but only my things: shoes, my favorite cashmere scarf. Did she tell you it almost bit me today? I just couldn't take it anymore. I knew she'd never agree, so I brought the dog over to my aunt in Forest Hills. She lives alone in a big house with a yard and she loves dogs—even psychotic ones like Courtney's. It's the perfect environment for that miserable fur ball.”

“Did you tell Courtney how you felt about the dog?”

“Did I tell her? Of course! She just stonewalls me. She
even wants to take the dog on our honeymoon; can you believe it?”

Miranda could. “I know that dog could try the patience of a saint. But how you handle this issue is a blueprint for your marriage. You can't just make a unilateral decision, especially about something that's so important to Courtney.”

“She can visit the dog anytime she likes; my aunt would be so happy to see her.”

“Have you listened to one word I've said? This isn't just about the dog; it's about how you and Courtney are going to make a life together.” When Harris was quiet, Miranda continued. “Come on—you're a lawyer. You were trained to negotiate.”

“I was also trained to cut through the crap, and Courtney has been dishing out plenty of that. But maybe I should have tried harder to get through to her. I'm used to just taking action; it's just how I operate.”

“That might work in a courtroom. But not with your wife-to-be.”

Harris studied his hands; his nails were bitten way down, a small vulnerability that Miranda found almost endearing. “I'll go to my aunt's after work and get the damn dog. But only on the condition that she acknowledges we have a problem and is willing to confront it.”

“It sounds like Fluff needs a professional evaluation.”

“What do you mean? An animal behavior expert? A pet therapist, for Christ's sake?”

“Actually, yes. We interviewed a pet therapist for a story on canine acting out a few months ago and he was pretty insightful. I'd venture he'd say Fluff was used to being Courtney's main man before you came along and now he has to
share her and adjust to a new environment—all at the same time. The dog doesn't know how to be around you. Will he be dominant? Will you? That might explain the peeing too. There's even a name for it: submissive urination. It means he's trying to ingratiate himself with you.”

“Well, it's not working.” But Harris did smile. “I guess it couldn't hurt to consult someone; could you get me the name of the person quoted in the article?”

“I'll even send you the article to read.” Miranda let that sink in before making her next suggestion. “And maybe it would help if you two saw a couples therapist a few times; it might help in coming up with better ways to deal with conflict.” Listen to her: Social Work 101.

“I should call. She's been trying me all day.”

“Do that, and when you're through, I'll talk to her.” Miranda waited while Harris made the call. At first, he did almost none of the talking; Miranda could hear the shrill sound of Courtney's voice on the other end of the line. But eventually she let Harris talk and he touched on the major points—therapy for dog, therapy for them, no dog on honeymoon. By the time he handed the phone to Miranda, they had already made plans for the trip out to Forest Hills later that day.

“You're good?” Miranda asked her.

“I'll be better when Fluff is back home again; I'm going to call Harris's aunt so I can talk to him.”

“Courtney, you cannot talk to a dog on the phone.”

“Why not? He'll recognize the sound of my voice; he always does.”

“If you say so.”

“Thank you, Miranda. I think you're right about the couples counselor, and I'm going to make an appointment as soon
as we're back from the honeymoon. Harris said he's on board with it.”

“I know. I've been right here with him the whole time.”

“Of course you have. You're the best.”

Miranda said good-bye and handed the phone back to Harris. “Okay, crisis averted—at least for now.”

“Thank you, Miranda.”

“You're welcome.” She stood up; what time was it anyway? She had to get back to the office.

“So how's it working out with your baby girl? Courtney says that the adoption is being finalized.”

“It is and I couldn't be happier.”
Except if I had a partner—like Evan—to share it with,
she thought. But though she was feeling more kindly disposed toward Harris, she wasn't about to share that. She took her bag and left.

It was almost five o'clock when she walked into her office; she saw that the bottles were gone—someone must have taken them to the kitchen—and in their place was something shrouded in purple and turquoise tissue. What was it? She lifted out a small costume comprised of felt, satin, and a few real feathers in the tail—Celeste's Halloween costume. She had totally forgotten! The crew in sewing had made it and Celeste would be the most adorable peacock in the Park Slope Halloween parade—if Miranda could get home in time to take her. She stuffed the costume into her bag, grabbed her coat, and rushed out the door. This was Celeste's first Halloween and Miranda wasn't going to miss it.