The One In My Heart

But this man, this English TV producer, where did he fit in? And what had Zelda done with her heartbreak?

“Children are always the last to learn about their parents,” said Bennett, breaking the silence as the light turned green. “A couple of years ago my sister mentioned that I was Mom and Dad’s reconciliation baby. I can’t tell you how shocked I was—I had no idea that they’d divorced and married again.”

It was the first time he’d said anything about a sibling. “Is she your only sibling?”

“I have a brother too. He’s four years older than me, and she two years younger.”

I wouldn’t have pegged him for a middle child. “They’re not in the city, I suppose.”

“Prescott lives in Singapore, and Imogene is out in Silicon Valley.”

“Sounds like you get along just fine with them—your sister, at least.”

“Before I moved back east, she and I used to see each other every week. My brother usually makes a West Coast stop when he visits the States.”

I sighed. “One of them should serve as your liaison. I’m sure they’ll do it for far less than a million dollars.”

“What, and miss the fun of pretending to be a couple with you?”

That was the trouble, wasn’t it? That it might actually be fun, until we hit the six-month drop-off date, and he thanked me and walked off into the sunset with his parents.

We were exiting the park when Bennett said, “I call Mrs. Asquith every few weeks. Would you like me to ask her about Zelda’s old boyfriend when I speak to her next?”

I wavered for a moment. “Yes, I would. Thank you.”

“Consider it done.”

Consider it done. I remembered his text with that exact phrase. I could recite our entire exchange of texts from memory—and I sometimes did, silently, to myself.

The taxi came to a stop before my house. Bennett walked me to the front door and kissed me on the temple. “Sweet dreams.”


THE NEXT EVENING, AN ALMOST freakishly beautiful flower arrangement came to the door, a profusion of tulips in a clear glass trough, the blossoms progressing from pure creamy white to pale blush to a deep purple, the whole thing at once delicate and dramatic.

A note came along. Thanks for dinner.

I reached for my phone. Just for dinner?

For sex you should send me flowers. Your orgasms were worth a dozen gladioluses, at least.

I shook my head, half smiling, and looked at that message for far too long.

The next afternoon I came home early to meet Zelda. I was turning the key in the front door when a big, black Town Car pulled up and disgorged her, sun-kissed from the walking holiday, a stylish new coat swishing around her knees.

“Nice!” I said as I hugged her. The coat was cobalt blue, a brilliant pop of color against the overcast winter day.

“A present from Mrs. Asquith.”

“Did she get the car service for you too?”

“No, that’s courtesy of the Somerset boy.”

Whose evil genius I had once again underestimated. “I see.”

I opened my wallet to tip the driver, who had lined up Zelda’s luggage neatly inside our door. But he only smiled and said, “No worries, ma’am. The gratuity is all taken care of.”

I still gave him something, on the off chance that Bennett was a terrible tipper.

Zelda and I hugged each other again. But no sooner had I put the kettle to boil than the doorbell rang. I thought perhaps she had forgotten something in the Town Car, but it was a deliveryman, holding a big brown bag.

Which turned out to contain a five-course dinner, along with a box of pastry.

“Bennett did say he’d send something around,” said Zelda. “Doesn’t do anything by half measures, does he?”

The man’s manipulativeness was without bounds. “He called you?”

“Yes, during the ride. And apologized for being somewhat dishonest when we had lunch. He said that he already figured out you were his neighbor in Cos Cob, but chose not to mention it because he wasn’t sure whether at that point you’d realized who he was.”

“I hadn’t.”

“But you met again on Boxing Day and got it all sorted out. Isn’t he a dish?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

Zelda noticed the flowers. “Oh, my, did he send those also?”

“It’s a take-no-prisoners charm offensive.”

“Don’t be so tough on the poor dear. It’s about time some nice young man mounted a charm offensive for you. He did mention that you’re a bit reluctant to go out with him, but that he’s trying to change your mind.”

I was both miffed that Bennett had preempted me in his practice of evil genius-ism—and relieved that I didn’t have to explain anything. “All right, enough about him. Let’s talk about you. Tell me everything.”