More listening and nodding. Then he said, “And you had no difficulty reaching our headmaster over the weekend?” He hit speaker, and Mrs. Hepworth’s wrinkly voice filled the room. I heard “He lives in that beautiful house with the portico. All I had to do was call the main number and I was put through. First I talked to his wife, and then he called me back. He was at a game. The school was playing another school, but I didn’t catch its name or the sport.”
Nick said, “I was at that game myself! Football! Everton won!” And with that, he mouthed Did not.
Mrs. Hepworth said, “He called me back after the match, all apologies. And I told him that every penny of Sandy’s donation was meant to go to the school to fix the cracks in the pool and . . . those other things.”
“The locker room. It was a hellhole! We’re so grateful.”
Mrs. Hepworth, age eighty-seven, or -eight or -nine, could be heard tittering at “hellhole” while I was nearly losing consciousness at Nick’s nerve.
“I hope to meet you very soon!” he bellowed. “We’ll most assuredly have a beautiful dedication when the pool is refurbished. I look forward to that, as does Faith. As does every single member of our grateful community.”
“Very well,” she said.
I picked up my pen to write another thank-you note. This one should be going to a Geoffrey J. Kemmerer, class of ’58, for his (adverb, adjective) donation to the (fill-in-the-blank) fund. Instead, I composed sentences for Nick, now absent, gone to meet with my main accuser. I wrote that no matter what the rest of this Monday brought he might be the best, most loyal coworker I could ever ask for.
Too much, I thought, too overwrought and sentimental. I crushed this first draft into an unreadable ball and threw it away.
15
Progress
I HAD NO CHOICE. As a self-respecting, more-or-less-employed adult woman, with family members and coworkers who found Stuart, at best, lacking, I had to break up with him. I did it at eleven p.m., figuring he’d be off the road, on a bar stool, awaiting some ping that signaled attention being paid in the form of a retweet.
I texted We’re done. I’m breaking up with you. I mean it this time. Your ex-fiancée, Faith.
Followed a second later with PS: cut up my credit card.
My phone rang. “Babe? What’re you trying to say?”
“I just told you. We’re done. Finis.”
“But, babe—”
“Don’t call me babe. And after this, don’t call me at all.”
“But, but, but . . . why?”
“As if you don’t know,” I cried.
“I don’t know. If you saw the stunned look on my face—”
“I’ve been trying to reach you every possible way short of an all-points bulletin. For days!”
So predictably and—realizing this very late—characteristically, he was the injured party. “You know I can’t always return calls,” he whined. “My roaming charges would be ridiculous.”
Not totally confident in that arena, I took the plunge anyway. “Roaming charges? Within the United States? That’s total bullshit.”
“It’s not bullshit! You know my calling plan. I had to get the rock-bottom one.”
“The issue isn’t your calling plan. The issue is your total self-absorption. I left you messages of every kind. I needed to talk to you. I was nearly fired for something I didn’t do. I was—there’s no other word for it—in despair.”
In a voice devoid of empathy, reflecting only apprehension related to his empty wallet, he repeated, “You were fired?”
“All weekend I thought I was! And where were you? Instagramming in a saloon!”
“Do you want me to come home? Because I will. I’ll end this journey right now, right here, in”—a long pause while he looked for a geographical cue—“Mattoon, Illinois. I’ll get on a bus and be at your door by the time you get home from work tomorrow. Or maybe the day after that.”
I had not been expecting this. Nor, I realized, did I even want this. “What about your journey? Your lifelong dream?”
Given his sudden desire to give it all up for the woman he allegedly loved, I thought he might say, My dream? You’re my dream, Faith, or at least something with emotional content. But what I heard was “Can you hold for a sec? I have another call.”
I admit it. I held. A refilled glass of wine later, I heard, “Sorry, luv. That was potential money on the other line. By the way, I heard from someone named Nick, who wanted me to call you. Who’s he again?”
“My coworker. And friend.”
“Girlfriend, it sounds like,” Stuart said.
“What does that mean—‘girlfriend’?”
“Your BFF, all bent out of shape because you and I didn’t speak for what, like a day? You confide in him? Have lunch together? . . . Oh, shit. Can you hold a sec?”
I yelled, “No!” But he’d left just the same. Pride and fury dictated that I hang up.
What had this conversation accomplished? Nothing. Was he sorry, not sorry, coming home, not coming home? An hour later, a text woke me. All good? he asked.
Reggie, my idiot department head, was back at work after his three-day weekend, apparently taking advantage of an early snowstorm on some southern Vermont slope.
“What are these for?” I asked, pointing to the enormous bouquet of flowers he was holding aloft.
“You know . . . the stuff. Last week . . .”
“Are they meant as an apology?”
“No!” said Reggie. “Not an apology. A thank-you.”
I glanced Nick’s way. His eyes were open wide, a silent plea for me to keep Reggie on the hot seat.
“And you’re thanking me for what exactly?”
Reggie, looking around, asked, “We have a vase, right?”
“I believe we do. Somewhere.” I turned back to my keyboard, wrists high, piano-recital graceful.
“Frankel?” I heard. I looked up. Reggie was pointing the cellophaned bouquet of Thanksgiving-hued mums at me.
“Yes?”
“Bottom line? You kicked ass—a hundred-grand donation? When does that not deserve a big fat muchas gracias?”
I asked, “That depends. Is this an adios con muchas gracias?”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s asking if this is a cheesy golden parachute,” Nick volunteered.
“No way! Can’t a guy, a boss, say it with flowers? Is that sexist or something?”
I said, “You weren’t at work yesterday. How do you know I’m not a goner?”
“I’m your boss, that’s how. Ever hear of conference calls?”
I took the bouquet. “Thank you,” I said. “Although I could’ve done without this whole ordeal.”
“C’mon. What ordeal? It’s done. Over. Forgotten.”