Of course, he had to say that he knew it was a joke, knew I had to be kidding. Ha, good one!
“In that case, you’ll excuse me while I get back to thanking”—glancing at the top name on my to-do list—“Tanner Rowland for his generous gift to his beloved alma mater.”
Reggie still didn’t move. “Now that there’s nothing to worry about,” I said, “you can amscray.”
He glanced Nick’s way then back to me. “You two have some kind of holiday party you’re going to? Not our department party. I mean, a private one?”
“Very private,” I said.
“Which I’m skipping,” said Nick.
“Did I hear ‘open house’? Like you can bring a guest?”
“I’m not going,” I said. “He’s not going,” pointing at Nick. “So you can hardly be a plus-one.”
“Who’s throwing it? Anyone I know? Alums?”
“No,” said Nick.
“Is it the kind of party where an invitation is transferable?”
“Doubt it,” I said.
“Whose party again?”
“You don’t know them,” said Nick.
Case closed, topic moot, I granted, “Stuart Levine and Brooke somebody.”
“Stuart and Brooke?” Reggie repeated. “I know those names.”
I pointed to the wall where the map of the continental United States once hung. “He’s the friend whose walk across the country I was tracking.”
“Friend? Aren’t you going to marry the guy?”
“Not anymore.”
Nick said, “She realized around Illinois that it wasn’t meant to be.”
“And why does the name Brooke ring a bell?” Reggie asked.
Nick shrugged. I shrugged. At this social dead end, Reggie returned to his default jock goofiness. “Your good friend here, Mr. Can’t Make a Save to Save His Life, allowed four goals last night.”
“Do I care?” said Nick. “I shouldn’t be in the net anyway.”
“C’mon. Two more games. You’re no quitter. You just need to focus.” Then, fond as he always was of his coach mode, Reggie turned back to me. “None of my business, Frankel, but here’s what I’m thinkin’: you should go to that party.”
“Really? Why is that?”
“Don’t make me say it,” said Reggie.
“Not ‘do it for the school’ so I can network there?”
He lowered his voice. “Seriously. Do you get out? Do you go to parties? Lots of people call off weddings and they move on. Would a little social life kill you? I mean, if you went to a party, you might—you know—meet someone.”
“Is that how you met the nonexistent Mrs. O’Sullivan?”
“I’m a guy. We do just fine.”
I looked over to see if Nick had heard. His face and posture registered nothing but full attention to fund-raising.
I said to Reggie, “Surely you know you’re not supposed to ask me about my personal life. And, just for the record, I go to plenty of parties. Have I missed one single reunion gala or trustees’ cocktail party?”
Reggie said, “That’s not partying. That’s work. We don’t even drink at those things.”
I said, “I have a ton of work, so if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“Okay, sure. Just sayin’.”
“Just sayin’ what?”
He smiled. “You could do okay out there.”
“Bye,” I said. “And close the door behind you for once.” I waited for the sound of Reggie’s footsteps to fade. “From now on, we work with the door closed. No more eavesdropping for that yenta,” I said to Nick.
“It’s reportable,” he said. “You don’t ask employees about their personal lives. Ever.”
Of course, he’d heard every word.
Brooke’s apartment was crimson walled, with odd objects hung in the living room: a toy ukulele, a mangy fur-trimmed cardigan on a hanger, and a framed Boston Globe front page featuring Jackie Kennedy’s marriage to Aristotle Onassis. Brooke may have realized that the woman in the black-velvet tunic over lacy tights from a Soho boutique, with freshly cut and blown-dry hair, was me, but she clearly wasn’t in the business of greeting or welcoming her guests.
“Mulled cider on the stove,” Stuart told me. “Cups somewhere close by. We figured it would be do-it-yourself. So great you came!”
The kitchen was merely one end of the living room, with a counter dividing the space, and a mess of epic proportions. It was as if every pot, pan, and utensil used in the preparation of the buffet offerings was on display, unwashed, on every surface and piled high in the sink. A few onion skins and potato peels decorated the floor.
This was when Brooke found me, staring—perhaps a little smugly—at the inexplicable mess. “Disgusting, right?” I heard.
I said, “No. No. Perfectly understandable. This is what a kitchen looks like when you’re getting ready for a party.”
“I should’ve started earlier. Did you ever make lotkeys?”
“Um, excuse me? Did I ever make what?”
“For Hanukkah? Potato lotkeys. It didn’t sound like such a big deal until I did it. What a mess. I was still in the shower when the first guests showed up.”
I said, “It was nice of you to acknowledge Hanukkah.”
“It was Stuart’s idea. He’s Jewish.”
I said I knew.
“How do you know him?” she asked.
Really? I took the opportunity to downplay my embarrassing and unaccountable romantic alliance with him by saying only “I supported his walk across . . . the early states.”
“I’m Brooke,” she said. “You probably figured that out already.”
“I’m Faith Frankel.”
A curtain of ice dropped between us. “You work with Nick,” she said. “Side by side, I understand.”
Maybe if there had been congeniality rather than accusation in her tone, I wouldn’t have answered as I did. “That’s right. I work and live with him.”
“Thanks a lot. Thanks for everything,” she sputtered.