“You’re not alone.”
“You know what I mean. My husband left me for a trophy paramour who thinks he’s an artistic brand instead of an artist.”
“Hank Frankel,” I said, “walking cliché.”
“Who’s sorry now?” she asked.
44
Is That a Yes?
ADDING TO THE CURSES visited upon 10 Turpentine Lane, I would count the sudden appearance of Brooke. Was she surveilling the house? At least on this Friday it seemed that way, since our doorbell rang approximately five minutes after we pulled in the driveway.
It took me a few seconds to grasp who this was on my porch in high-heeled boots and a fur coat made of something white and sheepdog shaggy. I heard no hello, no apology for dropping in unannounced. “Is Nick home?” she asked.
I said, “Hi, Brooke. I’m the doorman, Faith. We met at your party”—in a tone meant to remind her of her past unpleasantness.
“I need to speak to Nick,” she said.
I left her on the porch, in a show of no greater hospitality than what I’d extend to a purveyor of religious brochures. Nick was reading the sports page splayed on the kitchen table, so involved in March Madness that he hadn’t taken his coat off yet. “You have a visitor on the porch,” I said. “It’s Brooke. I’ll go upstairs.”
Why didn’t he yell to me when the coast was clear? I came down after hearing the door slam shut and a car roar off. “What did she want?” I asked.
She wanted him. She’d changed her mind and was rescinding the marriage ultimatum. Any timetable, any venue, any kind of ring, even none, would be okay. Could they try again without any pressure or deadlines?
“And your answer was . . . ?”
“I think you can guess.”
No, I couldn’t. I was afraid to guess, because bad news—especially lately—simply flew in the window in the form of uniformed policemen, brazen women, and the undead. He went back behind his newspaper, feet crossed on the coffee table, leaving me uninformed and paralyzed. And worse, he was humming.
“Nick?”
He lowered the page and smiled.
“Not funny!” I cried.
“You earned it—ye of little Faith.”
I plopped down next to him. “So, did you say, ‘Sorry, Brooke, that ship has sailed’? And for good measure, ‘Even though it’s only been a few months since I’ve been with Faith . . . when the right one comes along—’?”
“Pretty close.”
I motioned, coachlike. More please.
“I told her everything had changed. She asked when, and I said, ‘Oh, about a week after I moved in.’?”
“Did I know that?”
“You should. You started it.”
He liked to say that. It referred to my appearance at the breakfast table, on Christmas morning, scantily clad—a standing joke. Faith as wanton woman. I didn’t mind one bit.
Stuart called, asking to speak to Nick, apparently soon after Brooke returned to their apartment. I said, “Can I take a message?”
“How about you forward me to his cell?”
“I don’t know how to, and wouldn’t if I could. Case closed.”
“I’ll just say it then. Brooke poured her heart out to him. It took days for her to work up the courage and lay it all out on the line. He sent her away without even a hug.”
“Stuart? How old are you?”
“You know how old I am.”
“Is that what you learned from your aborted mission across the country wearing a sign that said FREE HUGS? That a hug means anything? Because everyone hugs now. It’s the new hello and good-bye and the new handshake. Meaningless! Is that what you were going to scold Nick about? Because I’m going to save you the indignity of being laughed at.”
“I don’t know who you are anymore,” he said. “And it makes me so sad.”
“Tell it to your memoir,” I said. “How’s that coming?”
“I’m working on it now, full-time.”
I knew what that meant. No more job.
I said, “Well, good luck with everything. I’ll give Nick your message.”
“Brooke needs a roommate,” he said. “I’m moving out.”
“To where?”
There was a long enough pause that I guessed the answer. “Back in with your mom and Rebecca?”
“My mom’s Rebecca. You mean Iona.”
“Okay, Iona. Is that a yes?”
“Temporarily. Until the baby’s born.”
I had a panicked few seconds thinking Brooke was pregnant with Nick’s baby until I remembered Stuart’s insemination contribution. “What happens then?” I asked.
“I’ll be watching the baby when the moms go back to work—in exchange for room and board.”
“What do you know about babies?”
“A lot, by the time he’s born. They have books, and I’m watching YouTube videos. We’re having a boy. That’s the whole idea: role modeling, a male influence, which I hope doesn’t sound like gender stereotyping.”
“You’d be the last person I’d accuse of gender stereotyping.”
“It was their idea. Well, Rebecca’s idea: first to consider me as the sperm donor and then as their governor.”
I coughed out, “Governor?”
“That’s the masculine form of governess. I think it has more dignity than manny.”
“Will this little boy know you’re his father? Is he going to call you Daddy?”
“To be negotiated. Besides, don’t babies take several months before they start talking?”
“Oh, brother.”
“Where did you say Nick had gone?”
“Nowhere. But I’ll tell him that it was unforgivable that he didn’t give Brooke a hug before she stormed out”—which produced a snicker from Nick, now stretched out on the couch and listening to every word.
“Also, if he knows anyone who needs a place to crash,” Stuart continued. “Well, more than that. Someone who could take my place at Brooke’s.”
I told him I was surprised Brooke would want to stay in Everton without a real job and—not to be unkind—any friends.
He told me I was sounding judgmental. Brooke considered online retailing very much a real job. “As for friends, she’s in a book group. And she considers Nick a friend even if it’s officially over.”
I said, “It’s been officially over long before today.”