happened?”
“My wife,” he said. “Denise.” He rarely mentioned her, but when he did, he added her name as a qualifier, as if I didn’t know.“She was slicing an onion and cut a tendon. I had to rush her to the hospital. Would’ve phoned but couldn’t get a moment alone. You’re at the restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“I can’t get away. She’s in the operating room.”
“That sucks. I’m sorry.”
“No,” he said. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“Stop saying you’re sorry.”
“Sorry.”
I frowned at the phone in silence.
“That was a joke,” he said.
“I know.”
“Sort of,” he said.
“I know.” Tears stung my eyes. I attempted a cheery tone. “I might as well”—did he notice my voice wavering?—“go home.” And spend my birthday alone in my room, feeling like a stupid idiot.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll call you later tonight.”
I said nothing, afraid a sob would come out instead of a sentence.
“Amanda? You okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m hanging up now.”
“I love you,” he said. “You know that, right?”
I sighed loudly enough for him to hear; a sigh was safer than a word.
“Happy birthday.”
“Thanks.”
I ended the call and gathered strength for my next challenge: getting out of the restaurant with my dignity intact. Taking a deepbreath, I pushed the table away and followed the zigzag back out through the dining room, muttered an apology to the maitre d’, and pushed open the door to the street. I thought of taking that walk around the neighborhood, but no, too dressed up, too hard to blend in. I needed to be alone so I could wallow in my self-pity in private. A cab turned the corner. I jumped in, slammed the door, and sank down in my seat as if paparazzi wanted a picture.
Leaving Madison Square behind, I cradled my cell phone in my palm and considered options. Call Molly? She was my only friend who still had the patience to hear about Jeff, and she was probably waiting to hear the details on Dr. Markoff. But it would be so humiliating to confess Jeff’s latest snub, and, at this point, wasn’t I getting what I deserved?
I could call some other friend and pretend to be happy. Hey, it’s my birthday, and I somehow forgot to make plans, wanna do something? Maybe I’d buy a bottle of wine at Astor Wines and get drunk. Swing by Pinisi Bakery and gorge on red velvet cupcakes. Or put an end to the day before it got any worse. Go straight home and hit the sack. Except I felt wide awake. Too bad I took that nap. If Dr. Markoff had doled out a prescription for sleeping pills, I’d be all set; instead, I had a ridiculous hypnosis tape. Like that was gonna do anything.
Another option? Call Jeff and tell him it was over.
God, I was such a fool. My tears finally spilled. I opened the window and let the air hit my face and the street noise cover my sobs. Home sounded lonely and depressing, but where else could I go?
I took a few calming breaths so I could speak to the driver in a steady voice. “Excuse me?” I sat forward. “Can you let me out at Astor Place instead?”
He nodded and I sat back. Whether I called Jeff to end it or chickened out, a good bottle of zinfandel would only help.
OLIVE
EVERYTHING WAS GOING swimmingly, though it did feel odd to eat breakfast in the quiet apartment without Father sitting across from me, and the morning paper was filled with bad news. It didn’t help that my monthly had come and cramps seemed to be pummeling me from inside.
I moaned softly and rocked back and forth while reading about the copper scandal. Father’s prediction that no serious repercussions would result had proved wrong. The Knickerbocker Trust Company was in trouble, and some other banks, rousing fears they would fail. Thank goodness Father didn’t do business with any of them. But the stock market had sunk to new lows, and J. P. Morgan had been summoned from a vacation in
“My wife,” he said. “Denise.” He rarely mentioned her, but when he did, he added her name as a qualifier, as if I didn’t know.“She was slicing an onion and cut a tendon. I had to rush her to the hospital. Would’ve phoned but couldn’t get a moment alone. You’re at the restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“I can’t get away. She’s in the operating room.”
“That sucks. I’m sorry.”
“No,” he said. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“Stop saying you’re sorry.”
“Sorry.”
I frowned at the phone in silence.
“That was a joke,” he said.
“I know.”
“Sort of,” he said.
“I know.” Tears stung my eyes. I attempted a cheery tone. “I might as well”—did he notice my voice wavering?—“go home.” And spend my birthday alone in my room, feeling like a stupid idiot.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Of course.”
“I’ll call you later tonight.”
I said nothing, afraid a sob would come out instead of a sentence.
“Amanda? You okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m hanging up now.”
“I love you,” he said. “You know that, right?”
I sighed loudly enough for him to hear; a sigh was safer than a word.
“Happy birthday.”
“Thanks.”
I ended the call and gathered strength for my next challenge: getting out of the restaurant with my dignity intact. Taking a deepbreath, I pushed the table away and followed the zigzag back out through the dining room, muttered an apology to the maitre d’, and pushed open the door to the street. I thought of taking that walk around the neighborhood, but no, too dressed up, too hard to blend in. I needed to be alone so I could wallow in my self-pity in private. A cab turned the corner. I jumped in, slammed the door, and sank down in my seat as if paparazzi wanted a picture.
Leaving Madison Square behind, I cradled my cell phone in my palm and considered options. Call Molly? She was my only friend who still had the patience to hear about Jeff, and she was probably waiting to hear the details on Dr. Markoff. But it would be so humiliating to confess Jeff’s latest snub, and, at this point, wasn’t I getting what I deserved?
I could call some other friend and pretend to be happy. Hey, it’s my birthday, and I somehow forgot to make plans, wanna do something? Maybe I’d buy a bottle of wine at Astor Wines and get drunk. Swing by Pinisi Bakery and gorge on red velvet cupcakes. Or put an end to the day before it got any worse. Go straight home and hit the sack. Except I felt wide awake. Too bad I took that nap. If Dr. Markoff had doled out a prescription for sleeping pills, I’d be all set; instead, I had a ridiculous hypnosis tape. Like that was gonna do anything.
Another option? Call Jeff and tell him it was over.
God, I was such a fool. My tears finally spilled. I opened the window and let the air hit my face and the street noise cover my sobs. Home sounded lonely and depressing, but where else could I go?
I took a few calming breaths so I could speak to the driver in a steady voice. “Excuse me?” I sat forward. “Can you let me out at Astor Place instead?”
He nodded and I sat back. Whether I called Jeff to end it or chickened out, a good bottle of zinfandel would only help.
OLIVE
EVERYTHING WAS GOING swimmingly, though it did feel odd to eat breakfast in the quiet apartment without Father sitting across from me, and the morning paper was filled with bad news. It didn’t help that my monthly had come and cramps seemed to be pummeling me from inside.
I moaned softly and rocked back and forth while reading about the copper scandal. Father’s prediction that no serious repercussions would result had proved wrong. The Knickerbocker Trust Company was in trouble, and some other banks, rousing fears they would fail. Thank goodness Father didn’t do business with any of them. But the stock market had sunk to new lows, and J. P. Morgan had been summoned from a vacation in
Similar Books
