CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
I hurry across town, ignoring the man who tries to shove a flyer into my hand. My legs feel shaky, but I press on toward the entrance to Central Park.
I make it to the next crosswalk just as the light blinks red, and I stand on the corner, breathing hard. Maureen is probably at the restaurant by now. Richard would have ordered a nice wine; savory bread would be placed on the table. Perhaps the three of them are clinking glasses, toasting to the future. Under the table, Richard’s hand might be squeezing his fiancée’s. His hands always felt so strong when they were on me.
The light turns and I bolt across the street.
We went to Sfoglia many times together—until one night when we abruptly stopped.
I remember that evening so vividly. It was snowing and I’d marveled at the way the fat white flakes had transformed the city, dusting the streets, erasing the rough edges and grime. Richard would be coming from the office and had asked me to meet him at the restaurant. I’d stared out the taxi window, smiling as I caught sight of a little boy in a striped hat sticking out his tongue to catch a taste of winter. I’d felt a yearning tug in my chest; Dr. Hoffman still couldn’t pinpoint why I hadn’t been able to get pregnant, and I had just scheduled another round of tests.
Richard had called as my taxi pulled up in front of the restaurant. “I’m running a few minutes late.”
“Okay. I guess you’re worth waiting for.”
I heard his deep chuckle, then I paid the driver and exited the cab. I stood on the sidewalk for a moment, absorbing the energy. I always looked forward to meeting Richard in the city.
I made my way to the bar, where there was one open stool. I ordered a mineral water and eavesdropped on the conversations around me.
“He’s going to call,” the young woman to my right reassured her friend.
“What if he doesn’t?” her friend asked.
“Well, you know what they say: The best way to get over one guy is to get under another.”
The women burst into laughter.
I hadn’t seen my girlfriends much lately; it had made me miss them. They still worked full-time, and on the weekends, when they went out and commiserated about the men they were seeing, I was always with Richard.
After a few minutes, the bartender set a glass of white wine down in front of me. “Compliments of the gentleman at the end of the bar.”
I looked over and saw a man lift his cocktail in my direction. I remember raising the wineglass with my left hand, hoping he’d see my wedding ring, and taking a tiny sip before pushing it away.
“Not a fan of Pinot Grigio?” a voice asked a few moments later. The guy was short but muscular, with curly hair. The opposite of Richard.
“No, it’s good . . . thanks. I’m just waiting for my husband.” I took another sip to remove any potential sting from my rebuff.
“If you were my wife, I wouldn’t keep you waiting in a bar. You never know who might hit on you.”
I laughed, still holding on to the glass of wine.
I glanced at the door and locked eyes with Richard. I saw him take it all in—the man, the wine, my high-pitched, nervous giggle—then he came toward me.
“Honey!” I cried, standing up.
“I thought you’d be at the table. I hope they’re still holding it for us.”
The curly-haired man melted away as Richard signaled the hostess.
“Do you want to take your glass of wine with you?” she asked.
I shook my head mutely.
“I wasn’t really drinking it,” I whispered to Richard as we walked to the table.
His jaw tightened. He didn’t respond.
I’m so lost in the memory that I don’t even realize I’ve stepped into traffic until someone grabs my arm and yanks me back. A second later a delivery truck speeds past, blaring its horn.
I wait on the corner for another moment, until the light turns green. I imagine Richard ordering the squid ink pasta for his new love, telling her she has to try it. I see him half rise when she excuses herself to go to the restroom. I wonder if Maureen will lean toward Richard with an approving nod that says, She’s better than your last one.
On the night when the stranger bought me a glass of wine and I’d taken a few sips to avoid being rude, our meal had been ruined. The restaurant was so charming, with its exposed brick wall and intimate rooms, but Richard barely talked to me. I tried to make conversation, to comment on the food, to ask him about his day, but after a while, I stopped.
When he finally spoke, after I’d pushed away my plate of half-eaten pasta, his words felt like a hard pinch.
“That guy in college, the one who got you pregnant. Are you still in touch with him?”
“What?” I gasped. “Richard, no . . . I haven’t talked to him in years.”
“What else haven’t you told me?”
“I don’t—nothing!” I stuttered.
His tone was incongruous with our elegant surroundings and the smiling server approaching with the dessert menu. “Who was that guy you were flirting with at the bar?”
My cheeks heated up at the fresh accusation. I realized his words had been taken in by the couple at the next table, and they were now looking at us.
“I don’t know who he was. He bought me a drink. That was it.”
“And you drank it.” Richard’s lips tightened and his eyes narrowed. “Even though it might hurt our baby.”
“There is no baby! Richard, why are you so angry with me?”
“Anything else you want to reveal while we’re learning more about each other, sweetheart?”
I blinked against the sharp sting of tears, then I abruptly pushed back my chair, the wooden legs scraping against the floor. I grabbed my coat and fled into the still-falling snow.
I stood outside, tears streaming down my cheeks, wondering where I could go.
Then he appeared. “I’m sorry, honey.” I knew he truly meant it. “I had a horrible day. I should never have taken it out on you.”
He reached out his arms, and after a moment, I leaned into them.
He stroked my hair, and my sobs dissolved into a loud hiccup. He laughed quietly then. “My love.” All the venom had disappeared from his tone, replaced by a velvety tenderness.
“I’m sorry, too.” My voice was muffled because my head was pressed against his chest.
After that night, we never went back to Sfoglia.
I’m almost there now. I’ve crossed the park and have just three more blocks to travel. My chest feels tight. I’m gasping. I yearn to sit down, just for a minute, but I can’t miss my chance to see her.
I force myself to run faster, to avoid the subway grates that want to snag at my heels, to weave around the hunched-over man with the cane. Then I reach the restaurant.
I throw open the door and hurry down the narrow entranceway, past the hostess stand. “Hello,” the young woman holding menus calls after me, but I ignore her. I scan the bar area and the people sitting at tables. They aren’t here. But there’s another room, and it’s where Richard prefers to sit because it’s quieter.
“Can I help you?” The hostess has followed me.
I rush toward the back room, stumbling down a step and grabbing at the wall to steady myself. I look at each table, then check again.
“Was a dark-haired man here with a young blond woman?” I’m panting. “There might have been a second woman with them, too.”
The hostess blinks and takes a step back, away from me. “We’ve had a lot of people come through tonight. I don’t—”
“The reservations!” I almost shout. “Please check. . . . Richard Thompson! Or it might be under his sister’s name—Maureen Thompson!”
Someone else approaches. A heavyset man in a navy suit, his brow furrowed. I see the hostess exchange a look with him.
He takes me by the arm. “Why don’t we go outside? We don’t want to disturb the other diners.”
“Please! I have to know where they are!”
The man walks me toward the exit, his grip firm.
I feel myself start to shake. Richard, please don’t marry her. . . .
Have I said it aloud? The restaurant is suddenly silent. People are staring.
I’m too late. But how is that possible? There wouldn’t have been time for them to eat. I try to recall Maureen’s instructions to the cabdriver. Could she have said something else entirely? Or did my mind betray me by telling me what I wanted to hear?
The man in the suit deposits me on the street corner. I’m crying again, my sobs raw and uncontrollable. But this time, no arms are around me. No gentle hands stroking my hair away from my face.
I’m completely alone.