In the Bag (28 page)
“Why was she in a . . . pissy mood?”
“The age. It’s not easy to be eighteen. Plus, her prom is this weekend. Tonight, in fact.”
“Should I tell Webb?” he asked. “He could buy her some flowers. We’re not going to get a flight out of here until tomorrow morning at the earliest. They could have a nice date tonight.”
I looked at Coco walking with Webb. Her head was thrown back in laughter at something he was saying. “I think they’re managing just fine without us,” I said. “Besides, nobody dates anymore, remember? But speaking of dates.”
“Do
you
want to go to prom tonight?” Andrew asked.
“No,” I said, forcing a smile. “I don’t date—not men I like, anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m no good at it.”
“I think you should let me be the judge of that,” he said. “I had the best date of my life a few nights ago with you.”
“
Really?
”
“Daisy, you’re the most lovable person I’ve ever met.”
“No, I’m not. I’m a hothead. I’m judgmental. I have a short fuse. Honestly, I don’t even like being around myself most of the time.”
“You’re too hard on yourself.”
“Don’t you mean I’m too hard on other people?”
“Well, as only a ‘pretty decent conversationalist,’ I’m not sure I’m qualified to continue this conversation.”
“Oh, God,” I said, hiding my face behind one hand.
We walked in silence for a few steps before Andrew addressed the heart of my message.
“I knew that college boyfriend was no good,” he said. “I just knew it.”
I laughed nervously.
“I’m serious,” he said. “Who could call you and let it ring once? And what if you’d answered? Would he have hung up on you?”
“Keep in mind, it was my idea,” I replied. “And that he never called.”
“That’s beside the point,” he said. “Any man who would agree to a plan like that is no good.” He paused before continuing in a softer voice. “Why didn’t you tell me the real story about what happened that summer?”
“I just remembered it last night. It all came back to me at the restaurant when you . . . well, you know.” I tried to smile. “I told you I have relationship Alzheimer’s.”
“Yes, you did,” he said. “And did I tell you that I’m not a one-ring-and-hang-up kind of guy?”
“No, I don’t believe you did.”
“Well, it’s true. And there’s something else.” He stopped walking and turned to face me. “Remember when I called you at Solange’s? How many times was it—three? Four?”
“Five,” I said.
“Right. And do you know that with every phone call, when it was time to hang up, I could barely make myself do it? I stayed on the line long after you’d hung up.”
“Really?”
“Every single time
.
”
“You were still on the line, like the Wichita Lineman?”
He looked startled. “Is
that
what that song means?” He took a breath. “If it does, I’m him. The only difference is that I want you as much as I need you.”
I elbowed him in the ribs. “You sure talk a smooth game, Mr. Lineman. I bet you say that to all the girls.”
He shook his head. “I’ve never said that before to anybody.”
An hour later, the four of us were climbing out of a taxi in Montmartre, where we found a shaky Solange unpacking her suitcase.
“Spend the night with me?” she asked, hugging us one by one. “I know this place is small, but—”
“No, it’s perfect!” insisted Coco. “It’ll be like a slumber party.”
“Exactly,” said Solange. “Here, help me rearrange the furniture. I have a sleeping bag I keep rolled up and stashed behind my couch.”
Andrew and I looked at each other and smiled. Already we had private jokes. How had this happened so fast?
And what
was
this, anyway?
The desire to be desired by one you desire.
My mind spun back to that old Jesuit priest in the cold stone chapel.
And so we stayed for the night—on the condition that I be allowed to cook dinner. I sent Coco and Webb to the neighborhood grocer’s with a list. While they were gone, Andrew and I had a chance to fill Solange in on everything. She was still clapping her hands when the kids returned with food and flowers for everyone.
I made an old-fashioned, 100 percent predigital tuna casserole that I updated with a little Camembert, which Webb cutely removed and set to one side of his plate without comment. After dinner, Coco taught Webb how to make crème brûlée. They made a mess, but it was perfect.
On reflection, that’s not a bad description for the whole trip. The kids made a mess, but it really
was
perfect. Because I realized that night I had exactly what I wanted and needed: a wonderful, quirky daughter who I didn’t always understand and who clearly didn’t always obey me. But she would do just fine in college—and, more important, in life.
I had a generous best friend who’d known me for twenty years and understood me better than I understood myself.
And I had a new friend: a kind man with a good heart and an adorable son.
There we were, the five of us,
cinco por cinco,
talking and laughing all night long. Nobody wrote an e-mail or sent a text. Nobody felt the need to get online. There was no steak sauce in sight. Or televisions—flat screen or otherwise.
Sometime after midnight Solange pushed Andrew out the door, purportedly because she wanted more wine. But it was clear she wanted to talk to me privately in the living room while Coco and Webb sang “MacArthur Park” and washed the dishes.
“He is an exhibit space designer,” Solange reminded me in a whisper. “So you must give him space. Can you do that?”
“Of course,” I whispered back, a bit defensively. “But Solange, don’t rush me. Andrew and I just met a few days ago. And anyway,
I
need space, too.”
“I know you do,” she said. “But you have had a lifetime of space.”
Solange looked at me hard. This was the woman who had known me when I was pregnant with Coco. She helped me make the hardest and best decision of my life. I was certain she was going to tell me, once again, to stop smoking, stop drinking, and stop feeling sorry for myself.
Solange’s phone was ringing. “Damn that thing!” she said. She grabbed the phone and tossed it in the kitchen. “Coco, you can get this for me? Take a message.”
“Sure thing,” Coco said.
Solange refocused her attention on me. I could almost hear what she was going to say.
“I stopped smoking twenty years ago,” I said, closing my eyes. “And I never have more than two glasses of wine.”
“Uh-huh,” Solange said sarcastically, holding an empty bottle in each hand.
“Okay,
almost
never,” I admitted. “I really don’t. If I do, I wake up with a crashing headache the next morning. As for feeling sorry for myself, I haven’t and I don’t, but even if I did—”
“Hey, Mom,” Coco yelled from the kitchen.
“Just a second, honey,” I answered.
“But
Mo-om,
” Coco continued.
That’s when Solange put the wine bottles on the table and took my face in her hands.
“Dammit, Daisy,” she said. “I can hear you through the wine. Stop talking and start feeling happy for yourself—”
“Mom,” Coco interrupted. She was holding a dish towel in one hand and the phone in the other. “It’s for you. It’s Andrew.”
I kissed Solange. Then I took the phone from my beautiful, capable daughter. I put the phone to my ear and said calmly and with confidence, “Hello.”
I
am grateful to many wonderful people who shared their time and talents with me as I wrote this book. Thanks to Kelly Bates-Siegel and Abby Adams for cheering me along from the very first draft. I am also hopelessly devoted to James Klise and Tim Bryant, both of whom I turned to often to ask, “What would a guy like Andrew be thinking now?” Even when I ignored your responses, I appreciated them. A big, name-in-lights thank-you to Elise Howard for introducing me to my brilliant editor, Lucia Macro. Thanks to Diahann Sturge for her page design wizardry. Of course I am grateful to Jimmy Webb for writing “Wichita Lineman,” which is simply the best song in the whole wide world. And to the guy who slipped the note in my carry-on bag on that long-ago flight from St. Louis to Atlanta: whoever you are, wherever you are, thank you for planting the seed for this book.
KATE KLISE
spent fifteen years working as a correspondent for
People
magazine, covering everything from country music to reality TV to rappers, rockers, serial killers, and serial Sexiest Man Alive, Brad Pitt.
When she wasn’t reporting for the magazine, Kate was home on her forty-acre Missouri farm, writing award-winning children’s books such as
Regarding the Fountain
,
Dying to Meet You
, and
Grounded
.
In the Bag
is Kate’s first novel for adults—and the only book that was inspired by a handwritten note she found in her carry-on bag after a long flight.
For more about Kate Klise, visit www.kateklise.com.
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www.AuthorTracker.com
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Designed by Diahann Sturge
Cover design by Mumtaz Mustafa
Cover photograph © by Blend Images/SuperStock
Grateful acknowledgment is made to reprint from “MacArthur Park” and “Wichita Lineman.” Words and Music by Jimmy Webb. Copyright © 1968 UNIVERSAL–POLYGRAM INTERNATIONAL PUBLISHING, INC. Copyright Renewed. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.
Reprinted by permission of Hal Leonard Corporation.
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
IN THE BAG
. Copyright © 2012 by Kate Klise. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-210805-0
EPub Edition © MAY 2012 ISBN: 9780062108067
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