Mid Life Love (2 page)

“No, I—” I was
about to tell him that Barry had called me crying about Amanda, but there was a
strange voice in the back of my head telling me not to. “I need to run a few
errands and I won’t be able to pick them up on time. That’s all.”

“Okay babe. See
you at dinner.”

When I made it
to the Marriot’s lobby, I saw Barry hurling pennies into the wishing well,
cursing at any one who dared to stare at him.

His eyes were
swollen and bloodshot, and he reeked of stale cigarette smoke and alcohol.

I tapped him on
the shoulder and he turned around in a rage. But then his eyes softened and he
hugged me tightly. “Thank God you’re here...Come with me.”

He motioned for
me to follow him inside the hotel’s upscale lounge and ordered a bottle of the
most expensive champagne on the menu. Sighing several times, he shook his head
over and over.

“I’ve never
really liked wine, Claire.” He filled his glass until it slightly overflowed.
“It was always Amanda’s thing. I always thought it tasted like horse shit. The
more expensive it is, the worse it tastes.”

He’s losing it...I
knew I should’ve called Amanda on my way over here... I’ll go call her in the
restroom...

“Barry, I’m
going to run to the—”

“She insisted on
having this very brand at our wedding. Did you know that?”

I shook my head.

He took a large
gulp and exhaled. “Yep. 1975 Chateau Trotanoy—it’s a Bordeaux...And it’s still as
disgusting as it was on the day I married her.”

“Barry...”

“That’s why I
find it quite fitting to drink now, especially since I’ll be filing for a
divorce in the morning.”

WHAT!

“I don’t feel
comfortable with you telling me this.” I stood up. “You need to go home and
talk to—”

“My
wife
?
My
philandering, lying, ‘doesn’t-give-a-shit-about-me’
wife? I don’t
think so.” He pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and slid it to me. “I
hired someone weeks ago to follow her, to find out where the fuck she was
spending all her extra time.”

I sat down and
opened the envelope, flipping through the pictures: Amanda was shopping at a
few boutiques, hanging out with me, and attending first time mommy classes.

I stopped
flipping and put the stack down. “Okay. I need you to
listen
to me. I
really don’t think—”

“I didn’t
believe it was true either. I mean, my guy would always come back with the same
photos week after week. She was at home, at your house, out shopping. Pretty
typical stuff on the surface and I almost called him off the job. I thought I
was being paranoid. But then one day at dinner I happened to ask her about you.
I said, ‘So, how has Claire liked being a freelance marketing director? Is it
better than working for an ad agency?’ She said you hadn’t worked at home for
years, that you’d been working sixty hour weeks at Cole and Hillman downtown.
So I asked myself: If Claire isn’t at home during the day, who is Amanda going
there to see? It can’t be Claire’s daughters. They’re in school. So...”

It took me
several minutes to absorb what he was trying to imply, several more to even
wrap my head around such a ridiculous assertion.

“No.” I shook my
head. “
No
...There’s no way. There’s a perfectly good explanation if...” I
picked up the packet of photos and flipped through them again.

They were all
circumstantial: Amanda’s car parked outside my house—she loved my
neighborhood’s walking course and often left her car in my driveway to do one
of her “thought-walks.” There were pictures of her walking along the Hot Metal
Bridge in the rain, sitting alone on a bench—probably crying about Barry not
being at home again. But then there were pictures of Ryan,
my
Ryan,
sitting next to her on that bench. Kissing her on that bench.

There were
pictures of their cars parked outside the Hilton in Greentree—the next town
over, pictures of them walking through the city park hand in hand, pictures of
them having sex from the open windows of
my
bedroom.

The date on this
bedroom photo is yesterday...

Barry lifted a
photo from my hands. “I went to that Hilton myself...I followed them there in a
cab. I waited thirty minutes before going inside and pretended to be her
brother who happened to get lost on the way. I walked over to the front desk
clerk and said, ‘My sister is always bragging about how nice this place is, how
often she uses it for a getaway. You must see her a lot huh?’ You want to know
what that clerk said to me?”

“No.” Tears fell
down my face.

He took another
gulp of his wine. “I’ll tell you anyway. He said, in the most annoyingly
excited salesman voice, ‘Oh yeah...She’s been coming here off and on for over
a
year
. She tips every time she comes and she just
loves
our room
service menu.’ For
over a year
, right under my goddamn nose...”

His face
reddened and he shook his head. “I wanted to go up there and confront them, but
I knew I would’ve killed them—
both
of them. I can’t pretend that I don’t
know anymore, Claire. I can’t pretend to be happy about a baby that’s not mine,
and when I got this last set of pictures today, I made up my mind... I’ve hired a
lawyer and I’m telling her it’s over tonight. I just thought I would let you know
the real reason why before she lied to you like she lied to
me
.” He
banged his fist on the table.

I looked through
the photos once more, hoping that my eyes were playing tricks on me, that it
wasn’t really my best friend and my husband in the shots—praying that I was in
some type of sick nightmare.

But the images
never changed. It was true.

“Cheers to
faithful spouses.” Barry poured another glass of wine and practically forced me
to drink it.

That wine
was
disgusting, but not as disgusting as the following weeks would be...

––––––––

“I
t’s okay,
Claire.” Sandra motioned for me to switch seats with her. “Let’s go home.”

C
laire

The summer my
divorce was finalized, I wasn’t sure what to do with my life. Everything I’d
ever known, everything I ever was, was all entwined with Ryan. He was a huge
part of me, an engrained piece of my identity, and I didn’t know who the hell I
was without him.

I wanted to do
the whole
Eat, Pray, Love
thing—you know, travel the world and try to
find myself while tasting new foods, soaking up new cultures, and having
reckless sex with a young, hot Brazilian—but I knew that was completely
unrealistic: I was in serious debt, I was terrified of planes, and too much
time without my daughters would’ve driven me insane.

So, instead I
opted for long walks in the park, walks that usually ended with me curled up
against a rock—sobbing until my sides ached.

No matter how
hard I tried pretending to be “fine,” there was always something that triggered
a miserable memory of my failed marriage: A young couple playing with their
children in the park, a flower stand vendor offering discounts on red roses, a
group of college kids wearing their “University of Pittsburgh” T-shirts.

I tried reading
books about divorcées who overcame their pain, hoping to feel inspired or
enlightened, but they only made me more depressed. I tried hanging out with my
other friends, thinking they would distract me from my agony, but they were
more interested in throwing pity parties.

After months and
months of non-stop bawling, I decided to attack my heartache in stages—well,
“phases” if you will:

There was the
“Dr. Phil and mint chocolate chip ice cream” phase, where I sat up and watched
the good doctor rip cheating spouses to shreds. I recorded each and every
episode and watched them over and over. I even imitated the twang in his voice
as he said, “
Whyyyy
would you do
thattt
?!” And I rewarded myself
an extra scoop each time I didn’t yell “Liar!” when the cheating spouse tried
to justify himself.

There was the
“recent divorcée group” phase, where I tried to connect with other hurt women
at a local church. It was kind of like Alcoholics Anonymous, but shockingly
more depressing. None of the women could get two sentences out without sobbing;
and, by the time it was my turn, I was too numb to speak.

I was planning
to end this phase after a few weeks, but after one particular meeting, the lead
advisor asked me not to come back. She said she’d noticed that every time I was
asked to give a suggestion about an ex-husband to a grieving divorcée, I always
said, “You should have him murdered.”

I assumed the
dead pan tone of my voice and the seriousness in my eyes prevented them from
seeing that I was joking...

I even went
through an “I am woman, hear me roar” phase where I made the following drastic
decisions: 1) Cut my waist length hair to barely shoulder length. 2) Picked up
a new habit—smoking, which lasted all of one day. 3) Got a tattoo of my
“freedom date” (the date of my divorce) on my foot, pierced my ears, and
actually accepted the shop’s complimentary belly button piercing. 4) Blasted
female power anthems whenever I was in my car, in my work office, or at home
cleaning. (I’m pretty sure my daughters trashed and burned my Shania Twain CD...)
5) Sold all my worldly possessions—except my TV...and my e-reader...and my iPod...and
my—Okay, so I just gave away everything that belonged to Ryan.

As I was testing
out all these phases, my career as senior marketing chair for Cole and Hillman
Associates continued to suffer miserably: Our newest client’s product was named
“Infidelity” and the company insisted on using the phrase “Some vows were made
to be broken” as the tagline.

It wasn’t until
I spent an entire day crying in a public restroom that I realized what I had to
do.

I had to leave.
I had to start moving on.

I quit my job,
withdrew my daughters from school, and packed up my SUV. I used what little
settlement money I received from my divorce and made the cross country drive
from Pittsburgh to my mom’s hometown of San Francisco, California.

I bought a small
fixer upper in a quaint neighborhood, a house at the very top of a slope. I
watched numerous HGTV shows and completed several home improvement projects as
my therapy, as a way to keep my mind busy: I stripped all the carpeting and
installed hardwood and sleek ceramic tile. I painted each and every room—soft
taupe, cream-less ivory, café olay, woodsy red.

Within three
months of moving, I’d had numerous job interviews, but very few call-backs.
After realizing that my options were limited in the recession, I reluctantly
took a mid-level marketing job at Statham Industries, a huge downgrade and pay-cut
from my previous position.

I told myself
that less money wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, it was
a new thing
and I
needed to do more new things in order to truly move on.

Since I’d never
been a fan of running, I woke up early every morning and forced myself to
run—half a mile at first, then a full mile, and then eventually three miles a
day.

I had my hair
chopped even shorter—from shoulder length to bob-length. I started treating
myself to a day at the salon twice a month, something I’d always dreamed of
doing but never found the time to do. I even shopped for a whole new
wardrobe—trading in my trademark all-black outfits for colorful silk blouses,
pencil skirts, flattering dresses, and well-fitted suits. 

One day while I
was out shopping, I met a woman named Sandra Reed. She was one of those people
with a mild-mannered yet upbeat personality, someone I felt like I could
instantly trust—like I could tell anything to; I was pretty sure her career as
a psychiatrist had something to do with that.

When I opened up
months later and told her the real reason why I’d fled to San Francisco, she
insisted that I start going to therapy. Out of respect for our budding
friendship, she recommended me to one of her firm’s renowned associates and
wrote off my sessions for free.

She always
encouraged me to go out, to try finding men at singles’ mixers, and to actually
attempt dating again. Yet, after four years of being in San Francisco, I still
couldn’t bring myself to do it.

I didn’t believe
too many men would be interested in a middle aged divorcée, and doubted that
any man would be able to heal the wounds inflicted by Ryan and Amanda.

J
onathan

Jesus, she’s
sexy...

I was at a
business dinner with some associates when I spotted a gorgeous redhead looking
out over the deck of Pacific Bay Lounge.

She was
absolutely stunning. The short black lace dress she was wearing hugged her
curvy body in all the right places and I was straining to see what was
underneath that plunging neckline.

Her glossy hair
was swept to the side in loose curls that barely touched her shoulder and her
eyes—soft green eyes, were glimmering against the twinkling lights that hung
above her head.

“Mr. Statham?”
My executive lawyer interrupted my thoughts. “When do you want to go over that
proposal?”

“Tuesday
morning. I have a feeling it’s going to take a long time to sort through
everything. I can’t believe they don’t want a merger. They’re going to lose a
lot of money with a buyout.”

He shrugged his
shoulders. “I can’t believe it either, but it might be a power play to test
your commitment. I’ll see you Tuesday.”

“Me too.” “Have
a good New Year’s.” “See you at corporate.” The rest of the associates shook my
hand and walked away.

I turned back
around to get another look at the red haired goddess, but I didn’t see her
anymore.

Was I dreaming?
How much did I drink tonight?

I scanned the
pier again and—there she was. She’d moved several feet down.

I watched her
sip her beer and sigh, wondering if she was attending that party alone.

“I think that
went pretty well.” My trust advisor Vanessa smiled. “You’re a great conversationalist.
It’s a win-win for Statham Industries either way.”

“Don’t thank me
yet. We still have to get them to close on it.” I stood up. “Thank you for
coming tonight. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You’re leaving?
Don’t you want to stay and have a few drinks with me? It
is
New Year’s
Eve and I don’t have anybody to kiss after the countdown...”

“Vanessa, we’ve
been through this. You know I don’t date employees.”

She rolled her
eyes. “I’m not a regular employee. I’m a chair on
the board
.”

Even worse...

“Yeah well,
mixing business with pleasure? It’s more than a cliché. Besides, I don’t want
things getting complicated between us.”

“They won’t get
complicated.” She reached up and touched my face. “You and I would be perfect
together and you know it...”

I sighed.
Vanessa and I did have good chemistry and we’d come close to kissing in my
office several times over the past year, but I always broke away. Even though
she was extremely beautiful—curly coffee-brown hair, ocean blue eyes, and an
amazing body—there was something missing, and I wasn’t quite sure what that
was.

Maybe it’s
nothing...Maybe I should give us a chance after all...We are really compatible and—

Out the corner
of my eye, I saw the redhead moving down the pier again.

“I’ll see you at
the next meeting, Vanessa.” I pushed my way past the café tables and looked
back over my shoulder every few seconds, making sure the redhead was still
there.

I rushed over to
the front doors of Pacific Bay Lounge and made my way inside. I looked around
the room and stopped.

There was a
banner with the word “Jiggy” on it. There were little napkins on the tables
that read “Cheers to the first middle-aged mixer of 2013!”

The majority of
the people in the room were clearly in their forties and fifties. Some of them
were even wearing party hats with their ages written on them in glitter. There
were a few younger people scattered about, but those people were holding
serving trays or cleaning off tables.

There’s no way
the woman I saw was middle-aged...

I made my way out
to the pier and looked around. I leaned on the railing and looked both ways.

She wasn’t
there.

I walked back
and forth along the deck, aimlessly searching, trying to find her. I went back
inside and waded through the crowd, but she was nowhere to be found.

“Hello there.” A
woman’s hand landed on my shoulder, making me turn around. “What brings
you
out tonight?” She purred.

She was an
extremely attractive older woman—I guessed at least fifty years old, and I
could tell by the way she was looking at me that she was the assertive type.

“Good evening.”
I smiled. “I just came in looking for someone particular.”

“She’s right in
front of you.” She rubbed her hand across my chest and batted her eyes.

Oh god...
“Umm...”

“You wouldn’t be
here if you weren’t interested in
older
women.” She reached up and
playfully ran her fingers through my hair. “Those young girls don’t know how to
treat a man right, do they? But
I
do. We should get out of here before
someone tries to steal you away from me. My place?”

I started to say,
“I’m sorry. I can’t do that,” but my breath caught in my throat once I felt her
hand sliding down my pants.

I gently grabbed
her hand and moved it away. “I’m not here looking for—I don’t... I was
really
here looking for someone else.”

“Oh my god! I’m
sorry!” She gasped. “I thought...I’m
so
sorry.” She looked embarrassed.

“If it’s any
consolation,” I said as I adjusted my pants, “you’re
very
attractive and
I’m sure you’ll find the right guy soon.”

Before she could
reply, I turned around and bolted out of there.

––––––––

I
walked into
the security director’s office and shut the door.

“You’re here on
time?” My best friend Corey rolled his eyes. “What am I supposed to be doing
for you again? Stalking some woman you met?”

“It’s not
stalking
.”

“Whatever you
call it, it’s highly
illegal
. But since you said it was love at first
sight, I guess I can make an exception.”

“First of all,
it’s not love. Second of all, I don’t even know who she is.”

“So, why am I
hacking into the security footage of Pacific Bay Lounge at seven in the
morning?”

I sighed.
“Because you’re my best friend
and
an employee. Don’t act like this is
against your morals or something, Corey. You do this all the time.”

“I do, huh?” He
laughed. “What’s the time frame?”

“New Year’s Eve
between eleven thirty and midnight.”

He began typing
away at his keyboard and the twenty massive screens that covered his office
wall began to illuminate in grids and static.

“Wait. You were
having a business dinner
that late
at night? Since when do you agree to
those?”

“Since the
client is worth five hundred million dollars.” My eyes focused on the screens
that were now showing people walking in and out of the lounge. “She was wearing
a short black dress. Is there any way you could color code this thing by
clothes or search for people by their hair color? She’s a redhead.”

He looked at me
and raised his eyebrow. “You said you saw her on the pier, right? I’ll just tap
into those cameras...Give me a second. They have some pretty outdated
software...And
surprise
, there’s no audio, only visual...”

The screens
started to show the pier action in slow motion. People were lounging on
couches, drinking beers, and dancing next to the speakers.

“Wait.” I
stepped closer to the screens. “That’s her. Pause it.”

The images
suddenly froze and I looked the woman over again.

She was walking
out onto the deck with a beer in her hand, slightly pursing her plump, pink
lips. From the angle of the cameras I could see that her fitted black dress cut
right above the top of her thighs and gave way to a set of perfectly toned
legs. She was even sexier than I remembered.

“I’d probably
waste company resources trying to find her too.” Corey nodded his head in
approval. “You said she was fifty? She looks pretty damn good to be
fifty
.
I say go for it. I would.”

“What? I’m not
sure how old she is. She can’t be much older than me though.”

He pressed play
on the video again and paused it when she leaned over the railing. “She has
C-cups...Not bad.”

“How old are you
again?”

“It’s a habit.
If I had to guess, I would say she’s thirty or a tad bit younger. Any older
than that, and she knows where the Fountain of Youth is hidden. Actually, now
that I think about it, I meant to tell you that there was an article about—”

“Please not
today.” I shook my head. “You need to stop reading those conspiracy books.
There’s no such thing as the Fountain of Youth.”

“Really? Well
explain Johnny Depp.” He crossed his arms.

I rolled my
eyes.

“Exactly. If I
wasn’t making so much money working for you, I’d be out there trying to find it
myself.”

“Good to know.
Is there any way you could access the cameras in the parking lot? I need to get
her license plate number and–”

“And
what
?
Show up to her house and say, ‘Hey. I tried to find you at the lounge the other
night but you were already gone. But don’t worry, I had my friend hack the
security system so I could get your tags to get your address and come ask you
out?’ Seriously?”

“I wouldn’t say
it
exactly
like that, but—”

“Forget it. All
the street cameras are managed and monitored through Flynn-tech and they’re
impossible to hack. Trust me, I’ve tried it.”

“So what do you
suggest I do?”

“Um,
move on
?”
He turned off the screens. “You don’t even know her name. Yeah she’s beautiful,
but there are plenty of other beautiful women out there. I’m sure
you
of
all people can find another one in a heartbeat. Speaking of which, why don’t
you give Vanessa a chance? She has no baggage, she’s insanely hot, and she
practically loves you already.”

“She’s an
employee
.
It’s against company policy. I specifically ordered that a no-fraternization
clause be included when I started this company, remember?”

He rolled his
eyes. “Whatever. You can find yourself another pretty redhead.”

That was true,
but I’d never thought about a woman after meeting her for the first time. It usually
took a couple dates or a few lengthy phone calls to keep a woman on my mind—but
I hadn’t even met this woman yet.

I’d also never
asked Corey to find footage of someone I was interested in before. I’d never
been that intrigued.

––––––––

I
pulled into a
grocery store parking lot and sighed. Thanks to a dry-cleaning mix up, I was
wearing a sweatshirt and jeans and would have to run home to get another suit.

I was supposed
to be at a board meeting in an hour, but I honestly didn’t feel like going. I
felt like driving back home, turning off all my phones, and pretending like I
wasn’t the CEO for the rest of the day.

Anytime I felt
this way, I had to force myself to revisit painful memories of my past;
memories that made me realize that I needed to be grateful for all that I
had—that I could still be wandering around in a trailer park going through
people’s trashcans, begging disabled neighbors for their leftovers.

Still, sometimes
that wasn’t enough. I was starting to hate my company and all the obligations
that came with it.

For the past few
months, the board had been pressuring me to lay off thousands of low level
employees. They swore it would save us millions, but I didn’t want to do that.
If I was going to fire anyone to save money, I would lay off the people that
made
the most
money—the senior level executives that spent more time on
the golf course than they did at their desks.

As a matter of
fact, ever since I made the decision to relocate company headquarters from New
York City to San Francisco six years ago, the board members had questioned my
every decision—as if I hadn’t started the company myself, without their help.

If their past
donations hadn’t helped me grow my first software company from a side job in
college to a billion dollar empire within a decade, I would’ve written them off
years ago. 

Why did I ever
bother becoming the CEO? Why didn’t I just sell the company once I dropped out
of college?

My cell phone
started to ring. An Ohio number. Allen Correctional Institution.

I debated
whether or not I should answer it, letting the full chorus of Coldplay’s
“Clocks” play before picking it up.

“Father.” I
answered.

“Jonathan! How
are you son?”

“I’m fine.”

“And how’s your
company?”

“Great.”

“You don’t have
to be so short with me all the time. I was just...I was just calling because I
haven’t heard from you in a while...I wanted to say thank you for putting all
that money on my books last week.” He paused. “I stocked up on honeybuns and
blue shampoo...Are you going to your mother’s graduation?”

“I always go to
her graduations. She seems to graduate
every
year...”

He sighed.
“She’s going to stay clean this time. She promised me.”

“Okay. I believe
you,” I said like I had several times before.

“I meant what I
said last month. I want to be a part of your life again, Jonathan. I know I
wasn’t the best father but...I’ve always been very proud of you and I want to do
whatever I can to fix our relationship.”

“This call is
currently being monitored and recorded by the Ohio Department of Rehabilitation
and Corrections. There are thirty seconds left on the call.” The
all-too-familiar automated voice droned on the line.