My Favorite Mistake (6 page)

“No,” I blurted, my cheeks flaming. “I can talk now.”

“Good,” he said easily. “Listen, I got a letter from the IRS yesterday—looks like the government wants a little more of my time.”

“I received the same letter,” I said, regaining a modicum of composure. “You’re out of the Marines?”

“Retired for almost six months now.”

“Where do you live?”

“In Kentucky. Versail es, to be exact. This is where the girls are.”

So he had children—the girls he’d wanted. I don’t know why the news surprised me, but my disappointment was acute. And then I realized that Redford having a family certainly

made things easier for me—I could shake my stubborn fantasies once and for al .

“That’s nice,” I managed.

“And you’re stil living in the same place?”

In other words, my life hadn’t changed a bit. My chin went up. “I’l be buying my apartment soon.”

“Great. So, do you live alone?”

I frowned. “Yes.”

“No kidding? I thought you’d be remarried by now.”

“Um, no, I’m not married.” I stared at my closet door—plastic covering the wedding gown stuck out from under the door, mocking me.

“Not married? Don’t tel me I ruined you for other men,” he teased.

Had he always been so cocky? My mouth tightened. “Not at al .”

“Darn. And here I was hoping that you stil carried my picture around.”

I glanced down at the framed picture stil in my hand and dropped it back into the cigar box as if it were on fire. “Sorry to disappoint.”

He cleared his throat, as if he realized he’d over-stepped his bounds. “Wel , Denise, what do you know about this audit?”

“No more than what the letter said.”

“Three years seems like a long time to have lapsed to be audited.” He sounded concerned.

“No,” I assured him. “Considering the backlog at the IRS, I’d say three years is about right.”

“Are you stil a financial planner?”

“Yes. I work for a brokerage firm now.”

“Congratulations. Does that give us an advantage? I mean, do you deal with the IRS often?”

“Only as an advisor to my clients regarding payment of fees or penalties.”

At the sudden silence on the other end, I realized my response wasn’t exactly comforting, and since the audit was most likely a result of my creative accounting, I felt as if I owed him a little reassurance.

“Redford, chances are this wil be a routine interview. They’l probably just want to ask us a few questions, see a few receipts, that sort of thing.”

He gave a little laugh. “I don’t even know where my tax records are—in storage somewhere.”

“I kept everything,” I said.

“Everything?” he asked, his voice suspiciously nostalgic.

I glanced at the cigar box containing souvenirs of my time with Redford and closed the lid. “Al the tax records,” I corrected. “I’l bring them to the interview.”

“Great. I guess I’d better start making travel plans.”

“The interview is a week from Tuesday,” I offered.

“Yeah, but I’m interested in buying a stud horse in upstate New York. I was thinking I could come up early and maybe kil two birds with one stone.”

So Redford had entered the family business. Another area where we were opposites—the closest I’d ever gotten to a horse was walking next to a carriage in Central Park, and

one of the beasts had nipped a hole in my favorite sweater.

“And I’ve never been to New York City,” he continued, “so I thought I’d try to squeeze in some sightseeing since I might never get the chance again. How would you feel about

being a tour guide?”

“Fine,” I said, then wet my lips. “Are you coming alone?”

“Yes.”

My shoulders dropped an inch in relief. I don’t know why, but I didn’t relish the thought of meeting his new wife. “When would you arrive?”

“Whenever you can fit me in,” he said, and God help me, my mind leapt to a time when I had “fit him in” anytime I could.

“How about Friday?” he asked.

“I’l ch-check my schedule, but that should be okay.”

“Great,” he said, his genial tone making it obvious that our conversation wasn’t affecting him at al . “And if you could recommend a place to stay while I’m there, I’d appreciate it.”

“I’l look into it,” I promised. “How can I reach you?”

He recited a phone number, which I jotted down.

“Although you never know who might pick up around here,” he warned with a laugh.

On cue, I heard a shriek of childish laughter and the patter of little feet in the background.

“If you leave a message and you don’t hear back from me within a few hours, just cal again.”

“Sure,” I said, my heart dragging. “I’l talk to you soon.”

“Okay. Listen, Denise…”

My heartbeat picked up. “Yes?”

“It’s great to hear your voice again. I’ve thought about you a lot over the years and…”

And?
I swal owed, waiting.

“And…I’m glad to know you’re okay.”

I closed my eyes before murmuring, “Same here.”

We said goodbye and I disconnected the cal on an exhale, feeling wobbly and acknowledging the sudden urge to eat a party-size bag of peanut M&M’s. I settled for a cup of

nonfat, sugar-free vanil a yogurt with a little cocoa sprinkled over the top (not the same, no matter how much the weight-loss gurus try to convince you otherwise) and tucked myself into a chair with my legs beneath me.

So I was going to see Redford again. I lay my head back on the chair and released a sigh that ended in a moan. Just speaking to him on the phone had left me feeling fuzzy, as

if he had brushed his naked body against mine. How pathetic was I that the mere sound of his voice could rattle me after al this time? Especial y when Redford had obviously found someone else to brush up against.

I wasn’t naïve enough to think that Redford hadn’t taken other lovers after our annulment. But because our sexual relationship had been so radical and so…
incomparable
for me, deep down I guess I’d hoped it had been for him, too. That he hadn’t played the “kiss you al under” game with anyone else, or that no other woman had left teeth marks in his shoulder.

I laughed at myself. I hadn’t real y expected Redford to be pining for me, had I?

I mindlessly spooned yogurt into my mouth, sucking on the spoon (which even Freud would have deemed too obvious for analysis), while my thoughts coiled into themselves in

confusion. I was scraping the bottom of the container with an eye toward licking the foil lid when the phone rang again.

My pulse jumped—maybe Redford had forgotten to tel me something. I idly wondered if he had kept my phone number and address somewhere, or if he’d simply looked me

up through directory assistance. I padded to the bedroom where I’d left the handset and pushed the connect button. “Hel o?”

“Hey,” Kenzie said. “I cal ed back, but the line was busy.”

I wavered, wondering if I should tel anyone about my impending reunion with Redford. But I needed to tel someone, so I spil ed my guts.

Kenzie was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “Damn. He’s the one with the huge schlong, right?”

I rol ed my eyes. “Do we have to go there?”

“Are you prepared to see this man again?”

“Sure,” I said, trying to sound casual. “It’s no big deal.”

“I don’t know, Denise. You were real y weird when you came back from Las Vegas. Kind of…zombie-like.”

A changed woman, like Eve after eating from the Tree of Knowledge. I swal owed hard. “I’l be fine.”

“If you say so,” she said, but sounded doubtful.

“Subject change. So you were saying that you’re not coming back to the city this week.”

“Right. I, um, haven’t been feeling very wel , and I think I’l take it easy here for the next couple of weeks.”

“Flu bug?” I asked, flopping onto my bed.

“Actual y…it’s morning sickness.”

A few seconds passed before her words sank in, then I sat straight up. “You’re pregnant?”

She laughed. “So it would seem.”

“Omigod…congratulations!” Disbelief rol ed over me in waves. The fact that one of us was going to be a mother made me feel so…old.

“Thanks, Denise. Sam and I both are thril ed, of course.”

“As you should be,” I said, feeling myself going misty. “When are you due? Do you know what you’re having? Do you have a name picked out?”

Kenzie laughed again. “August, no, and no. Lots of decisions to make between now and then. Oh, there’s the other line. Talk to you later in the week?”

“Sure.” I congratulated her again on the baby, then hung up, unsettled by Kenzie’s declaration, yet knowing it was inevitable that we al move on with our lives. At least, it seemed as if everyone
else
was moving forward. Even Redford had moved on. His phone cal proved that
I,
on the other hand, was pathetical y mired in the past, more so than I would have thought possible.

With new resolve, I removed the wedding gown from my closet and lifted the plastic. I would need a good photo in order to list the dress on eBay and get top dol ar. With

trepidation, I undressed, then stepped into the gown and shimmied the satiny dress over my hips. The cool fabric glided over my skin like a caress. I fastened the halter around the nape of my neck, then reached around to pul up the zipper that ended just below my shoulder blades. Minus the leotard, the dress fit even better. I couldn’t resist a peek into the ful -length mirror sitting in the corner of my cramped bedroom, and at the sight of myself in the ethereal gown, I nearly lost my nerve.

I imagined looking down at the end of the aisle and seeing my groom standing there, his eyes shining with love and desire at the sight of me in this gorgeous gown. Later he

would remove the dress with kisses and caresses, his hands and breath so hurried that the gown would have barely fal en to the floor before we were buried inside each other.

I blinked, realizing my arms were covered with goose bumps, and my nipples were budded. I wanted to keep this dress, but doing so would be wasteful and foolish. Just having

it in my closet was making me sil y and soft. And horny.

So I made myself step away from the mirror and, with relative detachment, set up my digital camera and tripod. I set the timer and posed for three shots in a bridal stance. Then I removed the dress and careful y replaced the plastic with a bittersweet pang. Some woman out there would both appreciate and be able to use the dress, and that gave me a bit of solace.

I pul ed up the digital photos, selected the best one and cropped out my head and other extraneous background details. Then I logged on to eBay and listed my impulsive

purchase in an eight-day auction, ending next Monday evening. I wanted to be done with the auction before I had to turn my attention to the audit.

Exquisite designer wedding gown, NWT (new with tags), size ten, creamy white, halter-style dress with pearl-studded skirt and short train, wil make any bride feel like a princess on her special day.

I sighed while transferring the details from the tags to the screen. My heart hung low in my chest, but I knew that getting rid of the dress would help to clear my head of past and future marriage fantasies. No wonder Barry wouldn’t commit. I was probably giving off “rewind” vibes.

A fact that I repeated to myself over and over as I dressed for our dinner that evening. Since I’d had precious little to eat since the yogurt, my stomach was howling for food. And I had a headache from playing my conversation with Redford over and over in my head. But when I walked up to Barry, who was sitting at the bar in the hushed atmosphere of the posh restaurant, I forced myself to tamp down al thoughts of Redford and the past. Barry was kind, successful, ambitious and…here…in New York…where my life was. One could not underestimate the necessity of proximity to keep a relationship alive.

Barry stood and smiled back, but his eyes reflected something else—regret? Fear? Guilt? He brushed a quick kiss on my mouth and hurriedly threw back the rest of his drink.

Something was wrong…I could sense it. It was obvious from his stiff body language as we fol owed the hostess to a premium table, as he held out my chair, as he claimed his

own seat and snapped the linen napkin over his lap. He didn’t seem to want to make eye contact, and he was pul ing on his ear—a sure sign that something was on his mind. Tiny

alarms sounded in my head as I sipped from my water glass, and my mind started tossing out scenarios to explain his nervous behavior. He’d been offered a job in L.A. El en had changed her mind about doing business with Trayser Brothers. Then the truth spanked me:

Barry was going to dump me.

Of course—it made perfect sense. A classy restaurant on a Sunday evening…Break the news in public, then start the week with a clean slate as a single man. Leave town for a

few weeks and things would be smoothed over by the time he returned. He’d asked me to meet him to avoid the awkwardness of taking me home afterward, had taken his toiletry bag home to avoid a trip back to my place. I swal owed a mouthful of water with my disappointment, my appetite gone. This was what I got for fantasizing about another man who wasn’t even around, while ignoring a perfectly good guy who was right under my nose.

Moving and speaking awkwardly, Barry ordered a pricey bottle of shiraz. I perused the menu, seeing nothing, and watched him under my lashes, my nerves jumping. When the

wine arrived and Barry lifted his glass to mine, he made eye contact for the first time.

“To a great friendship,” he said, wetting his lips.

Sadness bled through me and I clinked my glass against his, wondering if he would make me wait until the end of the meal to do the deed. But after he drank from his glass, his eyes changed, and I steeled myself for his brush-off.

He reached across the table and clasped my hand. “Denise, we’ve been together for a while now…long enough, I think.”

I nodded, determined to make it easy for him, easy for me.

“Wil you marry me, Denise?”

A ful ten seconds passed before his words registered. I squinted at him, confused. “Pardon me?”