The Ladies' Man (41 page)

They are approaching the line of ticket holders waiting to have their bags X-rayed. “I'm understandably ambivalent,” says Nash.

“You can't afford to be.”

Nash looks down at his load—one carry-on bag and one empty hand. “I didn't even get her anything. After a month away, I should be bringing her a little something. Do they still pack up lobsters for shipping?”

“Don't bring her lobsters, Harv. First of all, I'm not paying for them, and secondly, it's not the right tone. She served you papers. You're gonna have to repair the damage, bring her your guts on a plate. You're gonna have to go the distance here, you know.”

“I know.”

“Spell it out for me, Harv. What do I mean by that?”

“Marry her,” says Nash.

“Not that I'm an authority on marriage. I see the irony in my being the one who—”

Simultaneously, they notice the woman—midforties, blue jeans, high heels, gold hair that has retained the shape of her hot rollers, designer garment bag. She is talking on a cell phone ahead of Nash in line, and her face gleams with bronze and silver accents. “I've
got to go,” she is saying. “They make you shut these things off. It interferes with their radar or something. I'll call you from Los Angeles.”

Richard puts a guiding hand on Nash's arm. “I can't go through the metal detector with a badge and a gun, Harv, so I'm leaving you here. You're on your own.”

Nash nods, but is already wearing a new expression.

“Ticket?” asks Richard.

Nash pats his jacket pocket.

“Subpoena?”

“Ditto.”

“And what are you going to do first thing tomorrow morning?”

“Call a lawyer.”

“It's serious, Harv. Listen to me. No wiggle room.”

The woman is making the metal detector squeal. She gives up her belt of foreign coins and chains, sets off the alarm again, rolls her eyes as she comes back through the frame.

“Call me after you talk to the lawyer,” says Richard.

But Nash has already said his good-byes. He is smiling in solidarity with the inconvenienced fellow passenger. “Miss? Could it be the brass studs on your jeans?”

The woman looks back over her own shoulder and down at her rear end. “Oh, brother—the stupid studs. You'd think they'd tell you.”

“Or maybe not …” and his voice implies, We're not dealing with helpful, intelligent, sophisticated people, are we? Not people like us.

“I hate this,” she says, as the man in blue waves his metal-detecting wand up and around her legs.

“I get stopped for studs, too—those and my spurs get me every time.” He laughs a wry and playful laugh, and waits as Security finishes the job.

Now she is free to go, free to collect her belt, her bracelets, her cellular phone. Nash is next. The old pro, he passes through without a bleep.

Richard watches and listens from behind the line. As they separate their bags from the pile they have made, Nash is announcing
his West Coast name and his line of work, which makes the woman look up. They shake hands. Now there is a disagreement, a tug-of-war. But it is short-lived. Whatever argument he is mounting, whatever words he is whispering, they work. Her garment bag is transferred to his shoulder, and the privilege of accompanying her to the gate
—their
gate, amazingly enough—is proclaimed.

All is settled. The weight of their bags is evenly distributed across his shoulders. Nash voices one last grievance about airport security, about the overzealous measures that we law-abiding citizens have to endure. The woman can't agree more. It's her own fault—all those metal accessories today. Stupid.

Although, she points out, one meets the nicest people when those buzzers buzz.

Nash blushes beautifully and says she beat him to the punch.
That
was what he was really trying to say. Petty of him to complain about a little inconvenience when you consider the alternative—a bomb on your plane. A small price to pay, isn't it, for peace of mind? It's the world we live in. It makes us cautious, and—if she'll permit him a moment of personal reflection and possible impertinence—it makes us brave.

My thanks to composer Steve Karmen for graciously allowing me to put his words into my character's mouth and to quote from
Through the Jingle Jungle: The Art and Business of Making Music for Commercials
(Billboard). Thanks, too, to Ned Ginsburg, for that fruitful tip and for his musical insights.

I am grateful to Senior Deputy Sheriff Lincoln S. Flagg of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts' Hampden County Sheriff's Department, who gave of his time generously and cheerfully so that Richard Dobbin could do his job; and to Judith Fine, Amy Dickinson, and Emma Dostol of The Gazebo for the foundation on which I built The Other Woman.

I enjoyed every conversation, every task, every word shared with Deb Futter and Lee Boudreaux at Random House. As usual, I relied on the friendship and wisdom of Mameve Medwed and Stacy Schiff every day in the writing of this book. Special thanks for all things big and small to Ginger Barber, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh, Jay Mandel, and Claire Tisne, and to Martin Asher at Vintage for his votes of faith.

E
LINOR
L
IPMAN
is the author of the novels
The Inn at Lake Devine, Isabel's Bed, The Way Men Act
, and
Then She Found Me
, and a collection of stories,
Into Love and Out Again
. Her work has appeared in
The New York Times, Salon, The Boston Globe, Cosmopolitan, Self, Ladies' Home Journal, Yankee, Wigwag
, and
Playgirl
. She has taught writing at Simmons, Hampshire, and Smith colleges, and lives in western Massachusetts with her husband and son.