The Last Original Wife (17 page)

“Of course!” Was he really going to do this?

The people at the table with the mayors started taking pictures of one another, and some of the guests hopped over to them to get a picture with the mayors too. I looked back at Jonathan and thought for a moment about all the things he had just said to me.

“Yes, but while I'm so uncertain about many things, I know this much for sure. We're here together for a reason. Fate, call it what you want. Wasn't it Fate that threw me in a manhole in Scotland to wake me up from my stupid life?”

“I'd say so.”

“Horrible. Anyway, I think that sometimes opportunity is awfully hard to recognize. Because isn't timing important? How's our timing?”

“Well, if our children were still little, I'd say lousy. But I think at this point, we're old enough to do what we want to do. Would you like dessert?”

“No, no. Rarely touch the stuff. Why don't we go back to Harlan's and have a nightcap?”

“That sounds like an excellent idea.”

We walked back to Chalmers Street arm in arm, our gait perfectly matched, and the night air was as sweet as mortal sin. When we got home, Miss JP went flying to Jonathan. I took this as a good sign. I let Miss JP out into the garden and while I waited for her to do her best, Jonathan poured us a little cognac in Harlan's gorgeous Waterford snifters.

He brought me mine, put his arm around my waist, and I knew I was about to be kissed. But he started with my neck (which as you might imagine was practically virgin territory) and, sugar, that's all I'm saying. It was like an episode of
The Young and the Restless
combined with the Old and the Determined. I perspired. I have not perspired in a bed since I had the flu ten years ago. Even Miss JP ran inside and up the stairs. We found her the next morning in Harlan's room under his pillows curled up with a pair of his socks.

“How old are we?” Jonathan asked me over coffee, looking shameless and happy.

“Old enough to do whatever we want,” I said and smiled like Mona Lisa.

Maybe I'd move to Napa, too.

CHAPTER 14

Wes Is Jealous?

I
t was the tenth e-mail from Cornelia that day. She was driving me nuts. I didn't like her sending me e-mail to begin with, and second, I sure didn't want them on the company's computers. Didn't she know that? No. She was young and impulsive and undisciplined and Harold sure had his hands full. No, I told her, I didn't want to talk to her over lunch at the Ritz in Buckhead where they had two hundred bedrooms upstairs and she'd have a key, which I would never ever use. We'd be seen eating a hamburger and Harold would hear about it and he would think the worst. I say that only because if I was in his position, I would think the worst. But let's get this straight. Even if she did have a head of thick copper-colored hair that drove me crazy, a face like the Madonna, and a gorgeous body to boot, I wouldn't screw my best friend's wife for all the money in this world. I mean, I was a man of principle.

Poor Harold. Impotence is bad. Very bad. Especially when he has a young wife. But there has to be something he can do about it. If he couldn't take the pill, there had to be other ways. I started researching it on the Internet and found a medical site that had all sorts of information on a surgical procedure that seemed to have a very high rate of success. It was some kind of a pump. “Oh, yeah,” I said to the thin air. I remembered some guys in the locker room talking about that.

The intercom buzzed.

“I've got Cornelia Stovall on line two for you?” said Gina.

“Ah, jeez. Okay. Put her through.”

“Wes? I'm sorry to bother you, but . . .”

“Cornelia? I've got about two seconds for you this morning. I'm very busy.”

“Wes, I'm really, seriously thinking of leaving Harold, and before I pull the trigger, I just wanted to talk to you about it, that's all.”

“Where are you?”

“In the lobby of your building.”

Great, I thought. This is just great. I hit the print button on my computer.

“Well, then, come on up.” Just what the hell was I supposed to say?

Minutes later, in she walked all decked out in some kind of dress the female meteorologists wear on television—short and tight with way too much cleavage. Gina's eyes were as big as dinner plates as she led her into my office. I didn't grow up with women who dressed like Cornelia during the daytime. But Cornelia's breed of cat didn't seem too concerned over whether anyone thought they were a lady or not.

“Hi, sweetheart! Come in! Can I get you a Coke?”

“Hey, Wes.” She kissed my cheek. “Do you have a Diet Coke? In those little bottles?”

“Gina? Can you . . . ?”

Gina's eyebrows were scraping the ceiling. “Sure! Right away.”

Gina closed the door and Cornelia turned to me.

“Well, she's pretty.”

She leaned her head in the direction of the office door, like she was suspicious that I was up to no good with my secretary. I wanted to say,
Listen, honey, you don't poop where you eat,
but since she and Harold had done exactly that, there was no reason to insult her. No reason whatsoever.

“Aw, come on. She's just a kid. Anyway, let's sit over here.” She sat on the sofa and I sat in an armchair opposite her. “Make yourself at home and tell me what's going on.”

Gina returned with a glass of ice and an opened bottle of Diet Coke and placed it on the coffee table in front of her.

“Thanks, Gina,” I said.

“No problem,” Gina said and left, only to return seconds later with some papers. Her face was a deep red. “You printed this?”

I looked at all the pages of information on penile implants and thought, Oh, boy, this is gonna fly around the office like pollen.

“Excuse me for a moment, Cornelia,” I said and took Gina by the arm out to the hall. As soon as we were out of earshot from Cornelia I whispered to her, “That stuff wasn't for me.”

“Not my beeswax, Wes.”

Poor Gina was looking in every direction except where my face was.

“It's for her husband, my friend in there, who she's thinking of divorcing because they've got a problem, if you know what I mean.”

“Do you mind if I take an early lunch?”

“No! Of course not! Go. And Gina?”

“What?”

“It's probably best if this news doesn't travel.”

“I got it, Wes. Don't worry. I like my job.”

“Good girl. Just send my calls to voice mail, okay?”

“Sure thing.”

See? That's why I liked her so much! She understood discretion. And she's right. Because if she started a rumor about me, I'd throw her out so fast she wouldn't know what hit her. She knew it too.

I went back in my office and sat down, placing the papers on the table, facedown so Cornelia couldn't read what they were about.

“Okay, so talk to me. What's going on?”

“Well, Wes, as you know, things aren't good.”

She turned on the waterworks, and her tears began to flow. Big. Crocodile. Tears. Aw, God. I didn't have the time for this. I reached for the tissues and put the box in front of her.

“I'm sorry.”

“Things in the bedroom are an utter failure . . .”

“Come on, Cornelia, let's dry your eyes now. I've been doing a little research on alternatives for Harold and look what I found on the Internet.” I handed the papers to her.

She sniffed loudly and blew her nose and began to read. “I sure as hell don't see him getting a pump sewn into his you-know-what.” She put the papers back on the table.

“So what are you saying?”

“I think Harold wants me to leave. He's so humiliated. I think we'd be better off.” She started to cry again.

“Oh, Cornelia honey, I'm so sorry.” I held the tissue box out for her.

“Thanks. It wasn't supposed to work out like this, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” The poor girl. I felt very bad for her. “So where are you going to go?”

“I don't know. Paolo and Lisette have enough trouble with his kids, and I don't have any money. And I don't want to ask Harold for anything. And I don't even have a job anymore, never mind a place to lay my weary head. Oh, Wes! What am I going to do?”

Then she looked at me through her tears and her big blue eyes, and she sat up straight, pulling in her stomach and accentuating her best features, and she waited. OH. MY. GOD. She wanted to come to
my
house.

“Look, Cornelia, Harold has a legal and a moral obligation to take care of you, even though you haven't been married for so long. I've known him almost all my life, and he's not the kind of man who would throw you out like that. You have to talk to him.”

“Wesley, I was just thinking that with Les being gone and all, y'all have room, don't you?”

“Yeah, honey, but not for a scandal.”

“Oh my God! You don't think I'm coming on to you, do you?”

“Frankly, Cornelia, no.” Yes, she was. “But if anybody heard about you sleeping under our roof, I'd never reconcile with Leslie.”

“You must love her a lot,” she said.

“We've been together since we were in college.”

“Wow. Amazing. How's she doing down in Charleston?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, we're not speaking at the moment.”

She looked at me with the strangest expression and said, “Wes? What makes you think only marriages like mine can pop like a bubble?”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, Les is a nice-looking woman, for her age, I mean. And she's dignified.”

“And?”

“And if I'd been her after that night of the catfight at the club? Honey? That was all so stupid. I'm just saying I would've walked out too. You were yelling at her. For what? She didn't do anything except take an elegant step back and let us all look like the fools we were.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. If y'all aren't speaking, I think I'd go pay her a visit and see what's up before it's too late. Take her flowers.”

“Oh, she'll come around. You don't know my Leslie. She can't live without me for too long.”

“If you say so.”

“Look,” I said and stood, indicating this meeting was over. “You go on home, Cornelia, and talk to Harold. Ask him what he wants you to do. I think when he learns that you were thinking he wanted you to leave, you'll be very surprised. Harold loves you, don't you know that? Besides, we're talking marriage here, which is way more important than just living together or something. Pretty soon we'll all be back at the club together and laughing about this.”

She looked at me, shook that hair of hers, and nodded. Finally, she stood. “I hope so, Wes. I hope you're right.”

I walked to the door and opened it for her. “If I can do anything, just call me, okay?”

“You're a sweetie,” she said and gave me a kiss on my cheek.

I watched her walk down the hall to the elevators, and every muscle in my body relaxed. Disaster avoided! I could've had her panties off in five minutes.

I could hear my cell phone ringing back in my office. I picked it up when I got back and read the caller ID. I had missed a call from Charlotte. I hit redial and she picked up right away.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, honey? What's going on?”

“You see the
Atlanta Journal Constitution
today?”

She didn't know I read the
Wall Street Journal
? Didn't she grow up in my house?

“Nope. That's not my paper. I read the . . .”

“Yeah, I know, but you might want to pick up a copy and check out the front page.”

“Why's that?”

“Business section. Check it out. Then call me back.”

“Okay.”

I hung up. What now? I didn't have time for some Mystery Tour. I'd already blown half the day with Harold's problems. I stuck my head outside my office and spotted a copy of the newspaper on Gina's desk. Did she say front page? Of what section? Business? Yes, business.

Okay, I had it and all right, our mayor was there in Charleston with a bunch of guys . . .

Wait! Was that Les in the background? I needed a magnifying glass.

There was one in my office. I went back in, laid the paper across my desk, and examined it. It was Les all right. Plain as day. There was a man with her. What the hell? I could feel my blood pressure going up. Here I was warding off a toss in the hay with Cornelia like she's got some kind of a terrible disease and Les was down in Charleston living it up with another man! Well, screw that! I didn't like this picture one little bit.

I called Harold.

“Harold? Hey, it's me, Wes. I'm taking the day off. Want to play a round?”

“Sure! Why not?”

“See you there in an hour.”

“Sounds great.”

Gina was returning to her office just as I was leaving mine.

“Hi, I'm out of here for the rest of the day. Got some things to take care of.”

“Oh, sure! Is everything okay?”

“Of course! I'll be on my cell if anyone needs me. Just text me, okay?”

“You got it!”

I drove to the club and Harold was there in the locker room, changing his shoes.

“You talk to Cornelia?” I said. I swapped my street shoes for my golf shoes, pushed the locker door shut with a thud, and sat on the bench next to him to do the same.

“Not since breakfast. Wes, this whole thing is turning into a nightmare.”

“Yeah, I got that. I got that in spades. She was in my office this morning, bawling her eyes out.”

“Aw, man. I
told
her not to bother you.”

“Yeah, well, who's she going to call? I'm your closest friend.” I took off my shirt and tie and traded it for the knit shirt I had in my duffel.

“I guess. But what a mess, huh?”

“Every guy over sixty has this happen once in a while. It's not about desire. It's about blood flow. And it's fixable!” I unzipped my trousers and tucked in my shirt.

“Women. Come on. Let's go hit a bucket of balls.”

We picked up our clubs from the starter's room, walked out to the driving range, and hit about a hundred balls. Neither one of us was swinging worth a damn. I kept hooking mine into the trees, and Harold couldn't get more than a hundred and twenty yards on his.

“What do you say we stop killing birds and embarrassing ourselves and go get lunch?”

“You see what I'm doing here?” Harold said. “Good grief. Couldn't hit the broad side of a barn today.”

“So,” I said after we ordered our food. “There's a picture in the
AJC
of Leslie in the background of a photograph of our mayor and the mayor of Charleston. She's with another man.”

“You're shitting me.”

“Nope. And she's smiling.”

“Holy crap. What are you gonna do?”

“I don't know. I gotta tell you, Harold, I was shocked right out of my shorts. Shocked.”

“Didn't you tell me that you got a rather strong e-mail from her that she wasn't coming back?”

“Yeah. She said that.”

“Didn't she say something to the effect that you should consider you two to be separated?”

“Yeah. But I didn't think she really meant it like that. Harold! That was
my
Leslie in that photograph smiling and enjoying the company of another man in a restaurant nice enough for two very important mayors!”

“Well, now, Wes? That's an interesting comment. Are you pissed because she was smiling because another man made her smile or because he took her to a really nice place, which implies he's trying to impress her? And one other thing. She's not exactly
your
Leslie.”

I thought about that while the waiters put our food down in front of us.

“Yeah, I guess she's really not. Harold, you know what?”