The Men I Didn't Marry (25 page)

Steff runs her fingers over the soft material. “I can’t imagine there’ll ever be someone else. Would you believe I’ve only slept with one man other than Richard? Just one other man.”

“Where is he now?” I ask.

“I have no idea,” says Steff, “but I’ll never forget him. Peter. Tall, broad-shouldered, and the sweetest person on earth. We’d stay up all night talking and we planned to have six children together.”

“Thank God you didn’t marry him,” says Darlie. “Six children. Even if you stopped at five, think of the stretch marks.”

“StriVectin for the stretch marks,” advises Jennifer.

“I had a Peter, too,” says Amanda dreamily. “Didn’t we all?”

“It’s a common name,” says Rosalie, as usual missing the point.

Amanda laughs. “My Peter was named Jean-Paul. Very sexy, very French, very rich. I could be living in Paris right now. I mean, I’m happy right here in Chaddick, but think what my life could have been.” She trails off, obviously lost in reveries of being Madame Jean-Paul, eating croissants and Valrhona chocolate, one of those French women who never gets fat.

“Even my mother had a Peter,” says Bellini. “I was looking through some old photo albums in her house a couple of months ago and found a faded black-and-white picture of some handsome blond guy on a beach in a tight bathing suit with his arm around her. I asked my mom who the guy was and she stared at the picture and got really flushed. ‘That’s the man I dated before your father. The man I didn’t marry.’ ”

“How old’s your mother?” I ask curiously.

“Sixty-five. Can you imagine? She knew this man more than forty years ago and she’s been happily married ever since. I asked her why she still keeps the picture and she said, ‘I like to think about him sometimes.’ ”

We’re all quiet for a moment.

“It freaked me out a little,” says Bellini. “What if my mother had married her light-haired hunk instead of my dad? The path not taken. I wouldn’t even exist.”

“Or else you’d be a blonde,” suggests Darlie. “I mean, a
natural
blonde.”

I laugh. “The thing about the path not taken is that you can sometimes stroll down it again. I did.”

“Really?” asks Steff.

“Really,” I say, and I begin slowly sharing the story of my post-Bill quest. Eric, Ravi, Kevin. The women look at me wide-eyed. Suddenly, I’m no longer Hallie the mother, Hallie the lawyer, Hallie the down-to-earth next-door neighbor. I’m Hallie the adventuress. From the stunned looks on their faces, I might as well be telling my friends that I went bungee jumping off the Empire State Building. And in a way, I did. I took a risk and bounced back.

“Wow, what fun that must have been,” says Amanda, and from the glint in her eye, I have a feeling that she’s going to be Googling the French phone directory.

“It was,” I say happily.

“It would take me a lifetime to look up all the men I didn’t marry,” says Darlie.

“Are there men you didn’t marry?” asks Steff sweetly, reflecting on Darlie’s four trips down the aisle.

“Never mind that,” says Amanda. She picks up a crocheted vest that Rosalie has contributed and plays with the fringe of pom-poms. “There’s something appealing about looking at old things from a new perspective. I think it’s lovely you reconnected with your past boyfriends.”

“You know what’s even lovelier?” I say thoughtfully. “I didn’t just see the men again—I got to remember who I was all those years ago. I’d been attracted to so many different kinds of men: the sensitive guy, the go-getter, and the bad boy. I guess it was part of figuring out who I am and trying on different selves.”

“Which self wore that Laura Ashley blouse?” asks Steff, making fun of the primly bow-tied flower-print shirt I brought to the swap.

“The one who wanted to get a job. But don’t forget I also wore this tight, fire-engine red knit dress,” I say, holding it up to my shoulders and wiggling.

“Three men,” says Steff shaking her head, as if she can’t imagine such a thing. She rubs her hand over the silk teddy that Amanda insisted she keep. “Anybody else on your list?”

I hesitate and bite a hangnail on my thumb. Anybody else?

“No,” I say. “That’s it.”

After all the other women have left, Bellini and I get busy bagging the extra clothes for charity. Just before I tie the package shut, Bellini decides to toss in the orange blazer she’d claimed, convinced there’s an eighteen-year-old somewhere who needs it more than she does.

When we’re done, I make a fresh pot of tea and we flop on the sofa.

“So,” says Bellini, taking a sip. “Now that it’s just us, I can say it. You weren’t quite honest when you said nobody else was on the list.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I know you, darling. You give yourself away when you bite a hangnail.”

“Safer than using a scissors, you know. Cutting your cuticles can lead to infection or weaken the nail bed.”

“Thank you, Sally Hansen.”

In case my beauty advice hasn’t been enough to divert Bellini from asking about my list, I check the tea tray and notice that I’ve brought out lemon but not milk.

“Whoops, what kind of hostess am I? Let me get the creamer,” I say, starting to head to the kitchen.

Bellini grabs my arm. “I don’t like cream. I don’t like milk. I don’t even like cows. Sit down.”

I sit. “Who doesn’t like cows? The Hindus revere them. But I have some powdered soy, if you prefer.”

“Yummy. But stop trying to change the subject.”

I sigh. “Bellini, I tell you everything. But this one’s just too painful.”

“You have to face your pain to move on,” says Bellini, sounding like she swallowed one too many self-help books.

“That’s the old-school therapy. New school believes in denial.”

“When did it change?” asks Bellini.

“Probably when health insurance stopped covering months of visits to your therapist.”

“So how’s denial working for you?” asks Bellini.

“Not that well,” I say with a shrug.

“Who was it? Someone you really loved?” asks Bellini.

“Someone who mesmerized me.” I stare off for a moment as the memory swirls back of my whirlwind three months with Dick. I was swept off my feet by his Southern gentility and sophisticated charm, not to mention his parents’ extravagant Nashville mansion and swanky parties. Nothing felt more worldly than standing on their veranda, drinking mint juleps. He declared he wanted me to be his wife a week after we met.

“His name was Dick. I thought we were going to get married,” I tell Bellini.

Bellini nods. “I know what you mean. I’ve had nine or ten men I thought I was going to marry.”

“Yes, but for you, those were all first dates.”

Bellini makes a face at me. “You’ve been so daring since Bill left. What could keep you from looking up this last guy?”

I look out the window at the cold gray day. “He’s tied in with Amy.”

“Your little sister who . . .”

“Right,” I say.

“Maybe it would help if you saw him again.”

“I just don’t know. I’m not sure I can handle it. Sometimes when you fall in love you get hurt. But until the earth crumbles under your feet, you never really realize just how much hurt love can cause.”

Chapter EIGHTEEN

THE NIGHTMARES START AGAIN. For years after we broke up, Dick would float in and out of my dreams, and I’d wake up screaming. Now that I’ve said his name out loud to Bellini, it’s like I’ve raised the devil again. Night after night now, Dick haunts me, morphing from Don Juan to Satan, taking on lurid shapes, chasing me down alleys. One morning, I wake up disoriented, drenched in sweat. I stumble over to my bureau and take out the article I’d clipped from
Time
magazine mentioning Dick, who’s running in a special congressional race in Tennessee.

Running for office? He should be ashamed to show his face in public, never mind plastering that face on campaign buttons. I study again the few sentences about the race. It’s a hotly contested seat and Dick Benedict is catching up to his opponent. If there were any justice in the world, instead of gaining ground, Dick would be under the ground. I can understand why nobody calls him Richard. His longtime nickname has always been more fitting: Tricky Dick, Dirty Dick, Dirty Trick Dick. I should write his election slogans and let the voters know who he really is.

I make arrangements to fly down to Tennessee. I’m practically on automatic when I take the Delta flight, go to the Hertz counter, and drive to a vaguely familiar part of town. A few minutes later, I’m standing in a small office surrounded by four-foot-high posters of the man I’ve tried to erase from every corner of my mind. Why did I venture down here? My hands feel clammy and my heart is pounding.

An enthusiastic young woman manning the front desk at Dick Benedict’s campaign headquarters jumps up when she sees me. “Hi, are you here to volunteer?” she asks excitedly.

“Not exactly,” I say, wiping my sweaty palms on the edge of my cotton sweater. “I’ve come down from New York to see Mr. Benedict.”

“New York money!” says the woman. “We’ve been trying to get donors from out of state. Do you know Donald Trump?”

“Yes,” I say confidently, remembering that my friend Amanda’s mother-in-law’s cousin lives in one of his buildings. Less than six degrees of separation counts as a personal friend and I got there in five.

“Will you call Mr. Trump for us?”

“Only if you buzz Mr. Benedict immediately and tell him Hallie Lawrence is here.”

The woman turns her back as she makes a call, but I clearly hear her saying, “Okay, I’ll tell her.”

When she faces me again, her smile is a little less welcoming. “Mr. Benedict is tied up. He apologizes and suggests you leave a phone number.”

“I’ll just wait,” I say.

“He’ll be a long while.”

“I have time.”

“A very long time. Maybe even tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s good,” I say, taking a bottle of Poland Spring water from my bag to prove that I could survive here for as long as necessary. I snag a chocolate cookie from a plate on the table set out for volunteers and settle down into a folding chair.

“You really have to leave, please,” says the young woman, nervously circling over to me.

“Let me guess,” I say, “Icky Dicky Benedict told you he doesn’t want to see me.”

“He said to get rid of you, whatever it takes,” she whispers.

“Well, try this,” I say. “If he doesn’t see me, every newspaper in Tennessee is going to know about a story that he buried twenty years ago.”

She seems uncertain what to do.

“Go tell him that,” I say. “Use those exact words: A story he buried twenty years ago.”

The young woman looks stunned. Her freshly minted degree in poli-sci didn’t prepare her for scandal. Although probably it should have. But sympathizing, I decide to take her out of the middle of the situation. I stride past her desk and boldly open the door to Dick Benedict’s office.

“Don’t . . .” calls the young woman rushing after me. But we both see immediately that the room is empty. A half-eaten sandwich is sitting on the desk and a TV tuned to a local news station is still on. The volunteer looks around, baffled, but I notice a back door, still ajar, and rushing through it, find myself outside in a parking lot. Someone is just turning the ignition on a Mercedes, and I race over and plant my hands angrily on the hood.

Through the windshield, I stare at the silver-haired man behind the wheel, but he refuses to return my gaze. He looks behind him as if ready to back up, and revs the engine.

I pound my fist against the hood, and without thinking scream out, “Go ahead, Dick. Run me over! Why not kill me, too!”

He leans out the window, his face frozen. “Please get out of the way. I don’t want to have to call the Secret Service.”

“You don’t get Secret Service when you’re running for Congress,” I snap. “And anybody who knows you wouldn’t even think you rate help from a crossing guard.”

“Please just get out of the way,” he says tersely.

“I got out of your way once, and I’m not doing it again,” I scream.

Dick turns off the engine and gets out of the car, closing the door behind him. I’m almost surprised to realize that he doesn’t look at all like the monster who’s loomed so large in my nightmares. He’s maybe five nine and ordinary looking, not six foot six with bulging eyes and veins popping out of his forehead. Instead of a malevolent gleam, his eyes just reflect the average weariness of middle age.

“If you want to talk to me, this isn’t the way to do it,” he says.

“What would you suggest? The moment you heard I was here you ran out.”

“I had someplace to go.”

“Where? Your daddy’s office, to see if he could protect you again?”

Dick takes a long moment before answering, and I can see him trying to hide his uneasiness. “What do you want Hallie? What are you doing here?”

I glare at him scornfully. “I hadn’t been to Tennessee in a long time, Dickie,” I say, practically spitting. “Thought I’d check out Dollywood. Or maybe the Grand Ole Opry.”

The Grand Ole Opry. I try to stay cool as I say that, but I have to steady myself against the car as I remember that evening with my little sister Amy sitting on one side of me, Dick sitting on the other. All of us are in high spirits, celebrating Amy’s Sweet Sixteen.

“Been to any good concerts lately?” I ask Dick bitterly.

“Hallie, don’t do this,” he says, a tinge of anguish in his voice.

My birthday gift to Amy had been a trip to Nashville to meet my boyfriend Dick. I couldn’t believe how fast I’d fallen in love and how wonderful Dick seemed, and I wanted Amy to get to know him. Dick arranged a special surprise—tickets for all of us to hear Amy’s idol, Reba McEntire. Amy kept telling me I was the best big sister in the whole wide world. Dick’s family controlled half the state, so our seats were front row, center. Midconcert, Reba sang “Happy Birthday” and stepped off the stage to give Amy a hug. My sister squealed in delight, kissed me and Dick, and said we’d given her the most fabulously amazing night of her life.

How could I have imagined that it would also be her last?

“Why shouldn’t I talk about this?” I ask Dick now. “Somebody has to tell the truth. Do the voters know about that part of your life? Do they know that you killed an innocent sixteen-year-old?”

Dick takes a deep breath. “Hallie, I’m not going to have this conversation with you.”

“I bet it’s nice to be able to forget all about it,” I say venomously.

“I haven’t forgotten. That was the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

“Not as bad as it was for me,” I say, and in my overwrought state, I suddenly burst into tears. My sobs echo through the parking lot, and I clench my fists against my eyes to stop the flood of tears. Dick steps uncertainly forward and reaches a hand to my shoulder as if to comfort me. I flinch and pull away.

“Get away from me,” I say, my whole body shaking so hard now that I’m afraid my knees will give way and I’ll collapse in a heap on the asphalt.

It must look that way to Dick, too, because he says, “At least sit down,” and opens his car door. Without thinking, I slide onto the smooth leather backseat and he joins me. When I realize where I am, I turn even more hysterical.

“I want to get out! I can’t be in a car with you. Nobody should ever get in a car with you.”

Dick turns ashen as he realizes what it means to be in a car with Amy’s sister. His head drops down and his own shoulders start to shake.

“Hallie, it was just a horrible, horrible time,” he says.

I hear his voice break and I’m momentarily stopped. I’m the one who’s been tortured by this, not him.

“I’ve re-lived that night a million times, with every ‘if only’ you could imagine,” he says. “If only I didn’t get so stoned. If only I hadn’t gotten so mad at you after the concert. If only I hadn’t driven off in a rage with Amy and hit that tree. If only I’d been the one to die.”

“Die? You never suffered for a moment. My sister was killed but your parents pulled every string to get you off. Two months probation and a suspended license. Barely a slap on the wrist.”

Everyone in town knew Dick used cocaine but laughed it off as the drug choice of the rich. I’d been too innocent to understand that he had a serious problem. Dick was older than me—smart, rich, and handsome. I naïvely believed my beloved when he said the drug was harmless. Then at the concert, he got high and for the first time turned mean and raucous. Dick sneered when I confronted him and told me to grow up. Why was I such a little priss, he taunted. I got scared, and we had a nasty fight.

“It was my sister,” I say now. “I should have known. I should have protected her.”

“You tried,” Dick says. “You’d insisted you were going to drive us home, but the coke made me feel invincible. I whisked Amy off and told her you’d meet us later.”

“You wouldn’t listen to anything. I didn’t know how to stop you.”

“Nobody could stop me. After the accident, I spent six months in rehab before I could even admit it to myself. There was nothing you could have done.”

“I could have stayed away from someone like you.”

Dick grimaces. “Could have, would have, should have. Isn’t that how we all destroy ourselves?”

“Pat little answer to make yourself feel better,” I say angrily. “I can’t let myself off the hook that easily. How can you?”

“What other choice do I have? I’ve come to believe that you change the things you can and accept the things you can’t. Here’s what I could change. I got straight and now I have a wife and three good kids.”

“Bully for you. But how do you have the gall to run for Congress?”

“Whether you believe it or not, I think I can do some good. Maybe improve people’s lives.”

I get out of the car and Dick follows me. I know why he bolted when I showed up—he realizes I can ruin his plans. I turn around and face him squarely. “I came down here to make sure that you drop out of the race. I could cause such a nasty scandal that even your daddy’s money won’t buy you out of it.”

Dick takes a deep breath. “Yes, you could. But is there a way I can convince you that I’m doing my best to make up for a bad past?”

“You can never make up for someone being dead,” I tell him. “No matter how clean you are now, or how many bills you sponsor, you can’t give me another sister.”

When I leave Dick, I’m too shaky to get into my own car, so I wander through the neighborhood near his headquarters. Nashville has changed since I was last here. The street scene is even more crowded with camera-clicking tourists and every block has a couple of good restaurants and at least one bad trinket shop.

I gaze into a store window that’s full of vintage guitars, and I think of Amy sitting in her room when she was growing up, strumming and dreaming of being a big star. Seeing a poster advertising upcoming concerts now at the Grand Ole Opry—Clint Black, Garth Brooks, Vince Gill—I think how much Amy would have liked to hear them. She’d laugh to know that the whole country has gone country. Back when she was a teenager, her taste for twangy tunes was considered offbeat for a New York girl. Now stars like Clint and Garth are national heart-throbs.

On a whim, I go into the store and pick up a Gibson guitar.

“That’s a nice one,” says a young salesman coming over to me, tugging at his jeans to keep them from falling off his skinny hips. “Is it for you or someone else?”

“I guess I’m just looking,” I say, putting it back carefully. When Adam and Emily were little, I sometimes imagined that they’d grow up like Amy, playing guitars and loving country music. But neither showed the slightest interest in cowboys with broken hearts or standing by their man. Emily perked up when I sang a few bars of “Don’t It Make My Brown Eyes Blue” only because she thought I might buy her colored contact lenses.

The salesman strokes the finely polished wood at the neck of the guitar. “I’ve been saving for one of these for years,” he says.

“Expensive?” I ask, looking for the price tag.

“Not bad. But every penny I have goes to tuition. I’m working my way through college.”

I look at him sympathetically, knowing all about tuition woes. Across the store, two other young musicians are looking at an amplifier and the salesman excuses himself to help them. I overhear one of them say that he has a club date coming up, and the others slap him a high five.

“Are you still studying with that cool guitar teacher?” asks the salesman.

“Couldn’t afford it,” says the kid with the gig.

“Know what you mean. But you gotta keep playing,” says the other.

Thoughtfully, I walk around the store, trying to imagine what it would be like to have Amy with me right now. Would she still be writing songs? Maybe she’d be playing duets with Reba McEntire at the Grand Ole Opry. Or maybe music would be a hobby and she’d be working as a doctor in a free clinic in Costa Rica. Or she’d be living in Rochester, contentedly raising two sons. All the possibilities that will never be because that bastard Dick Benedict slammed the brakes on her future.

Thinking about Dick makes me so angry again that I grab for a guitar and swing it in the air. I suddenly understand how good Pete Townshend must have felt, smashing an instrument at the end of every Who concert.