The Solomon Sisters Wise Up (21 page)

Had I interviewed him? I didn’t mean to. Or maybe I did. I just asked a few questions that I thought would let me know whether or not we were really suited to each other. I didn’t ask his exact salary or anything, just where he intended to be in five years, that sort of thing.

Nothing that a prospective father-in-law wouldn’t ask.

Oh God. I had to calm down.
You have to calm down.

What the hell was wrong with me? I couldn’t even interest one guy into moving on to dinner, let alone a second date.

Andrew, meanwhile, was busily dating every blonde in New York City and Long Island. Kristina had seen him nuzzling a Heather Locklear look-alike in the Blue Water Grill last night.

I had a very hot date on Saturday. I would not interview him. I would not make fun of the menu. I would not be bitchy.

He didn’t show up.

And I’m giving up.

12

Zoe

M
y father thought a macrobiotic wedding reception would be the height of trendy, potentially worthy of a write-up in
In Style
magazine.

The bride and groom, the bride’s baby and mother and the groom’s three daughters were waiting in the reception area of Cater To Me, the fifth caterer we’d been to in as many days. Giselle, her mother, Sarah, Ally, the caterer—who’d burst through a set of double doors just in time to hear my father’s pronouncement—and I turned to stare at my father in horror. At the sudden silence, Madeline, in her umbrella stroller, covered her face with her hands and let out a shriek.

Giselle laughed and wheeled the stroller back and forth. “He’s joking, everyone!”

“You didn’t think I was serious, did you?” my father asked, grinning. “You guys don’t know me at all! I’m a total carnivore!”

Ally looked like she wanted to punch him.

Sarah just looked sad.

We
didn’t
know him at all.

I crossed my arms over my chest, a habit I tried to break in all my clients. “Dad, the last time we had dinner, you said you were a
vegetarian.
”

“Well, honey, that must have been a long time—” He caught himself. “Ah, there’s the caterer! Hello, there. We’re the Archweller-Solomon party.”

Sarah glanced at me.
So you don’t have a relationship with him either,
I could hear her thinking.

I knew my sisters had always thought I had some sort of Daddy’s Little Girl relationship with my father. Ha. Bartholomew Solomon was an equal opportunity father: if he was going to ignore his daughters from his first marriage, he’d ignore his daughter from his second, too. The last time I’d had dinner with my father was right before he’d broken the news to me that he’d left my mother for my friend. We’d met for lunch once or twice several months later, but the broken record kept skipping on the age-is-just-a-number routine, and my father and I had drifted even further apart than we’d been.

Bartholomew Solomon seemed to not even realize that his three daughters had been living in his apartment for three weeks now. Three weeks. Not a weekend. Not a week. Three weeks. Gee, Dad, do you wonder why a married woman is suddenly living with her sisters in a small bedroom in your apartment? Gee, Dad, do you wonder why Sarah fell asleep at the dinner table last night? Gee, Dad, do you wonder why I always look like I’m going to cry?

Last night at a rare family dinner (we all happened to be home at around the same time), while Sarah was dozing during the soup course, my father sent Zalla for the wedding bulletin board, which now held photos of bow ties.

“It’s too bad Andy’s not here, Al,” he’d said. “Your husband knows a good bow tie.”

Silence from Ally.

“So when’s the Andymeister due back from—where is he? France, right?” my father asked.

No, Dad, don’t you listen? He’s in Switzerland
and
Japan simultaneously.

“Yes, France,” Ally said, pushing a cherry tomato around on her plate. “Paris is his favorite city, so he’s extending his trip for a week to do a little sightseeing. I’ve already been three times and this is such a busy time at the firm, so I opted to stay home.”

Ally then changed the subject to which bow tie she liked best. As she went on and on about how the right tie could make or break a tux, Sarah and I glanced at each other. We both knew there was something very wrong in Ally’s marriage.

Many times over the past week, I’d woken up to the sound of sniffling. It was Ally crying. I was so tempted to go over and ask her what was wrong, if she wanted to talk, but I knew the response I’d get. She’d snapped me away so many times, I was afraid to even approach her.

I glanced at Ally now. She was twisting her wedding ring and staring out the window at a brick wall.

“A may-crow-bee-ahtic vedding receepshun,” the caterer said with a forced chuckle. “Goood vun! Three quarters of ze guests vould not show up! Okay, folks, right thees vay,” he added, leading us into a tasting room. A bunch of little plates were set around a long wooden table. “Here ve have our famed cheeken cordon blue, our avardvinning fil-et mignon, and our cheef’s speciality—swordfish.”

We all picked and nibbled the forkfuls on our little plates and cleansed our palates with orange slices.

“I vill leave you alone to deescuss,” the caterer said, and whooshed out of the room.

Every chicken dish tasted the same, no matter the sauce or what it was stuffed with. Same for every steak and fish dish.

“What do you think, Ally?” my father asked.

“Nothing special,” she said. “I’d pass.”

“I like the swordfish,” Sarah said. “The other caterers all had salmon. Swordfish is different, unexpected.”

“You’re not even supposed to be eating swordfish,” Ally snapped at Sarah. “The mercury levels are very high.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “I don’t think one forkful of swordfish is going to hurt—”

“Since when is fish unhealthy?” Giselle’s mother interrupted. “I’ve been cooking a nice filet of sole or flounder for Giselle’s stepfather three times a week for twenty years now. The man is healthy as a horse. I’ll tell you what the real danger is—these stupid health fads. That’s what’ll kill people.”

Giselle’s grumpy mother talked nonstop. No wonder her husband had opted to stay home in California.

Sarah walked slowly over to Ally and nudged her in the ribs with an accompanying
shut-up
look.

“Zoe, what do you think?” Giselle asked me. She was forever trying to engage me in conversation and I was forever leaving the room. “The caterer we saw at noon had a better chicken dish, but the filet mignon here is out of this world. Do you agree?”

“I liked them all fine,” I said.

“No one loves a good piece of filet mignon better than you, Zoe,” she said. “I remember the time we went to—”

“They’re all good,” I interrupted.

“You must have a preference, Zo,” my dad said. “You’re my steak reference point. C’mon, what do you think?”

“It’s hard to get excited about a piece of too-tough steak when your mother is God knows where doing who knows what!” I yelled.

Everyone turned to stare at me, including the two other parties. I felt my cheeks burning. I was acting like a five-year-old. I hadn’t meant to burst out with that. I wasn’t even thinking of my mother at that moment.

Or maybe I was.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I said. “I’m just a little stressed out at the moment.”

“That’s okay, hon. But really, Zo, your mother’s fine. I’m sure she’s at the Statue of Liberty right now, asking if there’s an elevator up to the chin.” He laughed, then rubbed my shoulder. “She’s fine, Zo. Your mother has always been able to take care of herself.”

I fake glanced at my watch. “Is it two already? I’m supposed to meet someone.” I wasn’t lying—well, not completely. Daniel and I had arranged to meet at three in Bloomingdale’s to hunt for my mother. We didn’t really expect to find her, but Daniel thought the looking would make me feel better.

“Von more feesh to try,” the caterer said, carrying a platter with little plates. “Zish particular feesh eez am-a-
zing!
”

With everyone’s attention back on the food, I slipped out the door.

I found Daniel at Bloomingdale’s Estée Lauder counter. Joy was behind the counter, slathering moisturizer on his cheeks.

“This moisturizer is me,” he said, making faces into the mirror. “Yes, it is definitely me.”

“Daniel, I’m
working,
” Joy said. “If you’re going to joke around, you’re going to have to leave.”

He eyed me at the next counter. “I’ll let you work, my sweet. We’re on for tonight, right?”

“I’ll have to let you know, okay?” Joy said. “I might have to work late.” A woman approached and starting asking about eye shadow, and Daniel made his way over to me. Joy did not follow him with her eyes.

“Maybe you should introduce me as your friend, make her a little jealous,” I suggested.

“I thought about that,” he said, “but I don’t like playing games. She likes me or she doesn’t, right?”

I was impressed. “Right.”

“Okay, let’s look for Madame Solomon,” he said. “Should we split up or search together?”

“Let’s look together,” I said, surprising myself.

He smiled. “You just can’t get enough of me, can you?”

Actually, I couldn’t. I’d begun to need Daniel the way I needed coffee or a hug, and there weren’t many hugs coming my way these past few weeks.

“She left another message on my machine in California saying she was fine and taking a fondue course,” I told Daniel. “She said she’s been taking tours. She’s been to the Aquarium at Coney Island, the Statue of Liberty, up and down Fifty-seventh Street, the Lower East Side and Central Park. She sounded great, like she’s been having fun.”

“She didn’t say anything about your father?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“So maybe she’s over it,” he said. “Maybe she just needed to feel like she was doing something. Maybe flying here was enough. Maybe she bought a voodoo doll, stuck a few pins in it and felt be—” Daniel froze. “I don’t believe it, but there she is!” he said, pointing. “She’s trying on lipsticks at the Bobbi Brown counter. Unbelievable. I never expected to actually find her—I just thought a look-for-your-mom session would make you feel better.”

I turned to where he was staring, and there indeed was my mother, puckering her dark red lips in a display mirror and blotting them. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

“Girls, that salesclerk was helping
me,
” she was saying to a gaggle of teenagers vying for attention at the counter as I ran over. “Where
are
your manners?”

“Mom?”

At the sound of my voice, Judith Gold Solomon whipped her head around so fast that she accidentally dabbed the woman next to her with the tube of lipstick.

“I’m so sorry!” my mother said. “I’m sure they have something to get that out with,” she added, gesturing behind the counter. She put down the tube of lipstick, grabbed my arm and pulled me into the crowd, darting her gaze back to see if the lipstick-stained woman was chasing after her.

“Mom, you’re not going to get arrested for getting a little lipstick on someone. Slow down,” I said.

She pulled me into the wallets and day-planners section. I glanced around for Daniel and found him sniffing a fragrance with an eye on us. I nodded and turned to my mother.

“Mom, I have been worried sick about you for three weeks! Where have you been?”

“Dear,” she said, “I told you my plans. I’m fine. I’ve been leaving you messages every few days.”

“Where have you been staying?” I asked.

“You remember my friend Sasha?” she said, rubbing a cashmere scarf against her arm. No, I did not remember a friend Sasha. “Oh, how nice this feels, Zoe.” She rubbed the fabric against my cheek. “Sash is going through a divorce, so when I called her to let her know I was in town, she asked if I wanted to stay with her. We’ve been having a grand time. Taking cooking courses, going on tours, visiting plastic surgeons to discuss some nipping and tucking. We even went out at night a few times to a popular theme bar and flirted!”

She was having fun. “So you’re not going to destroy Dad’s life, after all?” I asked.

“Well, I didn’t say that, dear,” she said with a laugh. “Oh, there’s Sasha now! Sash!” she called. “Hold on, dear, and I’ll bring her over and introduce you.”

Like a fool, I let her go. She disappeared into the crowd and never came back. Ten minutes later, she called my cell phone to say she had to run to her yoga session and that she’d call in a few days. She was fine, she said again, and added her customary
Toodles, dear!

“Don’t worry, Zoe,” Daniel said, slinging an arm around me. “We found her once, we’ll find her again. Your mother has always been incredibly predictable.”

“For everyone but me,” I said.

“C’mon. Let’s go get a late-afternoon margarita.”

And with one eye peeled for a fifty-year-old woman in a Britney Spears video outfit and a faux-fur leopard-print coat and knee-high boots, I let Daniel lead me away.

“My mother’s beginning to look less like Morgan Fairchild and more like Michael Jackson,” I said as Daniel returned to our little table with two frozen margaritas and a bowl of tortilla chips and salsa. “She’s had so much plastic surgery I can’t even recognize her anymore.”

Daniel laughed. “She looks good, though. I have to say, she really does look like she’s in her late thirties.”

“But she’s not. She’s fifty. And what’s the point of trying to look ten or twenty years younger when you’re not?”

“If it makes her feel better, why not?” he said. “One day, she’ll come to her senses. Or she’ll meet a new man who’ll like her just the way she is. But right now, this is what she needs to do. People do this kind of thing all the time. They go crazy because they have to, and then a couple of months later, they’re themselves again and telling anecdotes that conclude, ‘Do you believe I did that?’ I think she’ll be fine, Zoe.”

“It just makes me feel so…I don’t know. So out of control myself, I guess.”

He looked at me, then stood up and pulled his chair around the table right next to mine. “I’ll catch you,” he said.