The Solomon Sisters Wise Up (30 page)

He nodded. “That’s what’s so great about the movies. Different people see totally different things, and afterward you can discuss it all quite reasonably and passionately and logically.”

“Jeez, what does a psycho woman have to do to get you to never want to see her again?” I asked.

“She’d have to turn into my soon-to-be-ex-wife.”

I laughed and he slipped a Brie-laden cracker between my lips.

“Today’s my birthday,” I told him, mouth full.

“Happy birthday,” he said and kissed me on the lips. “Mmm, those cracker crumbs on our lips are pretty tasty.”

“Then maybe you should have some more,” I said.

He tipped my chin up with his hand and kissed me again, gently, then he pulled back. “Just a sec,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

He disappeared into his bedroom and returned with a short red candle on a glass dish. He lit it. “Make a wish, Ally.”

I smiled and thought for a second and made my wish. And then I blew out the candle.

The next morning I went to visit my house. That was Rupert’s suggestion, actually. After gorging on cheese and switching from wine to good old Coca-Cola, we talked until two in the morning about everything from marriage and separation to hopes and dreams to children to work, and in the end agreed that despite how crazy things could seem, everything would be all right.

I was beginning to believe that. I was also beginning to believe that the reason I’d clung to my marriage, been so oblivious, was because I’d felt so alone in the world. My mother was dead, my father was clueless and didn’t know his firstborn child’s birthday, my sister Sarah lived in another universe and my half sister Zoe basically didn’t exist.

My clueless father aside, I wasn’t alone. Sarah didn’t so much live in another universe as she was simply a different person than I was. Younger and different. And Zoe did exist—much to my benefit. I’d lost a marriage and a dream and gained two sisters I didn’t even know I had.

“And you haven’t lost the dream to have a baby,” Rupert had said last night. “Babies, I should say. You’re still capable of having children, Ally. And if you aren’t or if having a child with a man you’re romantically involved with simply doesn’t come to be, there are alternatives.”

Alternatives. That seemed to be the key word to the future. Alternative ways of thinking, of behaving, of being.

It was what made me knock on my father’s den door this morning to apologize for last night. The moments the words “I’m sorry” were out of my mouth, my father pulled me into a hug.

He sat down on the leather sofa and patted the cushion next to him. “Ally, didn’t you see the movie
Love Story?
” he asked, tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear. “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

Oh Lord. “Dad, you don’t really believe that, do you?” I said, sitting down next to him. “I mean, it’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. In fact, I believe that’s what Can-dice Bergen said in the sequel.”

He laughed. “I don’t believe it either. I know there are sorries to be felt and said. But I do like to just forgive and forget and put things behind me and move on. That’s what keeps a person happy, don’t you think?”

“Honestly, Dad, I don’t know. No, I do know. And the answer is
no.
I don’t think that’s what keeps a person happy. I think talking things out is what keeps a person happy.”

“Sometimes, though, Ally, talking is just talk.”

What did that mean? “Dad, haven’t you been curious as to why your three adult daughters are living in your house?”

“Of course, Ally. But I respect your privacy.”

“Or you’re not really interested,” I said. “I’ll go with ‘not interested.’”

“Sweetheart, I’m always interested. I guess I’m the type of person who figures that you’d come to me if you wanted to talk to me. If you wanted me to know why you were here, you’d tell me. If not, then I want you to feel comfortable knowing you’re always welcome, for as long as you want, and have a place to be where no one’s pestering you.”

It was true that his lack of questions, lack of prying, had been a huge plus.

“Honey, when you stayed longer than a week, I knew there was trouble in your marriage. I know all about that subject.”

I stood up and walked to the window and toyed with the curtain. “You know about
leaving,
Dad. That’s different.”

“Ally, I didn’t just walk out on a great marriage to your mom. It wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like?” I asked. “She loved you and you left.”

“We did love each other, Al, that’s true. But there were still problems. There always were, from the beginning. We thought being in love would conquer all, but it didn’t.”

I dropped down on the sofa again and leaned my head back. “I thought the same thing with Andrew. I don’t even really know when we fell out of love. I was so focused on having a baby that nothing else mattered to me. I didn’t even realize I didn’t love him until—” I took a deep breath. “I caught him cheating on me. That’s what happened.”

He pulled me close against his side. “I’m sorry, Ally. I’m very sorry.”

“I was too. But I’m getting over it, slowly but surely, and picking up my life.”

“Of that I have no doubt. Your mom would be so proud of you, Ally. You do know that, don’t you?”

I leaned my head on his shoulder for the first time since I was very little and we sat like that for a long while, until Mary Jane’s barks threatened to wake up Madeline. And as we sat, I realized that I loved my father and always had. I didn’t like him; I never had and I probably never would, but I could love him anyway.

“I think it’s time for me to go, Dad,” I said. “I mean, go-go. Go house-hunting. I’m ready to move on.”

He smiled. “I never liked Andrew Sharp. Not thirteen years ago and not now.”

“Really?” I asked. “You always acted like you adored him. Slapping him on the back, engaging him in conversations about the stock market.”

“For you, Ally. Because you liked him, and that was enough for me.”

“But why pretend?” I asked. “Why not just avoid him? Why the act?”

“How would you have felt then?”

“I probably would have been angry,” I said.

“And you wouldn’t call or come visit,” he said. “And then how would I have felt?”

“Honestly, Dad, I wouldn’t have thought you’d notice or care.”

“You really think I’m a shit, don’t you?” he asked.

“I
used
to think you were a shit,” I corrected. “Now, I see everything differently. Including myself. Being here these past six weeks has done me a world of good.”

“I’m glad, Ally. Because no matter what, if I forget your birthday, if I don’t ask questions, if I don’t know the first thing about what’s going on with you, I love you.”

I still wasn’t sure how to reconcile the three, but I was beginning to realize that it didn’t have to be a condition. “I love you too, Dad,” I said.

The drive from the city to Great Neck had been bumper-to-bumper as usual, but for once I hadn’t been in a rush. I listened to the radio and sang along. I thought about Rupert. I thought about Sarah, about Zoe. I thought about the conversation with my father. I thought about work, about that idiot Funwell. And instead of filling with rage, I laughed as the image of Funwell, his jowly neck and roly-poly body, came into mind. To hell with Funwell. To hell with Andrew. And to hell with rushing.

Now, as I pulled into the driveway of the house I had shared with Andrew for eleven years, Tara and her husband and baby Allison were just coming out their front door.

“I’ve been gone for what, six weeks?” I called out as I headed over to say hello. “And Allison has already changed so much!” Allison smiled wide to reveal a sharp-looking little tooth in her lower gums. “I’ve missed you, sweetie.”

“Oh, shoot,” Tara said. “Ally, would you mind holding her for a second? I forgot her bottle.”

The moment Allison was in my arms, I knew without a doubt that I would have a child. That I wanted a precious bundle in my arms for the rest of my life. Whether that bundle was my own baby or a five-year-old from a foster home or another country didn’t seem to matter. What I wanted had been put into perspective, somehow.

It was what I’d wished for last night, before I’d blown out the candle. A child of my own.

“I’ll take her, Ally,” Allison’s father said. “I want to get her settled in the car seat so we can take off.”

And as he took the baby, I realized that my heart was still full instead of feeling hollow with the emptiness that usually followed whenever it was time to give Allison back.

And then I went into the house, happy with the knowledge that Andrew and This Valerie Person were probably stuck on Mrs. Sharp’s green plastic-covered couch in Cincinnati, clutching their stomachs in pain over her awful cooking and personality.

And then I began to pack what was mine.

18

Zoe

“I
completely disagree with you,” Astrid O’Connor said, handing me back my article with a snap of her wrist. “I’ve starred in the margins where I think you’re quite wrong.”

My article was covered in little red stars.

“First of all, Zoe, the title is awful,” she said, leaning back in her leather chair behind her desk. “‘The Dating Diva Was a Dating Dope’? I don’t think so. All wrong.” She shook her head, so delicately it barely moved, and folded her hands on the desk in front of her. She reminded me of the teacher’s pet in elementary school.

“But it’s the truth,” I said. “I was a dating dope and I gave dopey advice.”

“That’s where we disagree,” she said. “You gave
excellent
advice. You’d like to tell our readership, however, that you’re going to give them
dopey
advice.”

I leaned back in my chair and glanced at my article. All four pages were marked up with red stars and
absolutely not!
every second line. “I have no idea what you mean, Ms. O’Connor.”

She shook her head again and pressed her intercom. “Sherry, come in here for a moment, and collect Sarah and Diana too.”

Uh-oh. Was she bringing an audience for a vetting session of my article?

In moments, Sarah and two other young women entered and stood by the door, their arms crossed over their chests. They all looked so nervous. I couldn’t imagine working in this kind of environment every day with a witch like Astrid for a boss. I waited for Astrid to say something—we all waited—but she was staring at one of the staffer’s shoes. And staring. And staring. The staffer stepped back behind Sarah until she hit the wall and banged against it. Astrid then turned her attention to me.

“I’ve called you all here because I’d like you to listen to Ms. Solomon’s article on dating. After she reads it, I’d like your opinions on how you feel
Wow
’s readership will respond.” She smiled, a satisfied, smug smile and nodded at me—once, as though she were sending me to my death.

Was this school? Read aloud? Part of me wanted to storm out of her office and tell her to go blow. The other half wanted to defend my article and get it published. A monthly column was my ticket to grad school.

“We’re waiting, Zoe,” Astrid said.

I cleared my throat. “The Dating Diva was a Dating Dope,” I began, reading my headline. “My job is to critique people’s dates. To tell men and women exactly what they’re doing wrong. Why that hottie didn’t call for a second date. Why she won’t return his calls. Why he suddenly remembered a dentist appointment a half hour into dinner. Let me give you a scenario. Jill and Joe are at a café for a first date. Jill is talking nonstop about her job as a customer service representative for a credit card company. Joe is squirming, staring at his watch, but Jill doesn’t notice. She keeps talking. Joe makes an excuse to leave. Jill wonders what she did wrong to turn him off. The Dating Diva would have told Jill to talk less, listen more. To learn social signals of boredom. To give good date. But that was before I realized that Jill shouldn’t have to change to appeal to anyone. If Jill is passionate about her job and wants to talk about it all night, I’m sure there’s a guy out there who wants to listen—”

One of the staffers started clapping. “I’m so sorry for interrupting!” she said. “But that is so awesome! The same thing happened to me last Saturday night!”

Astrid stared at the young woman. “Why don’t you elaborate, Diana.”

“Well, I was on a first date with this really cute guy who I met at a bar, and I was telling him all about my job here at
Wow,
how much I loved the magazine, how excited I was when I got my first chance to write an article since I’m only an assistant, how much I’ve learned in only six months out of college, and John—that’s his name—he listened for about five seconds, and then his attention started wandering. Instead of asking me questions or even breaking in to tell me about
his
job, he just checked out the people in the restaurant, stared at his watch, even flagged down the waiter to order another beer.”

“Well, if he ordered another beer, Diana,” Astrid said, “he clearly wanted to prolong the date. That should have been a sure signal to you that he wasn’t bored in the least.”

“I don’t know about that, Ms. O’Connor,” I said.

Four pairs of eyes swooped to me. Apparently, no one ever contradicted the great Astrid O’Connor.

“You can’t really know what’s going on in another person’s mind,” I explained. “Maybe he was interested. Maybe he’s an alcoholic. All that really matters is how Diana felt while she was talking about something important to her, something she feels passionately about, while he was more interested in the restaurant’s wallpaper and getting a drink.”

“Diana, we did a piece in last February’s
Wow
about signs that your boyfriend may have a drinking problem,” Astrid said. “I think you should read it. You don’t want to get involved with a man with a drinking problem, no matter how cute he is.”

“Um, Astrid, I didn’t say he was an alcoholic,” Diana pointed out.

“Dear, you’ve just touched on one of the first hallmarks of those with drinking problems—denial,” Astrid said, tapping her pencil against the desk. “All right, Zoe, continue, please.”