Ditching The Dream (Dream Series) (2 page)

I need some time to sort my thoughts. I’ll be back. We’ll talk through this. But I need to know who I am and what I am capable of. I want a job, and to pay my own bills and provide for me. I don’t know if I will be successful, but I know I need to try. And I don’t know how long it will take. Three months? Six months? Longer?

I know that you will be able to track me down through credit cards and my cell phone. I’m asking that you don’t. I have Daddy’s money, I’ll be just fine.

I need this.

We need this.

I’ll be in touch soon.

Yours,

Elizabeth

She carefully folded the two page letter and tucked it into an envelope, then shuffled the letter amongst the mail of the day.

Slowly, she made her way through the first floor toward the garage door. She turned and looked one last time at her comfortable, safe home. There were the photos of the kids through the years. There was the furniture she had painstakingly shopped for. There was the wall with the markings of the kids’ growth on the wall by the laundry room… With a deep breath, Elizabeth turned and then proceeded to her car in the garage.

She climbed into her black Lexus SUV and opened the garage door. With a trembling hand, she started the car, put it in reverse, and backed out in search of new dreams.

“L
adies and gentlemen, welcome to New York’s JFK Airport. The local time is seven twenty-four in the evening and the temperature is fifty-eight degrees. We thank you for flying United Airlines and hope that your flight was a pleasant one. Your baggage will be at carousel number…”

I watched as all around me passengers fired up their phones and started to collect their bags from under the seats in front of them. I grabbed my purse and pushed my Kindle inside, not like I’d gotten anything read in the six and half hour flight from San Francisco. Just like I couldn’t pay attention to anything the crabby flight attendant was saying. Something about shifting luggage and connecting gate information. I couldn’t think at all.

Had I really, impulsively, left my husband? I mean, I’d thought about it for years. Especially in the last couple of weeks. Not for anything he’d done, but more for all the stuff he didn’t do… and maybe a little that he did. I was pretty surprised that I wasn’t a wreck. In fact, I felt pretty good. Nervous, but excited. I was in New York. I was starting a new chapter in my life for how ever short, or long, lived it might be.

As I made my way through the airport, following the signs for the baggage claim, I thought about the last time I was in this airport. I had been with Greg, and we were only on a brief layover to catch a flight to Paris for our tenth wedding anniversary. But it was very different walking through this time.

Figuring it would take a while for the bags to come around, I stopped in the ladies room to freshen up. While washing my hands, I couldn’t help but study the reflection in the mirror. My long brown hair, which surprisingly wasn’t riddled with grey, hung limply over my shoulders. Its soft wave, that everyone loved, but drove me nuts, especially on humid days, was in rare form after the flight. Frustrated, I reached into my purse in search of an elastic hair tie to collect the frizzy locks into a pony. My hazel eyes appeared bright and ready for anything, but I saw the sadness there.
Did anyone else?
I wondered. I reapplied a touch of lipstick and headed to the baggage claim.

I scanned the boards, and locating my flight, made my way to carousel number eight. Most of the people around me were businessmen and women. I guess that was because it was a Monday. There was only one family with two small kids, one of whom was wailing and carrying on about who knows what. Boy! I didn’t miss those days! I felt bad for the parents, who looked like they wanted the day to be over.

Most everyone else was on their phones, checking email or texts or calling for their rides. I felt like blending in, so I pulled out my iPhone and turned it on. While I waited for it to boot up, I found that I was holding my breath, not knowing what to expect. Finally, the phone buzzed to life and I saw a couple missed calls and texts from Greg.
Did he come home early? Does he know already?

Putting on my big girl panties, yet playing it safe, I opted to read the texts. Just a couple of mundane texts.

4:43PM

Can you pick up my dry

cleaning? I think the pants

I was looking for this morning

might be there. Thx. G.

5:13PM

Going to be late. Aaron needs

the final numbers for the Wilson

project by start of day tomorrow.

Should be home by 8:00p. Hope

that doesn’t mess up dinner. What

is for dinner anyway? G.

5:48PM

Hey. Been texting and calling you.

Are you home? Out? Why haven’t

you answered or picked up? And

your cell is going straight to vmail.

Did you run out of battery

again? G.

Well, I’m safe from the inquisition, for a little longer at least.
He wouldn’t know for another few hours that I wasn’t home, and that I wouldn’t be… indefinitely. I assumed that the voicemails were a repeat of the texts. He always did that – echoed his text in a voicemail. What was the point in that?

An alarm signaled and the baggage carousel starting up, so I shoved my phone into my bag and kept my eyes open for my red suitcases. Two of them. Cost $180 in extra baggage fees, but “ya gotta do what ya gotta do.” Better than going shopping for all new clothes, right? Not as much fun, but more practical. The money in my personal savings account, that held my inheritance money from when my father passed, had to last me as long as possible, and a trip to Fifth Avenue would not help the cause.

I saw the first of my two bags come down the belt and I positioned myself to pull it off. Just as I was about to grab my suitcase, my purse fell off my shoulder and I missed grabbing the bag. Ugh! Now I’d have to wait for it to go around again.

Suddenly I see a man’s hand reach down and pull the bag off the belt. I looked over at him alarmed that he was stealing my bag! What nerve!!?? Welcome to New York!

“Hey!” I shouted and marched over to where the bag had been pulled. A gorgeous blond businessman walked up to me.

“Here you go. I saw you missed grabbing it.” He peered down at me with startling blue eyes, chiseled jawline and perfect hair. Okay, so New York had some nice people, too.

“Um, thanks,” I weakly stammered. Why was I flustered because someone did something nice for me? Ridiculous!

“Not a problem.” He flicked a glance at the belt. “Ah, here’s mine.” He reached over gracefully and pulled what looked like a golf bag off the belt. One more smile in my direction and he was gone. Weird.

I glanced around to see if anyone else witnessed what had just happened. Nope. Okay, maybe I dreamed it. I was waiting for my second bag when my phone rang again in my purse. I pulled it out and read the screen.
Greg.
Again. He’s never called me so many times in one day. He must be nervous. I pressed the option to “Decline” the call, dropped the phone in my purse, and turned my gaze back to the belt.

How could I explain it to anyone – this running thing? It’s so stupid. Maybe I should just book my return flight and go home. Go home to what? An angry husband. And how can he be mad at me? Our relationship was nothing more than roommates at this point. I could be just any woman – all he needed was for someone to cook, clean, and be a hole in the mattress on Friday nights for six and half minutes during
Letterman
. And after our anniversary disaster maybe people would understand. Then again, maybe they would think I was unsupportive.

Just then I noticed my second suitcase, reached in and pulled it off the belt, successfully this time. I balanced my purse on my shoulder, collected both of my suitcases and made my way to the taxi stand and waited for a cab.

When it was my turn, a short cabbie jumped out and grabbed my bags. I chuckled to myself as he lifted them and stuffed them into his trunk. Those things were nearly as big as he was. I tucked myself into the backseat of the car and was overwhelmed with the smell of the cabbie’s dinner. Curry. Great.

The eager driver hopped into the front seat and started the meter as he turned to me. “Where to ma’am?”

Where to? Um… Good question.
Why hadn’t I figured that part out? Where was my brain? Back in Napa, I guess.

“Ma’am? Where are you going?”

Surely my grandmother would get a kick out of this. She forever laughed at my impulsive nature.
“One of these days it’s gonna bite you in the derrière,”
she’d say in her French accent.
Consider me bitten,
Grand-mère.

Greg usually stayed at Hyatt Hotels when he traveled for work and loved them. “Hyatt Hotel, please.”

“Which one?” he asks, eyeing me in his rear view mirror.

“Um, the one in New York City?” This wasn’t going well. I looked like such a tourist.

“Grand Central Hyatt? Or the one on 48th? Or the one on 36th Street?”

Figures there’d be more than one,
I groaned inwardly. “Grand Central Hyatt, please,” I guessed, trying to sound as confident as possible. Must have worked because he swiftly pulled ahead into traffic and we were off.

Watching out the window, I tried to get my head on straight, but my mind was about as clear as mud. After about fifteen minutes, I got my first glimpse of the skyline. The famous New York City skyline. I finally started to relax. I was here. I’d done it. Even though there would be chaos erupting back home before the day’s end, I was here and there wasn’t any going back.

My mind returned to the wild imaginings it had been running through on the flight. How will Greg take it? Will he shrug? Will he cry? Will he get angry?

And what would happen when my mother found out? She was a pillar of propriety, with all of her southern breeding and ways. She would never understand. She would never have left Dad, even if he was sleeping with every trollop on the block. Which he didn’t. He was an adoring husband, but if he had, she would have just kept quiet and made like everything was perfect. With her, it was always about saving face and appearances. The right clothes. The right friends. The right man. It didn’t matter how about how you felt. But neglectful marriage is no fun. I’d been there and done that. For the past twenty years. I was tired of it.

And the kids. At least they were all away at college and not home to deal with the fall-out.

And dear Jessica, my best friend since the third grade and married to Greg’s best friend. We’d been through everything together. I hadn’t even told her I was going to do this. We’d joked about it from time to time. But to be honest, I hadn’t even been sure that this was what I was going to do today.

Before I knew it, the taxi stopped and we were in front of the Grand Central Hyatt. The building looked rather plain. Not what I’d expected, but I was good with it. I stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Darkness was just falling. People were still rushing all around. Looking up and down the street, I recalled watching the
Mary Tyler Moore
show with my mother when I was younger and the show’s opening: Mary turning joyfully with a big grin and outstretched arms, ready for her New York City adventure. And so was I, without the outstretched arms and turning of course.

But I was instantly in love with the sounds, the lights and even the smells. I felt like Mary Tyler Moore. A far cry from suburban Boulder, Colorado where I grew up. Or Napa where I had been living since I got married. Sure, Boulder and Napa were nice, but this was New York City. The possibilities seemed endless.

The cab driver deposited my bags at my feet. I paid the $45 set rate fare, and gave him a $10 tip to make up for my ridiculously heavy bags. It was worth every penny.

Feeling stronger, I pulled up the handles on my bags and headed into the hotel. Stepping into the lobby at the Grand Hyatt a giant smile broke out on my face. Okay,
this
was what I was expecting. The waterfalls… the gleaming granite… the hustle and bustle. Taking a deep breath, I made my way to the reception desk.