One Good Friend Deserves Another (22 page)

She searched his eyes. She waited for something more. She waited for the phrase she’d yearned to hear since the very first night they shared together, the declaration she’d gambled her heart, her hopes, and her future to win. She needed to hear that truth now. Spoken loud and clear on the bow of a boat on the open water, a phrase that the wind would wrap tight around her heart and then carry in glorious victory all the way to the wheelhouse.

She waited, her heart pounding.

She waited.

And then she waited no more.

“I’m done with you, Trey Wainwright.” She turned on one heel. “I’m done with you for good.”

H
er cell phone rang again.

Wendy perched in the corner of the couch, her toes digging into the leather. The blinds of her condo were shuttered. Thin stripes of daylight stretched across the floor. Hugging a pillow, she stared at the phone rattling on the coffee table.

Then it stopped ringing.

She tugged at the tassels of the pillow and felt her heart pounding against the fabric. She knew it was Gabriel calling again. She’d seen his name on the screen. She knew it was Gabriel calling, because he’d called once already.

Her phone beeped, and the voice mail icon appeared. With clumsy hands she reached for the phone and dialed, working through the menu to retrieve the message. In the crackling silence after the beep, she recognized the rhythm of his breathing. She heard him sigh into the receiver. She closed her eyes and tried not to remember how it felt when he stretched her out on that table in the tent, his mouth hot against her throat.

Gabriel’s voice, soft in her ear.

“Listen,” he said. “I know this is complicated, Wendy. But we can’t leave things like this.”

She began to rock, pressing her mouth against the pillow, squeezing the phone against her ear. She never should have gone to the art fair. She should have known she wouldn’t be able to resist him.

“Just meet me somewhere. Anywhere. Times Square. Grand Central Terminal. I need to see you,
querida.
”

She buried her face in the pillow. She wanted to see him too. She wanted to move into his house and take care of his little Miguel and watch Gabriel paint marvelous paintings. She wanted to surrender herself to him as if she were a free woman, without guilt or hesitation.

A strip of light gleamed across her hand, sparkling the topaz of Parker’s ring.

“Please, Wendy. Don’t give up on us.”

It was a gorgeous wedding dress. Made of thick ivory silk with a hand-beaded overskirt that glimmered under the lights of the chandelier. Wendy stared at her reflection in the five-paneled mirror, marveling at the workmanship. She imagined pairing the dress with black stiletto boots and a spiked collar.

Wendy’s mother perched on a leather sofa coddling a cup of tea. “Oh, Stella, dear, you’ve outdone yourself. She’s an absolute
vision
.”

“Simple and graceful.” The designer glanced up at Wendy from her knees, where she was carefully tugging the hem. “These silver Louboutins work perfectly. Just as you ordered.”

“What do you think, Wendy?”

Wendy hardly recognized her own reflection. It was a wonder she hadn’t noticed this during all the other fittings. This was a dazzling wedding dress, a thing of great beauty—it was just better suited for some other lucky girl.

“I will say this,” Wendy said, plucking at the bodice’s careful folds. “The dress came out exactly as planned.”

That was the scary part. She’d labored over the design with her mother and Stella more than six months ago, coming in every six weeks to check on the progress. The dress had not changed.
She
had. All because on Saturday afternoon, Gabriel had made love to her under a tent in the rain.

“Really, Wendy, you have nothing else to say?” Her mother swirled the cup. “After all the trouble Stella went through hand-beading those Swarovski crystals on the overskirt?”

“Stella,” Wendy said, as if prompted for her line. “The overskirt really is spectacular. My sister, Birdie, will adore it.”

That was not what she intended to say. That was the least of what she needed to say. Birdie had been, until this moment, the very farthest thing from her mind. But since Gabriel’s last phone call, she’d been like a sleepwalker, dreaming through the haze of her life, going through the motions while watching it as if from a very great distance…and yet seeing it with stunning clarity. The words had leaped to her lips of their own accord. This newborn creature living in her skin felt absolutely no urge to take them back.

“So this is why you’ve been silent as the grave all morning,” her mother said. “I see you’ve made up your mind to bring Birdie to the wedding.”

Wendy had made up her mind on many things. Lots of plans had to change. Despite the fact that there were three hundred and twenty-five wedding invitations in the mail. Despite the fact that there were potted, not-yet-bloomed specialty orchids on a steamer, navigating from Rio de Janeiro. Despite the fact that there were three designer bridesmaid’s dresses and one matron-of-honor dress, cut, sewn, and awaiting Marta, Dhara, Kelly, and Audrey for the last fitting.

For in less than two months, there would be no sixteen-piece orchestra at her cocktail party playing the Meditation from
Thais
while her guests nibbled on salmon mousse on wafers. In less than two months, she would not be married to a wonderful man she’d known since second grade, a good man who deserved a better wife, a loving wife, a
faithful
wife.

Her heart squeezed.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” her mother exclaimed. “I’ll tell the wedding planner to arrange for two more seats.”

Her mother brought the cup to her mouth and put her lips upon the rim, going through the pantomime of sipping. Very deliberately, she replaced the cup in the saucer without a clink. And Wendy glanced at her mother’s reflection in the mirror, noting the sudden capitulation with a raised brow that she’d once pierced, and now was seriously considering piercing again.

In the stretching silence, the designer must have sensed the tension, for she mumbled something about fetching seamstress’s chalk. She rose to her feet, padded across the floor, and then closed the door behind her.

“Don’t look so surprised, my dear.” Her mother pulled a mirror from her purse to check her lipstick. “I suspected you were going to bring this up, sooner or later.”

It was a strange irony that the issue would come up when it didn’t matter anymore. “I know you never wanted Birdie at the wedding.”

“I love your sister, Wendy. I also know that you won’t be doing Birdie any favors by insisting she attend.”

“It wouldn’t be a true family celebration without her.”

“Oh, you’ll have plenty of her. She will cling to you through the entire reception. She adores you above all others.”

“Yes.”

“And when you must make the rounds of the tables, she will become petulant. She will complain. And she will have a tantrum. Then she will have to be dragged to some distant room where the minder will spend the next hour and a half trying to calm her down.”

Wendy closed her eyes and willed patience. She would not say the terrible things that leaped to mind. How her mother had sent Birdie away, when the family had the money to take care of her at home. How much more that act needled her, now that she knew someone like Gabriel. She was not going to fight with her mother, at least not today. That fight would come later. She needed to marshal every ounce of her energy for the more difficult confrontation coming this afternoon.

She reached blindly for the row of pearl buttons up the middle of her back. “Help me get out of this dress, would you?”

“Wait for Stella. She has a few adjustments to make.” Her mother crumpled her smooth brow. “And don’t change the subject. I know you think Birdie has improved these past years, but that’s because you see her only in a place where she is comfortable, where she feels safe, where there is a predictable routine—”

“Please, stop.”

“Yes, I see it’s no use discussing this.” Her mother spread her hands across her knees. “When you’ve got that look on your face, I should know better.”

Wendy glanced back at the woman in the mirror, seeing only the flush of her cheeks, the strange brightness of her own eyes, the face of a woman who’d fallen hard for a Brazilian artist when she should have been planning a wedding to a wonderful man.

“You were like this before you insisted on taking the job at the art gallery in that terrible part of the city. I couldn’t sleep, thinking you’d call me from your cell phone, bleeding in some alley—”

“Now you’re just being dramatic.”

“And that vulgar piercing in your ear, and those widow’s weeds you used to wear. No, no,” her mother said, raising the flat of her hand. “You’ll have Birdie at your wedding. I’ll try very hard not to say I told you so when she’s screaming in Trip’s office at the club.”

Wendy let the remark pass. It didn’t matter anymore. Birdie wouldn’t be screaming in Trip’s office at the club. Someday, Birdie would dance at Wendy’s wedding.

Just not at this wedding.

Parker’s sailboat lay low in the water, its gunwale only a foot or so above the pier. As she approached, she saw him bent over something. His plaid shorts came to just above the knees, his calf muscles firm and contoured. His blond hair was dark with moisture, as if he’d recently showered.

“Hey,” he said, catching sight of her. “There you are.”

Yes, here she was, cheating fiancée. He cast a warm smile upon her and she felt that smile like a shadow across her heart.

“Love the hair,” he said. “You do that for me?”

She lifted her fingers to her hair, still pinned up from the trip to the salon that morning. She tried to run her fingers through it, but they snagged in the pins. “It’s bad luck if you see it.”

“Hey, not a word from me. Help me load, will you?” He gestured to a pile of gear on the dock. “Hand me some of that stuff so we can get on the water.”

She slipped her purse off her shoulder and let it topple to the boards. She picked up the first bag, crinkling the paper. She smelled fresh grapes and caught sight of a bottle of wine. Then, tilting the bag, she saw the familiar logo of their favorite deli.

“I did some shopping,” he said, reaching over to take it out of her hands. “Knew you wouldn’t be happy with a ham sandwich and some beer.”

Something inside her tightened. She reached for the next bag to hide her face. This was the man who suffered family Thanksgivings with her, clutching her hand under the mahogany table as the dysfunction flew. This was the man who’d raised the yachting cup toward her, blowing her a kiss after he’d won the club regatta last summer. This was the man she’d said yes to when he fell to one knee on this dock—in this very spot—offering her his great-grandmother’s ring along with his bright shiny future.

“Another bad morning, huh?” He put the last bag in the boat and then held out his hand. “C’mon. A few hours on the open water will clear your mind.”

Wendy looked at his hand. It was a strong hand, callused at the palms and fingers, the kind of hand that spent a lot of time pulling hemp ropes and cranking winches. An honest hand, an honest man. She had no memory of sinking down and folding her legs, but suddenly, there she was, sitting on the dock in a pool of cotton skirt with the sun-scorched boards burning against the backs of her thighs.

“Hey.” He clutched the gunwale, ready to leap over onto the dock. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she murmured, waving him back. “Yes, I’m fine. I just…need a minute.”

She fumbled in her purse, searching among the chaos for the familiar little pack, the emergency cigarettes she kept with her though she’d given up the habit years and years ago.