Who Would You Choose? Read online

  Well, Sam, at eighteen, was young, too.

  But he’d be going away in the fall and he wasn’t ready to make any real plans. He’d decided to major in political science and thought he might be going into politics. Or something related. Nothing definite yet. So he wasn’t about to make any long-term declarations.

  But in April, when her birthday came around, he went to her birthday party and he gave her a necklace. It was a thin silver chain with a little silver charm in the form of a pony, and he’d written on the card “Happy Birthday to our school’s Clothes Horse.” She meant to wear it forever but at just-turned-fifteen, “forever” is a notion that is little understood.

  * * * *

  A week later, Sam asked her to his senior prom. Marge was absolutely puffed up with pride and excitement, and she took it as proof that there could be something serious between them.

  “You lucky thing!” Bridey said. “What are you going to wear?”

  “Oh, I’ll figure out something. I haven’t decided yet. Something traditional? You know, like a classic prom dress? Or something really special no one would think to wear to a prom? Black jeans and a ruffled shirt. Or a bikini top.”

  Bridey laughed. “You’ll come up with something.”

  “I know.”

  She didn’t need to think about the dress. No, deciding on the right dress was the easy part. Fashion was, after all, Marge’s medium, and if there was anything she understood, it was how to make interesting and effective wardrobe choices to honor the event, to express her personality and her moods, her sense of the time and place. What worried her were the butterflies in her stomach. She knew she’d be among Sam’s classmates, boys and girls older than herself by three years, and she worried that she’d make some sort of mistake, do something stupid, make a fool of herself. And embarrass Sam in front of his friends, in front of the whole senior class. Usually, self-confidence was one of Marge’s strong suits, but on this occasion, for goodness’ sake, the senior prom!—well, it would be a test of her maturity.

  About the dress, she decided, finally, on an absolutely plain black silk sheath with spaghetti straps, and no accessory other than a long string of pearls and pearl earrings. And on the evening of the prom, when she checked out every detail in the tall three-way mirror in her bedroom, she felt exquisitely grown-up and elegant. Surely, Sam would see that she was mature enough, even at fifteen, to make plans beyond his graduation. She hoped there’d be something promised between them before he went away in the fall.

  But when the time came, the evening turned out differently from everything she’d expected. And it wasn’t Sam’s fault. Sam did all the right things. He arrived right on time, in his old, beat-up Mazda. He came to the front door, in a conventional black tux and bow tie, and he shook hands with Marge’s dad and promised her mom they’d be home by midnight. A week earlier, he’d surreptitiously and very delicately quizzed Bridey about Marge’s dress and so he brought the perfect corsage—a plain and very lovely cluster of small calla lilies, which he fastened around her wrist. He was clearly impressed by the sophistication of the dress she’d chosen, and he meant it when he told her she looked really beautiful. When they got to the car, he held the door for her to help her into the front seat. With Sam as her escort, all her anxieties disappeared.

  The evening went well. Great, in fact. Sam and several other couples had rented a room at the town’s only hotel, and they started the evening there, drinking beer and eating pretzels and dancing and—a little bit, some of them—making out, in a genteel and tentative way. Marge had never liked beer, so she stuck to the pretzels and Sam was not a boy to join in the nuzzling publicly, nor would he let any girl he was with be compromised—especially a girl as young as Marge—so they just danced and revved themselves up for the evening. After about an hour, they left to go to the school’s gym where the prom was happening. Turned out, the music was good, the buffet food was well done, the mock cocktails were drinkable, and all their friends were there, so they remained until eleven when the festivities were officially shut down. Marge had been having a good time and she hadn’t disgraced herself or Sam. His friends accepted her with no problems, especially since they all knew her work for the newspaper, which made her a little bit of a celebrity at school. She expected to go back to the room where the post-prom party was continuing, but Sam surprised her. He said he wanted to spend the rest of the evening alone with her. “Let’s go to Spatz’s,” he said. “Where we can talk.”

  Spatz’s Diner was the only place in town that stayed open all night. And if Sam wanted to be alone to talk, Marge felt this was portentous. Maybe, she hoped, he wanted to talk about them, and maybe about their future? This was more interesting, more exciting, than any post-prom party where they’d all be drinking more, making out more, and maybe getting her involved in ways she wasn’t ready to get into—not just yet.

  They got settled at their table, ordered Cokes and nachos, and under the table, Marge had her fingers crossed.

  “I wanted to talk to you because I won’t be seeing you for the rest of the summer.”

  Marge’s heart fluttered.

  “I’ll be leaving in a few days,” he said. “The family’s taking a road trip out west and we won’t be back till the end of the summer. And then, when we get back, the plan is for me to leave right away for school. So tonight is our last chance to be together.”

  “I didn’t know you’d be leaving so soon. I thought we’d be seeing each other before you left.” Inside, she was pleading. Not so soon!! Not yet! Please don’t go away now! Under the table, she uncrossed her fingers and put her hands on the table. She needed to do something with them. She scooped up a chip loaded with cheese and guacamole. “I’ll miss you, Sam. School won’t be the same without you.” She ate the chip. She felt as though she was going to cry.

  “Hey,” Sam said. “I want to stay in touch, Marge. We can write to each other. And I’ll be back in town for holidays. Harvard isn’t so far away. The thing is, this is a big move for me, and a really big opportunity to build my future. Whatever that’s going to be. I need to really concentrate. Focus my energies. Don’t let myself get sidetracked. ”

  What Sam was saying was that he was becoming a man. What Marge heard was “goodbye.” She felt as though he were dismissing her. She wanted to say, “I can be part of your future, Sam.” But maybe he’d think she was being silly. She’d started out the evening feeling so grown up, and here were all her fantasies crumbling around her. It hit her really hard that she wasn’t old enough to be taken seriously, to be a part of any man’s life. Not yet. She felt ashamed. She looked away, fighting off the tears. What an awful way to end the evening, an evening that was supposed to be so special!

  Sam took her hand. “Hey, come on, Marge. I bet you have a great future ahead of you, too. Maybe you’ll do important things, too.”

  Somehow, that made her angry. As though he were patronizing her.

  “That’s right.” She could feel herself digging in her heels, determined not to let his condescension humiliate her further. She had always sensed that behind his good-natured teasing, he really didn’t take her plans seriously. “That’s right,” she repeated, more forcefully. She raised her head, felt her neck stiffen. “Yes, Sam. I’m going to do great things.”

  “Right.” He was laughing now. “I know. You’re going to be the editor in chief of Lady Fair magazine. Before you’re thirty.”

  He was laughing, but she wasn’t. She was mad.

  “I will be. You’ll see.”

  She pulled her hand out of his, but he took it back again. More seriously, he said, “Marge, it’s good to have goals, aim high and all that. I know. But I hate to see the way you’re setting yourself up to be disappointed. Sometimes people have to settle for more realistic goals. That’s not a bad thing. Honestly, honey. Don’t set yourself up to get hurt.”

  I just did, she thought. I set myse
lf up with you, and I won’t make that mistake again.

  “Okay,” she said. She could feel herself pulling away from Sam. Sam, who was such a good guy, but who couldn’t take her seriously. Sam, who was leaving to go to Harvard to build his brilliant career, doing whatever it was going to be.

  I’m going to go on and build my own brilliant career, and you can go to hell, Sam Packard. Everyone’s darling boy. Well, you’re not my darling boy.

  “I suppose you’re right,” she said, taking another chip, and scooping up a bit of the sour cream. “It’s silly to aim so high. After all, who do I think I am? The Queen of Sheba?” She chomped down the chip and took another one. “So tell me more about your plans for Harvard. What are you expecting?”

  “Now you’re mad,” he said. “I didn’t mean to make you mad. Really. I just want you to be sensible.”

  “Well, Sam.” She was feeling even more stiff-necked now. “I really don’t need you to teach me how to feel sensible. I’m a very sensible person. I have my plans, too. And don’t I do good work for the school paper? Don’t I write a good column? Doesn’t everyone tell you how much they like it? Isn’t it always delivered on time—no, ahead of time. Don’t I have all the makings of a really good journalist? And don’t I really know my subject? Do you know anyone who knows as much about fashion as I do? And don’t I—”

  “Whoa, there. Slow down. It’s true, you write a really good column. So good, in fact, I’ve recommended you for editor of the paper next year. Hadn’t had a chance to tell you yet, but it will get approved, of course, and the job is yours beginning in September.” He didn’t wait for her to say thank you, which she was about to do, grudgingly, considering how angry she was. “But let’s face it. You and I both know fashion is not exactly rocket science. It’s not earthshaking news if hemlines go up or down. You know that. Or if ‘they’ are wearing fur or felt this year. It’s not a thing any sane person can take totally seriously. And for you to get your whole life—I mean your whole life—tied up in it, your whole ego, all your passion and intelligence committed to what women are wearing, well Marge, honey. It’s just plain dumb!”

  That did it.

  She stood up.

  “Take me home, Sam.”

  He stood up, too. “Now listen, honey. There’s no need—”

  “Don’t call me ‘honey.” You don’t know me well enough for that. Just take me home.”

  And she headed for the door.

  Sam dropped a bunch of bills on the table and ran after her.

  Now he was mad, too.

  “You’re acting like a little girl,” he said. “I thought you were more mature than that.”

  Nothing he could have said would have been more wrong than that.

  Neither one of them spoke another word all the way back to her home. He pulled up in front of her house. She got out immediately and stalked up the driveway. He drove away as soon as she was inside the front door.

  * * * *

  He wrote to her a couple of times that summer, to tell her he was sorry, to explain how he really felt about her. But she was still mad and still hurt and she tore up his letters without reading them and threw them away.

  And in September, Sam went off to Harvard, and Marge became the school newspaper’s first female editor, and they didn’t see each other again.

  Until twenty years later, when they bumped into each other on a Friday evening, in the corridor of a courthouse on Centre Street in Manhattan.

  Chapter Ten

  For five days, Marge finished up the food Bridey had left for her, ate lots of ice cream, drank margaritas, white wine, and buckets of iced tea and stared out over the ocean, thinking, remembering, planning. By the end of the five days, she knew what she was going to do, how she would do what Martine Diaz’s prescription ordered her to do. And it wasn’t going to be soaking up the sunlight there on a deck staring out over the dunes of Cape Cod and counting sea gulls. Or baking under a tropical sun in the Caribbean, either.

  On the morning of the sixth day, she closed up the house, notified Bridey that it would be vacant, “just in case Llewellyn and Henrietta wanted to use it.” She called for a cab to take her to Provincetown’s airport, and by eleven a.m. she was in the air, and as soon as she got back to New York, she texted Jerry.

  I’m home. Cn u get away 4 dinner?

  How’s the case going?

  The answer came right back.

  In court now. this one’s a bitch. but quick dinner’s okay. Brahma House?

  7:30 p.?

  The Brahma House was near Jerry’s office, so she knew his time was tight. Probably he’d have just enough time to eat and then get back to work. Just as well. She expected this dinner to go quickly, and she didn’t want to have to tell him not to come to her place afterwards. If this case was preoccupying him, he’d probably just as soon go to his own apartment. Or even sleep on the sofa in his office, which he sometimes did. Also, Brahma House was a good choice. It was one of those quiet, elegant, intimate places where the service was perfect, the food was impeccable, and tables far enough apart so it was possible to talk without being overheard—and without overhearing the neighbors.

  She spent the rest of the afternoon packing. She wasn’t going to need much. No one would be seeing her twice. Jeans and tee shirts mostly. Good walking shoes. A short trench coat in case of rain, with a removable lining as the weather was getting chillier. A denim jacket. A pretty chiffon dress from Dolce & Gabbana, a print of pink, gray and black peonies, if she needed something a bit dressy. And chiffon would pack easily. No jewelry except a plain watch—the old Timex she’d had since she was in school—and pearl earrings. And that was about it. The necessary lingerie and toiletries. And big dark sunglasses, to help her hide if she needed to. It all went into a single carry-on. Notebook and passport in her handbag. A paperback to read on the plane. Several pens. No electronic devices, except her phone.

  Perfect. All done in under an hour. Including the long minute she stood there in the middle of her bedroom, with her carry-on open on the bed, with the small purple velvet jewelry pouch in her hand, while she decided that yes, it should go along with her. And tucked it down into one of the inside pockets of her carry-on bag.

  After the bag was packed, she set it near the door. Then she got settled comfortably on her sofa with her laptop set onto the coffee table in front of her. She logged in and quickly located some small, out-of-the-way hotels, made reservations, and then booked her airline tickets. Economy class only. She deliberately didn’t use Lady Fair’s travel department, and charged all to her personal credit card. With that taken care of, it was time to leave to meet Jerry.

  * * * *

  She loved the Brahma House restaurant. It was always unobtrusive. It suited her mood perfectly. She planned to have a nice talk with Jerry, explain what was happening, and then leave directly for the airport. Her flight was a red eye and she’d be able to make it to the airport in time for her midnight flight.

  Jerry was already there when she arrived, and the maître d’ took her directly to their table, where Jerry was studying some papers. He leaned over to kiss her as she sat down, and said, “I’m glad you’re back. Did you have a good rest?”

  “I sat in the sun, I ate lots of clams and ice cream, and drank margaritas, and I got some sleep. But not enough. And I want to talk to you about that.” She paused to look at the menu, decided on the scallops, took a bit of flatbread from the basket and nibbled on it. “This case is keeping you busy?”

  “It’s a tough one. It’s good to get away from it for a little while. Let’s not even talk about it.” He slipped the papers he’d been looking at into the case he’d set on the floor next to him. “It’s keeping the whole team up late every night.”

  “Then you won’t mind at all if I’m away for a few weeks?”

  “Probably just as well. I’m not going to be good compa
ny while this is going on.”

  She knew how he got when a case was troubling him. Distracted. Preoccupied. Grumpy. Might as well be a hundred miles away. On a distant planet.

  “Then you won’t mind.”

  She could see him bringing his mind around to setting aside what he’d been working on and focusing on her.

  “Won’t mind what?”

  “Doctor’s orders. You’ve been right, telling me I was driving myself too hard. Dr. Diaz says I have to get away. At least several weeks. So I’m just going to take off—disappear—be incommunicado. I don’t want anyone to know where I am—and don’t get mad, Jerry, but that means you, too. I just need to know that no one knows where I am, so I can really rest. I’m packed. I’m leaving tonight. I’ve made all the arrangements and told them at the office that I’m giving myself a vacation—but no one at Lady Fair will know where I am, either.”

  Jerry sat back and looked thoughtfully at her, for a long minute.

  “Suppose there’s an emergency?” he said.

  She took a card from her bag and handed it to him.

  “Here’s an emergency contact number, and I’ve given it to them at the office, too. If it really is necessary, I can be reached. But I mean it, Jerry. Only if it’s really necessary. Totally incommunicado!”

  “You’ll be all right?”

  “Of course I’ll be all right. I’ll just be out of touch. That’s all. And I’ll be resting, taking it easy, giving myself no problems. It’ll be good for me.”

  He shook his head thoughtfully, thinking it over. Then he said, “Okay, then.” He picked up the menu. “Have you decided?”

  “I’ll have the scallops,” she said. Jerry said he’d have the same and signaled the waiter who came and took their order along with Jerry’s choice from the wine list, a bottle of a nice Vouvray that he knew was one of Marge’s favorites.