If You Only Knew(8)
“Mom, the neighborhood is gorgeous,” I tell her, using my “calm the bride” voice.
“Well, it’s not what it was when your father was alive. If he hadn’t died, it still might be a nice place to live.”
This is one of those illogical and unarguable statements so common from Mother Dear. Westchester County is hardly a hotbed of crime and urban decay. Even if COH was hit by urban blight—which it hasn’t been—it’s not as if Dad, who was a dentist, would’ve single-handedly stepped in and saved the day.
“You should’ve moved to Connecticut, Jenny. Hedgefield would’ve been perfect for your little dress shop. I still don’t understand why you didn’t want to come here.”
Because you live there. “I have to go, Mom. Don’t come over. I’ll have you up over dinner later this week, okay?”
“I can’t eat dairy anymore. It gives me terrible diarrhea. Ana-Sofia made empanadas that were delicious. Maybe you could call her for the recipe, since you’re not the best cook.”
Cleansing breath, cleansing breath. “Anything else?”
“Well, don’t make duck. I’m morally opposed to duck. Do you know what they do to ducks at a duck farm? The cruelty! It’s barbaric. But I do love veal. Can you make veal? Or is that too hard for you?”
“I’ll make something delicious, Mom.” I won’t. I’ll buy something delicious.
“See you in a few hours, then.”
“No, no. Please don’t come. I won’t even be here. I have a bride coming in.” A lie, but it’s de rigueur when dodging a maternal visit.
“Fine. Maybe I’ll call Ana-Sofia. She asked for some advice on getting the baby to burp, so...”
“Okay, bye.” I stab the end button hard. My twitch has grown into a throb.
I’d like to say that Mom means well, but that wouldn’t really be true. When things are good, she looks not for the silver lining, but for the mercury toxicity. When things are bad, her eyes light up, she stands straighter and her life is filled with purpose. She views my move to COH as both my inevitable failure at marriage—she always hinted Owen was too good for me—and also a gauntlet I’ve thrown at her feet. If I do better after my divorce—personally and professionally—it might imply that she should, too.
Well, no point in crying over spilled milk. Spilled wine, yes. But I have a long day of unpacking in front of me, and I want to get started. Unfortunately, the moving truck is nowhere in sight. Luis said he knew the street, but they’re late just the same, even if they left just a second after I did.
Hopefully, this will be the last time I move—which is exactly what I said when I moved in with Owen. He was the fourth boyfriend I lived with, but I thought he had staying power. But seriously, this could be the last time, because my new place is flippin’ beautiful. The real estate lady said it’s possible that it’ll go up for sale next year; it was an impulse buy on the part of the owner, and my lease is only for one year—a hint, she said, that the owner might want to sell it.
So I could live here forever, and why not? It’s elegant and cozy at the same time, a four-story brick town house painted dark gray with black trim and a cherry-red front door. Iron window box holders curl up in front of all the windows, and I immediately picture planting trailing ivy and pink and purple flowers in a few weeks. The trees along the street are dressed in green fuzz, and the magnolia across the street is in full, cream-and-pink glory.
My apartment consists of the middle two floors of the building—living room, dining room, tiny galley kitchen and powder room on the first level, then three small bedrooms and a full-size bath up the wide wooden staircase. The Victorian claw-foot tub was impossible to resist. There’s a tiny backyard with a slate patio, which I get to use, and a tiny front yard that belongs to the super, who has the first floor—the pied-à-terre, the Realtor called it, which made it sound very fabulous and European. The fourth floor is being used by the owner for storage. With the three dormered windows up there, the light would be fantastic. If I owned the place, I could use the entire floor as a home studio. Or a nursery for my attractive and cheerful babies.
A man comes down the street, walking a beautiful Golden retriever.
He looks my way, and our eyes meet. He lives right next door in that gorgeous brownstone, and he’s single, go figure, a chef who’s just signed a contract to let his name be used on a line of high-end French cookware. His sister is engaged, and guess who’s making her dress? Jenny Tate, that’s who! What a small world! The Christmas wedding is at St. Patrick’s Cathedral, and I wear a wine-red velvet dress to the reception and he’s in a tux, and as we dance together, he slides an engagement ring onto my finger and drops to one knee, and his sister—in her gorgeous satin modified A-line dress with green velvet trailing sash—is all for this. In fact, she’s in on the proposal and is already crying happy tears. We get married and buy a charming old farmhouse with views of the Hudson so our twin sons and little daughter can run and play while we harvest vegetables from our organic garden and we’ll breed Jeter, our faithful Goldie, and the kids will all be valedictorians and go to Yale.
The man fails to make eye contact. Instead, he’s yelling something into a phone about “your bitch of a sister,” so I regretfully cross him off my list of potential second husbands.