Somerville?”
“Yes.” And it’s Ms., but whatever.
“Two women were murdered in cold blood,” said Wally. “I’m not really sure why this is about you.”
“Actually, I am,” said Lola.
“I’m sorry?”
“C’mon, Wally.” She waited.
Lola heard a metallic creak as he leaned back in his chair. He took a deep breath. “How come you never called me back?”
A ha .
“Wally, I—”
“I mean, I thought we had a really nice time.”
“We did!”
“So why didn’t you call me back?”
“I—look, Wally. I enjoyed meeting you. You’re a great guy. But I just wasn’t up for taking things any further.”
Amazing how easily the it’s over phrases still assembled themselves. But my God. Am I breaking up with someone I never went out with? Six months after my wedding?
“Fine. Whatever. But that absolves you from returning a phone call?”
“Well, I—You seemed noncommittal about a second date in your message. I figured you were being polite—”
“That makes one of us. And I thought your online advice column—sorry, former online advice column—was all about manners,” Wally, said.
Ow. Double ow.
“Look, Wally, I’m sorry. I guess I should have called you back. I messed up. I—I’m sorry.”
Wally swallowed. “Apology accepted.”
“Thanks,” said Lola. “Now, here’s how you can help me clear my name.”
“What?”
“That, or here’s how I can tell your boss all about how you bragged that night that you’d actually written that whole ‘exclusive from the top-secret undisclosed-location Kabbalah initiation’ story from your apartment.”
Wally took another sip of something, possibly from a flask in a file drawer.
“What can I do for you?”
Nineteen
At this time of so much death, that an opportunity would present itself to celebrate new life seemed cosmically fitting. Still, Lola had almost forgotten about her friend Oona’s baby shower. Good thing Annabel had called her with hungover regret.
But ack, she still needed to buy a gift! So much for her plans to give her poor garden a little love. Doug was heading out to play Ultimate Frisbee. Lola threw on a sundress and kissed him good-bye.
On her way into Manhattan, Lola stopped at the more up-and-came neighborhood nearby, which on a Saturday, with all the sport-utility strollers and darling hats and joyful multi-culti families, was like the Act I finale of Heather Has Two Mommies: The Musical . Earlier, she had turned the poor bassets over to an exceedingly charming male cousin of Daphne’s—someone who, it had occurred to Lola, might be good for Annabel if by some cruel twist of fate she never saw the Leo light. Now leashless and Snugli-less, in this neighborhood, Lola felt both smugly unencumbered and slightly, sadly, expendable.
At a store called gaga, or googoo, or something equally adorable and lowercase, Lola scored a hypoallergenic cotton elephant woven by the women of a village in Lesotho, spending an extra five dollars to have it gift wrapped in linen because the store didn’t “use paper.” Except for credit card receipts, thought Lola.
While she was there, she dropped Daphne’s cell phone, wiped of fingerprints, into a postage-paid, return-address-free envelope addressed to Wally Seaport.
The timing of the shower is actually excellent, Lola told herself once back on the subway. I’ll see everyone cooing and aahing, and I’ll get the urge that all those smug ladies who say “You’ll see” are talking about. I’ll bet I just need to be sprinkled with baby dust or something—and today is my day.
Of course, Lola knew plenty of people with babies, or at least one, or two, on the way. It’s just that before she got married—even though she assumed, abstractly, that she would “have kids one day”—it had always seemed like something that would happen , not something she’d do . Having children, for that matter, seemed like something other people—people with dens—did. Parents were
“Yes.” And it’s Ms., but whatever.
“Two women were murdered in cold blood,” said Wally. “I’m not really sure why this is about you.”
“Actually, I am,” said Lola.
“I’m sorry?”
“C’mon, Wally.” She waited.
Lola heard a metallic creak as he leaned back in his chair. He took a deep breath. “How come you never called me back?”
A ha .
“Wally, I—”
“I mean, I thought we had a really nice time.”
“We did!”
“So why didn’t you call me back?”
“I—look, Wally. I enjoyed meeting you. You’re a great guy. But I just wasn’t up for taking things any further.”
Amazing how easily the it’s over phrases still assembled themselves. But my God. Am I breaking up with someone I never went out with? Six months after my wedding?
“Fine. Whatever. But that absolves you from returning a phone call?”
“Well, I—You seemed noncommittal about a second date in your message. I figured you were being polite—”
“That makes one of us. And I thought your online advice column—sorry, former online advice column—was all about manners,” Wally, said.
Ow. Double ow.
“Look, Wally, I’m sorry. I guess I should have called you back. I messed up. I—I’m sorry.”
Wally swallowed. “Apology accepted.”
“Thanks,” said Lola. “Now, here’s how you can help me clear my name.”
“What?”
“That, or here’s how I can tell your boss all about how you bragged that night that you’d actually written that whole ‘exclusive from the top-secret undisclosed-location Kabbalah initiation’ story from your apartment.”
Wally took another sip of something, possibly from a flask in a file drawer.
“What can I do for you?”
Nineteen
At this time of so much death, that an opportunity would present itself to celebrate new life seemed cosmically fitting. Still, Lola had almost forgotten about her friend Oona’s baby shower. Good thing Annabel had called her with hungover regret.
But ack, she still needed to buy a gift! So much for her plans to give her poor garden a little love. Doug was heading out to play Ultimate Frisbee. Lola threw on a sundress and kissed him good-bye.
On her way into Manhattan, Lola stopped at the more up-and-came neighborhood nearby, which on a Saturday, with all the sport-utility strollers and darling hats and joyful multi-culti families, was like the Act I finale of Heather Has Two Mommies: The Musical . Earlier, she had turned the poor bassets over to an exceedingly charming male cousin of Daphne’s—someone who, it had occurred to Lola, might be good for Annabel if by some cruel twist of fate she never saw the Leo light. Now leashless and Snugli-less, in this neighborhood, Lola felt both smugly unencumbered and slightly, sadly, expendable.
At a store called gaga, or googoo, or something equally adorable and lowercase, Lola scored a hypoallergenic cotton elephant woven by the women of a village in Lesotho, spending an extra five dollars to have it gift wrapped in linen because the store didn’t “use paper.” Except for credit card receipts, thought Lola.
While she was there, she dropped Daphne’s cell phone, wiped of fingerprints, into a postage-paid, return-address-free envelope addressed to Wally Seaport.
The timing of the shower is actually excellent, Lola told herself once back on the subway. I’ll see everyone cooing and aahing, and I’ll get the urge that all those smug ladies who say “You’ll see” are talking about. I’ll bet I just need to be sprinkled with baby dust or something—and today is my day.
Of course, Lola knew plenty of people with babies, or at least one, or two, on the way. It’s just that before she got married—even though she assumed, abstractly, that she would “have kids one day”—it had always seemed like something that would happen , not something she’d do . Having children, for that matter, seemed like something other people—people with dens—did. Parents were
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