something?”
“Sure.”
“When I’m sad, I think of you.”
Pete looks at me carefully. “Why?”
“Because.” I close my eyes as though the words I need are written on the front page of my mind. “Because you see the girl in me.” It’s true. Nobody remembers her anymore. She got lost on the road of responsibility and within the natural process of aging (ick). When Pete Rutledge tells me I’m beautiful, I believe him. And boy, do I need to hear it. I need to
know
it. When I’m with him, I’m not taken for granted, I’m not just a pharmacist or a wife or a mother, I’m me, the real me. I’m celebrated. It’s something that even the best husband can’t deliver; it must come from the unfamiliar, or the new, or memory itself. That’s the trade-off we all make in the security of commitment: excitement for comfort.
“Good night, Ave.”
“Bye, Pete.”
I watch him as he walks down the street. He turns. “Ave?”
“Yeah?”
“Tell Jack I’ll send the samples this week, okay?”
“Okay.”
Pete turns the corner and is gone. But just like Gene Tierney, I have a funny feeling that this is not the end of this fantasy. This is not the end of Pete Rutledge.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Don’t ask. Let me get into my pajamas,” I tell Theodore, who perches on the couch like a cat waiting to be fed. “I can’t believe you stayed up this late. Are you that curious about Pete Rutledge?”
“What can I say? I love a soap opera. I’ll get the wine.” Theodore jumps up and goes into the kitchen.
“I could’ve gotten into Big Trouble,” I tell Theodore on my way to the bedroom. “But I didn’t.” As I change, Theodore hollers from the kitchen, “Boy, are you lucky. You had the ‘my best friend the gay guy is waiting for me upstairs’ excuse.”
I take a glass of wine from Theodore and gulp it down.
“Now, give me all the details.”
“Where’s Max?”
“Never mind him. He’s home. Exhausted. Come on. What happened?”
“Well, I went to the lecture, and then we walked around, and then we went to the Caffe dell’Artista on Greenwich Avenue.”
“The cannoli there are as good as foreplay.”
“No kidding.”
“Go on.”
“And he told me that he was going to get married.”
“No.”
“To a nice woman named Gina with a son.”
“He didn’t hit on you at all?”
“Yes, he did. Sort of. A little. And I was very happy about it, okay?”
“Don’t get mad at me. I’m only asking the questions. Does he love the Gina woman?”
“He didn’t say that. He said Gina wanted a commitment, and that her son needed him, you know, it was like a Red Cross deal. He’s saving them or something.”
“Uh-oh.”
“And then he told me that—”
“Let me guess. He loves you but he can’t have you.”
“Yes! That’s it! That’s exactly what he said!”
“This is too good.”
“It’s terrible.”
“It’s perfect.”
“How is it perfect?” I pour myself another glass of wine.
“You know that there’s a great guy out there who adores you, and you never have to clean up after him or feed him or wonder if he’s out catting around, or any of the bad stuff. You get only the good stuff. Who said fantasy is better than reality?”
“Everybody says that.”
“Because it’s true. Once you fall in love, and you’re
in
love, the magic gets used up. That’s not to say that the day-in and day-out routine of love isn’t totally reassuring, of course it is. But it’s flannel sheets instead of satin.”
“Jack and I are definitely flannel. But it’s more complicated than that. Pete helped me get over Joe’s death. And because that bond was so strong, I had to decide if I was going to stay married to Jack. In my marriage, there’s the world before Joe died, and then there’s the world after. And sometimes at night, when it’s just Jack and me, we talk about how everything changed after Joe, which we could never do until I went away that summer with Etta and met Pete. He
“Sure.”
“When I’m sad, I think of you.”
Pete looks at me carefully. “Why?”
“Because.” I close my eyes as though the words I need are written on the front page of my mind. “Because you see the girl in me.” It’s true. Nobody remembers her anymore. She got lost on the road of responsibility and within the natural process of aging (ick). When Pete Rutledge tells me I’m beautiful, I believe him. And boy, do I need to hear it. I need to
know
it. When I’m with him, I’m not taken for granted, I’m not just a pharmacist or a wife or a mother, I’m me, the real me. I’m celebrated. It’s something that even the best husband can’t deliver; it must come from the unfamiliar, or the new, or memory itself. That’s the trade-off we all make in the security of commitment: excitement for comfort.
“Good night, Ave.”
“Bye, Pete.”
I watch him as he walks down the street. He turns. “Ave?”
“Yeah?”
“Tell Jack I’ll send the samples this week, okay?”
“Okay.”
Pete turns the corner and is gone. But just like Gene Tierney, I have a funny feeling that this is not the end of this fantasy. This is not the end of Pete Rutledge.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Don’t ask. Let me get into my pajamas,” I tell Theodore, who perches on the couch like a cat waiting to be fed. “I can’t believe you stayed up this late. Are you that curious about Pete Rutledge?”
“What can I say? I love a soap opera. I’ll get the wine.” Theodore jumps up and goes into the kitchen.
“I could’ve gotten into Big Trouble,” I tell Theodore on my way to the bedroom. “But I didn’t.” As I change, Theodore hollers from the kitchen, “Boy, are you lucky. You had the ‘my best friend the gay guy is waiting for me upstairs’ excuse.”
I take a glass of wine from Theodore and gulp it down.
“Now, give me all the details.”
“Where’s Max?”
“Never mind him. He’s home. Exhausted. Come on. What happened?”
“Well, I went to the lecture, and then we walked around, and then we went to the Caffe dell’Artista on Greenwich Avenue.”
“The cannoli there are as good as foreplay.”
“No kidding.”
“Go on.”
“And he told me that he was going to get married.”
“No.”
“To a nice woman named Gina with a son.”
“He didn’t hit on you at all?”
“Yes, he did. Sort of. A little. And I was very happy about it, okay?”
“Don’t get mad at me. I’m only asking the questions. Does he love the Gina woman?”
“He didn’t say that. He said Gina wanted a commitment, and that her son needed him, you know, it was like a Red Cross deal. He’s saving them or something.”
“Uh-oh.”
“And then he told me that—”
“Let me guess. He loves you but he can’t have you.”
“Yes! That’s it! That’s exactly what he said!”
“This is too good.”
“It’s terrible.”
“It’s perfect.”
“How is it perfect?” I pour myself another glass of wine.
“You know that there’s a great guy out there who adores you, and you never have to clean up after him or feed him or wonder if he’s out catting around, or any of the bad stuff. You get only the good stuff. Who said fantasy is better than reality?”
“Everybody says that.”
“Because it’s true. Once you fall in love, and you’re
in
love, the magic gets used up. That’s not to say that the day-in and day-out routine of love isn’t totally reassuring, of course it is. But it’s flannel sheets instead of satin.”
“Jack and I are definitely flannel. But it’s more complicated than that. Pete helped me get over Joe’s death. And because that bond was so strong, I had to decide if I was going to stay married to Jack. In my marriage, there’s the world before Joe died, and then there’s the world after. And sometimes at night, when it’s just Jack and me, we talk about how everything changed after Joe, which we could never do until I went away that summer with Etta and met Pete. He
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