Starting Over by Dan Wakefield Page A

eyes.
    â€œJessie?”
    She bit at her lip.
    â€œJessie— What is it? Are you happy?”
    She sniffed, and pulled a wad of Kleenex from her purse. “I’m sorry,” she said, trembling.
    â€œWhat? Why? ”
    â€œI knew it,” she said, sobbing and choking.
    â€œKnew what? ” Potter asked in a hoarse whisper. “Knew what? ”
    Her mouth twitched in a caricature of a smile and she sobbed, “You don’t love me. You never did. You never loved me at all.”
    Most of Potter’s feelings of “maturity” escaped from him in a long sigh; silently, mechanically, he put a pan of water on the stove to boil for instant coffee.
    He phoned for a delivery from The Leaning Tower of Pizza, and made Jessica eat some. He had no more to drink until he got her in a cab and out to Logan in time for the last shuttle, trying vainly to assure her that he had loved her more than anyone in his life, that he wanted her to be happy, and that this new guy sounded just wonderful and that was why he approved.
    When he described the whole thing the next night to Marilyn she sighed, and said, “Now she probably won’t ever marry the guy.”
    â€œBut what the hell could I have done?”
    â€œCried a lot and said that you still loved her and would shoot yourself if she married this man.”
    â€œWhat good would that have done?”
    â€œShe’d have probably married him.”
    Potter turned that over in his mind, then let out a long sigh. “Jesus,” he said. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
    Marilyn stroked his head, comfortingly, and said how glad she was that their relationship was rational, that they didn’t have to play those games with each other.
    â€œIt’s great,” he agreed. “It really is great.”

5
    As a special treat, Potter invited Marilyn to come to his place for Sunday Brunch. On Saturday night they were going to have dinner with a married couple who were friends of Marilyn and go see Truffaut’s The Wild Child , and afterward to the Jazz Workshop on Boylston Street, where Stan Getz was appearing—a ghost, Potter felt, from his own collegiate past of Fifties cool. A real Night On The Town. After all that socializing Potter thought it would be nice if they could be alone together the next day, and so proposed to cook up a wonderful brunch of omelettes for just him and Marilyn. They would laze around and read the Sunday papers in cozy comfort.
    Omelettes were the only thing Potter could cook, the only thing anyway that required “ingredients.” He could boil knockwurst and fry eggs and hamburgers, but the only thing he could really cook was an omelette. He learned during his marriage. In one of those periods when they both were Trying, Potter decided he would make a ritual of being the cook on Sunday. He studied Jessie’s Gourmet Cookbook, examining the diagrams of omelettes as well as the recipes, and practiced intently. The real moment of fulfillment came when he carefully flipped the heating face of the potion over on top of itself, with the goodies lying sequestered in between. He learned to make every kind of omelette, and delighted in inventing some of his own. He made up names for them. The one he made with leftover Chinese water-chestnuts and almonds in the center and lots of soy sauce on top was the Mao Tse-tung omelette. That sort of thing.
    Jessica claimed to love them. She even ate all of her “Sweet Georgia Brown” omelette, which Potter had stuffed with canned peaches and cooked in brown sugar and brandy.
    They always washed the omelettes down with a lot of chilled white wine, which helped a lot.
    The omelette tradition lasted three or four months.
    It was one of their better efforts.
    â€œCan’t I help?” Marilyn asked when Potter was about to prepare the omelettes.
    â€œNo,” he said indignantly. “You have to go out in the living room and read the