A Kiss Too Late. Ellen James
year he and Jen had been apart, he’d developed an irritating habit of comparing every woman he met with his ex-wife. And somehow, in one way or another, they always came up lacking. He’d have to get over the habit–it was a damned nuisance.
Finally Sandra blotted the last few tears from her face. “I think I’m under control now,” she said, although her voice was a bit shaky. “I thought I was handling things so well–the divorce, you know…”
Adam nodded carefully. He knew that Sandra had recently been divorced. He also knew she had something more to say; he could sense it coming. He just wasn’t sure he wanted to hear anything about Sandra’s private life.
“My ex-husband is seeing someone,” she said. “Some girl who’s barely twenty, for heaven’s sake. I could deal with that much, I really think I could, but last night I found out she’s going to move in with him. You know who told me? My own son. My own child. My eight-year-old informed me that his father is soon going to be living with some juvenile twit… Oh, I know it’s crazy, Adam, but I’m so jealous and furious about it. I’m a basket case, I really am.”
Adam had the uneasy feeling that those tears were going to start again. But he felt a reluctant empathy with Sandra. The thought of his own ex going to bed with someone else–yeah, he understood the jealous part. It was driving him a little crazy, not knowing if Jen had some other guy in her life. He hadn’t seen any signs of a man in her apartment that time, but still…
“Divorce is tough,” he said. He knew it wasn’t a particularly helpful statement, but it seemed to get Sandra’s interest. At least she wasn’t crying anymore.
“How long has it been for you now?” she asked.
“A little over a year.” He stopped there. He didn’t like talking about his divorce. He didn’t like admitting he hadn’t been able to hold on to his wife.
“Please tell me that things get better,” Sandra said, sounding rueful. “If I could just believe they will get better…”
“They will–trust me,” Adam said, perhaps a shade too heartily. His own experience with Jen was more complex than he’d like it to be. After his initial sense of loss, he’d managed to adjust to single life. He’d immersed himself in the newspaper more than ever, and in his few off hours he had started seeing other women. No matter that he kept comparing those other women with Jen, things had actually started to go along pretty well. But then Beth Hillard had announced she was getting married and had asked Adam to deliver the message personally to Jen. He’d obliged, seen Jen–made love to her–and his new life had been out of kilter ever since. So who was he to offer advice to fellow sufferers?
“I think I feel better now,” Sandra said with obvious resolve. “I’m sorry I dumped all this on you, Adam, but it helped to talk about it.” She stood and went to the door. “Thanks for lending an ear. Good night.”
“How about dinner?” he asked, surprising himself. It wasn’t an invitation he’d planned to offer, but he went with it. “I’m starved, and I imagine you are, too.”
Sandra hesitated, staring down at the tissue wadded in her hand. “I don’t know…”
“I suppose you have your son waiting for you.”
She grimaced a little. “Actually, no. He’s sleeping over at his father’s tonight, and I guess that’s just one more thing that’s been getting me down. All day I’ve dreaded going home to an empty house.”
“It’s settled, then.” Feeling a welcome energy, Adam grabbed his jacket from a chair back and shrugged into it. After another moment, Sandra gave a nod, capitulating.
“Why not? It so happens I am starving. Blubbering and making a fool of myself really worked up an appetite.”
Adam liked her ability to poke fun at herself without being too self-deprecating. She was a nice woman. She was also a woman who stirred none of the turmoil that his ex-wife could provoke in him. He’d always felt relaxed around Sandra, and he could do with a little relaxation tonight.
He escorted her out to his car, and soon they were traveling through downtown Boston as the last of dusk gave way to night. Driving here was something of a free-for-all, cars and trucks and buses squeezing haphazardly in and out of lanes, pressing around each other frenetically but with little malice. It always made Adam feel like he was in a car rally, and it got his adrenaline going. He and Jen had often joked that you could tell where you were in this city just by people’s driving habits. Downtown, drivers were inventive, but in the suburbs, they stayed in their own lanes.
Jen again. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and made an effort to concentrate on the woman beside him, not the woman in his head.
“How’s your son handling everything, Sandra? Brian, isn’t that his name?” Adam thought back to the last company picnic and seemed to remember a little boy with curly hair just like his mom’s. He tried to keep tabs on his employees’ families without being too intrusive. After all, he subscribed to the belief that a boss should be cordial while maintaining an appropriate distance. That, of course, brought up another question–what was he doing taking his managing editor out to dinner?
He didn’t have an answer, so he merely listened while Sandra talked about her son.
“Brian seems to be okay, he really does. But how do I know for sure? I mean, maybe the divorce has caused some horrible, irrevocable scars that won’t surface for years and years. Maybe he’ll turn out to be a neurotic, or a psychopath. I lie awake at night and worry about it.”
Adam downshifted and wheeled around a corner. “Do you always imagine such disasters?”
“I’m a worrywart,” she confessed. “But it’s parenthood that’s made me that way. I have this philosophy. I believe that if I worry and stew enough, somehow I’ll prevent anything really bad from ever happening to Brian. It doesn’t make any sense, I know, but there it is. Don’t all parents get silly ideas like that? Of course, you’ll find out someday,” she added hastily, as if remembering too late that Adam didn’t have any children of his own. She seemed embarrassed and lapsed into silence.
The way Adam looked at it, there were two types of parents. The first type behaved as if having children was the most stunning, all-encompassing activity in the world and felt sorry for anyone who didn’t share the happiness. Such enthusiasts generally equated the term “nonparent” with “nonperson.” The other type of parent took you aside and warned you with bitter, graphic descriptions never, ever to let yourself in for the grief, disillusionment and pain of spawning children. Adam suspected that Sandra belonged to the first category, the kind of parent who treated you as if your lack of children was some pathetic, unmentionable disease. Of course, he’d wanted kids himself. Maybe that was why he was so aware of the whole thing.
He parked in front of the Hamilton Tower, gave his key to the parking attendant and ushered Sandra inside to the elevator. A few moments later they emerged on the fiftieth floor. The restaurant here was one of Adam’s favorites, good food combined with understated comfort, and the windowed walls provided a glittering view of the city lights below. Carl, the maître d’, greeted Adam with his usual affability.
“Mr. Prescott, haven’t seen you in a while. I know exactly what table you’ll like…”
Once they were seated and perusing the menus, Sandra glanced around. “Imposing,” she commented. “When you suggested dinner, I was hoping maybe you meant that taco takeout place everyone in the newsroom is raving about–not that this isn’t just fine,” she amended quickly. “Of course it’s fine. It’s just that– I’m really making a fool out of myself tonight, aren’t I?” She set down her menu, looking chagrined.
“Take it easy,” he told her. “You’re not up for employee review right now.”
Sandra stared at the menu again with great concentration, as if determined not to make any more social gaffes. She was an odd sort of person–very earnest, raw around the edges, unexpectedly humorous,