Chapter 10 #2
Which is how it came to be that I spent an extra fifteen minutes in the bathroom altering a couture gown.
The woman’s name is Jen and she lives in Providence.
She has teenagers too and thinks they’re monsters.
I tell her about the time Gus split his pants at a Little League game and I repaired them in the car while he crouched down in the backseat in his underwear.
I tell her about Maud and how she could make anything out of nothing—a dress, a biscuit, a total shift in a room’s energy.
Jen is no longer sweating, and she hugs me in thanks.
Stewart is standing outside the bathroom when we walk out.
He’s agitated, pacing a few steps and putting his hands in his pockets, pulling them out, and then adjusting his cuff links.
“There you are. It’s time to sit and I couldn’t… Jennifer. Hello.”
Jen kisses his cheek. “Do you two know each other?” she asks.
“Yes,” he says. “This is my girlfriend, Dolly Brick. Dolly, this is Jennifer Quigley, head of the cancer center.”
“No wonder you didn’t want to look like you were climbing out the back of someone’s car,” I say.
She laughs and gives me another hug. “When I wake up tomorrow, this will be my favorite memory of tonight.” She turns to Stewart. “Well done. Much better.”
He thanks her after she’s already turned to go. “What was all that?” he asks me.
“Nothing, she was in a jam and I fixed her dress. I always carry a sewing kit.” I hold up my purse.
“Of course you do. And jumper cables.”
“Yep, though not in my bike basket.”
He places a hand on my back and starts kind of nudging me through the lobby toward the ballroom. I stop and say, “I think you should hold my hand.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, it just feels more believable. Like if you were really my boyfriend, I’d like to be holding hands as we walk in.”
“Okay,” he says, and takes my hand. It is not a soft, melty hand-holding situation.
He does not entwine our fingers, and the warmth of his palm against mine does not tug at my heart.
In fact, I get no palm action at all. He grasps me by the fingers and pulls.
He holds my hand like he’s holding a dog’s leash.
“This is how you hold hands?” Poor Audrey.
“What?” he asks, and then stops to introduce me to someone.
We continue to make our way through the crowd. “So we’re sitting with Jennifer, your best friend, and some people from the hospital. I have to give a quick speech before we eat.”
I stop again. “A speech? Why aren’t your hands sweaty?” I turn his hand over in mine and inspect it for evidence of nerves. “Do you have notecards? Do you want to practice on me?” Just the thought of it is making me queasy.
I look up, and he’s giving me a full smile, dimple on display. I don’t remember his eyes ever looking this playful. “I think we just found something I know how to do that you don’t,” he says.
I still have both of my hands around his. “You’re a lot less scary-looking when you smile.”
“That’s why I don’t smile,” he says.
The tables are dressed in yellow with white lace overlays.
There’s an endive salad waiting at each place with individual silver pitchers of dressing, like tiny gravy boats.
I sit next to Stewart and introduce myself to the man to my left, who passes me a basket of hot French bread.
I take a piece and breathe in the steam.
The butter is disappointingly not shaped like seashells, but it’s soft in its little butter pod and it melts like liquid gold on contact.
I turn to Stewart and smile with a full mouth.
The man next to me is named Howard, and he talks a lot about Nantucket while he butters his bread and then salts it. I tell him that I’ve always wanted to see Nantucket, but what I’m really thinking is that I’d love to go back in time so I could have salted my bread too.
Jen kicks off the program and says a lot of nice things about Stewart.
“Not only is he a brilliant business leader and a generous philanthropist, but Stewart Whitfield is also generous with his time. Anyone can write a check, and I hope you all do tonight.” She pauses for chuckles.
“But Stewart also comes to the hospital, engages with the children, and seeks out specific unmet needs.” The screen behind her switches from the hospital’s logo to a photo of Stewart sitting on the floor in the hospital’s playroom with two little girls.
The crowd lets out a unified “Aww.” He’s in dress pants and a black sweater, and he’s not aware of the camera.
I can tell because he’s making a goofy face at the Barbie he’s holding.
“The children adore him, and so do we. Please join me in welcoming Stewart Whitfield.”
He rises from his chair and places a hand on my bare shoulder.
Not a Tin Man hand, but warm like a caress.
It’s unfamiliar being touched like this, and I can’t help but lean my head toward it.
He walks up to the podium like he’s got all day to get there and addresses the crowd.
“Thank you, Jennifer. And thank you for honoring me in this way tonight.” He turns around and looks at the giant photo again.
“As I recall, Barbie was giving me a bit of a hard time that day.” Everyone laughs.
“As many of you know, pediatric cancer is an important cause to my family and me. It was a battle my sister fought and won with the help of brilliant doctors like these. And it’s critical that research continues and that the care she received is available to all families. ”
I look around the room as he goes on. Is this something everyone knows? Everyone in town knows everything about the Whitfields, and I have never heard any mention of Busy having cancer as a child.
“Sometimes when I’m with my sister now, she seems almost hyper-alive,” he says. “As if what she went through as a child made her commit to sucking the last bit of joy out of each day. It’s out of gratitude for that joy that I am delighted to support this organization.”
And now I know what Busy’s laughing about all the time. She’s beat the devil.
Everyone is on their feet as he makes his way back to the table.
I try to stand but catch my heel on the hem of my dress and sit back down.
When Stewart is seated and all eyes are still on him, he takes the opportunity to lean in and graze his cheek against mine, like he’s whispering to me.
I feel that same fizziness in my chest, but now it lingers and wanders down my body.
I am entirely unprepared to be this close, even though it’s the whole point of the night.
His skin is smooth and warm as it slides over mine. I hear him take in a little breath.
He pulls away and meets my eyes. Another smile.
“You sniffed me,” I say.
“I did,” he says, and turns back to the table.
I hold my ice water to my face to cool my blush just as the waiter comes to ask if I’d prefer filet mignon or sea bass.
I can get one for free, so I choose the other.
It’s served with little snap peas and a leek purée.
Dessert is flourless chocolate torte with crème anglaise.
I know this because Stewart tells me. It just looks like flat chocolate cake and white sauce.
It’s a little dry. As we sip our coffee there’s a fundraising game of some sort.
Jennifer stands at the podium and asks who will give twenty-five thousand dollars.
I expect everyone to laugh at her joke, but I feel Stewart’s hand raise from behind my chair, like it’s nothing.
She steps down to fifteen thousand and a few hands go up.
Ten, then five. I think of my mother as I watch the ease of it, and I wonder if the best part of having all that money is being able to eat cake while you give it away.
We’re quiet on the ride back, each looking out separate windows.
“Thank you for tonight,” he says after a while. “I think it went well.”
“You’re welcome. I’m available to eat a twenty-five-thousand-dollar steak anytime.”
He laughs just a bit. I reach up to fidget with the ends of my hair and remember it’s gone. I run the back of my hand along the straight line of my bob instead. It feels like silk.
“I’m sorry about Busy,” I say. “I didn’t know that.”
“It’s fine. I mean, it is now. We didn’t talk about it for a long time and her treatment was all in Boston, so people didn’t really know.
But we want to start doing more to help, so we’re telling her story.
If I can get more people into the hospital to see what they’re doing, meet the kids—it would make a difference.
” He stops himself and looks back out the window.
“Do you want kids?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. I knew it. I could see it in that photo.
“How many?”
“Any number greater than zero.”
“They’re good,” I say. “I mean, I have one, I know.”
He’s looking out the window again and his face is serious. I’m wondering if he’s thinking about his unborn heir and where it’s going to come from. He needs a thirty-year-old woman with an appetite for shopping. If only such a person existed.
“You sniffed me,” I say. “Should we talk about that?”
“I know, sorry. I got sort of caught up and you smelled good.”
“Well, I’m great at my job,” I say. We’re quiet again and he pulls out his glasses and scrolls through emails. “So are you looking for notes? On tonight?”
“That speech wasn’t really supposed to be a big thing.”
“No, on your dating. I mean, you’ll have to get out there eventually. Especially if you want a baby.”
“I’m not the one who brought up Princess Diana’s death,” he says, still not looking up from his phone.
“I’m serious. You rock a tuxedo like no one I’ve ever seen on TMZ, but your boyfriend skills could use some help.”
“All right.” Stewart takes off his glasses and rests his hands on his knees. “Okay, I’m ready, shoot.”
“The complimenting.”
“Come on.”
“I’m serious, it matters. I’m not saying you greet your dates by telling them how beautiful they look all the time, but if there’s something you notice when you see them, just get in the habit of saying it.
Blurt out the first nice thing that pops into your head, right away. It’s kind and it’s free.”
He turns toward me and says, “I like the outline of your leg in that dress. When you cross your legs like that.”
I blush, hot, and untuck my hair from behind my ear, forgetting that there’s so little of it to hide behind. “I didn’t mean me, now.” I uncross and recross my legs. “But yes, that was a nice thing to say.”
“Good for me.” He smiles and I get a glimpse of the dimple again.
“It’s good when it’s specific like that. ‘You look pretty’ isn’t as good as ‘You have pretty eyes.’ ”
He nods. “What else?”
“Don’t call anyone ‘honey.’ It gives diner waitress vibes.”
“I thought so.” He smiles and unknots his bow tie. He undoes his top button, and I find myself running my eyes down his neck again. “I knew it sounded weird the second I said it.”
“What did you call Audrey?”
“Audrey.”
I laugh and then turn all the way toward him on the seat. “And the hand-holding, what even was that?”
“What? You asked me to. I was trying to get you through the room.”
“That’s exactly how it felt. Like you were the UPS guy, and I was the package you were delivering to someone’s porch.”
“I’m not a big hand-holder,” he says.
“Give me your hand.” He extends his hand to me, palm up, and I clasp just the tips of his fingers in the tips of mine.
“This is not hand-holding. Manicurists get more intimate than that. As you well know.” He smiles at this little inside joke.
“You need to hold someone’s hand like it’s precious.
” I undo my seatbelt and scoot a bit closer and take his whole hand in mine so our palms touch.
His hands are strong and warm, and I just sit and feel them for a bit.
It’s really been an eon since I’ve held a man’s hand.
“It’s the palms,” I say to our hands. “There’s a heartbeat there, or at least something happens that releases oxytocin into your system. ”
He gives my hand a squeeze and then entwines our fingers, each one slowly scraping the inside of mine as it settles in close.
I feel his touch on that delicate skin trickle through my body.
And in that moment, I know exactly what Stewart Whitfield would be like in bed.
I have a sudden and complete understanding of what his hands would feel like on my bare back, the inside of his leg against the inside of mine.
This understanding settles low in my belly. I look up at him and he’s watching me.
“Better?” he asks.
“Not bad,” I say, and take my hand away.