Chapter 12
12
N ick
My sister called to see how I was doing. I answer that I’m okay, but I’m not sure it’s the truth. The longer I stare at my hand, the more uncertain I become.
I’ve worn my wedding ring every second of the day and night since Sherry and I got married. Even before that day, I regularly opened the velvet black box it sat inside to stare at the gold band ringed in tiny diamonds, counting the seconds until Sherry could slip it on my finger and stake her forever claim to me. I was eager and willing, a romantic through and through who dreamed of dogs and a house and kids and a wooden playset in the backyard I would build with my own hands. My sister had two children, and I wanted to add a cousin or two to the mix. Boys, girls, it didn’t matter. We would be happy, and I saw no end to the dreaming.
The cruel end nearly butted up to the blissful beginning, smashing up our lives in less time than it takes for retirees to take a long-saved-for Mediterranean cruise. By the proverbial third excursion, I was reeling from funeral planning, wondering how my life had nosedived into nothingness so quickly. I’m still wondering. Deep inside, I’m aware I might be reeling forever. But in the last month, the freefall has slowed. They say to sit with your grief for a year before making any drastic changes, and today marks the first anniversary since my wife’s death. I didn’t mention that fact when I agreed to go with Low to tonight’s dinner, but I knew it when I first glanced at the invitation on the desk in her office. That might even be what spurred my interest in the first place. A very pointed distraction.
December nineteenth.
Exactly one year since Sherry’s plane went down, the flight I should have been on, the day I should have died too—and would have had I been a better husband. I’ve spent a solid year telling myself this very thing, but only now am I beginning to wonder if maybe I stayed behind for a reason. A selfish decision for sure, but maybe, like any other emotion, selfishness has the potential to be redeemed. Maybe…just maybe…it’s being redeemed right now.
With a heart both heavy and hopeful, I slip the wedding ring off my ring finger and place it gingerly back inside the box. It seems almost unfair that it spent so little time outside of this space, like turning over the keys to a quick foreclosure or burying a sickly puppy. Such a tiny shot at life, only to be snuffed out so soon. My marriage ended before it had a chance to begin. This ring was created for a purpose only to be returned to being just a gold circle inside a tiny box, waiting for someone to reclaim it. Unfair to all involved. Mainly to Sherry and partially to me. Deep down, I know I’ll never completely let it go.
I close the lid and brace myself for the tears that don’t come.
Maybe I’ve cried enough already in the span of fifty-two long weeks.
With a sigh, I return the box to the top drawer of my dresser and reach for my suit. It’s new. It’s Armani. It’s been tailored to fit perfectly. My old one—the black Michael Kors I wore to my wedding and subsequently to Sherry’s funeral, needed to be retired, so I donated it to Goodwill last week. I bought this one the day after I saw that invitation at Low’s house, certain I would need it for something. Hoping I would need it for this. Turns out I was right, and I can’t help but smile.
Sherry liked the way I looked in a suit. Here’s to hoping Low feels the same.
As I brush off the coat and look at my reflection in the mirror, there’s one thing I know for sure.
The local handyman sure knows how to clean up.
Low seems to agree. I see it in the way her eyes dart from my eyes to my chest to my hair to my eyes again, all in the span of two seconds when she answers the door. This is a woman who likes what she sees, which is all sorts of coincidental. As I stare back at her, I’m a man who knows exactly how she feels.
Because the sweatpants-wearing podcaster has turned into a sexy, gorgeous goddess in a single afternoon. I caught sight of Low earlier today carrying another package inside her house that she must have plucked off my front porch, and she sure as hell didn’t look like this. She’s wearing a gold strapless number that hugs her curves in all the good places, then falls away to sheer layers around her legs in a way that leaves a lot to the imagination, which is not a problem because my imagination enjoys working overtime. Low has always been beautiful, but this. The way she looks now leaves me speechless and transfixed, wide-eyed and dry-mouthed. Not the best combination when you’re trying to make a good impression. Then again, from the look still affixed to her face, maybe I already made a great one.
“You look beautiful,” I say. Honesty is the best policy, and in this case, it’s the truth.
“So do you,” she says. There’s an awe in her tone that I like, and my ego puffs up. Inside my mind, I see Sherry give me a nod of approval, and my ego settles into place. There’s nothing like an old memory to make you feel grateful for the present. “Are you ready to go?” She reaches for her coat, and I help her slip it on.
“I’m ready. Are you?” I mean for the night ahead, for the possibility of a book deal.
She walks down the steps and I follow her to my car, then open the door for her to climb inside. “I think so?” she says when I slide behind the wheel and close my door. “I’m nervous. Completely out of my element. But I’m as ready as I can be.”
“You’re not out of your element. For today, remember that you are the element. You’re Low Reed, and they want to work with you. All you need to do is help them pull the proverbial trigger. And I’ll be there to see that it gets done, so just tell me what you need, and I’ll do it.”
“It’s what you’re best at,” she says with a smile. For the first time, it’s said without judgment or criticism. The words are appreciative as if she couldn’t do this without me. Thank God she doesn’t have to.
I smile back. “Helping out is what I’m best at. All you had to do was ask.”
“Turns out I’m the one who needed the lesson.”
At that moment, my phone rang. The caller is on speaker and begins to talk at the same time I say hello.
“Nick, I need your help.” It’s Andy, my neighbor, and he sounds frantic.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, my sudden nerves thrusting me forward in my seat. Andy is rarely rattled but seems to be now. I grip the steering wheel and look for a place to turn around and drive to Andy’s house.
“I can’t get my television to work. The channel is stuck on Wheel of Fortune, but the wife wants to watch a movie on Netflix. Can you fix it real quick? You can stay and watch with us if you’d like to.”
With a sigh of relief, I feel myself relax. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t hesitate to help. I’d probably drive over with a couple of beers in tow, fix the channel—which is probably just a case of his remote needing new batteries—and sit back to watch whatever rom-com his wife is in the mood for. But these aren’t normal circumstances. Tonight is special, and I’ve set it aside for Low.
Low, who has managed to teach me a valuable lesson in life, even if I balked against it at first. They say friction is what creates diamonds, and lord knows Low has given me a master class in friction these last few weeks. It’s been uncomfortable and itchy, and I haven’t appreciated it one bit.
But now I do. Suddenly and thoroughly, I do.
“I’m afraid I can’t today, Andy,” I say into the phone. “I have somewhere to be.” The silence on the other end of the line tells me Andy is dealing with a little friction himself. It isn’t an answer he’s accustomed to receiving, at least not from me. “But if you don’t have it solved by tomorrow, I’ll be happy to come help you then.” I tell him to replace the batteries, restart the router, and if all else fails, give the television a good slap on the upper right corner—all things that have worked for me before. He says that he will, and we hang up. Next to me, Low is silent. So silent that I can almost hear the screams of victory currently happening inside her mind.
I look her way and shrug, only to see her grinning at me.
“I guess we both had a lesson to learn.”
We alternate between conversation and silence for the rest of the drive. Time moves at warped speed as it does when the company is comfortable. Familiar. Welcome.
A few hours later, I swing the car into the parking lot, and we make our way inside the building.
I’ve seen three suits identical to mine since we got here and one dress like Low’s, albeit in pink. I’ve seen Botox and facelifts that would scare small children and highlights so white they practically glow in the dark. I’ve seen more diamonds than celebrities wear at the Met Gala, and I saw Paris Hilton dance through the room with a martini in hand. Now that she’s a mom, she’s rumored to be penning a children’s book.
This place is crawling with money. Loaded with high rollers and socialites. Packed with name-droppers and suck-uppers. And we’re not leaving here until Low gets a contract.
I spot the leader of the whole pack—Doubleday’s editor-at-large—and make a beeline in her direction. This woman looks friendly and not at all unapproachable, so I offer a handshake and a smile I can only hope works. It’s what I’m here for, to help sell the attributes of Low. It’s the deal we made, and I’m keeping up my end of the bargain.
“Hello, Ms. Simpson. I’m Nick Masters, Low Reed’s…boyfriend.” I didn’t mean to stumble over the last word, but Low chose that moment to appear at my side. Seeing her causes my nerves to trip and short-circuit, and boyfriend is the word that escapes. Date. Date would have been better. From the surprised look on Low’s face, boyfriend was an overreach.
From the delighted smile on Ms. Simpson’s face, she already knows who I am.
“Nick Masters? As in ‘Saint Nick’ the handyman neighbor?”
“The one and only,” I answer with a wink. Funny enough, I’m suddenly not annoyed at the moniker. There are worse things to be known for than saintliness, even if the word doesn’t fully describe me. But I’ll take being considered a helper any day. Better a helper than a jerk.
“I didn’t know you were dating now!” She’s practically swooning at the Hallmark moment we’ve just handed her.
“We just made it official,” Low says, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, like it’s a secret only the three of us know. Which it is. But Ms. Simpson doesn’t need to know that.
“And you must be Low.” Ms. Simpson places a hand to her chest in a way that suggests she’s been waiting for this meeting all night. “I adore your podcast, listen to it nearly every day. It’s nice to meet you and Nick.” She lowers her voice. “Lucky you.”
Low smiles and offers a sincere thank you with a smile that lights up my insides. I’m the lucky one. The thought appears from nowhere, but I feel it everywhere. I am the lucky one.
“It’s an honor to be invited here,” Low says. “I never thought I would darken your doorstep. Or lighten it, whichever the case may be.” She gives a nervous laugh and scans the room while I study the editor in front of us. She’s enthralled by Low, almost giddy, wringing and unwringing her hands like she can’t decide what to do with them in the presence of greatness. Low might be nervous, but she has nothing to worry about.
“I think you might be lightening it, Low,” I say with a wink at who I’m sure will be Low’s future editor. “But that’s just a guess.” When the woman blows out some air and smiles back, I know I’m right.
“Lightening it for sure,” Ms. Simpson says. “I’ve been wanting to know if you had a second to meet in private…” she says, ushering Low away to talk in a corner.
And just like that, my work here is done. I turn in search of an Old Fashioned and solitude and find a seat at the bar, taking in the scene in front of me. Paris Hilton dances in a circle in front of me, what looks like her younger sister following behind. Some male author I’m certain I’ve heard of stands on the other side of the dance floor, engrossed in conversation with a politician I’ve seen a few times on television. Or maybe he played one on some television show. It’s hard to keep fact and fiction straight these days.
All around this room, hands are being shaken, deals are being made, and papers are being signed. This is the beginning of the book business. All so shiny and new, it’s hard to see the dark side. Then again, maybe there isn’t one. Maybe, like books, the world inside these walls is made of imagination and fairy tales. Maybe writers are magicians, and editors hold the curtains closed until someone says lights, camera, action. And the stage lights go up. And Low signs a book deal in bright red ink.
At least, that’s how I like to think it goes.
Like I said, I’m a dreamer through and through.
My thoughts bleed red, much like my need to help people, bright and alive and not looking for an apology. Much like my veins, currently pumping adrenaline through my dreams and cascading through my brain in the form of a certain redhead…
Weird how red is suddenly my new favorite color.