Chapter Seven #2
Vivian tried as best she could to follow their conversation, to interject her own responses when someone asked for her opinion, when they tried to draw her into the circle more and more.
She tried to keep her attention focused on the women around her, even as it kept drifting to the other side of the room where Joe stood talking to Polly and Frank.
Would he come to say hello to her? Or should she go to him?
Twenty minutes later, a hand grazed her elbow.
Vivian took a deep breath, steadying herself, and then she pivoted.
Joe stood before her. He smiled, his gaze steady on hers. “Fancy seeing you here again.”
As far as lines went, his was rather awful, and then she realized—
He was nervous.
Uncharacteristically nervous.
Joe drew her away from the group of bridesmaids, until it was just the two of them in a corner of the bar.
It felt good to see him again.
Too good.
Even though none of her reasons for saying no when he’d asked her out had changed, she had thought of him often since then.
Their correspondence had unlocked something inside Vivian so that she felt comfortable with him in a way she’d never imagined possible.
This was only their third time seeing each other in real life, but because of the postcards and letters they shared, it felt as though she knew him intimately, and she realized that somewhere along the way a friendship had sprung up between them.
“Are you back from Italy for good?” Vivian asked, voicing the follow-up question she hadn’t had the guts to ask Polly when she’d mentioned that Joe would be at the party.
“No, I’m just on leave. I sent you a postcard telling you I was coming back, although I guess in this case I beat the mail.”
With each postcard that had arrived since the first one he sent her—eight in total now—Vivian wondered why he wrote them.
She’d spent countless minutes—hours, if she was being honest—studying them as though they contained some clue that would help her understand what Joe was thinking when he wrote them, when he slipped them in the mailbox.
On the backs, he scribbled little messages, the sight of his handwriting now sending a thrill through her when she got the mail.
Joe spoke of nothing serious, rather told her about his days, hikes he had taken in the Alps, meals he’d eaten, travel he’d undertaken to other nearby European countries.
And at the end of them, he always asked her how she was doing, how her work was going, and so she wrote him back, feeling more than a little self-conscious each time she did so, unsure if she was sharing too much or if he even cared about her responses.
And still, the postcards came, his handwriting growing smaller with each one as he fit more and more news onto that little card, as he referenced things in her letters that let her know he’d been reading the words she wrote.
It was like they were engaged in a monthslong conversation.
Her responses were undeniably more verbose than his, but he had a way of seemingly saying a great deal with few words.
There were plenty of things he didn’t say—things she wondered about far too frequently.
Like whether he had someone accompanying him on these jaunts throughout Europe, or if he thought of Vivian as often as she thought of him, or if—
“How have you been?” Joe asked her.
Was it her imagination or was there a hint of something contained there—more than a casual question, but a probing interest in what her answer would be because he had a suspicion? Did Frank tell him she was seeing Graham?
Polly hadn’t said anything, but last week Frank and Graham had crossed paths in their apartment, and while Frank hadn’t said a word about it to Vivian, she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d said anything to Joe.
She’d thought about mentioning Graham in her letters, had started to a time or two, but it had never fit into the correspondence she and Joe shared.
She’d never found an organic spot between the details he gave her about his life in Italy, the dreams and aspirations she put down on the page.
And if she was being honest, she hadn’t known how he would respond if she injected Graham into the conversation; it felt as though her boyfriend was an interloper to their friendship.
She’d considered telling Joe, but each time she had started to mention it, something had held her back.
If Joe knew she was seeing someone, would he stop writing to her?
Silly of course to worry about such a thing considering their letters were strictly platonic, and still—she had.
“I’ve been well,” Vivian replied.
Surely, this was the moment she should say something to him, and yet, he hadn’t mentioned his love life to her. Neither one of them owed anything to each other, even though, somehow, impossibly, it felt as though they did.
“And work?” he asked, his tone somewhat distant, overly polite.
“Work is going well, too.”
Kerry had taken her under her wing, and they had begun working on even more stories together. As far as mentors went, she was as good of one as Vivian could have hoped for.
“Graham Carlson is a very lucky man,” Joe finally said after a silence that stretched on for far too long and had her wrapping her arms around her torso. “I heard the two of you are—ahh—together.”
That look was on his face once more, the one he wore when he looked up at Alan Shepard launching into the sky.
Why did she suddenly feel like she wanted to cry?
Vivian swallowed, her voice rough as she pushed the words out. “Thank you.”
She waited for Joe to say something about the fact that she didn’t mention it in her letters, to ask her why, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze, and suddenly, she wasn’t ready for what she would see reflected at her when he did.
“Did Frank tell you?” Vivian asked, focusing on what seemed to be the least emotionally complicated question she could ask.
“He did. We had lunch together earlier today. I asked about you and, well—”
I didn’t ask about you—I should have.
Now that she glanced at him, he turned away so that all she could see was his profile, his gaze shielded from her.
“It must be nice being with someone in a similar career field to yours. Someone who understands the highs and lows of your job.”
“It makes things easier, I suppose.” Vivian paused, not sure what else to say, more than a little desperate for him to look at her.
Finally, Vivian couldn’t take it anymore and she placed her hand on his arm, somewhere between wanting to give comfort—an unspoken apology, perhaps—and needing to get his attention.
Joe stilled, his gaze finally drifting down to the point where she touched him, her hand lightly resting over his suit jacket.
Suddenly, the proximity between them seemed like a very bad idea, indeed.
Vivian jerked her hand away, wishing very much that she’d never reached out and touched him.
“Are you happy?” he finally asked her.
Vivian nodded.
She was happy.
Wasn’t she?
“Good. I’m glad.” He moved forward like he was going to step toward her, lean into her, but he stopped himself. “It was good to see you again,” he said instead.
Joe moved away from her, and it hit her that this was the second time she had stood in this very bar watching Joe Mitchell walk away from her, except this time she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d just made a very big mistake.
—
Later that night, Vivian picked up the phone in their apartment, and when the operator came onto the line, Vivian gave her the number she wished to be connected to, her heart pounding as she waited for the call to go through.
Was she making a mistake?
As soon as his voice came on the line, she knew what she needed to do. Knew what was right.
Vivian took a deep breath. “We need to talk.”