Chapter SEVENTEEN

I’M FIVE HOURS over the Pacific Ocean when it occurs to me that the Rolling Stones may be right—you can’t always get what you want. Other than Bradford, what I want right now is sleep. Unfortunately, having bought my ticket to Hong Kong at the last minute, the best seat I could get doesn’t even recline, since it’s the middle seat in the last row. The man to my left is so overweight that he snores even when he’s not sleeping, and my companion on the other side is a compulsive knuckle cracker. If I were given an eject button for just one of them, I don’t know how I’d ever pick.

I squirm around in my cramped quarters and close my eyes. Hello! Who’s suddenly lying in my lap? Oh, I see. The seat in front of me does recline, and I’m glad to note that the little five-year-old in it has figured out that if she bounces hard enough, she can get it fully extended.

I look at my watch, even though “real time” has become an abstraction. Fifteen-hour flight. Thirteen-hour time difference. Leave New York at three in the afternoon and arrive in Hong Kong at seven at night. So what if I skip a day or two in there? Actually, I’m looking forward to the return flight, when I arrive home a day younger than I leave. If I do that enough times, maybe I’ll start getting carded in bars again.

After I left Kate’s office, I was determined to get to Hong Kong as fast as I could, and barely a day and a half later, I’m on my way. I called everyone in the world to make arrangements. My school classes are covered, Dylan’s staying with Berni and the twins, and instead of the weekly installment of our cooking show, Ken Chablis has scheduled a “Best of” special. Who would have guessed that Chocolate Surprise would make it to reruns?

But there are two people I didn’t call. James and Bradford. I know I won’t call James right away because I need to go to Bradford first. Bradford, who doesn’t know I’m coming. I play with the AirFone on the armrest, picking it up and putting it down in its cradle enough times to give the knuckle cracker some competition in the obsession department. Bradford’s going to be so darned surprised and pleased to see me. At least I hope so. I’m pretty sure I’ve locked down the “surprised” element, anyway.

If I’m going to show up in Bradford’s hotel room unexpectedly, I want him to see me at my best. I rifle through my carry-on tote for Kate’s emergency flight kit and pull out her melatonin jet lag pills which come with a two-page timetable on when to take them. It’s so complicated that—forget jet lag—I get a headache just from reading the instructions. First problem is that one side of the paper is if you’re going west, and the other side is if you’re traveling east. What do I do since I’m traveling west to get to the Far East?

For the rest of the flight, I doze on and off and spray my face regularly with the Evian Kate provided. “No moisture in the air on a plane,” she’d explained. “So spritz, drink a lot of water, and keep rubbing on Oil of Olay. If you get a chance, pull down the oxygen mask and sneak a couple of breaths. It’ll really plump up those lines around your mouth.”

When the flight attendant isn’t looking, I make one surreptitious attempt to find the mask, but instead I hit the call button.

“Everything okay?” asks the beautiful young Asian woman who appears at my side immediately. Her skin is so perfect, she must be knocking back some oxygen in the galley.

“Just fine,” I say, trying to think what I could need. Kate said to drink water, but doesn’t wine have water in it? I order a small bottle of merlot and use it to wash down the large bag of Twizzlers I bought at the airport. Mmmm. Taste good together. Maybe because they’re both from the red food group.

After being on the airplane for what feels like days, I stagger off, collect my luggage and lumber through customs.

“What’s your business here?” asks the immigration clerk, looking from my passport to me.

“Trying to get my fiancé to marry me,” I say, too tired to come up with a more subtle answer.

He makes a big checkmark on my form. “We’ll call that urgent business,” he says with just the trace of a smile. Then he takes one more look at my passport photo before handing it back to me. “Good luck,” he says. “And nice change. I like you better as a blonde.”

With that assurance, I throw myself into a taxi and look out the window as the driver weaves wildly through the crowded streets. The city is a blur of movement and neon lights, and when we pull up at the Peninsula Hotel, I’m immediately greeted by a white-gloved doorman. My luggage magically makes its way inside the grand lobby, and I follow, slightly overwhelmed by the majesty of my surroundings. Pillars and palms reach toward a high gilded ceiling that looks as if it belongs in a Parisian palace rather than in a businessman’s Hilton. From the balcony above, an eight-piece orchestra serenades me, graciously providing a Haydn concerto as check-in music.

At the registration desk, I have a long rambling story ready as to why they have to let me into Bradford’s room. I’m prepared for a fight since I’m not Bradford’s wife, I’m not expected, and looking around the lobby, I’m pretty sure that I don’t even have the right luggage. At first the young man in charge is pleasant but unyielding. So I plead, show him my engagement ring, give him pictures of Dylan and Skylar, and start to open my bags to pull out the nightgown I bought especially for the occasion. Either I’ve convinced him of my bona fides or he’s worried that the rest of my lingerie is going to end up sprawled across the lobby floor, because he quickly hands over a key and I rush off to the elevator and hit twenty-seven before he can change his mind.

Outside Bradford’s door, I take a deep breath and slide in the key card. The door opens effortlessly and I step in, ready with the line I’ve been practicing over and over since I got on the plane.

“Hi, sweetheart, it’s me!”

Now Bradford’s supposed to look up in happy surprise and rush over to kiss me on the corner of my cockeyed grin. At which point I will start taking off my clothes. Talking will wait.

Only Bradford isn’t here. I spot the initialed gold Tiffany cufflinks that I bought him and see his familiar Canali blazer draped over the wingback chair. I go over and rub my hand across the jacket and smell a trace of his Burberry cologne.

The lights in his oversized suite are dimmed and soft music is playing. Clearly the housekeeper has been by for her evening turn-down service. I walk through the elegantly furnished living room filled with fresh flowers into the bedroom, where I catch my breath at the floor to ceiling windows, providing a spectacular panoramic view of the Hong Kong harbor and twinkling skyline. This is better than anything I ever saw on the Travel Channel. Next to the bed, a pair of fresh slippers has been placed on a white linen cloth spread on top of the lush carpet. If this is meant to provide a touch of homey comfort, nobody’s ever been in my house. On the night table, I notice two long-stemmed glasses and a large bottle of sparkling water. You’d think that after all the time Bradford has been here, he would have told the housekeeper that he just needs one glass.

The bedside clock says eight-thirty. Good thing it’s dark out, or I wouldn’t know if that meant a.m. or p.m. I lean back briefly against the thick pillows and sit back up again. Damn, they’re that expensive goose down that makes me sneeze. I’ll have to call the concierge for nonallergenic foam ones. I wasn’t built for luxury.

But apparently I fall asleep before I can reach for the phone, because the next thing I know, I hear a door opening—and somehow the clock now says nine forty-five. Bradford’s here. I try to rouse myself and lightly slap my cheeks. Have to wake up and get some color back. Where’s that oxygen mask when you need it? For what that flight cost, I should have taken it with me.

I haven’t turned on any lights in the bedroom, so Bradford doesn’t know I’m here yet. But I can see a lamp flick on next to the desk in the living room, and my heart skips a beat because in another moment, I’m going to see Bradford.

And then it skips another beat. Because the person at the desk isn’t Bradford. I can make out a slim, dark-haired woman in a form-fitting beige suit and matching high heels. She’s leaning over the desk, writing a note, and she seems awfully comfortable in the room. I sit frozen for a moment as I watch her, and I panic that she’s going to come into the bedroom. How will I explain why I’m here? No, wait a minute. How will she explain why she’s here?

The woman seems to have brought Bradford a little present, and I see her adjusting a bow before putting the gift down on the desk. She wriggles her hands down the side of her skirt to straighten it, then glances around the room, smiles to herself, and leaves.

Maybe leaving is what I should do, too. Immediately, before Bradford gets here. I get up and walk over to the wall of windows, staring out at the city lights. I can take the next flight back to New York, and then I don’t have to be embarrassed when he comes in and starts to explain why he doesn’t want me anymore. What an idiot I am. I’ve blown the best thing I ever had. I’m in love with Bradford, and I let all my damn insecurities get in the way.

Then I suddenly stop. I’m not insecure anymore. Not the hurt Sara who panicked that once she had something she really wanted she was going to lose it. I’m not going to let myself worry about the woman in the beige suit or anything that’s happened before. I’m not jumping to conclusions. But I am going to take a stand. When Bradford walks in that door . . .

“Sara?”

I look up, stunned because suddenly Bradford is standing two feet away from me. The tape playing hysterically in my head was so loud that I didn’t hear him come in.

“I love you, Bradford,” I say, in a rush. “I don’t care what else is going on in your life. I forgive you for everything. I hope you can forgive me, too. We’ve been hurting each other, and that’s just silly. We’re in love. I want to be married to you. Only you.”

I pause. No, now’s not the time to explain that being married only to him will take a bit of legal work.

“I’m in Hong Kong to tell you to come home. I miss you and I want you and we belong together. Every second that we’re apart adds up to a minute wasted. Enough. It’s time to start our life together.”

I finally stop and blink hard, and Bradford is looking at me with a dazed smile.

“You really came eight thousand miles just to tell me that?”

“Yes. And now that I’ve said it, I can leave.”

“Don’t you dare,” Bradford says. “I’ve missed you. Much more than I ever would have thought.”

“I missed you even more,” I tell him. I wait a moment, then practically holding my breath I ask, “Do you think we can work everything out? I mean, we kept having all those stupid fights before you left.”

Bradford smiles. “They didn’t leave any permanent bruises on me.”

“On me, either,” I say, holding out my arms as if to show off my unbruised skin.

“Good,” Bradford says. “Then all that’s over and we’ll never fight again.”

“Of course we’ll fight,” I say with a little laugh. “But we’ll know how to do it better.”

“I love you, Sara,” he says, coming over and kissing my lips and my hair and stroking his hands down my body. “I never want to hurt you.”

I hold him tightly, not wanting to let go.

“All this time apart. You’re sure I haven’t been replaced?” I ask lightly.

“Never,” he says firmly. “Not in my bed and not in my heart.”

That’s enough for me. Despite the dark-haired mystery woman, I don’t even have to try to convince myself to trust Bradford anymore. I just do. Something deep inside me has finally clicked and I know that our bond is real and can’t be broken.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” he says, his warm embrace creating a space where only the two of us exist.

“This is exactly where I want to be. With you, forever,” I say snuggling against his chest and resting my head in the nook of his arm.

“You will be,” Bradford says. He picks me up and carries me over to the bed. We kiss for a long time, and I feel a dizzying haze of relief and excitement and pure exhaustion. We sink into the soft bed together and as he whispers over and over to me how happy he is, I pull him closer. I feel a stir of desire, but despite my best intentions, all I can manage tonight is using Bradford’s great body as a pillow. For the first time in weeks, I fall into a deep, peaceful sleep.

 

My body clock is totally out of whack, and I wake up full of energy at four in the morning. In the bathroom, I think of taking a bubble bath in the enormous tub, but I don’t want to be away from Bradford—even if he’s sleeping. The Twizzlers on the plane didn’t do it for me, and as usual I’m hungry. I don’t know if I want breakfast, lunch or dinner so I decide to check out the minibar in the living room. Macadamia nuts are the right choice for any meal.

On my way, I notice the gift that the brunette left behind and the note sitting next to it. Bradford hasn’t seen it yet, and I’m certainly not going to read it. I pause briefly, impressed by my new high-minded spirit. I trust my fiancé. I have no reason to be jealous of anyone. No, no, not me.

But look at that. The woman slipped the note into an envelope, but never sealed it. And how do I know that? Because somehow the envelope is now in my hand.

Dear Mr. Lewis,

Thank you for being such a loyal guest of the Peninsula Hotel. As the assistant manager here, it was a pleasure to meet you at the cocktail party last evening. My apologies for any embarrassment I may have caused by my approach to you. I certainly understand that you are about to be married and wish you all the best.

Do enjoy the remainder of your stay.

Sincerely,
Jennifer Scott

I slip the letter back into the envelope. So my honey said no to her come-on, and she left him a bottle of wine to apologize. A win all around—except maybe for Jennifer, who’s going to lose her job anyway if she keeps harassing the hotel guests. Still, I feel a surge of gratitude that my deep-felt trust in Bradford is deserved. Clearly, he’s stayed steadfast despite our separation. And that should win him my complete honesty. Now and forever.

I grab the macadamia nuts, munch a few, and get back into bed.

“Sweetheart, darling, love of my life,” I whisper into his ear.

Bradford rouses slightly as I nuzzle my lips against his.

“Mmm, you’re delicious,” he says, obviously tasting the salty nuts.

“Honey, don’t be mad at me. I just found out James and I never got divorced, but I’ll take care of it as soon as we get back.”

“That’s nice,” he replies in a groggy stupor, licking the corner of my lips.

“Do you still want to marry me?” I ask.

“Marry me,” he says. And he falls back to sleep.

 

If Bradford had plans for the next morning, he cancels them before I wake up—and we stay in our plush suite rediscovering each other until nearly noon.

“I’m never letting you out of my bed,” Bradford says, rolling on top of me yet one more time.

“Yes you are,” I joke, pushing him away. “I’ve never been in Hong Kong before. I want to explore the city.”

“I want to explore you,” Bradford says, kissing each of my fingers, slowly and sensuously. He pauses at my pinkie. “For example, I thought I knew everything about you. But I never knew you had this hangnail.”

I giggle. “Then take me out for a manicure.”

“I’ll get you anything you want,” Bradford says, making small circles in the palm of my hand. He’s quiet for a moment and then, as if in afterthought, he adds, “By the way, you never said much about the gift I sent.”

“Um, I liked it,” I say.

Bradford stops and pulls back slightly.

“Liked it?” he asks.

“Definitely,” I say with vigor, having told myself since the day it arrived that a wok sent Federal Express from Hong Kong was exactly what I always wanted. “It was very sweet of you. I even told Kate how sweet it was. And I’m thinking of using it on my TV show. Just as soon as I can dream up a dessert to make in a wok.”

Bradford breaks into a grin. “You haven’t used it yet, have you.”

“Not yet,” I admit. “But I’m going to really soon. Maybe I can make Thanksgiving turkey in it.”

“But if you didn’t use it,” Bradford says, ignoring my holiday plans, “I’m guessing you never even opened the lid. Or looked inside.”

“Maybe not,” I say slowly, wondering where he’s going with this.

Bradford starts to chuckle, and then to laugh. And then he’s laughing so hard he rolls off me and lies next to me, leaning on his elbow.

“So you flew eight thousand miles to find me in Hong Kong and you thought all I sent you was a wok?”

“I didn’t come because you sent me a wok,” I say.

“Not many women would,” Bradford concedes, starting to laugh again.

“I didn’t come because of some present,” I explain. “I came because I love you. And it’s what I said last night—whatever we’ve done wrong in the past, we’re going to do right now.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Bradford says kissing me. “And I love you for that. But when we get home, you’ll find out I didn’t do as badly as you think on the shopping.”

I’m just starting to imagine what I could have missed inside the wok when Bradford comes closer and my mind turns to my immediate pleasures. For the next twenty minutes, I don’t mind being distracted at all.

When we’re both sweaty, exhausted and totally giddy, Bradford finally concedes that a little lunch and sightseeing are in order.

“Promise you’ll still be here if I leave you for five minutes to take a shower?” he jokes, getting up and stretching.

“Right here,” I promise, not taking my eyes off my taut, firm fiancé as he strides toward the bathroom.

But once I hear the shower turning on, I scoot to the other side of the bed and grab the phone to call Berni. “I need a big favor,” I tell her, after finding out that Dylan’s doing great and assuring her that Bradford and I couldn’t be better. I explain what I want her to do.

“I’m supposed to go to your house, look inside some wok and call you back?” Berni asks in disbelief. “Don’t you have something more interesting to do in Hong Kong?”

“Not for about five minutes,” I say. “Hurry.”

Bradford has finished his long, luxurious shower and is shaving at the sink when the phone rings. I grab it before he can even hear.

“South Sea pearls,” Berni says, practically breathless, the moment I say hello. “Double strand. Gorgeous diamond clasp. Huge and luminous. Never seen any this perfect. I’d value them at thirty-two thousand dollars.”

“Really? That’s what was in the wok?” I ask, slightly stunned. And wondering how Berni got them appraised so fast.

“Right there in a beautiful blue velvet box. Next to the instructions for the wok—which, by the way, is guaranteed for a year.”

“So he bought the good one,” I joke feebly.

“You have no idea how good,” Berni says. “I rubbed the pearls across my teeth to make sure they’re authentic. Little trick I learned. Imitations feel smooth and real ones have rough spots. Just like men. The best ones aren’t all polished surfaces. They have something underneath.”

“You’re a wise woman,” I say with a laugh. “I see how you’ve stayed married so long. I don’t even mind that you stuck my new pearls in your mouth. Just keep them away from the babies.”

“Don’t worry, the twins aren’t on solids yet,” Berni reassures me.

Through the crack in the bathroom door, I see Bradford putting away his razor and I rush to get off the phone.

“Maybe you should take the necklace home with you to keep it safe,” I say to Berni, suddenly worried about the jewels I didn’t know I had.

“Are you kidding?” asks Berni. “I’m bringing all my jewelry to your house and putting it in the wok. What thief in his right mind would look there?”

I hang up quickly as Bradford strolls out, freshly scrubbed and sweet smelling. I jump out of bed to throw my arms around him.

“I just had my spies check out the wok,” I say, shaking my head but unable to contain my excitement. “South Sea pearls with an unbelievable diamond clasp. That’s so extravagant. What were you thinking?”

Bradford gives me a big smile and takes my hands. “I was thinking about how much I missed you. And I was thinking that I want us to be together for a lifetime.”

“Absolutely the gift of a lifetime,” I say.

He hugs me. “Does that mean I’m off the hook for Christmas?”

“Definitely. You’re covered for Christmas, Valentine’s Day and St. Patrick’s Day through 2014. There’s only one more thing I want from you.”

Still holding him, I tumble back onto the bed and pull him toward me. Bradford doesn’t seem to mind. Even though he’s obviously going to need another shower.

 

When we finally get outside into the sunny afternoon, Bradford and I amble along the promenade hugging the harbor.

“Two famous tourist attractions here,” Bradford says, sounding like a proper guide. “The Star Ferry. And the tram that goes up Victoria Peak.”

“You’ve probably done both of them a thousand times already,” I say.

“Actually not even once. All I’ve been doing is working.”

“I’m here, so it’s time to play,” I tell him, taking his hand.

We take the tram and spend an hour at the top of the Peak, looking out at the breathtaking views and the multimillion-dollar mansions dotting the mountaintop.

“Stunning,” Bradford says, looking out and shaking his head. “Look at all I miss when you’re not with me.”

“You’ll never miss anything again,” I tell him.

On the way down, I get the sense that we’ve been in the one tranquil spot in all of Hong Kong. Back in the crowded streets, the city is in nonstop motion, and we make our way past shops selling Levi’s jeans, Nike sneakers, and every electronic device imaginable. I examine the Gucci bags, deciding they’re much better fakes than I can find on the streets of New York, but pass them up anyway. Farther north, we walk through an outdoor market crammed with vendors selling herbs, Chinese lanterns, embroidered slippers, and even goldfish and songbirds. I find a quilted pink vest trimmed in white fake fur and tell Bradford we should get it for Skylar.

“You think it’s something she’d wear?” he asks dubiously.

“Definitely,” I say confidently. “I know her pretty well now. We’ve been spending a lot of time together.”

Bradford looks at me in surprise. “That’s great,” he says, pleased.

He goes over to a table displaying the latest whizmo-gizmos. He quickly buys one and then another.

“And what are those?” I ask.

“Boy stuff for Dylan. Trust me. He and I will play with them some night when you and Skylar are busy doing your nails.”

I stick my tongue out at him and we both laugh and kiss again. Over the last twenty-four hours we’ve now kissed at least ten times for every day we were apart. I guess there’s something to be said for absence making the heart grow fonder. Even if you do end up with chapped lips.

As we continue on, a jade vendor tries to reel us in, but I assure him that I have the most beautiful necklace in the whole world waiting for me back home. Then we get drawn into a spirited conversation with a ginseng wholesaler, who tells us his product is good for energy and vitality. And a lot more.

“You have a bad memory? You remember to take ginseng, it’s okay,” he tell us, speaking rapidly. “Need to lose weight? Get smoother skin? Buy ginseng. Need a better night’s sleep? Take a whole case. Don’t like your job? Ginseng helps you find a better one.”

I’m waiting for him to get to the part where ginseng vacuums the living room. But what the heck. I pull out my wallet, figuring I can always find a use for it. Caramel-Ginseng Soufflé, here I come. I’m just taking the package when I notice two teenage girls gawking and pointing at me. They motion to a few of their friends who join them, and in another minute, the entire group is rushing toward me.

Bradford hesitates, and puts a protective arm around my shoulder, wheeling us around in the opposite direction. But the crowd is growing—and persistent.

“Disgusting lady! Disgusting lady!” they start to scream.

Bradford and I pick up the pace and start to walk a little faster. But the gang is too quick for us. And before we can get out of the market, we suddenly find ourselves surrounded. Maybe I should drop the ginseng. The wholesaler didn’t mention that it also gets you attacked by angry throngs.

But they don’t seem angry. And a few are waving notebooks and pens in my direction.

“Is disgusting lady from TV!” scream several more people excitedly. They turn around, pointing from me to a poster hanging on a nearby kiosk. I look over and stare at the life-size image of Paris Hilton in her ad for Guess! jeans. She definitely is a disgusting lady from TV, but I don’t think anyone could confuse the two of us.

And that’s when I spot it. The eight-foot-tall billboard, with a picture of Kirk and me, cooking.

“My gosh,” says Bradford, following my gaze. “I didn’t know you’d become so famous. Your show’s on in Hong Kong!”

“I had no idea! And people actually know me!” I say, suddenly feeling the thrill of celebrity I missed on that bus-watching day with Kirk.

Bradford grins. “Go ahead. Don’t deny your fans an autograph.”

Heady with excitement, I sign my name several times in a large, loopy scrawl. I’m having the time of my life. I only wish I knew how to write the Chinese characters for “Keep cooking! Keep watching!”—which is what I’d decided to write if anybody in America had ever asked for my autograph.

Finally, the crowd starts drifting away, but one of the first girls is still lingering. She starts chatting shyly with me in perfect schoolgirl English.

“I’m so happy you like my show,” I tell her. “But I have to ask. Why did you call me a disgusting lady?”

She points again toward the poster, where the name of the program is written in Chinese. “We translate the title of your show here as ‘Disgusting American Desserts,’ ” she says proudly. “We love you. Everyone watches to laugh at the funny food you Americans eat.”

For a moment, I’m taken down a peg. But then I laugh, too. Wish we’d thought of using that title at home. I never really expected to be famous. But hey, being known as the Disgusting Lady has a certain ring to it.

 

Bradford spends the next two days closing up his Hong Kong deals and I have one piece of unfinished business, too. But I don’t manage to do anything about it until the last possible minute.

When I dial James’s number the night before we’re leaving, I’ve rehearsed what I’m going to say to him a million times. But when he answers the phone, my practiced speech goes out the window, and I blurt, “I’m in Hong Kong, James. Bradford and I are back together.”

“I know,” he says calmly. “Dylan told me. I saw him at Berni’s yesterday. And I’m happy for you, Sara. I meant what I said in Central Park that day and I wish I could be the one you’re in love with. But I guess we’re just meant to be connected in a different way than before.”

“But still connected,” I say. “I’ll always love you for giving me Dylan.”

“I feel blessed that we still have each other at all,” James says with deep felt emotion. “I told Dylan that he’ll always have me in his life. And you. And now Bradford. The more people who love you, the luckier you are.”

“How wonderful of you to say that,” I tell him, admiring his graciousness. Dylan really is very lucky to have him. But now I feel bad. James has turned into a good guy, and I hope it doesn’t take him too much time to get over me.

“James,” I say comfortingly. “You’re such an amazing man. Any woman would be thrilled to have you. I know you’re going to find someone very special. Really soon.”

“You’re right, I will,” James says, moving ahead as only a man can. “Did I tell you I got a job as an interpreter at the UN? The woman who hired me just asked if I want to go out for drinks.”

Am I the only one worried about harassment in the workplace? But anyway, that was fast. Word gets out that there’s a handsome single man in the city and he’s a hotter commodity than a rent-controlled apartment on Riverside Drive. I guess James is going to be just fine. And I can happily take on the role of friend, advisor, and supportive ex-wife.

“If you want to impress her, tell her what a great dad you are,” I say conspiratorially. “Women like that.”

James laughs. “Thanks for the advice. Anything I can help you with over there?”

“I think I’m okay,” I say, really meaning it. “See you when I get back.”

“Yup, you will,” James says. “Dylan and I are planning to build one heck of a Mars lander. Right in the middle of your living room.”