18
IT WAS THIS: Brookehad given him an ultimatum along the lines of propose, marry, propagate.
“Out of the blue?” I asked, provoking a minor Brooke-based tirade.
“With all our conversations from day one about marriage not being in the equation?” he demanded. “And now ‘Where is this going?’ You can bet her girlfriends put her up to this. They’re all relationship strategists. One of them—Lauren, Laura?—tried the same thing and her boyfriend caved. Game over! A magic marriage bullet!”
He further volunteered that she expected a ring, the cost of which should be equal to or greater than two months’ salary. And they’d marry in a year, but sooner if the hoped-for venue was available. “Do you believe that?” he demanded. “The venue!”
I wholly believed it. “That’s really important to some brides,” I said.
That collective noun provoked something of a shudder. There were more questions I wanted to ask, such as why was marriage never in the equation? Was it the person or the institution itself? The question I finally asked was “When did this conversation take place?”
“All weekend.”
“Are you getting married?”
“Jesus, no! I thought that was clear.”
I said I was sorry. It couldn’t be easy whether you’re the breaker-upper or the breakee . . . I mean, even though I was the one who broke up with Stuart . . . oh, never mind. Sorry for being so inarticulate but I wasn’t sure, given his miserable mood, whether I should be offering condolences or congratulations. And I couldn’t help noticing that Brooke had been calling rather assiduously.
“Slippage,” he said. “Regret is seeping in. She was sure I would get down on one knee and say, ‘Yes, darling. Will you be my lawfully wedded wife?’ ”
Our neglected e-mails were pinging. Phone calls were going to voice mail. He gestured with an impatient wave. Gotta answer these.
Of course, it was that moment when Reggie entered, announcing that he’d been over in Admissions, meeting parents whose kid, a hockey star at Cathedral, twenty-five goals last season, was applying for a PG year.
“How are his grades?” I asked.
“Who cares?” Then to Nick: “I didn’t know you had a trip this week. Where you off to?”
“Nowhere.”
“Isn’t that your suitcase in the coat closet?”
“Technically, a duffel,” said Nick.
“Vacation? Because I’m supposed to know about such things.”
Nick finally turned away from his keyboard. “If you must know, there’s been a change in my living arrangements.”
This news incited Reggie to drag a chair to Nick’s desk, his enthusiasm barely contained. “No kidding! What happened?”
“Take a guess.”
“She kicked you out?”
I winced; I picked up my fountain pen, pretending to be lost in sentence contemplation but secretly pleased to have Reggie take over the third degree.
“It was mutual,” Nick said. And less audibly: “At least that’s the party line.”
“Maybe Nick doesn’t want to talk about his private life, Reg,” I said.
Nick, for the first time all morning, laughed. “Well, if that isn’t a pile of horseshit!”
“Me?” said Reggie. “What did I say?”
“No. Miss Innocent. She’d love to get the 411 on this.”
What to do? Laugh or take offense? I said, “Brooke could be calling me back any second. Or ringing my doorbell. It would help if I had a little more intel.”
“Wanna watch the Pats at Moose’s tonight?” Reggie asked him. “It’s the game of the week. We could pick up Chinese.”
Nick said, “I think I’ll pass.”
Reggie leaned over Nick’s desk to give one of his shoulders a squeeze. “Any time, bro. You have a place to crash?”
Nick said, “Thanks for asking.”
With a cocky salute, Reggie was gone.
“Do you have a place to crash?” I asked.
He said he was thinking of The Evermore—the drab school-owned guesthouse that alums booked for reunion weekends when the surrounding chains had no vacancies.
I asked if they had a weekly rate, an off-season rate, an Everton Country Day faculty and staff discount, a room not overlooking the landfill . . . ?
It was only chatter as I borrowed time to analyze the propriety of the idea that was slowly dawning. Single male and single female, colleagues by day, houseguest and hostess by night? Was that asking for unwarranted workplace gossip? But what kind of colleague wouldn’t invite a homeless coworker to bunk in her spare bedroom midcrisis? Especially one who’d championed her when she was in need.
“The Evermore wouldn’t be long-term, just until I find a place,” he said.
I told him I was going for that cappuccino after all. Could I bring one back for him?
“Thanks. Just coffee.”
I got as far as the outer office door then returned. “Listen . . . I have an extra bedroom. By which I mean you’d be very welcome to stay on Turpentine Lane until you get your bearings.”
“Wow,” he said. “That is extremely generous of you . . .”
“But?”
“No ‘but’! I accept. And I won’t be that houseguest you can’t get rid of. I’m combing the real estate ads already. Really, though—what a pal.”
I confessed that it wasn’t entirely altruistic. I needed the company. “The dead babies I’ve been talking about? I haven’t given you the full story because I don’t know what it is. But pictures of them posed on my kitchen counters—I mean it could be nothing—but then I heard about husbands dying there. Not that I think it’s haunted, but even if it’s just for a few days, it’ll get me over the hump . . . Silly, I know.”
“Not silly at all. And we have an expression for this, even if it sounds like something Reggie would say.”
I waited.
“Win-win,” he said.