Freed two weeks ahead of me, Perry went straight for a long, cold, overdue jog in Central Park, then over to the Frick, then had two lunches—oysters at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central and a cheeseburger at the Burger Joint—then disappeared into Argosy Book Store, and from there to nearby Bloomingdale’s for new underwear and socks, then to Just Bulbs on East Fifty-Eighth, then to a wine store, a barbershop, and finally on a stroll through the Village, returning with a fresh mozzarella from Murray’s Cheese for me.
I didn’t want to tempt the Fates by wishing upon a map of New York or tempt the gods of liberation by plotting in advance where I’d go when sprung. All I let myself visualize was a haircut and a long soak in a hot bath as soon as my ankle monitor was removed.
A few days before my six months were up, Perry asked, “Favorite restaurant?” The question didn’t sound like a pie-in-the-sky, best-case-scenario destination, but a real invitation. I named a five-star Indian restaurant on West Fifty-Sixth, where I’d eaten before home confinement ruled my life.
“Maybe someplace more atmospheric?” he suggested.
Without hesitation, I said, “Robert, on the top floor of the Museum of Arts and Design.”
“Easy. We’ll celebrate your return to the law, to the bar, to defending the Constitution.”
I said, “Should we ask Nadeem and Meera to join us? I wouldn’t be returning to the law straight out of the gate without them.”
“Not this time,” he said.
* * *
We were shown to a table—remarkably, by a wall of windows, the Upper West Side glittering over Perry’s shoulder “Don’t you have to reserve this weeks in advance?” I asked.
“Maybe. I must’ve won the special-occasion contest.” He smiled and pointed at the menu. “They have a drink called Rosé Colored Glasses. You should get that.”
“Because . . . ?”
“It sounds like you.”
I said, “You’re in a fanciful mood.”
He didn’t confirm or deny that. He said, “I should get the Mad Manhattan . . . for courage.”
Oh, no: courage. That word collapsed my smile. Our six months were up, and everyone knows that this is how a civilized man breaks up with a geographically convenient partner, in public, at an elegant restaurant to discourage the making of a scene. Before I could ask him to get it over with, a waiter was at our table. Did we have any questions about the cocktail menu? Of course the bartender could make anything—
Perry said, “A Rosé Colored Glasses for the lady and a Mad Manhattan for me.”
“Champagne?” the waiter whispered.
Perry said, “Later. I’ll keep you posted,” and when we were alone again, “I told them we were celebrating your new job.”
“You were lucky; not everybody likes lawyers. Did you throw in that I was starting as an equity partner?”
He murmured, “I must’ve.”
When the drinks came, Perry uncharacteristically took a gulp, ahead of any toast, and without eye contact. He cleared his throat, once, twice, while I sank lower into dread. He began, “Jane . . . okay. Here goes . . . I think you know I’m not the kind of guy who gets down on one knee, especially in public . . . but on the other hand, I didn’t want to do this in your kitchen. Or mine.” He stopped, as if waiting for ratification.
Down. On. Knee. I whispered, “Go on.”
He started over. “Jane. You know I’m not the guy who’d propose at Madison Square Garden, on the Jumbotron.”
“Propose,” I whispered. “Is that what you needed courage for?”
“Did that not come across?” He glanced around, presumably checking for gawkers, then asked, “What I mean is: Would you want to get married? To me.”
All I managed was a strangled yes and the noisy intake of a sob.
Looking stricken, he asked, “Are you all right? Did I fuck this up?”
I reached across the table for his hand, too choked up to answer.
“We’re good? You’re happy? We’re engaged?” he asked.
I nodded vigorously. He leaned back and slumped a few inches in his chair. “Phew.” Then he sat up again, leaned forward, and kissed me—confessing that a kiss was the signal the bartender was waiting for to send over the champagne.
Love? Had he declared that? I didn’t need him to. Now his eyes were red, and he was blowing his nose on a tissue I supplied.
“You weren’t worried that I’d turn you down, were you?” I asked.
“I didn’t know! You could’ve said, ‘It’s been fun, but . . .’ or ‘I’m a modern woman. Why get married? Why spoil a good thing?’”
“A great thing,” I barely managed to say.
Not only did the preordered flutes of champagne arrive with a flourish, delivered by the grinning manager himself, but the heretofore unobtrusive cellist struck up the opening notes of Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March.”
“We knew it happened,” said the manager. “You both looked so happy,” which made me laugh, given our sniffling and red eyes.
Perry of few words, Perry who hadn’t wanted to make a scene, stood up, raised his glass, and announced to the room at large, “You might have gleaned that someone just proposed marriage. That was me. And this amazing woman accepted.”
Cheers, applause, raised glasses. Some joker called out, “Let’s see the ring!”
What nerve! What bourgeois values! I answered, with a lawyerly forced smile, “I’d rather that money go to charity.”
Perry sat down and said quietly, eyes on the menu, “Charity! Ha, good one.” He tapped the ring finger of my left hand. “We’ll shop tomorrow.”
At actual brick and mortar stores, out in fresh air and real life. I sniffled again and said, secretly hoping for tomorrow, “No hurry.”
“Except I’m too old for a long engagement. I’m thinking a small wedding somewhere warm, a good excuse to get the hell away from here.”
“It’s called a destination wedding.” I smiled, eyebrows raised. “Not Cincinnati? Maybe something discreet at the country club . . . small, quiet, a little tragic, considering your choice of brides . . .”
“Whoa. You’re way off the mark. My parents are waiting to hear. My mother wanted to overnight some family ring.”
I said, “Um . . . darling husband-to-be . . . did you tell her not to?”
“I told her you’d want to pick your own.”
“Did she ignore that and send a picture anyway?”
She had indeed, several, front and side views, in its satin-lined box, another above the knuckle of someone’s index finger, another lying on a Hermès scarf. The diamond was square, art deco–ish, big without being ostentatious, and breathtakingly beautiful. I said, “Tell her yes. Tell her I fainted.”
He texted, It’s official. She loves it. Send.
A minute or so later: Will have it sized by our jeweler. Get her finger measured.
Her finger? Did she mean Jane’s finger? Is that how a mother responds when her only son gets engaged at forty-one? Where were the best wishes? I’d heard her muster more vigorous congratulations to scofflaws Mandy and Krzysztof. Clichés and platitudes welcome!
I fished out my phone and texted the newly ringed Jackleen, What’s your ring size?
If yr asking what I think you’re asking, OMG. We’re a 6!!!!
“Six,” I told Perry. And back to Jackleen, Call u later.
6, Perry texted his mother, but we’ll size it here.
Mrs. Salisbury wrote, I think it IS A 6!!!! It was my Gran Edwina’s.
“The robber baron’s widow,” Perry told me.
Why not start with a clean slate? Why not take the high road? I asked for his phone and texted, It’s Jane. I love your son!!!
Gray bubbles were churning. What appeared was We love him, too! It’s rose gold. Is that OK?
Perry answered for me: It’s SO OK that she’s speechless. Talk soon. Haven’t ordered dinner yet . . . followed by food emoji.
I waited a polite interval, feigning menu absorption, before asking if his parents had pushed back when he told them he was going to propose.
“They’re fine. My dad’s a fan. Besides, I led with your new, highly respectable job and the expunging of your bogus crime. Gone! Like it never happened.”
My phone pinged. Was it from DeAndra, belatedly expressing her delight, having been chastised by Cal? No, it was a text from my mother that said, Call me!
Jackleen, obviously, hadn’t wasted a minute. I wrote, At dinner. Talk later.
“Or now?” asked Perry. “Want to tell them?”
I said, “I’d rather talk to them when I won’t sound like I’m still in shock.”
“I think they knew from Day One.” He grinned. “Same as I did.”
He knew from Day One? I wanted to react in an appropriately swoony fashion, but we were new at romantic proclamations, and I was prone to cross-examination. I asked, “But I’m remembering the first time we met, when I came around with brownies. You weren’t particularly friendly. Did you mean that Day One?”
“No. You caught me off guard. I was in a constant state of humiliation. I hated what I’d done, so I wasn’t thinking, ‘Oh good, here’s someone in the same boat’ because I was so friggin’ ashamed of that boat.”
I reached under the table and gave one of his thighs a squeeze. “Maybe Day One happened on Night One.”
“That, too. But it was at your apartment, the night I met your sister for the first time. She was lobbying for you to be my personal chef, and you were having none of it. When she asked what you were serving us, you said, ‘Dead chicken.’ I didn’t laugh, but I wanted to.” He shrugged. “That did it.”
Love at first wisecrack certainly was nice, but I was processing an even better takeaway: Jackleen’s subsequent aggressive flirting didn’t trump my “dead chicken.” Faced with a set of identical twins, only one of us had registered: me. I said, “You’ll never know. . . . ,” tears welling again.
He asked, “What about you? I mean, was there some point . . . ?”
I checked around us before whispering, “When you made a case for us having sex? And then we followed through? For weeks, I told myself we were just you-know-what buddies.”
“But . . . ?”
“The ‘buddy’ part was a lie. It wasn’t ‘love the one you’re with,’ because I actually did love the one I was with.”
Perry said, “So did I.”
* * *
We shared everything: the tuna tartare appetizer, the lamb shank, the salmon, the complimentary goat cheese mousse topped with a sparkler. I raised my glass, barely one sip left, and said slowly, composing between phrases, “To us. To you, for courage . . . and to observant doormen, and to The Margate, without which . . .”
Instead of clinking glasses he said, “The Margate? I’ve had it with that penitentiary.”
“Meaning you want to leave? I mean now, when I’m starting a new job? With a wedding to plan.”
“I have to, Janie,” he said. “And not to sound Kafkaesque, but the walls closed in on me a long time ago.”
I looked out the window. It had started to snow. Wasn’t that supposed to symbolize something—like innocence and purity? Or maybe, in a context that applied more closely to Perry and me, a fresh start?
I said, “I go where you go.”