Fourteen

I’d been circling O’Hare for eighteen minutes, checking arrival times on my iPhone. When I knew Patrick’s plane had landed I pulled up to Arrivals and watched people filing through the doors of the terminal, looking for a current-day Patrick. Clusters of people rushed out and I scanned them, but then the crowds slowed and people trickled out in ones and twos. I pulled down my visor and checked myself in the mirror to make sure there was no lipstick on my teeth. What would Patrick think when he saw me? How did I compare with the me he knew so many years ago? Would he even recognize me?

A man about the right age walked out and looked up and down the row of waiting cars. My heart thumped as I studied him, but unless Patrick had put on fifty pounds since his picture was taken (a possibility that hadn’t occurred to me), it wasn’t him. I blew out a breath when the man walked away. I glanced in the mirror again, checked my makeup and hair. Several more men came out of the terminal, but two of them were too young and the third was a large black man in a UCLA jacket. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and fluffed the hair at the back of my neck.

A tall, distinguished man in a trench coat walked quickly out to the curb as a beautiful woman got out of the Mercedes in front of me. They kissed tenderly. He pulled back, looked deeply into her eyes and broke into a wide grin. I smiled as the woman put her hand on his cheek. She was elegantly dressed in a long charcoal-gray coat over an ivory turtleneck, her hair pulled into a lovely chignon. I wished I looked as elegant. After all the clothes I’d tried on, I’d settled on tan trousers with a cream-colored sweater and short tweed jacket. Was it too dressy? Did it look like I was trying too hard? Maybe the chunky gold necklace was too much. I took it off and threw it in my purse.

I’d worked late into last night, too keyed up to sleep. I’d finished altering two pairs of pants and ripped apart a jacket before feeling tired enough to go to bed. And then I’d fallen asleep at once, only to awaken an hour later. This was worse than high school.

And all night Michael’s face rose up in my mind along with the hurt he would feel over what I was doing. What if he found out? What if he just happened to be meeting a friend at the airport at exactly the same time and we ran into each other and he saw me with Patrick?

A man and a woman came out of the terminal and chatted at the door. The woman was plump and wore a long black cape. She had tight silver curls and threw her head back to laugh, the breath floating from her mouth in a plume. The man wore a turtleneck and sport coat but no overcoat. Then they shook hands and the woman walked toward the taxi stand. The man stood for a moment looking around. My breath quickened as he started for my car, smiling. In the few seconds before I opened my door to get out I saw that this new Patrick was quite different from the boy of eighteen with long dark hair and black leather. His hair was still on the long side, not quite reaching his collar, and was more gray than brown. His face was fuller and his body heavier, but thankfully not by fifty pounds. He wore no leather, no chains, just that big smile and shining eyes. I swallowed hard.

He grinned when I walked around the car to the passenger side and we stood looking at each other. You know those age-progression photos, the ones that age a runaway child into a teen? Well, that’s what it was like looking at him. He was there, the Patrick of old, but whitewashed with this new face; softer, less angular, more cozy looking. His eyes had faint creases in the corners.

Sophie would be saying, Look at him, Libby. Just look at him. He’s gorgeous.

He studied my face, my hair, my mouth. “Unbelievable,” he said, and we laughed.

“Good unbelievable or bad unbelievable?” I asked, even though the answer was painted clearly in his eyes. And that made us laugh even more. We couldn’t seem to stop laughing and people turned to look at us, chuckling. Patrick opened his arms and I folded into him, wrapping my arms around his substantial fifty-something body. He held me for a moment, kissed me on the cheek, then pulled back and looked deeply into my eyes. He smiled. Just like the guy with the Mercedes woman. I was completely charmed. I felt like I had in high school the first time he asked me out. I could see his admiration back then, too, and it had puffed me up with pleasure.

*   *   *

We decided to drive downtown and take a walk before finding someplace for lunch. “Aren’t you cold?” I asked as we walked on the lakefront path.

“Not bad,” he said. “Why? Are you?”

“No, I’m fine. See this thing I’m wearing? It’s called a coat. It’s a great little invention.”

“I got rid of mine when I moved to Florida and swore I’d never buy another,” Patrick said. “I turned the house upside down looking for this turtleneck.”

“When we were in high school you always wore black turtlenecks, do you remember?” I asked.

“I think we both always wore them.”

“I wore them because you did and you looked so cool and I wanted to be cool, too.”

He laughed and put his arm around me for a second, and I had to work at keeping a big, dopey grin off my face. He hugged me to him quickly and then let me go. No, I thought, don’t let go.

Our conversation was light and casual, and there was no mention of Michael, thank god. I kept sneaking glances at Patrick, getting used to how he looked now. The boy I knew was in there; he moved with the same familiar, relaxed grace and his eyes still wrinkled up at the corners when he smiled.

We talked about his flight, security at the airport, the weather in Chicago, the weather in Florida. We talked about the traffic on the Kennedy Expressway on the way into town. We filled an awkward silence with a discussion about the temperature of Lake Michigan and how calm it was today. Patrick seemed more recognizable as we walked, his gestures, his expressions, his smile.

“Hungry?” I asked.

“Starved,” he said.

The Cheesecake Factory was packed with Michigan Avenue shoppers and tourists. There would be a forty-five-minute wait for a table.

“Want to go somewhere else?” I asked.

“No, I’m fine with waiting,” Patrick said. “It’s part of the Chicago experience. Where I live you can walk into any restaurant, sit right down, order and eat, including dessert and coffee, in about half an hour.”

We went to the bar and Patrick ordered us Bloody Marys.

“Do you like small-town living?”

“Yeah, I do,” he said. “I like knowing everyone. I like how simple it is. It’s a different life, that’s for sure.” Very different from my own.

When the bartender brought our drinks we clinked glasses and drank to our reunion.

“You look even better in person,” Patrick said. “You’re definitely aging gracefully. And I like the gray in your hair. It looks great.”

I flushed at his compliments. “Thanks,” I said. “I considered coloring it this morning before you got here but ran out of time.”

“I’m glad,” he said. “So, bring me up to date on the last thirty-two years.”

I gave him the CliffsNotes version of my college years, my two marriages and my midlife career change. I told him about some of my clients, about Sophie and Pete and their girls. He told me about his ex-wife, how he got started in the kayaking business, how he’d taught his son to fish and play guitar. “I told Ashley and his wife about how we reconnected and that I was coming to see you. They got a kick out of it.”

I would have loved to have heard that conversation. It pleased me that he told them, that they knew about me.

Patrick pulled a skewered blue cheese–stuffed olive out of his drink and offered it to me. My eyes lit up and I plucked it off and popped it in my mouth.

“You don’t like blue-cheese olives?” I asked.

“No, I love them. But you went after yours like it was gonna get up and run away, so I figured you like them more than I do.”

I laughed, happily chomping.

“So how is it some woman hasn’t snatched you up?” I said.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Amazing, isn’t it? I’m such a catch.”

“You look good on paper, but you never know, do you? Do you snore?”

“Probably, but it doesn’t keep me awake,” he said. “Actually, I lived with someone for about five years but ultimately it didn’t work out.”

“When was that?”

“A couple years ago.”

“What happened?”

Patrick laughed. “Don’t be shy, Libby. Just get right to the point here.”

“Sorry,” I said, feeling chastened. “You don’t have to answer. I’m just curious. Just tell me to shut up.”

“I’m kidding,” he said, and his grin loosened my shoulders. “I don’t mind. My life’s an open book.”

“Okay, so why didn’t it work?”

He laughed again. “We just had different interests. At first it didn’t seem to matter but after a while it got to be a problem. She was ambitious, a corporate hotshot. I don’t think I was the right image for her. Not that she ever said that,” he said. “She was really sweet but our relationship just sort of fizzled out.”

“Do you date much?”

“Haven’t recently,” he said. I smiled inside.

When the hostess came by to tell us our table was ready, Patrick said, “Saved by the bell,” and put his hand gently on my back as we followed her to our table. She smiled prettily at him as she handed him a menu. Her shiny blond hair hung in a satiny spill to her waist and she wore a cropped top and tight black hip-hugger bell-bottoms.

“Didn’t you used to have an outfit like that?” Patrick asked.

As we shared a piece of turtle cheesecake for dessert I thought how easy it was to be with him. It didn’t feel awkward; there were no uncomfortable silences. It was almost as if no time had passed at all.

“I always thought you were pretty, Libby, but you’re even prettier now. Your face has more character.”

“‘Character’ is just a euphemism for ‘wrinkles,’” I said.

“Wrinkles mean life. They tell a story. I think faces are so much more interesting when we get older.”

“I think faces are so much older when we get older.”

His face and arms were browned from the sun. He had a familiar small chip in his right front tooth that was so endearing. I wasn’t sure if he was really handsome or if I was simply reacting to our history, but I liked looking at him.

He leaned forward and took my hand. “I’m really glad you e-mailed me,” he said.

“Me too,” I said. “I was so happy you remembered me.”

“Oh Libby, how could I not remember you? Unless I’d been in a coma. I have to say, it’s great seeing you after all these years.” He picked up his glass. “To reunions,” he said, and we sipped our drinks. The whole thing seemed like a dream.

Then Patrick asked, “How are things with Michael?” The question crashed like a steamroller through the fog of my trance.

“Ooh, a dose of reality,” I said. I took a tiny bite of cheesecake. “Frankly, I feel a little guilty being here with you. That’s how things are with Michael.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Not sorry because you’re here with me, sorry you’re feeling guilty. I want you to enjoy this reunion.”

“I am. Very much. That’s why I’m feeling guilty, I guess.”

“I suppose that’s a good sign, then. For me, anyway.” He grinned, that sweet recognizable grin. I was glad he didn’t ask any more about Michael. I didn’t really want to think about him right now.

After lunch we walked down Michigan Avenue and looked in the store windows. Patrick pointed out things he thought I’d look good in, and mostly they were things I’d pick out for myself. Except for the slinky, low-cut black sequined dress with spaghetti straps and a thigh-revealing slit.

“Thirty years ago, maybe,” I said. “Not today.”

“You could pull it off,” he said. I couldn’t. But I loved that he thought I could.

We bought caramel corn at Garrett’s and munched on it as we made our way down to the Chicago River and on over to State Street. We went into Macy’s and Patrick lamented the fact that it was no longer Marshall Field’s. “My mom used to bring all us kids down here when we were little to see the Christmas windows and eat in the Walnut Room.”

“They still do the windows.”

“Not the same,” he said and I agreed.

We wandered through the men’s department, where Patrick picked up a package of jockey shorts and some socks.

“What, they don’t have underwear in Florida?”

He smiled. “Let’s go find me another turtleneck,” he said.

I stopped. “Patrick. What are you doing?”

He faced me with a mischievous smile and a twinkle in his eye. “I was thinking I’d stay the night just on the off-chance I could see you again tomorrow.”

My heart thumped against my rib cage. My mouth went dry. I was thrilled. And panicked. “You said lunch. You said we’d have lunch and then you’d leave. You promised.”

He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m scaring you, aren’t I?” I nodded. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to cause trouble. Look, I’ll put these back.” He turned around and put the black socks on a rack of white ones. I resisted the urge to put them in the right place. “If you want me to go, I’ll go. I promised and I meant it. I will. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to leave you yet.”

“It’s not that I want you to go,” I said. “It’s just that…”

“Look, I’ll stay one night. I don’t have to get back for anything, so it’s no big deal for me. So I’ll just stay. We’ll talk tomorrow. And then if you want me to go home, I’ll go. I promise.”

“I’ve heard that before,” I said.

He smiled. “Yeah, I know. Another promise. But I mean it. No pressure. I swear, if you don’t want to see me tomorrow, I’ll go home. You don’t even have to call me. If I don’t hear from you by noon, I’ll leave. And no hurt feelings.” He put his hand on my shoulder again. “What do you say? It’s your call.”

Why not? All I had to do was not call him tomorrow and he’d be gone. I had the whole rest of the evening and all night to think about it. Not that there was much doubt in my mind.

I picked up the package of socks and handed it to him. “Let’s go find you a turtleneck,” I said, and he broke into a heartbreakingly adorable, chip-toothed grin.

It was fun walking through the store together, holding hands, looking for all the world as if we were a couple. I was aware of people looking at us and imagined their envy. They were thinking we looked good together. They were thinking how nice it was that we were still in love after all these years now that our children were grown and gone. They were thinking, Look at these old people holding hands. Isn’t that sweet?

Patrick put his arm around me as we walked away from the register, and the sales girl smiled at us.

“Have a nice evening,” she said brightly as if she knew something.

*   *   *

I pulled up in front of the Palmer House hotel and a doorman hurried over to Patrick’s door. Patrick put up one finger and turned back to me. “Well, girl,” he said, “this has been one ass-kickin’ kind of day.”

I laughed. “That’s not exactly how I would have described it, but it has definitely been some kind of day.”

“Some kind of good?”

“Some kind of good.”

He took my hand in his and kissed it. Kissed it.

“Libby,” he began, but then he stopped and shook his head. “Libby, Libby, Libby.” He leaned over and kissed my mouth. I remembered those lips. His kiss was like a familiar song, and as it played my brain was flooded with memories. A song, that’s what his kiss was like.

He pulled back and looked at me, and a smile lit up his eyes and infused his whole face. “This is wild,” he said. “It’s my fantasy.”

His fantasy. I almost giggled, like a nervous teenager.

He swept his hand across my cheek, and then kissed me again, more insistently now, with mouth open, moist and cushiony. And I kissed him back, and put my hand on his cashmered chest.

And the doorman stood there waiting to open the door.

I remembered this about Patrick: he was a great kisser.

“I’m just not ready to let you go,” he said. I wasn’t ready either. It was the last thing I wanted to do. “Why don’t you let the valet take your car and come have a drink with me?”

I put that car right in park. “Lead the way,” I said.

As Patrick checked in at reception, I told him I’d wait in the bar while he put his things in the room. “Chicken,” he said as I turned and walked away.

He was right. I was chicken. But there was no way I was going to be alone in a room with just him and me and a bed.