Thirty-three

Bright and early the next day I got online and looked for tickets to Florida. I found a good fare and convenient times, and selected a return for four days later. When I got to the screen with the button that said, Book this reservation, I had a moment’s doubt. Michael was going to freak. One thing was sure, he wasn’t going to say, “Oh yeah, I understand, go ahead, spend all the time you want with Patrick. Sleep with him if you need to. I’ll be here waiting when you get back.”

I wavered for a second. And then clicked the button. Your reservation is confirmed, the screen told me and I laughed out loud. Immediately I sent off an e-mail to Patrick with the details of my flight. I’m nervous, I wrote, but looking forward to spending time with you.

Now I had to tell Michael. I picked up the phone and dialed, but hung up before I punched in the last number. This was terrible timing. He was probably on his way to work and it seemed mean to tell him while he was driving, right before he went into the office. Or worse, saw a client. This wasn’t the kind of news anyone wants to start the day with. I’d call him tonight when he was home, alone. Where there was scotch in his liquor cabinet.

I went for a run instead.

When I got back the red light on my answering machine was blinking.

“Great, Libby.” Patrick’s mellow tones filled my living room. “Can’t wait to see you. And there’s nothing to be nervous about. I’ll be at the airport, in the terminal outside the gate area, with a big sign that says CARSON PARTY. We’ll go right down to the beach and have lunch at an outdoor café and drink something with an umbrella in it and eat soft-shell crabs. How does that sound?” I could hear the smile popping off his face. “Bring warm-weather clothes. The temps are still in the eighties. See you in a few days.”

Oh god. What have I done? I thought.

I called Sophie.

“Well, good,” she said when I told her what I was doing.

“Really?”

“Yes, really. It’s time you did what you wanted to do instead of what everyone else wants.”

“Who is this?” I said. “Aren’t you the one who told me Michael would be a great husband? That he’d be someone to spend the rest of my life with?”

“Oh, fuck that,” Sophie said. “I’ve seen you and Patrick together. Go see what happens. Michael’s not going anywhere.”

“He’ll be furious. He won’t put up with this.”

“Yes, he’ll say that. He’ll tell you you’re through, but that’s the thing about Michael. He’s steady and he’s forgiving and he loves you. He’ll get over it if you find out Patrick’s not the one.”

“It seems so cruel to do this to him.”

“Well, it’s not the nicest thing in the world. But would it be better to marry him and then find out you were in love with someone else?”

“How do I tell him?”

“You say, ‘So, Michael, I’m going to go see Patrick in Florida for a couple days and you’re not invited.’ And then you hang up.”

*   *   *

While I was still riding high from Sophie’s encouragement I called Michael. Voice mail.

“Michael, it’s me. I know you’re pissed that I went to the brunch yesterday. I hope you’re feeling better today and that you’ll still be here on Wednesday as usual. I’m counting on it, okay? I’ll make dinner and we’ll talk. Call me.”

I didn’t hear from him that day.

I had work I needed to complete and deliver before I left: to finish the details on a blazer I was making for one client, hem three pairs of pants for another, alter a suit for a third, and work on Bea Rosatti’s wedding ensemble. So I put some CDs in the stereo and Maroon 5 serenaded me as I stitched in the lining on the black wool blazer. If I moved fast, I could deliver it tomorrow and still have a couple of days to finish the rest. As I worked I tried not to feel too bad about Michael or too good about Patrick. I didn’t know what I’d do if Michael didn’t come over Wednesday or call me before Friday, when I was leaving. Part of me thought, Good, I’ll just go and not tell him and decide what to do when I get back. The coward’s way out always seems easiest, doesn’t it?