20

“So? Tell me what happened?” said Diane after Brock (I was back to calling him that) had left the office.

“Nothing.” I shrugged listlessly. I felt as if I’d been run over by a sport utility vehicle. “I did my best, Diane. He didn’t go for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“He thought I was coming on to him, as some sort of a test, to see if he’d take the bait and flunk his ‘final exam.’ I coached him so well on the subject of sexual harassment that he wouldn’t let me sexually harass him. It was a disaster.”

“Wait. Don’t say that, Dr. Wyman. It sounds like it was just a miscommunication, the kind that always goes on between men and women. You know the routine: She loves him but he doesn’t realize it, and then he realizes it but now she’s too proud to admit she loved him in the first place.”

“Aren’t I supposed to be too smart to get stuck in those miscommunications?”

“Why? You’re human, remember? We worked on getting you in touch with your human side.”

“A lot of good it did me.”

“Stop it. You’ve got to stay positive. I have a feeling that once Mr. Brock has had a chance to think things over, he’ll call you.”

“Why should he?”

“Because he’ll miss you. The same way you’ll miss him. You’ll hear from him, no doubt about it.”

I had plenty of doubt about it, and I was right to. The entire month of September went by and there wasn’t a peep out of Brock. I had a call from Naomi once, to thank me yet again for turning her boss into a sweetie pie (her term), but nothing from The Titan himself.

I pined. I really, really missed him. I missed him so much that whenever Diane would run out to do errands, I would skulk into my office, pull out the tape recordings of Brock’s sessions, and listen to them. I’d sit in my chair, straining to catch every nuance of his speech patterns as he practiced his scripts, and I would pretend he was there with me, in body as well as voice. Yes, I agree that there was something slightly masochistic about this, but as I said, I really, really missed him.

October arrived and so, at last, did my divorce from Kip. There hadn’t been a peep out of him, either, not in many months. I had thought about him from time to time, wondered if he was with someone, but only in the way you wonder about a person you’re glad you don’t have to see or talk to and can, therefore, wonder about without obligation.

“Let’s have a ‘Lynn’s divorced’ party,” said Isabel when I told her the marriage had been officially terminated.

“Thanks, but I’m not in a celebrating mood,” I said. I was pretty melancholy, due to the Brandon/Kip combo, plus I remembered what had happened the last time I’d partied with my friends.

No, I buried myself in my work, such as it was, coached the few clients who came to the office.

Oh, and I paid a visit to my father, just as Brock had suggested I should during our car ride back into the city after that last field trip. In recent years, I had seen my mother regularly, but had kept my distance from dear old dad. He and I weren’t estranged, exactly; it was more that I had written him off as the “bad guy,” had sided with my mother in their ongoing battle over which of them was responsible for their divorce, had decided that he was a lost cause who wouldn’t or couldn’t be helped by the Wyman Method and was, therefore, not worth my trouble.

But one Sunday in early October, a day when I’d been in serious mooning-over-Brock mode and replaying every single syllable he’d ever said to me, I decided to show up on Alan Wyman’s doorstep.

He lived in Hartsdale, less than a half-hour from my place in Mt. Kisco. He lived alone—for the moment. (While he’d had several long-term relationships since the divorce, he’d never remarried.) He lived quietly, without pets scurrying around or the television or stereo blaring. And, the owner of a small printing company, he lived modestly.

Naturally, he was surprised to see me. I was with him for most of the afternoon, but here’s the Cliffs Notes version.

“Lynn? Is that you?” he said, peering from behind the front door.

“The one and only,” I said. “I know I should have called first. Is this a bad time?”

“No. No. Come on in.” He hugged me. I let him.

“You’re sure you’re not busy?” I said as I walked inside the house, into the living room, which was freezing. He had the air conditioner on, even though it was a chilly fall day.

“No, I was just reading the paper,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting company, that’s all.”

I was company instead of family. I found that very sad.

As we sat on the sofa together, making the requisite chatter about his health and my health and that old standby, the weather, I observed that he was still a handsome man, with his dark hair and prominent jaw and large brown eyes. He was just thinner than I remembered. Shorter too. And nervous about my being there, clearly uncomfortable. I could hardly blame him, though, given that he probably viewed me not only as “company” but as an emissary from the enemy camp.

“Something to eat, Lynn? Or drink?” he asked.

“No, Dad. I came to talk.”

“Uh-oh. The ‘T’ word,” he said, managing a little smile. “You and your mother have a thing about that ‘T’ word.”

“I guess we do,” I said, not wanting to scare him off. “But, speaking of my mother, I’d like to ask you about your marriage, if you don’t mind. And that doesn’t mean I want to put you on the spot or make you dredge up old wounds or cast blame on you.”

“I find that hard to believe,” he said with a rueful chuckle.

“It’s true, Dad. I know I’ve blamed you in the past but I’m here today to learn about myself, not to pass judgment on you.”

“What does a woman like you have to learn? You’re as smart as a whip. Always were.”

“Maybe not as smart as everybody thought. You see, Dad, I came here because I’ve been taking a good look at myself and my relationships with men, and in doing so I’ve wondered about your relationship with Mom.”

He winced. “You already know about that. We were oil and water, she and I.”

“Yes, right. But tell me about the communication problem you two had. Tell me why it was so hard for you to talk to her. I’d really like to know, Dad. Not to blame. Just to understand.”

“Lynnie.” He patted my knee. “We’ve been over this many times. I don’t want to cause any more hurt.”

“You won’t. I swear. I’m going to listen with an open mind.”

“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Go ahead, Dad.”

He sighed. “Why was it so hard for me to talk to your mother? Because I couldn’t stand her, that’s why. Could not abide the woman, don’t have a clue why I married her. She was always on me, right from the beginning, always nagging me, always pushing and pushing. She never eased up on me, never. Even when she was out of the house, she didn’t let up: she’d leave me notes telling me what to do; she’d call me every seven minutes telling me what to do; she’d have you, my own daughter, telling me what to do.”

“I told you what to do?” I had no memory of that.

He nodded. “In the same exact voice as your mother. You were some mimic.” He shook his head. “It was like having two harpies going at me twenty-four hours a day. As much as I loved you, honey, I couldn’t take it.”

Honey. I thought of Brock then. My snookums. Where was he on that Sunday afternoon while I was with my father in Hartsdale? With Kelsey? On a business trip? Working at his apartment? God, how I missed him, missed having him walk into my office on Tuesdays at noon, missed having him in my life. I wished I could tell him he was right about my father, that Alan Wyman had been an unhappy man, not just an uncommunicative one.

“I can imagine how awful that must have been for you,” I said, “but why didn’t you ever talk back to Mom? Why did you withdraw and withdraw and withdraw until she couldn’t get a word out of you?”

“Lynnie.” He sighed again. “Your mother was relentless. The way she spoke to me wasn’t communication. It was a harangue. I realize that you’ve made a name for yourself with your theory that men should learn how to communicate with women by talking like women, but talk is not the answer to everything. Sometimes—as in my case—it’s better to keep your mouth shut, bide your time, and then get the hell out.”

“That’s what you did?”

“That’s what I did. I kept my mouth shut until I felt you were old enough not to be traumatized by a divorce. And then I got the hell out.”

“Oh, Dad. You really were miserable all those years.”

Naturally, I got choked up at this juncture in the conversation. I felt terribly sorry for him. Sorry for the three of us. And guilty for not hearing his side before, really hearing it. But I suppose I hadn’t been ready to hear it. I was too consumed with my own idea of what had gone wrong in their marriage. I had clung to that old idea, because it had formed the basis for the Wyman Method, the program that had defined me, made me famous. Letting go of it would have meant letting go of my career, of my identity.

“It’s true that I wasn’t the greatest talker in the world,” my father went on. “To be honest with you, Lynnie, the other women I’ve been with have had their own complaints on that score. But when it came to your mother and me, it wasn’t about a lack of communication; it was about a lack of love. Big difference.”

Big difference. “Okay, so here’s the long and short of it,” I said, trying to come to some sort of conclusion about what he’d told me. “Your position is that you can’t have communication without a good relationship but you can’t have a good relationship without communication.”

He laughed. “Now that’s what I call a vicious circle—emphasis on the ‘vicious.’”

I laughed, too. “Okay, how about this: What you’re saying is that relationships are a bitch, any way you look at it.”

“That’s what I’m saying, honey.”

I saw my father more frequently from then on—we had decided to “get to know each other better”—but mostly I worked, went about my business, kept on.

And then one day, clear out of the blue, Brock called.

I was walking a client out of the office when the phone rang. Diane picked it up and began gesturing wildly to me.

“What?” I said when the client was gone. “What on earth is the matter with you?”

“It’s Naomi,” she squealed, her hand over the mouthpiece. “She says she’s got Mr. Brock on the line for you.”

I stood absolutely still.

“Did you hear me, Dr. Wyman? He’s on the phone. Snap out of it.”

I nodded. Still, I was rigid with excitement, anxiety, expectation—all of the above.

“Go,” she urged. “Take it in your office—and hurry. He’s a busy guy.”

“Right.” I dashed into my office, closed the door and sat down at my desk. I took a couple of deep breaths and, tentatively, lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Hi, Dr. Wyman,” said Naomi. “Please hold for Mr. Brock.”

More deep breaths. In—two, three, four. Out—two, three, four.

“Hey, Dr. Wyman,” he said buoyantly when he came on the line. “It’s Brandon Brock. Remember me?”

No.

“Of course, I remember you,” I said. “How are you, Mr. Brock?” My tone was friendly but not fawning.

“I’m great. The ankle’s healed. I’ve been doing a ton of traveling—we have a couple of positions at Finefoods that we haven’t filled, so until we do I’m filling them—but everything’s been going well. You’ll be happy to know that I’ve been Mr. Sensitive around the office. People come to me and tell me their problems and I listen and nod and say, ‘I can only imagine how you must feel.’”

“I’m glad to hear you’re using your Womenspeak, Mr. Brock. Very glad.” Okay, okay. So why are you calling?

“You don’t sound glad,” he said. “See? I notice everything now.”

I smiled to myself. “I am glad. I’m busy at the moment, that’s all.”

“Oh. Then I won’t keep you. I was wondering—”

“Yes?”

“I’m hesitating because I don’t know how you’ll react.”

“The best thing to do is just come out and say what you have to say.” Yeah, it sure worked for me.

“Good. Then here’s the new script I’ve been practicing. Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Since it’s been a while since I finished the program—enough of an interval to make this invitation appropriate, I hope—I was wondering if you’d go out with me, Dr. Wyman. If you even date former clients, that is.”

Invitation. Go out. Date. So it was happening. My wish had come true. I had waited for those words, yearned for them, and now he had uttered them. It was a miracle.

“Scripts aside, I’ve wanted to ask you out for some time,” he said more soberly, “but I thought you might hate the idea. And then there was the complication of Kelsey.”

“I take it she’s no longer a complication?” This was fabulous. Amazing. I had the impulse to jump for joy but decided to wait until after we hung up.

“No, she’s not. We’re history.”

“Oh. What precipitated your breakup, if I’m not being too personal?”

“Too personal?” He laughed. “You know more about me than anyone. The story is, we were out for dinner one night. I said to her, ‘I don’t know how you’re going to metabolize that alfredo sauce, but I’m having mine on the side.’ She glared at me, threw her napkin at me, said, ‘I liked you better the old way,’ and stormed out of the restaurant. I haven’t spoken to her since.”

“I’m sorry.

“Are you?”

“No.”

He laughed again. “I meant what I said before. I’ve been close to calling you a million times, Dr. Wyman, but whenever I’d pick up the phone I’d get cold feet. You always seemed so unapproachable.”

“I’m approachable. Approach me and see what happens,” I said after rejecting the notion of playing hard to get. This was my big chance and I wasn’t about to blow it. Besides, I was a graduate of the Wyman Method. I knew how to express my feelings. “And please, call me Lynn.”

“Lynn.” He paused. “It feels strange to call you by your first name.”

“I understand that completely, Brandon.”

He exhaled. “I’m so relieved. I didn’t have a clue how it would go if I called you, and I was pretty worried about it. Naomi kept saying, ‘Oh, call her, call her, Mr. Brock.’ But it was Diane who gave me the nudge I needed.”

“Diane? My Diane?” I hadn’t expected that piece of news anymore than I’d expected to hear from Brandon.

“Sure. I thought she would have told you. She stopped by the office last week, to see Naomi, I guess, and when she saw me passing by in the hall she said, ‘Dr. Wyman misses you and is dying for you to call her.’”

“She actually said that?” I was mortified.

“She did, but I’m sure she was only exaggerating.”

No, she wasn’t, but that was beside the point. She was a little sneak! “She never mentioned that she’d seen you,” I said, trying to calm down, to focus on the positive. I suppose it was sweet of Diane to intercede on my behalf. I just would have preferred that she’d tipped me off.

“Well, we have her to thank for this call. As I said, I was planning to get in touch with you anyway, but she made it happen faster.”

“Fine. I’ll give her a raise.”

He laughed. “So was she exaggerating?”

“Oh, you mean—”

“About you missing me?”

I gave this a second or two before replying, just for a tiny bit of drama. “No.”

“Hey, that’s easily the best news I’ve had all day,” he said. “I’ve missed you, too. Boy, have I ever. I really do want to see you, Lynn. As soon as possible, in fact.”

The urgency in his voice made my body turn to mush. I had never had a serious boyfriend in high school or college and had certainly never felt this way about Kip. No, whatever was going on inside me was the real thing. For the first time in my life.

“What do you have in mind?” I said.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?”

“Not a thing.”

“Perfect. You’re going with me to Yankee Stadium for Game 3 of the World Series. I’ve got the best seats in the house—down on the field at the first base line.”

I flashed back to the night I went to Yankee Stadium with Penny and the two duds from Feminax, the night I spotted Brandon through the binoculars, sweeping Kelsey into his arms. Yes, I knew exactly where his seats were. I just never thought I’d be sitting in one of them.

“I’d love to go,” I said enthusiastically. “I don’t know much about baseball, though, so you’ll have to explain things to me.”

“I will, but there’s one thing you already know about the game: How I feel about it. Remember all those months ago when you asked me to share my feelings about something, anything, and all I could come up with was baseball?”

“I remember.” I’d listened to the tape of that session over and over.

“Then you remember how much fun I get from watching the game, how much pleasure it gives me. Let’s see if I can get you to experience that pleasure too.”

I’m already experiencing it, I thought, my heart soaring. More than you know.

“So you’re not mad?” said Diane after I’d come flying out of my office and given her a complete account of my conversation with Brandon, including his report of her little behind-my-back visit to Finefoods.

“No, I’m not mad,” I replied, hugging her. “I’m too happy to be mad. I’m getting the chance I’ve been dreaming about. It’s a new beginning for me, Diane, a fresh start. After all I’ve been through with the split from Kip and the publicity and the career problems, I finally see the light at the end of the tunnel, finally have a sense that my future looks bright.” I gave her another squeeze. “Everything’s all right now,” I said. “And it’s only going to get better.”