An Ex to Grind Page 2

  I blinked at her, feeling a glimmer of an emotion I couldn’t identify. Hope? Glee? Something. “How awesome would that be if he had a three-month fling and I didn’t have to pay him anymore.”

  “You’d be off the hook, it’s true,” she said. “But if he’s so turned off to relationships, I wouldn’t count on him entering into one. And let’s face it: he may be unemployed, but he’s not stupid. He’s not going to risk losing that monthly maintenance unless he falls madly in love, and what are the chances of that?”

  “Slim to none,” I conceded and felt the hope, glee, or whatever it was evaporate.

  “Okay, then. Back to business. Sign this last document and we’re through here.”

  I scribbled my signature in between all the Whereas’s and Heretofore’s, put down the pen, and exhaled noisily. “That’s it. I’m officially divorced.”

  No sooner was that pronouncement out of my mouth than I was overcome by melancholy—sort of a heavy, invasive sadness. Sad because I had loved Dan once. Sad because our marriage was the only period of my life when I’d felt the stability I’d craved as a child. And sad because it was now final and irrevocable that I was forced to share custody of Buster, my sweet pug, the dog Dan had given me for our fifth anniversary. That’s right: Buster was supposed to be mine. But the minute we started negotiating the settlement, Dan claimed that my twelve-hour workdays made me unfit to be the dog’s sole guardian. After months of haggling—he said he should get Buster and I should be granted visitation and I said I should get Buster and he should be granted a visit to hell—we agreed on the shared custody bit. We alternated weeks. Every other Monday morning, I would hop in a cab with Buster and drop him off at Dan’s on my way to the office. And the next Monday morning, Dan would hop in a cab and drop Buster off at my place on his way to—well—wherever it was he went on Monday mornings. To the gym, probably, followed by lunch with the boys, followed by a game of poker, followed by a massage and/or nap, followed by a hot night on the town. All of it with my money, mind you.

  On second thought, sad didn’t begin to describe my feelings that cold December day. Pained was more accurate.

  “Mel?” said Robin as she stood up and regarded me. “Are you crying?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I never cry.” I rose from my chair. As I did, a cascade of cookie crumbs fell from my skirt onto the carpet. “Sorry about the mess,” I said. “I’d offer to pay for a cleaning crew, but all my spare change goes to you-know-who now.”

  She sighed, frustrated that she’d failed to bring me around. “You weren’t listening when I said it was time to let go and move on, were you?”

  “Yes, yes, I was listening.” I forced a big smile. “And I’ll try to follow your advice, Robin. I will.”

  Forced smile aside, I meant what I’d said. I really didn’t want to become one of those bitter divorcées who can’t go five minutes without bashing her ex—women who poison all their relationships with their vitriol, bore everyone to death with the same twisted stories, and end up miserable and alone, a pathetic victim. No, I would suck it up, act like the sort of gutsy dame I fantasized my mother would have been if she’d lived, and move on. That was the plan, anyway.

  Robin and I said good-bye and gave each other a professional career woman hug—i.e., we held each other for a nanosecond, making sure not to smudge our lipstick.

  As I walked out of the conference room, I felt her eyes on me, and I sensed that she hadn’t bought my declaration of goodwill; that she had deemed me yet another client who’d been freed from the bonds of matrimony only to become entangled in the bonds of acrimony.

  She had me pegged, all right. Yes, I left her office with the best intentions, but I’m sorry to report that the case of Melanie Banks vs. Dan Swain wasn’t closed, despite all the pieces of paper we’d signed. On the contrary. The acrimony—the madness—was just getting started.

  Chapter

  2

  I spent the weekend working, chained to the computer at home. Well, at my temporary home. Since my separation from

  Dan, I’d been renting a dark, thoroughly charmless, furnished studio on the third floor of a five-story walk-up on West Forty-sixth Street between Eighth and Ninth avenues—an area known alternately as Hell’s Kitchen for its gangland past, Clinton for its later association with DeWitt Clinton, the city’s former mayor, and Midtown West, a bland name conceived by real estate agents hoping to attract people who’d been priced out of fancier neighborhoods. Just west of the theater district and not far from Times Square, Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t my idea of heaven, with its topless bars and mom-and-pop ethnic restaurants. (My building was next door to a Hungarian restaurant where they put paprika on everything, even the desserts.) You could walk by a stripper in a G-string, a grandma in a babushka, or a drag queen in a ball gown. It was all too bohemian for me, but I was on a tight budget since the split. My dreary, tiny place was all I could afford if I wanted to stay in Manhattan.

  And I did want to stay, needed to stay. For one thing I needed to be near my dog, who, when he wasn’t with me, was with Dan in our old apartment—a sunny, thoroughly charming, professionally decorated three-bedroom on the thirty-second floor of a thirty-six-story building on Seventy-eighth and Madison on the very civilized Upper East Side. For another, I needed to be near my office, which was at Forty-eighth and Park. And for a third thing, I needed to stay in the city because I just couldn’t bring myself to go back to Brooklyn or Queens. Not after spending my childhood in the outer boroughs, dreaming of crossing the bridge into Manhattan where someday I would become a success and escape my gloomy past. No, my walk-up in Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t paradise, but it allowed me to hang on to my dream—being made a partner at Pierce, Shelley and Steinberg and then buying myself a drop-dead apartment that would put Dan’s to shame.

  In the meantime I was camping out in my closet of a home in a building the landlord called the Heartbreak Hotel, because nearly all of its occupants were divorced or separated and in transition. An upbeat place it wasn’t.

  Since it was December, there were year-end tax documents to be reviewed for my clients—all of whom had been enriched by the decisions I’d made for them, even in a down market. If it was a sound investment, I was all over it, researching, making calls, grinding out the numbers, doing whatever it took to manage the assets of the people who’d put their trust in me. Yeah, that was my MO—the woman who never let up—which is why my boss had dubbed me his “top gun.”

  In addition to the year-end stuff, I was also going over the file on Jed Ornbacher, a seventy-year-old Texas widower who’d made a fortune in oil and was considering Pierce, Shelley as the new custodian of his millions. I was flattered that I’d been asked to make the presentation to him, because it meant I’d been charged with reeling him in. I was good at reeling them in. Maybe if I reeled Jed in, I’d get that partnership I’d been hoping for. A nice bonus, at least.

  “Look who’s here to check out Mr. Ornbacher’s file with me,” I said with a laugh when Buster jumped down off the sofa where he’d been lounging, trotted over to the makeshift desk I’d set up on my bed, and leapt up next to me.

  I put aside my paperwork. I was nearing the end of my week with Buster, so I tried to take advantage of our time together. Maybe you only know pugs from the movie Men in Black, but let me tell you: they’re cute little clowns. That flat, black, wrinkled face is enough to make anybody smile—even a depressed divorcée.

  “Are you hungry?” I asked him. While my appetite had increased following my breakup with Dan, Buster’s had decreased. According to the vet, he was suffering from a psychological disorder that was becoming all too prevalent in New York City: pet separation anxiety brought about by custody disputes. Not only did Buster have to be shuttled back and forth every other week between my poor excuse for an apartment and Dan’s Architectural Digest–worthy residence; he had to get used to two sets of crates and toys and food bowls. It had to be extremely disorienting for him.

  I went
and got him a biscuit and played with him for a while. At one point he looked up at me with those eyes—big, round, dark, expressive eyes—and I could almost hear him saying: “Where’s Daddy?” Yeah, laugh all you want, but when you love a dog, you’re convinced you know what they’re thinking.

  “He’s at our old house,” I said. “He and Mommy aren’t living together anymore, remember? But it has nothing to do with you, and there’s no reason for you to feel guilty.”

  Okay, yes. That’s what you tell a little kid whose parents split up. But it’s the same thing with a pet. Really.

  Buster snorted loudly, as if to demand more details.

  “Why aren’t Mommy and Daddy living together anymore?” I said. “Well, the short answer is that Daddy doesn’t like it that Mommy is doing better at her job than he is at his. Daddy’s very macho except when it comes to taking Mommy’s money.”

  Buster passed gas. Luckily, I wasn’t downwind.

  “Okay. I won’t say anything negative about Daddy.” Buster called us on it whenever Dan was nasty about me and vice versa. What a loyal, sweet dog. Besides, I had promised Robin I would try to lose the attitude. “It’s hard to explain what went wrong, but essentially Mommy told Daddy that he wasn’t the person he used to be, then Daddy told Mommy that she wasn’t the person she used to be either. You can’t have a marriage between strangers.”

  He appeared to give that one some thought. Then he shot me the inquisitive eyes again.

  “How did we change into different people?” I shrugged. “How does any couple drift apart, especially when they were so right for each other in the beginning. You should have seen us then, Buster. When Mommy met Daddy, it was the happiest day of her life.”

  I was twenty when I met Dan Swain, and happiness wasn’t on my agenda; working my way through school was. I’d been working ever since I could remember. While my father did nothing to put food on the table, I had a paper route, babysat for anyone who asked, ran errands for people. Once, when he was drunk, he told me we’d end up in debtors’ prison if I didn’t “hustle ass,” and since I was too young to know that there was no such thing as debtors’ prison, I spent my entire childhood petrified of being locked up in it.

  My plan at age twenty was to finish up my undergraduate degree at N.Y.U. as a scholarship student, get my MBA, and start climbing the corporate ladder. One of my part-time jobs at the time was waitressing at a restaurant that was frequented by professional athletes. I didn’t know a thing about sports and couldn’t care less about them, but I was very pretty, with my dark, wavy hair and curvy figure, so I was popular with the male patrons.

  “Hi. What can I get for you?” I said to the table of four, large college-age men to whom I’d brought menus five minutes earlier. It was nine-thirty that Sunday night, and I was dead tired after having worked the lunch shift too, but I put on a perky smile, hoping to nail a perky tip.

  “A room,” one of them said, staring longingly at my breasts. “You and me and a king-size bed, and I’m so there, baby.”

  The others thought this was a riot. Well, except the blond one with the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. He was gloriously handsome in his yellow cable-knit sweater and chinos, like one of those radiant golden boys from the Ralph Lauren ads. He leaned toward me and smiled apologetically, exposing big, straight, white teeth, and said, in a twang that suggested somewhere south of the Mason-Dixon line, “Please pardon my friends. They left their manners at home.”

  Suddenly, I was charmed. Maybe it was the “please.” Maybe it was the respectful tone. Maybe it was the fact that he wasn’t just gorgeous but polite too, and the combination was so unexpected. “Not a problem,” I said, noticing he had a little scar to the left of his right eye. It only added to his appeal, because it humanized his otherwise too perfect face. “We keep a cage in the back for animals who haven’t had their obedience training.”

  It was the blond who laughed this time. “Score one for the lovely lady.”

  A compliment. I was oddly thrilled. “How about something to eat?” I said, getting back to business.

  “Yeah, you and me can order room service and eat naked,” said the jerk.

  I sighed. “I’m sure you’re a work of art without your clothes on, but the museum’s down the street, okay?”

  “Yeah, enough, Ernie,” said the blond, with authority. “You’re lucky she has a sense of humor.”

  Did I have a sense of humor? No one had ever mentioned it.

  After the blond silenced his buddy for the moment, he asked me if I had any specials to recommend.

  “The pasta special is excellent tonight,” I said, aware now that he was the leader of the group.

  “Then four pasta specials it is,” he said. “And four glasses of water.”

  “Water?” Ernie griped.

  “Water,” he said. “We’ve celebrated too much already.”

  “What are you celebrating?” I asked.

  “Our first trip to the Big Apple,” said the blond, who then flushed slightly and added, “I must sound like an idiot. Nobody who lives here actually calls it the Big Apple, right?”

  Gorgeous, polite, and self-deprecating? Yeah, I was charmed. “Not usually, but welcome to New York anyway,” I said, little Miss Chamber of Commerce. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

  “Are you gonna ask us why we’re here, or do you just want to kiss me?” said Ernie.

  Jeez. The guy didn’t quit. I was about to respond with another put-down but restrained myself. I’d discovered that when you’re dealing with alcoholically impaired jocks, it’s best not to antagonize them. “Okay, tell me,” I said. “Why are you here?”

  “For the Heisman ceremony last night,” he said.

  He acted as if I was supposed to understand what he was talking about, but the only Heisman I knew was Sophie Heisman, the old lady who lived upstairs from us in Queens. She was always letting her bathtub overflow, which caused mold to breed in our ceiling.

  “Our hero was the runner-up for the trophy,” he went on, pounding the blond on the back. “Voted the second-best college football player in the country.”

  “No kidding?” I looked at the blond and thought how refreshing it was that he hadn’t bragged about himself but instead left it to someone else to tout his accomplishment.

  “No kidding,” he acknowledged. “I was the bridesmaid.”

  “Bridesmaid or not, you deserve congratulations,” I said, duly impressed. “I’ll probably read about you in the newspaper. What’s your name?”

  “Dan Swain,” he said.

  “But everybody calls him Traffic,” said Ernie.

  “Traffic?” I said.

  “That’s his nickname. He’s the best receiver in the game because he can catch the ball even with ten guys charging him. Like, when he’s in traffic.”

  “Ah, I get it,” I said as I studied this Dan Swain person and found myself drooling a little. I mean, I just couldn’t find anything not to like about him.

  “You think it’s dumb, don’t you?” he said.

  “Not at all,” I said. “If you can be the calm one in the middle of chaos, I think that’s a gift.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  No, it wasn’t poetry, but we were connecting in a way that made me sweat. I’m serious, my armpits were leaking.

  “So what’s your name?” He pointed at me. “I’ll probably read about you in the newspaper someday.”

  “Because I’ll be voted second-best waitress in the country?” I said.

  “Something tells me you’d never settle for second best,” he said, then gently removed the pencil and pad from my hands, took my right hand in his, and shook it. “Your name?”

  “Melanie Banks,” I said as he held on to me seconds longer than was necessary and my insides started to turn over.

  By the time he finally released me I had forgotten what I was supposed to be doing there, until Ernie mouthed off that he was hungry.

  “Four pas
ta specials coming right up,” I said, writing down the orders, forcing myself to do my job.

  “See you soon,” said Dan as I headed for the kitchen. “Melanie.” When I glanced back at him, he smiled at me, and I felt truly off balance—wobbly, a little nauseated, wonderful. I wasn’t the type to get derailed by silly infatuations. I had a plan for myself, as I’ve stated, and it didn’t involve love. And yet there I was, falling. Fast and out of nowhere.

  I went off and waited on the other tables in my station but was mainly counting the minutes until the pasta dinners were ready so I could get back to Dan. After what seemed like an eternity, I carried the tray over to his table and served everybody. When I placed his plate in front of him, I asked him where he was from.

  “Minco, Oklahoma,” he said. “Bet you’ve never heard of it.”

  “You’d win that bet,” I said. “What’s the population? The four of you and your relatives?”

  “We’ve got about sixteen hundred people living there—only fifteen hundred of them being relatives,” he said with a sly grin. “It’s a sweet little town. You oughta come visit.”

  “Is that an invitation?” I said, humiliated that I was flirting with him. I’d never been a flirter.

  “Sure is,” he said. “You should come for the Minco Fair, our biggest event of the year. Maybe they’ll let you judge the cake contest.”

  His eyes held mine, and I had the crazy notion that I would have followed him to Minco or the moon. I was about to ask him how long he’d be in New York when he was surrounded by three fawning young men who’d watched the Heisman ceremony on television the night before and wanted his autograph.

  I disappeared and busied myself with other tables, watching from a distance how effortlessly Dan handled the starstruck sucker-uppers. Most of the athletes I’d waited on at the restaurant had monstrous egos and a sense of entitlement, but Dan didn’t seem to. He simply accepted the meeting-and-greeting, shaking hands, answering questions, allowing his space to be invaded, without the revolting me-me-me attitude. What he had wasn’t poise exactly, because that implies sophistication. It was more a genuineness, an ease. Since I’d always been such a striver, who pushed and pursued and persevered, I marveled at him, at how laid-back he was, at how everything seemed to come naturally to him. Yeah, we were opposites—I was a hustling New Yorker and he was an Oklahoma country boy—but, improbable or not, practical or not, ready or not, I was enthralled by him.