Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Caroline

I take the stairs, determined to get my blood flowing and my mindset rebooted. I was hoping to wake up in a better place but no such luck. It's Saturday at nine-thirty a.m. and I'm already in a funk.

Samantha is in the lobby chatting with the doorman when I arrive. I only hear a few words and they're in Spanish. They turn to me. Larry nods and Sam comes over. She's back to her frumpy self. No makeup, clothes too big for her frame.

She offers me a tentative look, then stops in her tracks.

"What happened?" she asks.

Whatever she thinks we're going to discuss over brunch is being trumped by whatever she's seeing in my face.

"Nothing." My tone is curt and defensive.

She moves closer, like approaching a wounded tiger. Very carefully. "Then why are your cheeks all red?"

It's a fair question. I'm not sure what came over me but I've been crying on-and-off since I woke up. The reprieve from Calvin's visit was short-lived. Once my solitary early-morning sob fest concluded, I downed a bottle of Evian and applied my makeup as skillfully as I know how. Clearly, I didn't do the best job.

Sam has never seen me cry. My intention is that she never will.

"I'm fine."

"Okay . . ."

In an attempt to change the subject I say, "Was that Spanish I heard you speaking to Larry?"

She takes the hint and smiles shyly. "I enrolled for free classes at the library. The teacher said it's best to practice in real life. I gave it a shot."

I'm strangely proud of her. For a woman with more plates in the air than a professional juggler, she seems to keep taking on more. As they say, when you need a job done, give it to a busy person. Which is what I'm planning to do today.

I'm about to say how impressed I am when Mrs. Reinhold squeezes between me and Sam, her dog taut on the leash, donning a hideous red and green sweater. There is an entire lobby around us and the Witch chooses to interrupt our conversation.

Sam must see the expression on my face and whispers, "Bet she's lonely."

"More like starved for attention," I retort, my tone revealing my strong distaste for the woman. Still, I realize how unkind it sounds.

"Ready?" I ask Sam.

"Yup, let's go."

We walk past the frozen pond in Central Park, me taking a moment to appreciate the sun on my face. It's the first day this month that I haven't dreaded being outside. I can't remember a colder New York December but today is perfect. Chilly but sunny. Kids frolic nearby, their parents seemingly ecstatic to give their pent-up kids a release. Sam and I walk in companionable silence, taking in the joyful vibe.

The Boathouse is buzzing today. Holiday lights and pine garlands lend a festive feel to the elegant dining room. I spot mistletoe, and my mind disturbingly goes straight to Calvin.

After handing over our coats, Sam and I are led to the back next to the window with views of the pond. She glances around with a tight, unsure smile.

It was my idea to come here. Sam needs a bit of pampering. Okay, maybe a lot of pampering. But I need to tread carefully. If she smells a handout she'll be out the door in a heartbeat. I've already planned my reason for footing the bill. "Thanks for meeting me today," I say.

"Glad it worked out. The kids are with Alan this weekend."

There it is. Mention of her ex. At least it's out of the way early. I don't like waiting for his name to pop up. Next month, I'm going to suggest to the club that we institute a drinking game. Every time Sam mentions the jerk's name, she'll need to take a shot. It will either result in stopping the sad habit or earn her the nickname, Slammin' Sam.

She and I are developing a friendship. While Evie is hands down my bestie, out of the remaining Fab Fifty club, I can see being good friends with Sam. Which is interesting. More than any of the ladies, I have the most in common with Mo. But she grates on my nerves to no end. Not so with Sam. She and I couldn't be more different but she's sweet and lovable and I need that around me now more than ever. It's the first time we're meeting alone without any of the other gals.

I catch her eye and she smiles, sheepishly, then removes her hat. I immediately notice her hair. She's sporting an inch of salt and pepper. She pulls out a tube of lipstick, applying it at the table. It's a shade darker than fitting her fair complexion but certainly better than none. Her boho dress, popular in the last decade, hides her figure.

She needs a makeover, stat.

I want desperately to slide her my stylist's card but Evie warned me not to comment on Sam's appearance as she may react poorly, like by bringing any improvements to a screeching halt. Sam is an underratedly complex woman.

"What a gorgeous place," she says.

"It's one of my favorites," I pull a notepad from my D & G purse. "I hope you don't mind but I needed to meet you for a consultation."

"Huh?" she says, barely above a whisper, the lines between her eyes deepening. When I invited her to join me for brunch I omitted that I had an ulterior motive beyond girl time.

A white-gloved waiter comes by, placing menus in our hands, then pulls a piece of parchment from his jacket pocket. "Ladies, our specials for today are gnocchi with candied sweet potatoes and the catch of the day, seared salmon with green bean almondine."

He speaks like he's reciting the Declaration of Independence. I love it and can tell Sam does, too. After all, she is a tenured professor of English literature. Given her soft-spoken voice I've wondered more than once how her students stay awake. She would lull me to sleep in seconds.

Sam looks at me and I resist ordering for her. "I'll have the gnocchi," I say.

The waiter turns to Sam who looks flustered. She's staring at the prices.

I speak as casually as I can. "I nearly forgot to tell you. This meeting is covered by the foundation as a tax-deductible expense."

I note the fleeting glint in her eye.

"Oh. Well, okay, I'll have a steak, medium rare, a house salad, and glass of cabernet."

I'm surprised and once again, proud of her. When the waiter leaves, Sam says, "You mentioned the foundation. I assume you're referring to Bernard's charitable outfit."

I nod.

"How can I help you?"

"It's for The Shining Stars Gala."

Her face brightens. "I loved that event. It was so elegant."

Shining Stars was set up years ago with funds designated to help children with special needs. I'm relieved by Sam's reaction. It makes my imminent pitch easier. "I love it, too," I say, even as a pit grows in my stomach. Bernard won't be in attendance, ever again. With everything going down in my life, I allowed the spring event to take the back burner. The gala requires a great deal of planning and I've done embarrassingly little.

The wine arrives and I watch with surprise as Sam swirls the fluid in her glass.

"It needs my full attention which I cannot give it."

"Why not skip it this year? I'm sure people will understand."

I shake my head. "The schools are counting on us for funding their programs. I can't skip it. Besides, it was Bernard's pet project."

This is where Sam comes in. She's the mother of two teenagers, and an outstanding planner and organizer. Just what I need. I tell her so. "I'm going through a challenging time and really need a coordinator."

Sam's lips press together, her telltale sign of discomfort. "I appreciate the vote of confidence, Caroline but I already have a job."

"Don't you get off for winter break?"

She frowns. Maybe I'm pushing too hard. I know she needs the money but she already has a busy life.

"Yes, but I like to spend it with the kids."

I know some things are more important than money. Family, for one. Kids, specifically. I never had children of my own but I've seen the kind of mother Evie is. If Sam is even half as devoted, nothing and no one will take precedence.

But Evie filled me in on the crucial point. I wait.

I see the lightbulb go off and Sam's face falls. She's recalling what Evie already told me. "The kids are going to their dad for two weeks over the holidays. I'm going to miss them terribly."

Evie was the one to suggest I extend the job offer, certain it would be a good distraction for Sam while helping me and the foundation. Win-win.

"Sorry," I say, trying to sound compassionate while wondering why she's not booking a trip to Paris on her own. She'll be a free bird for two weeks. But Sam looks anything but excited about the prospect. It's hard to relate to the pressures of parenting.

"Maybe the project would keep you occupied. You know, get your mind off things while staying creative. You'll have a team of volunteers who would follow through on your directions. I can forward you all the material."

Despite my blatant hardball pitch, I see her doing mental calculations.

"I know this is a lot to ask but the foundation can pay you well."

I tell her how much and see her brow lift. A pang of guilt hits me. I'm not trying to steamroll her but I know that I am.

I bring it home. "I understand if you can't take this on. I'll find someone else."

"No, I'll do it."

I can't hide my relief. "Really? Thank you!"

"Send me the info and I'll get on it."

I'm the one facing a crisis but Sam seems more down in the dumps than I am. When I first met her, she was upbeat and the perpetual optimist. Not anymore. It kills me that one man stole her joy.

As if reading my mind, she says, "Since the divorce, I don't know what to do with myself if I'm not in the classroom or with my kids. I've completely lost my mojo."

"Maybe working on a new project will help," I reiterate.

"Hope so."

I feel a pull to hug her but don't. PDAs are not my thing.

The food arrives and we dig in.

Sam takes a slug of her cab. "You said you're dealing with challenges. What's going on?"

I don't want to add to her burden. "It's a very stressful situation. I'm working on it."

"I'm a good listener." She sets down her glass and leans in, a veritable invitation for me to share.

I'm touched.

"I hope you don't mind my saying so . . ." Sam says, pausing. "You've lost quite a bit of weight."

She's right. My clothes hang on me. "Not by choice." I use the opportunity to eat a forkful of my gnocchi. The flavors burst in my mouth but my appetite is poor and I know I won't finish the delightful dish.

"What's been happening?" Her face is filled with empathy.

I take a deep breath. "Bernard's kids are suing for my share of his estate."

"Oh no." She reaches for my hand, squeezing it. "As if you haven't been through enough as it is."

"We're the walking wounded, you and I."

She takes another swallow then grins. It's the smile of the old Sam. "Maybe we should start a breakaway club."

I laugh. "Instead of mojitos, our drink of choice will be vodka, straight up."

"Where do I sign on?"

We let the laughter settle. It feels great. Sam asks a few questions which I answer. Her genuine compassion nearly brings me to tears again. She is a good listener.

"What does this mean for you, practically?"

"Well, first I need to decide if I'll fight them and take it to court. Then if I lose, I'll need to look for a job."

By her slack jaw, the statement is a shocker. Makes sense. For as long as she's known me I haven't worked a proper, paying job. Long before Bernard, I dabbled in modeling. It kept me solvent until Bernard came along and the need for gainful employment went out the window.

I say, "The alternative is selling the apartment."

"Wow. Is that an option?"

"At this point, everything is an option." I envision my foyer piled to the ceiling with moving boxes, forwarding address unknown. I'm feeling warm. I lift my hand and call over a passing waiter. "Can I have a glass of ice water, please?"

"Of course, madam."

Will I need to move out of the city? Find new friends? My chest feels tight.

Sam is looking at me with deep concern. "Caroline, are you okay?"

The waiter sets the glass in front of me. For some reason I see two of them. I blink, trying to clear my vision.

I lift the glass to my lips and it slips from my hand, ricocheting off the table. It hits the floor, shattering into a kaleidoscope of sharp shards.

"Caroline!"

Sam's voice is warbled.

It's the last thing I hear before everything goes dark.