This Time Is Different Read online

  “It’s ten on a Friday morning.”

  “I know. It’s a good thing we don’t work today. Let me ask you this—any regrets?”

  We’d had this talk before. A million times it seemed over the past couple years. One more deep breath from my diaphragm followed by a fast exhale that puffed out my cheeks. Adjusting my grip on the pen, I replied. “Not a one.”

  4

  Thomas

  I circled the block for the millionth time, waiting for the dashboard clock to read 5:57 p.m. That seemed like a reasonable arrival time. I didn’t want to be late. I didn’t want to be early because I knew she was getting dressed. 5:57 p.m. it was.

  I parked in her driveway and walked up the curving path to the white painted brick house. Nice and neat. But the pots of summer flowers on the front steps were parched and wilted. I looked at my watch, 5:58. Yeah, there was time. I saw a hose nearby and gave them a big long drink. There you go, guys. Bet that feels good.

  “Like to do some weeding while you’re at it?”

  I finished winding the hose back on its rack and turned to her. That big smile again. Happy eyes, crinkling a bit at the corners. Joy and warmth. And a slight pang in my chest that it wasn’t my Laurie giving me grief for my green thumb. But Amy would more than do. Joy, warmth, and beauty. What more could I ask for across a dinner table?

  “If you’d like,” I said, pinching off a yellow dandelion blossom before it could go to seed. “Got one of those little dandelion weeding tools?”

  “Maybe somewhere. I’ve got a service.”

  I tucked the flower into my pocket and walked up to her. “You look beautiful,” I said. Go for it, I heard Claire cheer and I brushed a kiss across her cheek. “Ready to eat?”

  A small blush spread across her fair skin. So sweet. Maybe I was right and she was sweet like candy. But that would wait.

  She nodded and I took her hand in mine, weaving our fingers together, palm to palm, for the few short steps to my car. The drive to the restaurant was long. In time, it was probably only fifteen minutes, but in breaths and beats of hearts, it felt like an eternity.

  Seated at our table, I didn’t know what to say. So, I started with the basics.

  “How long have you lived in Memphis?” I asked.

  “Oh, over ten years now. We were in Denver before that.”

  I caught the we. And I didn’t want us to stumble over that we.

  “I moved here two years ago from Milwaukee. Took a job at Methodist.”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “No.” I laughed. “I’m not good with blood. I’m a lowly administrator.”

  “Chief operations officer is a lowly administrator?” I could hear the tease in her voice.

  “You Googled me?” I asked, flattered that she’d taken enough interest in me to do that.

  “Kinda,” she answered before turning her gaze out the window. “Just read your bio on the hospital website.”

  “You’re here, so I guess I passed that test.”

  Another nod from her. We chatted about the menu until the conversation stalled again.

  “Tell me about your son,” I said. Her eyes got big in the candlelight. “He’s mentioned in your web bio. Fair is fair. And, I didn’t Internet stalk you that much.”

  “Oh, yeah, I guess he is. His name is Grady. Well, actually it’s Graden. That’s my maiden name and also explains why I didn’t change it back after the divorce. I thought it would be weird. Anyway,” she said with a wave of her hand, “he just finished up his junior year at MUS. Excuse me, Memphis University School if you need the new-to-Memphis decoder ring. That’s the all-boy’s school on Park Avenue. He plays soccer and is working towards being an Eagle Scout. You have kids?”

  I answered while trying to do the math. She was young when she had her son. Like late teens or early twenties young. She had her baby while in college?

  “I do. My son is in his third year of medical school. Didn’t inherit my aversion to blood. Twin daughters in college. One at Southern Methodist in Dallas. The other in Portland at Reed.”

  “That’s spread out. Where’s your son in medical school?”

  “Boston. Wait, let me clarify. I don’t mean Harvard in that vaguely snobby saying ‘Connecticut’ but really meaning—”

  “Yale,” she finished for me. “I’m from Connecticut. Darien, actually. No further explanation needed on the snobby front. So, BC, BU, Tufts?”

  “Boston University. It’s a good program.”

  “It is.”

  We talked through the wine. And the lobster ravioli. And the tiramisu. And the generously Irished coffees.

  About how she’d opened a practice with a dental school classmate in an outer-ring suburb and how the suburb and the practice had boomed. About how she loved lobster and even had “good ones” shipped to her live on occasion. About how the hospital’s accreditation review started the next week. About how I liked to garden and had a master gardener certificate through the University of Wisconsin. About how she had gone paddling in the Boundary Waters for a week earlier this summer with her son and how DEET was her friend. About how I rowed in college and had heard of people canoeing down the Mississippi but hadn’t really looked into it yet. And through all of that, her smile. Combined with her laugh.

  I owed Max a drink for nearly breaking my jaw.

  But like all good things, it wasn’t long before we were back in my car and in her driveway.

  “Let me walk you do the door,” I said, reaching to turn the engine off.

  “Thomas,” she said, placing a hand over mine at the ignition. “You don’t have to.”

  “I know I don’t have to. I’d like to.”

  “No, really, let’s leave it here. That’s Grady’s car,” she said, taking her hand off of mine and pointing to the small Honda parked in the open garage. “He hasn’t. I mean, I haven’t. Anyway,” she said, sweeping her hand over her long braid and running it back up to her earlobe for a little tug.

  I read that sign loud and clear. She was nervous.

  “We’re good.” I took her hand again and lifted it to my mouth, kissing the bridge of her knuckles. “Now, can I get your number or do I have to take another bat to the face?”

  “Oh! Of course! I didn’t realize you didn’t have it already, but that’s right. I guess you don’t.” Her nervousness transformed into a blur of words.

  I backed out of the driveway. For the entire ten minutes it took to get to my house, I wore a stupid smile. I tried to stop it. It hurt to smile. But I couldn’t shake it. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

  5

  Amy

  Grady was on the sofa, glued to his tablet and phone with the TV going when I stuck my head in the den to say hello on my way upstairs.

  “You go out tonight, Mom?” he asked, barely looking up from the screens.

  “Yeah. Dinner.”

  “Cool,” he answered with a nod, shifting on the sofa, but not giving me anything else to work with.

  “Soccer in the morning?” I asked.

  “I have to be at the field by eight.”

  “Don’t stay up too late.” I blew him a kiss and walked to my bedroom.

  I was slightly disappointed he didn’t ask me where I’d been or who I’d been with. I wanted to talk about dinner and I also didn’t want to talk about dinner. I didn’t want to talk to Grady about dinner with a man, but I needed to talk with someone. I pulled out my phone.

  Text me when you’re home. Even if that’s morning, popped on the screen.

  Doing one better than a text, I called Diana.

  “Home, safe and sound. Reputation intact,” I reported.

  “Damn. Sorry about that reputation thing. Hold on a second.” I overheard her whispered conversation with her husband Stephen, and a minute passed. “Okay, I’m outside.”

  “You’re outside?” I could hear the crickets in the background.

  “He’s watching the Cards and it’s not a pretty game and he’s two seconds away
from having a sports temper tantrum. Anyway, don’t call the cops if my other half gets loud. So,” she said making the single syllable lilt in her southern accent. “Tell me about him.”

  “You’re the one who did the cyberstalking. You probably know more than I do.”

  “I’m not asking for his résumé.”

  “Dinner was good. Really good. He asked for my number. Now we have to see if he calls.”

  “When did he ask for your number?”

  “When he dropped me off.”

  “Oh, he’ll call then.”

  “Good, I guess,” I said, tucking my phone under my chin and bouncing on my toes from the extra energy that had built up in my body.

  “What do you mean, ‘I guess’?” she said. “Be happy about this.”

  “I am happy. I’m also nervous,” I confessed, sitting on my bed and untying my espadrilles.

  “Is this about sex?” she asked.

  “How is this not about sex?”

  “But you’ve had sex since Bert.” She said this, but her words lacked the confidence that she was right.

  “Of course! But it was mainly a rage thing on my part. That I could sleep around if he was sleeping around. And it’s been like a year.” By like a year I meant like two.

  “What are you worried about then?”

  “Truthfully, I don’t know. He’s nice, Diana. Really nice and funny and smart.”

  “And a silver fox.”

  “Excuse me?” I’d noticed his handsome face, of course, but was surprised that Diana was being so blunt about his looks.

  “I’ve met him. He’s bruised up pretty good, but the hospital has a headshot and there’s a different headshot on his LinkedIn profile. He’s handsome. And the rest of his résumé is nice, since that kind of thing gets you off.”

  “I’m not a résumé whore.” I bristled at the accusation.

  “Funny. Wouldn’t know that from the men you’re willing to go out with. Lawyers, bankers, surgeons, accountants, the eye doctor, and then you slumming it with the financial planner—”

  Diana routinely rode me for being a résumé whore. And maybe I was in a way, but it wasn’t for prestige or money. I wanted someone who had a life that wasn’t built around me. Men with intense careers usually fit the bill well. And my ex, well my ex had built his life around me. Around me and Grady, but not in a fairy tale kinda way. But in the stand-up man kinda way. The way that meant him walking away from everything he wanted in life in order to do what he thought was right.

  And I didn’t begrudge him that. He was a great dad. He was a good husband. And I’d had no real basis for asking for a divorce other than our marriage was suffocating both of us. The relief I’d felt when we’d married with Grady in my belly had passed as Grady grew older and I grew confident I could stand on my own two feet. And the thankfulness I’d felt for his kindness, the pity that drove his kindness ate at me. He’d walked away from so much when we decided to walk down the aisle together—the prestigious graduate program at Georgetown, the freewheeling life of a handsome twenty-two-year old with a healthy trust fund. Hell, even the competitive swimming that he lived for suffered. He was shocked when he was still named an All-American a few weeks before our wedding.

  Everything he loved, he let go of for me and Grady. And what did I have to offer him in return? Sex? Check. My own kindness? Check. My own devotion? Check. At the end, I’d given him my everything. But it would never make him happy. I could never make him happy. And he deserved to be happy. I wanted him happy. And I wanted me happy.

  “I’m not a résumé whore,” I protested. “But it is a great screening device. College degree minimum. Ideally some grad school in a professional program. No MFAs—I did the married to an artistic soul thing already. Solid career history with some time spent outside of Memphis. Must have been married before.”

  “You still on that kick?”

  “Yes. I’m not getting married again, but I don’t want someone who hasn’t had that life experience.”

  “Well, good news is that Thomas was married before.”

  “Yeah. He told me. Three kids. All out of the nest.”

  “He tell you about his wife?”

  “No,” I said, while I changed into my pajamas. I wasn’t sure if he was divorced or what. I hadn’t brought up Bert and he’d never mentioned his wife.

  “It’s sad. I found the obit. It just said she passed. No details.”

  I paused at that. My fingers on the big buttons of my old man pajamas. “That’s super sad. How long ago?”

  “Eight years.”

  “What else did you find? Do I want to know?” I asked, loosening my hair from its braid and trying, unsuccessfully as always, to run my fingers through the spirals. Dinner was good. Dinner was fun. I didn’t want a string of felony convictions for money laundering or a current wife ruining my happy buzz.

  “He’s solid. No arrests that I could find. Contributes to the same political party’s candidates as you do. He’s got a penchant for driving too fast and improper lane changes, so buckle up. Served on the board of his kids’ private high school in Wisconsin. Was president of a small hospital up there. So the move to Methodist’s COO position makes sense, if he’s looking to keep climbing the hospital administration ladder. I don’t think he was kicked out of Wisconsin or anything.”

  “Get his blood type?” I laughed.

  “No. But on paper he seems great. How was he in person?”

  “I told you he was nice.”

  “Nice. Nice isn’t it. Nice isn’t enough. Women cannot live by nice alone.”

  “Did you see that on Pinterest?”

  “Got a mug on its way from Zazzle.”

  Of course she did. I’d been introduced to Diana during the first week of dental school, but we became friends when we were both scouring the shelves of a variety store a few blocks from campus that was having a going out of business sale. I had a clutch of silly cocktail napkins. She was pawing through the mugs. And we were both trying to be discreet as we snorted with laughter at the sayings. A tea for her and an espresso for me at the coffee shop next door and the rest was history. Some friendships are meant to be.

  I suppose it’s that way for some marriages, too.

  Bert and I weren’t meant to be. But Grady was.

  I had been on birth control. And, although we didn’t always have sex one hundred percent sober, there was supposed to be a condom involved.

  Bert was the hot swimmer who was assigned to the dorm room down the hall from mine our senior year of college. I was the nerdy chemistry major. If I were asked to write out the chain of events that led to us sleeping together, I couldn’t. I didn’t understand it. My boyfriends had been other lab geeks. Not ancient Greek reading jocks. But we got along like a house on fire. It wasn’t love, but it grew into that.

  Until one day it wasn’t anymore.

  “Yoo hoo? Still there?” she called.

  “Yeah, just thinking.” About Bert, were the words I didn’t say.

  “Don’t. Just enjoy it. Next time he takes you out, enjoy it. Don’t think about it.”

  “I’ll try,” I said, knowing that not-thinking went against my very nature. Hanging up, I brushed my teeth and crawled into bed with my new book.

  I felt my age when I woke up at the sound of the garage door. Grady was on his way to practice and I was going to be nursing a mild hangover. Three glasses of wine? That after dinner drink with the tiramisu? Staying up until midnight reading about Gabriel Allon’s latest adventure?

  Whatever the combination was, I needed real food—something more than Cheerios and banana. Cooking was one of Bert’s passions. Since he stayed home with Grady, I didn’t cook. From college cafeteria food to my husband’s kitchen, like some sort of gender-bending 1950s household.

  Now, I survived on cold cereal and yogurt at home, lonely lunches at my desk, and more often than not, a salad from the Chick-Fil-A drive-through after my evening Pilates class, topped off by cookies and a g
lass of milk before bed.

  But I wanted bacon. I wanted eggs. I wanted French toast. And since Grady was already gone for the morning, I wasn’t cooking for one. The Blue Plate Café it was.

  A quick shower, a fresh pair of yoga pants and pink tank top, and I parked myself at a blue and white checkered table with a heavy mug of coffee in one hand and the hardback novel pressed open with the other. A sexy as hell European art restorer who leads a double life as a spy. My catnip. I nibbled on my bacon and French toast, both drowned in syrup, completely caught up in Gabriel’s new mission.

  “Well, hello.”

  I looked up and found Thomas standing at my table.

  “Oh, hey!” I said, forcing down a bite of bacon and shoving a napkin in the book to hold my place. “How are you?” I choked out, trying to keep the surprise off my face.

  “Do you mind?” he asked, gesturing to the empty chair.

  “No, not at all. Please, sit, eat, if you haven’t already.” Nerves fluttered through me. Zero makeup. Maybe I needed to rethink this whole yoga pants as real clothes thing.

  “I haven’t,” he said with a smile. “Sure you don’t mind?”

  “Sit. Eat.”

  He set his Wall Street Journal on the table next to my book and settled into the wooden chair, dwarfing it.

  “How tall are you?” Did I just say that aloud?

  “Six four.”

  “Cool,” I said with a nod. “Play basketball?”

  “Not since high school, but I’m also from Iowa, so it was either football or basketball.”

  “Gotcha. I’m a complete klutz. Like trip over my own feet klutz.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “This isn’t something you want to go testing unless you’re wearing body armor,” I said with smile.

  “Okay.”

  “White or wheat today?” the waitress asked him while warming up my coffee.

  “Western omelet and wheat toast today.”

  A scratch on her pad, a nod, and she was off.