My Favorite Mistake Read online

  As childish as me standing here obsessing about buying a gown simply because it resurrected too many memories…? Memories a wedding dress might exorcise…?

  “Okay,” I said impulsively. “I’ll take it.”

  Cindy clapped her hands, then stopped, as if she were afraid that her celebrating would change my mind, and herded me toward the checkout counter.

  Only later, when a gushing salesclerk handed me the gown, bagged and paid for, was I seized by a sudden, unnerving thought:

  What if Cindy’s “self-fulfilling prophecy” experiment rubbed off on me?

  2

  THE WHOLE “self-fulfilling prophecy” thing was still nagging at me when I got home and I realized I would have to get rid of something in order to make room for my impulsive purchase. Buyer’s remorse struck me hard and I cursed my weakness for a good buy. To punish myself, I laid out the brown suede fringed coat I had splurged on last spring but rarely wore, plus a pair of rivet-studded jeans and a white embroidered shirt that had seemed exotic in the store, but smacked of a costume when I stood before the full-length mirror in my bathroom. I had never worked up the nerve to wear the outfit. As much as I loved the pieces, it seemed unlikely that the urban Western look was going to come back in style anytime soon, and if it did, I obviously couldn’t carry it off. But my friend Kenzie could, and since she now lived part-time on a farm in upstate New York, she would probably find a way to wear them and look smashing.

  Looking for other things that Kenzie might wear, I unearthed a sweater with running horses on it that Redford had given me and, after a moment of sentimental indecision, added it to the giveaway bag, as well. Then I hung the wedding gown in the front of the closet because it was the only place the skirt could hang unimpeded by bulging shoe racks.

  The phone rang, and I snatched up the handset, wondering who it could be on Saturday afternoon. (I was too cheap to pay for caller ID on my landline phone.) “Hello.”

  “Hey,” Barry said, his voice low and casual. “What are you doing?”

  I dropped onto my queen-size bed whose headboard still smelled faintly of woodsmoke two years after the fire sale at which I’d bought it. “Just cleaning out my closet.”

  “I have good news,” he said in a way that made me think that if I’d said, “I just bought a wedding gown,” he wouldn’t even have noticed.

  I worked my mouth from side to side. “What?”

  “I just passed Ellen in the hall—you really bowled her over at lunch yesterday.”

  I sat up, interested. Barry was a producer for one of New York City’s local TV stations, and Ellen Brant was the station manager. Barry had referred her to me for financial advice on her divorce. Over lunch I had listened while she had told me the entire sordid story about her cheating husband, while she downed four eighteen-dollar martinis. “But he was a rich son of a-bitch,” she’d slurred. “And now I have an effing—” (I’m paraphrasing) “—boatload of money to invest.”

  When she’d told me the amount of money she was talking about, it was more like an effing yacht- load (although at the end of the evening she hadn’t made a move to pay the slightly obscene bar bill). Grey Goose vodka had bowled her over. I honestly didn’t think she’d remember my name…or even my sex, for that matter.

  I wet my lips carefully, trying to keep my excitement at bay. “Do you think she’ll open an account at Trayser Brothers?”

  “I’m almost sure of it. You’re still coming to the honors dinner tonight, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am. I wouldn’t miss seeing you get your award.”

  “I might not win,” he chided.

  I pshawed, supportive girlfriend that I was.

  “Ellen will be there. I’ll try to pull her aside and feel her out,” he promised.

  I was flattered—Barry had never been keenly interested in my profession, but then most people were vaguely suspicious of investment-types, as if we hoarded all the moneymaking secrets for ourselves, while collectively laughing at everyone who trusted us. (Not true—I was currently poor and working toward precisely what I advised all my clients to do: buy your apartment sooner rather than later.) But, Ellen’s boatload of money notwithstanding, I felt obligated to point out the potential pitfalls of advising my boyfriend’s boss on financial matters. “Barry, you know I appreciate the referral, but…”

  “But what?”

  “Well, Ellen is your boss. I don’t want this to be a conflict of interest for you.”

  He gave a little laugh. “Gee, Denise, it’s not as if you and I are married.”

  Ouch. I glanced at the wedding gown, barely contained by the closet, and my face flamed. “I know, but we’re…involved.”

  “Trust me—it won’t be an issue. In fact, Ellen will be indebted to me for introducing her to you. This could turn out great for both of us.”

  “Okay,” I said cheerfully, pushing aside my reservations.

  So help me, dollar signs were dancing behind my eyelids. I could picture the look on old Mr. Trayser’s face when I announced in the Monday morning staff meeting that I’d just landed an eight-figure account. “Partner” didn’t seem as far-fetched as it had last week…or at least an office with a window.

  “What’s the dress code for this evening?”

  He made a rueful noise. “Dressy. And Ellen is a bit of a clotheshorse. I’m not saying it’ll make a difference…”

  “But it might,” I finished, my cheeks warming when I remembered the woman’s critical glance over my aged navy suit and serviceable pumps yesterday. I wasn’t exactly famous for my style—my most trendy clothes were season-old steals from designer outlets. I was more of an off-the-rack kind of girl, and I didn’t relish running up my credit card for a one-night outfit. But drastic times called for plastic measures. “I’ll find something nice,” I promised.

  “I know you’ll make me look good.”

  I blinked—Barry considered me a reflection on him? That was serious couple-stuff…wasn’t it? I straightened with pride at his compliment.

  “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Great,” I said. “Oh, and thanks…Barry…for the recommendation.” We had never quite graduated to pet names and as tempted as I was to say “sweetie” or “hon,” I decided that while he was hooking me up with a revenue stream with his boss, this might not be the best time to start getting gushy.

  “Anything for you,” he said, then hung up.

  I smiled, but when I disconnected the phone, panic immediately set in—I had two pimples from last week’s peanut M&M’s binge, and my nails were a wreck. It would be next to impossible to get a manicure at the last minute on Saturday.

  I jumped up and whirled into action. After a shower, I dialed the cell phone of my friend Kenzie Mansfield Long, who was the most stylish person I knew; although I wasn’t sure if she’d have service in the rural area of the state where she lived on weekends.

  “Hello?” she sang into the receiver.

  “Hi, it’s Denise. I was taking a chance on reaching you—you have service now?”

  “A tower just went up on the next ridge. Jar Hollow officially has cellular service.”

  “Did Sam arrange that just for you?” I asked with a laugh. Her doting veterinarian husband was doing everything in his power to make country living more bearable for his city-bred wife, à la Lisa in Green Acres.

  “The service isn’t just for me,” Kenzie protested. “It’s for the entire town. And it helps me and Sam to stay in touch when we’re apart during the week.”

  At the mischievous note in my friend’s voice, I had the feeling that phone sex supplemented the couple’s seemingly insatiable lust for each other. Kenzie’s—or should I say Sam’s—homemade dildo cast from the real, um, thing was infamous among our circle of friends. After seeing it, I could barely make eye contact with the man. In fact, it was that darn dildo that had resurrected my fantasies of Redford. He had been an amazing specimen of virility and, um…dimension.

  Okay, th
e man was hung like a stallion…not that I’d ever seen a stallion’s penis, but word on the street was that the equine species was gifted in that department. The fact that Redford’s family in Kentucky was in the horse business had burned the association even deeper into my depraved brain.

  No, I wasn’t jealous of Kenzie’s relationship with Sam…most of the time. I had known great, mind-blowing lust with Redford, but our relationship had burned out as quickly as a cheap candle. Barry, on the other hand, was no dynamo in bed, but he had staying power in other areas.

  His IRA account was a whopper.

  “How was the ‘running of the brides’?” Kenzie asked, breaking into my strange musings. “Did Cindy find a gown?”

  “Yes,” I said, then decided to ’fess up before Cindy told on me. “And I, um, bought a gown, too.”

  There was silence on the other end, then, “Barry proposed?”

  “No,” I said quickly, feeling like an idiot. “But I thought, you know, if ever….well…the dress was dirt cheap,” I finished lamely.

  “Ah,” Kenzie said. “A bargain—now I understand. Well, one of these days, Barry is bound to come around. Valentine’s Day is just around the corner, you know.”

  “Subject change. I called because I have a style emergency.” I explained about the honors dinner and my desire to wow Ellen Brant and her pocketbook with my stunning sense of fashion. “Any suggestions?”

  “You could wear your wedding gown,” Kenzie said, then cracked up laughing.

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “I’m kidding. Gee, lighten up.” Then she snapped her fingers. “I saw the cutest striped dress in the window of Benderlee’s, and I remember thinking it would look smashing on you.”

  “Will it smash the credit line on my VISA card?”

  “Probably, but think of it as an investment.” She laughed. “Knowing you, you’ll think of a way to write the dress off on your taxes as a business expense.”

  “Ha, ha.”

  “I’m not kidding—I can’t believe how much Sam and I are getting back on our taxes this year, thanks to you. If you ever decide to go into tax preparation, I want to invest.”

  I laughed. “Thanks.”

  “And go to Nordstrom’s for shoes. Ask for Lito, tell him I sent you.”

  My shoulders fell. “Okay.”

  “And tell me you’re not going to wear your hair in a ponytail.”

  I squinted. “I’m not going to wear my hair in a ponytail?”

  “For goodness’ sake, Denise, loosen up. Your ponytail is so tight, it’s a wonder you don’t have an aneurysm.”

  My friends were good at reminding me that I was a tight ass. And a tightwad. “I’m loose,” I argued, rolling my shoulders in my best imitation of a “groove”—until my neck popped painfully. I grimaced—was it possible to break your own neck?

  “Wear your hair down and buy a pair of chandelier earrings.”

  “You think?”

  “I was under the impression that you called for my advice.”

  “I did.”

  “You want this woman’s business, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you gotta do what you gotta do.”

  I sighed. “You’re right.”

  “So…Barry set you up to do business with his boss,” she said in a singsongy tone. “Maybe it’s a good thing you bought that wedding gown. It sounds like he’s thinking long-term.”

  I glanced at the dress I had so foolishly purchased and gave a nervous little laugh. “Or maybe he’s trying to suck up to his boss.”

  “Hmm. Sounds like someone needs to take a lesson from Cindy in positive thinking.”

  I thanked Kenzie for her help, then hung up with a cleansing exhale. Kenzie was right—I should be grateful for the opportunity that Barry had made for me, instead of questioning his motives. I was letting my frustration with our lackluster sex life color other aspects of our relationship. It was embarrassing, really—I was an intelligent woman. I had proof that elements other than sex were more important to a successful long-term, um…association. Financial compatibility, for instance. Sex waned over time. But dividend reinvestment stock plans were forever.

  A sudden thought prompted me to pick up the phone and order two plane tickets to Las Vegas for a long weekend as a Valentine’s Day surprise for Barry. When I hung up, I heaved a sigh, feeling much better. Then I slanted a frown toward my bedroom.

  I was suffering from a bad case of the all-overs, and the culprit was taking up too much room in my closet. I was already letting that ridiculous wedding gown interfere with our relationship, and for no good reason. Barry needn’t ever know what I’d done. Tomorrow I’d put that sucker on eBay and be rid of it for good.

  Er—the dress, not Barry.

  3

  KENZIE WAS RIGHT—the dress in Benderlee’s window looked better on me than the average frock, so I bought it despite the breathtaking price. And Lito at Nordstrom’s had hooked me up with a pair of shoes with an equally stunning price tag. If I wore them every day for the rest of my life, I might get my money’s worth out of them. Throwing caution to the wind, I had also bought a chic gray wool coat. I left my hair long and loose, which made me feel a little unkempt, but I have to admit I was feeling rather spiffy when Barry arrived. I opened the door with a coy smile.

  He looked polished and professional in a navy suit, striped tie, not a pale blond hair out of place. “Ready to go?” he asked, then pointed to his watch. “Traffic is a nightmare.”

  My smile slipped. “I…yes.”

  “Good, because I’d hate to be late.”

  Barry wasn’t the most attentive man I’d ever known, but tonight he seemed unusually preoccupied. Then I realized he was probably more anxious about the award for which he’d been nominated than he wanted to let on. Indeed, on the drive to the hotel, he checked his watch at least a hundred times, his expression pinched. And he seemed to be coming down with a cold since he sneezed several times. To see my normally calm, collected boyfriend so fidgety moved me. I reached over to squeeze his hand. “Relax. I hope you have a thank-you speech prepared.”

  He smiled sheepishly. “I made a few notes…just in case.”

  I instantly forgave him for not noticing how fabulous I looked. Besides, I reminded myself, I had dressed for Ellen Brant, and as luck would have it, we were seated at her table for the awards ceremony. In fact, by some bizarre shuffling of bodies and chairs, she wound up sitting between us. The woman was so cosmopolitan, even in my new clothes I felt gauche. I raised my finger for a nervous nibble on my nail, and tasted the bitter tang of fresh nail polish…a do-it-myself manicure was the best I could manage under the circumstances.

  “Denise, your dress is divine,” she murmured over her martini glass.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking my finger out of my mouth and sitting up straighter.

  “She’s smart and fashionable,” Ellen said to Barry for my benefit. “I like this girl.”

  “She’s dependable, too,” Barry said. “And loyal.”

  I managed to conceal my surprise at his bizarre statement. Until I realized that to Ellen, recently betrayed by her husband, loyalty was essential. So on cue, I nodded like a puppy dog.

  Ellen pursed her collagen-plumped lips. “Denise, why don’t you call me next week and we’ll go over the paperwork for that investment account.”

  “Okay,” I said in a voice that belied my excitement. If Ellen opened an account at Trayser Brothers, I’d be able to pay off my outfit and buy my apartment. Plus a new bed that didn’t reek of woodsmoke. A closet organization system. Caller ID.

  I could scarcely eat I was so wound up. I tried to contribute to the conversation, but Ellen and Barry were soon absorbed in television-speak, and I thought it best not to intrude. Barry was, after all, hoping for a promotion, and Ellen would drive that decision. Instead, I chatted with other people seated at the table, spurred to a higher degree of socialization than usual by the open bar. Happily, the eve
ning was topped off by a slightly tipsy Ellen presenting Barry with the award for excellence in producing that was acknowledged in the industry as a precursor to the Emmy.

  For his part, Barry was the most excited I’d ever seen him—which was no compliment to me, I realized suddenly. But I postponed an untimely (and uncomfortable) analysis of our love life by clapping wildly. I told myself it was okay that he didn’t name me personally in his thank-you speech, a fact that he seemed truly distressed over later when we were in the car.

  “I forgot my notes and I went completely blank,” he said in the semi-darkness, his hands on the steering wheel at the ten and two positions—he was a fastidious driver. “I’m sorry, Denise. You’re the one who’s had to put up with my long hours and my traveling.”

  “It’s fine,” I murmured. “I’m just so proud of you. And I know Ellen is impressed.”

  He made a dismissive noise, but was clearly pleased. Then he winced. “Oh, by the way, Ellen asked me tonight to be in L.A. Monday morning.”

  My good mood wedged in my throat. His travel to the West Coast had become more frequent in the past couple of months—in the wee hours of the morning, I wondered if something other than work drew him there. After all, if I wasn’t thrilled with our sex life, he probably wasn’t, either. “How long will you be gone?”

  “Two weeks, maybe three.”

  “That’s almost a month,” I said, hating the way I sounded—horny.

  “No, it isn’t,” he said with a practicality that did not put me at ease.

  “You’ll miss Valentine’s Day.”

  He looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, Denise. Right now I have to focus on this promotion. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

  “Want to spend the night?” I asked, not caring that I was being transparent.