Part 10 (1/2)

”I think I might need to work late.” If I could just convince him I'm not worth the effort. How do you get a man to give up on you after six years of commitment?

My cowardice is overflowing.

”Please, Kasie . . . just . . . I really need to see you tonight. You know the restaurant, right? The new one in Santa Monica? I'll pick you up at seven thirty?”

Every statement is a question. He's trying to appease and smooth the road ahead of us.

I hesitate as my thoughts twist themselves into shapes even I can't make heads or tails of. I'm not on the road Dave is smoothing out anymore. The ground under my feet is loose gravel. There's a sense of impermanence to it. And if I get hurt along the way, I don't know if there will be anyone around to help me find my way back. This is the option I'm choosing. I'm pretty sure it's the right choice for me but I can't figure out why that is, so how can I explain it to Dave?

And do I really have to?

My cowardice has a strength that my earlier euphoria can't quite match. The only thing that is clear for me is that I owe this man something. At the absolute least, I owe him dinner.

”I'll see you at seven thirty,” I say.

Perhaps by then I'll be brave again. . . .

G.o.d, I hope so.

THE DAY LOSES the surreal quality it had before. Suddenly I'm in it, rushed, critical, and as impatient as the second hand of the clock, always rus.h.i.+ng to get to its next place. After a marathon of meetings, Barbara tells me that Simone called; she said it was important. But Simone's idea of important usually involves a sale at Bebe. Besides, there's no time to call her back. I rush home and get ready to break a man's heart.

When I answer the door of my home for Dave at seven twenty-five, I'm wearing a white knee-length dress, sleeveless but not too low cut. It would befit any politician's wife. My hair is back up; pearls wrapped in gold decorate my earlobes.

”You're perfect,” Dave says as he offers me his arm.

Ah, that word again. I'm beginning to really hate it.

But I don't say that as he opens the door of his Mercedes for me. It's a nice car and it makes the statement Dave wants it to make, one of un.o.btrusive wealth and comfort. I think about the rush of adrenaline I felt as Robert's Alfa Romeo rumbled beneath me, remember the thrill as it accelerated through the murky LA night.

Do those thrills last? Would I want them to?

But those aren't the questions I'm supposed to be considering. I need to tell Dave the truth. Maybe over dinner, or before it, or after-maybe in the car on the way home. What is the etiquette for betrayal?

The guilt in my heart has a voracious appet.i.te. It's feeding off the leftovers of last night's happiness.

One foot in front of another. That's all. If I pace myself, everything will be fine. I will take care of this one grotesque task and then, in time, Dave will heal and I will feel carefree again, like I did in Robert's arms. Yes, fine, I've broken rules, Dave's rules, my parents' rules, my own rules . . . but rules are made to be broken.

That was my sister's favorite cliche . . . until she decided that rules should never be made at all.

More thoughts of my sister tug at the edges of my mind but I won't give them the attention they're demanding.

I cast a sideways glance at Dave. He looks good. I think I detect the faintest hint of cologne, which is unusual for him. He's been working through the same bottle of Polo Blue for the last five years.

He's wearing the sports coat I bought him from Brooks Brothers, Italian linen dyed the color of a warm cashmere tan. It suits him beautifully.

And for the first time I notice the way he's gripping the steering wheel as if it's the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. Is he nervous? Does he sense the s.h.i.+ft in me?

I study his expression but for once I can't read it. His eyes are glued to the road, his lips pressed together in something that could be determination, could be apprehension.

I give up and try to relax into the plush leather seats. My phone vibrates in my purse but I ignore it. I'm afraid of how I'll react if it's him. Afraid of what Dave will see in my face.

One step at a time.

I'VE NEVER BEEN to Ma Poulette before but I don't like the name. It's a silly pun, playing off the French word for ”hen” and one of their terms of endearment. But English speakers will fail to understand it and French speakers will fail to be amused by it.

Still, the interior is nice. Dimmed lighting complements a bucolic charm. There's an exposed brick wall here, wooden accents there. Dave gives his name and the hostess looks down at her list. She hesitates for a moment, her finger touching what I a.s.sume is our reservation, and when she finally looks up, her eyes linger on mine for just a moment too long and her smile is wistful.

Something's up. This isn't just a simple dinner.

Suddenly I want to get out of the restaurant. But I can't make myself do it. That's the funny thing about cowardice. People think it makes you run away and hide but it's more likely to be a facilitator of something darker. It's the emotion that allows you to be pa.s.sively led to places and fates you would otherwise reject.

And so I am led-the hostess in front, Dave's hand on my arm guiding me. The patrons we pa.s.s blur together as we're led to a closed door . . . another dining room, I'm told. Something more intimate.

One step at a time, I think as I listen to my heels click against the hard floor.

The hostess opens the door. As we step in, I see them all: his parents, my parents, a few college friends, one of the partners from Dave's firm, his G.o.dfather, Dylan Freeland . . . who is also the cofounder of my firm. Inexplicably, Asha is a few steps behind him. And then there's Simone; her eyes are wide and reflect the fear I'm feeling. She shakes her head and I know what she wishes she could say: I called. I tried to warn you. You chose the wrong time to stop listening.

”I wanted everyone we love to be here for this,” Dave says softly as all these people smile at us, clutching their own loved ones' hands, waiting for the magical moment.

Dave lowers himself to one knee. I can't move, can't even look at him. My gaze is glued to my feet. One step at a time.

He reaches into that sports coat, the coat I bought him, the coat that will now have more significance than I ever meant it to have. I won't look. I squeeze my eyes closed. I don't want this diamond. I don't want to be Dave's white rose.

”Kasie,” he says. His voice is confident, insistent. Reluctantly I open my eyes.

It's my ruby. The very ruby Dave and I had looked at, with all its delectable silks and pa.s.sionate red glow.

”Kasie,” he says again.

He got me a ruby. Something inside me softens.

”Did you hear me?” he asks, a slight touch of nervousness in his tone now. I look up, see the approving smiles of my parents, see the encouragement in the eyes of our friends.

”I asked you to marry me,” he says. I think he's said it a few times now. I had lost myself in the ruby, in the cowardice, in the simple ease of being led to a once-rejected fate.

”You bought me a ruby,” I say, my voice sounds so quiet, so removed. ”You're asking me to marry you.”

Our friends, our coworkers, our family . . . they're all represented here in this room. Some came from far away. They all expect to hear the same answer.

I meet Dave's eyes and smile wide, for him, for our guests.

”You're asking me to marry you,” I say one more time, ”and my answer is yes.”