If You Only Knew
Page 72
“Holy shit,” Leo mutters. “You weren’t lying about how beautiful she is.”
“Not helping,” I mutter back.
“Jenny.” Owen gives me a big hug. “I’ve missed you! It’s so good to see you. Hello, I’m Owen.”
“Right, the ex-husband. I’m Leo Killian. Nice to meet you.”
“Would you like a drink?” Owen says.
“Love one,” Leo answers.
“Jenny?”
“You bet. Whatever you’re having. Where’s Natalia?”
“She’s sleeping,” Ana-Sofia says. “You haven’t seen the nursery, have you, Jenny? Come, take a peek!”
She leads me down the hall—already hung with three black-and-white photos of the new family—to what was once my home office. It’s been transformed into the most beautiful baby’s room I’ve ever seen, soft peach walls with white trim, a series of Classic Pooh prints hanging in a row. Exotic mobiles and wall prints add color to the room, as does a bright red-and-orange printed rug. There’s an entire wall filled with shelves of children’s books in several languages and a hammock of stuffed animals—all made with organic wool, no doubt, hand-knit by nuns in the Swiss Alps.
But what gets me the most is this: in white paint, in the handwriting I recognize all too well, is written “Daddy loves you very much,” and underneath that, in different handwriting, “Mommy does, too!” Natalia is sleeping on her back, her arms by her head. She’s covered by the white satin quilt I made.
I love her. I can’t help it. She’s the child of the man I married, the child of a kind and generous woman, and I helped her into this world. I’m a schmuck, but I love this baby. My eyes mist over, and Ana-Sofia puts her hand on my back. “You are so kind to us,” she says.
Oh, shut up, I want to say. I smile instead.
We go back into the living room, where two more couples have joined the party. Introductions are made—Felicia and Howard, Bitty and Evan.
What if I hadn’t brought Leo? I’d be the odd woman out, surrounded by three married couples, like that horribly familiar scene in Bridget Jones’s Diary. Or was Ana-Sofia going to dig through her list of eligible men and find me someone? And if she was, why hasn’t she? Fixing up the lingering ex-wife would seem like a priority, wouldn’t it? Why, for that matter, hasn’t Owen introduced me to a wonderful doctor friend? “Jenny, this is Alessandro, a cardiologist—no, strike that, too many emergencies—an ophthalmologist, and I knew you two would hit it off.” And I look into Alessandro’s dark eyes—yes, he’s from Italy. Venice—and there’s a sparkle there, and when we kiss...
I remember Leo’s kiss. That not-quite-just-friends kiss. I look over at him, and he cocks an eyebrow. Yeah, yeah. I’m incredibly transparent. I know that.
The other couples are fine. They’re those New Yorkers, the people who spend Thanksgiving morning at the soup kitchen, then stop by the package store to buy a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine to bring to their friends’ penthouse. They listen to NPR—and so do I, but only for the storytelling shows. The people who send you those petitions for your online signature to stop the killings in wherever killings are taking place. As if those signatures are really going to do anything.
Felicia Balewa, who’s Nigerian, makes documentaries about social injustice. Her husband, Howard, is a movie producer—and also a Vanderbilt. Bitty Lamb, I know, is a gastroenterologist (hard to believe people choose that particular specialty). Her husband, Evan Allard (French), is a high-end fundraiser for an organization that educates girls in India.
And the thing is, that’s all fantastic. I’m glad they work at the soup kitchen and care about their causes. It’s the self-congratulatory sense they have, so gravely discussing their commitment and level of knowledge.
I find myself doing it, too. I haven’t found the right volunteer opportunity just yet, but I’m still getting settled in. An apprenticeship program for sure, absolutely. To my credit, I have actually thought of that idea... I just haven’t done anything about it yet. Yes, it’s terrible about urban blight. Surely there’s more we can do for those at-risk kids. I hate the way I sound.
At least Leo isn’t listening. He’s surveying Owen and Ana’s book collection, which are all glossy, important tomes and coffee-table books that raise awareness on subjects that matter.
Sigh.
The appetizer hour is endless, in which we eat organic sheep cheese flavored with locally grown organic herbs served on, yes, organic, gluten-free, fair-trade crackers. Ana-Sofia talks about the latest wells her foundation has funded. Felicia mentions her interview on CNN last week in reference to her latest documentary about a secret girls’ school started by a friend of Malala. Bitty and Owen discuss Doctors Without Borders and where they’re each interested in going next.
Wedding dresses don’t really come up.
Owen must sense my discomfort, because he comes over and gives my shoulder a squeeze.
“Bitty’s uncle was recently visiting,” Evan says in his thick and gorgeous accent. “We took him to zee exhibit at zee Frick. So beautiful. They gave a private tour, of course, so he would not be recognized.”
“Who’s your uncle, Bitty?” I ask.
“I don’t like to name-drop,” she says, smiling down at her wineglass.
“I will give you clues, yes?” Evan offers. “My wife, her uncle is an author of some fame. He has been on that woman’s show? Oprah?”
“Not helping,” I mutter back.
“Jenny.” Owen gives me a big hug. “I’ve missed you! It’s so good to see you. Hello, I’m Owen.”
“Right, the ex-husband. I’m Leo Killian. Nice to meet you.”
“Would you like a drink?” Owen says.
“Love one,” Leo answers.
“Jenny?”
“You bet. Whatever you’re having. Where’s Natalia?”
“She’s sleeping,” Ana-Sofia says. “You haven’t seen the nursery, have you, Jenny? Come, take a peek!”
She leads me down the hall—already hung with three black-and-white photos of the new family—to what was once my home office. It’s been transformed into the most beautiful baby’s room I’ve ever seen, soft peach walls with white trim, a series of Classic Pooh prints hanging in a row. Exotic mobiles and wall prints add color to the room, as does a bright red-and-orange printed rug. There’s an entire wall filled with shelves of children’s books in several languages and a hammock of stuffed animals—all made with organic wool, no doubt, hand-knit by nuns in the Swiss Alps.
But what gets me the most is this: in white paint, in the handwriting I recognize all too well, is written “Daddy loves you very much,” and underneath that, in different handwriting, “Mommy does, too!” Natalia is sleeping on her back, her arms by her head. She’s covered by the white satin quilt I made.
I love her. I can’t help it. She’s the child of the man I married, the child of a kind and generous woman, and I helped her into this world. I’m a schmuck, but I love this baby. My eyes mist over, and Ana-Sofia puts her hand on my back. “You are so kind to us,” she says.
Oh, shut up, I want to say. I smile instead.
We go back into the living room, where two more couples have joined the party. Introductions are made—Felicia and Howard, Bitty and Evan.
What if I hadn’t brought Leo? I’d be the odd woman out, surrounded by three married couples, like that horribly familiar scene in Bridget Jones’s Diary. Or was Ana-Sofia going to dig through her list of eligible men and find me someone? And if she was, why hasn’t she? Fixing up the lingering ex-wife would seem like a priority, wouldn’t it? Why, for that matter, hasn’t Owen introduced me to a wonderful doctor friend? “Jenny, this is Alessandro, a cardiologist—no, strike that, too many emergencies—an ophthalmologist, and I knew you two would hit it off.” And I look into Alessandro’s dark eyes—yes, he’s from Italy. Venice—and there’s a sparkle there, and when we kiss...
I remember Leo’s kiss. That not-quite-just-friends kiss. I look over at him, and he cocks an eyebrow. Yeah, yeah. I’m incredibly transparent. I know that.
The other couples are fine. They’re those New Yorkers, the people who spend Thanksgiving morning at the soup kitchen, then stop by the package store to buy a three-hundred-dollar bottle of wine to bring to their friends’ penthouse. They listen to NPR—and so do I, but only for the storytelling shows. The people who send you those petitions for your online signature to stop the killings in wherever killings are taking place. As if those signatures are really going to do anything.
Felicia Balewa, who’s Nigerian, makes documentaries about social injustice. Her husband, Howard, is a movie producer—and also a Vanderbilt. Bitty Lamb, I know, is a gastroenterologist (hard to believe people choose that particular specialty). Her husband, Evan Allard (French), is a high-end fundraiser for an organization that educates girls in India.
And the thing is, that’s all fantastic. I’m glad they work at the soup kitchen and care about their causes. It’s the self-congratulatory sense they have, so gravely discussing their commitment and level of knowledge.
I find myself doing it, too. I haven’t found the right volunteer opportunity just yet, but I’m still getting settled in. An apprenticeship program for sure, absolutely. To my credit, I have actually thought of that idea... I just haven’t done anything about it yet. Yes, it’s terrible about urban blight. Surely there’s more we can do for those at-risk kids. I hate the way I sound.
At least Leo isn’t listening. He’s surveying Owen and Ana’s book collection, which are all glossy, important tomes and coffee-table books that raise awareness on subjects that matter.
Sigh.
The appetizer hour is endless, in which we eat organic sheep cheese flavored with locally grown organic herbs served on, yes, organic, gluten-free, fair-trade crackers. Ana-Sofia talks about the latest wells her foundation has funded. Felicia mentions her interview on CNN last week in reference to her latest documentary about a secret girls’ school started by a friend of Malala. Bitty and Owen discuss Doctors Without Borders and where they’re each interested in going next.
Wedding dresses don’t really come up.
Owen must sense my discomfort, because he comes over and gives my shoulder a squeeze.
“Bitty’s uncle was recently visiting,” Evan says in his thick and gorgeous accent. “We took him to zee exhibit at zee Frick. So beautiful. They gave a private tour, of course, so he would not be recognized.”
“Who’s your uncle, Bitty?” I ask.
“I don’t like to name-drop,” she says, smiling down at her wineglass.
“I will give you clues, yes?” Evan offers. “My wife, her uncle is an author of some fame. He has been on that woman’s show? Oprah?”
