The One & Only(143)

“It’s been really warm until today,” he said, which is what Yankees always say. Like we just happened to catch them in a rare moment of frigid discomfort.

“Right,” I said. “What’s warm? Thirty-five? Thirty-six?”

“No! Fifties,” he said, putting on his leather gloves as we walked. “I swear!”

“Just tell me you got a good parking spot,” I said, struggling to breathe in another gust of wind.

“Always,” he said, pointing to his black Mercedes right in front of us.

He unlocked the passenger side, then tossed my bag in the backseat and went around to his side, whistling, as if he were strolling on a golf course on a balmy day. “Twice in six weeks,” he said.

I smiled. “Yep,” I said. “Imagine that.”

“Now that’s a Christmas gift.”

“So I can return the tie clip?”

My dad laughed. “Yeah. Return it. I have plenty of those. Just not enough days with my little girl.”


We made small talk until we entered the orange fluorescence of the Midtown Tunnel. Then he cleared his throat and said, “So. Your mother called me.”

I felt myself tense up, staring at the dirty-tiled wall streaking past us. “When?”

“This morning.”

“Why?” I asked, glancing over at him. As if I didn’t know.

He raised his eyebrows and looked at me for a beat longer than felt safe, as I reached over to put my hand on the steering wheel.

“She said you won’t return her calls.”

“That is a fact.”

“Because she disapproved of Clive?”

“Because she was a bitch about the whole thing,” I said. “She’s so judgmental it’s scary …”

“She can be.”

“But, listen, Dad, I really don’t want to talk about all of that. I came here to escape it.”

“Oh? I thought it was to see your old man,” he said lightly.

I smiled. “You’re not my ‘old man.’ Somebody’s ‘old man’ uses a phone book to look up a number … drives thirty-five in a fifty … wears Velcro Hush Puppies. You’re wearing Gucci loafers.”

“So that precludes me from being your old man?”

“Yes. It most definitely does. But it doesn’t preclude you from being my dad,” I said, feeling unusually charitable and grateful toward him.

“Got it,” he said, smiling, as we exited the tunnel, spilling onto a strangely quiet Third Avenue.

“So I guess you heard I got shitcanned, too?”

He nodded. “But you probably don’t want to talk about that either?”

“Nope,” I said.

“Well, let me know if you change your mind … I have some ideas on that front.”

“Maybe later,” I said. “Let’s get through Christmas first.”

“Let’s get through Christmas?” he said. “Okay, Ebenezer.”

“Bah, humbug,” I said, only pretending to be joking.


Christmas Day was a surprisingly pleasant one, spent in the luxury of my dad and Astrid’s Fifth Avenue pad. Bronwyn and Wiley were in St. Moritz skiing, so it was just the three of us, and Astrid was on her best behavior, a restrained, humble version of herself. She must have known a little of what was going on in my life, but kept her conversation general, avoiding her usual nosy questions, and not once bringing up my job or Walker. It was almost as if my father had warned or bribed her—or enrolled her in a crash course in discretion.

Right after dinner (which Astrid had catered), she gently raised the subject of Ryan, very tactfully addressing our breakup and asking how I was doing.

“I’m doing fine. Thanks, Astrid,” I said, feeling sincere.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out. But for what it’s worth … I think that would have been really hard. Having such a famous husband. Women throwing themselves at him. And, you know … just living in the spotlight.”

I smiled and said, “Oh, c’mon, Astrid! You know you thrive in the spotlight!”

“Okay. Okay. I think it would be marvelous! But I have the feeling that you would have hated it,” she said as my father refilled all of our wine glasses. I searched for the hidden dig, out of cynical habit, just as she added, “I admire that about you. You like to keep things so … simple.”

I gave her a look.

“In a good way.”

“Authentic,” my dad chimed in.

“Yes, that’s what I meant,” Astrid said, nodding effusively. “Authentic, that’s it.”

“Well, thanks, guys,” I said, taking a long sip of my wine, thinking of Ryan and the short email he had sent me a few days ago. There was no mention of wanting to get back together, only a few lines thanking me and telling me that he was seeing a therapist and working through his issues. I had written back that I was so happy to hear it, then wished him luck in the playoffs—and in life. Although I didn’t believe that Ryan was capable of rape, I did believe the rest of Tish’s story, and Blakeslee’s, too, sure that he had been as rough with them as he had been with me. Yet I surprisingly felt no bitterness toward him, only relief that I was no longer with him, and hope that he really could change. I reached up now to touch my diamond earrings, the first time I had worn them since our breakup, and said, “Ryan’s not a bad guy. Just not for me.”