The Girlfriend Curse Page 5

  1. Mr. Yamaguchi sent a personal check for his 10 percent deposit of $100,000. I’ve got it in escrow.

  2. Closing date is, tentatively, July 1. Mr. Yamaguchi will pay the $900,000 balance at the closing.

  3. At the closing, I will handle the payoff of existing mortgage ($80,000), taxes, fees and commission. Mom is waiving her fee for representing you. But the Corcoran Group broker gets 6 percent ($60,000). City transfer taxes will be approximately $20,000. Capital gains tax (15 percent of profit beyond $250,000) is $98,000. Your net profit for the sale is $740,000, give or take a few grand.

  4. I will also arrange a wire transfer to your new account at Solomon Smith Barney. Thanks for hiring Rich Spawn. He’s an excellent money manager, and now he owes me a kick-back for the referral. He’ll give you good advice. My two cents: I recommend triple-tax-free bonds, providing a guaranteed annual income of about $28,000. Enough to live like a princess in Vermont.

  5. Once the wire transfer clears (24 hours), you can go get drunk, throw a party for yourself, and everyone you know, at the Four Seasons, whatever your little heart desires. You are now a woman of means. Kind of makes me sick that I never bought an apartment in the days when Mom and Dad were doling out the down payments. How could anyone have predicted that a crappy one-bedroom in Soho would increase by 900 percent in ten years? For the first time in my life, I am jealous of you. I expect that makes you feel pretty fucking good.

  6. On a personal note, Stephanie and I are over. I have you to blame (thank?). She thought your leaving New York would inspire me to leave Mom and Dad’s. I said, “My Mom cooks dinner, does my laundry and pays my phone bill.” She said, “I suck your dick and mix your drinks.” I said, “Unless you do laundry, too, I’ll be trading down.” That was the last thing I said before the slap heard round the world. She’ll come crawling back. When she sees what’s out there, I’ll look great in comparison.

  June 15

  To: Peg Silver

  From: Pru Silver

  Attachment: Five photos

  Peg, some photos from Bertha Billows, the broker at McLaughlin Realty. I think this place looks fabulous, and Bertha has staked her reputation (very good—I made inquiries) on this farm. It’s in the Upper Connecticut River Valley area, right near the border of New Hampshire. FYI: Bertha says locals call it the Upper Valley for short. It’s on the outskirts of Manshire (the town you mentioned specifically), on a dirt road. Ten acres, a pond; the farmhouse was built in 1791. It still has its original beams. The foundation and plumbing were renovated about seven years ago. Not ideal, but Bertha swears everything is solid and functional. Price: $180,000. If you still want to buy outright in cash (Bertha loved the sound of that), she’s sure she can talk the seller down to $150,000. A very good deal. It’s not Manhattan, but apparently, all these Upper Valley towns are seeing huge rises in property values in the past few years. Since the place is empty, you can move in at any time. Not that we want you to go. We want you to stay. Just so I have that on record.

  P.S. Your brother is acting strangely. Quiet, stays out late. Is taking phone calls in his room. Stephanie mailed a box to the house. I opened it accidentally—the packing tape was peeling, I swear—and it was full of shredded clothing, doused in honey. Do you think they broke up? I never liked her anyway. What kind of girl hangs out in the lobby with the doorman rather than spend time with her boyfriend’s family?

  Lot number 456985545

  Pottery Barn bedroom set

  Starting bid: $2,000

  Place bid >

  Time left: 7 hours and 39 minutes. 10-day listing. Offer expires 6/20/05 20:30 EST

  History: 5 bids

  Item location: Grand Street, Soho, NYC

  Description: Five-piece bedroom set from Pottery Barn, circa2000. All oak, in excellent condition. King-sized bed (mattress and box spring—like new! hardly used! slept on by a ninety-year-old grandmother!—included). Owner moving in two weeks and motivated to sell. See photos. Also, check out living room set (lot number 7899545), kitchen set—dinette-style table plus vintage chairs—and full day-to-day Louisville Stoneware service, along with other kitchenware (lot number 26589952), and entertainment package includes TV, VCR, DVD, stereo, speakers, 2001 iMac, HP printer (lot number 5263574). I’ll pay shipping to anywhere in the Northeast, and some parts of the Midwest. And the South. Hell, I’ll arrange/pay shipping anywhere, except Alaska and Hawaii. And maybe even there, if the price is right. EVERYTHING MUST GO! Sponsored by ebay.com

  To: nina_pelham@goldenface.com

  From: pegleg@yahoo.com

  Date: July 3, 2005 7:38 EST

  Subject: my dream mountain man

  Nina, this is the last email I will ever send from this computer. And I’m sending it to you. I hope you are sufficiently honored. I’ve spent the day with the UPS man (who was NOT dreamy), tagging and shipping my bedroom to Georgia, my kitchen to Delaware and my living room to New Jersey. Rica is coming in an hour to collect all my electronics—including the iMac. Funny, I thought that stuff would sell first on ebay, but I didn’t get a single bid. I’m happy to give it to Rica. She’s been an excellent boss, and it was her idea that I become a perennials farmer in Vermont. I owe her. I made more $$$ than I thought I would from selling the furniture ($5,400, minus shipping). Enough, I think, to replace it all with cheaper stuff once I get to my new home. Should be enough to get a flock (?) of chickens. Maybe a goat. Or a cow. What might a cow cost, I wonder. A live one, I mean.

  Anyway, the train leaves first thing. You’ll get this email after I’ve gone. I’m not going to get weepy on you (you’ve been weepy enough for both of us). And, remember, Manshire is only forty-five minutes from Manchester, outlet mecca of the Northeast. Think of whole country weekends, getting 90 percent off retail at Barney’s.

  I’ll leave you now with an image, a picture of what I’m going to find up north. I did a quick search of men in my new zip code on match.com. The pickings were slim. But that’s good. I like slim guys. Most of them had facial hair, drat. Not all of them were rugged country types. Some claimed to have real jobs at IBM in South Burlington (who knew there were corporations in Vermont?). Anyway, see attached photo of the pick of the bunch. He’s a logger, with a BA. He included a poem in his posting—“Ode to an Elm.” At least it’s not a sonnet to a sheep. Note the chest (logging). The legs (mountain climbing; skiing). The face (under the beard). The shoulders (chopping firewood). The wardrobe of hiking shorts, Timberland boots, and a matt of chest hair. This is a man who can change the oil in his truck, the one he built himself with spare parts, a screwdriver and a stick of butter. And he’d love a woman with all the country goodness of fresh-baked apple pie.

  Ahhhhhhhhh. I can smell it from here.

  Chapter 7

  The train trip was tolerable so far, thanks to Peg’s Gatorade bottle of vodka. Peg took a sip, grimaced and looked out the window. She was on the Montrealer, a slow crawl up the Northeast, with a few thousand stops in minor industrial New York and Connecticut towns, and a few thousand more in rural Massachusetts and Vermont outposts. The trip from Penn Station to White River Junction, Vermont, would take seven hours. She’d been on track, as it were, since 8 A.M. Not even halfway there.

  Peg purposefully avoided eye contact with the other passengers. Stilted conversation with strangers would make the hours seem like centuries. Instead, she read Chuck Palahniuk’s Choke, stared out of the window, drummed her thumbs on the armrest, drank her vodka-infused Gatorade.

  She was celebrating. It was a holiday, after all—Independence Day, July 4, for the nation, and one adventurous American in a train car, venturing, blazing, striking, all those pioneer verbs, into undiscovered territory. Peg had been a dyed-in the-wool Manhattanite. And now she was moving to the state where the wool was grown, to grab a virgin clump and start a new life. With new dye. Maybe green.

  The train pulled into the station in Hartford, Connecticut. Another stop. Another shuffling of people and luggage. Peg watched the bustling. Several
new passengers boarded her car. Two ancient ladies in support shoes were helped by a conductor. A few college girls giggled in their midriff-baring T-shirts, distracting the conductor, making him bump into one of the old ladies, knocking her into the seat next to Peg. On reflex, Peg raised her hands to catch the woman as she stumbled. For her good intention, Peg got a cane in the eye.

  The conductor apologized, helped the ancient woman to her seat next to her companion and came back to ask Peg if she was okay. Rubbing her eye, Peg assured him that she would survive, and he turned around and walked out of the car.

  Peg followed him out with her good eye. Just as he stepped off the train, a man stepped on. The train whistled. Peg would have, too, but her lips were suddenly dry as sand. This was not any man. Nina would say, “A god in a mortal sheath.”

  He lugged a large duffel bag as he walked down the train aisle. Peg noted his not-too-tight jeans, sunny yellow T-shirt, thick dirty-blonde hair, juicy raspberry lips. A bit younger than her, Peg guessed, licking her lips. “Sit by me,” she shouted at him telepathically. The train car, meanwhile, was about half full. Plenty of seating options. But he must have gotten her message. As he approached Peg’s row, he slowed. Stopped. Heaved his duffel onto the luggage rack over her head.

  He barely looked at her as he eased his lanky body into the seat opposite Peg, facing her, his feet inches from hers.

  Peg reached into her snack bag on the floor, and pulled out a big bag of spicy Doritos. She opened it, waving it subtly. Let the smell waft into his nostrils.

  She said, “Chip?” offering the bag.

  He turned toward her and grinned politely. He took a triangle and said, “My favorite.”

  Peg said, “Drink?” offering him her full backup bottle of Gatorade cocktail.

  He nodded, and washed down the Dorito with a gulp. He handed the bottle back, and said, “That’s the best Gatorade I’ve ever had.”

  She smiled uncertainly. He must have tasted the vodka. She said, “I’ll bet you’re hot in those boots.”

  “Should I take them off?” he asked.

  Peg said, “If it would make you more comfortable.”

  This man, this babe, leaned down, unlaced his Timberlands, slowly, deliberately, and pulled them off. Miraculously, the blue socks were unholed and clean. He wiggled his toes, making a few cracks as the bones released their tension. No detectable feet smell.

  “Much better,” he said. “What about you? Those flip-flops can’t be comfortable.”

  She laughed. “I’ll take them off, then.” She did. “Since we’re undressing, I should introduce myself. I’m Peg Silver. From New York. I’m moving to Vermont to start over,” she said, holding out her hand, knowing and not caring if she was sharing too much. Just let the Gatorade do the talking, she thought. Maybe he’d take off his shirt next.

  He said, “Ray Quick. From Hartford. I’m moving to Vermont for a month to, uh, do some work.” He smiled at her, then looked out the window as the train picked up speed. Peg examined his profile. He turned back toward her, grinned. And then opened his newspaper.

  That was it? He sat on top of her, drank her booze, removed his clothing—and then nothing? This was odd. Peg was accustomed to receiving more attention than this.

  “Where are you staying?” she asked, keeping the conversation going. No wedding ring.

  “In Manshire.”

  “I can’t believe it!” said Peg, the Gatorade making her speak too loudly. “That’s where I’m going. We’ll be in the same town. And it’s a pretty small town. Smaller than a single grain of rice. We’re bound to bump into each other. Rub elbows at the general store.”

  He turned to look at her head-on, finally, proving that using the words “bump” and “rub” would intrigue any man with a functional penis.

  “Any more of that Gatorade?” he asked.

  She passed him the bottle.

  Ray said, “I may not get into town much. The place I’m staying at, I’ll be closely monitored.”

  “You’re staying at a prison?”

  “More like a spa.”

  “A prison spa?” she asked.

  He said, “A retreat.”

  “And you’re working there?”

  “I’m doing some work on myself.”

  Sizing up his perfect profile, Peg said, “You know, in New York, if someone says he’s getting work done, it’s code for plastic surgery.”

  “I’m not getting a new nose,” he said.

  “A new what, then?” she asked.

  “If I tell you, you won’t want to bump into me. Or rub my elbow.”

  Okay, maybe he didn’t have a functional penis.

  He said, “You’re cringing.”

  “I’m being intrusive,” she backpedaled. “I wonder if the dining car is open?”

  “You’ve got a bag full of food,” he said, pointing at her groceries. “Whatever you’re thinking, you’re wrong.” He hesitated, deciding whether he should say more. “I’m doing a program,” he admitted vaguely.

  “Like AA.” Oops on the Gatorade.

  “No, it’s not like that,” he said, still reluctant to give her the details. “I’m not getting surgery, and I’m not an alcoholic.”

  “Don’t be shy,” said Peg, curious. “You know you want to tell me everything.”

  Ray laughed and shook his head. “I’m not supposed to be talking to beautiful woman at all.”

  He thinks I’m beautiful, thought Peg. She smiled, and took a swig of Gatorade and crossed her legs. She absentmindedly rubbed her knee. “I’m sorry, Ray. I don’t mean to press you,” said Peg. He pricked up with the word “press.”

  Ray watched her hand, moving up and down, skirting across the skin of her knee. He said, “You’ve heard of Outward Bound?”

  She said, “They give you a fish hook, a candy bar and a piece of string and expect you to live in a forest for three days.”

  He nodded. “You’re supposed to learn survival skills. Team-work. How to scale a cliff with a rubber band.”

  “So you’re doing Outward Bound?” she asked, not sure why he was so reluctant to talk about it.

  He shook his head. “The place I’m going to teaches survival skills of a different kind.”

  “What kind?” she asked.

  He blushed, his cheeks apple red. Peg said, “You’re going to sex school.”

  “Why does everyone think this is about sex?” he asked defensively. “I’ve had some disappointments with girlfriends. I just had another bad breakup. A friend told me about this place. So I thought I’d check it out. And now I’m completely embarrassed. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get my stuff and jump off the train.” He stood and reached for his bag.

  “Don’t go.” Peg sprang to her feet. Standing beside him, Peg was impressed by how tall he was. She touched his wrist, lowered his arm from the luggage rack. “I’ve had disappointments, too,” she said. “But not with sex. Never with sex. The sex is always great. I have a very healthy sexual appetite. Dorito?” she asked. “Gatorade?”

  He allowed her to smooth away his embarrassment, let her settle him into his seat. He smiled as she sank into the seat next to him (instead of opposite him). His eyes were golden brown like toffee.

  “Why aren’t you supposed to talk to women?” she asked.

  “I can talk to women,” he said. “But I was warned not to talk to anyone I’m attracted to. I’m supposed to be free from distraction.”

  “So why did you sit so close to me?” she asked, moving even closer to him.

  “Old habits,” he said. “You were alone and gorgeous. I couldn’t resist.”

  “Alone sounds right,” she said. “I’ve left everyone I know, my home, my job, my family and friends, to start over.”

  “Running from an ex-boyfriend?” he asked.

  She snorted. “I’m running from seven of them. Each one dumped me. And within six months of letting the ax swing, they all met and married another woman. I’m the Last Girlfriend. I’m moving to b
reak the pattern. But it’s probably unrealistic to think I can leave my problems behind. I’ve probably brought them with me.”

  Ray blinked, toffee eyes stirring, and then he started laughing.

  Peg squinted at him. “Go on. Laugh. My misery is fucking hilarious.”

  “Sorry, Peg,” he said, regaining control. “I’m only laughing because I can. If you’re the Last Girlfriend, then I’m the Last Boyfriend.”

  She asked, “How many?”

  “Four,” he said.

  Peg felt a rush of blood to her head. This had to be fate, she thought. Was Ray Quick her reward for taking a risk? She had no idea the payoff would be so, well, quick. But she wasn’t going to question it. She would answer the call of destiny instead.

  He said, “My friends think I should start charging women to date me.”

  “My friend said the same thing to me.”

  “We could go into business together,” he suggested.

  “I don’t mix business with pleasure,” she said, pushing her right tit against his arm.

  Ray shifted in his seat. He said, “Okay, I’m officially distracted.”

  “What’s the name of this place?” she asked. “The Last Resort for Romantic Misfits?”

  “Inward Bound,” he said.

  “No wonder everyone thinks it’s about sex,” said Peg.

  Chapter 8

  The trip ended three hours later in White River Junction, Vermont. Peg’s next stop, after a fifteen-minute taxi ride, was the Subaru dealership in Manshire, where a brand-new Outback was waiting for her. Peg got her driver’s license only a week ago. A city kid, she’d always taken the subway, cabs, or walked. She was looking forward to operating heavy machinery. She just wished that, on her maiden voyage, she weren’t so tipsy.