City.”
“Think country clubs and golf courses,” Claire said. She focused on the driver’s name, trying to decide which eastern European country he had come from. One with an overabundance of “k’s” it seemed.
Jason turned to Claire. “You lived in suburbia?”
She shrugged. “Only a year and a half. I survived. So did it.”
“Yes, well, all three of us were inseparable, mainly because we all worked on the school newspaper. Claire was the photographer, David covered sports, and I, well, not to be immodest, but I was the editor-in-chief.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Jason said. Claire decided to kick him for that smug little comment.
“Anyway, to make a long story short, David was my first true love, something that’s very special to a woman,” Trish went on.
Claire eyed Jason. “Don’t even go there,” she warned sotto voce. He placed his hand on his chest. Who me? he seemed to indicate. She kicked him again.
Jason winced. “Has anyone ever told you that you have violent instincts?”
She stared wide-eyed. Only a newborn calf could have looked more innocent. “Sorry, my foot slipped.”
“Twice?”
“Repetitive stress syndrome?”
“And even though we all went our separate ways, we stayed in touch.” Trish cupped her chin wistfully. “Call me unrealistic, but somehow I thought one day he’d come back into my life. Only I never envisioned we’d meet again at a wedding—his wedding, to someone else. To an orthodontist no less.” Trish took a pair of sunglasses from her bag and wrestled them onto her face. “An orthodontist,” she harrumphed.
“I’m sure she has very nice teeth,” Claire said.
“Don’t try to be nice, Claire. It doesn’t suit you.” Trish fiddled with the bow of her glasses, designer ones, naturally. “Anyway, even though David’s moved to Chicago—he’s a district attorney—” she turned to Jason “—they’ve decided to get married back at his parents’ place in Westchester, a nice Tudor place right by the golf course. I always did think it would make the perfect place for a wedding.”
Trish paused, as if visualizing the outdoor seating arrangement of her dreams—lilacs and lilies of the valley roped in garlands along white satin-covered folding chairs, a veritable aromatherapy of connubial bliss. “Well, when the invitation came, I accepted as a matter of course, and replied I would be bringing a guest. The thing of it is, to make this really work—to attend from a real position of strength—what I need is not just a guest, but a fiancé. That way I truly look like…” For once in her life, Trish actually needed to pause.
“Like you’re sleeping with someone?” Claire offered.
“That you have someone who is special, a lover,” Jason corrected.
Trish turned and pulled off her glasses. “Claire, you’re so predictable. But, Jason, you’re really quite sensitive, aren’t you?”
Claire rolled her eyes. “Sensitive is not the adjective I would have chosen.”
“But then words are not your line of work, are they?” Jason shifted his weight and put his arm over the back of the seat. His hand casually rested on Claire’s shoulder. She hunched forward and hugged her bag.
“And what makes it even more incredible, Jason, is you’re clearly amazingly handsome and famous,” Trish said.
Jason nudged Claire. “See, someone recognizes my better qualities.” She hunched farther forward.
“But I’m not sure people are going to believe we’re an item.” From the emotional high of a second ago, Trish dipped to the depths of the Marianas Trench. “I mean the wedding’s this Saturday. And we’ve only just met. Besides, it’s not as if we have anything in common. I mean, I wouldn’t know a hockey bat from a baseball bat.”
Claire rolled her eyes. “It’s a stick, Trish, a hockey stick.” She would have said something further along those lines, but she saw that her friend truly looked despondent, only reinforcing Claire’s long-standing belief that it never paid to fall in love. “Listen, sweetie, don’t worry about the sports stuff. Didn’t you ever hear of the theory that opposites attract? You can just say you met over this story, which is perfectly true. And there was this instantaneous spark. This spontaneous combustion.”
Trish sniffed. “Spontaneous combustion?”
“This violent, passionate bolt of desire, which struck like lightning.”
“Oh, that spontaneous combustion.” Trish waved her hand dismissively and replaced her sunglasses. “Don’t be ridiculous. That kind of thing never happens. I’m surprised that a cynic like you, Claire, would even mention something as silly as that. People just don’t suddenly get all weak in the knees by some sudden onslaught of passion.”
Claire stared at Jason. She saw him work his jaw. She immediately thought of their fleeting kiss. Her stomach contracted violently. “I suppose you’re right,” she said softly, still looking at his lips.
“Still, people will believe anything, won’t they?” Trish sounded as if she was trying to convince herself. “And seeing as we could say it was this sudden thing, we could also say afterward that it broke up just as quickly—one of those sputtering flame things. So, will you do it?” She turned and rested a hand on Jason’s sleeve.
Jason looked at Claire’s lips.
“Jason?” Trish asked.
“Hmm?”
“Will you do it? Will you be my fiancé?”
He stared at Claire’s mouth as he spoke. “There’s still six weeks to the start of the season. And when you put it that way, how can I refuse.”
THREE HOURS LATER, ensconced in the children’s ward of an Upper East Side hospital and research institute, Claire had just about run out of film.
That wasn’t the only thing to run out of steam. After going through several tapes and lobbing out questions that seemed to touch on everything from his first-grade teacher—Mrs. Greenberg, she wore a hairnet and orthopedic shoes—to the latest rumors about his hot-and-heavy affair with a Swedish cover girl—“We’re just good friends,” Claire heard him say over the whir of her camera—Trish packed up her recorder, her cell phone and her handheld organizer, and had Elaine arrange for a car to take her back to the office.
Someone else had yet to wilt, though. Jason was enthusiastically chatting away and signing autographs in the children’s clinic. Despite the ever-present barrage of tubes and drips, the mood was pure upbeat, with Jason trading high-fives with most of the kids.
Claire circled a hospital bed as Jason joked with one boy about the cap he was wearing. “Hey,” he called over to Claire, “don’t take his picture unless he promises to get rid of that Rangers cap. It’s Blades or nothing around here.” Jason dug into a bag and pulled out a cap. “Now that’s more like it.”
The smiling boy, his head billiard-ball smooth, laughed as he
