A Kiss Too Late

A knock came at his door and Sandra Koster, the managing editor, poked her head inside. “Got a minute, Adam?”

“Sure. But I thought you’d left already.”

Sandra plunked herself down in the chair across from his desk and gave a heartfelt sigh. “I was just on my way out, but I had to come in first and tell you how sorry I am I interrupted your vacation in Newport. It was just that we were in such an uproar, and I felt you should know what was going on. Then again, maybe I ought to have handled everything myself…” Sandra was a fine manager, but occasionally she had the unfortunate habit of second-guessing her own decisions. Adam wasn’t concerned, though. He’d promoted Sandra only recently to this position, and he figured all she needed was a little more experience at taking charge.

“You had to call me,” he said. “This damn system is still too touchy. We don’t have all the glitches worked out yet. Wonder if we ever will.” The newspaper’s mainframe computer had crashed today, setting off a chain reaction that had shut down the entire photocomposition system. It made Adam long for the old days, the less sophisticated days of typewriters and Linotype machines. But finally they’d gotten things up and running again.

“Then on top of everything, to have Russ botch a story the way he did…” Sandra muttered. “It’s been the most awful day. The worst.” Suddenly, unexpectedly, her eyes filled with tears, and she looked like she was going to start sobbing any minute. Adam felt his gut tighten. A woman’s tears–he’d known far too many of those while growing up. Even now seeing a female cry always produced the same reaction in him–impatience, distrust, but almost a weariness at the same time. Jen, though, she’d never been much for weeping. Adam had always been grateful for that.

Sandra’s tears had begun trickling down her cheeks. What was happening? Was his entire staff going to fall apart at the seams while he watched? First Russ, and now Sandra.

She didn’t actually begin sobbing, though. She just let the tears run down her face while she searched through her pockets. “Damn,” she said. “Damn! I’m sorry, Adam. I feel really stupid. You can’t imagine how stupid I feel right now.”

Adam figured it was time to lower the blinds again. They stuck a little, but he finally managed to bring them rattling down. Then he sat behind his desk and waited.

He was good at waiting out another person when the occasion demanded. Jen had often accused him of trying to unnerve people with his silence, but he knew when words weren’t necessary.

Sandra was silent for a long moment, too, and she avoided looking at him. She’d found a crumpled tissue in one of her pockets and used it to blot the tears trickling down her cheeks. It didn’t seem to do much good; more tears just came leaking out. Adam continued to wait. He’d never had this much uninterrupted time to observe his managing editor. Of course, she’d never sat and cried in his office before. Sandra was undeniably attractive, with clear blue eyes–when they weren’t reddened by tears–curling brown hair and a pleasant hint of roundness to her body. Attractive, yes, but even so, she didn’t possess Jen’s grace, Jen’s innate air of confidence….

Adam couldn’t believe he was doing it again. In the year he and Jen had been apart, he’d developed an irritating habit of comparing every woman he met with his ex-wife. And somehow, in one way or another, they always came up lacking. He’d have to get over the habit–it was a damned nuisance.

Finally Sandra blotted the last few tears from her face. “I think I’m under control now,” she said, although her voice was a bit shaky. “I thought I was handling things so well–the divorce, you know…”

Adam nodded carefully. He knew that Sandra had recently been divorced. He also knew she had something more to say; he could sense it coming. He just wasn’t sure he wanted to hear anything about Sandra’s private life.

“My ex-husband is seeing someone,” she said. “Some girl who’s barely twenty, for heaven’s sake. I could deal with that much, I really think I could, but last night I found out she’s going to move in with him. You know who told me? My own son. My own child. My eight-year-old informed me that his father is soon going to be living with some juvenile twit… Oh, I know it’s crazy, Adam, but I’m so jealous and furious about it. I’m a basket case, I really am.”

Adam had the uneasy feeling that those tears were going to start again. But he felt a reluctant empathy with Sandra. The thought of his own ex going to bed with someone else–yeah, he understood the jealous part. It was driving him a little crazy, not knowing if Jen had some other guy in her life. He hadn’t seen any signs of a man in her apartment that time, but still…

“Divorce is tough,” he said. He knew it wasn’t a particularly helpful statement, but it seemed to get Sandra’s interest. At least she wasn’t crying anymore.

“How long has it been for you now?” she asked.

“A little over a year.” He stopped there. He didn’t like talking about his divorce. He didn’t like admitting he hadn’t been able to hold on to his wife.

“Please tell me that things get better,” Sandra said, sounding rueful. “If I could just believe they will get better…”

“They will–trust me,” Adam said, perhaps a shade too heartily. His own experience with Jen was more complex than he’d like it to be. After his initial sense of loss, he’d managed to adjust to single life. He’d immersed himself in the newspaper more than ever, and in his few off hours he had started seeing other women. No matter that he kept comparing those other women with Jen, things had actually started to go along pretty well. But then Beth Hillard had announced she was getting married and had asked Adam to deliver the message personally to Jen. He’d obliged, seen Jen–made love to her–and his new life had been out of kilter ever since. So who was he to offer advice to fellow sufferers?

“I think I feel better now,” Sandra said with obvious resolve. “I’m sorry I dumped all this on you, Adam, but it helped to talk about it.” She stood and went to the door. “Thanks for lending an ear. Good night.”

“How about dinner?” he asked, surprising himself. It wasn’t an invitation he’d planned to offer, but he went with it. “I’m starved, and I imagine you are, too.”

Sandra hesitated, staring down at the tissue wadded in her hand. “I don’t know…”

“I suppose you have your son waiting for you.”

She grimaced a little. “Actually, no. He’s sleeping over at his father’s tonight, and I guess that’s just one more thing that’s been getting me down. All day I’ve dreaded going home to an empty house.”

“It’s settled, then.” Feeling a welcome energy, Adam grabbed his jacket from a chair back and shrugged into it. After another moment, Sandra gave a nod, capitulating.

“Why not? It so happens I am starving. Blubbering and making a fool of myself really worked up an appetite.”

Adam liked her ability to poke fun at herself without being too self-deprecating. She was a nice woman. She was also a woman who stirred none of the turmoil that his ex-wife could provoke in him. He’d always felt relaxed around Sandra, and he could do with a little relaxation tonight.

He escorted her out to his car, and soon they were traveling through downtown Boston as the last of dusk gave way to night. Driving here was something of a free-for-all, cars and trucks and buses squeezing haphazardly in and out of lanes, pressing around each other frenetically but with little malice. It always made Adam feel like he was in a car rally, and it got his adrenaline going. He and Jen had often joked that you could tell where you were in this city just by people’s driving habits. Downtown, drivers were inventive, but in the suburbs, they stayed in their own lanes.

Jen again. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and made an effort to concentrate on the woman beside him, not the woman in his head.

“How’s your son handling everything, Sandra? Brian, isn’t that his name?” Adam thought back to the last company picnic and seemed to remember a little boy with curly hair just like his mom’s. He tried to keep tabs on his employees’ families without being too intrusive. After all, he subscribed to the belief that a boss should be cordial while maintaining an appropriate distance. That, of course, brought up another question–what was he doing taking his managing editor out to dinner?

He didn’t have an answer, so he merely listened while Sandra talked about her son.

“Brian seems to be okay, he really does. But how do I know for sure? I mean, maybe the divorce has caused some horrible, irrevocable scars that won’t surface for years and years. Maybe he’ll turn out to be a neurotic, or a psychopath. I lie awake at night and worry about it.”

Adam downshifted and wheeled around a corner. “Do you always imagine such disasters?”

“I’m a worrywart,” she confessed. “But it’s parenthood that’s made me that way. I have this philosophy. I believe that if I worry and stew enough, somehow I’ll prevent anything really bad from ever happening to Brian. It doesn’t make any sense, I know, but there it is. Don’t all parents get silly ideas like that? Of course, you’ll find out someday,” she added hastily, as if remembering too late that Adam didn’t have any children of his own. She seemed embarrassed and lapsed into silence.

The way Adam looked at it, there were two types of parents. The first type behaved as if having children was the most stunning, all-encompassing activity in the world and felt sorry for anyone who didn’t share the happiness. Such enthusiasts generally equated the term “nonparent” with “nonperson.” The other type of parent took you aside and warned you with bitter, graphic descriptions never, ever to let yourself in for the grief, disillusionment and pain of spawning children. Adam suspected that Sandra belonged to the first category, the kind of parent who treated you as if your lack of children was some pathetic, unmentionable disease. Of course, he’d wanted kids himself. Maybe that was why he was so aware of the whole thing.

He parked in front of the Hamilton Tower, gave his key to the parking attendant and ushered Sandra inside to the elevator. A few moments later they emerged on the fiftieth floor. The restaurant here was one of Adam’s favorites, good food combined with understated comfort, and the windowed walls provided a glittering view of the city lights below. Carl, the maître d’, greeted Adam with his usual affability.

“Mr. Prescott, haven’t seen you in a while. I know exactly what table you’ll like…”

Once they were seated and perusing the menus, Sandra glanced around. “Imposing,” she commented. “When you suggested dinner, I was hoping maybe you meant that taco takeout place everyone in the newsroom is raving about–not that this isn’t just fine,” she amended quickly. “Of course it’s fine. It’s just that– I’m really making a fool out of myself tonight, aren’t I?” She set down her menu, looking chagrined.

“Take it easy,” he told her. “You’re not up for employee review right now.”

Sandra stared at the menu again with great concentration, as if determined not to make any more social gaffes. She was an odd sort of person–very earnest, raw around the edges, unexpectedly humorous, intelligent, but at times unsure of her own abilities. When he’d first hired her some four years ago, she’d brought excellent recommendations with her–high marks from the journalism school she’d attended at a small state college in Vermont, praise from the editors she’d worked for at two dailies in Pennsylvania. Adam had promoted her first to city editor, then to managing editor. She seemed well liked by other staff members, but in fact, she was too afraid not to be liked. Take the problem with Russ Billington. Sandra hadn’t wanted to be the one who would come down hard on Russ. It was fully within her authority to do so, but she had backed off from being the bad guy and had deferred to Adam.

Adam knew he had to find a way for Sandra to become more resolute in her job. She was denying her own talents, her own chances for greater success. He considered the matter, but then caught himself. It seemed, he was subjecting Sandra to an employee review tonight. Maybe he should just try to enjoy a decent meal and some congenial companionship.

Sandra, however, deferred to him again when it came time to order the wine. “Whatever you’d like,” she said. “Anything’s fine with me.”

How different it would be if Jen were sitting across from him. Jen would have argued with him about the merits of different wines. And when at last a vintage could be decided upon between the two of them, she would have required to taste the wine herself, never accepting that it was Adam’s prerogative to do so. He smiled a little.

“You’re thinking about your ex-wife, aren’t you?” Sandra asked abruptly.

He gave a reluctant nod. “Yes…I was thinking about Jen. I seem to be doing more and more of that lately. I’m sorry to be so distracted….”

“Don’t be,” Sandra said with obvious relief. “I mean, I think about my ex-husband far too much myself. Isn’t it crazy? I brood about Don a lot more now than I did when I was actually married to him. I brood about him and that twenty-year-old he’s taken up with…”