My Favorite Mistake

“Yeah.” Except he didn’t laugh.

While I pondered my state of mind and general mental health, Barry’s cell phone rang—a crisis at the station—and he remained on the call through parking the car near my apartment, the walk thereto, and the walk therein, rubbing his watery eyes intermittently. Still talking, he headed for the bathroom, presumably in search of his allergy medicine. I scooped up the mail that had been pushed through the door slot and tossed it on the end table, then went to the kitchen to fix coffee for endurance (I was still feeling optimistic).

Listening to the distant murmur of Barry’s voice, I watched the coffee drip and gave myself a stern pep talk (no fantasizing about other men—i.e., Redford—while making love this time), and, to my credit, I’d managed to work up a pretty good lust by the time I carried a tray with two cups of coffee to the bedroom.

Not that it mattered. Barry lay sprawled across the bed, fully dressed except for his shoes, his cell phone closed in his limp hand. His toiletry bag lay open next to him—the allergy medicine had apparently kicked in rather quickly. I retraced my steps to the living room and drowned my disappointment in my coffee, which was a mistake, since it left me wide awake.

I found a grainy old movie on television and settled back with a cushion across my stomach. But my mind, as it is wont to do in the wee hours, spun into isolated corners of my psyche, stirring up depressing questions. Was Barry the one, or was I simply pinning all my expectations on him and our sexual friendship? Was my soul mate still out there somewhere, waiting for me to materialize? And the most depressing question of all: What if Redford DeMoss had been my one true love?

I brought the cushion to my face and exhaled into it. I knew I had hit rock-bottom lonely when I started thinking about Redford. He was a brief, distant episode in my life…a mistake. The speedy annulment only spared us both more grief and circumvented the inevitable split when he returned from the Gulf. And for me, it helped to gloss over the humiliation of having married someone like Redford. We were such polar opposites, and a quickie marriage in Las Vegas was so, so unlike me. At hearing the news, my friends had been, in a word, stunned. No—flabbergasted would be a more apt description. And my sweet, loving parents who lived in Florida…well, I’d never quite gotten around to telling them.

Similarly, there had never been a good time to tell Barry.

My face burned just thinking about it…and Redford. He had been insatiable in bed, with the endurance of a marathoner. I cast a glance toward the bedroom where the sound of Barry’s soft snores escaped, and felt a pang of guilt. It wasn’t fair to him that I compared the two of them in that regard. Redford had been on leave from the Gulf—he probably would’ve humped a picket fence. Although if we hadn’t bumped into each other, he would’ve had no problem finding another willing partner. A compelling figure in his dress blues, Redford had oozed sex appeal—in and out of uniform. I closed my eyes, recalling my first memory of him.

I had been standing in line to check in to the Paradisio hotel in Vegas, fretting over Cindy’s late arrival, when a tall, lone officer had walked in. He must have drawn all the energy from the room, because I remember suddenly having trouble breathing. The manager had offered him expedited service to circumvent the long line, but Redford had refused special treatment. I couldn’t take my eyes off him—his broad shoulders had filled the uniform jacket, his posture proud, but his expression relaxed and friendly. My body had vibrated as if I’d been strummed, every cell had strained toward him. He’d caught me looking and winked. Mortified at my uncharacteristic behavior, I’d looked away. But later, we had found each other again.

And again…and again…and again…

I gave myself a shake to dispel my destructive train of thought. Great sex did not a relationship make—as evidenced by my short-lived marriage.

Forcing my mind elsewhere, I picked up my mail from the end table, hoping the caffeine would wear off soon.

There were lots of credit card offers, which I immediately ripped into small pieces, just as I advised my clients to do. There was an appointment reminder from my OB/GYN for a few weeks from now—yippee. There were bills, of course, and several useless catalogs. There was a thank-you note from Kenzie and Sam for a gift I’d sent for their log cabin in upstate New York. A postcard from my folks from their seniors’ tour in England—they were having a good time, although Dad missed cold beer. And there was a long manila envelope—I squinted—from the Internal Revenue Service?

I studied the address: Mr. and Mrs. Redford DeMoss. My heart lurched crazily, followed by relief. This was obviously some sort of mistake. Redford and I had filed taxes once because our abbreviated marriage had spanned the end of a calendar year. I had filled out the forms myself because I’d wanted to make sure they were done properly (and economically).

Still, my hands were unsteady as I tore open the envelope, and slid out the letter written on heavy bonded paper. I skimmed the words, barely seeing the print. I was familiar with the form letter—in my line of work as a financial planner, I’d seen this same letter dozens of times, only not directed toward me.

Redford and I, it seemed, were being audited.

4

FOR AN HOUR I WAS NUMB. Alternately I stared at and reread the IRS letter commanding me and Redford to appear ten days hence, bearing proof that the joint return we’d filed three years ago was accurate as it pertained to a couple of items—primarily our income and the deductions we’d taken.

Or rather, the deductions I had taken. It had been the time frame when I was getting my financial planning business off the ground and, admittedly, I had taken some rather aggressive deductions regarding a home office. I chewed one home-manicured fingernail to the quick, then began to gnaw on a second. The fact that I was being audited by the IRS would not be perceived as a plus by my employer, or among my clients and potential clients. Ellen Brant, for instance, wouldn’t take kindly to the news. Barry—

My heart skipped a beat or two or three. Oh, God, what was I going to tell Barry about Redford?

Barry, there’s a tiny detail about my past I keep forgetting to mention…

Barry, you’re not going to believe this…

Barry, want to hear something funny?

Nausea rolled in my stomach. I couldn’t tell him about my annulled marriage now—he’d think I was only telling him because I had to.

Which was true, but still…

No, I’d have to be careful to keep this audit business under wraps. I paced and hummed to keep the panic at bay, my mind racing for a way out of the mess I’d landed in.

Suddenly I brightened: Barry would be in L.A. for two, maybe three weeks. By the time he returned to New York, the situation with Redford would be put to bed—er, put to rest.

If I were very, very careful, I’d come out of this situation unscathed.

I rubbed my roiling stomach. As if the secrecy and the possibility of being slapped with a fine or a penalty wasn’t enough to give me a bleeding ulcer, there was the thought of being reunited with Redford.

Would he come to Manhattan? Then I scoffed—of course he’d come if he were Stateside. Under order of the IRS, he had to come. Probably with a new, young wife in tow, and maybe even a kidlet or two. They’d make it a family vacation—see the Met, the Statue of Liberty, the ex-wife.

Although, in truth, I wasn’t really his ex-wife because the annulment meant I’d never been his wife. The potential complications swirled in my head, overridden by one gut-clenching question—had Redford thought about me since our annulment?

Annulment. Our marriage had been such an egregious mistake, it had to be indelibly erased. I eased onto the edge of a straight-back chair, remembering how overwhelmed I’d felt when I’d filed those papers. When I’d first arrived back in New York, I had still been awash with my lust for Redford, wistful and optimistic and certain we’d be able to work through any obstacles to be together. He would visit me in New York when he had leave from the Gulf and when he returned to his station in North Carolina. Then I would join him on his family horse farm in Kentucky when he retired from the Marine Corps in a couple of years. With his vision and my financial know-how, we’d grow the business exponentially. He’d made everything seem so…possible. I had been buoyed by the light of adventure in his eyes and blinded by the promises in his lovemaking.

But doubts about our relationship had set in almost immediately. I’d felt isolated and alone. He had warned me it might be weeks before he could call me or e-mail, and since none of my girlfriends had been with me in Vegas, I had no one to reassure me that I hadn’t imagined my and Redford’s feelings toward each other. Indeed, when I’d announced I’d gotten married, they all thought I was joking—sensible, down-to-earth Denise would never marry a virtual stranger in Vegas. Had I gone completely mad?

I didn’t even like horses.

When I started thinking about how little I knew about Redford and how much longer he would be in the Marines, my doubts had snowballed. His comment about not being able to communicate with me had seemed lame. But it was the article that appeared in the newspaper a few days later that had pushed me over the edge: G.I.’s Desperate To Say “I Do.”

I would never forget that headline. The story went on to describe how soldiers on leave from the Middle East conflict were driven to marry the first willing girl they met because they were afraid they wouldn’t come home, and eager to have someone waiting for them if they did. Not surprising, the story went on to say, the divorce and annulment rates for those speedy marriages were astronomical. The women were portrayed as desperate in their own right—caught up in their desire to attach themselves to an alpha male out of social loyalty and the pursuit of cinematic romanticism.

Cinematic romanticism. According to the article, I wasn’t in love with Redford—I was in love with the idea of Redford. Which explained why I would have fallen for someone who was so polar opposite to me, so radically different from the “type” of guy I usually dated…and so quickly. Over the next few days, I had come to the conclusion that it all had been a big, honking mistake. As soon as I’d gotten my period (thank you, God), I’d settled on an annulment.

Through the Internet I’d found a Vegas attorney to file the petition for a civil annulment. He’d had a greasy demeanor that made me feel soiled, but he seemed to be experienced in dissolving quickie marriages. He’d filed the petition on the grounds that “before entering into the marriage, the plaintiff and defendant did not know each other’s likes and dislikes, each other’s desires to have or not have children and each other’s desires as to state of residency.”

All true, except for the part about having children. Redford had expressed a desire for little ones, girls in particular. But I had assuaged my guilt by the fact that we hadn’t discussed when or how many.

The attorney warned me that Redford could contest the annulment, and I have to admit that a small part of me had hoped he would. But upon returning to his unit, he must have come to some of the same conclusions because the papers were returned promptly, with his signature scrawled across the bottom, making it official: Redford and I had never been man and wife. Kenzie, Cindy and Jacki pledged their secrecy, and I pledged to drive Redford from my mind. They had kept their pledge. I had been somewhat more lax.

Sometimes a month would go by without me thinking of him. And then something out of the blue would trigger a repressed memory and I would spend a sweat-soaked night reliving the amazing ways Redford had turned my body inside out…the ways he had stroked and plied me to pleasure heights I hadn’t known existed. Then whispered that he loved me and had taken me higher still.

During those long, lonely hours, regrets would hit me hard. I’d close my eyes against the dark and fantasize about still having Redford in my bed, with his strong arms and legs wrapped around me, his warm sex inside of me, his sigh in my ear. And I would entertain what-ifs…

The mornings after those tortuous nights I would drag my sleep-ravaged body out of my cold bed and promise myself it would be the last time I would lose sleep over Redford DeMoss. I attributed my recent and more frequent recollections of him to all the weddings and bridal talk among my friends—I had consoled myself that the wayward thoughts would recede when the excitement passed.

But now I wondered crazily if I had somehow willed this IRS audit through all the kinetic vibes about Redford that I had sent out into the universe. Cindy’s theory about a self-fulfilling prophecy taunted me…

I don’t remember falling asleep. One minute I was stewing in troubling memories, and the next, Barry was shaking me awake and sunshine streamed in the windows.

“Why did you sleep on the couch?” he asked, his eyebrows knitted.

“I was watching a movie,” I mumbled, pointing to the TV, which was still on. I felt thoroughly miserable, still wearing my expensive (and now crumpled) dress, my face gummy with old makeup, my mouth furry and hot. At the crackle of the IRS letter beneath my hip, panic struck me anew.

Thankfully, Barry didn’t notice the letter. He reached toward me and pushed my hair out of my eyes, gazing at me with concern. “Are you all right?”

“Sure,” I lied.

“Are we all right?” he asked, surprising me.