Her Man Friday(75)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

"I hated myself when I was young," he told her, surprised at how easily the words came. "I hated being different from everyone else. I hated standing in the middle of a crowded room, pretending I felt comfortable, when I knew I would never be comfortable around anyone. I hated being able to easily comprehend things that baffled other people completely. I hated seeing things differently, understanding things differently, reeling things differently. And I hated knowing that no matter how hard I looked, I would never, ever, find anyone who was like me, anyone who shared the same thoughts and feelings I claimed myself. And I hated knowing that, even though I was surrounded by people—people who cared about me, even—I would essentially be alone forever.

"There were times, Chloe," he continued more softly, "when I wanted to die instead of having to go on with the rest of my life feeling the way I felt, knowing the things I knew. And because of that, I frequently cast myself into situations that might, somehow, achieve such a goal for me, when I couldn’t go about doing it on my own."

This time he did turn to look at her again. "At best, I wanted to create some understandable, identifiable reason for why I felt so angry and resentful and dissatisfied all the time. I needed an excuse for why I was so utterly unhappy. Talk about your rebel without a clue…"

In the brief slash of a passing street lamp, he saw that she was gazing right at him. Intently, and with full understanding. Then the shadows fell again, something that made it possible for him to continue.

"Life is dangerous for people like us, Chloe," he said, forcing a weak smile. "We think too much, we comprehend too much, we feel too much. Some days, it’s exhausting just trying to get through to the end. But that doesn’t mean we have to submit. I’m only now learning that. Hopefully, it won’t be such a hard lesson for you, or one so long in coming."

"What—" She stopped when her voice came out sounding rusty and dry, then cleared her throat before trying again. "What happened to you that finally made you feel better about yourself? When did you start thinking that maybe things would be okay?"

Schuyler didn’t hesitate at all this time before answering. "Lily happened," he said. "She was the first person to come into my life and treat me like a human being. Not a troublemaker. Not a brilliant mind. But a person. At first, I didn’t quite know what to make of her when she did that. Then, I allowed myself to love her for doing it. More than I’ve ever loved anyone, I suppose. Until recently," he qualified. "At first, I mistook that love for the kind of love that a man feels for a woman he wants to make his wife. But soon I realized that it was actually something else entirely."

"What?"

"It was the love one feels for a friend—a true, genuine friend—that he knows he will have forever. No matter what happens. No matter how many people, or how many mishaps, or how many miles come between them. No matter how many hardships or injustices occur. Lily is a constant in my life. For a long time, I thought she was the only constant I would ever have. She’s never cut me any slack, and she’s never coddled me. Nor has she ever dismissed or overlooked me. When I met her, it was the first time I felt a kinship with anyone. And that has never changed."

Chloe seemed to think about that for a moment, then said, "I need to find someone like that."

Schuyler hesitated for only a moment before assuring her, "You have."

She gazed back at him in thoughtful silence for a long time, but again, the shadows in the car prevented him from deciphering clearly what she might be thinking. Then, as softly as he had spoken himself, she said, "Do you still feel like you’ll never meet anyone who’s like you are? Who feels and knows and understands the same things you do?"

This time when Schuyler smiled, the gesture was heartfelt. "No, I don’t feel that way anymore," he said. "Because I have a daughter, and she and I are of one essence, one soul, aren’t we? I don’t know why I didn’t see or understand that before. Some big brain I’ve turned out to be." He hesitated briefly before adding, "And, perhaps, there might be someone else who—"

He stopped himself before saying any more about Caroline, before speaking out loud what was still much too new and uncertain for words. "I have a daughter," he said again, knowing that, at least, was certain. "I’ll always have a daughter, I hope. And you, if you want one, will always have a father in me."

"I want a father," she said immediately, plainly, genuinely. "I want you."

Something inside Schuyler opened up wide, filling with warmth, with light, with a giddy sense of well-being. For a moment, he also felt that old ripple of terror rising, and with no small effort, he forced it back down. It was going to take time, he knew, before he would be any good at this parenting thing. But with any luck at all…

"Well, then," he said. "I suppose we’re off to a reasonably good start, aren’t we?"

Lily had never been more nervous about dinner in her entire life. Of course, that wasn’t surprising, seeing as how her life—and the lives of so many others—pretty much depended on this dinner. She’d even shirked her professional duties to go shopping that day, so that she would have something reasonably appropriate to wear that was neither the cocktail dress of a hostess, nor the workday suit of a social secretary.

No, tonight, Lily intended to dress as—and be—exactly what she was. So she had found her way to the very top floor of Bloomingdale’s, and had selected a lovely, deceptively conservative Ungaro suit in smoke-gray velvet with pearl buttons. She fastened a string of exquisite pearls around her throat, fastened two more in her ears, then scooted her feet into black, low-heeled pumps. She swept her hair high on her head, applied only a minimal amount of makeup, and then, satisfied that she could successfully play her role to the public for the first time, she left her quarters to go down to the dining room.

Leo hadn’t yet arrived, but the rest of the usual suspects, save Schuyler, were there. Mrs. Puddle-duck, looking as morose as usual in tepid brown, hovered over her young charge, though not quite as militantly as usual. That was probably because Chloe herself looked small and tired, her bright fuschia dress making more obvious the pale undertones of her complexion. Her eyes were smudged by faint circles, attesting to the late and difficult night she had suffered, but she stood straight and tall, and she was smiling faintly at something Miranda said, so perhaps things were on the mend there.

Lily was certain Schuyler would be there for her tonight. She was certain because she had made it abundantly clear to him earlier that, if he wasn’t there for her tonight, then she would make kielbasa out of him.