Love, Accidentally Page 2

  Corrine finished off her iced tea and stood up. “He’ll be back any second. Why don’t we open a bottle of wine and fire up the grill?”

  Later Ilsa would think back to that night, and what would stand out wouldn’t be the fact that Bruce hadn’t come home for another hour, by which time Corrine was peering out the window and twisting her new wedding band around and around on her finger, or even that her sister drank three glasses of Pinot Grigio but hardly touched her salmon at dinner.

  What would hit Ilsa with a quick, strong rush that felt like a sucker punch was this realization: Corrine never answered her question about when she knew Bruce was the right guy.

  ILSA AND GRIF weren’t in bed when it happened, thank goodness. That would’ve been difficult to forgive. Instead they were in the kitchen of his Manhattan Beach apartment, making dinner for a quiet night in. By now they’d been dating for six weeks, even though it seemed like much longer—maybe because they’d been together almost constantly. During late nights at bars and cafés and languorous weekend mornings, they’d unspooled each other’s histories. Ilsa now knew Grif was afraid of snakes, even harmless little ones—kind of funny, when you considered the fact that he’d once chased after two guys who were trying to break into his car—and that he regretted fighting so much with his brother Jake while growing up. She’d told him about the case of chicken pox that gave her the ugliest third-grade school photo imaginable, and he’d gone with her to meet Corrine and Bruce for drinks. They’d strolled in the park with Fabio, whose leg had healed beautifully, and she’d told him about the dogfight she’d broken up that had created the scars on the back of her right hand. She knew how Grif looked right before he fell asleep at night, and what it felt like to wake up with his warm body fitting around her.

  She was mixing olive oil and red wine vinegar for salad dressing while he opened the oven door and checked on the roasting chicken. The small kitchen was bright and filled with good smells, and Ilsa was just savoring her first sip of Riesling when it happened.

  “Can you hand me those tongs, Elise?” he asked.

  She froze.

  “What?” he said, glancing back at her.

  She set her wineglass down on the counter. “You called me Elise,” she said.

  “I did?”

  She nodded.

  “Sorry,” he said. She handed him the tongs, and he flipped over the chicken, then shut the oven door. “It’s kind of weird,” he said. “They sound alike. Elise. Ilsa.”

  “She was the woman you dated before me?” Ilsa asked, and he nodded.

  “You said you guys were together for a long time,” she said. She took a colander of lettuce to the sink and started rinsing it. “How long, exactly?”

  She hadn’t asked about Elise before, though she’d been curious. Grif had mentioned his ex, casually, on their very first date while they sat on the beach and talked. She knew their history was tangled and their breakup recent—recent enough that a shadow had passed over his face when he’d mentioned it. But that was all she knew.

  “On and off since we were fifteen,” he said. “Mostly on.”

  She blinked hard. “So . . . almost fifteen years?”

  “Yeah, I guess,” he said. “We’ve known each other forever. Since kindergarten.”

  “Is she . . . does she live nearby?”

  He shook his head. “She moved to San Francisco when we broke up.”

  She took a deep breath. “Oh,” she said.

  She found herself suddenly wondering what Elise looked like. And why had Grif ended things with her? They’d been together for half of his life, she realized as her hands mechanically tore the lettuce into a wooden bowl. Ilsa thought back to the family photos scattered on a table in Grif’s living room. She’d smiled at the picture of him graduating from high school, and teased him about how long his hair was at his brother Jake’s commitment ceremony with his partner. Now she realized with a jolt that Elise was probably there, just outside the edges of the pictures, witnessing those events as they occurred.

  “We’re still friendly,” Grif said. “I mean, we don’t talk a lot. But we e-mail sometimes. I told her I met someone.”

  “Yeah?” Ilsa asked, her voice sounding small.

  “Yeah.” He moved closer, took her in his arms.

  “Okay?” he asked, and she knew the single word encapsulated multiple questions: if she was okay knowing what a big role Elise had played in his history, okay with him not mentioning it before, okay with Grif calling her by the name of a woman he used to love.

  She tilted up her chin to look at him. It was over between him and Elise, she reminded herself. She was the one Grif had chosen.

  “Okay,” she whispered.

  THE HOLIDAYS SNUCK up on them. Ilsa and Grif were in his Lexus hybrid, driving to Sonoma County for a weekend of bike riding and wine tasting, when “Jingle Bells” began playing over the radio.

  “I can’t believe Christmas is next month,” she said. Grif’s hand was warm on her bare knee, and she’d deliberately left her BlackBerry in her apartment. “Are you going home to see your family?”

  “Actually,” he said, “I was thinking of coming home with you to meet yours.”

  He glanced over when she didn’t respond right away. “Too soon?”

  “No!” The word burst out of her. “I just . . . really like that idea.”

  “Cool,” he said. “I want to see where you grew up. Plus I kind of miss snow. Maybe we can get in a little cross-country skiing?”

  She and Grif now spent five or six nights a week together, and they’d officially adopted and shared custody of Fabio, but this, more than anything, revealed how serious their relationship had grown. She’d never brought Jones home—she couldn’t imagine his oversize personality fitting into her family’s cozy little ranch-style house. There hadn’t been anyone before him, either, whom she’d felt strongly enough about to introduce to her parents. Grif was the first guy they would meet since her high school boyfriends.

  She put her hand on top of his, feeling her heart soar as they sped down the highway. “Corrine and Bruce are coming, too. We’ll have a full house. It’ll be great.”

  But the day before their scheduled flight, Corrine phoned. Her voice sounded thick and uneven, and for a minute, Ilsa had the wild thought that her sister was drunk at eleven o’clock in the morning.

  “We’re not going to make it home this year after all,” Corrine said. “There’s just . . . a lot of stuff going on.”

  “Corr?” Ilsa felt something cold stabbing her gut. Fear, she realized. “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know,” Corrine said. Ilsa thought she heard a faint snapping sound and Corrine taking a quick, deep inhalation. Was she smoking? “Look, every couple has problems, right?”

  After eighteen months of marriage? Ilsa wondered, but she only said, “Sure.”

  “Bruce and I need a little time alone,” Corrine said. “He’s been so busy at work, and we’re both feeling pressured about money since we bought the house. I thought if we stayed here, just the two of us . . .”

  “Do you want me to come over?” Ilsa offered. She sat down on her bed, next to the open suitcase she’d been in the middle of packing. “Or we can meet somewhere and talk?”

  Corrine exhaled slowly, and Ilsa pictured a gray cloud escaping from her lips. She’d never seen Corrine smoke. What other secrets did her sister have?

  “No,” Corrine said. “But thanks. I— Look, I’ve got to go call Mom and Dad and let them know. Everything’s fine, really. I’ll see you when you get back, okay?”

  “Sure,” Ilsa said. She heard Corrine hang up, but she kept holding on to the phone receiver.

  IT FELT STRANGE not to have Corrine and Bruce home for Christmas, but Ilsa was so distracted by the rituals of the holiday—and, to tell the truth, so swept up by Grif—that she tucked her worries into the back of her mind. She’d see Corrine as soon as she returned to L.A., she told herself as she and Grif helped trim the tree,
ate obscene amounts of sugar cookies, and ran to the mall for last-minute gifts.

  It was easy to revel in the way her parents assessed Grif, because seeing him through their eyes made Ilsa fall even more deeply in love with him. She adored the way he pulled out her chair at dinner—good manners were so ingrained in him that they’d become an unconscious habit—and how comfortable he was sprawled on the living room sofa next to her dad, a Budweiser in hand, as they watched a ball game. Her parents had put Grif up in Corrine’s room, since her dad was old-fashioned that way, but late at night, Grif snuck into Ilsa’s room and took her by the hand and led her down into the basement rec room, where they made love on an old futon.

  They never talked during those midnight interludes—not a single word—but they shook with silent laughter as Grif tried to squeeze his six-foot-two frame onto the little futon. One night he fell asleep half on top of her but with one arm and leg dangling onto the floor, and she just lay there, running her fingers through his hair, thinking she’d never been this happy.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” Grif suggested on Christmas Eve. They’d already eaten an early dinner, and her parents had popped over to a neighbor’s open house.

  “No!” Ilsa protested. “It’s freezing!”

  “My L.A. girl is getting spoiled,” Grif teased, grabbing her up in a hug and tickling her ribs until she squealed. “Didn’t you used to have to walk miles in the snow to school every day?”

  “At least ten miles,” she said. “Snow makes everything multiply, kind of like dog years.”

  He grabbed her coat off the banister and tossed it at her. “I’ll keep you warm, babe. Be back in a second.”

  When he returned, he was carrying a stainless-steel thermos. She took the first sip as they stepped outside. Instantly, frost pinched her cheeks and nose, but then the brandy sent a trail of warmth through her throat and chest. They walked down a few blocks and across a street until they came to a park with a wide, open field.

  “Come on,” Grif said, and he led her into the middle of the field, their boots kicking a path through the snow.

  “The stars don’t look like this in Los Angeles,” Ilsa said, tilting her head back and staring up into the brilliantly clear night sky. “This was the field where I used to come when I was a kid, to lie on the grass and watch fireflies at night. I told you that, didn’t I? There seemed to be thousands of them. It always felt magical here.”

  Grif didn’t say anything, and after a moment, she looked over. Then her eyes tracked down and she gasped. Because Grif was on one knee, a little velvet box in his right hand.

  “DON’T WORRY,” GRIF said, handing Ilsa the Diet Coke she’d ordered from the flight attendant. “My parents only cannibalize people once or twice a year, and you’re too skinny for their tastes.”

  “How reassuring,” Ilsa said lightly, but she was a little nervous, even though she’d talked to Janice and Stephen on the phone the night that she and Grif had gotten engaged, and several times in the two weeks since then. They couldn’t have been more welcoming, but it felt odd to know she’d soon be linked with them as family and they hadn’t even met. It wasn’t just the trip to see Grif’s family that caused her to stare unseeingly out the window for most of the flight, though. She was deeply worried about Corrine. Her sister and Bruce were taking some time apart. That’s how Corrine had put it, her voice tight and strained. More than anything else, her older sister seemed bewildered, as if she were witnessing something happening, rather than being caught up in the midst of it.

  Taking a break was Bruce’s idea, Corrine had told Ilsa. He was “confused.”

  “About what?” Ilsa had asked.

  “Apparently his ex-wife has been calling him,” Corrine had said.

  “Corrine, she cheated on him!” Ilsa had almost shouted. She knew the whole story, of course: Bruce and his college sweetheart had gotten married young, and she’d left him a few years later. He’d found out she’d been seeing another guy—someone they both knew from college. The ex-wife and the other guy soon broke up, but by then Bruce and Corrine were already a couple.

  Now Bruce was staying with a buddy, and he and Corrine were undergoing counseling. Ilsa had tried to support Corrine by bringing over Chinese food and silly movies, and cajoling her sister to go out for manicures.

  “You guys are so good together,” she’d reassured Corrine. “Whatever the hell is going on with him—maybe an early midlife crisis—it’s temporary.” Corrine was so eager to have Bruce move back in, but Ilsa was furious with him for treating her sister this way.

  She knew that Bruce had asked Corrine if he could come over this weekend. Ilsa hoped that when he walked into the house they’d bought together, saw the walls they’d painted in rich blues and creams, looked at the cozy sofa where they’d curled up to watch movies on Sunday nights, passed by the framed photos from their honeymoon in the Bahamas—when he saw their home—he’d realize he’d been a fool.

  There was just one thing nagging at the corners of Ilsa’s mind: a conversation she’d had with her sister a few days earlier. “Why didn’t I ever see it as a warning sign that Bruce was still wearing his wedding ring after they got separated?” Corrine had asked. “I took it to mean that he was mourning the relationship before moving on. She was his first love, and they were together for so long. But he wasn’t over her. I don’t think he ever got over her.”

  “Of course he did,” Ilsa had said, trying to quash the memory of the darkness that had crossed Grif’s face when he’d mentioned breaking up with Elise. At the time she’d been impressed by his openness. Now she wondered: Was it strange that Grif had brought up his ex on their very first date?

  Given everything, it might not be the best weekend for them to be visiting Grif’s parents, Ilsa thought, finishing off her Diet Coke and handing the cup to the flight attendant who was collecting trash in preparation for landing. But their schedules were so full that it had been hard to clear away a long weekend: Grif had enrolled this semester at UC–Santa Cruz for graduate school, and he was tutoring high school kids on the side. He was also moving in with Ilsa in another month, when his lease was up.

  Things between them were moving quickly. But not too quickly, Ilsa reassured herself, staring at the cushion-cut diamond on her left hand.

  The plane touched down smoothly at O’Hare, and within a few minutes, Ilsa spotted Grif’s parents standing near the baggage claim, waving eagerly. At the sight of Janice’s tiny frame and huge smile, the knot in Ilsa’s stomach unwound. Janice launched herself at Grif and Ilsa, and managed to envelop them both in a hug at once.

  “Congratulations!” she squealed. “I’m so happy you’re here. Was the flight okay? I’ve got dinner ready at home in case you’re hungry. Can I take that bag for you? Oh, look at them, Stephen. Don’t they look great together?”

  Ilsa blushed, smiled, and returned the hug. Grif looked so much like his father, she thought. Family pictures had revealed it, of course, but the resemblance was even stronger in person, maybe because they had the same mannerisms. As they stood side by side chatting, their hands deep in their pockets, she caught a glimpse of Grif thirty years in the future. It made her smile grow wider.

  “Dinner sounds great,” Ilsa said. “Grif told me you’re a wonderful cook.”

  “Did he?” Janice looked pleased. “Well, flattery will get you chocolate-chip cheesecake for dessert. Do you like cheesecake? It’s Grif’s favorite. But you probably know that by now.”

  “I love it. Oh, and our flight was great, thanks for asking,” Ilsa said. She felt Grif drape an arm across her shoulders. “Don’t try to answer all of my mom’s questions,” he said, winking at Janice. “You’ll never keep up.”

  Janice affectionately swatted him on the shoulder, and the four of them walked toward the parking lot together.

  ILSA AND GRIF had planned to spend only two nights at his parents’ house, but she found herself wishing they had longer. She looked through family photo albums, eager to glimp
se Grif as a child, and asked Janice to teach her how to make the sinfully delicious cheesecake. On their second day, Ilsa and Grif went for a walk around his neighborhood, and he pointed out his elementary school and his best friend’s childhood home, making her laugh with the story of how he and his buddy had stolen a lifeguard’s bullhorn and used it to wake up their siblings early one Saturday morning by standing over them and shouting into it.

  When they came back to the house, Janice was waiting. She asked if she could show Ilsa something.

  “I don’t want you to feel any pressure about this,” Janice said as she pushed open the door of the basement storage room. She knelt down and reached for a big white box, then put it in Ilsa’s arms. “You should wear exactly what you want on your wedding day. But if you feel like borrowing this, it’s yours. You could have it altered, of course.”

  Ilsa could see a glimpse of lace through the clear plastic cover. “Was it yours?” she asked.

  Janice nodded.

  “Can I open it?” Ilsa asked. She knelt on the cold cement floor, put the box in front of her, and unsealed the plastic. Age hadn’t yellowed the pure-white silk of the dress, not even a little bit. Ilsa’s eyes roved over the long sleeves, the high neck, the simple train.

  “I haven’t seen this in thirty-seven years,” Janice said.

  “What was your wedding like?” Ilsa asked.

  “Oh, it was wonderful. And parts of it were awful, too. It was probably good preparation for a marriage that way.” Janice gave a little laugh as her eyes grew distant. “My uncle got very drunk at the reception. The flower girl tripped on her way down the aisle and bumped her head and started wailing. And my maid of honor was so sick with the flu I was worried she’d throw up in the middle of the ceremony. . . . She was practically green!”