Choosing Sophie Read online

  “I don’t think you’ve thought things through, honey,” Joy interjected softly. “Besides, I don’t think your dad and I are ready to let you go just yet. Did you think about how this might land with us?”

  Sophie reddened. “Well, yeah. Kind of. I guess I thought you’d be cooler with it. At least that you wouldn’t totally freak. I mean, I’ve been here for twenty years and now’s my chance to get to know my birth mom, finally.”

  “Twenty years; damn right, twenty years!” Glenn said, beginning to lose his temper. “Look at your mother. You’ve made her cry.”

  “I’m not trying to be ungrateful or anything,” Sophie said defensively. “I mean, I guess there’s no way to do this without hurting somebody’s feelings. I’m sorry. I guess I was really excited about the idea of closing the circle and everything, and maybe I didn’t bring it up the right way.”

  “Well, duh,” said Joy, wiping her tears with her napkin.

  “Look. You’re my mom and dad. I love you guys. That’s not gonna change if I move in with Livy.”

  I reached over and covered Joy’s hand with mine. “I think it’s too much too soon,” I said to Sophie. “I’m incredibly touched that you want to fling yourself into bonding with me—and believe me, I feel the same way—but there are other people’s feelings to consider. Besides, you live not too far from Clarendon; commuting to classes from Manhattan for a whole year is going to get awful old very soon. To tell you the truth, Sophie, I’m not sure I’m ready for such a big thing as your moving in with me. I’m kind of used to living alone. And at some point, I was hoping to try to patch things up with my fiancé in Colorado. Why don’t you finish college and then we can all sit down again and talk about your getting an apartment in Manhattan after graduation?”

  “You don’t get it. I want to live with you. We have to close the circle. And we have to do it now. I don’t think the lawyer’s warning scared your cousin Marty and Linda, and the Cheers dudes—Peter Argent and Dick Fernando and Barry Weed—and maybe even Dusty Fredericks—so much that they’d back off if they thought that the controlling interest in the Cheers was within their sights.” Sophie chuckled. “I bet nothing scares Linda deMarley. If anything, it’s the other way around. Imagine what she’d be like as a ball club owner: Marge Schott meets Nicole Ritchie.”

  I groaned. But she had my sense of humor. “That’s my daughter.”

  She laughed heartily. “That I am—God help me.”

  Glenn and Joy exchanged an uncomfortable glance.

  “And it’s a little too late to avert a lawsuit.” I drew in my breath and bit the bullet. “I hadn’t wanted to spoil our brunch by sharing this…,” and then I told the Ashes about the legal papers I had received.

  “See! See!” Sophie exclaimed, jumping out of her chair. “I knew it! They’d all think the clause in the will was too vague and they’d all contest it. I bet you anything the other guys are going to sue you, too. They’re going to gang up on you because they want the team. And they’ve all run it straight into the fucking toilet!”

  “Sophie!” Joy’s disapproval at our daughter’s language was so palpable it practically jelled.

  “But, slugger, just because you think closing the circle means bonding with your birth mother, what are the odds a judge is going to arrive at the same interpretation?” Glenn said.

  “Because Mr. Gaines will make that the cornerstone of his defense,” Sophie replied confidently. “I’m not wrong about this, you guys. I’m so totally right, I could—I don’t know—I’m just so totally right about this. You have to trust me. Whatever we do, we can’t let them get the Cheers. It’s not what Grampa would have wanted. Dad, you don’t want to see my favorite ball club go belly-up, do you? I just know Augie deMarley wanted Livy to have the team. So we have to do whatever it takes for her—and not them—to inherit it.”

  The Ashes exchanged glances and looked at me. It was Glenn who leveled a verdict. “Well—as long as Livy is comfortable with the arrangement, perhaps we can try your living together on a trial basis, pardon the pun.”

  And so it came to pass that the Ashes and I hammered out the details. Frankly, I had no idea how any of us were going to handle the situation from now on. The Ashes felt abandoned. I felt blindsided. And Sophie? I think Sophie was pretending really hard that we’d all get over it.

  Tom tried to sound supportive when I told him about the new housing situation. I was keeping my side of our pledge to stay in touch, if only as friends. Of course, it’s nearly impossible to do that when the break-up wounds are so raw, especially when you’ve scuttled marriage plans you both intended to honor. Every time I mentioned Sophie’s name, I could almost hear the tinges of resentment in Tom’s replies, as if he knew he should want me to get to know my daughter, but if injected with truth serum would have admitted that he would have been happier if she’d never found me—or at least didn’t take me out of his life in the process. I tried the shoe on the other foot, and part of me couldn’t blame him for his reaction. No man in the world is so Dudley Do-Right noble, so self-sacrificing, that he wouldn’t harbor even a trace of bitterness or jealousy over what happened between us.

  Brokenhearted, and questioning my own sanity, I spent every third second wishing and wondering how I could have held onto Tom and still have managed to bond full-time with Sophie—and battle my cousin’s lawsuit.

  Bottom of the Second

  Just before the fall semester began, Sophie loaded her clothes and prized possessions into her Camry and motored down to Chelsea. Wait’ll she learns about the joys of finding parking in Manhattan, and the garages that charge as much by the month as rental apartments, I was thinking. I set her up in my downstairs bedroom. The idea of a duplex was the coolest, most glamorous thing in the world to her, though she didn’t seem too crazy about my “house rules,” such as when you finish with a plate, don’t leave it sitting out; put it in the dishwasher. “Didn’t you clean up after yourself up in Larchmont?” I asked her. She gave me a begrudging shrug.

  I gave her a hand with her unpacking. She’d just sort of tossed everything into boxes. Not that she was a slob—she just evinced a haphazard and careless disrespect for her own stuff. “Well, it wasn’t going very far,” she rationalized.

  I flipped through her hanging things. Jeans, jeans, sweats, jeans, cargo pants, cords, jeans. “Sweetie, where are your dresses?” After locating one dowdy peasant skirt that looked like she might have salvaged it from the Salvation Army, and then finding nothing but more jeans and khakis, I made a mental note to take the girl shopping. She was too lovely to hide her light under a bushel. “What do you wear on dates?”

  She shrugged and looked at me with those dark, enigmatic eyes. “I don’t really go on any.”

  I sat beside her on her bed. “Then what have you been doing for fun these past three years?” I asked softly.

  She shrugged again, just as noncommittally. “I have friends. And I like to study. I dunno…wild parties and drinking and stuff like that…just doesn’t appeal to me.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, but I’d still love to know that you’re making the most of your college years.”

  “Don’t worry. I have fun. I’m really into the softball team. We hang out a lot after practice. It’s not like I do nothing but hit the books.”

  As long as she was happy, I was happy. She kind of put a period on the subject, so I let it go. How much mom-ness could I get away with? I still wasn’t sure what to say and what to avoid. It was like tiptoeing through quicksand. Would I ever find the right balance?

  Linda deMarley hung up the phone and broke out the champagne. “I hear there’s trouble down in Chelsea,” she said smugly. “Cheers, dear!”

  Marty accepted one of the flutes and took a sip. “I know this brand is supposed to be good…but I just can’t wrap my tongue around it. Have we got any beer?”

  His wife gave an exasperated little snort. “How many times have I told you, champagne doesn’t come in brands?” She removed the
glass from his hand and placed it on their Chinese lacquered coffee table. “More for me, then. Especially at two hundred bucks a bottle.” Linda located a Michelob in the fridge and gave it to her husband, who immediately complained that it was Lite.

  “Think I like being married to Tubby the Tuba?” she shot back.

  “Oh, give it a rest, Linda, my spare tire could barely hold up a bicycle.”

  “You’re right, Marty; you’re not that fat. Per se. But you’d be a toothpick in an inner tube if you didn’t drink ‘diet’ beers.” She sat beside him on their white leather sofa and stared at the space on the wall where the Leroy Neiman painting had so briefly hung.

  Marty changed the subject. “I take it you heard something about my cousin and that kid of hers.”

  Linda grinned. “A little evidence for our lawsuit, perhaps. The Clarendon Clash’s first string baseball pitcher Tommy DuPree is dating Carleen McLure, the girls’ softball team pitcher, who is Sophie Ashe’s best friend.” She looked over at Marty. “You still with me, here?” He nodded unconvincingly. “Good. Barry Weed says DuPree is a hot prospect for the Cheers next season. Apparently all Clarendon’s known for is turning out ballplayers.” Linda dropped the other shoe. She could barely contain herself. “Barry told me that DuPree says that Carleen McLure says that Sophie and Livy fight over absolutely everything. Felix Ungar and Oscar Madison were more compatible as roommates.” She took a satisfying sip of champagne. “Isn’t that delicious?”

  “The champagne? How would I know?”

  “No, you scrawny moron—the gossip! They haven’t even been living together for a month and already it looks like Livy’s headed for disaster.” Linda all but licked her lips. “Casper Gaines filed papers in response to my cousin Sherman’s lawsuit. He claims that fakakta ‘close the circle’ phrase in your uncle’s will means that Livy has to close the circle of her family’s broken ties and bond with her biological daughter. That’s what the eccentric old coot really wanted out of life—says the lawyer for the estate. So what happens if Livy says, ‘Hey, Sophie, great to meet you, but it’s time to tootle home to your other Mommy and Daddy, and don’t be expecting anything more from me than a Christmas card?’”

  “Dunno. I guess we get the Cheers. Hey—Lin? Can we make them hate each other? I mean, do you think there’s anything we can do to be sure they’ll never get along and wish they lived on separate continents or something?”

  “That’s one of the smartest things you’ve thought of since you proposed to me! I’ll ask Sherman.”

  “Holy shit!” Marty practically jumped out of his chair—hard to do when it’s a deeply scooped seat. He dashed into the bedroom and began rummaging through the closets. Several minutes later, he emerged with a mailing envelope, which he handed to Linda. “I can’t believe I didn’t remember this until just this second. We might not even need all this evidence, hon. I just found a prior will—that leaves everything to ME!”

  He threw his arms around his wife and began to do an odd sort of off-kilter polka with a lot of gusto and absolutely no rhythm.

  Linda reached for the kitchen counter as she spun past it, drained her glass, then Marty’s, and poured herself another. She was clearly celebrating the idea of Livy’s prospective failure. Not only that…she might even have sex tonight.

  Sophie had been in classes for a month when Parents’ Day rolled around. I’d been dreading the day ever since I’d seen it on the calendar; certain the Ashes would arrive brimming with nondysfunctional good cheer, while I would be a total bundle of nerves. I took an extra yoga class the day before, and even tried meditating, but all I could focus on as I endeavored to free my mind was the tension I was feeling about Parents’ Day.

  A stunning Indian summer day bathed the Clarendon campus in golden light. The air could not have smelled sweeter; the aroma of freshly mowed lawns hanging in the air as if to assure the world that spring training was just around the corner. Shortly after lunch the Ashes showed up at our appointed meeting place just inside the student union.

  “How’s my baby doll!” He enveloped Sophie in a bear hug.

  I’m not very good at blending into the shadows, no matter how much my psyche wants to send me there. While Sophie and Glenn were embracing I strode across the room and extended my hand to Joy. “Good to see you again!” I bent down to give the sparrow of a woman a hug.

  “Goodness, you are tall! Joy exclaimed. “I hadn’t really noticed it that morning at brunch. I told you our slugger must get it from somewhere,” she said over her shoulder to Glenn, who came over to say hello, pumping my hand with enthusiasm.

  He turned back to Sophie. “So, kiddo, we never get to hear what’s up with you anymore. Are you dating anyone this semester?”

  “I’ve been focusing on my classes,” she said.

  “Well, don’t forget, all work and no play makes Jill a dull girl,” said Glenn unhelpfully. I was mortified for Sophie. From his relaxed manner and the warmly casual tone of his voice, undoubtedly he meant well, but it hadn’t quite come out of his mouth that way.

  “I always thought you were going to marry Wilson Peete,” Joy sighed. She turned to me and said, “Wil was Sophie’s high school sweetie.” She sighed again, as though she had been more deeply disappointed by the breakup than Sophie had. “I’ll never know what happened there. There’s nothing like your first love. I wish it could have lasted forever for Sophie like it did for Glenn and me.” Her comment made me want to ask about Sophie, who seemed to have a similar naïveté when it came to men. I’d been worried about her lack of social experience, and now it dawned on me that perhaps the apple hadn’t fallen too far from the tree onto which it had been grafted.

  “I got you guys great seats for the exhibition game,” Sophie said. One thing that gave Clarendon an edge among northeastern schools in turning out pro ballplayers was the ability to practice year-round in Farina Arena, with its retractable dome, an endowment from the multitalented alumnus JoJo Farina, who in his professional heyday had been both a Pirate and a Patriot. In fact the Cheers used the arena for tryouts and training.

  Pointing to Glenn, Sophie told me, “Dad taught me everything I know. About playing ball, anyway. And thanks to you, Mom, I have great handwriting,” she added, looking at Joy.

  Joy looked at me and chuckled uncomfortably. “Well, Sophie, hon, I certainly hope I taught you more than penmanship!”

  I drew in my breath. “What do you say we get out of here and get some fresh air?”

  Under a blue sky worthy of postcard immortality, the trees were a pageant of red and gold. Two by two, we strolled the leaf-strewn campus walks, Sophie ambling ahead with Glenn, and Joy probing me, in the nicest possible way, for my life story. Sophie had already told her that her biological father was a Red Sock.

  “Yes, but I’m afraid we were a mismatched pair.” A limp attempt at levity. We walked in silence, neither of us sure what to ask, afraid we might not want to hear the answer.

  I watched Sophie and Glenn strolling on ahead of us. I was sure he could take care of himself. I hoped that beyond whatever batting tips and defensive fielding maneuvers he had passed along, that he was a good father to her. If he was anything less, I’d have to kill him.

  “And you’re engaged to a skier?”

  “Was.” Skier…ski manufacturer…well, Tom did ski, of course, but not professionally. Clarification required too much explaining, and whenever I thought of him, it was like picking at a scab on my heart. “He thought we’d better call it a day,” I said ruefully. “We met on the slopes at Breckenridge last winter.” My memory drifted to the private lessons he’d given me after the group demonstration had dispersed. I recalled our first kiss—by the ugliest, saddest little tree I’d ever seen, “a Charlie Brown Christmas tree,” I’d called it; our goggles had clunked together and we laughed at how goofy the moment was, when it should have been dreamy and romantic. I remembered how warm his hands always were, no matter how cold it was outside. Warm hands… cold heart? No—I w
ouldn’t let myself go there. Besides, it wasn’t true. I wanted to blame Tom for not sticking with me—us—for not waiting. But there were so many other factors in the mix. He had a site-specific business he couldn’t just up and leave for a year. He hated New York. I used to think sometimes that to Tom, New York = me: but if you hate the city, you hate the girl, because she has its vibe pulsing through her veins.

  “Hey, Soph, wait up!” I turned around just as a sweat-drenched young woman in jogging clothes caught up with us. Her accent was faintly southern.

  Sophie looked up. “Hey, Carleen!” She gave the girl a hug. “Dude, you need a shower. Carleen, meet my bio-mom!”

  “Awesome! So you’re here with Sophie for Parents’ Day, Mrs….?”

  “Livy.” I shook her hand.

  “Livy used to be a burlesque dancer—you know, with the feather boas and stuff. And she was a Vegas showgirl, too.”

  “Dude—that is so awesome!” said Carleen, nodding her head so appreciatively that her blond ponytail flagellated her trapezius. “What do Glenn and Joy think of that?” she asked Sophie.

  “I think they’re keeping most of their opinions to themselves these days. Joy hasn’t met too many people who aren’t, like, suburban vanilla and collect Hummel figurines. Livy, Carleen McLure is the best softball pitcher in Kumquats history!” Sophie exclaimed.

  “Brava, Carleen! Though I’m sorry for you girls that your team is named for a fuzzy fruit.”

  “Not as sorry as we are,” muttered Carleen sourly. “The guys call us the Cum Twats.”

  “Carleen’s on a full scholarship, so you know how awesome a player she is!”

  Awesome. Everything is “awesome.” I wonder what they would say if something were truly awesome.