Excerpt of Meet Me In Manhattan by Judith Arnold

Chapter One

RELAX, ERIKA TOLD HERSELF. IT'S JUST TED.

Standing in the drizzle on a busy SoHo corner outside Fanelli's Cafe, Erika Fredell acknowledged that there had never been anything just about Ted. And ordering herself to relax didn't make her nerves stop twitching. She'd raced here from the gym after working out, showering, and blow-drying her hair—a lot of good that did, since it was raining—and putting on some make-up so she'd look good, even though it was just Ted she was meeting. Fanelli's was only a few blocks from the gym, and she'd covered those blocks at a trot in an effort not to be too late. Halfway there, she'd realized that she'd left her wallet at home.

Relax. Yeah, right. She was really relaxed, she thought with a sarcastic laugh.

Fanelli's had been a good choice for her reunion with Ted. A bright yet cozy establishment, the one-time speakeasy attracted a cross-section of patrons: artists, professionals, locals, anyone who preferred a good hamburger and a cheap beer to pretentious ambience and inflated prices. It was her kind of place.

Sixteen years had passed since she and Ted had been a couple, and she no longer knew whether Fanelli's was his kind of place, or, for that matter, what his kind of place was. But he was inside the neighborhood pub right now, waiting for her—assuming he wasn't running even later than she was. She was supposed to have arrived half an hour ago, but time had slipped away from her. Maybe he'd given up and left already, figuring she'd chickened out. Maybe he'd concluded that she'd stood him up, that she was only going to break his heart again.

Oh, please. That had been so long ago. Teenagers' hearts got broken all the time. Then teenagers grew up, their hearts healed, and they moved on. If Ted hadn't grown up, healed and moved on, he wouldn't have contacted her out of the blue and suggested that they meet for a drink.

She gave herself three seconds to check her reflection in the rain-streaked window beneath Fanelli's red neon sign, adjusted the stylish chunky necklace circling her throat above the scooped neckline of her tank top, then decided what the hell and entered the pub. Anxious last-minute fussing wasn't going to improve her appearance. She looked how she looked. Sixteen years older. Her hair was long again, the way she'd worn it in high school. Not the short, playful style she'd been wearing when they'd had that painful, awkward meeting at the airport in Denver, after she'd started college. Back then, she'd been pretty sure he hadn't liked her short hairdo. Back then, she hadn't cared what he thought. She'd wanted a new look to mark the start of a new phase of her life. No more New Jersey. No more high school. No more horses.

No more Ted.

But now her hair was once again long. She wondered if this time he would be the one who didn't care. She wondered why she cared whether he cared.

She commanded herself to get a grip. She reminded herself that she and Ted were two old friends who happened to have both landed in New York City and were meeting for a drink on a drizzly June evening. They weren't ex-lovers. They weren't high school sweethearts. They were grown-ups, living their own lives. Nothing more. She had no reason to be nervous.

Right. Tell that to her stomach, which at the moment was performing acrobatics like an Olympics gymnast hoping to score a ten.

Inhaling deeply for fortitude, she squared her shoulders, pushed the door open and stepped inside. A wave of raucous chatter washed over her; every person in the place seemed to be talking at once. And there were a hell of a lot of people crowding the tables and hovering near the bar. Maybe the boisterous crowd would buffer them, diluting the intensity of their meeting.

Not that it would be intense. Just two old friends meeting for a drink.

She surveyed the room but didn't see him. A waitress tried to stop her as she worked her way through the crowd, but she mumbled something about meeting a friend—"An old friend," she'd said because defining her and Ted as old friends soothed her bristling nerves—and then she spotted him, seated at the far end of the bar, a glass of beer in his hand.

He looked terrific. Damn it.

He'd always looked terrific, of course. But he'd changed so much from the lanky, gangly boy she'd been infatuated with that summer after high school. He was still lean and muscular, but more solid. His face had filled in a little. His dark hair was shorter, the tumble of curls tamed, and he'd acquired enough facial hair to grow legitimate, neatly trimmed sideburns. In his preppy cords and collared polo shirt, he looked crisp and fresh, impervious to the sultry heat of New York City in June.

He must have seen her the instant she saw him. His eyes widened, his smile widened, and he tilted his head slightly. She strode the length of the bar, spotting the empty stool next to him, and slid onto it. Bar stools at Fanelli's were at a premium, especially on a busy night like this. She wondered if he'd had to fight people off to save it for her. He'd always been a scrapper in high school, willing to fight if he had to. More than willing, sometimes.

But maybe he hadn't fought to save the stool for her. Maybe it had been vacated only a moment ago. Maybe some other woman had been sitting with him. A beautiful woman. Erika was so late, he might have chosen to make the most of her absence.

The notion shouldn't have bothered Erika. They were old friends meeting for a drink, after all. Not old, mature. Surely she was a great deal more mature than she'd been the summer she'd spent mooning and swooning over him, and trying to figure out what love was all about.

"Hey," he greeted her, then shook his head. "Wow."

"I know. Wow," she responded, wondering whether they were wow-ing the fact that they'd both landed in the same city, or that they were both sitting at the same bar, or that after all this time, all these years, there they were, face to face. Her wow reflected her opinion of how fantastic he looked, but she wasn't about to tell him that.

So there they were. Were they supposed to hug? Air-kiss? It occurred to her that if they were truly old—or mature—friends, she would know what to do. But the truth slapped her in the face. Sixteen years after Ted had told her he wanted her out of his life for good and forever, they could never be just friends any more than he could ever be just Ted.

Her stomach executed a vault worthy of a gold medal. "Listen," she said, smiling nervously. "I know it's been forever since I've seen you, but I don't have any money on me." Oh, God, she thought, I am such an ass. And a nervous wreck, even though this is just Ted.

He grinned. "Don't worry about it. We'll be fine."

She managed to smile and prayed he wouldn't notice how flustered she was—even more flustered because he seemed so damned calm and collected. He gestured toward the bartender, then thought to ask Erika, "You want a drink?"

God, yes. The bartender moseyed over, gaunt and fashionable, emanating unemployed-actor vibes like eighty percent of the servers in New York. Rather than have Ted order for her—that would imply something other than friendship—Erika requested a beer. If Ted was drinking Budweiser, she would drink Bud, too.

The bartender turned to Ted. "You ready for a refill?" he asked, nodding toward Ted's glass.

Ted appraised his glass and shook his head. "Not yet," he said, then took a drink. He set his glass down and Erika watched the residue of foam drip down its sloping sides. For some reason, it was easier than looking at Ted.

"So," he said. "How are you?"

She laughed, partly to shake off her tension, partly because the question was so banal, and partly because she wasn't sure how to answer. How was she now? How had she been last year, or five years ago, or ten? How had she been the day she'd left New Jersey for Colorado? The day she'd seen him in the airport? The day he'd told her he would never love her again?

"I'm fine," she said. "And you?"

"I'm also fine." He grinned. "Thank God we got that over with."

Okay. Maybe this wouldn't be too awkward, after all. Maybe they'd be able to chat—not like old times, but like two people who shared some pleasant memories. If they could both chuckle about the awkwardness between them and the stilted start of their reunion, she could survive this encounter.

She'd survive it a lot better if she had her beer. "I'm sorry I'm late," she said. "I hope you didn't have to wait too long."

He shrugged as if to reassure her that her tardiness was unimportant, then gestured toward the crowd mobbing the front room. "I had to fend off hundreds of people to hang onto that stool."

"Hundreds?"

"I'm lying. It was really thousands."

She smiled. All those years ago, she'd fallen in love with his sense of humor as much as his intensity, his energy, his native intelligence, his sexy green eyes and his mop of tousled curls. The curls were gone, but he still exuded intensity and energy. And his eyes were still terribly sexy.

Her smile grew pensive. In sixteen years, she'd never met another man who could make her feel the way Ted had once made her feel. She was fine with that. She loved her life. She wasn't one of those desperate thirty-something single women, willing to settle for any guy just so she could get a ring on her finger. She'd never fallen in love after she'd ended things with Ted, and she'd never felt that this was a tragic deficit in her life.

But . . . being Ted's girlfriend all those years ago had been sweet.

"How's your family?" she asked, deliberately steering her thoughts in a new direction.

The bartender materialized in front of them with her drink, and Ted waited until he was gone before answering. "They're good," he reported. "My folks are still up in Maine."

"Your dad always loved it up there," Erika recalled.

"Yeah. East Machias." He shrugged. "Most older people head south to Florida when they retire. I guess those New Jersey winters just weren't cold enough for my parents."

"And your brothers?"

"Still obnoxious," he joked. "They're all good. Married, raising families, doing the usual stuff. My sister's hanging in there, too. How's your family?"

"They're doing well." Erika recalled how in awe she'd been of Ted's big, boisterous family. Four boys! She'd always felt kind of sorry for Ted's absurdly outnumbered younger sister, although she supposed a girl with four older brothers boasted a certain cachet. The Skalas had lived in Chester, a small town on the rural outskirts of Mendham, in an antique house that had once been the site of a cemetery, according to Ted. He'd insisted the place was haunted. She imagined that any creaks and thumps heard in that house were most likely caused by five athletic kids storming up and down the stairs.

"And work?" he asked. "What are you doing to pay the rent these days?"

"As a matter of fact, I just got a new job with one of the big international banks."

"Yeah? Doing what?"

"I'm—" she hoped he wouldn't think she was bragging "—a vice president."

He looked not surprised nor impressed but oddly satisfied. "You were always so smart. I figured you'd be running the world by now."

"It's a job," she said, which it was. A good job, a high-paying job, a prestige job. She'd been excited enough when she landed the position to splurge on a Cartier watch for herself, and she'd booked a celebratory vacation trip to St. Bart's. She'd felt powerful, successful, proud to be a vice president at a major financial corporation.

But as she was learning, even a VP at a huge financial company could feel wobbly and anxious sitting at a bar next to her first boyfriend sixteen years after they'd broken up, after they'd broken each other's hearts. No exalted title or humongous salary could change that. "How about you?"

"I work at East River Marketing."

"Doing what?"

He gave her a smug grin and lifted his beer. "I'm a vice president," he said before drinking.

A warm bouquet of emotions flowered inside her. Delight that he'd achieved so much, because back in high school he hadn't been all that ambitious. Pride that he'd risen so high without—at least, the last she'd heard—a college degree. Relief that he wouldn't find her own fancy title intimidating. Bewilderment that she should feel relieved.

"Are you still doing art?" she asked.

"Well, there's some art involved. I'm in charge of design and production. I design environments that reflect the clients' brands. We try to find intuitive ways to brand the client, subliminal ways to communicate what the client is all about to the customers they're trying to reach. It's pretty creative."

"You were always such a talented artist."

At that he scoffed modestly. "I drew cartoons."

"Wonderful cartoons. And other things, too. Gorgeous stuff." She almost blurted out that she'd saved every drawing he'd ever given her. But she wasn't entirely sure why she'd saved them, and she decided it was best to avoid that subject. "You were very talented," she assured him. "Obviously, you still are."

He shrugged. "I finally found a job that can hold my interest. It's fun. Every day I'm doing something different. I can't get bored. They throw money at me and treat me like a god."

"Really." It was her turn to scoff.

"Well, they put up with me."

"They must be very tolerant."

He accepted her ribbing with a good-natured grin. "It's a great job. All these years, I finally found what I was meant to do."

"I knew you weren't meant to pump gas," she said, then bit her lip. She shouldn't have mentioned his old summer job. He might think she was condescending or contemptuous of the work he'd done. He might think back to that romantic summer after high school, and how it had ended, how they had ended.

If her comment bothered him, he didn't let on. "You're looking great, Erika," he said. He leaned toward her and an odd shiver of excitement seized her, but then she realized he was only reaching for his beer. His eyes never leaving her, he took a sip and lowered his glass. "It's obvious life is treating you well."

"I can't complain."

"Do you still ride?"

"Horses?" She sighed. "Not often. I just don't have the time to commit to it."

He opened his mouth and then shut it without speaking. What had he been about to say? Something about time, perhaps? Something about commitment?

She might have explained that she was a perfectionist, that to ride the way she'd ridden during her competitive days would entail more effort than she could devote to the sport. As a child and a teenager, she'd spent every spare minute she wasn't doing schoolwork at the stables, training. She'd been good. Better than good. Her parents still had all her ribbons and trophies stored in their house—enough ribbons and trophies to fill several shelves. She'd qualified for Nationals. She'd ridden in the Meadowlands and at Madison Square Garden. For her, riding hadn't been just a girlie thing. It had been her life, her one true passion . . . until she'd started dating Ted.

Now, she was doing other things, pursuing other passions . . .although, for the life of her, she wasn't sure what those passions might be. The job she'd just landed was a major score, but it wasn't her passion. How could high-stress paper-pushing at a financial company be anybody's passion?

"So," he said with disconcerting nonchalance, "are you seeing anyone?"

She imitated his casual tone when she replied, "I'm seeing lots of people." Which was both true and false. In Fanelli's alone, she could see several dozen people.

She knew what Ted was asking, of course. And sure, she was seeing people. No one for whom the word passion would be relevant. She'd pretty much given up on finding her soul mate; she no longer believed such a person existed. And she was all right with that.

Dating was fun. Sex could be, on occasion, even more fun. She'd like to have a child someday, and she supposed she'd need a man for that. Or a sperm bank. She could easily imagine herself feeling passionate about motherhood.

"No one serious, huh," Ted said.

She shook her head. "How about you?"

He hesitated, and she felt a sudden, painful spasm in the vicinity of her heart. It shouldn't bother her that Ted was involved with someone—just as she shouldn't have been nervous about seeing him at all. They were old friends, she reminded herself. Old friends rejoiced in one another's good fortune when one of them found true love.

The tiny pang of regret, or envy, or whatever it was she was experiencing, was just a vestigial thing, a remnant of nostalgic memory of their long-dead romance.

"I'm sort of . . . well, yeah," he said.

Curiosity mixed with the regret, envy and other unidentifiable emotions spinning through her. Who was he seeing? What was she like? Gorgeous? Blond? Blessed with big boobs? She smothered her curiosity. Honestly, she'd rather not know.

"Good," she said with what she hoped was a friendly smile. An old friends smile.

"I don't know where she and I are headed," he went on, then shrugged. "But we've been together a while, so . . ."

"You're a great catch," Erika said, meaning it. "She's a lucky woman."

He flashed her another bright smile. "Thanks."

"Girls always loved you. You were so adorable."

"Oh, yeah." He laughed. "That's me. Adorable." His smile faded and he took several long swallows of beer, draining his glass. "This has been great, Fred, but I'm afraid I've got to hit the road."

That he'd called her "Fred"—his old nickname for her, a play on her last name—touched her. That he so abruptly announced that he had to leave touched her in a different, colder way. She would have been happy to sit talking with him some more. Not about the lucky woman who'd snared him, but about other things. About how he'd spent the last sixteen years of his life. About whether he valued the same things now that he did then, whether he still listened to Phish and Fleetwood Mac, whether he still thought donkeys were cuter than horses.

Her glass was nearly half full, but this encounter was over. It was good-bye time. A few long swallows drained the last of the beer from the glass. "This has been great," she said as she lowered her glass. "Thanks so much for the drink."

"My pleasure."

"I'm glad you got in touch." Shut up, Erika It's good-bye time.

"I'm glad I did, too." He caught the bartender's eye, and he hustled over and asked if they wanted to order another round. Ted declined, placed a few bills on the bar next to his empty glass and stood. "Maybe we can do this again sometime," he said.

"That would be nice." Erika wondered if he would have stayed longer if they hadn't ventured onto the subject of seeing other people. She wondered if his sudden desire to leave had to do with his current lover. She wondered why she was wondering. She wondered why she even cared. She wondered if old friends no longer described what they were to each other. Former friends might be more accurate. Former more-than-friends.

"I'm glad you were free," he added once he'd escorted her through the crowd and out onto Prince Street. "Both of us working in Manhattan now . . . How could we not get together?"

"Absolutely." The rain was coming down a little harder now, cool drops dancing across her cheeks and settling into her hair.

"It was good seeing you."

"You, too," she said, convinced at that moment that she meant it. It was good seeing how he'd turned out. That long-ago summer they'd been together, he'd seemed so aimless, so unmotivated. No plans for college. No career goals. He'd wanted only one thing in life back then: her.

And he couldn't have her. As rhapsodic as their relationship had been, she couldn't stand to be the one single goal in an eighteen-year-old boy's life. She'd wanted so many other things: a college degree, travel, adventures, experience. To have given up all her dreams and ambitions because Ted loved her and wanted her to be his wife would have killed her.

Killed them both, probably. Or, like so many ill-prepared teenagers who'd married too young, they might well have wound up wanting to kill each other.

Prince Street was even more crowded than when she'd arrived at Fanelli's. Despite the summer rain, people filled the sidewalks, strolling, pub-crawling, flirting, on their way to a restaurant or an off-off Broadway performance or a gallery opening. Or they were just hanging out, gossiping, grabbing a smoke, gazing at one another with invitations in their eyes.

Erika was on her way nowhere and extending no invitations. She just wanted to leave, get away, go home. She felt a headache taking shape behind her eyes, blossoming in her temples.

"So," Ted said.

"Thanks again for the drink," she said. "And for getting in touch. This was lovely." She'd never been a good liar, and she worried that he'd be able to see right through her words to the truth, which was that it hadn't been lovely at all.

If he guessed she was lying, he didn't call her on it. He appeared pensive, lost in his own thoughts. "Yeah, well." He smiled, a crooked, tentative curve of his lips, then wrapped her in a quick hug. She caught a whiff of his scent—clean, spicy, irrefutably male—and felt the warmth of his embrace for a moment too brief to measure. And then he released her. "Take care, Erika," he said.

"You, too." She managed one more bright, cheery, utterly phony old-friends smile for him, then pivoted on her heel and strolled down the sidewalk, weaving among the milling pedestrians, picking her way around the puddles, refusing to look back.

She made it all the way around the corner with her head held high and that fake smile frozen on her lips. Then, in the shadow of a brownstone, her smile collapsed. The sky wept on her, big, cool raindrops. And she started to sob.