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Authors: Anne McCaffrey
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divorced friend. Hating him, or the if-I-had-he-might-not-have routine, is a waste of think-energy,” Betty had told me. “You loved him enough once to marry him, so you must have seen something good in the man—remember that! And let the trivia decay. Otherwise, you end up with a fine case of soul-pollution. Which, honey, is a good way to scare off
any
decent chance at remarriage.”
“I don’t want to get married again, Betty,” I’d told her vehemently.
She’d given me a sideways glance and ostentatiously fingered her new wedding band. “Oh yeah? Convince me!”
Betty’d had a singularly dirty divorce (and given me tips on how not to have one), picked herself up, joined a singles club in Westfield, and married a widower with five children. She had four of her own, and they bought a huge house and all got on extremely well.
“Oh, you’re at the I-hate-all-men stage right now,” she’d said. “Can’t blame you. But it passes, lassie, it passes. And then everything and anything in pants stimulates the old sex appeal.” She caught my astonished look and laughed. She was tall and rather gangly, inclined to wear old tweed skirts or blue jeans. “Even this old mare! At least you’re not one of those I-can’t-cope-alone wailers! Soon enough you’ll begin to wish you did have a male around. It’s awfully nice to have a shoulder to cry on when you damned well know you’ve been stupid.”
“Teddie was never cried on.”
“I don’t doubt it,” and she rolled her eyes, for she’d known Teddie rather well. “Which is to your advantage right now. You’ve been used to coping.”
“That doesn’t mean I make the right decisions,” I said, thinking glumly of the horror of an apartment I’d taken. The walls were paper-thin. The next-door neighbors had whining kids and played their stereo so loud that we didn’t need to turn ours on except when their choice of music left a lot to be desired. The apartment had been the best of a bad selection, but I’d been so obsessed with the desire to leave the “matrimonial home” and all its associations that I’d taken the first available accommodation. The twins had been very tolerant, and we’d moved as soon as possible into an old, thick-walled house, newly converted into apartments.
“That doesn’t mean a man will decide right the first time either,” Betty had said in her droll way. “Say, why don’t you join a singles club?”
“Betty!” and I gave her a warning look.
“Honey, you don’t have to
marry
the first man. You’d be a fool if you did. That’s how mistakes get compounded. No, you need to get back into circulation, and by that I mean just seeing a lot of different people, women and men.” Then she regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Your big problem, Rene, will be pleasing yourself for a change.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I mean, don’t try to be what you
think
the guy wants in a woman. Just be yourself.”
“I still don’t understand you.”
She gave me another long, searching look. “What-your-best-friend-had-better-tell-you department,” she said with a sigh. “Now, look, I’m not the only one who thought you were getting the bad end of the stick from Teddie-boy. I
don’t
mean the fact that he was sleeping around. I wanted to bash him in the teeth for the way he’d speak to you. My God, who did he think he was? The Pasha of Persia? And you were too well-mannered to retaliate.” Betty’s breath started to get rough with suppressed anger. “And I
am
taking you to the next meeting at the singles club!”
Betty would have—if it’d meant dragging me all the way—but news of the legacy arrived, and she was jubilant for my sake—and aligned herself with my kids to see that I didn’t back out at the last moment.
“Irishmen are gorgeous.” she told me enthusiastically. “Just what you need to get back into practice.”
In the dead of night, I wondered if she had foreseen someone like Shay Kerrigan. I’d have
any
decent chance at remarriage.”
“I don’t want to get married again, Betty,” I’d told her vehemently.
She’d given me a sideways glance and ostentatiously fingered her new wedding band. “Oh yeah? Convince me!”
Betty’d had a singularly dirty divorce (and given me tips on how not to have one), picked herself up, joined a singles club in Westfield, and married a widower with five children. She had four of her own, and they bought a huge house and all got on extremely well.
“Oh, you’re at the I-hate-all-men stage right now,” she’d said. “Can’t blame you. But it passes, lassie, it passes. And then everything and anything in pants stimulates the old sex appeal.” She caught my astonished look and laughed. She was tall and rather gangly, inclined to wear old tweed skirts or blue jeans. “Even this old mare! At least you’re not one of those I-can’t-cope-alone wailers! Soon enough you’ll begin to wish you did have a male around. It’s awfully nice to have a shoulder to cry on when you damned well know you’ve been stupid.”
“Teddie was never cried on.”
“I don’t doubt it,” and she rolled her eyes, for she’d known Teddie rather well. “Which is to your advantage right now. You’ve been used to coping.”
“That doesn’t mean I make the right decisions,” I said, thinking glumly of the horror of an apartment I’d taken. The walls were paper-thin. The next-door neighbors had whining kids and played their stereo so loud that we didn’t need to turn ours on except when their choice of music left a lot to be desired. The apartment had been the best of a bad selection, but I’d been so obsessed with the desire to leave the “matrimonial home” and all its associations that I’d taken the first available accommodation. The twins had been very tolerant, and we’d moved as soon as possible into an old, thick-walled house, newly converted into apartments.
“That doesn’t mean a man will decide right the first time either,” Betty had said in her droll way. “Say, why don’t you join a singles club?”
“Betty!” and I gave her a warning look.
“Honey, you don’t have to
marry
the first man. You’d be a fool if you did. That’s how mistakes get compounded. No, you need to get back into circulation, and by that I mean just seeing a lot of different people, women and men.” Then she regarded me thoughtfully. ‘Your big problem, Rene, will be pleasing yourself for a change.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I mean, don’t try to be what you
think
the guy wants in a woman. Just be yourself.”
“I still don’t understand you.”
She gave me another long, searching look. “What-your-best-friend-had-better-tell-you department,” she said with a sigh. “Now, look, I’m not the only one who thought you were getting the bad end of the stick from Teddie-boy. I
don’t
mean the fact that he was sleeping around. I wanted to bash him in the teeth for the way he’d speak to you. My God, who did he think he was? The Pasha of Persia? And you were too well-mannered to retaliate.” Betty’s breath started to get rough with suppressed anger. “And I
am
taking you to the next meeting at the singles club!”
Betty would have—if it’d meant dragging me all the way—but news of the legacy arrived, and she was jubilant for my sake—and aligned herself with my kids to see that I didn’t back out at the last moment.
“Irishmen are gorgeous.” she told me enthusiastically. “Just what you need to get back into practice.”
In the dead of night, I wondered if she had foreseen someone like Shay Kerrigan. I’d have
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