Read Online The Pursuit of Happiness (2001) by Douglas Kennedy - Free Book Online
Authors: Douglas Kennedy
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won’t spend another night alone at your mom’s apartment.’
‘I’m ahead of you on that one.’
‘Glad to hear it. Because I was starting to worry that you might turn into some deranged Tennessee Williams character. Putting on Mommy’s wedding dress. Drinking neat bourbon. Saying stuff like, ‘His name was Beauregard, and he was the married boy who broke my heart …’
She cut herself off. ‘Oh sweetheart,’ she said. ‘I am one dumb big mouth.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said.
‘Sometimes I just don’t know when to shut the hell up.’
‘It’s a Malone family trait.’
‘I’m so damn sorry, Katie …’
‘Enough. I’ve forgotten about it already.’
‘I’m going to go say three acts of contrition.’
‘Whatever makes you happy. I’ll call you later, okay?’
I refilled my coffee cup, and returned to the big cushy sofa. I downed half the coffee, then parked the mug on the table and stretched out, putting the heels of my hands against my eyes, in an effort to black out everything.
His name was Beauregard, and he was the married boy who broke my heart …
Actually, his name was Peter. Peter Harrison. He was the guy I was with before meeting Matt. He also happened to be my boss. And he was married.
Let’s get something straight here. I am not a natural romantic. I do not swoon easily. I do not fall head-over-heels at the drop of a dime. I spent most of my four years at Smith without a boyfriend (though I did have the occasional fling whenever I felt in need of some body heat). When I hit New York after college - and picked up a temporary job at an advertising agency (an alleged one-month gig which accidentally turned into a so-called career) - I was never short of male company. But several of the mistakes I’d slept with during my twenties accused me of First Degree Aloofness. It wasn’t that I was a cool customer. It was just that I had not met anyone about whom I could feel truly, madly, deeply passionate.
Until I met Peter Harrison.
Oh, I was so stupid. Oh, it was all so damn predictable. I was edging towards my mid-thirties. I had just joined a new agency - Harding, Tyrell and Barney. Peter Harrison hired me. He was forty-two. Married. Two kids. Handsome (of course). Smart as hell. For the first month at the office, there was this curious unspoken thing going on between us; a sense that we were both aware of each other’s presence. When we did meet - in the corridors, in the elevator, once at a departmental meeting - we were perfectly pleasant with each other. Yet there was an undercurrent of nervousness to our trivial chat. We became shy around each other. And neither of us was, by any means, the shy type.
Then he poked his head into my office late one afternoon. He asked me out for a drink. We repaired around the corner to a little bar. As soon as we started talking we couldn’t stop. We talked for two hours - gabbing away like people destined to be gabbing to each other. We connected, spliced, fused. When he eventually threaded his fingers through mine, and said, Let’s get out of here, I had no second thoughts on the matter. By that point, I wanted him so desperately I would have jumped him right there in the bar.
Only much later that night - lying next to him in bed, telling him just how much I’d fallen for him (and hearing him admit the same to me) - did I raise the one question which I hadn’t wanted to ask earlier. He told me that there wasn’t anything terribly wrong between his wife, Jane, and himself. They’d been together eleven years. They were reasonably compatible. They loved their girls. They had a nice life. But a nice life doesn’t mean a passionate life. That part of the marriage had ebbed away years ago.
I asked him, ‘Then why not accept its cozy limitations?’
‘I had, sort of,’ he said. ‘Until I met you.’
‘And now?’
He pulled me closer. ‘Now I’m not going to let you go.’
That’s how it started. For the next year, he
‘I’m ahead of you on that one.’
‘Glad to hear it. Because I was starting to worry that you might turn into some deranged Tennessee Williams character. Putting on Mommy’s wedding dress. Drinking neat bourbon. Saying stuff like, ‘His name was Beauregard, and he was the married boy who broke my heart …’
She cut herself off. ‘Oh sweetheart,’ she said. ‘I am one dumb big mouth.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said.
‘Sometimes I just don’t know when to shut the hell up.’
‘It’s a Malone family trait.’
‘I’m so damn sorry, Katie …’
‘Enough. I’ve forgotten about it already.’
‘I’m going to go say three acts of contrition.’
‘Whatever makes you happy. I’ll call you later, okay?’
I refilled my coffee cup, and returned to the big cushy sofa. I downed half the coffee, then parked the mug on the table and stretched out, putting the heels of my hands against my eyes, in an effort to black out everything.
His name was Beauregard, and he was the married boy who broke my heart …
Actually, his name was Peter. Peter Harrison. He was the guy I was with before meeting Matt. He also happened to be my boss. And he was married.
Let’s get something straight here. I am not a natural romantic. I do not swoon easily. I do not fall head-over-heels at the drop of a dime. I spent most of my four years at Smith without a boyfriend (though I did have the occasional fling whenever I felt in need of some body heat). When I hit New York after college - and picked up a temporary job at an advertising agency (an alleged one-month gig which accidentally turned into a so-called career) - I was never short of male company. But several of the mistakes I’d slept with during my twenties accused me of First Degree Aloofness. It wasn’t that I was a cool customer. It was just that I had not met anyone about whom I could feel truly, madly, deeply passionate.
Until I met Peter Harrison.
Oh, I was so stupid. Oh, it was all so damn predictable. I was edging towards my mid-thirties. I had just joined a new agency - Harding, Tyrell and Barney. Peter Harrison hired me. He was forty-two. Married. Two kids. Handsome (of course). Smart as hell. For the first month at the office, there was this curious unspoken thing going on between us; a sense that we were both aware of each other’s presence. When we did meet - in the corridors, in the elevator, once at a departmental meeting - we were perfectly pleasant with each other. Yet there was an undercurrent of nervousness to our trivial chat. We became shy around each other. And neither of us was, by any means, the shy type.
Then he poked his head into my office late one afternoon. He asked me out for a drink. We repaired around the corner to a little bar. As soon as we started talking we couldn’t stop. We talked for two hours - gabbing away like people destined to be gabbing to each other. We connected, spliced, fused. When he eventually threaded his fingers through mine, and said, Let’s get out of here, I had no second thoughts on the matter. By that point, I wanted him so desperately I would have jumped him right there in the bar.
Only much later that night - lying next to him in bed, telling him just how much I’d fallen for him (and hearing him admit the same to me) - did I raise the one question which I hadn’t wanted to ask earlier. He told me that there wasn’t anything terribly wrong between his wife, Jane, and himself. They’d been together eleven years. They were reasonably compatible. They loved their girls. They had a nice life. But a nice life doesn’t mean a passionate life. That part of the marriage had ebbed away years ago.
I asked him, ‘Then why not accept its cozy limitations?’
‘I had, sort of,’ he said. ‘Until I met you.’
‘And now?’
He pulled me closer. ‘Now I’m not going to let you go.’
That’s how it started. For the next year, he
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