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It had started off to be a fine day, until he got to work and looked at his calendar. Harry had somehow managed to forget all about the singles mixer at the synagogue … and not quite to forget about the woman who had worked to set it up. At least he had almost managed not to think about the sweetness of her smile and the scent of her hair and how much he missed her in his bed and everywhere else in his life.
He squashed the urge to rip the calendar off the wall and sat down to a desk piled with paperwork. He wasn't going to the stupid mixer anyway; he didn't even know why he'd put it on the calendar. You couldn't pay him enough to show up to that thing.
Charlotte would be there, though. Harry put the paper he'd been not reading back on the stack and leaned back in his chair, groaning. He told himself he didn't care. He did not care that Charlotte would be there.
Except that he would have bet a whole lot of money that she'd give up Judaism when they broke up. But she hadn't; instead, she had thrown herself into work at the synagogue with all the considerable enthusiasm she possessed. He admired that about her, and it made him think maybe he had misjudged her.
She had been crazy that night of her first shabbas, screaming at him, and the things she'd said … he couldn't forget them. But there was part of him that said he—well, he hadn't deserved it, but maybe he'd contributed. Comfortable with his own relationship with Judaism, he hadn't given her approach, her determination, her … sincerity enough credit. He hadn't realized she really meant it. He should have known better; should have understood her better.
Maybe he should go to the thing tonight and tell her that. After all, they went to the same synagogue, they were bound to run into each other eventually. It'd be better to see her on purpose than to bump into her unexpectedly. At least if he knew in advance he could prepare himself.
Even as he considered the idea, he couldn't help remembering what she had said, the way she had said it. He dropped his face into his hands, the words as painful now as they had been the night she said them. Could he stand to look at her, knowing what she thought of him? What she'd thought of him all along?
No. He would work late, go home and get some takeout, watch the game. By himself. That would show her.
But she would be there at the mixer, smiling her sweet smile at someone else. She might meet someone else, and show up with him at temple, and then where would he be? Alone with duck sauce on his tie.
And why wasn't she with someone else already, anyway? Harry had to admit, after their argument, he had thought maybe she was only in it to get married again, that the whole rush to convert had simply been to land another wedding ring and another "Mrs." at the beginning of her name. He would have expected her to go fishing for another guy, a better-looking one with better manners, better pedigree. That David guy, for example, seemed like her type. More than Harry had ever been, which was, after all, the point of that last argument.
That she had dated, he knew. The older women of the synagogue made it a point to talk about Charlotte's dating life in front of him. Like it was his fault she was single! If they knew what she had said to him …
But he would never have told them; and he was fair enough to be sure that Charlotte hadn't spoken to them about it. That was just the way they were—women stuck together, in Harry's experience. He wondered what she had told Carrie and Miranda and Samantha, if she had explained to them what had happened, or if she had let them think he was the one who had been at fault.
She couldn't think he was, could she? She had to know that what she had said was beyond the pale, more than any man could sit still for.
Why hadn't he taken the time to make it more special for her, though? There he was, sitting there like a schmuck, watching a ballgame that hadn't even mattered in the standings, while she was changing her whole life to make him happy. Well, really not even him—to make his dead mother happy. And he couldn't even turn the TV off for a single meal? Maybe it had been his fault. Maybe he would go tonight and he would apologize.
In the bathroom mirror, he looked at himself, seeing himself with her eyes. He was bald, with bad teeth, and a short, mushed-up face. His face was short? He was short. Nothing like tall, dark, and romantic Dr. MacDougal. Of course, he would never have shut her out like Dr. tall, dark, and romantic, either. All the time they were dating, when he was wondering what she saw in him, that was what he kept telling himself, that she saw that he would never hurt her.
Well, he had hurt her, hadn't he? They'd hurt each other. But he was the one who had left, walked out and closed the door and locked it behind him, never even gave her a chance to apologize. She'd been wearing herself to a frazzle, pushing herself through the conversion process, and then she got there, gave up her beliefs for his, and he had acted like a schmuck, hadn't even appreciated everything she'd done for him.
Damn it. He would go to the stupid mixer; he owed her at least a face-to-face meeting, a chance to explain herself, and in the presence of half the single population of the temple, they would have to talk rationally. Yes, that was it. He would go so they could talk …
Would they talk? Would they end up screaming at each other again in the middle of everyone? Or, better and worse, would she be too beautiful, too sexy, and would he find himself begging her to come back to him? He thought of the ring, still sitting in its pristine box in his desk drawer. He should have returned it by now, but to return it would be to admit once and for all that he had been the biggest schmuck in all five boroughs, that he had fallen for a dream that hadn't loved him back.
But she had loved him. He was sure of that. No matter what she thought when she was deep in her head, deep in her own fantasies of the future, she had loved him when they were together. She had been happy, and free, and sometimes silly, and thoughtful and intelligent … everything he had ever wanted in a woman, and beautiful besides. He couldn't have been wrong about that.
Opening the drawer, Harry popped the box open and watched the ring sparkle for a few minutes. It was time to stop looking at it, he told himself. Time to get it out of his drawer, and her off his mind, once and for all. He snapped the box closed and put it in his pocket.
He would go to the mixer tonight; he would talk to Charlotte. He would see how he felt and what she said, and by the time he left he would know if breaking up with her had been just in time to save them both a lot of misery—or the worst mistake of his life.
Harry wandered through the room full of singles, nodding politely to people who said hello, but he wasn't in the mood for chit-chat. And he didn't want anyone to tell him about Charlotte. She was sure to be here—he wanted to see her for himself, to gauge his own reaction, and hers, for himself.
He tried to be subtle about it, not to crane his neck and stare, not to stand up on his toes and scan the room looking for her.
Then a group of people passed in front of him and across the space they left, he saw her. And she saw him. Her head tilted, and a small smile crossed her face.
Harry's heart thudded painfully against his ribcage. He had forgotten she was this beautiful. As she walked toward him, he put his drink down—his hands were shaking so that he was afraid he might spill it—and he shoved his hands in his pockets to keep from reaching for her.
She smiled again, but it was a thin, brittle smile. Charlotte looked as though she might burst into tears at any moment.
To lighten the mood, Harry said, "Out of all the synagogues in all the cities, you had to walk into mine."
"Harry."
"How you been?" She looked … well, she was gorgeous as always, but she looked tired, too. And sad.
She shook her head, obviously fighting back tears as she said, "Not good." Charlotte met his eyes. "I miss you."
Harry looked away. It was what he had wanted—craved—to hear, but if he listened, would it just be the same thing all over again?
Charlotte kept going, the words flooding out of her as though she couldn't stop, now that she had started. "And being away from you just made it all the more clear how much I love you."
She didn't have to say that; she shouldn't say that. Because she was making him think there was a chance, making him hope … "Charlotte," he said, trying to stop her, but she wouldn't be stopped.
Putting a hand up, she said, "Wait. Just … let me finish. I don't care if you ever marry me. I just want to be with you. I would be lucky to have you."
God, he loved her. To be standing here in front of her, hearing her say these things … Harry clutched the ring box in his pocket. He wanted this—wanted her—more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. Could he let her go because one day she had gone crazy and snapped with the tension? She wasn't crazy right now; she was his Charlotte at her sweetest and most honest.
Charlotte took a deep breath, working up her courage, but she was losing the fight against her tears. "So, if you could find some way to forgive me, if you could just call me , or … just … ask me out again?" She couldn't go on without crying, and her eyes were bright and hopeful and scared all at once.
He hadn't even let himself dream of this moment, but he knew it now that it was here. He never wanted to lose her again. Slowly, Harry shook his head. "Well, that's not good enough," he said.
Charlotte's eyes flooded with the tears she had tried to hold back, and she bit her lip to keep from losing control.
Harry reached for her hand and got down on one knee, smiling at her as he watched the clouds in her face clear when she realized what was happening. "Charlotte York," he said.
She was smiling now, shifting from foot to foot, unable to keep still in her happiness.
"Will you marry me?"
Charlotte nodded, smiling, laughing a little. "Yes. Yes, I'll marry you," she said through her tears.
Harry got to his feet and took her in his arms, still not quite sure if this was real—but if it wasn't, he hoped he never woke up.