Carole Buck - Resolved To

“I don’t do that.”

The ex-used car salesman eyed her curiously for a few moments, plainly taken aback by the sharpness of her assertion. Lucy shifted uneasily, wishing she’d kept quiet.

“You don’t?” he finally asked.

An echo reached Lucy across the distance of eleven years. Words from her wedding night. Words that were etched in her brain. Imprinted on her heart.

I think we should make a resolution.

A resolution?

To live happily ever after.

Together?

Absolutely.

“Not...anymore,” she clarified, tempering her tone and disciplining her features to hide the pain she was feeling. No matter that the passage of time was supposed to heal all wounds. It still hurt to remember how she and Chris had toasted the resolution she’d proposed. How they’d pledged their mutual love with words and deeds.

They’d made a beautiful, beautiful beginning together. But where had they ended up, a little more than twelve months later? In divorce court, citing irreconcilable differences!

“Yeah, well, I can understand that, too.” Jimmy gave a little chuckle. “I’ve got this photocopied list I haul out once a year and read over. I’ve had it—gosh, I don’t know—a decade, easy. It’s the usual stuff. Lose weight. Get more exercise. Start putting money away for retirement.”

Lucy forced a smile. “Those are all good things to resolve.”

“Must be, considering I keep resolving ‘em over and over.” Another chuckle. “Anyway. If you really want to spend tonight all by your lonesome, that’s your privilege. But I’m taking the family downtown to watch the Big Peach drop at midnight, and if you’d like to come along—”

“Thanks for the offer, but I’m really looking forward to having a quiet evening in.”

“Are you sure? You’re more than welcome to join us.”

“I’m positive.”

Jimmy hesitated, seeming to debate whether to shift into his pitchman mode. “Okay,” he finally said, apparently persuaded by something in her expression that this was one sale he wasn’t going to make. “It’s your call. I, uh, guess I’ll go check on how Wayne’s doing with aliens.”

“Don’t make any more bargains with the Fuzziewhatsises.”

“The Fungocians. And I won’t.”

“See you next year, Jimmy.”

“Count on it, Lucy.”

Two

Chris Banks sat on the edge of the king-size bed in his hotel suite, staring at the telephone. He was contemplating what he knew was either the second-best or the second-worst idea he’d ever had in his life, and the circumstances that had brought him to the point of acting upon it.

Do it, Banks, he told himself. Just...do it.

He reached for the receiver.

Picked it up.

Pressed nine to get an outside line.

Then, meticulously, he punched out the seven-digit telephone number that he’d gotten from directory assistance less than a week ago.

One ring.

He hadn’t known where his ex-wife was living when he began exploring the possibility of becoming the executive legal counsel for an Atlanta-based philanthropic foundation. He’d picked up that information during a wholly unplanned—and not particularly pleasant—pre-Christmas encounter with Lucy’s former maid of honor, Tina Roberts.

It had happened at the perfume counter of one of Chicago’s biggest department stores. He’d been doing some last-minute holiday shopping.

“Can I help you?” a nasal female voice had inquired.

“I hope so,” he’d answered wryly, looking up from the mind-boggling display of fragrances he’d been examining. He’d felt a jolt of recognition as he focused on the saleswoman who’d addressed him. “Tina?” he’d blurted out. “Tina ... Roberts?”

The woman had stared at him. She hadn’t spoken.

It was Tina, he’d thought. She’d been about fifty pounds heavier and considerably blonder than the last time he saw her, but it was definitely she.

“You...probably don’t remember me,” he’d said after a few awkward seconds, debating whether to extend his hand. Something in Tina’s artfully lined eyes had warned him that it would more likely be snapped off than shaken. He’d opted for self-preservation over politesse and kept his hand by his side. “It’s been quite a while. I’m Christopher Banks. I used to be married to—”

Two rings.

“I know who you are.” The response had been curt. “And my name’s Tina Palucci now. What are you doing here? I heard you lived in New York.”

“I do.” He’d been startled by the fact that someone from Lucy’s neighborhood circle had apparently been keeping tabs on his whereabouts. He’d left Chicago for a clerkship in Washington shortly after his divorce was finalized. He’d then moved on to the partnership track of a well-known law firm in Manhattan. “I’m back visiting my family for a few days.”

“Oh. Right. Your family.”

His gut had tightened at the way she inflected the final word. Good sense had dictated that he terminate the conversation as quickly as possible. But he hadn’t been able to. Compelled by a combination of emotions too jumbled to sort out, he’d asked, “Have you seen...Lucy...recently?”

Tina had given him a scathing look, apparently deeming him unworthy to utter his ex-wife’s name. He hadn’t been inclined to challenge whether her hostility was justified.

“Lucy’s in Atlanta,” she’d said.

“Atlanta?” He’d been stunned to the point of stupidity by the coincidence. “G-Georgia?”

“Whaddya think? Atlanta, Wyoming?”

“You mean, she—she lives there?”

“That right. She’s the office manager of an agency called Gulliver’s Travels.” Tina had used the words like a gauntlet, clearly relishing the opportunity to smack him across the face with some salient facts about his ex-wife. “It’s a great job. She’s made a terrific life for herself. Lucy’s very successful.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” And he had been. “I always expected that she would be.”

Three rings.

Chris forked his free hand through his hair. The foundation had flown him to Atlanta for a final round of interviews yesterday. A firm offer had been made over breakfast this morning. He’d promised a firm answer within a week.

He’d intended to head back to Manhattan to mull his future. Mother Nature had had other plans. When he checked in for his return flight at Hartsfield International Airport, he’d been told that there’d be a departure delay because of weather conditions in the New York metropolitan area. About an hour later, his flight and scores of others had been cancelled.

Having less than no desire to spend New Year’s Eve camped out at the airport, he’d gotten on the telephone and started calling hotels. The first seven places had been booked solid by holiday revellers. The clerk at the eighth had perkily announced that there’d been a last-minute can-celation and she could offer him a suite. He’d snapped it up without asking the price, reeling off his credit-card number to guarantee the reservation. He’d then grabbed a cab and gone back into Atlanta.

So here he was, stuck in the city his ex-wife now called home, on what would have been their tenth wedding anniversary had he not behaved like a—

Four rings.

Pickup, followed by a whisper of static.

And then, a mellifluous female voice. It was a voice that Christopher Dodson Banks hadn’t heard for nearly a decade.

Except in his dreams.

“Hi, there,” the voice said, sending a tremor of response racing through his body. “You’ve reached 555-3827 and this is Lucy Falco’s answering machine. Unlike some of my kind, I have faith in humanity. I truly believe you’re going to do the right thing and leave your name, number and a brief message after the beep. But just in case you’re contemplating some other course of action, please be advised that I’m equipped with caller ID. This means that I have your number stored in my data bank and can track you down if you hang up on me. So be smart. Live up to my high opinion of you and leave a message.” Beep!