Confessions Of A Falling Woman And Other Stories by Debra Dean

it made him drive like a maniac, but you have to drive aggressively in this city or you get crushed. Still, there was no arguing with the fact that a Fiat has no place for a car seat. He couldn't bring himself to trade it in, so for months after they bought the sedan with the four-wheel drive and the good safety rating, he continued to rise at dawn every other day and move his old love to the alternate side of the street. It came down to the fact that at sixteen he had thought a sports car would complete his life, and twenty-plus years later it was hard to let go of the idea.
    They inch up the ramp onto the bridge. Sunlight flashes through the cable webbing of the spans, and Mike admires a ketch on the bay below. The sails arch taut, the boat heeled flat against the glittering water. He watches the boat skid toward the Verrazano Bridge, out to sea, and imagines the feel of lines pulling through his palms.
     
    Mike double-parks in front of the restaurant, and Rachel comes around and burrows into the driver's seat, readjusting the mirrors.
    "You sure you don't want to come in and watch the rehearsal?" he asks.
    "No, Macy's is having a sale on OshKosh. Noah's outgrowing his old ones. I'll be back before six."
    When Rachel pulls out into traffic, he turns and checks his reflection in the plateglass window. His face is still ruddy, a little tan left over from a weekend spent out at Montauk. Behind his glasses, pale lines splinter out from the edges of his eyes, like cracked glaze on pottery. There's also a little silvering at the temples that wasn't there when Caitlin last saw him. You could make a case that the gray hairs go with the suit and the tan. Makes him look successful, he decides. All in all, looking pretty good at thirty-eight, one of the last of his crowd who hasn't gotten thin on top or thick in the middle. The thought that Caitlin must also have changed snags at the edge of his mind, but he brushes it away, tucks his glasses into his breast pocket, and strides through the front door.
    The restaurant is cavernous and cool, a former USO hall refurbished with yellow walls and large unframed canvases. Mike steps quickly through the bar and up into the main room. The tables have been cleared away and replaced with rows of chairs leading to a low platform swagged with ribbon and greens. A ponytailed man in leather jeans is standing on the platform, squinting up into the balcony over Mike's head. Suddenly music crashes through the room, a screeching burst of violins and then silence.
    "Okay, okay, back it up and lower the volume a tad, hmm?" The man sees Mike and hops off the platform.
    "I hope you're Michael. Oh, good, we're just about ready to do a quick run-through. We'll get this out of the way and let Andrea get dolled up. Phillip" – he serenades the balcony again – "the best man is here. Are you girls ready to go?"
    Phil bounds down the metal stairs and lopes toward Mike. He looks different today. Mike can't place why, and then he realizes it's the suit. Phil's a musician who does carpentry on the side; his idea of dressing up has always been an old corduroy blazer on top of the jeans and cowboy boots. Today he is wearing a charcoal gray suit with an expensive Italian drape, a yellow silk tie, the whole nine yards. From the neck down, Phil is transformed, but the face is still too rugged for the costume. Mike is reminded of those photo booths at carnivals, the painted plywood scenes that you stuck your head into, your head on top of the body of a Victorian bathing beauty or an Old West cowboy.
    Phil claps Mike on the back and then grins self-consciously, flinging his palms out and stepping back so Mike can take in the full effect.
    "What d'ya think, man? I figured I'd dude up a little for the folks."
    The man in the leather jeans is waving at them. "All right, front and center, boys. Is the music keyed up? Andrea, Caitlin, don't forget to pause on the bottom step for your photo op."
    Handel's
Water Music
fills the