Page 1 of Nothing Less than Magic
Chapter 1
As I stand at the Top of the Mark desperately trying to focus on anything other than San Francisco’s spectacular skyline, I’m reminded of how much I dislike heights. Call it a mild case of acrophobia. I can still force myself to fly or visit my uncle’s penthouse apartment, but anything higher than three stories makes my stomach pitch.
And the Mark Hopkins’s iconic sky lounge is pretty much all glass, making it difficult to ignore the fact that it’s nineteen floors up. The whole point of the place is the sweeping bird’s-eye view you get of the city, a view I’d feel much more comfortable seeing in pictures. Or even better, from the ground.
But it’s the restaurant Austin has chosen, and I have such high hopes for this meeting that my queasiness has given way to excitement.
He wants to talk, which I see as an excellent sign.
The hostess shows me to our table. Thankfully it’s at the center of the restaurant, away from the wall of windows, so I don’t have to look down. Although it’s not as private as I would’ve liked.
I’m ten minutes late, and Austin still isn’t here yet. Nothing new about that. Of the two of us, I’m the more punctual one. If not for my BART train running behind schedule, I would’ve been here right on the dot of seven. It’s a long walk from my office in the Financial District. I probably could’ve used the exercise, but I ran out of my apartment this morning without a jacket. And we’re having an unseasonably chilly October, which is usually shorts weather in San Francisco. It’s the summers that are cold and foggy. In any event, it was warmer to take the train. And quicker, even if BART did run late.
I order a martini, which the Top of the Mark is famous for, and examine the 1920s architecture. The story goes that during World War II, servicemen used to come here for a farewell shot before shipping out. Now, travelers come for the skyline.
I’m a little surprised that Austin picked it. He veers toward trendy, and Top of the Mark ain’t that. And of course, my heights issues. But it’s fine, really. It’s a restaurant, not Mount Whitney.
My martini comes, and I check my watch again, letting out a huff. Austin must’ve gotten held up at the office. He’s a divorce attorney, ironic given that I’m a marriage counselor and life coach, helping thousands of couples achieve harmony in their relationships. Whereas Austin helps them cut each other’s throats. Okay, a little hyperbole, but the point is that we make odd bedfellows.
I start to text him, then stop myself, afraid it’ll come off as naggy. Or needy. One of my first rules to a happy, successful marriage is giving your spouse plenty of space. Then again, Austin isn’t my spouse anymore.
We’re coming up on our one-year divorce anniversary. A divorce he wanted—not me—and is now obviously regretting. Hence, this meeting. I get a warm tingle just thinking that there is a possibility he wants me back.
I’m not proud of this, but there were times when I didn’t want to go on without him. I’m not saying I was suicidal but definitely depressed to the point of having to force myself out of bed most mornings. If it wasn’t for work, I probably would’ve stayed cloistered in my apartment in a stained housecoat, fuzzy slippers, clutching a bottle of wine, binge-watching Ingmar Bergman films. But here I am at the Top of the Mark, drinking a most excellent martini, preparing to reconcile with the love of my life.
Austin is still not here, so I order another drink. Why the hell not? It’s not like I’m driving. Besides, I kind of like the gin buzz I’m getting. It helps dull the notion that I’m sitting on top of the San Andreas fault, a bazillion feet in the air.
My server returns with my second cocktail and wants to know if I’d like to order something to eat. I can’t tell if he’s being accommodating or if it’s a subtle hint that the price of two drinks isn’t going to cut it. It is a Friday night, and I’m sitting on a prime piece of real estate.
“I’m waiting for my hus—” I stop before I finish, though it’s a hard habit to break. For six years, Austin was my husband. Then, out of the blue, he came home from work, packed up his stuff, and said he still loved me, but we weren’t working anymore. A year later, and I’m still trying to wrap my head around why. Why weren’t we working anymore?
I should know this, shouldn’t I? I’m supposed to be an expert on marriage.
The waiter nods, but I can tell he’s perturbed. “You know what?” I say, “go ahead and bring out one of those Bavarian pretzel fondue things you’re famous for.” I’m starved, and something about melted cheese sounds good right now.
I’m beginning to worry that Austin got so caught up in whatever he’s doing that he’s forgotten our meeting. It’s not lost on me that standing up your ex-wife isn’t the best start to patching up a broken marriage.
Ah, there he is. He’s standing at the hostess stand, searching the crowd for me. I take a moment to look at him. He’s wearing the navy blue suit I bought him for his thirty-fifth birthday. They were having a sale at Nordstrom, and the color matched his eyes.
Austin still has the power to take my breath away with his classically handsome good looks. I always thought he resembled a young Jon Hamm. All that thick brown hair and the square jawline.
Secretly, I always wondered whether people thought it strange that he hadn’t chosen someone equally as attractive as himself. We all know those couples, the ones about whom everyone says, “Can you imagine how beautiful their children will be?”
I wave to him from across the room, and his face lights up. It’s only been a week since I’ve seen him last, but as he comes toward my table, my heart skips a beat. I notice a few admiring glances from some of the other diners. It’s always that way with Austin.
“Hey, Chelsea.” He leans over me and gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “Sorry I’m late. I got waylaid by Chuck.” Chuck is one of Austin’s partners at Blagojevich, Lemons and Rawlins and is a talker. He once held us hostage at one of Austin’s work functions for forty minutes, recounting scene after scene of a movie he’d just watched on Netflix. It was excruciating.
“I took the liberty of ordering us an appetizer. You want one of these?” I hold up my martini.
“Nah, I’ll wait.” Austin shrugs out of his coat and hangs it over the back of his chair and gives me a once-over. “You look great, by the way.”
I hope so, having spent most of the previous night picking out my outfit. The sweater is tighter than I usually wear, giving me a boost in the chest department, and the skirt shorter, showing off my legs. They’re arguably my best feature. I even managed to persuade Whitney to shoehorn me in this morning for a quick shampoo and blow-out.
Even if I’m reading too much into this date, which I don’t think I am, it doesn’t hurt to look my best.
“Other than Chuck”—I grin—“how was work?”
“Same old. How ’bout you?”
