“They’ll listen. Abby, you can do this. You’re ready. I know you’re nervous, but I think you’re going to surprise yourself.” Lizzie said it firmly, with conviction. Like she believed it. Abby was still dubious about the idea of leading a trip but, somehow, she was even more unsettled when she thought about giving up her apartment, of taking such a large and permanent step toward a future with Mark. Which made no sense—she loved Mark! She did!—but, somehow, there it was.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
“You will? Oh my God, you’re the best.” Lizzie looked at Abby, who hoped her face hadn’t betrayed what she was thinking. Except it must have betrayed something, because Lizzie asked, gently, “What’s going on?”
“What is wrong with me?” Abby asked. She dropped her head into her hands. Her voice came out slightly muffled by her palms. “Mark was talking about moving in together when my lease is up. And I panicked.”
“Okay,” Lizzie said.
“And I don’t understand why. Mark is the guy that every heroine in a Hallmark movie wants to meet when she comes home for Christmas.”
“Except he’s Jewish,” Lizzie pointed out.
Abby waved her hand, dismissing Lizzie’s complaint (remembering, too, that Hallmark had recently debuted a Chanukah movie). “He’s smart, he’s kind, he’s employed, he’s generous. He makes me laugh. He loves me.” She paused. “And it’s not like there’s hundreds of other guys waiting in the wings.”
“Mark is a sweetheart,” Lizzie concurred. She pushed herself off the couch and padded toward the kitchen. “But that doesn’t mean there aren’t other men out there who would like you. I like you,” Lizzie said, filling the kettle, taking a box of shortbread cookies out of the cupboard and shaking a handful of them onto a plate.
“I’m not your type,” Abby said.
“For which we both should be grateful.” Lizzie carried the plate to the living room, pausing to light a pair of candles. “You know, straight girls used to totally be my thing.”
Abby nodded. She’d heard all about Lizzie’s wild days at Wellesley.
Lizzie passed Abby the cookies and took a seat on the couch. Her eyes held Abby’s gaze; her face, usually quick to grin or grimace, was very still. “If it’s not right with Mark, you shouldn’t try to force it.”
“But there’s nothing wrong!” Abby said. “I love him! We’re happy!” She slapped her hands down on a pillow in a colorful kilim pillowcase. Grover growled. “Except…”
“Except?” Lizzie prompted.
Abby bit into a cookie. In a low voice, she said, “It sounds silly. But I do kind of wish he rode a bike.” She’d been shocked, back at camp, when Mark had told her that he’d never learned how. “Chubby kid plus neurotic parents, and a mom who was around to drive me places,” he’d explained. His parents hadn’t been cyclists, and the neighborhood kids who did ride bikes rode in a pack that wouldn’t have welcomed him. Abby had understood, even as she’d wondered whether Mark might have become a different person, or made different choices, if he’d had some of the independence and confidence cycling had given her when she’d been young and chubby.
“If riding a bike matters to you—and I totally understand why it does—then maybe you shouldn’t compromise.” Lizzie took a cookie, and said, “Life is short.”
Abby nodded again, feeling petty for complaining about her boyfriend’s shortcomings to her friend, who’d survived cancer. She nibbled her cookie and turned toward the windows. They were just a few blocks away from South Street, with its bars and restaurants and packs of rowdy teenagers and twentysomethings who overflowed the sidewalks and made the streets impossible to drive down on the weekends, but here, in Lizzie’s trinity, it was quiet, the only sound the rustling of the trees outside the windows. Half of her brain was insisting, in a voice that sounded a lot like her mother’s voice, Mark is perfect, Mark is great, and you’d be an idiot to break up with him, because, let’s be real, there’s probably not another Jewish doctor out there, or Jewish man out there, or man, full stop, out there, who’d want to be with you. The other half was thinking about Lizzie. Specifically, Lizzie’s house, and how it felt like an extension of its owner, a place that embraced visitors and made them feel as welcome as Lizzie herself did. Could she ever have a home like that with Mark? With any man? Or were places like the one Lizzie had made for herself, lives like the one Lizzie had built, big, free lives, only available to women like Lizzie; single women without children?
“I think I need some time,” Abby finally said. She said it quietly, like a confession.
Lizzie smiled. “Well, then, aren’t you lucky to be spending the end of the summer on your bike?”
Abby
Day One: New York City to Mount Kisco Fifty miles
Hello, everyone!” Abby locked her knees so they wouldn’t tremble and injected as much confidence as she could into her voice as she stood on the edge of a planter in Battery Park. The riders she’d be leading were standing below her in pairs or groups. When the chatter didn’t abate, Abby clapped her hands, calling, “Excuse me! Everyone! Can I have just a few minutes of your attention, please?”
It took a little while for the group to settle down, time that allowed all of Abby’s fears and insecurities to come surging to the forefront of her brain. Even though she was wearing bicycling shorts and a purple and silver Breakaway jersey that said LEADER on the back, she was considerably younger and significantly larger than many of the guests. What if they don’t listen? she thought. What if they never shut up? Eventually, though, the talking stopped, and Abby could begin.
“All right,” she said, doing her best to sound confident and competent, like she’d led a hundred tours, instead of none. She was so nervous she could only look at her fellow travelers in quick glances—a pair of legs in spandex shorts here, a torso there. “Hello, everyone, and welcome to Breakaway Bicycle Tours. My name is Abby Stern, and I’m one of your leaders. I’ll be riding with you every day. We’ll be following the Empire State Trail, riding from New York City north toward Albany, which is about two hundred and ten miles, then turning west and following the Erie Canal three hundred and fifty miles to Buffalo, then on to Niagara Falls in Canada, at which point we’ll loop back to Buffalo and head home. If this is not the trip you signed up for, please come find me after the introduction and we’ll get you safely on your way to your chosen destination.” That remark earned a few chuckles, along with one of the aged parties asking loudly, “What’d she say?” and the low murmur of one of the other seniors standing on her tiptoes and presumably repeating Abby’s words directly into the hairy cup of his ear.
Breakaway specialized in midrange, supported trips. Their tours weren’t as luxe as what some of the high-end outfitters offered. The riders wouldn’t find four-star hotels, Michelin-starred restaurants, or wine pairings with their meals when the day’s riding was done on this trip. They’d be staying in midrange hotels and bed-and-breakfasts, which were comfortable and clean but would not be mistaken for the Four Seasons. The food would be tasty and plentiful, but not gourmet: more pizza and fried chicken than foie gras and sweetbreads. Breakaway attracted lots of families, younger riders on budgets, and seniors on fixed incomes, who wanted to see the world but who did not have ten thousand dollars to drop on an eight-day jaunt around Lake Como.