If JoAnne wasn’t going to be all warm and fuzzy—or at least, nice—I’d talk to Maggie for a while. After a snack.
We chatted a bit about doings at the Women’s Lunch Place, the shelter at which Maggie volunteered, and about EastWind’s involvement with a new client, a local public radio station. We admitted to not yet having seen the latest installment of
The Lord of the Rings.
And then I turned the conversation to a more serious topic, one I had not indeed forgotten, in spite of the champagne and lobster.
“Do you think it’s odd that Abby’s been talking to my father for”—I checked my watch—“over half an hour?”
Maggie glanced over her shoulder then looked back to me.
“Odd, how?” she said. “They’ve met before, right? You know how Abby is. Once she gets going you can’t shut her up. Poor John.”
Poor John? He’d been laughing for most of ten minutes now and I hadn’t seen that twinkle in his eyes since ... Actually, I’d never seen that twinkle in his eye. It was quite—attractive.
And since when did he drink champagne?
“She’s probably just trying to make him feel better,” I said firmly, turning away, hoping to convince myself of Abby’s purely disinterested motives. “You know, after my mother’s leaving him and all. Abby’s so sweet.”
“That she is. Look, Erin, this has been great, but I’ve got to run.”
“So soon? It’s so early.”
“I know, but I have a deadline for an article I’m writing for
Urban Dialogues
and if I don’t spend at least an hour a night working on it for the next two weeks, I’m royally screwed.”
“Your self-discipline is amazing,” I told her. “I mean it.”
Maggie shrugged. “Not really. I’m getting five hundred bucks for the article. I’ll do just about anything for five hundred bucks.”
“Send me a copy when it’s written?”
“Like you’d understand a word of it,” Maggie drawled.
I smacked her arm, then kissed her cheek. “You’re mean. Be careful getting home.”
When Maggie had gone, I got a glass of wine and resumed Abby-and John-watching. It was not a sport I’d ever imagined myself a spectator of.
Abby looked adorable—fresh and clean and pretty like Grace Kelly in
High Society
somehow—in a pale pink linen skirt suit, bone-colored, kitten-heeled mules, and her hair lightly curled. She looked like an expensive confection. An expensive flirtatious confection. I wanted to bundle her away, out of sight of the newly single John Weston.
Why was I even thinking such a thing, imagining such a ... such a ... such a mind-blowing atrocity as my best friend flirting with my father? Had I gone completely insane? It was not without precedence in my family. My mother’s uncle Larry had been “put away” years ago after a rather embarrassing incident involving a chicken and a roll of packing tape, and rumor had it that her “crazy cousin Ellen” had become convinced she was Scarlett O’Hara—or was it Tallulah Bankhead?
Either way, I was doomed. Maybe in my case the lunacy was just kicking in early. Or maybe it was the several glasses of wine and champagne I’d consumed. I looked at the half-empty glass in my hand, grimaced, and put it on the nearest table. Sober was the way to accurately assess this situation.
But I never made it to Abby and my father. Halfway across the floor I was waylaid by Hank and his wife, Erica. By the time I managed to extricate myself from chitchat about the latest Big Dig scandal, Abby and my father were no longer in sight.
I never found out where they disappeared to, but a half hour later I spotted Abby talking animatedly to some thirty-something guy not part of our group. Dad took his leave of the party soon after and I sighed a big ole sigh of relief. Literally.
Chapter Thirteen
A
day or two after the informal get-together at the Barking Crab, I began to seriously regret not having asked Doug to be there. If he’d accepted the invitation and shown up with his wife, so be it. I’d have lived. Maybe. At least I’d have known what Carol looked like. I’d overheard someone at EastWind mention having met the Spears at a function, but couldn’t glean more information about Carol than her name. Now I had a burning desire to know just who I was up against. And Doug’s bringing Carol wouldn’t necessarily have meant he wasn’t still interested in me. If he was ever interested in me at all.
I couldn’t get Doug Spears and our possibly nonexistent relationship out of my mind. I wanted very badly to call him. I was mildly obsessed.
Reason was stern. Mildly obsessed? That’s like being sort of pregnant. Face it, Erin, you’re obsessed and you’ve got to cut it out. Now. Do not make the call. Do not.
Romance had its own opinion. Don’t deny your heart’s desire, Erin, it urged. If you don’t act, you’ll never know. You’ll live the rest of your life wondering what might have been. Take the next step. Take it!
Why can’t he take it, I thought petulantly, but I wondered if my petulance was in reality an excuse for my backing away from the idea of placing a call to Doug Spears.
Screwing up one’s courage—it’s an interesting phrase, and quite an accurate description of how one’s stomach feels in the decisive moments before daring action. All screwy and twisty and whirly.
Okay. I’d make the call. Maybe.
But what would I say when he answered the phone? If he didn’t answer and voice mail kicked in, would I have the nerve to leave a bright and witty message, or would I just hang up, face burning. Bottom line: I wanted very badly to hear his voice.
Another question: To pretend or not to pretend. To create a false pretense for calling, such as a burning question about a troublesome client—unnamed, of course, because fictional. Or to simply say, “Hi. Want to have lunch sometime this week? No reason. Just thought you might.”
It could go several ways with either scenario. If I created a professional reason for meeting, Doug could say he was too busy that week but reschedule. How can a colleague turn down another colleague’s request for help? If Doug did indeed say no to a meeting and make no move to reschedule—well, that would be a clear sign that whatever romantic possibilities he’d had in mind were no longer in play. The end.
Second scenario: If I gave no reason for my invitation other than an interest in getting together, Doug’s response either way would be clearer. Right? If he said no and didn’t suggest a rescheduling, I’d know flat out that he didn’t want anything to do with me in a personal way. If he said yes, even if he had to choose a later date, it would mean he was open to—romance?
Okay. If I called I’d be honest. But did I have the nerve to make such a bold move?
Yes. It turns out I did.
Carpe diem.
At ten o’clock one morning, I dialed Doug’s office number. The receptionist put me right through. Doug was in.
“Doug Spears.”
“Doug?” I said, and then thought, What a flaming idiot, Erin!
“Yes, it’s me,” he said, clearly amused. “Is this Erin Weston?”
He recognized my voice!
“Yes. Yes, it’s Erin.”
“Well, hello.”
“Hello.” What next?! “Uh, how’ve you been?”
Doug laughed mildly. “Busy, nothing unusual. How’ve you been?”
“Oh, fine,” I said. “You know. Fine.”
There was half a moment of supremely awkward silence—at least for me it was awkward—and then Doug said, again with a note of amusement in his voice, “Erin, is there some particular reason you called?”
Do or die.
I asked him if he would like to have lunch the next day. Or some day that week. Whatever worked for him. If he wasn’t too busy. If ...
Mercifully, Doug cut me off.
“How about instead of lunch we go to a gallery opening I’ve got an invitation for? It’s Wednesday evening, from five to seven.”
Oh, Lord. Negativity roared. Had my offer of lunch been too boring? Did I live to eat? Dark self-doubts kept me from responding. I was a glutton, a greedy thing, a hedonist, a sybaritic waste of oxygen... .
“Erin? What do you think? I remembered you said you were into art. There’ll be appetizers and champagne.”
“Sounds great,” I said quickly. “The opening, I mean.”
Doug laughed. “You don’t have to hide your appetites from me. I like a woman who lives large.”
“Okay,” I said. A brilliant response.
“So,” Doug said, “I’ll see you at the Biddle Gallery on Newbury at, say, five-thirty, Wednesday?”
“Sure. Great. And, thanks,” I added. Thanks for not hanging up on me.
“For what? You called me. I should be the one thanking you.”
“Okay,” I said, more easily. “You’re welcome.”
“See you Wednesday, Erin,” Doug said and his voice was warm.
“See you Wednesday, Doug,” I said.
Another move in the game.
I was a player after all.
Damion Finn and I had met several years ago when he’d joined EastWind Comunications as a graphics designer. I’d been attracted to him from the start. He was handsome and funny and intelligent and very mature. Though he was only about three years my senior, he seemed somehow much older. I liked that about him. However, it wasn’t long before I realized that while Damion might become a friend, he would never become my lover. That was okay. Better some Damion than no Damion.
He left EastWind after only a year for a go as a freelance designer. Unlike most office friendships, ours survived the change in venue and actually grew. Though I didn’t see Damion as often as I would have liked—his schedule was even fuller than mine and included two pugs who needed to be walked three times a day and who attended regular grooming sessions—when we did get together the time spent was quality. Unfortunately, he’d been out of town the night of the Barking Crab get-together; I would have liked his take on Abby’s monopolizing of my father.
On Tuesday, we met for lunch at Elephant and Castle. We each had a Caesar salad, mine with anchovies, Damion’s without.
“How’s Fuzzer, the Great Beige Beast?” Damion asked.
“Wonderful. Demanding and vocal as usual,” I said. “He’s the best. How are your babies doing?”
“Lucy and Ricky are wonderful, thriving, just passed their yearly physicals with clean bills of health.”
“They have a good daddy.”
Damion grinned proudly. “I know.”
“How are things with Carl?” I asked.
“Carl is history,” Damion said shortly.
“Oh, Damion, I’m sorry. Jeez. What happened? If you feel like talking about it ...”
Damion shrugged. “Why not? Long story short, I caught him cheating on me. With some twenty-year-old sales clerk from Structure. Can you imagine? Anyway, I sent him packing. Good riddance to bad rubbish, as my dear departed grandmother used to say.”
“Wow. I’m sorry. You really liked him, didn’t you?”
“Until he cheated on me, sure.”
Damion’s tone was firm. I didn’t really want to suggest he try to work things out with Carl. I’d never been overly fond of him, myself. But, given my own personal situation—potential involvement in an illicit, behind-the-backs romance—I was compelled to seek leniency for all cheaters everywhere.
“Would you give him a second chance?” I asked, tentatively.
“No. I draw the line at infidelity.”
“But, you two didn’t know each other for long. Maybe. . .”
“Maybe what, Erin? Maybe I should be all forgiving and wake up three years from now sunk in a relationship with a chronic liar? No. My life is too precious. My peace of mind and my happiness are too important.”
I wondered how Damion had come by his strong sense of self-respect. I admired him for it, and I was envious. At the same time I still felt that maybe Damion was being a bit harsh with Carl. Lots of relationships were bumpy at the start, right?
Your standards are too low, Erin. That was Reason.
I think she’s right. Love is all about forgiveness, Romance offered.
What ever happened to love being “never having to say you’re sorry” ?
Romance huffed and didn’t respond further.
Besides, I thought, just because someone cheated didn’t necesarily make him an evil, unredeemable person. Look at Doug. Did he ask to be attracted to me? Not that he was cheating on his wife. Not yet. Not technically, if by technically you meant that he’d had sex with me. He hadn’t.
“Enough about me,” Damion said suddenly. “What about you, my dear? Any eligible men on the horizon? Anyone special I should know about?”
Someone special, yes. Someone special Damion should know about—no. Not after hearing about the Carl episode.
I frowned. “No,” I lied, “unfortunately, no one special.”
“Concentrating on work these days?” he asked, with a sympathetic frown. “I know you tend to take on too much at the office.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” I said. “The same old story.”
I gulped my lunch and left soon afterward, claiming a deadline, pursued by a nagging sense of shame.