“Probably so. My work is important to me, and I truly enjoy it. But, at the end of the day, you’re right, it’s not who or what I am, it’s what I
do
.” I used his words to create a connection, though I realized that wasn’t necessary—the connection had been made, and it was exponentially growing.
The food was great, the conversation better, and our goodnight kiss unparalleled. It was a throwback date, and I felt like such a lady. Greg packed more style, grace and good manners into his forty-eight years than all of my recent dates put together. There was none of the awkwardness that typically plagues post-dinner conversation. Greg simply walked me to my car, kissed me on the cheek (again), and thanked me for a wonderful time. Likewise, I graciously thanked him for dinner, returning a sweet kiss on his lips. Shock waves rippled through my body, and I felt dizzy for just a second. I looked up and his eyes pierced mine.
I stood frozen until Greg broke the silence, “I would love to see you again, Maggie. I’m not going to say ‘I’ll call you’ because I know how that can be interpreted. So, instead I’ll tell you exactly this: I will be calling you in the morning to ask you if you’d like to join me for dinner tomorrow night.”
“I’d like that, Greg,” I said as I scooted into Beater. I started the ignition and drove off, noticing him wave goodbye in my rearview mirror…confident I’d be watching.
BOOK 3
Fall
CHAPTER 7
Autumn’s Chase
S
ummer’s end always brings a sharp wave of sadness. Labor Day, the symbolic ending to the season, closes the gates to neighborhood pools; colors the earth with fading shades of green and emerging shades of gold; flavors farmers’ markets with fall-harvest vegetables; and fills football stadiums with pumped-up athletes and adoring fans. For most, these festivities seem to prolong summer’s verve; for me, they signal decay.
A day dedicated to the social and economic achievements of American workers, I spend Labor Day working my ass off to “close up” my backyard and prepare my gardens for the harsh days of winter. My routine is simple: I pack up all my yard art, torches and pillows, and stow them in the garage. After pulling the withering annuals from their pots, I toss them into the compost heap. Table and chair covers are placed over my dining set that is stacked against the garage wall. Finally, I roll my hammock, stuffing it into a nylon case, and tuck it away in a closet downstairs.
Acknowledging the dormancy of my oasis, I’m filled with resignation, though I know in six months the crocuses would break the hard crust of my garden beds, signaling the first hint of spring. On Labor Day, my heart feels as vacant as my backyard looks.
***
Greg and I’d had a few dates following our first one that, quite frankly, blew my panties off—not literally, though I imagined having sex with him. Was he as smooth in bed as he was when he ordered wine? Did he know how to please a woman like me? Was this the man I would learn to make love to instead of merely romping in the proverbial haystack? Could this throwback gent turn me into a comeback lover?
We’d come close on our third date. After a wonderful dinner and night at the symphony, Greg asked if he could come in as we pulled into the driveway. Hesitating for just a moment, I said yes. Cody greeted us, but was more reserved than usual. Ignoring my buddy, Greg sat at the breakfast bar.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” I asked, dumping my bag on the barstool next to his.
Brazenly, he said, “Among other things.” He smiled and came around to where I was standing.
“Greg, I’m not sure…”
I was taken aback, and it showed.
“Maggie, lighten up. I’m just trying to be funny. I like you, and I want to get to know you in your own environment. I want to know where you live, how you live and with whom.” He reached down and patted Cody on the head, looking at me, seeking approval—or so it seemed. “Here, let me open that.” He took the wine bottle and ushered me to the stool he’d occupied.
Exaggerating a circular glance around my place, I said, “Well, this is it.” I settled back, trying to ignore my heightened nerves.
Greg poured two glasses and walked to the living room. Like a puppy, I followed, sitting next to him on what had been my “single sofa” for the past seven years. We sat in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the crisp, green-apple flavor of the Sauvignon Blanc I’d picked up for myself.
“I like you too.” I blurted out, timing clearly not my strength. “I don’t want to rush things, though, Greg.”
Don’t be a prude, Mags
, I chided myself.
Finishing his sip, Greg looked at me, took my glass from my hand and placed it on the side table along with his. Leaning in, he kissed me—a tender, prolonged kiss, which I responded to with unexpected desire.
Sitting back, he said, “I have no intention to, Maggie.” He kissed me once more and got up, making his way to the kitchen where he’d left his coat.
I trailed him, asking if he wanted another glass.
“Maggie, I’ve had a fantastic time. Thank you for inviting me in—I knew it was risky for you. I’m glad you trust me. I will, indeed, call you in the morning.” Another sweet kiss and he left, leaving me flushed.
I’m not sure why, but I was suspicious of Greg; it was hard to believe that a man like him was interested in me. My biggest hang-up was his age—more likely mine. I’d grown comfortable with my position in life; my career, hobbies, friends and family all created a sense of contentment. I often reflected that I could live the rest of my life alone and be completely satisfied.
Or could I
?
Nevertheless, he aroused my curiosity; spending cold days (and even colder nights) in the arms of a mysterious man lessened my dread of winter’s short, lifeless months I’d normally spend futzing with indoor projects. I used to quilt and sew throughout the frosty season; baby clothes, home adornments and occasional shower gifts kept me busy. Nowadays, I attend more funerals that weddings.
***
Labor Day dwindled into a cool evening, a transition I observed on a single piece of outdoor furniture I left out year round: a deeply weathered Adirondack chair Jack and I had acquired from a specialty store in Cherry Creek the year we married. We could only afford one, so we’d often race to see who’d get dibs on it after a long day working in the yard. Teak didn’t require much care, though Jack had preferred to lightly sand and oil it to maintain a smooth, honey-colored appearance. Lately, the chair’s texture had become rough and silver gray, making it even more appealing—for me, anyway. I’d often wonder if I’d age like that, impervious to anyone with an opinion about it.
I curled up in my favorite quilt, a patchwork piece I made for our king-sized bed, now reserved for outdoor bundling. I cracked a nice bottle of Pinot Noir and, sipping idly, reflected on the past three months that roller-coasted by. By May, my virtual affair with Daniel had spiked to a record temperature; I’d had more sex in the month of June than I’d had in almost a decade,
riding
on the back of Brett’s bike, among other places; I was blessed with the gift of my grandchildren in July, who reminded me how important it is to play…and rest; August arrived on a blanket of hot dry air, the cool mountains of Wyoming calling me away; and, like a dash of chipotle, Greg added just the right amount of spice to wrap up the most spellbinding summer I’d ever had.
I felt a wet nose on my arm and looked down at a pair of loving brown eyes. “Hey there buddy, time for bed, is it?”
Cody grounded me. Whether I was fuming about work, annoyed with Katie, or intoxicated with lust, he stood (played, ate and slept) by me, offering his unconditional love. I gathered up the quilt, scooped up my glass and headed inside with Cody at my heels.
I’d left my phone on the nightstand plugged into its charger. I looked at the screen, and there wasn’t a single notice. Not one call or text message, not even a calendar alert. My phone had taken on the personality of my bleak backyard—creepy. I changed into new jammies I’d picked up on sale and went to the bathroom to clean up for bed. As I made my way, I heard my phone buzz. Was the device reading my mind?
“You watch way too much Sci-Fi, Mags,” I said under my breath as I dotted my toothbrush with mint-green goo. Since Greg, I hadn’t been motivated to race to my phone the instant I heard a text come through. He preferred to talk on the phone, and Daniel, it seemed, had moved on. I felt relieved actually, as long as the reason for our waning relationship was distance. Thinking about Daniel in the arms of another woman fueled my jealousy, even from sixteen hundred miles away.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I tried to coax the sensations Daniel so easily could. I imagined his voice, felt his breath on my skin, his fingers probing my swollen pussy, his tongue licking and sucking my nipples. I felt a bolt of heat race through my body and ignite my groin. My eyes remained locked onto my reflection, hoping to get a glimpse of the passion my lover’s observed…and quenched. In a flash, I became self-conscious, lowering my eyes to avoid the image of a middle-aged woman in roomy lavender flannel pajamas, a dribble of toothpaste running from the corner of her mouth. The hot, pulsating bolt was doused with the splash of self-criticism, and I made my way to my bedroom.
The text was from Daniel. Funny, I’d sensed it. I settled into bed before entering my passcode. It was one of the longest texts I’d ever received from him,
Today, 8:41 PM
DANIEL: I’ve missed u, Mags. I know u r prob expecting a “fuck” text, but I have to get something off my chest. I know distance keeps us apart, but I can’t stop thinking about u. The countless dates this summer (ok, not countless) never came close to what happens when u and I talk and text. U prob think it’s only about the sex, but it’s not. I really care about u.
“Holy shit,” I said out loud, my surprise waking Cody from his slumber. I stared at the screen and didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t about to respond to his message. Not after that. He was most likely drunk or sad over a recent breakup and wanting advice from a love expert, which I wasn’t—not the kind he was after anyway. I mentally drafted a message to Abigail Van Buren on Daniel’s behalf,
DEAR ABBY:
I’ve never done this before, but here it goes. I’m fifty-six years old, I have a thirteen-year-old daughter and two ex-wives. I’ve always thought I had my act together, particularly in the love life arena. You may question that, given that I was twice married, unsuccessfully. But “my mamma raised me right,” as they say. I treat women well, enjoy their company, and they enjoy mine, so it seems. My problem is that I can’t find a woman where I live. I find plenty of dates but just can’t find “The One.” As a result, I’ve resorted to long distance (even virtual) love affairs that have no promise of a future, just some physical gratification now and then. What can I do to change things so I can find true and lasting love?
BAFFLED
I had to sit for a moment, trying to channel Ms. Van Buren. She was a tough cookie and rarely doted on the lovelorn. How would this queen of advice respond? Closing my eyes and crunching up my face a bit, I called to her; a few moments later, she responded,
DEAR BAFFLED:
Grow up, man! Your matrimonial mishaps leave the clue from which you must take a cue: Decide to commit and commit to longevity. “The One” only exists in your mind, which can be a far greater barrier than the miles you accuse of sabotaging potential relationships.
I quickly shut down my imaginary exercise, fearing I’d seriously invoke the spirit of Ms. Van Buren who would most assuredly rip me an even bigger one than she would Daniel. It occurred to me that I’d been distracting myself from the real issue. I was scared to death that Daniel was falling for me. Ironically, I’d fallen for him soon after the twins returned to California. Like a hormonal teenager, I was thrilled that a man I’d never met aroused me like he had. Certain our passion meant
something
, I tried connecting the dots but only came up with one word that made sense: Fantasy. Going from teenager to middle-ager in a matter of months, I concluded our cooling-off period was emotional menopause.
I reread his message, pondering it for a moment. If I’d laid out my guts like that to Daniel, I’d expect an answer. And so I began,
Today, 9:04 PM
MAGS: Sorta blown away here
I could almost hear the minutes tick away on my silent phone. Glancing at the nightstand, I became hypnotized by the sixty-second change of the glowing numbers: 9:05, 9:06, 9:07, 9:08…
Today, 9:09 PM
DANIEL: Was afraid of that
MAGS: I read it twice
DANIEL: Figured that
MAGS: Why now, Danny?
DANIEL: What do u mean?
MAGS: Things have slowed down for us, I thought u found someone, I kinda have
DANIEL: I thought I did too, about 7 times
MAGS: What do we do?
DANIEL: Talk?
MAGS: I cant, not now, sorry
DANIEL: Too much?
MAGS: Too much, need to think
DANIEL: I understand, pls don’t be angry
MAGS: Nothing to be mad bout, just need to think – fair?
DANIEL: Fair
MAGS: Sleep well
DANIEL: Wanna fuck?
MAGS: Hmm – interesting offer, no strings?
DANIEL: Unless u r into that
MAGS: Ha! Why not
***
Fitful hardly described the way I slept the night Daniel dropped his text bomb. Though we’d had amazing restitution sex (he came twice, three times for me), I couldn’t get the taste of his emotional vomit out of my mouth.
I was pissed, too. His decree had opened a floodgate of feelings I’d carefully stowed months ago. Now, they ran loose like a horde of gluttonous marauders hungry for any titillating morsel remaining from our languishing fling.
My alarm ringtone forced me out of my contemplative state…and out of bed.
The Tuesday following Labor Day was pivotal for my department at work. It marked the end of summer, an unhurried season that allowed time for a good deal of rest (for some) and recreation (for most). The folks who worked for me were incredibly driven and thrived on managing really big ideas. Their work was not highly technical; rather, my team’s creativity manifested in their ability to ensure the realization of technological innovations—otherwise known as project management, a field many believe to be drab and uninspiring. I knew otherwise.