“Anyway, it’s still a little soon to tell, but . . .” She looked around the circle, her cheeks reddening. “I think I’ve found myself a good man this time.”
Laura’s heart fluttered. There it was again, that same haunting image that had forced its way into her brain on New Year’s Eve. She saw herself flitting through a field of wildflowers with a tall, dark, handsome stranger. Or maybe he was short and blond. Or medium with brown hair and a distinctive bald spot and a face that wasn’t exactly handsome but lit up nicely when he smiled...
The details didn’t matter. What did matter was that once again, when she’d dared let her guard down, that distinctive longing for some other person with whom to travel through flower-covered fields had crept up on her.
Again Laura attempted to push it out of her mind, calling upon her list of logical reasons why that image was dangerous. And again her attempts failed. Something that defied all reason caused a yearning to well up inside her.
Later that night, as she sat alone in her silent house, Laura found herself staring at the phone. The voices of the other group members echoed through her head like the special effects in a grade-B movie.
Men are slime...
.
It’s so wonderful, falling in love all over again. . . . There’s a lot of mistrust between the sexes.
. . .
I
feel sixteen. . . . I think I’ve found myself a good man this time....
Do it,
a voice inside her head urged.
What are you,
nuts? a second voice countered.
And then she took a deep breath. Rifling through her pocketbook, she found the “Eat, Drink, and Be Sorry” napkin. Her hands trembling, she picked up the phone and punched the numbers Richie had written.
Please don’t answer. Please don’t answer....
“Hello, Richie? Oh, hi.” Nervously she cleared her throat. “This is Laura Briggs. You probably don’t remember me, but we met at—oh, you do? I was? You have?”
Oh,
boy.
* * * *
“May I offer you more champagne?” the near-stranger purrs, bending the bottle of Moet & Chandon over Laura’s tulip glass, made of the finest crystal.
“Why, yes,” she replies. For a moment she gazes at him, overwhelmed by how handsome he is. Even features, a roguish mustache, sparkling dark eyes that fix upon hers with such intensity she feels as if he can see straight into her very heart and soul.
Then she looks past his shoulder—an unusually broad, muscular shoulder, covered in dark blue silky fabric that shimmers with every moment. Not far beyond she can see the sea, a luminescent shade of turquoise. The bright Caribbean sun glints off the gentle waves, rhythmically lapping against the pink beach that lies between the water and the veranda on which they sit, head to head.
“Laura,” he murmurs in a thick but exotic European accent, “did you know your eyes are the color of the sea?” He gestures toward the panorama behind him.
“You make me blush,” she coos.
He moves closer. She can feel the heat from his body. “Did you know your ears are as lovely as the most delicate seashell?”
“I— I don’t know what to say.”
Underneath the table, she can feel the hard muscles of his thigh, pushing urgently against hers. He reaches for her hand, gently bringing it to his lips.
“Did you know there’s a booger hanging from your nose?”
* * * *
“Evan!” Laura screeched, turning from the bathroom mirror, mascara wand poised in midair. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to watch you put that slop all over your face.” He was scowling, and slamming his Softball into his catcher’s mitt over and over.
“Shouldn’t you be doing something more worthwhile than playing Peeping Tom? Reading a good book? Memorizing the multiplication tables?” She turned back to the mirror. “Working in a factory?”
“Aw, you don’t really have a booger in your nose.”
“I know.”
Laura had been staring at her reflection for a good fifteen minutes, pawing through the cosmetics piled up in a Rubbermaid storage bin. She only hoped the Clarion computer knew as much as it claimed about matching synthetic makeup shades to nature’s own skin tones.
“Where are you going tonight, anyway? Are you giving a speech?”
“No.”
“Doing an autographing? Going to a writers’ meeting?”
“Not exactly.”
Evan was silent, still slamming the ball into his glove. Suddenly he sniffed the air and grimaced. “Hey, what’s that smell?”
“Perfume. Beautiful, to be exact. Look, Evan, I’m not going to a writers’ meeting or giving a speech or doing anything like that. Tonight I’m going out to dinner with a friend.”
“Who, Julie?”
“Not, not Julie.”
“Claire?”
“It’s somebody new.” She could see her son’s face reflected in the bathroom mirror. “Somebody you don’t know.”
“Oh.” He looked her up and down. “Gee, you must be going someplace pretty fancy. You’re wearing a dress and everything!”
“Actually, I’m not sure where I’m go—”
“Can I go watch
Rugrats?”
“Sure. Annie’s baby-sitting tonight. She should be here any minute.”
“ ‘Kay.” He turned away, his interest in Laura’s social activities having already waned.
“Hey, Ev?” Laura called after him.
“Yeah, Mom?”
‘The person I’m going out with tonight—”
“Yeah?”
“It’s a man. He’s just a friend,” she added quickly. “I met him in a ... a club I joined.”
Evan was silent for a long time. Finally, in a odd voice, he asked, “Is this, like, a date?”
“Not really. Well, maybe in a way ... He’s just a nice man who I enjoyed talking to, so I thought it might be fun to have dinner with him.” She turned around and looked at Evan, hoping to see some understanding there. Instead, his face was expressionless.
“I’m gonna go turn on
Rugrats.”
He scampered away.
Just as she had done for her first date back in junior high school, Laura had placed the things she’d need in strategic spots around the room in anticipation of Richie’s arrival. She desperately wanted everything to go smoothly. And so she’d slung her jacket across the back of a chair to avoid a wrestling match with a hanger. On a table near the front door she’d placed her purse, her version of a portable disaster kit. In it she’d packed tissues in case the rest room was out of toilet paper. Dental floss, in case spinach was on the menu. A small mirror because of the ever-present possibility of some alien substance coming between her eye and her contact lens. And of course, she’d tucked away enough cash to get herself home in a taxi if her date got drunk, abandoned her, or turned out to be a sex maniac, felon, or insurance salesman.
When she heard the doorbell ring, Laura forced a smile and, trying to ignore the knot in her stomach, flung open the front door. Richie was standing on her doorstep, clutching a bouquet of flowers. It would have been a sweet moment if she hadn’t been so nervous.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hello, Laura. You look really pretty. Here, I brought you these flowers. Maybe you’d better get them in some water. They’re already starting to look a little dry.”
Ah. Richie was good at this. He’d done this dating thing before—at least more recently than she had. Laura relaxed.
At least
one
of us knows what he’s doing, she thought. Maybe I can get by simply following his lead.
“Thanks, Richie. Here, I’ll take these into the kitchen.” Leading him into the living room, she nearly tripped over her son, sprawled out on the floor in front of the TV. “Evan, this is Richie. Richie, my son, Evan.”
Evan never took his eyes off the screen. “One of his favorite shows,” she said apologetically. “I’ll, uh, put these in a vase.”
In the kitchen, Laura took her time arranging the cheerful bouquet in a crystal vase that had been a wedding present. Meanwhile she kept an ear cocked toward the living room. She was anxious to hear how the two males were getting along. So far, so good. At least no violence had erupted. Instead, the usual banalities were being exchanged, with Richie predictably doing most of the work.
“So, Evan, what are you watching?”
“Rugrats.”
“Oh, yeah. I think I heard of that. That’s supposed to be a pretty good show.”
“Yeah.”
Silence; then: “What grade are you in?”
“Third.”
“You like school?”
“It’s okay.”
Another silence. Laura was about to carry the vase into the dining room when she heard Evan say, “My mom’s forty, you know.”
“Evan!” Laura cried, rushing into the living room.
“I didn’t know,” said Richie. “Thanks for telling me.”
“How old did you think she was?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Twenty, twenty-one.”
“Evan,” Laura protested. “I really don’t think—
“You know my mom’s getting a divorce, don’t you?”
“I think I’d heard that,” Richie said pleasantly.
“Evan, I think it’s time for you to go to your room and—”
Pointedly he ignored her. “Did you know she dyes her hair?”
“Evan, now!” Catching herself, Laura paused to smile sweetly at Richie. “You’ll excuse us a moment, won’t you?”
“What do you think you’re doing?” she cried once she and her son were behind closed doors. Her tone was somewhere between angry and pleading.
“I was only trying to be friendly.” Evan sank down on the bed. Rather than looking her in the eye, he picked up a tiny plastic robot and began rotating its arms. He was staring at it as if he’d never seen anything quite so fascinating. “Do you really like that guy, Mom?”
“Honey, I hardly know him.”
“Are you in love with him?”
“Evan, at least let me have dinner with him before you send me off into the sunset.”
“Huh?”
“Sweetie,” she said, softening her tone as she got down on one knee, “I’m not in love with him. I’m not in love with anybody.”
“Not even Dad?”
Laura put her arm around him and pulled him close. He resisted before finally giving in, collapsing against her shoulder.
“Ev, I can’t help feeling that, deep down inside, you still wish Daddy and I would get back together.”
He nodded.
“Honey, it’s not going to happen that way. I’m sorry. In fact,” she went on, measuring her words carefully, “Daddy has a new girlfriend.”
“Yeah. I know.” Evan’s words were barely audible. He kept his eyes on the toy robot, still moving its arms but with much less enthusiasm.
“But you know that no matter what, Daddy and I both still—”
“You both still love me,” he finished for her, his tone bitter.
“We really do, you know.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. It was the best she could do, given the sudden thickening in her throat and tears welling up in her eyes. “Maybe you’re tired of hearing it, but it happens to be the truth.”
He said nothing. Instead, he listlessly twirled the arms of the robot round and round.
* * * *
Laura’s anguish over her son was moved to a back burner as she switched gears from mom to femme fatale. Her first date as a gay divorcee, she soon discovered, wasn’t much of an improvement over her first time out as a terrified teen.
As she sat in the front seat of Richie’s little red sports car, all the same concerns that had plagued her twenty-five years earlier raised their ugly little heads. She struggled to pull down over her knees the skirt that had looked fine in the mirror but that suddenly reminded her of a go-go dancer’s costume. The microscopic tear in her stocking threatened to become a full-fledged stripe. Sneaking a glance in the side mirror, she saw that her hair had suddenly developed a flip. All she needed were a couple of pimples and her look would be complete.
When Richie slid behind the wheel, she recalled one more of the challenges of dating: coming up with a topic of conversation worthy of more than three sentences.
“Where are we going for dinner?” Laura asked. That seemed like a good place to start. She could easily come up with a long list of questions and comments relating to food.
“I know a great Indian restaurant. Not only is the food great. The whole feel of the place is fabulous. It’s one of my favorites.”
“Do you eat out a lot?”
“Yup. Part of my business is entertaining clients. I’ve pretty much tried every restaurant on the Island.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m in sales.”
Keep it moving, thought Laura. “How fascinating.”
“I enjoy it. I spend a lot of time on the road, selling supplies to local businesses.”
“What kind of supplies?”
“Mortuary.”
On the outside, Vishvanath looked like just another overdone, overpriced Indian restaurant. Walking through the parking lot, Laura cringed at the mock Taj Mahal architecture: the exotic raindrop-shaped archways, the columns covered with ornate carvings, the faux marble facade that up close turned out to be brickface. It was precisely the kind of restaurant she detested, her suspicion being that the owners were trying to distract the patrons with a decor so extreme they wouldn’t notice the cuisine, which was an Eastern version of TV dinners.
“I love this place,” Richie gushed as he rushed to open the door for her. “It’s really beautiful. Wait till you see the inside.”
Laura stood in the foyer, trying to adjust to the dim light. Sitar music twanged in the background. For just a moment she was back in 1969. She half expected someone to offer her a glass of Boone’s Farm Apple Wine.
“Two?” the headwaiter asked. He picked two huge menus off the dais and gestured for them to follow.
“By the way,” Laura asked, following him down a short corridor toward the restaurant’s main room, “exactly what does the name of the restaurant mean?”
“Ah. Vishvanath is a very famous temple in India. One of many at Khajuraho.”
“I see. So it’s modeled after a religious building.” Strange theme for a restaurant, Laura mused. She noticed that as the headwaiter paused at the entrance to the dining area, he wore an odd smile.
She expected the inside to be more variations on the theme of a Hindu palace gone Las Vegas, but as soon as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she gasped.