“Wouldn’t have fetched much profit,” I say. The girls laugh, but Lindsey keeps her eye on me. “I’m excited that it’s almost over and we can get back to man-bashing.”
“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?” asks Keeley, sweeping her hair from her shoulders as two well-dressed men walk past. They turn and ogle her, but a sneer from Lindsey sends them packing.
“I have no idea how you attract such douche-bags,” says Lindsey, retching. “Are you giving off some scent we can’t pick up?”
“’Asshole,’ the newest fragrance by Calvin Klein,” says Alicia.
“’Pretension,’ not just for the wealthy anymore, by Gucci,” I add.
“What are you talking about?” asks Keeley, and she cranes her head around. “What douche-bags?”
“The best part is that she doesn’t even notice,” says Lindsey, shaking her head.
“Notice what? You guys suck.”
March
Full Moon Mateo and Rule Number Ten: You are not alone. There are tons of other single women out there who couldn’t care less about dating! (That’s not even a rule! Pipe down it’s the best we could do!)
“You only have a few months left?” asks Kelly, reclined in her chair, my corrected manuscript in hand. She’s referring to my dating scheme, but I hope she’s also alluding to my promotion.
“There are three guys left, but I’m crossing my fingers that March is the lucky month.”
“I’ve found that you don’t find happiness until the end of the story,” she says, a tad mysterious. She’s been reading too many romance novels.
“Then I guess May will be it.” She nods and waves the manuscript. “This is good work, Cassie. Did you enjoy it?”
“I actually did. It reminded me of the one romantic novel I like, Bridget Jones’s Diary.”
“I don’t believe there has ever been such a quirky heroine. Perhaps that’s why you like her.”
“She’s real, or as real as a fictional character can be.”
“Characters are only as real as we make them. The reason Bridget Jones resonates with women is because she is them, flaws and all. Perfect heroines make for an awfully dull read.”
“Agreed. Are there any more by this author you might want me to look at?” I cannot get over how much I liked Spade a Spade. At first, I didn’t want Maya, the main character, to stay with Barry, her fiancé and husband by chapter two. Unhappy with her decision, she made the reader despise Barry, though he was perfectly nice. When Maya left him in the middle of the book, I cheered, but then I also cheered when she got back together with him in the end, finding that the men she dated were cruel, immature, or greedy despite being devastatingly handsome. Do I need to move to Florida to find these gorgeous men? Because that’s where it seems they all came from in the novel. Despite the simple premise, I enjoyed her writing style and the way she made each of Maya’s decisions seem logical, all the while implying that she was a little batty.
“Alas, she hasn’t sent us another novel. She’s waiting for our editing job before she decides to go with us.”
“Is another publishing house wooing her?”
“If they could throw male prostitutes through her window they would, but no one can find her. She’s elusive.”
“I had no idea she was so popular.”
“But she knows. She’s one of those authors who realize their particular talent and utilize it to their benefit.” She gazes at me as if trying to convey a message, but I’m not getting it. Kelly knows I used to write. Perhaps she’s goading me into continuing that turbulent path. As fledgling authors come to know, the road to publication is both infuriating and exhausting, and it rarely ends in a pot of gold.
“What do you have for me?”
“I need you and Mr. Conroy to team up on a big textbook project that has come our way. We don’t usually do textbooks, as you know, but the offer was more than convincing. These people are changing publishers, and they heard great things about us, so I need to send in my best.”
Things with Justin are still on the sour side. We haven’t said more than “good morning” and “good evening” to each other in two months. Kevin mediates paperwork that passes between us, hoping us two crazy kids will get together. Even though we don’t usually handle these huge projects, maybe it could help us.
“That sounds good to me.”
“Wonderful. I have already spoken with Mr. Conroy. He seemed less that pleased with the project, but I suppose that has to do with the subject matter. Perhaps I’ll be able to bend his will toward inane elementary school knowledge as I bent you to romances.”
Don’t be so sure, I thought, and smiled as if I couldn’t wait to see the material. How was Kevin supposed to arbitrate such a large undertaking? Justin and I would spend hours together on this. Maybe by the end he’ll forgive me.
I realize forgiveness is not likely when I pass his office and he glares me away. Head down, I proceed to my office, unaware that Kevin is watching.
I have more to worry about than Justin’s problem with me. My date is thirty minutes late, and I’m about ready to leave. We were set to meet in Nicolett Mall by eight and get a table at Ichiban, an interesting Japanese teppanyaki dining experience. He must be richer than me, because it’s not the cheapest.
I sit at the bar and sip a plum wine, the sticky sweetness distracting me from his lack of punctuality. I’ll stay for the date, if he gets here in about two minutes. When the wine is gone, so am I.
As I down the rest of the wine, the hostess taps me on the shoulder and announces that my party is finally here and ready to be seated. I pay for the wine and march for the entrance, not caring how good-looking this guy might be. I’m still going to make him feel like shit for making me wait so long.
He stands by the host desk, a small bouquet of violets in hand, and I’m stunned into silence. He is no Antonio Banderas; he’s ten times hotter. Alarm bells go off instantly in my brain: how is this guy still single, and why the hell does he need to get dates online? He must have desperate women lining up at his apartment complex, waiting to catch a glimpse. He’s a little over six feet tall with black hair and dark, unsettling eyes. The dark purple flowers he holds set off his gorgeous tanned skin, and I hope he makes an effort to wear the color every day. I’m not sure how else to describe him. Imagine the most beautiful man you’ve ever met, fantasized about, or seen in the movies, then imagine he’s standing right in front of you.
“Mateo?” I hold out my hand, and he reaches for it, bowing and planting a kiss on my knuckle. How corny! And yet, because I’m lost in his eyes, I don’t mind.
“Cassandra?” His voice is perfect, not too low, not too high, with an ethnic lilt in the vowels. I nearly orgasm when he says my name. Seriously! Why so single? I would join his harem in a heartbeat, and as an independent, confident woman, I never thought I’d say those words in that order, ever. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long?”
That’s right! He made me wait for over thirty minutes! What kind of gentleman makes a girl think she’s been forgotten or forsaken?
“I’ve been in the bar for a while. Didn’t we agree on eight?”
“I apologize. I was having trouble choosing the flowers.” He looks abashed, and I can’t help but smile. He was only late because of flowers! Then I remember that I’m supposed to give him my honest opinion of his behavior.
“Next time could you try to be on time?”
“But of course! First dates always make me nervous, and now I’ve gone and ruined ours.”
“You did catch that ‘next time’ thing, didn’t you?”
“I never presume to know what a woman means, for you are all as mysterious as the Barcelona fog.” He makes me sound misty. He holds out the flowers, and I take them, inhaling the heavenly scent. Who knew flowers could smell so good? I suppose the giver can make the aroma more intoxicating. “Shall we have dinner?”
We’re escorted upstairs and seated at one of the large tables, where the chef prepa
res food on the silvery flattop surface, basically a giant sauté pan. I can’t wait to watch the show. I hope we get one of the older Japanese chefs, because they’re more entertaining.
Mateo pulls out the chair for me and places our drink order, inquiring what I want.
“I’ll stick to wine, white please.” He peruses the wine list and makes a good selection, the most expensive bottle on the menu. If he asks me to split the check at the end, I’m not sure I’ll be able to cover my end.
When the drinks come and the server takes our order, Mateo is pleasant and curious. He asks about ingredients and how the food is prepared, and the server is delighted to share how they prepare the seafood, sushi, and other fine dishes they feature. He’s also attentive to my needs, asking whether I like my salad or if we should get an appetizer. When the chef appears and does his tricks, lighting an onion on fire and flipping it into his hat, Mateo is ecstatic and yells, “Bravo! Bravo! Good show!” His delight is infectious, and I find the routine more dynamic than I recall from a previous visit.
We share our entrées and talk about Minnesota and why he prefers it to traveling overseas.
“My job takes me many places, and I was lucky to have understanding parents who allowed me to travel as a young man. But I love Minnesota. I was born here, and I’ve never believed that old saying, ‘You can’t go home again.’” I wonder vaguely about his accent then push the thought aside. Maybe his parents have accents.
“I love traveling. I wish I could afford to do more, because there are a lot of places I want to visit. I’ve never been to South America, or Africa, or Australia…”
“All wondrous places filled with interesting people.”
“That’s just it. I want to see new things and new people. Things get dull around here when winter really hits. None of those wimpy November snowfalls, but the blizzards in mid-March. It sucks to be cooped up for four months.”
“I enjoy the snow, but I agree, it must be taken in small doses, otherwise, you lose your appreciation for its beauty.”
“There’s nothing beautiful about my car turning into a snow-bank overnight.”
“Especially if it is surrounded by other snow-banks which may be cars but might be big piles of snow.”
“I once dug into a huge pile, thinking I parked my car there, but there was nothing underneath but more snow.”
We laugh our way through the sorbet and I wish the evening could go on longer, but he has an early morning meeting. I can’t tell if it’s a made-up meeting, so he can get out of the restaurant and out of my company, but he asks to see me again. I say yes, eying his designer suit and mirror-shined shoes. This is a man I could get used to in my bed, hell, even in my life. He’s charming, funny, and did I mention handsome? I silently thank Lindsey for this setup as Mateo walks away from the restaurant. He looks back at me; waves, and I clutch the flowers and quietly damn myself for acting like such a little girl. Should grown women get this excited about men? Do we actually believe that things will end happily ever after? Are we all this optimistic inside, or is the pessimist merely taking a much-needed breather before showing her ugly face again? I wish the optimist and pessimist could get along, but as Mateo disappears into the night, I feel Negative Nancy fighting for my brain’s driver’s seat. Why can’t I let the sunshiney part take over for more than a few hours? Why can’t I let that bitchy nag go?
As fantastic as my date with Mateo was, the first meeting between Justin and I to discuss the textbooks is disastrous. We decide (he decided) to meet in public. I suggest the coffee shop midway between our apartments. Kevin offers to accompany me, but I can’t bring myself to give up on Justin. We could make it as friends, I know we could.
Snow lines the sidewalk, but it’s a balmy thirty-six degrees, and the sun plays hide and seek in the clouds. I put on my more stylish cashmere-wool blend coat and brave the new weather. Minnesotans are suspicious of nice weather in March. It’s an enigma, not to be trusted, a lot like that hunky guy at the gym who stares at you and gives you compliments, only to repeat the line on the next woman who walks past his bench press machine. We prefer the cold to continue until it’s ready to be over for good. Anything above freezing is merely a cruel tease. When will Mother Nature have mercy on us Northlanders?
I arrive at the shop first and get us the biggest table. We’ll need to set out the material. The elementary school textbook group sent Kelly a plethora of choices: they’ve had multiple pitches for style and chapter placement, and they sent copies of every publishing company’s ideas. I doubt the companies would like us looking at their hard work, and I wonder how the textbook people got away with it, but I also know that these are the ideas that didn’t work, a nice starting off point. This way, Justin and I won’t have to worry about sending off something the company will hate.
I get a nonfat latte and wait for Justin to arrive. He’s right on time, the picture of Midwest chic in a thick flannel shirt and tan puffy vest. I always thought men looked so cute in puffy vests but seeing Justin outside the office for the first time makes me want to throw up a little. How can we possibly do this without him killing me?
“Hi,” I say as he sets down his briefcase, overflowing with notes and images. He must have been sketching all night. I don’t have drawings. I feel incompetent.
“Hey. I need coffee. Are you ready to go over the first chapters?”
“I think so.” He nods and strides to the counter, where the teenage barista gives him a once-over while taking his order. When he walks over to the pick-up counter, she leans over the partition and looks at his ass, an appreciative look on her face. Something flares in my stomach, and I cough, wondering why I feel nauseous.
I set up four piles, one for each chapter. We’re going over the history text first, which is in both our wheelhouses. Justin minored in history at college, and I’ve been obsessed with American history since I first heard of Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Sixth graders don’t go over anything too strenuous like the World Wars; it’s an overview of how the United States came into being, some Revolutionary War stuff, and geography. They gloss over a few things here and there. I suppose the slaughter of American troops and native peoples doesn’t make good dinner conversation when discussing homework. I recall my mother’s reaction when I first asked her why Hitler wanted to kill all the Jewish people in the world. I don’t think she was prepared for that conversation. Mom is a math and science person; she told me to ask my father.
Justin sits down across from me and glances at the paper piles before pulling some things out of his briefcase. I chuckle, because seeing a man dressed like an Eddie Bauer ad holding a briefcase is slightly amusing.
“What?” he asks.
“It’s nothing. How about this heat wave?” He doesn’t answer. Fine. If that’s the way he wants to do this. “I looked everything over, and I think the book should go over geography first then move into history. It will be easier if the kids know where everything is before adding the dramatis personae.” He nods and pulls out a drawing of North America. He color-coded it and added little caricatures of people who live in certain parts of the United States, Mexico, and Canada. It’s been done in other schoolbooks, but I didn’t say anything. It’s pretty cute.
“I agree,” he says. “Did you remember to bring the stuff for the science book too?”
“No, I thought we were focusing on history today.” I wanted to stay on one task at a time. If we each took a book and went over it, the project would go faster, but it wouldn’t be as good. Our strength comes from pooling our collective thoughts and resources. Justin and I could make some pretty kick ass textbooks if we work together.
“I wanted to do science today.”
“Well, you didn’t tell me,” I say, miffed. Didn’t we settle on history at work the other day? “We agreed to work on the history text today then tackle the science and math next week. Those will be the hardest.”
“Maybe for you,” he mutters, and I ignore him.
“I just w
ant get this done.”
“Believe me, so do I.”
“Listen, I’m not Carly. It’s not like you’re strapped to the rack.”
“Maybe Carly would’ve been a better choice.” We sit in silence for a moment, and he sighs. “The history book seems pretty straightforward. There’s nothing too challenging in there.”
“I agree, but remember those kids that hate history?”
“I didn’t pay them much attention. I always got extra credit on tests for doing the extra essay questions.”
“Me too. But I had this friend, Nancy Shaw, and she sucked at history. She asked to cheat off my papers all the time.”
“You didn’t let her, did you?” he asks, bemused. The idea of me letting anyone cheat off my work is so off the wall it would have to be stored in Ripley’s Believe It or Not.
“Only once when she begged me. I regretted it, because the teacher caught her. I fessed up to letting her peek, but he wasn’t mad at me. Luckily he didn’t fail her.”
Justin pulls the first chapter over and takes a look, nodding every few pages. He makes notations next to my comments and writes an entire paragraph about the Midwest and why it’s important to modern times. The company must have asked Kelly to focus on our area of the country. Justin is very learned in local lore, so I let him write those blurbs.
“So,” he says, finished with chapter one. I don’t look up from the map I’m checking.
“Yeah?”
“It’s March.”
“Uh huh, Ides and what not.”
“So, you only have two more months of terror left.”
I check his features from the corner of my eye, hoping he doesn’t look angry. He appears at ease, his features a bit pinched, but he’s smirking.
“Yup. Not too much to hope for.” I have no intention of discussing my phenomenal date with Mateo. That would be more awkward than Pinocchio in high school wood shop.
“I don’t want to say I told you so…”
Men of the Year Page 24