All the Wrong Places

by Joy Fielding

  “His name is Harry Something?”

  “No, darling. It’s…Gatlin, I think. He sounds very nice.”

  “You’ve talked to him?”

  “He called earlier.”

  Paige swallowed, trying to digest the fact that her mother had a date. “Where is he taking you?”

  “Antonio’s.”

  Paige nodded. Antonio’s was one of Boston’s best Italian restaurants. “Wow. Okay. Wow,” she said again.

  “You’re upset.”

  “No,” Paige said, a touch too loudly. “No. Honestly. It just feels kind of weird, that’s all. My mother has a date.”

  “It’ll probably be just a one-night stand,” Joan said.

  “What?”

  “Just kidding.”

  Paige tried to laugh, but the laugh stuck in her throat. Her mother was making jokes about one-night stands. “What time is he picking you up?”

  “He isn’t. I thought it was a better idea to meet him at the restaurant.”

  “Oh. Okay. Good idea.” Her mother was obviously in full control.

  “What will you do?” her mother asked.

  “I don’t know,” Paige said with a shrug. Maybe she’d call Chloe, see if she felt like company. Or maybe Mr. Right Now would send her another message, suggest they meet up later for a drink.

  “You’ll call me if there are any problems,” she told her mother before saying goodbye. “My mother has a date,” she announced to the empty seat beside her. She stared at the small screen of her phone, willing it to ping with an incoming message, from Mr. Right Now. But the only notification she received was from the Gap, reminding her of their current sale.

  Paige pushed herself to her feet and started walking toward Boylston. “The Gap it is.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  He’d probably gotten tired of waiting, assumed he’d been stood up, and left, Joan was thinking as she pushed open the front door of the small, outwardly unimpressive, redbrick restaurant at the corner of Cambridge and Blossom. Not that she would have blamed him. She was almost twenty minutes late, having changed both her outfit and her mind about going at least half a dozen times.

  Why all the fuss about a man she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to meet? Ultimately, she’d decided that it would be rude to cancel at the last minute, and settled on a pair of white slacks and a stylish turquoise blouse. It was just dinner, she told herself, securing a pair of long, dangling gold hoops in her ears. Harry Gatlin would hopefully prove to be an interesting diversion, but there was little chance she’d find him attractive and even less chance she’d want to see him again. And despite her joke to Paige about a one-night stand, she certainly wasn’t going to have sex with the man.

  Like that was ever going to happen again, she thought wistfully.

  Joan’s eyes searched the crowded restaurant’s small, brightly lit interior—as unassuming and unpretentious as its exterior—for her date. My date, she repeated silently, holding her breath as she watched an elderly man struggle to his feet from a nearby table against the pale ecru wall. The man reached for the cane beside him as Joan braced herself for his approach, wondering if she had enough time to flee before he worked up sufficient speed to reach her. Damn it. This evening was going to be even worse than she’d imagined.

  “Dad,” she heard a woman say, a hand reaching out to grab the old man’s jacket. “The bathroom’s that way.”

  The man nodded and pivoted in the opposite direction.

  “Thank you, God,” Joan muttered under her breath, catching sight of movement in the far corner of the restaurant.

  A man was waving. A tall, good-looking man, she realized as he stood up to maneuver his way around the white tablecloth–covered tables and wooden chairs to where she stood. A tall, good-looking, well-dressed man with slim hips and a twinkle in his clear blue eyes.

  “Joan?”

  “Harry?”

  “Well, we know who we are,” he said with a laugh. “That’s a good thing.”

  Harry Gatlin had a full head of gray hair and was both taller and more muscular than Joan had expected. She wondered how it would feel to have those arms wrapped around her.

  My God. What was she thinking? “I’m sorry I’m so late.”

  “That’s quite all right.”

  “I’m usually very prompt.”

  “No problem. You’re here now.” He put his hand on her elbow to guide her toward their table at the back.

  Joan felt her entire body tingle at the touch of his hand. No. Put it back, she thought, as they reached the table and his hand withdrew. What was happening to her?

  “I took the liberty of ordering wine,” he said as they settled into their seats. “I hope you like red.”

  “I do indeed.” I do indeed? Who talks like that? What’s the matter with me? She watched as the waiter poured two glasses of wine, then she quickly raised her glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” Harry repeated, clinking his glass against hers.

  Joan took a sip of her wine. “Very nice.”

  “It is indeed,” he said.

  Was he making fun of her?

  “So,” he began. “Linda tells me you two live in the same building.”

  Joan nodded. “What else did she tell you?”

  “Not much, actually. That you’re a widow, attractive, bright, interesting,” he said, putting stress on the final word.

  Joan laughed. “I think she was referring to my hair.”

  “I like your hair.”

  I like you, Joan thought. “Thank you,” she said instead. “She said pretty much the same things about you.”

  “She thinks my hair is interesting?”

  Joan laughed again. “She also said you’re a retired professor.”

  “I am.”

  “What did you…profess?”

  His turn to laugh. “Art history. Harvard,” he added before she could ask.

  “Impressive.”

  “Never hurts to name-drop Harvard,” he said with a smile.

  Joan felt her own smile pulling at the lines around her mouth. She quickly brought her lips together. “And what do you do now that you’re retired?”

  “The usual. Read, travel, play a little golf and a lot of bridge, spend time with my grandkids.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Four. Two girls with my older daughter, a boy and a girl with the younger one. I’m lucky. They all live relatively close by. You?”

  “Not so lucky. My son lives in New Jersey. He has two boys I don’t get to see as often as I’d like. And my daughter isn’t married. Not that that matters anymore.”

  “Like the man sang, ‘The times, they are a-changing,’ ” Harry said. “So, what do you do? Still working?”

  “No. I never really did, to be honest. I mean, I had jobs after college—secretary, receptionist, bank teller, that sort of thing. But never anything you could generously call a career. A degree in English doesn’t exactly qualify you for a whole lot of professions, unless you want to teach, which I didn’t. No offense.”

  He smiled. “None taken.”

  “I probably shouldn’t admit this, but I was never all that ambitious, and after I got married, I was quite happy to be a stay-at-home wife and mother. I toyed with the idea of going back to school and getting my master’s degree once the kids were older, but something always seemed to come up.”

  “And now?”

  “I don’t know. I seem to be at some sort of crossroads. I have all this time, and I’m not sure what to do with it. I don’t golf and I don’t play bridge.”

  “You could take lessons.”

  “At my age? I’d never be any good.”

  “I’ve been playing both most of my life and I’m still not any good,” Harry said with a shrug. “What ab
out traveling?”

  “I like traveling,” Joan said. “But my husband was pretty much of a homebody. We’d go to Florida, Mexico, the Bahamas. He liked to go where the weather was warm and he didn’t have to cross an ocean to get there. And now, well, I guess I’m not all that keen on traveling alone.”

  “It can be a little daunting at first, I admit.”

  “You travel a lot?”

  “Whenever I can.”

  “What’s your favorite place?”

  Harry gave the question a moment’s thought. “I guess I’d have to say India. The people, the sites. It’s all so different, so interesting.”

  “Don’t laugh, but when I was younger,” Joan said, putting her elbows on the table and leaning toward him, “I had this fantasy about swimming in the pool in front of the Taj Mahal. Until I realized it was more of a wading pool, and the water was filthy, and the guards would probably shoot me if I set foot in it. You’re laughing. I said, don’t laugh.”

  “Sorry,” he said, still chuckling. “That’s really quite charming.”

  He thinks I’m charming, Joan thought.

  The waiter approached with their menus.

  “See anything that interests you?” Harry asked after a brief pause.

  I certainly do, Joan thought, wondering what Harry Gatlin would look like without his clothes. This is ridiculous, she thought immediately. It had been years since she’d seen a man without his clothes. Unless, of course, you counted Simply Pete in his leopard-print thong. “I don’t know. Everything looks wonderful.”

  “Yes, it does,” Harry agreed, looking directly into her eyes.

  Was he having the same thoughts she was?

  “Their fish is delicious,” he said. “As is their pasta. You really can’t go wrong.”

  “You eat here a lot?”

  “My late wife and I used to come here pretty frequently. But it’s been a while.”

  Joan lowered her menu. “Linda told me she died three years ago.”

  “Yes. Cancer.”

  “My husband, too. Two years last May.”

  “You never quite get used to it, do you?” he asked. “I mean, it gets a little easier with time, I suppose. But the idea that someone is…”

  “…just not there anymore,” Joan said, finishing his sentence.

  “Exactly.”

  “It’s a hard one to wrap your head around.”

  He nodded. “And this whole dating business…”

  The waiter approached. “Are you ready to order?”

  “Think I’ll try the spigola,” Joan told him.

  “I’ll go with the spaghetti Bolognese,” Harry said. “Feel like splitting a Caesar salad?”

  “Sounds good. So,” she said after the waiter had taken their orders and their menus and left the table, “Linda tells me you’ve tried online dating.”

  “Oh, God. Yes. The times, they have most definitely changed. It’s not for me, I’m afraid. You?”

  Again Joan thought of Simply Pete and his leopard-print thong. “Not for me either,” she agreed. “You’re actually the first date I’ve had since my husband died.”

  He reached across the table to take her hand. “Well, I couldn’t have asked for a nicer dinner companion.”

  “Thank you. You make it easy.”

  He smiled and withdrew his hand.

  No, she thought, as she’d thought earlier. Put it back.

  They talked all through the salad, the main course, and dessert. It was almost ten o’clock when they left the restaurant.

  “My condo is just down the way,” he said as they stepped into the warm night air. “If you feel like a nightcap…”

  Joan put her hand through the crook of his arm. “Lead the way,” she said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  “For God’s sake,” Paige said, vaulting toward the front door of their condo, “it’s almost two o’clock in the morning. Where have you been?”

  “My goodness,” Joan said, closing the door behind her. “What are you still doing up?”

  “What do you mean, what am I doing up? I got home from Chloe’s at just after eleven and looked in your room, expecting you to be sound asleep. Instead, you weren’t even here. I called your cell half a dozen times. You didn’t answer. I’ve been worried sick.”

  “Oh, darling. You shouldn’t have worried. I left the phone in my other purse. How is Chloe?”

  “She’s hanging in there,” Paige replied, not quite ready to relinquish her anxiety. “I called Antonio’s. They said you left there around ten.”

  “Yes. I had the spigola—”

  “I called the hospital…” Paige interrupted.

  “You called the hospital! Why, for heaven’s sake?”

  “Why? Because that’s where you ended up the last time you went out with a man to get something to eat.”

  “I can’t believe you called the hospital.”

  “And the police,” Paige went on, anger replacing her earlier panic.

  “You called the police? Oh, my God. What did you say to them?”

  “That I was worried. That you had a date with some guy you didn’t know, that you’d left the restaurant with him hours ago but you hadn’t come home, and I was worried because there was a possible serial killer on the loose…”

  “A serial killer. Oh, my God, Paige. You don’t think you overreacted just a tad? What did the police say?”

  “That I was overreacting,” Paige admitted, feeling beyond stupid. “That you’d probably just gone back to his place. I told them that was ridiculous, that you weren’t like that, that you’re seventy years old, for God’s sake…Oh, shit. That’s what happened, isn’t it? You went back to his place.”

  “Yes, darling,” her mother said, walking into the living room and collapsing on the sofa. “He has this lovely apartment in Beacon Hill. Come sit, sweetheart. Try to calm down.”

  Paige gathered her silk robe around her and sank into the cushion beside her mother, tucking her bare legs underneath her.

  “Do you need some tea?” her mother asked.

  Paige shook her head, trying to decide exactly how much she wanted to know about her mother’s evening. “You look beautiful.”

  “Thank you, darling.”

  “The turquoise suits you.”

  “Harry said it really makes my eyes pop.”

  Shit. “So, I take it the dinner went well.”

  “It did,” her mother said. “He’s a lovely man. Educated, attractive, a good conversationalist, a good listener…”

  “You liked him.”

  “Very much.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Then we finished dinner,” her mother continued, unprompted, “and there seemed to be so much more to talk about. Neither one of us was ready to call it a night, so we decided to continue the conversation back in his apartment.”

  “You talked till almost two o’clock in the morning?”

  Her mother paused perhaps a beat too long.

  “Oh, God,” Paige moaned. “You had sex with him?”

  Her mother looked toward her lap.

  “I’m sorry,” Paige apologized immediately. “I wasn’t trying to make you feel embarrassed or bad about yourself or anything. Honestly. I didn’t mean to sound judgmental. I’m just a little surprised, that’s all. Oh, my God,” she said as her mother lifted her head. “You’re not embarrassed. You’re smiling.”

  “I can’t help it,” her mother said, her impish grin spreading toward her ears.

  Paige wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry.

  “To be honest,” her mother continued, “I think Harry was just as surprised. I don’t think he expected things to progress quite so quickly. But he kissed me, and it’s been a very long time since anyone has kissed me like that—it
was some kiss, let me tell you…”

  Please don’t, Paige thought.

  “And so, when he suggested we go into the bedroom,” her mother continued, oblivious to Paige’s inner pleading, “I thought, well, what the hell? Why not? Go for it. I mean, who wants to play hard-to-get at my age? And to be honest,” she said again, “I was quite turned on…”

  Could you stop being so damn honest? Paige thought.

  “Your father and I always had a very active sex life, and then he got sick, and well…”

  “Okay, stop,” Paige interrupted, no longer able to keep her thoughts to herself. “That’s enough. Please stop.”

  “I’m sorry, darling. But you did ask…”

  “Yes, and now I’m asking you to stop.”

  Tears sprang to her mother’s eyes. “I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you, darling.”

  “Oh, Mom, no. Please don’t cry. You haven’t disappointed me. That’s not it. You could never disappoint me. It’s just that, well, we’re not girlfriends here. You’re my mother.”

  “And mothers don’t have sex?”

  “Well, they usually don’t talk about it with their daughters. Unless it’s to tell them not to.”

  Her mother laughed. “I’m sorry, darling. I’ll stop.” She patted Paige’s bare knee. “Now go to bed. Get some sleep. It’s been a long day.”

  Paige pushed herself off the sofa. She was almost at the hall when she stopped, her curiosity getting the better of her. I’m going to regret this, she thought. “Was it good?” she asked anyway.

  “Oh, darling,” came her mother’s response. “It was wonderful.”

  * * *

  —

  Paige stared into the mirror over her dresser. “My mother’s having sex,” she told her tired reflection. With a man she just met, she continued silently. A man who isn’t my father.

  Had she really expected her mother to remain celibate for the rest of her life? And was that what was really bothering her? Or was it that her mother was having more sex than she was?

  Maybe it was less the fact that she was having sex than the threat that she could fall in love.

  “I’m a horrible person,” Paige whined, climbing into bed and pulling the covers up to her chin, trying to ferret out the source of her confusion. Had she expected her mother to bury her sexuality when she buried her husband? Had she assumed that while her mother might be interested in some form of companionship, it wouldn’t include anything of a sexual nature? That Joan Hamilton was too grown up, too mature, too old for that?