“So maybe Max Factor will want to date me. I don’t have anything special, Keisha, I’m not just being self-deprecating.”
“So what do you think it is?”
“Dunno.” I really was stumped. Unless he had some sort of fetish for older, pathetic women, which I just couldn’t envision.
“So you’re going to stop seeing him?”
I thought about it for a minute. No, I didn’t trust him, certainly didn’t trust his attraction to me, but damn, he was gorgeous, and he could buy me a lot of pad thai. “No, I think I’ll still see him. I mean, I could have a meaningless fling, right?”
Keisha cheered. “Atta girl! You use him like men have been using women for centuries!”
“Put that way, I feel kinda . . . dishonest.”
“It ain’t dishonest to get what you want without giving yourself away.”
My friend the homespun philosopher. “I guess you’re right.”
“At the very least, you’ll get some, right?”
“It’s not all about the sex, Keisha. I don’t think I’m ready for that, strange though it sounds.”
I heard her exhale through the phone. “Doesn’t sound strange.” Her voice sounded kind of forlorn. Not like Keisha at all. Suddenly, I realized we had spent hours discussing me and my problems, and almost no time on her.
“Keish?”
“Yeah, man problems,” she answered without me having to ask the question.
“Tell me.” I settled back into the pillows, easing my socks off, and wiggling my toes.
“I met someone. He’s . . . well, he’s almost perfect. He’s smart, and funny, and handsome, and he likes old movies, he’s got a job, he’s a carpenter, and he likes my dad—”
“And?”
“He’s white.”
“Oh.” I swallowed, not quite sure what to say. I knew Keisha was determined to fall in love with someone like her. Someone who shared her experiences, her views on life, her history. Someone who knew what prejudice was like first-hand. Someone who was not a Caucasian male.
“God, Molly, it’s so hypocritical of me. I shouldn’t have even said yes when he asked me out, but damn, he’s fine.” Her voice sounded rueful.
“How fine?”
She sighed. “He’s tall, taller than my brother, even, and he was a swimmer in college, so he’s got those broad shoulders and that six-pack—”
“So you’ve seen his stomach,” I teased.
She made an inarticulate noise in assent. “Dark red hair, not orangey at all, big brown eyes, straight white teeth—”
“Sounds amazing.”
“He is amazing. I really like him, Molly.” Keisha’s voice was almost a wail.
“Honey, you can’t help who you fall in love with.” Or even who you thought you were in love with, but were just fooling yourself because you weren’t sure you could do better.
“No, but you can sure as hell try to steer yourself to another port.”
“If you were a ship.”
She giggled. “He asked me to move in with him.”
“He’s got his own housing, too? Maybe I should send my mother out there.”
“Only he’s only got a high school diploma, and she would so not be able to deal with that. She’s even more set on a good education than I am on finding a guy who’s the right color.”
I almost didn’t say it, but I had to. “Is there a wrong color, Keisha?”
Because if this was the one, the guy, I would do everything I could to push her toward him. She deserved to be happy, she deserved not to make stupid decisions because of what she thought she ought to do.
I heard her start to cry. Softly, almost imperceptibly, but I could hear her tiny sniffles through the phone. It made my heart ache.
I continued speaking when her sobs had abated. “You have to decide what’s more important, Keisha. Only you can decide. And once you’ve decided, you’ve got to stick with it and don’t look back.”
And, by the way, since I was so good at dispensing advice, why hadn’t I taken my own? Like when I wasn’t sure Hugh was right for me, and my gut told me to wait? Thanks a lot, gut.
“I love you, you know that, Molly?”
Yeah. I did. “Me, too, hon. Call me anytime you need to talk.”
“And Molly?”
“Yeah?”
“If you do the nasty with the Brit, you have to tell me every last detail. Promise?”
“Promise.”
“But, Mommy, you promised!” Aidan’s keen could probably be heard all the way into Manhattan. I felt guilty, angry, grumpy, and very, very tired.
“I know, honey, but I have to go to a meeting, and I can’t cancel—”
It was Tuesday, and I was about to be late to meet Nick. I’d forgotten that it was some sort of Teachers Get the Day Off holiday from school, and I’d promised to take Aidan to an afternoon appearance of Pikachu at the Times Square Toys “R” Us. We had been planning it for weeks: We’d get Chinese food for lunch, then head into the city and shake hands with a guy dressed up as a cute yellow monster.
I was the lowest kind of parent. The kind who forgot a promise to her son. Suddenly I had a flash of inspiration. That, or I was committing freelancer suicide.
“Honey?”
He was still crying a little, wiping his runny nose on the stuffed armadillo my mother had gotten him for Christmas.
“Yeah?”
“If you promise to be superquiet and do some coloring or something, I’ll bring you to my meeting, and we can go see Pikachu right after. We won’t be able to have Chinese food, but my meeting is at a coffee shop.” He looked confused, as if wondering why he would want to go there. “They have burgers and fries,” I explained.
His little face brightened. “Okay.”
“So you promise to be as good as you can be while Mommy has her meeting?”
He nodded slowly. “I promise.”
The subway ride into the city was agonizingly slow—would Nick be okay with this? I thought his reserved professionalism might mean he wouldn’t say anything in front of Aidan. At least I hoped so. Aidan was completely unaware that his mother was feeling the agonies of the carelessly disorganized, and was busy pestering me to do Mad Libs with him.
It was hard not to blurt out irresponsible, lame, and intimidated every time he asked for an adjective.
We walked out of the subway into the cold air, and I braced myself as I spotted Nick’s back. He turned around, and I caught my breath.
He smiled, a genuine smile, when he saw Aidan. I was so relieved he hadn’t told me to take my unprofessional self and my child home as soon as he saw me that I smiled back at him, as genuinely as I ever had, too.
He walked toward us, those dark blue eyes focused entirely on Aidan. “You’re Molly’s boy?”
Aidan nodded shyly. Nick squatted down next to him. “What’s your name? I’m Nick.”
“Aidan.”
They shook hands, solemnly. Nick rose up to his full height and patted Aidan on the head. “Let’s go inside and see how good this place’s fries are,” he said, opening the door to the coffee shop.
Aidan looked up at him and beamed. As he looked back down again, I mouthed “thank you” to Nick. He made a dismissive gesture, as if it weren’t a big deal at all.
As we sat down I wondered what Simon would have done if I’d brought Aidan along to a meeting. Probably compete with him for my attention.
That same hardworking, bitchy waitress came over, menus in hand. She smiled at Nick, glowered at me, and softened the tiniest bit when she saw Aidan.
Aidan opened the menu with determination, indicating he could read more than cat and Pokémon. He looked like such a little man sitting there next to me, his brown eyes narrowed in concentration.
Nick leaned forward. “Aidan, what do you think you want? Are you hungry?”
Aidan gazed up from underneath his lashes. “Yes.”
“And after, if your mom says it’s okay, you can have pie. They ha
ve great chocolate pie. You like chocolate, right?”
Aidan nodded, a little less shyly. “Yeah, only my mom only lets me have it once a day.” He said this in outrage, like I made him sleep outside in December or wear pink or something. Nick chuckled.
“She sounds like a good mom.”
Aidan frowned. “Yeah, I guess, only my dad says—”
“Ms. Hagan, Aidan and I are going to get burgers and fries, but what are you having?”
Guilt on a plate. “Ah, same thing for me, I guess.” Thank goodness Nick interrupted Aidan. There was a heart buried underneath that Thomas Pink shirt after all.
Which snuck back under Mr. All-Business’s chest when he spoke again.
“Ms. Hagan, do you have the most recent copy?”
I reached over Aidan and foraged in my bag for the papers. I found two superheroes, some goldfish crumbs, and a couple of used tissues, but no papers.
I looked up, aghast. “Not here.” I felt myself start to babble. “I could’ve sworn I had it, Aidan put his juice down on it, and I told him not to, it’d leave a mark—”
“Did not,” Aidan interjected.
“Yes, you did, but that’s not the point. Anyway, I can e-mail it to you this afternoon, after we get home from Toys “R” Us. I am so sorry about this.” Nick lifted his hand, and I stopped talking.
“It’s fine, Ms. Hagan. Really. Aidan and I wanted to talk about the Justice League anyway, right?” His eyes darted to the Captain America superhero clutched in my hand. Aidan’s eyes widened. Mine might’ve, too.
“You like Justice League, too? A grown-up?” Nick nodded while Aidan practically bounced out of his seat.
“And Pokémon? Do you like Pokémon, too?”
“I don’t know that much about Pokémon, honestly,” he replied. “Maybe you can tell me about it while we wait for our burgers.”
For the next half hour, Nick and Aidan talked as if they were old friends, Aidan letting him in on the Pokémon secrets and Nick asking questions like he was really interested. My heart melted as I saw Aidan opening up to a new adult. It didn’t hurt that Nick was so . . . open, which is something I would have never thought he’d be if I weren’t seeing it with my own eyes.
When the food came, Aidan ate his burger without comment, still chattering in between bites. Nick winked at me as Aidan finished the last piece.
“Nick,” Aidan said, picking up a fry from his plate, “Mommy and I are going to meet Pikachu for real after lunch. Want to come?”
I winced inside.
And then Nick surprised me. “I’d love to. As long as it’s all right with your mom?” Two pairs of eyes looked at me. One pleading, the other amused.
“As long as Mr. Harrison doesn’t have to be anywhere else,” I replied, trying to give Nick an out if he needed it.
“Oh, he doesn’t,” Aidan said with confidence, eating another fry.
“Well.” I placed my hands in my lap, perfect mother style. “That’s fine, then.”
Nick grinned at me again, and I wondered just what my son had gotten me into.
No fewer than four pieces of chocolate pie later (two for Nick, one and a half for Aidan, a half for me), we headed to Toys “R” Us. I whispered in Nick’s ear as Aidan guided us through the crowd on the sidewalk, “Look, you really don’t have to do this.”
He patted me on the arm, then looped his arm through mine. “I know I don’t. I want to. Aidan’s a good kid.”
“He is, isn’t he?” Thinking about Aidan reminded me of home, which reminded me of something I might as well ask Nick about as anybody. The MBA and all.
“Mr. Harrison?”
“Call me Nick. Your son does.” Ah, the Iceman Melteth.
“Nick, then. If you’ll call me Molly.”
“What, Molly?” He darted a look at me, and I felt the impact of those blue, blue eyes. Somewhere, Paul Newman was saying, “Boy, that guy’s eyes are really blue.”
“Uh . . . do you know anything about gambling? On stocks, I mean?” I blurted it out all at once, and he started a bit, then laughed. I guess it must have sounded like a strange question.
“We’re not starting a bakery on Wall Street, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“No.” I grasped his arm, the one holding mine. “My mother. She’s . . . she’s in over her head, and I’m wondering if you know anything about investments.”
I didn’t think Simon knew anything about the American stock market, and I really didn’t want to ask John. After that, my options were Keisha and Lissa, and I didn’t think either one of them could help me.
“Yes, of course.” His face had regained that forbidding “don’t talk to me” look. I forged on.
“Well, then, if you do know something—do you think you could review what she’s got and give me your opinion? Maybe help salvage something out of this mess?” Maybe someone’s mess could be saved.
“Certainly. I’d be happy to.” He looked anything but. But he had said yes, so I could breathe a little easier.
I knew he wasn’t a friend, much less a close friend, but I felt as if I could trust him to help. His arm felt solid against me, and we walked without speaking for a few minutes. It felt comfortable. Nice. And I didn’t wonder at all just why he was being nice to Aidan, or helpful to me. Just knowing he was that kind of guy felt good.
Portrait of a Ladyfinger
What happens when a classically brash young American, in this case a dessert, encounters the staid tradition of Europe, in this case classic French baking? At least this story has a happy ending. Egg whites, granulated sugar, and flour are combined to make the usual—and delicious—ladyfinger. Then fresh Maine blueberries, Washington apples, Jersey peaches, and California grapes are heaped on top, all lavishly adorned with fresh whipped cream, straight from Iowan cows.
13
“ITALIAN TONIGHT,” SIMON ANNOUNCED AS HE LED ME down East Fourth Street. I bit my tongue before I told him I was allergic to tomatoes. I liked Italian, what carb-loving woman wouldn’t? But I didn’t like being told what cuisine I was eating for dinner. Even my mother had never done that.
It was Wednesday night, and Simon had called the night before to ask me out. Really, telling me out. My mother had overheard and almost jumped through the phone in her eagerness to get me out of the house and on a date. I had no choice, especially when Aidan chimed in.
Apparently Grandma had promised some sort of ice cream fiesta, but only if Mom was away. So Mom had to go out. Clever, clever Grandma.
We met at St. Mark’s Bookshop in the Village. It was raining, a slow, damp drizzle I felt all the way down to my bones. Simon arrived about ten minutes late, carrying a plaid Burberry umbrella. Because of the rain, his curls were even curlier, which made him look that much more adorable.
I exhaled when I saw him. I really should take this for what it was, and stop fussing. Not that I knew what this was. I felt my breath catch again.
I just knew it was likely to end up in something inappropriate.
We walked onto the wet sidewalk, and Simon held his umbrella over us. I pulled the hood of my sweater up over my head, too. The streets were fairly quiet, for the Village at least. I looked around, remembering hanging out when I was young, punk and oh-so-cool. How things had changed. I knew I had.
We stepped down into the restaurant he had chosen and were assailed with the clash of silverware, clinking glasses, and a noisy hubbub of conversation. It seemed as if a lot of people had the same idea as Simon. There was only one empty table, the one closest to the door, and we sat while Simon frowned and glared at the other diners, as if he blamed them for his poor positioning.
The waiter came and deposited the menus. I wondered for a moment if I should even bother to open mine, since I was willing to bet Simon would order for me.
“I was thinking we’d start with the mussels, then a salad, and then whatever pasta you want,” he said, snapping his menu shut.
Who said I wasn’t psychic?
“
I don’t like mussels,” I replied.
“You don’t? They’re great, especially the way they make them here. We’ll order them, you’ll try one, and if you don’t like it, I’ll let you order something for me to try next time we’re out.”
“Sure, but—Oh, never mind.” It was easier to agree than to argue. Pretty much described my marriage.
The waiter came just as I had decided on my pasta. “What can I get you?”
“Mussels in Pernod, two house salads, I’ll have the fettuccine con due salmoni, and the lady would like—”
“Penne with endives, please,” I said, handing the menu to the waiter. At least he let me choose my entrée. Thank you, Mr. Prix Fixe.
“Excellent. And wine?”
“Pinot grigio,” Simon answered.
“Water too, please,” I said as the waiter started to walk away.
“So is the pastry chef here all right, then?” I’d seen they had tiramisu; they had to have someone making it.
Simon shrugged. “I’ve never been here before. I just wanted a place where I wouldn’t be recognized.” Well, didn’t that make me feel special.
Simon reached across the table and took my left hand. He began to stroke my fingers in a very determined way. My body, traitor that it was, reacted immediately. How long had it been since someone had touched me this way? I mean, someone other than Simon, who had touched me not even a week ago.
“I missed you,” he said, lowering his mouth to kiss my palm. “It was a lonely weekend.”
I hadn’t seen him on Saturday because I was too busy schlepping my mother’s essential items from Short Hills to Brooklyn. We put most of her stuff in storage while she sorted out whether or not she would actually lose her house, but my apartment was now a sea of books, I LOVE CATS sweatshirts, and tiny Swarovski crystal figurines.
Plus I had thrown my back out, and had to force myself not to hobble or wince every time a spasm hit. I’d called my doctor, but he couldn’t see me until next month and my insurance ran out at the end of this month.
So, once again, I was fucked. Or not.
I tried not to look uncomfortable as he stroked my hand. Why was I so determined to question it all? He met my gaze, and I felt my insides wobble.
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