Easily Amused

by McQuestion, Karen

  At home I got ready quickly, slipping on some capri pants with a tank top and a little jacket. For footwear I chose a new pair of sandals, a slip-on type with a kitten heel. Checking myself out in the mirror, I gave myself a passing grade for smart casual attire. If Ryan showed up more dressed up, I could always switch to pants or a skirt and keep the rest of the outfit intact.

  I wrote a note for Hubert: “Went out with Ryan! Have fun playing racquetball. See you later. Love, Lola.” I put it in the middle of the kitchen table and anchored it with a vase full of red tulips Hubert had picked up at the grocery store. He’d bought them three days earlier, and they were still holding up well.

  With time to spare, I grabbed my purse and sunglasses and headed out the door. I had told Ryan to come to my house, but I was too impatient to wait. When I got to the curb, I saw him leaving his house. We were perfectly in sync.

  As usual, he looked overjoyed to see me. When I reached his car, which was parked at the curb, he said, “Oh great, you’re ready. I do like a girl who’s on time.”

  And I was that girl. Always on time. Ask anyone.

  He went on. “Are you hungry? Because if you are, we can get something to eat. Otherwise, I thought it would be fun to drive to Milwaukee. There’s a kite-flying event at the lakefront all weekend, and it starts today. Seeing so many kites in flight is incredible, but I’m not trying to influence you. Whatever you decide is fine with me—I could go either way.”

  “The kites,” I said without hesitating. Hubert’s oatmeal cookies had staying power. “Unless you’re hungry?”

  “God no,” he said. “Not at all.”

  Less than an hour later, we were near the shores of scenic Lake Michigan, a lake so vast that it could pass for the ocean. If you could ignore the stench of the dead alewives, it was a gorgeous sight with sun, sand, and a throng of people out and about. Half the city had called in sick, judging by the number of bicyclists and people rollerblading on the path near the lake.

  Ryan pulled into a parking space just recently vacated by an Audi, and we headed toward the beach, where several kites were already aloft. Some of the box kites were the size of my refrigerator; others had a wingspan rivaling a great blue heron. “They’re beautiful. I had no idea they’d be so big,” I said without thinking. Shoot. I had resolved not to let my ignorance show around Ryan, and here I’d slipped already.

  “These folks take their kite flying very seriously,” he said, taking my hand as we reached the sandy area. “Hey! We should do this sometime. We could go to the kite store and pick out something special, then make a whole day of it.”

  A day outdoors didn’t really sound like my kind of thing, since outdoors is where the bugs and wind and glare are kept, but I wouldn’t turn down a chance to spend a whole day with Ryan. “Sounds great.”

  He leaned over and said, “We’ll bring a picnic lunch. Maybe some champagne and strawberries.”

  Now the man was talking some sense. “I’d love that.” He smiled at me, his teeth stark white in the sunlight, and then he pulled my hand up to his lips and kissed my palm. “What was that for?” I asked.

  “Just because.”

  We watched the kites for a while, admiring the way they swayed and bobbed in the wind. Ryan was right—these people did take their kites very seriously. They worked in teams—yelling directions, concentrating fiercely as they let out more line, and whooping with joy when the kites found their place in the sky. “The kites remind me of Japanese dancers,” Ryan said.

  Huh? I didn’t see it myself. Did he mean the movement or the colors or what? Certainly he couldn’t mean it literally—dancers, Japanese or otherwise, were people and grounded, whereas these were geometric structures swaying in the wind. But I didn’t want to appear completely clueless, so I said, “Yes, just so graceful.”

  We watched for what must have been twenty minutes or so, but it seemed like hours. The spike heels of my sandals sank into the sand, forcing me to balance uncomfortably on the pads of my feet. Looking upward was tiresome—the harsh sunlight required me to shade my eyes. Plus my neck hurt. And pretending to be fascinated was exhausting. The kites seemed more like something to do as a drive-by—Look, kites!—than something necessitating an excursion. “Too bad there’s no place to sit down,” I said, hoping Ryan would take the hint.

  He gave me a concerned look. “Do you want to walk along the shoreline? It might be interesting seeing the kites from a distance.”

  Yeah, like from the car as we drove away. I hesitated, not wanting to seem difficult, but wondering how I could maneuver this. “I don’t think my shoes are ideal for sand,” I said, lifting a leg to show him. “I keep sinking.” Already I could feel the straps of my sandals digging into the backs of my heels. The reviews on Zappos.com gave this pair high ratings for comfort. I wasn’t feeling it.

  Ryan held a hand to his chin in thought. “Why don’t you take off your shoes then? I’ll take mine off too. That way we can walk in the water.” He grinned as if he’d suggested something naughty.

  I agreed to his plan because it sounded good in theory. Didn’t the classic romance scene of every movie take place on the beach? There was even an expression I’d heard people use in casual conversation—“It was no walk on the beach, I can tell you that much.” Meaning, of course, that a walk on the beach was a fabulous thing and whatever they were describing was the complete opposite. So who was I to turn down the opportunity to try something so wonderful?

  Ryan had the balancing skills of a flamingo. He stepped out of his shoes and peeled off his socks, making it look effortless. I, on the other hand, had to lean against him while fumbling with my buckles. Bending over made the straps tighten, increasing the difficulty. At home I usually sat on my couch, hoisted my foot up to the opposite knee, and took my sandals off while watching TV. Easy. Here it seemed an impossible feat.

  “Having trouble?” Ryan asked.

  “A little bit.” A little bit of an understatement, that is. “The buckles aren’t cooperating.”

  “Let me do it.”

  “Oh no, I wouldn’t want you to have to—”

  “Nonsense.” He knelt down on one knee and deftly worked each strap through its opening. His back blocked my view of my feet, but I felt the snap of release when each one came undone. He stood up, looking pleased with himself. “Better?”

  “Much better.” I slipped my feet out of the sandals and picked them up, letting them dangle from my curved fingers. “Should we leave the shoes here?” Carrying them seemed awkward. Movie couples never carried their footwear.

  He looked around and frowned. “I wouldn’t want to do that. Some kids might come along and think it’s funny to take them.” He picked up his shoes and held them out to me—a pair of brown loafers with dark stitching on the seams. “These are Berluti. I’d hate to lose them.”

  “Good point. I’d hate to lose mine too. I just got them recently. From Zappos.” Oh, Lola, why don’t you ever learn to shut up?

  “I’m not familiar with Zappos.” Ryan said it like it was a foreign word. “But they seem very nice. Shall we go?” He reached over, and I slipped my hand into his. I noticed that he cradled his shoes with his outside arm, like carrying a football. “This is a great way to spend an afternoon, huh?” he said as we walked.

  “Great,” I said. This lying got easier all the time. Could I be the only one bothered by the sharp pebbles on the beach? How could he not feel the constant poke with every step?

  As we continued on, he talked, oblivious to my pain. He pointed out seagulls and told me how their flight pattern followed the Great Lakes inward to the Midwest. After that, he compared the lake to every lake, river, and ocean he’d ever encountered in his travels: the blue-green of the Mediterranean, the unbelievably clear water of Costa Rica, and a place in Hawaii where the black sandy beaches were actually made up of lava granules. And as he talked, all I could think with every step was, Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow. My fingers cramped from carrying the damn sandals, and the so
les of my feet hurt.

  “Let’s walk in the water,” I suggested after he finished telling me about every major body of water in the upper hemisphere. Thankfully, he agreed, and he even went along with my idea to leave the shoes on the sand, as long as they were within sight. I waded in ankle deep. “Ah, this feels good.” I wiggled my toes in the sand. The water was cold, and I was picking up a faint scent of rotting fish, but other than that—pure nirvana.

  Ryan had rolled up his pants legs and now stood beside me. “This is refreshing. And you can really get a great view of the kites from here.”

  I looked to where he pointed. Oh yes, they were kites all right. Same as before, only smaller. “Great view.”

  We walked along the shoreline, me always within reach of the gently lapping waves, Ryan with a constant eye-check toward our shoes. I was relieved when he decided our romantic walk was over and we should head back.

  Once I’d wiped the wet sand off my feet with a few tissues from my purse and we were back inside Ryan’s car, I felt much better. He started up the Jaguar, and I thrilled to the hum of the engine because it meant putting some distance between me and the kites.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  As we drove along the lakefront, I felt better with each passing mile. I could have lived in Ryan’s car, with its smooth ride and climate-controlled temperatures. The music had a sort of surround-sound effect. And of course, Ryan looked superb, his chiseled features still perfectly chiseled, his wavy hair perfectly in place.

  “I have to stop at a client’s house not too far from here to pick up a check. You don’t mind, do you?” His eyes left the road for a second to meet mine.

  “No problem,” I assured him. Minutes later we pulled into the circular driveway of a mansion on the lake. The shrubs on either side of the massive front doors resembled grown-up bonsai, and the windows were all leaded glass. I was willing to bet it was gorgeous inside.

  Leaving the car running, Ryan asked me to wait. He walked briskly up to the front door and slammed the knocker so hard I heard it from inside the car. The door opened a crack, and he exchanged a few words with someone I couldn’t see. Then he stepped off the porch, motioned to me with one finger skyward—just one minute—and then disappeared around the side of the house.

  I’ve never been good at waiting. After a few minutes passed, I started playing with the radio, stopping when I got to a station playing George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone.” If Hubert had been anywhere within earshot, he’d have been singing along and playing air guitar. Bad to the bone—ba-ba-ba-ba bad.

  Now that I’d broken one taboo, I got braver. Glancing up to make sure Ryan was still out of sight, I opened the glove compartment and peeked inside. Hmmm, a bottle of Excedrin, a travel-size pack of tissues, and a road map of southeastern Wisconsin. I moved that stuff aside and found a folded-up chunk of papers at the bottom. I pulled them out and smoothed them across my lap. A lease agreement from a car dealership in Milwaukee. It had Ryan’s name on it and another name: Arthur Moriarty. It listed the Jaguar as the leased vehicle. I glanced at the specs to make sure it matched. Yep, two-door, color indigo, leather interior. It was the very car I was sitting in. But this contradicted Ryan’s story about buying the car, how it had taken months to get because he’d ordered everything custom, or something like that. I had a sudden memory of the psycho woman at the Italian restaurant who’d confronted Ryan and accused him of being a fraud. Hadn’t she said the Jaguar was leased?

  I folded the papers and put everything back in the glove box, hoping I’d returned it in the same order. I clicked it shut and glanced up just in time to see Ryan returning, a check in hand. He was followed by an older woman who strode after him with a determined look on her face.

  He opened the door and with one swift movement threw himself into the seat and pulled it shut. The woman kept coming toward us even as he started up the car and put it into drive. I guessed her to be in her sixties, with the chic look of a woman with a lot of money and time. As we pulled away, I heard her yell, “This is the last time, Ryan. I mean it. Never again.”

  I strained my neck to look at her through the rear window. She had her fist raised like Scarlett O’Hara vowing never to go hungry again. “What was that all about?” I asked.

  “Just forget about her,” he said, folding the check in two and sliding it into his shirt pocket. “She’s completely unreasonable. I’d love to drop her account, but I’ve been managing it for years.”

  Her account? What kind of account would that be? I thought he did some kind of troubleshooting, quality management type thing. Something wasn’t adding up, but before I could question it, he said, “Hey, you changed the radio station.”

  “Is that OK?”

  “Sure. It’s fine,” Ryan said, but he didn’t look too pleased. After the song was over, I noticed he changed it back.

  We drove in silence for a few miles. He tapped on the wheel impatiently as he maneuvered through traffic. Once we were on the expressway, it seemed safe to ask, “Do you want to just cut this short and go home? I’m fine with that, really.”

  “Forgive me.” He gave me a sideways look and reached over and gave my hand a squeeze. “I know I seem grouchy. I just hate having to deal with those people. It always puts me in a bad mood. But I won’t let it this time because I’m with you, and I don’t want anything to spoil this day. Besides, we can’t stop now. I have a really special evening planned for us.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, Miss Lola Watson, I most certainly do. I have a very elegant dinner planned. A celebration.”

  “And exactly what are we celebrating?”

  “We’re celebrating that in this big, cold world we somehow managed to find each other. I made reservations at the Palmer House. I hope you approve.”

  The Palmer House? I couldn’t walk past that place, the way I was dressed. “I approve,” I said. “But I hope your plan allows me to go home and change clothes first.”

  “Whatever the lady wants.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Hubert was sitting on the couch reading when I walked in the door. I wouldn’t want to teach grade school, but I wouldn’t mind the schedule. “You’re early,” he said without looking up. “You got two phone messages. Brother Jasper called to say he wanted to talk to you at your earliest convenience. And then Mindy left one—she won’t be at the dress place tomorrow, but you should meet Jessica there.”

  Oops, I’d completely forgotten to get back to Brother Jasper regarding his cautionary tales. “Did Brother Jasper say what he wanted, exactly?”

  “I didn’t talk to him. It was on the machine.” He turned a page. From the look on his face, he was totally engrossed.

  “That must be a really good book.”

  Hubert looked up. “It’s one of your aunt’s diaries. You left them on the dining room table—I couldn’t resist. You know I have a thing for local history. I hope it’s OK.”

  “Of course it’s OK. I’ve been meaning to get to them, but—” I stopped because I really didn’t know why I hadn’t looked at them yet. I guess reading about an old lady who’d never been married had no appeal to me.

  “She had such an incredible life. And her writing is so vivid, I feel like I’m there. Did you know she was engaged to be married? Her fiancé was killed in the war. Even reading about it is heartbreaking. She writes about how his sister came to her door with the telegram in her hand. May could tell by the look on her face that he was dead, but she didn’t want to believe it.”

  I sat down in the wing chair to listen.

  Hubert looked pensive. “There was one passage she wrote…wait, I’ll find it.” He flipped through the yellowed pages. “Here it is.” He held the book up as if to give the passage significance. “‘In one instant I’d lost my best friend, my love, my husband-to-be. And now the future we’d planned was taken away from me. The children not yet born would never be.’ And then she goes on to talk about their relationship, how they both loved practic
al jokes and word play, how no one could make her laugh like him. It’s just so sad.” He looked up, his eyes brimming with tears.

  “Are you crying?” I was shocked. This wasn’t like him.

  “I guess so,” he said, a little embarrassed. He wiped at his eyes. “I have no idea why this is getting to me so much.”

  “Well, it is pretty awful.”

  “Yeah, and I guess knowing that she lived in this house her whole life really drives it home. Did I tell you that I found her last diary when I was cleaning out one of the bedrooms upstairs?”

  I shook my head.

  “She kept these diaries kind of on and off, from what I can tell. Sometimes she let it go for years and then picked it up again. The one upstairs was the most recent, from right up until she died. She kept it in the nightstand drawer. I’d like to read them in order, if that’s OK with you.”

  “Sure. Whatever you want.”

  He beamed. Such an easily pleased man. “So what are your plans for tonight?” he asked. “I’m playing racquetball with Ben Cho at six, but maybe later—”

  “Sorry, but I have plans to go to dinner with Ryan. Didn’t you see my note on the table?” I could tell by the look on his face that he hadn’t.

  “That Ryan guy again?” He set the diary down on the couch next to him and leaned forward with clasped hands. “What are you doing with him, Lola?”

  “What? I like him.” OK, I sounded a little defensive, but what was with people thinking that a hot guy like Ryan would never be interested in a plain girl like me? In Hubert’s case, it was possible he thought he was protecting me from some unsavory character, but really—give me a break. Did any of them stop to think that maybe Ryan was genuinely attracted to me? It wasn’t so far-fetched.