At Your Beck & Call

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  Her cheeks were a little pink, but it was probably the breeze as we drove down the hill.

  I meant every word. I don’t know what it was: that I’d given myself permission to date for the first time since the debacle of Paige, or just the pleasure of being with Laura. Both, perhaps.

  We fell into easy conversation about the Impressionists. She got quite heated when I dissed Renoir as ‘a chocolate box artist’. Mostly I enjoyed seeing her animation, her passion.

  “I swear, if I have to look at The Umbrellas or Boating on the Seine on one more gift set, I’m gonna hurl.”

  “How can you say that, Hallen?” she scoffed. “What about his nudes? Don’t they speak to you?”

  “While I love to look at the female form, Laura, his preference for thunderous thighs does nothing for me personally.” And I glanced at her slim legs, inconveniently covered.

  She snorted, a wonderfully unfeminine sound coming from her lovely face.

  “There are some nudes I’d really like to see.” I winked at her. “You, for example…”

  But she interrupted me immediately.

  “Hallen!” she blurted out. “Are you…” She bit her lip. “Are you hitting on me?”

  I glanced over at her before concentrating on the road ahead.

  “Would you mind if I did?”

  I was smiling, but I really wanted to hear her answer.

  She gasped and it morphed into a hiccupping laugh. “I’m old enough to be your mother!”

  That wasn’t a no. I shrugged. “I don’t think so.”

  “Well, I remember from reading your exhibition catalogue that you’re 28.” She hesitated. “I’m 48, so yes, I’m old enough to be your mom.”

  She was a little older than I’d guessed, but it didn’t bother me, not even for a second.

  “You’re nothing like my mum. But if you want me to stop, I will. Your choice.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Laura, the sun is shining, the sky is a flawless ultramarine, and I’m with a beautiful woman who genuinely loves looking at art. My day is officially perfect. It doesn’t have to be anything else.”

  She relaxed back into her seat, and I was more than happy to see a small smile on her lips. But it didn’t slip my attention that she hadn’t answered my question—one way or another.

  I managed to park reasonably close to MOCA and we spent two hours wandering among the Cézannes, cheerfully criticizing the hang and mocking the pretentious descriptions of some of the works.

  “Say what you like—it’s a bunch of fruit. It’s not ‘a metaphor on the ephemeral nature of life’!”

  “Hallen, you can be such a philistine! And you’re an artist, too. How is that even possible?”

  “Because I’m telling you! I’ve sketched, drawn, painted and charcoaled bowls of fruit until my eyes were about to fall out, all in the name of developing my skills,” I insisted, using air quotes on the word skills. “That’s all he was doing—working with the oils to see how well he could capture the blend of colors, the texture, the play of light. But it’s still just a bunch of fucking fruit!”

  She laughed out loud, and we got some stern looks from the other patrons.

  “I know you’re winding me up deliberately!” she whispered, prodding my arm playfully.

  “Come on,” I said, grinning back at her. “I’m starving. Let’s go get something to eat.”

  “Just give me a moment,” she smiled, “I have to visit the restroom.”

  “Okay, fine. I’ll wait for you here.”

  I leaned against the wall and pulled my phone out to check for messages. There were two from Patricia and I was just about to read them when a woman who I guessed was about my age started a conversation.

  “I really have to agree with you about the fruit,” she said. “It’s so boring!”

  I let my face go blank. That wasn’t what I’d said at all. I loved the strength of line Cézanne used and the vivid flare of color in rendering something as simple as an apple. What I’d been amused by was the museum’s pretentious description.

  I gave her a meaningless smile and hoped she’d go away.

  She didn’t.

  “It’s so cute to see a guy who enjoys spending time with his mom.”

  The woman smiled at me suggestively, but my spine stiffened at her words.

  “She’s not my mom, she’s my girlfriend,” I said, flatly.

  I had no right to call Laura my girlfriend, but this woman had crossed a line and I was seriously pissed.

  The woman was mortified.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she said. “I thought … oh, sorry! Sorry.” She hurried away, her cheeks burning.

  Of course, Laura saw her.

  “Another fan?”

  She didn’t look happy and her voice was cool and contemptuous.

  “No! I’ve never seen her before,” I answered, quickly.

  “Then why was she apologizing?”

  “She thought she knew me,” I lied.

  Laura gave me a look that said she wasn’t buying it, but there was no way I was telling her the truth.

  We headed out of the museum in silence, a far cry from the teasing rapport we’d established earlier.

  “So, um, can I take you to get an early dinner? We could…”

  “Actually, Hallen, I think I should get going now. It’s been a fun afternoon, but really … I’m rather tired.”

  “But I thought…”

  She waved away my words angrily. “You know, whatever! I’m not going to go through with this charade again. Just tell me: yes or no. Was that woman one of your clients?”

  She spat the word at me, her eyes flashing.

  “No! I told you. I’d never seen her before.”

  “I don’t believe you, Hallen! I’m not going to be taken for a fool again—not by any man, and certainly not by you! Tell me why she was apologizing!”

  I ground my teeth in frustration. Laura jutted her chin out and stood with her hands on her hips.

  “Fine!” I snapped. “She said it was nice of me to spend time with my mom. I said you were … a friend. She apologized and left. End of story.”

  Laura gasped and dropped her head into her hands.

  “Oh, God, I’m so embarrassed,” she muttered through her fingers.

  “That’s why I didn’t tell you. I like you,” I said, softly. “I really like you.”

  She didn’t reply.

  I knew I shouldn’t have done it, and it must have freaked her out, but I couldn’t help pulling her closer and kissing her hard. Letting her know that I’d meant what I said. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted … no, I needed to feel that connection with her.

  Hell, the worst that might happen was that I could have my face slapped.

  Instead she kissed me back.

  Every ounce of passion that I knew she had locked away inside her was poured into that kiss. As first kisses went, it was pretty fucking amazing.

  She bit my bottom lip hard, and when my breath caught, her tongue slid into my mouth, stroking against mine. I tugged her hips toward me, letting her know there was no doubt about the way I felt, showing her again how much I wanted her.

  She fisted her hands into my shirt and twisted roughly, then suddenly pushed me away and stumbled back.

  “Oh my God!” she gasped.

  My hands felt empty without her to hold. I leaned against the wall, willing my heart rate to slow.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you,” I breathed out, my eyes closed. “I just didn’t want to hurt you. I know I made it worse. I’m sorry. I’m not sorry for kissing you.”

  When she didn’t reply, I opened my eyes to see a small smile on her face.

  “I believe you. Thank you for … defending my aged honor,” and she gave a hollow laugh.

  “Don’t do that, Laura,” I said, harshly. “It doesn’t matter to me and it’s no one else’s business. We’re both adults, both single…” I paused. “And I’d like to see you again. Take you on
a real date, not just a casual ‘let’s hang at the art gallery’. Dinner, drinks, dancing—whatever you want.”

  I thought she was going to say no, but then a look of determination tightened her face.

  “You’re right. What the hell! If my bastard of an ex-husband can fuck his 22-year-old secretary and get her knocked up, I don’t see why I can’t have dinner with a hot guy.”

  Great. So I was her rebound relationship? Always a fucking catch. I didn’t like to think about the way that sickened my stomach. But I was used to hiding how I felt; I’d had years of practice.

  “You think I’m hot?”

  She laughed and pretended to fan her face.

  “Oh, sure! My temperature is always 104!”

  I took a step toward her again, but she held up a hand to stop me.

  “Not here, Hallen. I’m not a fan of gratuitous PDAs. Some things are private.”

  “It’s not gratuitous, Laura, but I’m prepared to wait. Where do you want to go?”

  “Is the offer of dinner still open?”

  I smiled with relief. “For sure!”

  I held out my hand to her and after a moment, she took it. I tucked it under my arm, and we strolled through the early evening crowds.

  “I’m not going to get a bill at the end of the evening, am I?” she asked.

  Her voice was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of concern, too. I tried to seem unaffected, but her words pierced me, although I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  “No, Laura,” I said, straining to keep my voice even. “This is just me. I’m not in the escort business anymore. Ask Eloise if you don’t believe me.”

  “Really? You’ve … retired?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?” She pulled a face and shook her head. “Sorry. Don’t answer that. I’m not usually such a bitch. I just can’t figure out why someone like you would be interested in someone like me. Why did you change your mind?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, when I bumped into you at Bergamot Station you seemed less than thrilled to see me.”

  “I’m sorry about that. I was having a bad day.”

  “Clearly.” She paused. “The age difference doesn’t bother you? It doesn’t bother you that someone mistook me for your mother? Because I’ve got to say, I find that a little hard to take. More than a little, actually.”

  “It’s no one else’s business. I haven’t dated in a long time, Laura, for obvious reasons. But I want that—with you. Laura Anderson, may I take you to dinner?”

  She smiled. “I’d be delighted.”

  We drove out to one of my favorite restaurants, Rustic Canyon, in Santa Monica. It was an unpretentious, intimate place, and no, I’d never taken an appointment there. I went maybe once a month for the fresh fish and simple farmers’ market food.

  The hostess, Shelly, tried to hide her amazement that I was here with a date.

  “A table for two, Hallen? Sure, sure! This way.”

  She led us to my favorite table in the window corner, then hovered by the cashier desk, glancing away every time I looked up.

  “That was interesting,” smirked Laura.

  “I come here a lot.”

  “I guessed that.”

  I leaned back and met her gaze. “I’ve only ever come here by myself.”

  Laura’s cheeks were suffused with pink. “I’m sorry. I’m just … I haven’t been on a date in a long time either. Well, about 27 years. You could say I’m out of practice.”

  I relaxed a little. “Then it’s new for both of us. How am I doing?”

  She smiled. “You’re doing great. I seem to be the one who is going for the foot in mouth award.”

  I reached across the table, resting my hand palm up, silently asking for Laura’s hand in return. She hesitated for a moment then I felt the gentle warmth of her fingers.

  “Thank you for coming here with me, Laura. I guess we’ve both got some trust issues.”

  “I guess we do.”

  Shelly returned to take our orders, and Laura slid her hand out of mine.

  We spent the next two hours getting to know each other a little better, although we mostly stuck to more comfortable topics: books and movies we both enjoyed, what she was looking forward to doing now that she was back in Santa Monica, the kind of music she listened to, and art—endlessly art. It never once felt like work.

  As we drove back to Laura’s, we made plans for a beach picnic the next day. She didn’t need to work, and as for me … well, I was retired. Like I said.

  She wanted to show me one of the places she used to go when she was a kid. We shared a chaste kiss at her front door that could have rapidly turned heated. Sensing her hesitation to take it further, I managed to peel myself away, and wished her goodnight.

  When I got home, I finally read the texts from Patricia. The reviews of the show were good and Christopher Knight had described it as ‘a triumph of sensuality and technique’. Hell, yeah!

  I lay awake for a long time that night. I was too happy, too alight with possibilities to sleep. In the end, I went to my studio and painted, a new energy and vitality flooding through me. By the time the thin rays of another day in Paradise filtered fingers of light into the room, I’d filled a whole canvas with vivid, intense color. I didn’t need to be an art critic to realize it was some of the best work I’d ever done. The painting spoke of a fresh start, of hope.

  Of course, I looked like hell. My eyes were bleary and red-rimmed, and anyone would have thought I’d been on an all night bender.

  I covered the new canvas with a clean cloth to protect the surface while the oils were drying, then sat on my balcony with a coffee and scraped dried paint off of my fingers with an old quarter.

  My mind started to drift, and with a lurch I realized I was falling asleep. I shook myself awake and headed for the shower.

  Today, Laura had insisted on taking her turn behind the wheel. At 10AM, I saw her drive up in a battleship gray Beamer. Not bad, but it didn’t seem like the kind of car she’d choose for herself. I wondered if her ex-husband had picked it out for her. He’d seemed like the controlling type when I met him.

  “Hey, Laura!”

  I was surprised by the leap of happiness in my chest when I saw her.

  “You look very beachified,” she said, with a smile.

  I glanced down at my boardshorts and casual t-shirt. “Yup. Someone told me we were having a beach picnic. Thought I’d dress the part.”

  “Well, hop on in, surfer dude.”

  It was good to hear her being playful, and I couldn’t help the huge smile that stretched across my face.

  “Seriously? You’re calling me ‘dude’? What next? You’ll be telling me to hang ten?”

  “You never know!” she laughed.

  She patted the seat and I slid in next to her, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “You smell fantastic,” I said, softly.

  A gentle blush rose up her cheeks, but she didn’t reply.

  “So, where’s this awesome beach we’re going to, dudette?”

  “Very funny, Hallen. Have you ever been to El Matador? It’s 25 miles northwest of Santa Monica. I used to go there when I was a kid.”

  “No, can’t say I’ve been there.”

  “You’ll love it.”

  I settled back into the seat and looked over at her. She was wearing tailored shorts with a loose, cotton blouse. She looked relaxed, her mood light.

  “You’re staring,” she said, without taking her eyes from the road.

  I grinned. “Just enjoying the view.”

  “Stop it!” she said, her voice both a warning and amused.

  I smiled and looked out of the window instead.

  “You don’t mind me driving?” she asked.

  I glanced over at her, my eyebrows raised.

  “No, why would I?”

  “Well, Jack always…” she bit off the end of the sentence.

  It was several mome
nts before she continued.

  “Jack always insisted on driving. Sometimes I’d drive us home from a party when he’d been drinking, but he was … critical.” She laughed unhappily. “I think he was born in the wrong century—he didn’t think women could drive or … well … lots of things, now that I think about it.”

  I was silent, wondering what to say.

  “Have you been divorced long?”

  I winced as the clumsy question fell off my tongue.

  “Five months ago, but we’ve been separated for nearly a year and a half. Jack remarried the day after we got the divorce papers.” She sighed again. “He has a two-year-old son with Yasmine. She was his secretary—how cliché. A whole new family.”

  “How do your children feel about that?”

  “Shocked at first. Now, they accept it, I think. Jack and I … we hadn’t been happy for years, looking back. So…” She glanced over at me. “What about you? Any significant other?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. No significant anything.”

  But I really hoped that was going to change.

  An hour later, I could say with certainty that she was right about El Matador. A rugged path led directly down to a wide, sandy beach, with sea arches carved out of the rock by the action of wind and waves. If I’d drawn a picture of the perfect beach in my head, this would be it.

  There were no lifeguards and we were completely alone. I was pretty damn happy about that.

  Laura popped the trunk, revealing an enormous cooler.

  “Jeez, how many people are you feeding?”

  She shrugged. “It’s not all for you. I always get hungry after I’ve been swimming.”

  I lifted the lid and peeked inside: fried chicken, salad, bottled water, and something that looked like chocolate mousse.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “What?” she said, defensively. “I like chocolate mousse!”

  I kissed her soft lips before she could dodge away. “I can’t wait to taste it on you.”

  She sucked in a breath, then smiled. “I might even let you.”

  God, I loved it when she was sassy.

  She kissed me again quickly, taking me by surprise.

  “What?” she said, her arms resting lightly on my biceps. “I’m middle-aged, not dead!”