“I’m the one who’s responsible for any color he’s got in that place,” Josh said, looking at Kathryn’s bright scarves. “Unlike the woman who actually owns it, that apartment has no personality whatsoever.”
“Sure it does,” Walker said defensively, secretly agreeing with Josh. “It has Sven-the-expensive-decorator’s personality. If Rushie were left on her own, the place would look like Marrakesh meets Stonehenge, only with plastic slipcovers over the monoliths.”
Kathryn switched into hostess mode, despite her earlier protestations, and brought out a plate of the heart-shaped cookies. Josh looked at the flowered porcelain plate and the paper doily, then at the shape of the cookies, then at Kathryn. He seemed to be asking her a question.
“Don’t go there, Josh,” Kathryn said, as their guest bit into a heart. “It wasn’t a conscious decision.” She took a cookie and nibbled at the point. “Not bad,” she said, assessing its texture and taste. She moved Walker’s yellow roses from the coffee table, where they sat in an amethyst-colored glass cruet, to a small end table, then picked up her book and settled comfortably into the cushions of the couch, ignoring the game completely.
“What are you reading?” Josh asked solicitously.
“The love letters of Mark Twain and his wife, Livy. It’s great! See, it masquerades as autobiography,” she said dryly, “but it’s clearly fiction, because he was the one pursuing Olivia, and no man actively seeks commitment unless he’s a creature of feminine fantasy. According to the letters, Twain was the one who wanted to marry Olivia before he ever met her—he saw a miniature of her—a portrait that her younger brother was carrying, and was smitten from the get-go.”
Walker looked up from his longneck. “Didn’t it take a lot of persuading of both Olivia and her father that Mark Twain wasn’t the undeserving, unreliable scum of the earth, gambling scrivener they thought he was?” He blasted Kathryn with a self-satisfied multiwatt smile. “You’re not the only one who’s read a book, Miss Kitty,” he said and toggled off the “mute” button on the remote. The Titans were already toppling the Jets to the tune of three-zip.
The phone rang during the first quarter and Kathryn went to answer it.
“Kathryn Lamb?” The voice on the other end was a bit high-pitched, but pleasant sounding.
“Speaking.”
“This is Glen Pinsky. I saw your tape at Six in the City. And I read your profile.”
“Hi. How are you?” Kathryn asked warmly.
Walker looked up from the television screen. He watched her curiously.
“You’re a drama teacher?” Glen asked.
“I sure am.”
“I’m an English teacher at Trinity. Medieval and Renaissance. We cover Chaucer, Shakespeare, Marlowe.”
“Sounds great. Can I enroll?” Kathryn was giggling nervously. She glanced in Walker’s direction, caught him anxiously watching her, and then turned her back on him, cradling the phone to her ear as she faced the kitchen. She thought she heard him growl.
“I’m not very good at this,” Glen said.
“You’re doing fine so far,” Kathryn encouraged.
“I have to admit, I’m painfully shy. Literature has always been my escape.”
“Well, that’s better than drugs.” Kathryn laughed again. This time, she was sure she heard a growl emanate from the direction of the sofa, followed by the aggressive thunk of a bottle of beer hitting the coaster on the coffee table.
“Can we meet for coffee first, and see how things go?”
“Of course we can. Can I make a suggestion, though?”
“Oh, yes. Yes of course, Kathryn. I didn’t mean to bulldoze you. But, in case I can change your mind, there’s a Caravaggio exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum. Maybe we could meet there and see the show, and then repair to their café by the fountain for coffee afterwards.”
“Oh. That would be very . . .” Caravaggio? He was a painter. Italian Renaissance? Or was that Canareggio? She always got the two confused. “Well, Glen, why not?” she heard herself say. It had been ages since she’d visited the Metropolitan. She was always planning to hit the new exhibits, but somehow never actually made it to the museum, despite her good intentions to be culturally well rounded. And it was a complete one-eighty from being shuttled down to Hades. At least on paper Glen seemed to have more in common with her than Barnaby Street had, despite the allure of the rocker’s great English accent.
“When did you have in mind?” Kathryn asked.
“The museum is open late on Fridays, I think. Maybe we can meet there after work. Or is Friday night too important?”
“Well, Friday night is ‘date night.’ So what better night to go out on a date? I’ll be the one with the red carnation in my lapel,” she joked.
“Oh, I know what you look like. I saw your tape, remember? You look like one of the engravings in Tennyson’s Idylls of the King.”
What? Well, he was an English teacher. “Thank you, Glen. I’ll take that as a compliment. I suppose you . . . teach that work, which is why you have such a familiarity with it.”
There was a silence on the other end of the phone. “I must confess I’ve always thought the women in the engravings were, well hot , to use an expression. Victorian Vargas girls. Was that too forward?” Glen asked meekly.
Uh . . . wait. Did this guy think of nineteenth-century engravings like most guys of her generation regarded Betty and Veronica? “Not at all,” Kathryn replied, shaking her head, even though they were on the phone. She was not about to let the two men watching football in her living room—especially Walker—get a whiff of how odd she feared Glen Pinsky might be. Maybe he just wasn’t comfortable on the phone. He seemed a bit anxious, even desperate to try to impress her. In person, he might improve. “Not at all. See you Friday at around six-thirty. Have a good week. Bye.” She hung up the phone and raced to her computer, firing up the Internet.
Caravaggio, she queried and pulled up dozens of interesting Web sites, more than half of which were in Italian. Eliminating those, within a few minutes she had managed to locate a site that had photos of some of the painter’s masterworks. Brooding, dark, violent canvases they were. Classic subjects like the “Martyrdom of St. Matthew” and “The Sacrifice of Isaac” were rendered in particularly morbid fashion. She sighed inaudibly and returned to Walker and Josh. “What’s the score?” she asked gaily.
The men looked at each other then back at her. “I didn’t mean to listen, but it sounded like you were on a call from one of my clients,” Walker said evenly, poorly disguising his ambivalence and discomfort.
“Glen Pinsky. He’s an English teacher at Trinity . . . but I guess you know that, since you’re the boss. So we’re sort of on the same page from the get-go, since we both teach similar subjects at private schools. We’re meeting at the Met on Friday night, but since you didn’t mean to listen, I guess you gathered that.”
Josh raised his longneck to Kathryn. “Good for you! I hope it goes great for you. I keep telling our friend here,” he gestured toward Walker with the beer bottle, “that permanent bachelorhood is an unnatural state.” He looked over at his pal. “Yo! You should invest in futures, Mr. Wall Street financial guru!” Walker ignored his friend’s admonishment and pretended to be engrossed in the runaway first quarter.
The phone rang again and Kathryn went back to the kitchen to answer it. “Grand Central Station.”
“Have you seen today’s Post?” Eleanor asked.
“No. I don’t usually buy it. It’s all I can do to keep up with what’s in the Times.”
“Are you busy?”
“Walker and an old friend of his are watching Monday Night Football. I’m not busy, though. What’s up? Is everything okay?”
“Can I come over? Dan and I just had dinner and he’s entertaining Johanna, who’s been asking for him all day, and I haven’t seen daylight since I got up this morning, although I was futzing around with the Brownie Points for part of the afternoon—’til Johanna came home fro
m a play date. I could use the fresh air. Just to remind myself that there’s something beyond my apartment.”
“I’ve got news for you . . . you still won’t be seeing daylight. But come over if you want. I’ll be here. And I’ve got plenty of herbal tea.”
When her younger sister arrived—and good thing it happened to be halftime—Kathryn introduced her to Josh, then drew Eleanor into the kitchen and made them some tea. “Did you really just want to get out of the house for a while, or was there something specific you wanted to tell me?”
Eleanor withdrew a page of newsprint from her purse. “I thought you might want to see Liz Smith’s column from today’s paper,” she said, handing Kathryn the folded page.
Kathryn opened the paper and read the item her sister had marked with a yellow highlighter. She swallowed hard and took a sip of tea, followed by a deep breath. Eleanor came over and put her arm around her older sister, who had turned away to wipe the beginning of a tear. “Will you be okay with this?” Eleanor asked.
“Yeah,” Kathryn said softly. “And I wouldn’t mind if you read it to Walker. It can’t get any worse, so reading it out loud won’t change anything. And he might as well know.”
“Are you sure?” Eleanor asked. “Or should we wait until Josh goes home?”
“Monday Night Football usually becomes Tuesday Morning Football, and you need your rest, so let’s bite the bullet. I’m a big girl. Or so I keep telling myself.”
The two sisters walked back into the living room during a commercial break. “Walker, can Ellie read you something?” Kathryn asked him.
He nodded. Eleanor gave her sister another look. Kathryn nodded and waved her hand at the torn page of the newspaper.
“This is today’s Liz Smith column,” Eleanor began slowly. The men looked like they were wondering why it was being read to them. “You sure you’re okay with this, Kitty?” she asked.
“Yes.”
Eleanor gave Walker a significant look, then read the news item. “ ‘What oft-maligned film hunk was noticed nuzzling at Nebuchadnezzar Saturday night with a Bernadette Peters look-alike? Seems he’s been squiring young ladies around Gotham in preparation for his next role . . . he’s slated to play a hapless romantic who tries his luck with a dating service in Ian Sorensen’s satirical comedy, What’s Your Sign?’ ” Eleanor folded the paper and looked at Walker with all the malice of a district attorney.
There were a few moments of silence. Josh looked uncomfortable. Walker was very pale. “Oh, hell. I had no idea, Kitty,” he said quietly. He got up from the couch and moved to embrace her. She pulled away and went into the kitchen, where he followed. Kathryn put both hands on the counter, turning her back on him.
“Believe me,” Walker said softly, reaching out to stroke her hair. “If I’d had any idea what was going on, do you think I would have accepted his application? How do you think it makes me look?”
“It’s all about you, now, isn’t it?” Kathryn scoffed. “You’re worried that people won’t trust dating services anymore . . . as though we should trust them in the first place.”
“I’ll make it up to you,” Walker offered.
“I had a feeling you’d say that. Déjà vu all over again. It’s starting to be your litany. But I don’t need you to save me. And I don’t want a ‘do-over’ match with a seventh bachelor. I’m not sure the horses in your stable are stable.” She turned around to face him. “If I hadn’t had such a positive phone call this evening, I might be more upset than I am.” She managed a somewhat triumphant smile. “I have a very good feeling about Glen Pinsky.”
“Okay, then,” Walker said, “this won’t count in the ‘making it up to you’ department, but let me take you out for ice cream after the game.”
“How old do you think I am? Isn’t that the sort of thing you say to cheer up a seven-year-old?”
Walker grinned and shrugged.
“Hey! On second thought . . . I could use a hot fudge sundae right about now. Or maybe a banana split.” Kathryn looked at the clock. “Wait a minute, Bear, it’s already pushing midnight and they’re just about to get to the two-minute warning—which in my experience of watching this stupid game means there’s at least another half hour of play. What ice cream parlor is open at one A.M.?”
He ruffled her hair. “Trust me, Red.”
Red?
Chapter 15
At 1:17 A.M., Walker was maniacally wheeling a shopping cart through the nearly empty aisles in the local twenty-four-hour Food Emporium, with Kathryn riding shotgun, her feet perched on the front of the cart and her butt sticking out like some sort of aft-facing figurehead. Walker skidded the cart to a halt in front of the frozen food section. “Pick your poison, Kitty. Any flavor you want. Load up. My treat.”
Kathryn hopped off the cart and began to scrutinize the abundant selection before her. “Nothing better than coffee ice cream with hot fudge,” she said, grabbing a pint of Häagen-Dazs. “Then again, they do make the best chocolate.” She tossed a second pint into the cart. “And hot fudge with mint chip really is hard to beat,” she added, grabbing the third flavor. “What kind do you like, partner?”
“Cherry vanilla.”
“Well, you’re in luck, because they just so happen to have . . .” Thunk. A fourth flavor joined the rest at the bottom of the shopping wagon. “Have I ever told you my theory about ice cream and calories?”
“Nope,” Walker replied.
“Okay. Now bear with me. This is scientifically proven to be true.” Kathryn lifted the pint of chocolate ice cream out of the cart and held it like Carol Merrill demonstrating a product on Let’s Make a Deal. “Chocolate. Dark color, rich flavor. A perfect example of the highest-calorie ice cream. Vanilla—which we’re not bothering with this trip—has fewer calories. Why? Lighter color, lighter flavor. Fruit flavors,” she said, holding up the pint of cherry vanilla, “have even fewer calories than vanilla because the fruit takes up all that room in the container. And besides, everyone knows that fruit is dietetic. After all, there are only about sixty calories in an entire basket of strawberries. Now, we get to the most dietetic flavor of all: coffee, because you actually burn off calories as you consume it, due to the caffeine content.” Kathryn brandished the coffee ice cream to prove her point.
Thoroughly charmed, Walker was in stitches. “That is the silliest, sorriest excuse for chowing down on dessert that I have ever heard.”
In tandem, they rolled the cart into another aisle. “Some people think paper or plastic is the biggest decision you’ll ever have to make in a trip to the supermarket,” Walker said, straight-faced. “But actually, it’s wafer or sugar,” he added, bringing the cart to a stop in front of a display of ice cream cones. “Concentrate now. Our future as roommates depends on your answer.” He hummed the Jeopardy theme.
Kathryn gravely studied the boxes. “I think it all depends on the kind of ice cream you’re having. For instance, can you imagine having a Carvel softserve in anything but a wafer cone? I can’t. However, for the kind of ice cream that you need a metal scoop to dish out, it’s got to be sugar cones all the way.”
“Yes!!” Walker exclaimed, raising his right hand for a high five. Kathryn’s hand met his in a resounding smack. He impulsively gave her a hug.
After selecting three different kinds of fudge, and adding a jar of hot butterscotch for good measure, Walker and Kathryn wheeled their bounty to the produce aisle. Kathryn picked up a box of strawberries. “Ummm, smell these,” she giggled, inhaling, then shoving the box at Walker. “We can dip these in the hot fudge. After all, they have only sixty calories for the whole box!”
She giddily plucked an apple from a pyramid-like display and swirled the fruit under his nose.
“Temptress!”
“You wish!” she laughed.
“Wheresoever you are, there is Eden,” Walker said.
“Hey, I was just reading that line tonight, while you were watching the football game. That book I was reading—the love letters
of Mark Twain and his wife— refers to hypothetical diaries Twain wrote of Adam and Eve. They were supposedly highly autobiographical . . . he adored his wife, and the personality he created for Eve and the relationship she has with Adam is modeled on his own marriage. ‘Wheresoever she was, there was Eden’ was the last line of Adam’s Diary. It made me cry when I read it, but you probably didn’t notice. You and Josh were too busy yelling at those guys on TV while they crunched each other’s bones. How did you know that quote?” she asked incredulously.
“I guess you didn’t notice when I mentioned it in between ‘yelling at those guys on TV,’ that I seemed to know a factoid or two about Mark Twain. I may love football, but I have read a book or two, missy.”
Kathryn snapped a banana from its bunch and brandished it. “Glen Pinsky’s got some competition in the Renaissance Man department. You are one continuous string of surprises, mister.”
“Now, who’s ‘Flirting with Intent’?”
Before she could come up with a quick reply, Walker enfolded her in his arms and kissed her, full and deeply. Kathryn felt herself respond to his passion with equal intensity. His ardor made her lose all self-control and awareness of their surroundings.
“Stop that!!!”
The amorous pair immediately ended their embrace, startled out of their skins.
They were assailed with, in heavily accented English, “This is not the place for that sort of . . . rivky-pivky!”
Kathryn blinked and looked at their accuser, an elderly woman, barely five-feet tall, with two apples, a pint of almond-flavored nondairy creamer, and a Lean Cuisine in her handheld red plastic basket.
“Hey, lady, what’s your problem? Get a life!” Walker said gruffly.
The old woman heaved her shoulders, harrumphed at them, and shuffled toward the checkout line.
“Good thing she didn’t catch me squeezing the melons,” he added under his breath.
“Why did you do that?” Kathryn asked softly. “Not that,” she said, nodding in the direction of the retreating senior citizen, “but . . . you know . . .”
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