by Valerie Clay
If Amanda’s style was city chic, I would have to say that Laini was more urban cool. Her clothes reflect an edgy flair that look fabulous on her, but would look ridiculous on me. I don’t know how she does it. Her black leather jacket topped a simple white T-shirt, and a short denim skirt revealed fishnet stockings and black ankle-length boots. This cutting-edge fashion sense goes hand-in-hand with her quirky, metaphysical side. As a homemaker and part-time spiritual advisor, she does Tarot readings and past life regressions in her home in Juanita. If I had to sum her up in one sentence I would say she is sweet, gentle, ethereal, nurturing, mystical, and kinda spooky.
It was approaching eleven-thirty A.M. when the waitress arrived to take our orders, so in respect for the morning hour, we decided on Cosmopolitans all around. Somewhere into our second round and halfway through our entrees, Laini pulled a tissue out of her jacket pocket and began to weep—delicate, quiet sobs at first—then she progressed into full blown blubbering. Like heat-seeking missiles, our heads snapped in her direction. We went into high alert conditions, DEFCON one. If there’s one thing we’re good at, it’s protecting our own and solving problems for our friends, especially when we’ve had a few cocktails. No one messes with sweet Laini. Not on our watch. Even Carl stopped chewing on his sushi and pointed his body at her like a fierce hunting dog cornering his prey. We waited in respectful silence for her to stop crying, blow her nose, and finally speak.
“Guys, I don’t know how to say this,” Laini began in her soft, silky voice, “so I’m just going to blurt it out. Mark’s having an affair.”
Of course, we were blind-sided by her revelation. No one could speak for a moment.
“Oh, no, Laini. That’s not possible,” I finally said. “He’s crazy about you.”
Mark, a skilled plastic surgeon and her husband of twenty years, has always been utterly devoted to her. They met in college and have been inseparable ever since. Even after all these years, they still flirt with each other. I find it sickening, in a jealous, small-minded sort of way.
“I’m afraid it’s true,” she said as she dabbed at her eyes. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this, and you know how my feelings are.”
We all nodded. The girl does have a gift.
“He’s been acting strangely lately,” Laini continued, “like his mind is on something, or someone else. He doesn’t seem happy anymore, and yesterday I heard him whispering into the phone. When I entered the room he looked startled and immediately hung up.”
“There could be another explanation for all of this, besides an affair,” I offered. Laini began to sob again. I looked across the table to Amanda for help.
“Laini,” Amanda said firmly, “Are you absolutely sure about this? Do you have any proof?”
“Well, out of the blue, he told me he’s going away for a few days on a camping trip with his friend, Bob. When I asked him why this came up so suddenly, he practically bit my head off. Said he needed to get away for a while; clear his head. I just know he’s going to meet someone. Yesterday I did something terrible.” She stopped, took a sip of her Cosmo, and stared off into space.
“What?” we asked in unison.
Laini put her glass down and sighed. “I searched through his pants pockets while he was in the shower and found a piece of paper with the words Crystal Bell 2365 written on it. I don’t even know what that means. Is it is a woman or a drug? I’ve heard of crystal meth. Is it a new drug? Is he a drugie now?”
Julie leaned in and asked, “Do you know anyone named Crystal?”
“No. I even called his office. His office manager said she’d never heard of anyone named Crystal or Bell. She even checked his old patient files for me. Nothing. I’ve been stressed out of my mind, and I can’t sleep. I need a Xanax.”
Simultaneously Julie, Amanda, and I dug into our purses and pulled out our bottles.
“Thanks, but I probably shouldn’t mix it with alcohol,” Laini said as she plucked a new tissue from her pocket.
“Good point. Here take this for later.” I wrapped up a couple of pills in a cocktail napkin and passed them to her. Her small hand shook as she took the napkin and stuffed it into the side pocket of her black studded hobo bag.
“Have you confronted him about this?” Amanda asked.
Laini put her head in her hands. “No, I can’t—I don’t want to bring it up unless I have some kind of tangible proof. Things are tense right now. I mean really tense. It would make things even worse. I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know what to do.” She looked up. “I think this might be the end of my marriage.” Her slender shoulders shook as she began to cry again.
“When is he going on this camping trip?” Julie asked.
“Tuesday,” Laini sniffed. The tremor in her voice made my heart ache for her.
“He’s going on a camping trip in the middle of the week?” asked Julie, raising an eyebrow.
“See what I mean?” Laini said. “It doesn’t make sense. Also, I did a Tarot reading and the danger card appeared. My marriage is in danger and I don’t know what to do.” She pulled another tissue out of her pocket and blew her nose.
“You could hire a private investigator to follow him,” Julie suggested.
“I’ve thought of that, but how would I pay for it? We have a joint checking account and he pays our bills. He’d find out in a minute.” (Side note: married women should always keep a secret stash on hand for emergencies like this. A little extra spending cash keeps your options open and does wonders for your self-esteem.)
“We could follow him for you,” Julie ventured. “I’m on leave for the next two weeks.”
“I’m sorry, I can’t,” Amanda said. “I’ve already made commitments for Tuesday.”
“I guess I could,” I offered. “I’m on vacation too, and I have the time.”
“No,” Laini said. “I couldn’t ask you guys to do that. Anyway, what if he saw you?”
“I have a new Jeep he’s never seen,” Julie, always the efficient one, said as she pulled a notepad out of her purse and began writing. “We’ll keep back a ways and make sure he doesn’t spot us. It shouldn’t be that hard. I’ve watched a million detective shows. We’ll just follow him to the campground and see who he’s meeting. I’ve got a good pair of binoculars and Vic can be the lookout while I drive. Piece of cake. If he really is just camping with his friend, we’ll take off and let you know. What time is he leaving?”
Laini blew out a sigh. “He told me Bob is picking him up at ten A.M.”
“What kind of a car does Bob drive?” I asked.
“A rusty old blue pickup truck; can’t remember what make.”
“What campground are they going to?” Julie queried, quickly jotting down notes.
“He said they were going to Denny Creek Campground in North Bend.”
“I know exactly where that is,” Julie said, looking up. “It’s not too far away, maybe an hour tops. Is anyone else going with them?”
“No, Mark said it was just the two of them.”
The waitress came by and handed us our checks. We stopped talking, paid our bills, then waited for her to leave before we continued our discussion.
I attempted some encouragement. “Don’t worry, Lain. He’s probably just stressed at work, or going through some kind of a mid-life crisis. I’d bet my last dollar he’s not cheating on you.”
There was a glimmer of hopefulness in her expression. “I have to admit I feel better already guys. You’re the best. I owe you big time for this.”
Smiling at her with affection, Julie said, “Nonsense, you’d do the same for us. Anyway, it might be fun playing detective for a few hours.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Every strike brings me closer to the next home run.” —Babe Ruth, American baseball player
*******
Amanda pulled a jeweled compact out of her purse and checked her makeup. “Sorry, girls, I’ve got to run. It’s getting late, and Carl needs to go for a walk.” I looked at my wat
ch and gulped. I was going to be late for my date with Bladerunner. Following Amanda’s lead I pulled my pink “Hello Kitty” makeup bag out of my purse and retrieved my Chanel lip gloss. One must have little splurges in life and this was the most affordable splurge I could find. Anyway, I was once taught that it’s not proper manners for a lady to apply lipstick in public. Who decides these things? On behalf of women everywhere, oppressed by the etiquette police, I defiantly swiped on my precious lip gloss.
Filled with a new sense of liberation, I glanced up and caught Amanda eyeing my bag, one eyebrow raised. She started to make a comment, but thought better of it, and held her tongue. All of a sudden it occurred to me that what I once thought was a hip little bag was now sort of pathetic. Not sure how or when it made the transition. The duct tape holding one of the sides together may possibly have contributed. One step forward, two steps back.
Amanda gave Carl another treat, popped him back into his carrier, and we filed out of the restaurant. Reaching the parking garage, we exchanged hugs, Carl sneezed and bounced around inside his carrier, and we headed out in separate directions.
Luckily, I wasn’t far from my rendezvous with Bladerunner. He had suggested we meet for a glass of wine at The Twelfth Knight, an old restaurant/bar nestled between a car rental company and a mortuary outlet in a Bellevue strip mall, which—looking back—should have been my first clue. I was about ten minutes late, so I parked my car, grabbed my umbrella, and hustled through the light rain to the main entrance. Stopping for a moment under the faux stone overhang, a valiant attempt at medieval decor, I shook out my umbrella, and paused to regroup. I was about to meet the second date of my staycation. Maybe this guy is The One. I drew in a deep breath, fluffed my hair, and straightened my shoulders. Okay, Victoria, let’s see what’s behind door number two.
The interior of the bar was as dark and dank as King Arthur’s dungeon, making it difficult to see anything. As my eyes adjusted, I was able to make out a guy sitting alone at a table in the far corner, and I concluded it had to be Bladerunner. There was a vague resemblance to his photograph, but he was a good sixty pounds heavier. Reluctantly, I approached the table, tried to look happy to meet him, and apologized for my tardiness.
He didn’t stand up. He just sat there and said, “It’s rude to be late. Show’s a complete lack of respect for the other person.” I agreed and apologized for the second time. “What happened to your foot?” he asked after giving me the once-over. “Are you crippled? You never mentioned you were a cripple.”
“No, I’m not crippled. I broke my toe this morning,” I responded as I pulled out my chair.
“I see. Well, maybe after my second beer, you’ll look cuter and I won’t notice it.” He laughed at his own joke.
Put-down jokes. Attractive.
I smiled thinly, sat down next to him and viewed him more closely. His dirty windbreaker made him look like more of a gun runner than a Bladerunner.
He pointed to the menu. “They have oyster shooters on Happy Hour special right now. A buck a shooter. Wanna split one?”
Split an oyster shooter? Somewhere birds are singing, and children are laughing, but I wouldn’t know because I was trapped in the seventh circle of online dating hell. I excused myself, went to the ladies room, and called Nikki J. My call went straight into her voicemail. “Nik, pick up, pick up! You gotta help me. I’m begging you. Call me NOW and get me out of this date!”
I waited as long as I could, then gave up and returned to the table with slouching shoulders. Bladerunner tossed back the last of his beer and motioned for another to a bored waitress dressed in a mid-thigh length peasant top, tight, laced up, pleather bodice, black tights, and over-the-knee-boots.
“You sure took long enough,” he said eyeing me as I sat down. “I thought maybe you fell in or something. I was about to ask one of the wenches here to go in after you.”
“Sorry,” I said, and pointed to my foot. “Throbbing toe. Thought if I ran it under some cold water for a few minutes it would feel better.”
He leered at me. “Maybe you should elevate it. Why don’t you take off your shoe and rest your leg across my lap?”
“It’s beginning to feel a little better now, but thanks for your kind offer.”
He moved his chair closer to mine, breathed beer breath into my face and asked, “So what’s your real name anyway? I can’t call you Snowflake all night.” Snowflake is my clever online dating pseudonym.
“Actually,” I explained, “I never give out my real name on a first date. It’s just a rule I have.”
Mercifully, from the cold, dark depths of my purse, came the triumphant sound of Cavalry bugles, AKA my ringing cell phone. I dug it out and answered with split-second timing. An Olympic athlete couldn’t have been any faster. At last, it was Nikki J coming to my rescue once again, bless her soul. As an aspiring actress and voiceover hopeful, Nikki’s been working with a drama coach for the past several months. This week they’ve begun focusing on impersonations, and she was doing her best Arnold Swartzeneger. As I sat there in the bar with the phone pressed against my ear trying to look sympathetic, she screamed, “Run to the chopper!” and “I’m a cop, you idiot!” I winced, told her I’d be right there, then flipped my phone shut.
“Bad news,” I said turning to Bladerunner. “That was my sister and she’s threatening to commit suicide.”
“What?”
“She just found out that her husband is having an affair with their pool boy.”
“Jeez, that’s too bad,” Blade said.
“Yes,” I said, nodding my head sadly as I stood up. “Can you imagine losing your husband and a good pool boy all at once? I’ve got to run. You take care—nice to meet you—gotta go.”
As I quickly limped and hopped out the door like Chester from an old Gunsmoke episode he called after me, “Shoot me an e-mail when you’re free, Snowflake, and we can try this again.”
“Will do,” I yelled back.
Yes, it seems duplicitous, but isn’t that better than telling him outright that I’m not attracted to him and hurt his feelings? Isn’t that really the more humanitarian thing to do after all? The nicer way to go? Plus, it’s easier.
It was late afternoon by the time I arrived home and parked my car in the garage. I limped, sans umbrella, through a delicate spritzing of raindrops and climbed the stairs to my front door. It felt good to be home. It’s not much, just a humble little condo, but it’s all mine—my own private sanctuary away from the outside world.
When I reached the top step, I stopped cold. On the floor in front of my door sat a large crystal vase filled with a dozen long-stemmed red roses. I picked it up, pressed my nose into the bouquet and inhaled the musky, sweet fragrance. Filled with expectant curiosity, I searched for a card, but could find nothing. Sometimes my ex sends flowers for special occasions (yes, we’ve somehow managed to remain friends) but I couldn’t remember anything particularly significant about today. Maybe they’re from my hot neighbor. Maybe he has a crush on me. Maybe he wants to ask me out. A girl can dream.
Coincidentally, that’s when my neighbor’s door opened and out he stepped onto the porch, gym bag in one hand and car keys in the other. Dressed in faded jeans and a black T-shirt that showed off his amazing pecs, I couldn’t help but appreciate his toned, athletic body.
This is it, I thought. This is the day I get up my nerve to talk to him. It’s now or never. “Hi, neighbor,” I said casually, playing it cool. I set the flowers back down on the porch and turned to face him.
He locked his door then approached me and smiled. “Well, hi yourself.” He exuded a certain sexy self-confidence that comes with good looks, but there was no arrogance or conceit in his demeanor, and that just made him all the more attractive.
“You know, I don’t think I ever got your name.” Proudly, I was able to form a complete sentence.
He held out his hand. “My name’s Judah.”
I decided then and there that Judah was my most favorite name.
He looked me up and down approvingly as I reached for his extended hand.
“I’m Victoria, but my friends call me Vic.”
When our fingers touched, a pleasant little jolt passed through my body and I wondered if he felt it too. I must have flinched because he gave me an amused smile and said, “Victoria suits you. Who’s the lucky guy?”
“What? Oh, the flowers—I don’t really know. There’s no card.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough. Most guys like to get credit for sending flowers.” He ran a hand through his dark hair and shot me a sexy grin. A small scar on his upper lip gave his smile a slightly crooked tilt, and I had the strongest urge to reach out and touch his mouth, trace the scar with my fingertips.
I stood transfixed, not knowing what to say next, when he said, “Well, gotta run. It was nice to officially meet you, Victoria. See you later.” As he spoke, I noticed the faintest trace of an accent, but I couldn’t quite place it.
A waft of his aftershave lingered behind when he left, beckoning me to follow him like lemmings followed the Pied Piper off a cliff. “Down, girl! Get a grip,” I scolded myself under my breath. “You don’t know a thing about this guy, and something is definitely up with him. There’s an intensity about him; something indefinable. Possibly dangerous.” My Spidey sense never lies. I shook it off and carried the flowers into my condo.
As I closed my door, I looked around the room and shook my head. It seriously needed some housecleaning. But that would have to wait. I walked with difficulty into my living room, set the gorgeous arrangement down on my coffee table and sat back to admire the perfect, long-stemmed bouquet.
I elevated my throbbing tootsies on a couple of green velvet throw pillows, lazed back on my sofa, and prepared to settle in for the night. Thank heavens for remote controls. It’s the little things in life that make you happy: a remote control, a comfy couch, a DVR . . . I could even appreciate the positive aspects of a broken toe. It was an excellent excuse for doing nothing. Doctor’s orders. You don’t have to feel guilty; you get to just be. Sometimes it seems like we are human doings, not human beings. Like we need a good excuse to relax and regroup.