The Date Before Christmas: A Novel

  Paul was speechless, feeling guilt rise again like an icy liquid. He lifted a shaky hand to speak. “Dina, I was going to tell you…”

  She stopped him again, with a firm shake of her head. “No, Paul. All I know now is that I love the way you make me feel—all sexy, loose and silly. I love watching you. I love your walk, your very intelligent and somber eyes, your serious face, and I love the way you make love to me.”

  “I’m not so somber and serious with you, Dina, am I? We laughed last night, didn’t we?”

  She smiled, and again, it melted him.

  Her voice softened to a breath of an intimate whisper. “Yes, Paul. Last night… We laughed. I loved the way you looked at me last night, after we made love, while we were drinking Champagne by candlelight, from candles delivered by Room Service at four in the morning. That was truly the act of a romantic. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  They stood in a ringing silence, staring, thinking.

  Finally, Dina offered him her hand. “Let’s shake on it, Paul. No explanations until I’m at the airport gate, ready to fly back to Colorado on December 24th. Then, you can tell me everything and, if it’s bad, it won’t matter. My Cinderella moment will be over.”

  He stared down at her hand. Dina’s face hardened with determination. He was conflicted. What had happened to her to make her so suspicious of men? Whatever it was, he hadn’t helped any.

  He didn’t want to lose this wonderful, sexy, intelligent and lovely woman. She was becoming a part of him, only in these few short days. She had entered him like a drug and transformed him. They had joined—truly joined—like true lovers join and kiss and laugh and touch. They were good and natural together, and every time he saw her, he experienced a rebirth of happiness, something he had not had since he’d heard the tragic news of his wife’s death. That awful, dark day.

  “So, are you going to shake my hand, Paul?”

  Reluctantly, he took her hand, shaking it limply. “Okay, Dina, if that’s what you want.”

  And then, just like that, she was all energy and enthusiasm again. She rushed to her suitcase, dropped to her knees and rummaged through tops, bras and underwear, finally snagging a box. When she lifted it high into the air like it was a torch, Paul placed his hands on his hips, forcing a light mood.

  “So, what’s that all wrapped in red and gold with a very chic red ribbon?”

  She sashayed over to him, with a sexy lift of an eyebrow. “It’s a Christmas present I bought you in Rome.”

  He took it, pleased, and removed the ribbon. After carefully peeling off the lush wrapping paper, he pried open the rectangular box, parted the red tissue paper and stared down at a green floral silk tie with matching handkerchief.

  “If you don’t like it, you can exchange it the next time you’re on a spy mission in Italy,” Dina said, with a wink.

  Paul made a face. “You and your imagination.”

  He lifted the tie from the box and held it up.

  “Do you like it?” Dina asked, worried. “I mean, I don’t really know your taste, but the Italian salesperson, a very attractive and helpful woman, said any man she knew would like it.”

  “And she’s right,” Paul said, leaning in for a kiss. “I love it.”

  “Merry Christmas,” Dina said, looking at him with love.

  “Merry Christmas, Dina.”

  She glanced toward the window to see snow drifting across the windows. She broke from him and rushed to look.

  “It’s beautiful. Let’s get out of here and go for a walk in Central Park.”

  “I’ll need to go back to my place and get some clean clothes,” Paul said.

  Dina turned. “Don’t worry about that. Just wear what you had on last night. I don’t care. Anyway, where is your place? High in some glass tower overlooking Manhattan?”

  He smiled. “Do you really want to know?”

  Dina’s face darkened again. “No, I don’t. Scratch that.”

  “I’m going to tell you anyway. I live in a four-story brownstone that I had gutted and renovated three years ago. It’s on West 71st Street.”

  Dina withdrew her attention from him. “Sounds nice.”

  “I can tell you more, Dina.”

  “No… No more. Let’s go.”

  She charged into the bathroom and closed the door, calling back in a muffled voice. “Oh, and I’m starving. Know a good breakfast place?”

  “Yes, but I need to take a shower too.”

  CHAPTER 17

  After breakfast at Paul’s favorite Greek diner, they set off walking the snowy paths of Central Park, as snow fluttered down and dusted Dina’s royal blue ski cap and the shoulders of Paul’s Chesterfield coat. There was celebration in the air as children hopped and danced, their tongues darting out to catch snowflakes, their parents lost in the magic of a snow globe world. Families roamed, lovers shot Selfies and, in the distance, came the mellow sound of a trumpet, playing a jazzy version of I’ll Be Home for Christmas.

  When a cardinal flashed by in a flame of red, Paul followed it with his steady eyes. It alighted on a snowy tree limb, tail flicking. It perched and sang, a loud string of clear two-parted whistles that pierced the cold, snowy air.

  “I grew up in Madison, Indiana,” Paul said, spontaneously, still focused on the cardinal. “I only mention it because whenever I see snow in the crooks of trees it reminds me of when I was a kid there. And there always seemed to be cardinals in the trees outside my bedroom window.”

  Dina turned in surprise. “You grew up in Indiana?”

  “Yes.”

  “I grew up in Patterson, Ohio, not far from Indiana.”

  Paul smiled. “We were neighbors.”

  “I never figured you for a Midwest guy,” Dina said.

  “Oh, yes, definitely, a Midwest guy at heart.”

  “Where is Madison?”

  Paul pretended insult. “You must be joking? You don’t know where Madison is? It’s the largest city along the Ohio River between Louisville and Cincinnati. Its motto is ‘America’s Home Town.’”

  “So, it’s near the Ohio River?”

  “Yes. When I was a kid I used to wander down to the Courthouse and listen to the old men tell river stories. They were mostly tall tales of course, about the old floods and the big fish they’d caught or hadn’t caught. They told scary stories about drownings, and ghost sightings and house hauntings; but those old men utterly fascinated me. They’d play guitars, fiddles and banjos and sing songs to the dead—sad ballads about how the bad ole’ river had done them in, or about how the ghost of an old sweetheart roams the river banks, and makes melting tracks in the snow. I listened to those old men for hours. It was better than watching TV.”

  They approached the Reservoir and strolled along the cinder path for a time, gazing out at the gray water. Paul had a flashback, recalling the first time he’d shown the Ohio River to his new bride, Olivia, eight years ago. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  He’d shared his feelings about the river, how he loved it—and the changing expressions of the seasons reflected in its waters: the bright colors of autumn, the cold white of winter, the fresh bursting blooms of spring, and the plush greens of summer.

  He told Olivia how he’d loved the constant heavy weight of the water, as it moved in a relentless hypnotic poetry, the textures, the currents, the eddies, and the pitch of the river. He told her how, as a boy, he’d sit for hours following the river traffic: the big pleasure boats, the ski boats, the paddle wheels and the barges.

  “When did you leave Madison?” Dina asked.

  They had slowly worked their way down to the adjacent dirt bridle path, as a rush of wind startled the snowflakes and rattled the tree limbs. Dina and Paul turned aside to protect their faces from the sting of cold.

  “How much snow are we supposed to get?” Dina asked.

  “Just an inch or two. Not much.”

  They ambled under the Gothic Bridge, and Paul sighed out a misty cloud of vapor.


  “What was that sigh for?” Dina asked.

  Paul looked away. “I don’t know. Old memories, I guess.”

  “Any you want to share?”

  He glanced skyward, feeling flecks of snow strike and tingle his face. “Just boyhood things.”

  “So, when did you leave Madison?”

  “When I went to college.”

  “What college?”

  “Harvard.”

  “Harvard? That’s impressive.”

  “Is it?” Paul asked, blandly. “Well, yes, I guess so.”

  “What was your major?”

  “Business.”

  Dina glanced at him. “Graduate school?”

  “Columbia.”

  “Okay, Mr. Smith, or whatever your name is. I’m impressed.”

  “Don’t be. It’s just another school.”

  “I don’t think so,” Dina said. “Harvard and Columbia? I’m guessing you got an MBA at Columbia?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, I really am impressed. And either your parents are rich or you left college with a mountain of student loans.”

  “No, my parents aren’t rich. My father has his own plumbing business and my mother works as a substitute teacher, but she mostly stays home now. I did manage to get a scholarship to Harvard, but I took out some loans for Columbia.”

  “And I’m betting you paid them off long ago.”

  “Yes…”

  “Like I said, Mr. Smith, I’m impressed.”

  “Look, Dina, some people are good musicians, teachers or carpenters.”

  Dina thought of Mrs. Terry. “…and psychics.”

  “Psychics?” he asked, thinking it was a joke. “Well, yes, of course. Well, anyway, numbers and business always came easy to me. I started working for my father when I was 12. I learned some accounting and balanced his books. That’s when I learned that I was good at it and I liked it. I loved balancing those books, right down to the last penny. It was a kind of game with me. After college, I met some business people who helped me, and then I had some good luck.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as meeting a wealthy, successful man, who took me under his wing and taught me things in a short amount of time that would have normally taken me years to learn. I was able to buy some commercial real estate at the right time, and get in on the ground floor of two tech companies, which I eventually ran and then sold. Then I started another.”

  “And now you own your own company, which you’re playing hooky from today.”

  “Yes…and I’ll be a better president and CEO because of it.”

  Dina glanced at him with a pleased smile. “What a nice thing to say.”

  Their eyes met. “Dina, I do want to tell you the truth about me, and the sooner the better.”

  She lowered her eyes. “Okay, Paul, we’ll talk about it…but later. Okay?”

  He scratched his head. “Okay. Now, what do you want to do next? Aren’t you cold?”

  “A little, but it’s so beautiful out here. I’ve always loved the snow, and I can’t believe I’m walking in Central Park, with a very handsome and mysterious man. So, let’s keep the mystery and let’s keep walking,” she said linking her arm in his.

  He drew her in close, feeling a new rush of passion for her.

  “Keep me warm, Mr. Smith, the man who is so smart in business.”

  He laughed, and he felt happiness grow within him. He gained strength and joy from being with Dina, and for the first time in a very long time, it felt good to be alive.

  That afternoon, they wandered through the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s Impressionist gallery, had tea at the Petrie Court Café and then separated at the Pierre so Paul could return home to shower and change clothes.

  For dinner, they met at Casa Bella, an old school, quaint Italian restaurant near Little Italy, with dark wood paneling, paintings of the homeland, and a multitude of black and white photos of nieces and nephews, grandparents and great-uncles and great-aunts, all posing with Grandpa Tony, the severe, white-mustached patriarch who had started the restaurant back in 1955.

  Dina and Paul sat at a table covered with a red-checkered table cloth, and a wax-drizzled Chianti bottle at the center, which held a new, glowing candle. Their waiter’s name was Augi, a talkative man in his 60s, who seemed more Italian than anyone Dina had met in Rome. He was animated and loud, and he raved about the menu. His face was a map of friendly lines, his Roman nose large, and his hair a snow-white fringe around a bald dome of a head.

  “Whatever you get will be the best,” Augi said, in his wonderful Italian accent. “We make-a the pasta right here at this place, and you will-a love it—and I put-a money on that.”

  Paul ordered a bottle of Brunello and the pasta puttanesca, ordering before Dina because she couldn’t make up her mind. Finally, she took Augi’s suggestion and ordered his favorite entree.

  “It’s like-a the way my Mamma used to make back-a in Roma,” Augi said.

  The eggplant parmigiana arrived bubbling hot in an oval steel dish. Augi stood over Dina, arms folded, until she tasted it and nodded her approval, with a moan of pleasure, connecting her thumb and index finger into a circle, the universal symbol for “perfect.”

  The pasta was light and melting, the flavors alive, the wine perfection. After expressos and two cannolis, Paul arose, shook Augi’s hand, gave him a generous tip, and reached for Dina. Augi planted a kiss on Dina’s lips, and ordered her to return, with a stern pointing finger and narrowed eyes.

  The couple fled the restaurant, waving down a taxi and shooting uptown to catch a Broadway show. When the lights dimmed and the orchestra erupted into the bouncy overture, Dina reached for Paul’s hand, squeezing it, feeling a bright, overflowing pleasure that electrified her. How was it possible to feel so alive and so in love with the world?

  She sat rapt, as the lavish Broadway musical unfolded in lively songs and soaring dances. She laughed, pointed, and sat on the edge of her seat, exhilarated, as dancers flew across the stage, and glittering scenery glided in with kaleidoscopes of color and light.

  After the show, they walked up Broadway, through snow flurries, into the thick, heaving crowds. They meandered around street venders and street artists, dodging arms waving handbills advertising tours, and panhandlers making little pleading whispers. Paul watched warily as Dina opened her purse, reached for a dollar, and placed it into the shaky hand of a vacant-eyed mumbling man, who refused to look her in the face.

  Above West 52nd Street, the blazing lights of Time Square diminished and the crowds thinned out. They found a quiet bar on West 55th and stopped for a glass of Champagne. They talked about Christmases past and discussed plans for the next day. Paul would have to work in the morning, and Dina would spend it shopping. They’d hook up again at 2pm and go ice-skating at the Wollman Rink in Central Park.

  They returned to the Pierre at nearly midnight and paused at the elevators. He touched her cheek with cool fingers.

  “I always hate to leave you.”

  She took his hand and held it near her face. “Then don’t leave me. Come up with me.”

  And he did.

  Their lovemaking was tender but energetic, the touching warm and searching, their sighs loud in the quiet room.

  Dina awoke deep in the night, quietly slipping out of bed so as not to wake Paul. She found her robe and stepped to the window, gazing out into the soft glow of light, her sleepy eyes watching the flecks of snow that fell across the street lights, looking like insects around a flame.

  Time was running out. She’d soon be back home, living her real life, not this fairy tale adventure she’d dropped into. Turning to glimpse Paul, now a gray figure under the sheet, she felt a start of pain. Something was wrong. She’d felt it from the first, back in Paris, but she couldn’t put her finger on it even now.

  Of course, Paul had been willing to tell her what he’d been hiding yesterday morning, but Dina instinctively knew that, even after he did, he’d still have his demons,
whatever they were. It was just a feeling, but she’d always been good at reading people, a skill she’d inherited from her perceptive mother, a school psychologist.

  Some event had happened to Paul, something had made him distant and withholding, and she wasn’t sure she could sustain a long-term relationship with someone like him, even though he was also at times a warm man and a generous lover.

  So where did that leave their relationship? A relationship built on fantasy—a fantasy that would soon run head-on into the brick wall of reality. She’d hit that wall twice before in her life. She wasn’t about to do it again. It hurt too much. The cost was too great.

  And yet, Paul had reached her in that private, unreachable space she’d created for herself—that safe place—that locked up room she’d vowed to keep locked forever. But Paul had opened all the locked doors, entered her, moved her and loved her.

  Time was running out, and she had no idea what she should do.

  CHAPTER 18

  On Thursday morning, December 22st, Dina ate breakfast at the hotel and then started off on her shopping excursion. Macy’s was an exhilarating Christmas present waiting to be opened. Dina loved the luminous decorations and the vibrating energy, the dizzying sales and displays. The massive store—it occupied an entire block—was boiling with shoppers, kids, packs of giggling girls, and lovers clutching hands and taking Selfies. Salespeople with sunshine grins, dressed in cool, sleek outfits, sprayed perfume and after shave, as Christmas carols wafted in from on high. Dina circled the upper floors, buying gifts for friends and relatives, her feet already throbbing in her new winter boots.

  It was then on to Sachs Fifth Avenue, with its chic, unique eloquence and high- quality, exclusive items. Her final stop was the famous and thrilling Bloomingdale’s, which opened into a sensation of delicious displays and trendy fashion.

  Each department store was alive with celebration, twinkling lights and wide-eyed shoppers, high on the season and giddy from the alluring surroundings, all searching the shelves and racks for the best deals.

  From Bloomingdale’s Dina texted Paul that she’d be late getting to Wollman’s Skating Rink, and he’d texted back that he was running late too.