by Anita Hughes
“I take it you got the Porsche.” Maybe he was another Andre in a different shape. Maybe his wife found lace panties in the passenger seat of the Porsche and kicked him out.
“I sold the Porsche to pay their tuition. Divorce destroys your wallet faster than a tsunami. Twenty years of financial planning decimated by a year of unplanned extramarital fucking.” He stopped. “Sorry, not very polite of me.”
“I’d love to hear someone else’s war story.”
“Julie and I took a trip with another partner in the firm and his wife. German guy named Jorge. Had the best manners you ever met. It was always: ‘You choose the wine. Please have my seat, it has a better view.’ He wore perfectly tailored suits and shirts with stiff collars. How could my wife screw someone who wore stiff collars? He was the opposite of me. Foreign, polite, and well dressed. What does that say about our whole marriage?” He stopped and swallowed a caviar ball. His face broke into a wide smile, his eyes crinkled at the corners.
“I haven’t let loose like this in years. You must want to run through those doors.” He nodded toward the balcony.
“No, I’m just watching my son, Max. He’s waiting for a butterfly. Keep going.”
“We took one of those package tours. ‘Explore Down Under in Fourteen Days. See Ayer’s Rock,’ etc. The four of us were on a train in the middle of Australia, miles of nothing out there. I was sitting in the observation lounge reading a Dick Francis paperback when I realized I hadn’t seen Julie in hours. I went back to our cabin and she wasn’t there. It was a really skinny train. You were either in your cabin, the dining car, the observation lounge, or … it finally dawned on me, someone else’s cabin. I knocked on the door of Jorge’s cabin and I heard giggling, then moaning. I thought it was Jorge and his wife, Emma, but I realized I had passed her in the dining car. I knocked again, dead silence. Did they think they could jump out the window? The windows didn’t even open on that train.” Edward stopped and sipped a glass of water. I liked that he wasn’t embarrassed.
“I waited until finally they came out of the cabin. They had all sorts of excuses. But I’d heard them.”
“I saw my husband wrapped around another woman and he tried to make up a story.” For the first time the image of Andre and Ursula didn’t make me crumple inside.
“Adulterers live in their own fantasy world. The minute we touched ground at LAX, I filed for divorce. Apparently Jorge had been doing Julie for almost a year. I was like an emu. That’s an Australian bird, like an ostrich, head in the sand.”
“You can’t blame yourself,” I said.
“I just wonder if marriage is an outdated idea. It seems someone is always looking for a new sex partner. Sorry, I should shut up. You’re young and beautiful. You’ll meet a stand-up guy and get married again.” He smiled.
I felt a flicker of disappointment. If I was beautiful why wasn’t he interested in me? Did I have a big “damaged goods” sign on my forehead? I took a deep breath and decided to take a leap.
“I haven’t even been on a date. What’s the name of your restaurant? Maybe I’ll take my son there.”
“It’s called Laguna Beach Tackle. Kind of corny, my partner used to be in advertising, he likes the glib stuff. Come as my guest. I’ll have the chef make octopus. That will give your son something to talk about.”
“We’d love to.”
“Mom!” Max raced inside and thrust his hand under my nose. “Look, I’ve got a butterfly. What shall I name him?”
“Did you make a wish?” Edward asked him.
“How did you know about wishes?” Max asked.
“The monarch butterflies are pretty famous around here for their magical capabilities. Because of the monarchs, I just met your beautiful mother.”
“Um, this is Mr. Jonas. He owns a restaurant like Dad. I thought we could eat there.”
“It can’t be as good.” Max looked squarely at Edward, reminding me too much of Andre. “My dad makes the best fondue anywhere.”
“I wouldn’t want to compete. But you could try eel and octopus. When my son was your age he loved eel soaked in butter.”
Max was a sucker for disgusting-sounding foods. “Okay. When will we go, Mom?”
“Tonight?” I looked at Edward. I had never set up a date in front of my son, who thought his parents were still happily married before.
“Tonight sounds great. Here’s the address.” Edward handed me a card. “I’m going to leave you two with your butterflies. Why don’t you come around eight?”
Max dragged me onto the balcony to release his butterfly. “He flew away, Mom. So cool! I’m going to get another one.”
I sat on one of the sand-colored sofas and pulled out my cell phone. “What do you wear on an almost date at a seafood restaurant?”
“What is an almost date?” Stephanie asked. Thank god Stephanie always answered her phone.
I explained about Edward.
“I can’t believe your first date is with a guy who owns a restaurant.”
“It’s not a date. I’m going with Max, and Edward’s going to be there. Though he sort of invited us. He said the chef would prepare us something special.” I realized I wanted it to be a date.
“Couldn’t you meet a banker or a doctor or a horse wrangler? Don’t you think you’ve played the restaurant card?”
“He is completely different from Andre. He was married for almost twenty years and his wife cheated on him.”
“Great, you can be pity partners. You need some romance. Find a Venezuelan polo player who seduces you in Spanish and leaves rose petals on your pillow.”
“You haven’t even seen him. He’s pretty hunky,” I protested. It felt nice to be interested in someone.
“Okay, go on your almost date. Wear your Stella McCartney print dress. Is he tall?”
“No, he’s stocky, and for some reason I find it really sexy.”
“It’s probably reaction-attraction.”
“What?”
“You’re attracted to him because he’s the opposite of Andre. It won’t last.”
“Since when did you become Dr. Phil? I just want to know what shoes to wear.”
“Flats, obviously.”
“Thanks, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Have fun, but keep your eyes open for a polo player. Or a professional volleyball player. I bet you could find one of those on the beach.”
“Bye, Stephanie.” I hung up.
“Mom, I caught a butterfly for you.” Max placed a butterfly on my hand. I stroked its wings. They were black and gold and smooth as velvet.
“Make a wish,” Max insisted.
I held the butterfly up high and closed my eyes. I blinked and looked down at the golf course that spilled into the Pacific Ocean. The greens and blues blended together like a Monet painting. I didn’t know what to wish for.
* * *
“Mom, Max and I are going out for dinner tonight.” We were sitting on the deck of the suite sipping cocktails. One of my mother’s biggest thrills was when the butler tapped on our door every evening at six p.m. to mix us drinks.
“How can I say no? I don’t want to offend him,” she demanded when I commented nightly cocktails were not going to improve her health.
“He’s not going to be hurt, it’s his job,” I countered. The glasses he set on the sideboard—tall, frosty mimosas—accompanied by cut pineapple pieces and cantaloupe wedges, looked delicious.
“Of course he’ll be offended. Rosemary has worked for me for thirty-five years and I have never sent back anything she made. You have to know how to treat staff.” My mother sipped her mimosa. “Perfect. I will compliment him tomorrow.”
I stopped arguing. It was lovely sitting together, watching the sun turn pink and melt into the horizon. Sinatra sang “Fly Me to the Moon” on the outdoor speakers. Max built a Lego scene of a surfer being bitten by a shark.
“Where are you going?” my mother asked.
“I met a man who owns a restaurant.”
“It won’t be as good as Dad’s,” Max piped in. “But I get to eat eel and octopus.”
“You met a man who owns a restaurant?”
“Don’t sound like Stephanie. Max, go put on some decent clothes and brush your hair.”
“I’m building the part where the shark bites the guy’s leg.”
“Max, now, please.”
“You met a man who owns a restaurant?” my mother repeated when Max sulked off to get dressed.
“He was very nice, he invited Max and me to come for dinner. He was an attorney for twenty years. He’s only had the restaurant since his divorce.”
“Sounds complicated.” My mother shook her head.
“I’m not marrying him, it’s not even a date. Max and I are just going out for dinner, like you want me to do.”
My mother finished her drink. “I guess dating at your age isn’t easy.”
“Thanks. I can’t win with you or Stephanie.”
“Sorry, sweetheart. I’m glad you’re going out. I just don’t want you to get your heart broken again.”
“It’s not written into the creed of restaurant owners, ‘Break a Woman’s Heart.’ He was kind of funny and sweet. I think you’d like him.”
“Children?” my mother asked.
“Two in college.”
“Sounds a little old for you,” she said.
“It’s not even a date!” I jumped up. “I have to get ready.”
“I’m being nosy. Maybe run down to the salon and get a blow-dry?”
“It’s not a date,” I repeated, slamming the door to my room.
I kept saying it over and over as I slipped into a Stella McCartney dress and brushed my hair with a St. Regis wood hairbrush. If I didn’t consider it a date I wouldn’t be hurt if Edward ignored me, or worse, didn’t even remember inviting us.
I looked in the mirror. The dress was deep brown, like an overripe plum. It was some weird fabric you would only find on a Stella McCartney dress, a mix of linen, silk, and a touch of spandex, so it fit snugly against my hips. I hadn’t dressed to impress a man in ten years, and though I kept telling myself I was dressing for me, I wanted Edward to think I looked attractive.
I slid three gold bangles on my wrist and slipped into my favorite Coach sandals. I rubbed Bobbi Brown lip gloss on my lips and gave my hair a final brush. If I let it grow below my shoulders it became a nest of frizz, but tonight it sat smoothly on the nape of my neck.
“I can do this.” I picked up the Burberry clutch, which was the closest thing I had to an evening bag, and called Max before I chickened out.
“Wow, you look nice, Mom.” Max was wearing khaki pants and a white polo shirt. He had on loafers and no socks.
“You’re pretty fancy yourself.”
“Grandma made me wear this stuff.” He shrugged. “She said I had to make a good impression.”
“Anytime my beautiful daughter and her son go out to dinner they should look their best. That’s just good etiquette.” My mother fixed Max’s collar.
“We’re not going to the symphony opening.”
“Max isn’t even wearing socks, strictly casual. You look lovely,” my mother appraised.
“Thanks, Mom. Let’s go.” I pushed Max out the door, feeling like I was on a prom date. Riding in the elevator, sitting in the house car that drove us to Laguna, I tried to put myself in Mother Mode: “How was Kids’ Club? Are you really going to eat octopus? Get your hair out of your eyes.” But I wasn’t seeing Max sitting next to me in the Bentley. I wasn’t even remembering the way Andre drove with one hand on the steering wheel and one hand on my thigh. I could only see the shy, nerdy twenty-two-year-old I was before I met Andre. Is that what Edward would see? Could I be someone interesting besides Andre’s wife and Max’s mother?
“Let us off here, please. We’ll walk the rest of the way,” I said to the driver when we reached the village. I didn’t want to pull up in front of the restaurant in a gleaming white Bentley.
“Certainly, Mrs. Blick. I’ll wait with the car. Call me when you are ready to return to the hotel.” He hopped out and opened our doors. Tourists wearing souvenir T-shirts and Crocs stopped to see if we were celebrities.
“I feel like Jay-Z.” Max grinned.
“I don’t look like Beyoncé,” I replied. The driver handed me my clutch, and I heard a woman mumble, “Who drives around in a white Bentley?” I smiled. Maybe I was a little interesting after all.
* * *
Laguna Beach Tackle was on a street across from Main Beach, wedged between an art gallery and a cigar shop. It was a narrow space with fishing nets hanging from the ceiling. A large fish tank sat at the entrance, and a few children pressed their faces against the glass, waiting to be seated.
“Look at the fish, Mom. Do you think they scoop them out of the tank and serve them for dinner?”
I didn’t answer. I nervously scanned the room for Edward. It was after eight, so he should be here. I kicked myself for not calling to confirm. What if he was in the kitchen? What if he had forgotten and was home taking a bath? I told myself to slow down. I would not be able to handle the next forty years of my single life if I could not handle one dinner out with my son.
“Party of two?” the hostess asked me. She was a pretty, blond twenty-something wearing a low-cut white blouse and a black miniskirt.
“I’m waiting for someone,” I mumbled.
“Okay, let me know when you’re ready.” She had a sweet Southern California drawl. I resisted the urge to hate her for having perfect cheekbones and working in a restaurant.
I saw Edward leaning over a booth near the back of the restaurant. He wore a striped red polo shirt and tan pants. He said something to the guests and walked toward the front of the room. He seemed to look straight through me. I grabbed Max and turned to the door, but then I felt his hand on my back.
“Amanda, I’m glad you came.” He smiled.
“You have some cool fish.” Max’s nose was pressed against the tank. “Do you eat these, because if you do I want the neon purple one.”
“These are just for looking, but I’ve asked the chef to cook you our biggest eel, extra slimy.”
I exhaled. He had remembered we were coming. I tried to relax as he led us to a booth.
“I can sit with you for a few minutes, but then I’ll have to work the room for a bit.” Edward slid in next me. He smelled liked garlic and butter.
“Want to arm wrestle?” Max asked.
I laughed. “Max, we’re at dinner.”
“I arm wrestle at Dad’s restaurant. Zoe and I sit in the back, I take her every time.”
“You arm wrestle a girl?” Edward asked.
“She’s pretty good. She does tae kwon do, too. She’s an orange belt.”
I exhaled again. Should I let Max keep talking? Should I try to say something funny and intelligent? No one had told me the rules of postdivorce dating because no one in Ross was divorced. I started to panic.
“I wrestled in college, so you don’t want to arm wrestle me,” Edward was saying to Max.
“Cool!” Edward now had two points in his favor. He knew how to cook octopus and he could wrestle. I started feeling uninteresting again.
“That’s how I broke my nose.” He pointed to the bump in the middle of his nose.
“Did the other guy kick you in the face?” Max asked.
“Actually he did. I didn’t let my son wrestle in college. He’s playing cricket.”
“What college plays cricket?” I managed to get my first words into the conversation.
“He’s at Wake Forest on a cricket scholarship. It’s a growing sport. And the bats are made of wood, safer than baseball.” He grinned.
“What’s your son’s name?” I asked.
“Edward, and I have a daughter named Jessica. She’s a freshman at Tulane.”
“But your name is Edward,” Max piped in.
“I know, pretty boring, huh. It’s a family name.”
“Wouldn�
��t it be funny if I was named Andre, Mom? That’s my dad’s name.”
“I think one Andre is enough,” I mumbled, picking up the menu.
“You are a credit to your mom.” Edward got up. “Let me get your special order in with the chef, and if you like your eel you can go thank him yourself.”
“Do you have live lobster in the kitchen? Can I throw it in a pot?”
I shook my head but Edward was laughing. He touched my arm before he walked to the front of the room to greet new diners. I practiced inhaling and exhaling. I was glad he and Max hit it off. Maybe I didn’t have to be a twenty-something supermodel. Maybe I was fine just being a mom.
I was usually terrified of ordering fish, having been poked by too many tiny bones. I scanned the menu, momentarily wishing for the menu at La Petite Maison with its familiar fondues and delicious fresh breads. But then I remembered that the fondues had proven more dangerous than any fish bone, and I said firmly to the waitress: “I’ll have the halibut, please, grilled with lemon and butter.”
“And you, sir?” The waitress turned to Max.
“I’m having the eel,” Max said proudly, like he was an explorer discovering the New World.
“That’s right, Mr. Jonas already put your order in. Oh, and he wanted to give you this, compliments of the house.” She placed a bottle of champagne on the table.
“For both of us?” Max asked.
“That’s up to your mom.” The waitress smiled.
“It’s for you.” Edward appeared at the table with a champagne flute. “I thought we could continue where we left off at lunchtime.”
“Where was that?” Max was suddenly suspicious. No man other than Andre had ever paid me much attention.
“While you were catching butterflies I was giving your mom some nutrition tips.”
“As long as she doesn’t use them on me. I don’t want to eat celery all day.”
“That was once. I was on a celery and cabbage diet,” I explained to Edward.
“Moms eat weird things.” Max shook his head.
“Tell your mother she looks perfect,” Edward said, pouring me a glass of champagne.
* * *
Edward didn’t come back to our table, but I watched him greet other guests. I realized, sipping my champagne, that Andre’s work mode at La Petite Maison had always been flirtatious, briefly touching a woman’s hand, smiling at her a minute too long, seeming too interested in what she was saying. Edward’s approach was neutral, businesslike. He didn’t linger at any table; he spoke to the husbands in the party as much as the wives.