by Gina Elle
“My flight doesn’t leave until 11:00 P.M. Saturday night. Take me to the airport. We can go out for dinner first and talk.” Whoa!
“I can’t. I have plans on Saturday night.”
“Since when? You don’t usually make plans on Saturday nights,” she scowls. I don’t respond. Rod Stewart is singing about Maggie May in the background.
“Wait a minute,” she says hurriedly, “are you going out with her?” Amy sounds so affronted. Maybe it’s time for her to grow up a bit.
“I have plans with Caroline on Saturday night.”
“What? Already?” Amy’s voice takes a downturn.
“Look, Amy. You and I were over months ago and lucky for me, we’re still good friends. What can I say? I’m interested in Caroline. I’m sorry.”
“Are you sure she’s interested in you?”
“Well, I don’t know for sure but she’s agreed to go out with me a couple of times,” I pause. Then panic hits me. “Why? What do you know?”
“I really don’t know too much about her personal life, but I remember her getting a few calls while we were working on my thesis together . . . from a guy . . . they spoke in French . . . sounded pretty intimate to me . . . but what do I know, Eric?” Fuck. So there is someone. I’m numb. I instantly recall the phone call that came in when we were at the café the other night. The look on her face.
“Are you still there?” It’s Amy, calling me back to earth.
“Yeah. Listen, Amy. It’s getting late here and I gotta get some sleep. I’m sorry again about Saturday. Have a great trip. Keep in touch.” I hang up before she has the chance to say another word.
I pace around the room. Where is that pack of cigarettes when you need it? I think of Caroline at the airport that day and her name being called to the front desk. She was handed a gift-wrapped box. I think of the ashen look that came across her face when that call came through on Monday night. I recall not seeing a ring on her left hand ring finger. What’s going on? If she’s into someone else, why’s she agreeing to come for dinner at my place? Then again, maybe this is all Amy’s doing . . . trying to play her games. Wearily, I walk over to my laptop sitting on the hotel desk to log off from my email account. And that’s when I spot it. That email address from weeks ago.
From: [email protected]
Date: Wednesday, June 14, 2012 9:19 PM
Subject: Dan
To: Eric Martin
Hello Eric (or should I be calling you Dan?),
How is the weather in Vancouver?
Thinking of you . . . a lot. AXL
Raj was right. Psycho stalker is one of the wives.
My life is fucked.
I need Leslie.
14 “Crazy For You”
Barbra Streisand and a cocktail. That’s the entry plan. Expected time of arrival is 8:00 P.M. Rack of lamb a la herbes de provence slow roasting in the oven filling the condo with the most savory of aromas. Empty crystal champagne flutes chilling in the fridge waiting for their fill. And Barbra mewing softly behind us.
That is how I envision Caroline’s arrival this evening. Which Barbra song would be best is one of the many things I mulled over in preparation for this evening’s dinner. “The Way We Were,” or “New York State of Mind,” or “Kiss Me in the Rain.” After much consideration I finally settled on “Evergreen, Love theme from A Star Is Born,” the ultimate Barbra Streisand for the die hardest of fans. I hit the play button on my iPod mentally rehearsing the order of songs and events for tonight.
I am beyond nervous. I am high, not on substance, but on sheer excitement alone. Compiling the playlist was nothing short of a labor of love on my part. Nestled quietly in my hotel room on my final night in Vancouver, I meticulously listened to and selected dozens of songs I’m hoping will contribute to the ambiance of comfortable elegance I am trying way too hard to create. As always, I scanned the decades for songs I personally love in hopes that Caroline might too. Everything from Paul McCartney’s “Maybe I’m Amazed,” to Snow Patrol’s “Chasing Cars,” to Michael Buble’s “The Best Is Yet to Come.” In honor of my foreign language speaking guest, I even included Edith Piaf’s “La Vie en Rose,” and lest I forget the inimitable Coldplay’s “Paradise.” Following Barbra’s first number, I have lined up Eric Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight,” Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game,” and Norah Jones’ “Come Away With Me,” and many more (in another life, I must have been a deejay or . . . maybe in a future life?). Am I satisfied with the assortment of artists and genres I’ve chosen? Only time will tell . . . and right now it’s time to move into the kitchen.
It’s 7:49 P.M. The starters I’ve prepared have to be placed on a platter. Skewers of melon, jamon and mini mozzarella would comprise the cold appetizers; while baked prosciutto and goat cheese-wrapped asparagus spears would work as the warm ones. As I open the oven door to slide in the tray of asparagus, I take a peek at the rack of lamb roasting away in there. I specifically asked the butcher to ‘French’ the rack (love the term) so that the end of each bone would be trimmed and exposed. Adding some potatoes and tomatoes to roast with the lamb in a half hour’s time should top off the entrée course. As for dessert, that’s going to remain my little surprise.
I glance around to make sure everything is in place. The notes! I run to my desktop monitor and remove the two notes Caroline and I exchanged that are now tucked inside the desktop monitor. As I slide them into my top desk drawer, I decide to shut off my phone so we won’t have any interruptions. Time to light the fifty or so votive candles I’ve scattered throughout the condo on various end tables, window ledges, the coffee table, my desk, bathroom, and kitchen counters. Next, I slide open my balcony door and light the candles on our dining table. With such a perfect night ahead of us, I thought it’d be romantic to eat a late dinner outdoors under the moonlight. If I say so myself, the view of the city is spectacular from up here so why not enjoy it?
The white flowers in the center of the table are resting beautifully in the small vase. Wine and water glasses are in their assigned place as are the plates and cutlery. Hopefully, all those hours I spent gathering ideas for tonight’s dinner on the Internet have paid off. The stage is set for what I wish to be a romantic evening for two. Watching myself now I can hardly believe this is the same man who just over 48 hours ago was on the verge of a major breakdown.
Thoughts of the psycho stalker being one of the many possible wives I’ve been with over the past three years sends shivers of self-abhorrence throughout my body. To put it mildly, the more I think about it, the more ashamed, not to mention remorseful, I am now of my secret life. How could I have been so selfish? And stupid? What right did I have to go after someone who was in a committed relationship for the sole purpose of my own gratification? Who was I to take advantage of these women in their own vulnerable states? To lie about myself by using my closest and deceased friend’s identity is so fucking . . . messed up. Thankfully, my appointment with Leslie is only two days away and I’m counting the seconds until I get to her. As for the latest email from AXL, I am meeting up with Raj tomorrow. What can I say? I need help.
In my bedroom I quickly change into my Rag & Bone jeans (Amy used to call these my sexy jeans) and a black linen shirt. I roll up the shirt cuffs as I usually do and slip my Omega watch on my left wrist. The simpler the better. Less is more, I repeat my mantra. With both of my hands I scroll my fingers through my thick hair and check my face up close in the mirror. Not bad. No pooping birds in sight, I should be okay.
Back in the living room on my way to the kitchen, I take a final look around and am pleased with what I see. Everything is set and ready to go in less than the three hours I had to prepare. My afternoon with David extended longer than I had planned it to, but, as always, it was great fun to be with him. As I dim the lights throughout the condo and glance at my watch, I snicker to myself recalling David’s words this afternoon.
“So, David . . . do you have a good luck charm?” I ask as we winded our bikes along th
e trails off Lakeshore Boulevard.
“Yup,” he replies without looking up at me, “my lucky acorn . . . I keep it in my pocket everywhere I go.”
“Really? I had no idea you carried a lucky acorn with you.” It never ceases to amaze me how kids can never cease to amaze me.
“Does it work?” I ask as we approach the turnaround point on our ride. David keeps his eyes on the path and doesn’t look up.
“When I believe it’ll work, it usually does.” And with that, he speeds up ahead of me and looks back with a you-can’t catch-me smile.
So, there you have it. The nine-year-old sage says if you believe it will work, it usually will. What it really comes down to is courage. I guess it takes bravery to believe. As I check on the asparagus in the oven, I think about how close David’s words are to Leslie’s position on never giving up hope. If you believe everything will work out, then it very well might. Fleetwood Mac’s Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow plays in the stereo in my head while my iPhone rings in my pocket. She’s downstairs.
The elevator doors slide open and I look up. Oh my. The first thing I notice is Caroline’s full watt smile. The next thing I take in is how hot she looks. Dressed in a low cut sleeveless silver cocktail dress and sexy high-heeled silver sandals, she steps out of the elevator towards me and I’m stock-still. But not for long. She steps towards me and I wrap both my hands around her tiny waist reveling in the silky softness of her dress. Next, I pull her towards me and kiss her on her upper right cheek lingering there as long as I can. Her flawless complexion feels as velvety as it looks. Divine. She smells like some exquisite French parfum, subtle yet sexy.
“Hello there,” she says looking straight up at me, “this is for you.” She hands me a bottle of Bordeaux wine but seeing how I am still as numb as a stone I don’t reach out my hands to accept the bottle right away. It’s only the sound of her giggling that wakes me from my frozen state. I’ve never seen a more beautiful woman in all my life.
“A Bordeaux? Very nice. Thank you,” I say as I take the bottle from her. She steps in beside me and we begin walking towards my condo together, with her hand in mine. I love holding hands with her. I wish I didn’t have to let go. The corridor is filled with the aromas from my kitchen. Smells delicious if I say so myself.
“You’re welcome. The wine is from my family’s winery in France.” Of course it is. Princess Caroline probably comes from the longest line of French royalty. I want to say something witty at this moment, but I decide not to. I release her hand and rattle the doorknob pretending it doesn’t budge. I look up at her with a shocked look on my face.
“Holy shit. It looks like I locked us out!” I jangle the knob back and forth. She stares at me, giggles but remains speechless. Barbra’s voice is bellowing from inside and that’s my cue.
“Here . . . why don’t you try the knob? Maybe it’s me?” I say as I step slightly back to make room for her to open the unlocked door. I watch as she slowly turns the round knob and pushes the door in. It opens and she looks back at me smiling.
“Gotcha!” I say as I wink at her and extend my hand allowing her to enter the condo in front of me. Barbra is singing about love and evergreen.
This time it’s Caroline who is cemented to the floor. I watch as she slowly turns her head and looks around the candlelit condo just as Barbra sings about making each night a first. Barbra’s silken voice coupled with the dim lighting envelops us.
“Please . . . come in,” I say closing and locking the door behind me.
“Thank you. It smells amazing in here,” she says following me into the kitchen all the while soaking in her surroundings. I take the two champagne flutes out of the fridge and place them on the marble countertop. Before I pop open the bottle of Veuve Clicquot, I open the oven door and pull out the cooking tray carrying the rack of lamb. I throw in the cut potatoes and season them accordingly.
“I guess I should have told you earlier, Eric . . . but I don’t eat meat,” Caroline says with the most serious look on her face. Shit! Why didn’t I ask? What kind of host has someone over for dinner for the first time and doesn’t ask about dietary preferences? I am such an idiot. I look up from the oven and over at Caroline and notice a smirk on her face.
“Gotcha!” she exclaims and winks back at me. Someone likes to play. Love it. With relief, I reach over and uncork the chilled bottle. Carefully I drop a sugar cube into each flute glass and slowly pour the fizzy champagne over top. Van Morrison is singing “Have I Told You Lately,” as I hand her a glass and lead her to the couch. I wait for her to take a seat and then sit down beside her purposefully close enough so our knees are touching.
The appetizers are resting on top of the coffee table in front of us and I offer her some. She accepts one of each and places them on the plate I offer.
“I take it the bad sushi is out of your system, then?” I ask. Caroline eyes are looking everywhere as if she’s searching for something.
“Yes, thankfully I am much better now. Did you know Amy was sick as well?” She asks turning her attention to me. I watch her as she lifts the glass up to her luscious lips and takes a sip.
“She mentioned it in an email. I’m sure she’s feeling better too. She’s leaving tonight for her summer in France.” Why are we talking about Amy?
“I’m leaving for France soon myself. I know I couldn’t get on a plane feeling as badly as I was the other night.” She’s going away?
“Are you going on vacation?” I ask.
“Well, I suppose you could call it that. My parents live in the Bordeaux region so a couple times a year I make my way there to visit. With the academic school year over now, I have some time so I’ll be off.”
“You said the wine came from your family’s winery. I’m surprised you’re not working in the family business,” Billy Joel’s “Just The Way You Are,” is playing in the background.
“No, I’ve never really had any interest in the winery business. My father had a longtime partner in the business who passed away seven years ago. His son has since taken over his half of the company and runs it with my father. Although I’m sure if my father had his way, his one and only child would be the one taking over once he retires. But, that’s not going to happen.”
“Never say never, Caroline. Just think, you could lecture your university students right from the vineyard one day,” I joke, reaching over and passing her the platter of the prosciutto-wrapped asparagus. She accepts one and places it on the small plate in front of her.
“I think in my case it would be very safe to say that would never happen,” She places emphasis on the word never.
“That sounds quite emphatic. How can you be so sure?”
“Let’s just say I love my world in academia thousands of miles away from Bordeaux. My life . . . is in Toronto now.” She finishes off the champagne in her glass so I go fetch the champagne bottle in the kitchen to top up her glass and mine. When I return to the living room, I see she’s taking in the collage of framed photos I have on my living room wall. Shots of David as a toddler on a tricycle, a close up photo of my sister and me on her wedding day, an old picture of my parents when they emigrated to Canada, another shot I took last summer of David with his dog.
“Is that you?” she asks pointing to a picture of Danny and me when we were kids playing road hockey. I love that picture of us. We were so young and free, happy, sweaty, laughing. I nod yes to Caroline’s question because emotion is about to overcome me. Why now? She points to another picture of Danny and me, this one when we’re much older, maybe in our early twenties, perched on our bikes, as always. Once again, I nod. Then, Caroline turns her head away from the wall and towards my desk.
“That’s the same guy, isn’t it?” Caroline points to the five by seven framed photograph I have of Danny by my desk on the opposite side of the room. I pause and take a deep breath before I say it.
“That was my best friend Danny. He was killed three years ago in a highway accident.” You’d think afte
r three years, it would get easier to talk about him but sometimes emotion takes hold of me at the strangest times. The pain cuts even deeper.
“It doesn’t get easier, does it?” She gets it. Time to deflect this conversation, not the mood I was hoping to create. Michael Buble and Nelly Furtado are singing one of my favorite songs, “Quando, Quando, Quando.”
“So, about Les Miserables, Dr. Durand . . .” I sit back deep into the folds of the couch and swing one leg over the other on the seat cushion. Caroline adjusts her own position next to me so that our knees are grazing each other’s. She too leans a bit further back into the couch and takes another sip of her Veuve. My arm drapes over the back of the couch behind her head. The space between is diminishing. Her full body gorgeousness, alluring scent, and warm energy envelop me. I’m caught under her spell.
“Please, it’s Caroline to you . . . in fact, I wish it would be Caroline to everyone . . . I’ve insisted my students call me Caroline but some still use Doctor. Doctor feels . . . strange to me even after a year and a half since I started teaching at U of T.”
“You earned the title so you should carry it proudly,” I say staring into her gorgeous hazel eyes. I should probably be checking on the food in the oven right now but I don’t want to leave her side.
“Working on my PhD in French lit was nothing short of . . . life saving for me. It provided me with . . . much needed distance and . . . distraction,” her voice trails off and she looks up into the air, “at the time.” She takes another sip and places the flute on the coaster on top of my coffee table. She inches closer to me as she settles back down onto the couch.
“To say I earned it, I guess would be true, but I don’t look at it that way. So, ask away. I’ve been looking forward to hearing some of your questions about ‘Les Miserables’?”
The Partridge Family’s “I Think I Love You,” is playing on my iPod and I instantly think of my parents singing this song back when I was a kid. Happy days.