But he is someone else’s husband, so, “No.”
He screws up his mouth, such an adorably frustrated expression. “A different type of show, then. A concert. Do you like rock music?”
How is he hitting all the right buttons? “No.” The game is losing its fun aspect, and I can’t waste anymore of his time. “Thanks, Mr. Baldwin.” I stand taller. “It was nice to meet you.” Very nice.
“What, you’re leaving? We’re just getting to know each other.”
Not as well as I’d like. If he wasn’t married. “I have to go now.” Before I make a fool of myself and say yes to this fantasy. I spy a waste container and drop the cup inside.
He follows. “Wait, can I have your number?”
Please stop playing the game. “No.” Forcing a smile, I find my keys in my handbag. “Hey, I’m getting the hang of it. Thanks.” Heart fluttering, I aim for the exit.
“But will you come back next month?” he calls.
I toss my answer over my shoulder. “No.” Most definitely not. Especially if it means seeing him again. This guy is funny, sensitive, handsome, intelligent, and best of all, attentive.
And worst of all, married. The one deal breaker to trump all the other qualities. Anyway, he works here. They pay him to be nice to people, to make sure attendees have a good time so they’ll return next time. He has no personal interest in me.
“Claire, wait. Seriously.”
The sincerity in his voice halts me. When I turn back, his expression mirrors my sadness and pricks old yearnings to life. I’d love to say yes… to someone exactly like him. But this is one proverbial line I refuse to cross.
So, to the married man, Kip Baldwin, I say, “No. Good night, Mr. Baldwin.”
My step is light and sure as I head down the hall, a thankfully short way to the front entrance and the parking lot.
I feel good about myself. For once, I’m standing up for me. All I have to do now is tap into the same reserve of strength when I talk to Trish and tell her I will never go on another desperate search for a man again.
Maybe I’ll find someone—eventually. Or maybe fate intends for me to spend the rest of my life alone.
Either way, I won’t waste precious time. Until now, my Bucket List has been theoretical. Now I have the opportunity to actually follow through and do those things, and may never stop adding new things. I intend to check off every experience on that list. And I intend to enjoy every minute of it.
Chapter Three
No sooner does the digital clock flip to 10:00 a.m. on Saturday than my cell chimes. I lift it from the kitchen counter. Trish. The inevitable check-in call. Hm, shall I torture her and pretend ignorance, or blast the truth up front?
Neither. I’ll make Trish work for what she wants.
I press Accept. “Hey there. I was about to call you.”
“With good news?” Trish latches onto it like a pit bull.
Imagining her gripping the phone in anticipation, I choke back laughter. “Very. I’m headed to the Cleopatra exhibit in Philly. Would you like to come? It’s supposed to be fantastic.” I’ve honestly looked forward to it for months.
“Are you going alone? I hoped you’d have found someone else to bring along.”
I try not to chuckle, and barely succeed. “I asked Susan but she had plans with her husband.”
“Come on, Claire.”
Not letting you off the hook yet. “I’m serious. They’re meeting with an architect about the addition they’re planning. I hope they go with the sunroom.”
“You’re not funny. And I’m guessing you owe me four hundred dollars.”
Oh damn, the bet. “I’ll write you a check and drop it off tomorrow.”
A tsk clicks in my ear. “I don’t care about the money. But really?” Trish’s palpable disappointment comes through the phone. “You didn’t meet even one interesting man last night?”
Oh yes, very interesting. And very married. “No.” Hey, it feels good to say that. “Unless I wanted to hook up with an elderly man. One offered to take me for a spin on his wheel chair. He probably would have, too. Feisty old guy.”
“There had to have been a few others. Did you try to mingle?”
I square my shoulders, though she can’t see me. It helps me remember I’m in charge of my future. “The thing is, Trish, I’ve made a decision.”
“Here we go.” Trish’s exasperation is loud and clear.
No more intimidation tactics. And I won’t fight about it. I don’t need to. This is my life. “Hear me out, hon. Because I’m very serious.”
A sigh. “All right. Shoot.”
“I’m fifty years old. I’m widowed after too many years wasted being married to a cold fish. Yes, I’m rusty at the dating thing. But I’m not going to force it anymore.”
“Sweetie—”
“Let me finish. This is my declaration of dating independence. If I find a nice guy, fine. If I don’t, fine. I’m not going to drive myself crazy about it. I have plenty of interests, plenty of things to keep me busy.”
“But you shouldn’t have to do them by yourself,” she whines, an echo of her teenaged daughter.
Poor Trish. Did her desperation stem from imagining herself in the same situation as me? The one thing my friend might falter at is living alone.
Not me. “You know what? I would rather go to a restaurant or a concert or whatever by myself than go on some awkward date that would ruin the experience for me.”
“That’s silly.” Her laugh sounds half-hearted, at best, a sign she’s beginning to believe what I say.
Now’s the moment to seal the deal. “No. It’s my life and I’ll decide how to live it.”
“I was only trying to help,” Trish’s voice is small and pouty, the girl from middle school who used to share her secrets with me.
“I know, and I love you for it. But I don’t need help.” Or want it. “I’m going to have fun at the museum. By myself. Unless you’d like to come along.”
“Wish I could.” She sounds sincere. “I have to take Hannah shopping for a prom dress.”
“Have fun. Catch you later.” Ugh. Shopping. My least favorite activity unless it involves books or music, much more pleasant than rifling through racks of clothes. I stick with classic styles and don’t bother about trends.
After climbing in the Saab and aiming for Interstate 95, I turn up the radio and sing along with Norah Jones, and appreciate, not for the first time, the fact I can do so without anyone complaining. Not that my singing voice sends anyone running in horror; in fact, many compliment me on it, even though my range is somewhat limited. Sometimes, though, I like my music loud. To celebrate my solitary self, I turn up the volume.
When I stand in line at the exhibit, my single status is all too evident again. Couples wait ahead of me and behind. But once I pay the entry fee and go inside, the headphones transport me to the past, and erase any sense of the present. I take my time examining each display. Incredible finds, from hieroglyph-carved stone blocks that stand taller than me to intricate gold earrings. Cleopatra’s story has always inspired me, but viewing artifacts from her reign brought it all to life. How she’d risen to power in an age when males dominated the globe. How she’d left an indelible mark on history and remains one of the most alluring women of her time or any other. Remarkable.
Though I’ve stretched it out as long as possible, the tour ends too soon. Yes, given the choice of where to spend my money, I opt for museums. Their gift shops pose a danger to my budget, though. How I’d love to go home with a replica of one of Cleo’s necklaces, or one of those flowing gowns, sheer enough to drop a man’s jaw.
A silky wrap catches my eye, wide and long. Checking the price tag, I rein in surprise. I’m such an old-fashioned hick.
Kip’s coaching echoes in my head. No. No more. I have the power to change those things about myself, or any other thing I don’t like about my life. At least one good thing resulted from the encounter with Mr. Baldwin.
Not
the only thing, if I’m honest. I might be out of practice with flirting, but he hadn’t simply pretended interest in me. There was a definite electricity that flowed between us, and still vibrates inside me. It’s given me more confidence. Enough to purchase the wrap? Hell yes, and not so it can sit in the bureau drawer. I’m going to wear it.
Just not this evening. Later, I have a date with Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Love in the Time of Cholera has been on the To Be Read pile for too long, like stacks of other books that finally, I’m able to tackle.
A glass of sangria, my comfy pj’s, and I’ll sink into bed and the book, and no one will complain about the light keeping him awake.
Not exactly exciting, but so satisfying.
Chapter Four
The purr of the lathe soothes Kip Baldwin. Nothing relaxes him like working with wood, the rock classics radio station filling in the silence when the drone of the machine stops. The lyrics flow back to him, and he belts them out with the same gusto as in his teenage years, with the same old Jagger swagger of his hips he used to have.
A few weeks ago, his oldest daughter Ella had presented him with a photo of an Amish-made cabinet and asked him to reproduce it for her. He’d teased her he had little free time, and jokingly promised to have it to her by the end of the year. They both knew the delay had nothing to do with his perfectionism and everything to do with his need to focus on something, anything but the void Justine’s death left.
His cell vibrates in his back pocket. He switches off the machine and removes the safety goggles. Ella’s name appears in the display. The weekend call from Penn State University to inquire about the status of the project, which saves them both from having to make up excuses about checking up on one another.
“Hey honey.” He walks to the wall shelf holding the radio and turns down the volume, but the roar of a crowd on the other end mutes his daughter’s voice. “Pretty noisy there.”
“Is this better?” The sound muffles and she comes through clearer.
“Much. What’s up?” As if he can’t guess.
“Oh, I thought I’d check in on our little shop project.”
Ha. Funny how she tosses in the ‘our’. Probably her reminder that he isn’t alone in this world.
“It’s coming along. I’ve been a little busy this week.” He won’t admit to her that if he pushes himself, he can have the cabinet done within a month. Sooner, if he sets aside his perfectionism.
“Working late again? Dad, you have to stop putting in so many hours.”
“Not just work. I had a night out.” There’s a long line of people who remind him he needs to get out in the world more often, but his daughters stand at the front of that line. Socialize, they tell him. Actually go inside the coffee shop instead of the drive-through, where he has zero chance of striking up a conversation with someone else.
Her squeal rings through the cell. “You did? Where?”
“A singles gathering.” He’ll skip the ‘where’ part again. The old people jokes have grown, well, old.
“Fantastic. Did you take our advice about initiating small talk? Making eye contact?”
“Oh yeah. And I bombed on both accounts.” Not easy for him to admit. He knows he’s out of practice, but hadn’t expected to fail so miserably.
“Get. Out.”
He can picture Ella’s mouth gaping. “No.” The word conjures up Claire Sims in vivid detail. “I tried my best with a very pretty woman. I even thought she flirted with me.” A little. If he read the signs right, but he’ll be the first to admit he has no clue about reading signals from females. Nor does he like to flirt with a woman—too much like a game. Talking with Claire seemed so natural, and fun.
“And? Then what?” Ella prompts.
“She left. Rather abruptly.”
His daughter groans. “You didn’t wear your flannel shirt, did you?”
“Nope. The blue sweater you gave me for Christmas.”
“Oo, nice choice. But you didn’t yammer on about teaching or your students, did you? Because once you start, you can get carried away.”
Yammer? “Not one mention of school. I focused on only her.” A refreshing subject. One he’d hoped to learn more about, until she closed the book on him.
Ella hmph’s. “Weird. Did you smile at her?”
“I guess.” Had he? He’d meant to. At the time, he felt as if he couldn’t stop smiling.
“Strike one. Bet you didn’t. Did you wear your contacts instead of glasses?”
“No, honey. I have to be myself.” He refuses to put up a false front. And the contacts irritate his eyes anyway.
“Strike two,” she says with confidence. “And I bet I know what strike three is.”
He can’t wait to hear it. Or maybe he can. His daughters know how to make him feel like a complete last-century dunce. “What?”
“You wore your wedding ring, didn’t you?” At least she softens her tone when she nails him.
He stretches out his hand. The silver band gleams in the light. Of course. He hasn’t taken it off in twenty-five years. “Oh.”
Another groan. “Dad. I love you for honoring Mom’s memory. But don’t you think it’s time?”
He jams his left hand into his pocket. “I don’t know.”
“No decent woman is going to let you pick her up if you’re wearing a wedding band. You’re sabotaging yourself.”
“I guess.” After Justine died, he’d used it as a shield, an excuse to buy time to deal with his grief. He wished he’d remembered last Saturday to slip it into his pocket.
“For an English professor,” she says, “you’re not very articulate today.”
“Perhaps there’s a reason I kept it on.” His subconscious might be alerting him to the fact that he isn’t yet ready to start another relationship. Or that he’s a perpetual dweeb. One who’s still hopelessly in love with his wife, though Jus has been gone for three years. Four, come October. He used to love that month. Now Halloween seems a morbid reminder.
“Didn’t you like her?” Ella asks.
His head still swimming with memories of Justine, he asks, “Who?”
“The woman. What’s her name? Or didn’t you find out?”
“Oh. Yes.” Not one he’ll easily forget. “Claire Sims.”
A soft gasp. “The first grade teacher at Solebury Elementary?”
“Is she?” A teacher like him? How has he never heard of her?
“Duh. If she’s the same Claire Sims who was my first grade teacher. And Liz’s.”
He should be able to remember, but Justine usually handled the parent-teacher conferences.
Ella prompts, “Petite, with shoulder-length dark hair and warm brown eyes?”
“Sounds like her.” The basic description. The rest is harder to describe—her musical laugh, the way she shyly tucks her hair behind her ear, a genuineness about her that puts him at ease.
“I used to love her. She was one of my best teachers.” Ella’s gushing stops. “Uh oh. So she’s still single?”
“I suppose so.” Why else would she have attended a singles event?
“Hm. Now you’ve gotten me curious.”
Him too, but when his daughter announces her intention to Google the woman, he says, “No. Don’t intrude on her privacy.”
Ella mimics an evil laugh. “She’s a teacher. She has no privacy, remember?”
True enough. Something he knows firsthand. “It’s no reason to pry into her life.”
“As a concerned citizen and former student, I have the right.”
Her concern is misplaced. “Are you sure you haven’t changed your major from physical therapy to law?”
“And have you disown me? No way.” A beat later, she asks, “So you don’t want me to share the pertinent facts with you?”
He’d desperately love to say yes, but, “No.”
“All right,” she says with a sigh. “I gotta go. Talk to you soon.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
The cell display darkens. A chuckle, and he slips the phone into his pocket again. He easily visualizes Ella’s first-grade self, in her pink glittery sneakers and pink and purple outfit and color-coordinated back pack. Such a cutie pie.
In the memory, Claire Sims materializes beside his daughter. Can she be the same woman? The Claire Sims he’d met hardly looked old enough to have taught for twenty-plus years. Yet she’d attended the senior gathering, so it makes sense.
Had she married? Maybe she’s gay. His ego latches onto that as the excuse for her rejection. Unless Ella’s guessed right and Claire Sims spied his ring. He twists it on his finger. A few times since Justine’s death, he’d removed the band and set it atop the dresser. Its absence magnified the void, and reminded him too much that he’d lost his wife. He can’t bear to lose her completely.
With the band still securely in place, he turns back to the job at hand. Every time he thinks of Claire, the overhead fluorescent light catches the silver ring. Every twist he gives the band also twists pain deeper in his heart. I’ll always love you, Jus.
By dusk, he realizes he skipped lunch. He can’t stomach a frozen dinner tonight. Going out to eat by himself doesn’t appeal to him, either. He longs for a home-cooked meal. Since no one’s offered to cook him one, he’ll have to rustle something up himself. His daughters loudly proclaim him a terrible chef, but at least he tries.
He powers down the machines and unplugs them. He sweeps sawdust into a pile, then scrapes it onto the dust pan and dumps it into the waste container. He trudges inside the house through the attached mud room leading to the kitchen. The fridge holds some dubious-looking leftover Chinese, apples, milk, eggs and cheese. Omelet? Nah. He’ll take a trip to the grocery store. Hopefully some culinary inspiration will strike him after he gets there. Or he’ll opt for the precooked deli offerings.
He throws on a windbreaker and goes outside. Wind whips through the trees, their limbs sway in a crazy dance. It stirs up his own restlessness. He hunches against both, and climbs into the truck.
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