Maybe it’s time to get more serious about dating. Not merely a night out here and there with a woman he hardly knows. The few times he’d taken anyone out, ended in awkward discomfort for them both.
He should follow his girls’ advice and just put himself out there. See who nibbles.
Yes, a nibble would be nice, like on his ear. He misses the closeness of a relationship. The easy pillow talk, and all the stuff leading up to it, and the cozy stuff afterward.
He’ll never find another woman as wonderful as Justine, of course. But he also can’t imagine spending the rest of his life alone. Forty-nine isn’t exactly ancient. Many nights, he has so much pent-up energy, he has to run or work out, or risk a sleepless night. He’s endured too many of those.
Concentrate on getting something for dinner first. Then tackle the dating issue. A full stomach might help him think more clearly.
As he pulls into the grocery store parking lot, a feminine figure catches his attention. She looks familiar. Hard to tell in the gathering darkness, but she might be....
He’s compelled to follow her. He climbs out and hurries across the walkway in the same path. The doors whoosh open, and he scans the aisles within view. No sign of her. Man, I must be losing it.
On his way through the store, he can’t help glancing up at the people he passes. Rounding a corner, he spies the same woman at the deli counter. No mistake, she’s Claire Sims. Can there be a more perfect place to run into her? A grocery store provides neutral ground.
He pushes the mini-cart around the display, then veers sharply away. No, he can’t face her. This isn’t an old movie. In real life, there’s no ‘meet cute’ between the hero and heroine.
Yet he can’t leave. Pretending interest in the cooked chicken that looks about as appetizing as baked shoe leather, he watches her through the glass of the heated kiosk.
She glances over uncertainly. Meeting his gaze, she flinches. Visibly.
Damn. Busted.
Time to face the music. “Claire?” Too pushy. “I mean, Ms. Sims?”
If a woman ever looks desperate to flee, it’s her. The old cornered-rabbit expression smoothes into a forced smile. “Um, hi. Kip Baldwin, right?”
“Right.” Stupid to be euphoric over a simple thing like her remembering his name. He pushes the cart in her direction and stops beside her. “Right. Soooo.”
Her tight grin deflates his confidence. “So. You’re shopping.”
“Yes. Gotta eat.” And locate his conversational skills, which have currently gone MIA. “What about you?”
“The same.”
The way she sing-songs the two words, there’s an unspoken ‘duh’ at the end. He wants to shrink into the distance.
A teenager behind the deli counter slides a wrapped parcel toward her. “Anything else, ma’am?”
“No thanks, Jimmy. Have a nice night.” She puts the package in her cart and shoves off. “You too, Mr. Baldwin.”
He grips the cart helplessly. “Wait, you’re leaving?”
With a pointed glance at his left hand, she grimaces. “Yes.”
The ring. He can explain, if she gives him half a chance. “Wrong answer. You’re supposed to be practicing your ‘no’s, aren’t you?” A weak grin can’t salvage the point.
Disappointment crosses her face. “Goodbye, Mr. Baldwin.”
The regret that tinges her goodbye gives him enough hope to call out, “Just a moment. Are you the Claire Sims who taught my daughter in first grade?”
She blanches. “Oh yes, I should have recognized the name Baldwin. Ella? Or Elizabeth?”
“Either. I mean, both. But Ella thought she remembered you.”
Claire knits her brows. “How?”
Why does she appear displeased? He hesitates to say, “We spoke this afternoon.”
“And she happened to mention me?” She gives him her full attention, and not in a good way.
If only he can recapture the easiness of last night’s conversation. This one is headed for disaster. “No. I did. Mention meeting you. At the singles event.” Why the hell doesn’t life provide do-overs? Or at least warm ups? He is so out of practice. And he is, most definitely, yammering.
“I see.” Her tone, like her expression, turns cool.
“I’m probably giving you the wrong impression. I apologize.”
“No. No need.” She steers her cart around him. “I really have to go.”
“Can I call you?” He knows it’s the wrong thing to say even before he blurts the words.
“No, Mr. Baldwin.” She uses what sounds like her teacher voice. “Goodbye.”
Take a hint, dunce. He raises a hand in surrender. “Good night.” He should just say goodbye to put her at ease, but can’t bring himself to admit total defeat.
The boy behind the deli counter stares. “Can I help you?”
He wishes that were possible. But then again, maybe the kid can. “Do you know Ms. Sims?”
Jaw slack, he slowly answers, “Yes. Why?”
“Was she your teacher?”
Except for his glazed eyes, he seems to have frozen in place. “First grade.”
“Sorry, I’m just curious. I’m a professor at Bucks County Community College.” As if that will make him seem less of a perv? “Ms. Sims isn’t married?”
The kid winces. “She was. Until about a year ago.”
He restrains himself from a hearty whoop. “I see. So she’s divorced?”
“No, her husband died. My parents went to the funeral.” The boy ogles him. “What’s the deal?”
“My daughter Ella asked me this afternoon. I couldn’t very well ask Ms. Sims, but now I can tell Ella what ‘the deal’ is. Thank you very much.”
The boy’s gaze shifts behind Kip, where several people wait. “Is that all?”
“Is there more?”
With typical teen boredom, his lids hood his eyes. “Do you want something from the deli selection?”
Of course that’s what he means. “Yes.” If only so he wouldn’t seem like a stalker. “A pound of roast beef, a pound of ham, and a half pound of Swiss cheese please.”
The boy sets to work, and after a few awkward minutes, hands over the packages. “Anything else?”
“No, thank you.” He restrains himself throughout the store, and the parking lot. Not until he reaches the privacy of his own kitchen and has set down the plastic bags does he burst into a happy dance. “She’s not married! She’s not gay!” He whips out an air guitar and lays down some sweet imaginary riffs.
After awhile, he floats back to earth and unpacks his assorted meats and cheeses. Opening the cabinet, he laughs. “No bread.” Dinner will be ham and Swiss on a plate. Who cares?
Now all he has to do is figure out how to convince Ms. Sims he isn’t a total lunatic. Then invite her out for dinner, and she might actually say ‘yes’.
Chapter Five
Déjà vu. Kip’s life is doomed to repeat the same work, home, man cave scenarios over and over. Who the hell thought up man caves anyway? The last thing he wants is isolation.
Yet here he is again, in the workshop, alone. The band saw whirs, then screams as he sends the oak board through it. He flicks off the power to inspect the cut. The scent of fresh sawdust fills the air.
On the work bench, the cell’s vibrating chime causes the phone to shiver across the surface.
A quick check of the display shows Ella is calling. Yep, déjà vu. Same as last Saturday. “Hey babe.”
“Dad. Did you get my email?”
“The video of the cat playing piano?” He leans against the counter and crosses one boot over the other. “Very cute.”
“You’re not very cute,” she scolds. “You know what I mean.”
And she should know from his dodging answer that he’d rather not discuss it. “Yes, I do.”
“You didn’t respond, which I’m guessing means you didn’t call her.”
“My girls are so perceptive.” Except about important things like his p
rivacy, and when to stop pushing him.
“Why not?” she whines.
Because life grows more complicated each year? Some things you can’t teach your kids, you have to let them learn firsthand. “Let’s just say there are extenuating circumstances.”
“Is she already in another relationship?”
“Exactly.” Perfect excuse. If it were true.
“Um, I don’t think so. I checked.”
Mortified, he stands straight. “How could you possibly have checked?”
“I have my ways. So, let’s have it. The truth this time, mister. Did she turn you down?”
Another perfect excuse. “She did.” At least twice. He’d stopped counting after that.
“Stop fibbing. What’s going on with you?” she squeals.
“I’m not…” He can’t deny it. She’ll find out later. Somehow. And he’ll never hear the end of it. “…going to violate your trust any further by fibbing to you. But I’m also not going to discuss this any longer.”
“Dad.” She draws the whining word out into three syllables.
“Not right now.” He punctuates each word with emphasis.
A tsk, and she gives a begrudging, “Fine. For now.”
“Aren’t you going to ask about the cabinet?” he prompts. Anything to change the subject.
Her sigh is edged with exasperation. “I might as well, since you won’t talk about anything important. How’s it coming along?”
“You’ll have it by the end of the year.” The joke’s gone stale.
Something clicks inside him. December is more than eight months away. Is that all he wants to accomplish before another year begins? Does he really want to get caught in an endless repeat of the same old, same old every year? No. That’s how people let their entire lives slip away. He can’t waste anymore time.
“Dad? Hello? You okay?”
Ella’s voice through the cell snaps him from his thoughts. “I’m good.” Or he will be. “Nice talking to you, honey.”
“Yes, but Dad...”
“Love you. Bye.” He waits for her ‘love you, too’ before clicking off.
To the empty room, he declares, “I’m an educated man. I can figure out a way to do this. Hell, if I have to hire a Cyrano de Bergerac, I will.”
Granted, he is no Channing Tatum, but neither is he Quasimodo. With the exception of bum eyesight that forces him to wear glasses, he never bemoans his average looks. He works harder to charm females with his other qualities. When he was younger he had, anyway.
After losing Justine, no woman has interested him.
Claire Sims does. He wants to find out more about her. Have a chance, at least, of knowing her. Something about her gives him a good feeling. He doesn’t want to lose that.
The cabinet can wait. He can’t. Humming, he goes inside and powers up the laptop on the dining room table. Google doesn’t have much to say about her, but he finds a link to the elementary school. A page with a photo of her, and a few paragraphs about how she loves working with the kids, and encouraging parents to contact her anytime. The school phone number. And her school email address. And a home email as well.
A click on the second link brings up a message box. He types,
Dear Ms. Sims.
His fingers, and his mind, freeze. He blows out a nervous breath. Okay, no awkwardness, no weirdness. He’ll lay it out straight, admit his ineptness with women, and hopefully she’ll understand. And forgive.
In the two instances in which we’ve met, I’m afraid I’ve given you the wrong impression. Please allow me the chance to explain.
Since my wife Justine passed away three years ago, I’ve led a sheltered existence. My conversational skills, as you no doubt observed, have become outdated and useless. To be truthful, I never mastered those skills in the first place. As a teacher, it pains me to admit it. Put a book in my hands, and young minds to fill with classic literature, and I can talk for hours. Put a pretty woman such as yourself in front of me, and I’m a nonsensical fool.
I’m very sorry if I startled you in the grocery store. It’s not my intention to stalk you. However, I would be grateful if you would overlook my lack of social graces and consider meeting me for coffee. I promise not to embarrass you, or myself, again. Well, I promise to try, anyway.
Forgive my intrusion once again. I will await your response, and if you choose not to reply at all, I wouldn’t blame you. Likewise, I will not contact you again unless your reply invites a response. Just know that I’ll be checking my email regularly to be sure I don’t miss it, so don’t take too long.
Kip Baldwin
P.S.
Despite my earlier coaching, I look forward to your affirmative response. As empowering as a ‘no’ can be, you should keep an open mind and use it with good judgment.
A quick scan for typos, another read-through for posterity. His gaze sticks on the last sentence before his signature. Don’t take too long? Exactly what Justine told him, hours before she passed, about getting on with his life. He highlights the phrase with the mouse and poises a finger over the Delete key. Removing it will invalidate the advice. No. It will stay. Justine’s wisdom will prevail, and maybe bring him some good luck. He hits Send.
The last phrase sticks in his mind. “Oh what the hell. ‘With good judgment’?” She’ll think he’s insulting her.
What a disaster. Maybe he should make some inquiries about how to hire a personal Cyrano de Bergerac, someone to woo Claire with elegance and panache. His clunky, backward style will surely repel her.
He opens another blank email to explain again, but can’t bring himself to begin typing. He can’t message her again, not after pledging to wait for her to make the next call. If he breaks his first promise to her, she’ll peg him as a liar who’ll say anything to get what he wants.
Maybe not a far-fetched characterization of him. There’s something about her that catches him up and won’t let go. Her vulnerability. Her sweetness. Her deep brown eyes, so soulful one moment, so inviting the next. But behind it all, an abiding distrust. Of all men? Or just him?
Another mystery about her he wants to solve.
If she responds at all, which seems unlikely. And if he doesn’t distract himself with other things, this day may never end. He might as well work on the cabinet.
After refilling his insulated travel mug with fresh coffee, he returns to the workshop. The usual quiet irks him, reminds him of how alone he is, so he turns up the radio. Every song brings a new image of Claire to mind.
The whir of the band saw drowns out the music but not his thoughts of her. He is so distracted that when he sends a beautiful piece of oak through the saw, its teeth rip a ragged tear through it.
“No.” He switches off the saw and examines the ruined board. “I can’t do this today.” Might end up sawing off a hand, and then bleed to death. He unplugs the cord, turns off the radio and the lights, and goes back in the house. Chores are mindless enough. He’ll do laundry, vacuum and scrub the floors.
The laptop sits on the dining room table, within easy range. He passes it a dozen times on his way to the washer, while vacuuming, and doing the dishes. Each time, he surrenders to the urge to check his email. Each time, he finds no response from Claire. Finally, he gives up, but the only way to end his compulsiveness is to get out of the house.
The next logical place to go is his office at the college. No sooner does he arrive and boot up his desktop computer, he checks his email a few more times. After two hours, it becomes painfully apparent he’ll get no work done there either.
He drives to the book store. Wandering through the stacks, smelling that old-book scent, always lifts his spirits and takes his mind off things. Not today. Not one of the titles piques his interest. Maybe because so few actually register when he scans them. He can’t stop wondering if she’s emailed him yet.
With an apologetic smile, he leaves the book store and drives home. The laptop beckons, but he resists. For about a minute.
H
e plops onto the chair, urging, “Come on,” while the computer boots up. A few quick keystrokes, and Google mail fills the onscreen window. The only new message is the daily subscription to The Writer’s Almanac, containing a poem and some literary tidbits.
He drums a finger against the table. Staring won’t make her response magically appear. She may not have seen the message, he reasons. Unlike him, she probably has a full life.
“You’re turning Obsessive Compulsive,” he mutters aloud. He closes the laptop and pushes away from the table. The hand weights sit to the side of the sofa, so he switches on the TV and lets the bad news on CNN fuel him while he finishes a few sets of lift repetitions. The movement releases some of the muscle tension, but what he really needs is a run.
After changing into his sweats and running shoes, he skirts past the laptop on his way out the door. Frustration keeps him going for three miles, a wide circle around the neighborhood. Once he completes the circuit, he runs back inside and straight to the computer again. Still nothing.
Dampness rings his underarms and chest. He tosses the sweaty clothes into the hamper and showers. After toweling off, he dresses in a comfy old flannel shirt and jeans, then rakes a hand through his hair and ponders his options. Maybe an old movie is on TV tonight. He grabs a water from the fridge, then scans the cable directory. Nothing he cares to watch. Maybe it’s time to expand his DVD collection. Another peek at the email, and he leaves home again, more disappointed than before.
Droplets of rain spatter his windshield as he drives to the strip mall. By the time he parks outside the department store, drops have become a downpour. Despite jogging inside, collar tugged up, he gets soaked. A few snaps of his coat help shirk off the wetness. The storm might last awhile, so he heads to the media section and browses the DVDs. Season One of Game of Thrones is on sale. Gory but engaging, so he hears, not unlike Shakespeare. From the bargain bin, he plucks Pride and Prejudice. Keira Knightley might cheer him, though he’ll be tempted to offer her a cheeseburger and milkshake. The girl is radiant beauty personified, but all skin and bones.
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