I clench my jaw. I will not be an old person. Shuffling through the titles, I find a beginner’s yoga DVD and pop it in. Nothing on the video menu looks familiar, so I choose the first selection.
Twenty minutes later, I flop onto my back and groan. Doomed, I am doomed to remain a lump of lard forever. And an aching lump to boot. I rub my sore muscles, but vow not to give up.
By Tuesday night, my resolve drains away even as my muscles feel tighter. A little, at least.
I climb into the Saab and drive to Trish’s house, a two-story affair similar to every home in the neighborhood. The forsythia bushes bordering the side yard add a cheery touch with their yellow blooms, as do the red and yellow tulips on either side of the front entryway.
If I have to limp through a workout and end up a soppy puddle of goo on the floor, I will finish it. But lord save me from overzealous marriage pushers.
Especially the one wearing yoga pants and matching top, and the wide, manic smile of a meth addict, I think as Trish throws open the door, and a golden light spills out.
I’m barely halfway up the sidewalk.
She waves me on like I’m an incoming jumbo jet. “Get ready to swing those hips, honey. You’ll be sore for a few days, but if we do the routine for a half hour every week, you’ll be ready to rumba before you know it.”
“I’m ready.” Thinking she can probably hear my muscles creaking, I smile and step inside the foyer. I can’t help feeling like Midge visiting Barbie in her Dream House.
Trish sashays into the family room, cha-cha’ing her way to the Media Center, a wall-to-wall affair holding a stereo set, two game boxes and controls, rows of game cartridges, family photos and a digital picture display that mesmerizes me if I look at it for more than five seconds, DVDs and Blu-Ray discs plus both type of movie players, and a Smart TV the size of my bathtub.
At the control box, Trish presses a few buttons, then jumps away with an evil, I-will-make-you-suffer laugh. She clicks the remote like a pro and claps to signal our start.
I do my best to keep up with her gyrations. But after fifteen minutes, I’m panting for breath. “Don’t you have a beginner version?”
Without breaking her rhythm, Trish says, “This is level one. Do you need a break?”
“Yes.” I wince, hating to admit I’m a wuss.. “And probably a gym membership. I’m so out of shape.”
Trish scrunches her face and blows raspberries. “Wish I were as out of shape as you.” Another click, and she grants me mercy.
“I’ll trade your toned muscles for my atrophied ones any day.” If I keep this up much longer, I may dislocate a hip.
She gives me the stink eye. “You didn’t suddenly need to learn salsa. What’s the real scoop?”
Trish always has a sixth sense for these things. Might as well let the cat out of the bag. “I have another date.”
Her eyes lit up like a one-armed bandit in Las Vegas. “Fantastic. With the same guy?” Grabbing my hands, Trish flings me into a twirl.
In equal parts, I try not to let the mania infect me, or to tumble to the floor. “Kipling Baldwin,” I pant.
A squeal, and Trish pulls me in for a quick bear hug. “I’m so happy for you. You never told me where you met him.”
“Actually, he was the guy I met at Sunny Valley.”
Trish’s smile drops like a guillotine. “I thought he was married.”
“That’s what I thought at first. But he’s widowed like me.”
She snaps her fingers, then jabs at me. “The bet. Ha ha, I won!” She dances around me like a victorious warrior.
Oops. I’d forgotten all about the bet. “I’m so sorry. You’re right, you did win. I’ll settle up after I get home.”
“No way.” Trish sets her hands on her hips and gives me her Mom look. “I could care less about the money. Though I admit, I’m glad I don’t have to empty my savings jar. So that’s what this sudden interest in salsa is about?”
“Yes, he’s taking me dancing.” I feign enthusiasm. Until I remember how long this dance session lasted.
Swishing her hips seductively, Trish sends me a sly look. “Oo, two dates in two weeks.”
Hard to miss her not-so-subtle message. Trish can’t make her point clearer unless she stretches out on the floor and mimes the horizontal boogie. “I am terrified.”
A laugh, and Trish waves me off. “Stop it. He sounds great.”
“He is. So far. But what if,” I ponder out loud, “he turns out to be another Doug?” Hiding his controlling ways and selfishness behind a smile. I can’t imagine Kip being like that, but neither had I imagined Doug that way in the beginning. By the time I learned his true nature, we’d been married for several years.
If my expression matches my plummeting mood, I must look like Debbie Downer.
My sudden seriousness brings Trish down to earth. “I’ll do some digging.”
My sneakers squeak to a halt. “Please don’t.”
She restarts the dance session and twirls. “How else will we find out? What was his wife’s name?” She gestures at me. “Come on, you need to practice your dancing.”
I do my best to catch up, but keep falling out of step. “Justine.”
“Justine Baldwin. Why does the name sound familiar?” Trish gyrates in perfect match to the routine.
I slow down to catch my breath. “Their girls were both students of mine. I must have met her but I can’t place her.”
“And you don’t remember meeting him before?”
I wait a beat, then whirl in unison with Trish. “No, and I’m kind of glad. It might have made things weird.”
“How so?”
“This way, we’re both starting off fresh. No prior connections.” I won’t have to make any excuses to anyone. Most of all, to myself.
“I suppose.” She swishes away, and says over her shoulder, “But I have research to do.”
“Seriously Trish, don’t poke your nose in too deep. I don’t want him to think I’m spying on him.”
“Trust me, only a few innocent inquiries.”
“You lost me at ‘innocent’.” Or possibly ‘trust’.
“It’s for your own good. Your peace of mind.” There’s her Mom tone again.
“He’s a college professor. How sordid could he be?” Not the best defense. Over the years, I met a few sordid elementary school teachers.
Not the least bit winded, Trish hoots. “Give me a few minutes with his computer’s hard drive and I’ll tell you. And afterward, you’ll have to tell me all about your date.”
Maybe not everything. I lose my rhythm, and flap my arms. “Ugh!”
Trish throws her arms around me, and captures me in a hug again.
“Thanks,” I sputter. “But what was that for?”
She beams at me. “Good things are coming for you, I can feel it.”
I rub my thighs. “I can feel something else. I’m done.” I won’t jinx any possible good things that might be on the way by saying it out loud, but they are way overdue.
Chapter Ten
Have five days ever taken so excruciatingly long to pass? It’s only Tuesday, and the wait is killing him. During the day, Kip’s date with Claire lingers behind every thought, every conversation. This afternoon after class ended, a few students mention Game of Thrones, and his mind immediately flew to Claire. He wants to watch the show with her, see her reaction to the twists, the suspense and drama.
And with each nightfall comes doubt. She seemed so reticent about committing to another date. Maybe she’d grown to prefer doing things by herself. Is she out alone right now? Doing something interesting and new? Does she have the same urge to share experiences with him?
Should he cancel Friday’s date? He doesn’t want to go out with someone who doesn’t want to be with him.
Kip has to wrestle that demon until dawn. Somehow light restores his reason and sanity. No need to rush things with Claire, is there? He ignores the small voice in his head warning him to snare her fast, or lose
her. They are adults, after all. He has to rein in this unfamiliar case of nerves. The old lyric drifts through his mind: I could drink a case of you. No woman will want to drink that case of aged Kipling reserve, with its biting aftertaste full of bitterness.
If you can’t live with yourself, how do you expect anyone else to?
Worrying isn’t like him. He needs to busy himself. Tonight, he’s not into woodworking. It doesn’t distract him enough, and besides, he’s nearly finished with the cabinet. A few coats of polyurethane stain, a nice set of hardware, and he can announce to Ella she’s welcome to take it away. But what if his daughter dreams up something else for him to make? She seems to think she needs to fill Kip’s time with woodworking projects. He doesn’t have the heart to tell his daughter that every session in his man cave only doubles his loneliness and gives him more time to think about their mother.
No, he needs to do something else. Something to take him out of his head, to lose himself in. His gaze falls on the piano in the corner. For too long it’s served as the resident junk mail holder, an undeserved fate for so fine an instrument.
It doesn’t take long for Kip to clear most of the old magazines and flyers from the Yamaha. Beneath the mess, a photo of Justine smiles up at him. He’s forgotten about this one. A few months after her death, he’d turned it face down because he couldn’t bear the pain of missing her. He brushes the dust from the glass and props the frame upright again. So lovely, she is, and warmth pours from her smile. He still misses her. But grief no longer crushes him. He accepts the pain as part of life, and embraces the ache as proof he always will love her.
He gives the bench a tug, and it scrapes on the wooden floor. He lifts the cover from the piano keyboard, then walks his fingers up a scale. Slightly out of tune, but not as bad as he’d feared. He picks out the notes from Tiny Dancer, one of his favorite Elton John songs to play. His fingers move along the keys from memory. Other songs from his band days begin to return to him. Despite a few stumbles, the old satisfaction of playing music comes back to him as well. Just like in old times, the details of his life fade away. In the gathering darkness, only the piano and himself exist. And sometimes, Jus. She used to sit close while he played, softly singing. They loved the same music, and remembering her excitement sends him deeper into his playing, pushes him higher. The ache of missing her is replaced by the joy of the moment.
A very long moment. The light drains from the sky, and the room darkens. Otherwise, he might keep playing all night, suspended somewhere between the past and the future, with not a care for the now beyond how the notes string together like resonating pearls.
On Wednesday after work, he digs in the closet and pulls out his old guitar case that holds his Fender. Opening it brings a blast from the past. Slipping the strap over his head, he becomes fifteen again, energy pulsing with each stroke of the pick against the strings. Once again, the songs carry him late into the night.
And so the week passes.
By Friday evening, when he stands on Claire’s doorstep, his nerves still jangle, but don’t threaten to pop out from beneath his skin. A deep breath, and he tugs his jacket straight, still wondering whether the tie is too formal. Ah well, he can always loosen it, or wear it on his forehead, rocker style. Um, no. Probably won’t go over well. Too late anyway, he’s already here, so he presses the bell.
She opens the door, her ‘hi’ breathless as if she’s rushed to greet him. Her hair in an elegant twist at the back of her head showcases the delicate lines of her heart-shaped face. Her little black dress highlights her curves.
He voices his first thought: “Wow.” Beyond that, words fail him. She is stunning.
“Wow yourself.” Glancing down, she smoothes the fabric of her skirt. “But this isn’t too much?”
“It’s perfect.” He leans in, meaning to give her a quick, light kiss. The tantalizing scent of an exotic flower—jasmine?—fills his senses and he has the sudden urge to deepen the kiss, press her against the wall. Touch her. Hold her, as he’s thought about doing all week. Steadying himself, he eases away. “Ready to go?”
After tossing a pashmina around her shoulders, she grabs her clutch purse from the foyer table. As she closes the door, the wrap slips down one arm.
He tugs the silky fabric up. “This is beautiful.”
She extends her arm and admires the wrap. “Isn’t it? I splurged at the Cleopatra exhibit.”
How he’d love to unwrap the rest of her. Instead, he guides her to the car and helps her inside, Mr. Chivalry personified.
“Where to?” she asks as he climbs behind the wheel.
“The Hotel Trent in Doylestown.” After they drive off, his nerves tighten. She’s pulled the wrap tight as a cocoon around her, legs press together and aim toward the window. All her body language signals scream for him not to touch.
Maybe the formal night out is a mistake. She appears as uptight as him. To psyche them both up for it, he keeps talking. “They bring in a big band, we eat right in the ballroom and dance to whatever tunes catch our fancy.”
“Sounds like fun. Have you been before?”
“No,” he admits, “but you mentioned it the other day and I’ve been wanting to try it.”
She gives him a curious look. “You remembered.”
Does he score points with her for listening? Or does it piss her off, like he’s nitpicking? “Is that all right?” he jokes.
“Of course.” But she hugs herself tighter.
An awkward silence becomes a palpable barrier between them. He fiddles with the radio, attentive to any reaction from her. An oldies rock station, then classical, then country, then contemporary pop. Still, she stares out the window.
When they arrive at the hotel, he hasn’t realized how tense he’s grown until he steps out. The night air cools his face, and the lightest sheen of perspiration dampens his temples.
Might as well have been walking on eggshells when he guides her inside. Every move he makes seems wrong. She’s polite enough, but distant, too formal. Fool that he is, he imagines the two of them kicking up their heels, sharing private jokes and intimate moments like a real couple. Tonight proves they are a long way from that status.
Music blasts through the lobby, loud and tinny-sounding. They follow it down a hallway to the ballroom at the rear. He produces the tickets he purchased online and printed out earlier, and the hostess gestures them inside.
People fill about half the tables. They locate an empty one not far from the dance floor. Rather than an orchestra, a DJ stands behind a table with a stereo hooked to large speakers.
“I thought there’d be a band, dammit.” He plops onto the chair beside her.
A quick check of the other attendees, and his enthusiasm deflates even more. With the exception of one twenty-ish couple, most of the others are older than them. This isn’t much different than the Sunny Valley event.
She scans the turquoise and gold arches spanning the ceiling, a design that echoes on the walls. “Beautiful room, though. You don’t see many art deco styles anymore.”
“No, you don’t.” None that require new paint as badly as this room. “Not exactly what I’d imagined.”
“Expectations can be a dangerous thing.” She says, almost to herself.
He interprets her wistful tone as a warning.
Servers appear pushing carts through the aisles, dispensing salads. As Kip eats, he’s sorry they chose to sit alone. The tables are large enough to hold six people. At most of the occupied tables, two couples sit together. Their laughter-filled conversation should cheer him. Instead, he wishes he’d thought to invite a few friends along to take the pressure off.
Claire pushes aside her plate of half-eaten salad, and Kip does the same when he notices the wilted lettuce. “Hopefully the chicken will taste better.”
“Mm. Not many ways they could ruin chicken.”
Still, it’s nice to have someone else cook for him. Off-handedly, he says, “I’d probably have eaten a bowl of cerea
l for dinner otherwise.”
She brightens. “I do that sometimes, too.”
Ah, something in common. “Saves having to wash all those dishes, at least.”
“What’s your favorite cereal?”
He shakes his head. “You’ll think I’m boring.”
“No, tell me,” she prods.
“Shredded Wheat. Sometimes I get crazy and top it with blueberries.” At least it’s something to talk about. And he likes imagining her with her hair pulled back in a pony tail, legs crossed beneath her, scooping spoonfuls into her mouth, maybe dribbling a little milk…
She gapes in feigned shock. “Scandalous. About as bad as my Honey Nut Cheerios with strawberries.”
“Sounds delightful. I’ll have to try it.” Now this is more like it, easy and warm, no icy barriers.
He doesn’t notice the man and woman until they bustle up to the table. Already pulling the chairs back, the man asks, “Mind if we join you?”
He and Claire both say, “Not at all.”
When the woman sits, her tight skirt and low-cut top appear in danger of bursting at the seams. “You two looked lonely.”
Did they? Kip catches Claire’s glance. His heart skips a little when she looks disappointed, too. “Welcome. You’re just in time for the main course.”
The woman waves him off, her multitude of gold bracelets jangling. “The food here’s awful anyway. We come because we love to kick up our heels.” She wrinkles her nose when she smiles at her companion.
The man extends his hand across the table. “Glenn Harbinger.”
Harbinger of bad news? Kip stifles a snort, grasps the man’s hand and shakes. “Kip Baldwin.” He looks to Claire, uncertain whether to speak for her.
Claire introduces herself, and the woman opposite says, “I’m Dorothy. So glad to see some new faces.”
The servers bustle through with dinner, and Kip warily inspects the plate in front of him. One sampling, and he heartily agrees with Dorothy. Awful.
Claire leans close, her shoulder bumping his. “We should have brought our cereal.”
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