Speed dating is taking place at a hotel on the outskirts of our small, Oklahoma town. Yes, a hotel! What exactly do the organizers expect to happen? When we arrive, I remain in the car, debating whether I’m fast enough to run back home before Jack can catch me.
“You’ll never make it,” Jack says and raises an eyebrow at me. Darn man! Always knows what I’m thinking.
“Fine,” I huff as I get out. Jack comes around and grabs my hand. Not in a friendly way, mind you. Oh no, he’s making sure I’m not going to flee.
The lobby of the hotel looks like cupid projectile vomited in it, on it, and all around it. There are red and pink balloons everywhere as well as the chubby love-god himself, in the form of a cardboard cutout, pointing us in the direction of the bar. A woman with bouffant hair sits behind a table at the entrance to the bar. She looks like she stepped out of the ʼ50s with her puffed-out hair, overly done make-up, and plastic smile. I peek under the table to see if she’s wearing a poodle skirt. Bingo!
“You must be here for the speed dating,” she says with way too much enthusiasm.
Jack gives her one of his panty-dropping smiles and nods. “I’m Jack Harris and this is Izzy Archer.”
Bouffant woman hands him two nametags. “You can call me Sugar. Go ahead and grab yourselves a complimentary drink. We’ll be starting in a few minutes.”
Jack puts his hand on the curve of my lower back and not-so-gently pushes me into the bar. I’m surprised to find the place crowded. Of course, I’m old enough to be the mother to nearly every woman there. On the other side of the sexual divide, the men attending could have fathered me. Oh, how cliché. Where are those free drinks again?
As always, Jack knows what I need and heads to a cocktail waitress holding a tray of glasses filled with red and white wine. I don’t follow. There’s no way I’m going to make it through this evening on mere wine. They should be handing out shooters at the door. I make my way to the bar.
“Excuse me,” I say as I try to catch the bartender’s attention. The bartender, however, is more interested in the young girls prancing around than in me. I sigh and lean onto the bar ensuring that the girls are visible. “Excuse me,” I say again, but this time I use a sultry voice – or at least that’s what I’m going for. The bartender finally looks my way and I smile when I see his eyes immediately lured to my cleavage. Gotcha! “Tequila shot with a beer chaser, please.” He jumps to fulfill my order, but nearly trips as he attempts to maintain eye contact with my bosom and reach for the tequila bottle at the same time.
I hear someone chuckle beside me and turn to see a hotter than hot piece of male specimen staring at me. I immediately feel my face burn. The bartender saves me by slamming my drinks down in front of me. I grab the tequila shot and quickly down it before latching onto the beer to soothe my burning esophagus. Good thing I have lots of practice or I would probably spit the beer out like a college freshman during rush week, although I may have coughed just a teensy bit.
Sufficiently fortified, I turn to the man again and notice him watching me. He raises an eyebrow. “I tried that trick earlier,” he says, tilting his head towards the bar, “but the bartender didn’t seem impressed with my assets.” I look him up and down. “You look pretty hot to me,” I say and then slap my hand over my mouth when I realize my comment probably sounded like some lame pick-up line. “Sorry.” Is it possible for my face to spontaneously burst into flames? “Sometimes my mouth opens before my brain can stop it.”
The man laughs and shakes his head. He reaches out to shake my hand just as a loud, obnoxious bell rings. “That’s my cue,” I say as I jump off the barstool. I wobble a bit, and hottie reaches out to steady me with his hand on my elbow. I gasp as a current of pure electricity moves through my arm. I startle and nearly trip in my heels.
I manage to steady myself and smile at Mr. Dreamboat before going off to search for Jack. Before I can find him, I catch sight of another cocktail waitress. I grab a glass of red before locating Jack, who is surrounded by women who are obviously on the prowl. To the casual observer, he seems to be reveling in the attention, but I see his eyes frantically search the room before landing on me. I immediately stalk forward, grab his hand, and pull him away.
Sugar, as Mrs. Enthusiastic asked us to call her, claps her hands for everyone’s attention. I feel like I’m back in the classroom. Not any old classroom either, one transported back in time to when poodle skirts, puffed-up hair, and horn-rimmed glasses were popular.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” she begins after throwing a glare my way. “Welcome! Y’all are gonna have a ball tonight.” I may be snickering. “On the tables are clipboards: pink for girls, blue for boys.” Okay, now I’m definitely snickering. “You’ll have five minutes with each date. Fill out a new questionnaire for each date. After the evening is finished, I’ll collect the questionnaires. While you enjoy another drink and some socializing, I’ll go over the questionnaires and let y’all know if there’s a match.” She claps her hands in glee. I do not roll my eyes, I swear I don’t. Okay, maybe I do.
The young girls start running to the tables. I didn’t know this was a race and besides my hands are full. I end up at the corner table right outside the door to the kitchen. This night just keeps getting better and better.
After the women are seated, the men each find a partner and sit down. The guy who sits down across from me doesn’t seem too bad. He appears normal enough. He’s not hot or anything, but he’s not entirely unpleasant to look at.
Mrs. Sugar rings the bell again and we’re off. The first ‘date’ starts off well. His name is Ed. He’s not drooling or anything, is talking to me, and not my boobs, and seems to be interested in my graphic design work. Maybe Jack was right after all. I need to get myself back into the dating game.
“So,” Ed begins after we’ve exchanged the usual pleasantries and some small talk. He leans forward and starts to whisper. “How do you feel about whips and chains?”
Not the appropriate moment to be sipping my wine, but how could I have expected that! I choke and spit a bit of wine into Ed’s face, which seems to excite him. He wiggles his eyebrows. “I take it that’s a yes?” he asks eagerly.
“Um no. That’s a definite no. N.O.” I lift my glass and down the remainder of my wine. The bell rings and I yell loudly “Next!”
Ed looks disappointed as he walks to the next table, but I’ve got my eyes on the prize. A cocktail waitress is headed my way. I snag two more glasses of wine before turning to my next date. Oh dear lord! The man is older than my grandma. He struggles to lower himself into the chair opposite mine.
There goes that annoying bell again. Time to put my game-face on. I smile and decide I’ll check this guy out for Grandma. She could use a date. Although, to be perfectly honest, I don’t remember her going out with a man – ever. There’s no time like the present.
The old man’s name is Wilbert and the five minutes pass pleasantly enough. As long as I pretend he’s dating Grandma and not trying to pick me up. When the bell rings again, I rush from my chair to help Wilbert stand. I take his elbow and guide him to his next date – a girl young enough to be his great-granddaughter.
I sit back down and gather my courage for my next winner. I try to smile at the guy across from me, really I do. But have you ever tried to smile at a man with the biggest combover ever? Let me tell you, it’s not easy. I may be grimacing a tiny bit.
Mr. Combover leans over and leers at me. Yes, leers at me! His eyes are surgically attached to my boobs. True, I have good boobs, but maybe pay a bit of attention to the person attached to the boobs?
Finally, done leering, he leans back and takes in my face. “You’re not the youngest anymore.” Really? That’s the first thing Mr. Combover is going to say?
“I could say the same about you,” I respond in the nasty voice I use when nagging clients who are slow to pay, but quick to make outrageous demands.
Mr. Combover clears his throat and leans in again. I bend backward as
far as possible in my chair, but he’s undeterred. “I’m just gonna get this out there and not waste my time.” I just stare at him. “Do you put out? ‘Cuz if not, I ain’t got time for you.”
Oh no, he didn’t. “What,” I sputter and grab for my first wine glass, which I down in one go. Never said I was a classy lady.
“Do. You. Put. Out?” Yes, he actually enunciates it like I didn’t understand him the first time.
I’m done. I never should’ve come anyway. Why do I let Jack blackmail me? Other forty-year-old women have chin hair. How bad could it be if people know that I do too? I grab the second glass of wine and down it before standing up. Unfortunately, I don’t have the greatest equilibrium in the best of circumstances and now is no exception. My chair crashes loudly to the floor, and I wobble on my heels a bit.
The room turns deathly quiet just before I yell, “Fuck off! I’m outta here.” The young girls gasp while some of the men chuckle. I don’t bother looking around to see who’s chuckling and who’s gasping, I flee the room. I run straight through the bar, past the lobby, and outside. I’m walking home if need be.
Luckily, Jack, the blackmailer, has my back as usual. He grabs my elbow as I start to walk toward the road and pushes me toward his car. After we’re seated, he turns to me and asks, “What happened?”
I throw my hands in the air. “Mr. Combover asked if I put out!” I screech.
Jack bends over and guffaws. He laughs so hard he actually snorts and gasps for breath. I time him on the car clock – five minutes is how long it takes for him to recover. When he calms down, he pulls me in for a long hug before kissing my forehead gently and driving me home. But not before stopping for ice cream because everyone knows ice cream makes everything better.
Chapter 3
"Grandma" by Pam Feather
I wake up the next day in a much better mood than I went to bed in. Not only will Jack never take me to a speed dating event again (Yeah!), but it’s also Sunday, which means I’m going to see my grandma and she totally rocks.
Grandma isn’t actually my grandma, she’s Ryan’s paternal grandmother, but I adopted her or she adopted me – whatever. After Ryan’s death nearly five years ago, Grandma and I got even closer as I didn’t have to hide my visits to her from him.
Ryan’s death was quite the shock, but then again, it wasn’t. He died when he went parachuting and forgot to check his chute before he jumped. Some cord or thingy, which I don’t really understand, was tangled and, therefore, the chute didn’t open. Kerplunk! Instant widowhood for me.
That was pretty typical of Ryan. He took the word ‘irresponsible’ to a whole other level. He lived off my earnings, which I would have been totally okay with if he took care of the house and other crappy, boring tasks that being an adult entails. You know what I mean: paying the bills, getting the oil changed in the car, etc. But no – Ryan was too busy trying to catch his next adrenaline high and couldn’t be bothered to take out the stinking trash.
I think Grandma was as frustrated with Ryan as I was. She was always nagging him. Something I eventually learned not to do because he didn’t listen anyway and what fun is being a nag? He stopped going to see her to avoid her nagging, and eventually they were only strangers to one another. He absolutely missed out.
Grandma is totally awesome! Since my parents didn’t approve of my match with Ryan, I haven’t had much contact with my own family. Of course, it turned out that they were right about Ryan not being the best partner for me, but I was young and in love. I wasn’t exactly open to listening to my parents’ comments at the time. After I had realized they were right, my pride kept me from reaching out to them. Then my parents retired to Florida and the contact between us dwindled even further to calls on Christmas, Thanksgiving, and those once-in-a-blue-moon visits. I don’t have any siblings and thus Grandma eventually became my only family. Ryan’s parents aren’t alive anymore and he didn’t have any siblings either. I guess, in a way, I’m the only family Grandma has as well.
I park on the street in front of Grandma’s ranch house. She has a fab house set on a few acres of land on the edge of town. It has a front porch to die for – complete with swing. I covet that swing. I tease Grandma that I’m going to come over and steal it one night. She just laughs and tells me to come and use it whenever I want! She’s too sweet and takes the wind out of my stealing sails.
The driveway is full of older, American-built cars resembling boats in size. That can only mean one thing – Grandma’s hosting this week’s knitting club get together. The knitting club is actually just a bunch of her closest friends who, like Grandma, are widowed and have no or few family in the area. I take a deep breath to fortify myself as I get out of my car, wondering if the ladies have started getting wild yet. It sounds like a joke, a bunch of seventy-year-olds getting out of control, but it’s no lie. These women turned off their brain-to-mouth filters decades ago, and they say the darndest things – most of which makes me laugh until my stomach aches.
“Helllooo!” I yell as I walk into the house without knocking. If you want to avoid being hit by a rolling pin, you don’t knock at Grandma’s house. Family doesn’t knock, she’ll yell as she hits you. For an old lady, she can hit hard!
“Back here my darling girl.” I follow the voice to the screened porch at the rear of the house, which has a view over the rolling hills that are part of her land. Another thing I covet about this house. Coveting isn’t one of the seven deadly sins, is it? Otherwise, I’m in big trouble here.
The porch is full of elderly women knitting and babbling away. Their chattering voices halt as I enter. “Hi Izzy,” they yell in unison. I smile at each of them and walk over to give Grandma a kiss on the cheek.
“Get yourself an iced tea girl, and then come sit with us.”
After I get myself a drink and refill everyone else’s glasses, I sit down on the footstool at Grandma’s feet and start untangling some of her yarn. Grandma has arthritis in her hands, which means she doesn’t knit much anymore. She needs to concentrate and doesn’t gab like the other ladies. After a few minutes, she takes a break and puts down her needles with a sigh.
“Where’s Jack?” she asks. I shrug in response.
“You really should marry that boy before someone else does.” I snicker. We’ve had this conversation a million times before.
“Grandma,” I explain – again. “Jack’s gay.”
“So he’s happy. That’s a good thing for a husband.” I swear she’s deliberately obtuse.
“Not happy. Ho-mo-sex-u-al.” I speak slowly to make my point. I don’t know why I bother. This is probably the billionth time we’ve had this conversation. Grandma is perfectly aware that Jack’s gay, but she does love to tease – the old bat!
Grandma waves her hands in dismissal. “I’m sure it’s just a phase. Your pretty face could convince him otherwise.”
I snort, which causes grandma to give me a dirty look. Young ladies do not snort. Never mind that I’m not young or a lady. “I’ve tried that already. Trust me, it was a disaster.” I can feel my face burning. Being reminded of my ‘Jack humiliation’ two days in a row does nothing for my self-esteem.
The other ladies agree with Grandma. “Oh, but Jack’s sooo handsome.” That’s Betty. The ringleader of the old lady posse if there ever was one.
“I wouldn’t mind trying to convince him to give the ladies a try,” Rosemary chimes in.
“He can eat crackers in my bed anytime,” Martha sighs with a faraway look in her eyes.
And finally Rose gives her two cents, “Such a fine pair of buttocks on him.”
I laugh at the audacity of these ladies, the youngest of whom can’t be a day less than seventy. Only Ally remains quiet. Not because she wouldn’t take a stab at Jack should the opportunity present itself, but because she’s shy when in a group.
Somehow I manage to get the topic turned to something else and spend a lovely afternoon with my favorite old ladies. That they always have lots of goodies l
ike homemade apple pie and brownies at these gatherings has absolutely nothing to do with how enjoyable the afternoon is. Nothing at all. Yeah, that’s me snorting again.
Chapter 4
"That’s What Friends are For” by Dionne Warwick
My mobile phone starts to ring as I’m trying to get into my house with my hands full of plastic grocery bags. Not being the most organized of people at the best of times, there’s little chance I’ll locate my phone or keys before it stops ringing. Going into emergency mode, I drop the bags to conduct a search. Naturally, my groceries start to roll down the sidewalk. “Crap!”
Breathless, I finally find my phone and answer without looking at the caller ID. “What?”
Jack laughs. I growl in response. “You sound out of breath. Whatcha doing?”
I moan and kneel down to retrieve my grocery items. I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder and grab willy-nilly at the items. “Nothing, just got home from Grandma’s.”
“Oh goodie!” I think I hear him clap in the background. Shit! That can’t be good. “I’ll be right over.”
Jack never calls to tell me he’s on his way. He just shows up. Jack sets his own hours and schedule as part-owner of a boutique design store downtown. The shop caters to special needs men and women. Special needs as in cross-dressers and voluptuous women. It’s a one of its kind store in the region, maybe in all of Oklahoma, and people come from the surrounding counties to shop there. It’s not cheap either. The store has done so incredibly well that Jack and his business partner hired a manager to run the place on a day-to-day basis. Jack only needs to physically go in once in a while although he loves to be on-hand when new clothing shipments arrive.
By the time Jack arrives, I’ve managed to stuff the groceries back into the bags, find my keys, open the door, and get into the kitchen. I hear the door slam and in walks Jack with a can of kidney beans in his hands. “Missing this? Or are you starting a canned bean garden?”
The Gray-Haired Knitting Detective Series: (Books 1 - 3) Page 2