“What’s his name?” Tiffany asked.
“DLadd,” Sandra said, trying to look at the positives. “Not PuppetMaster, not FunkyChicken, nothing weird. Just DLadd, for Doug Ladd.”
“What does he do?” Loreen asked.
“Architect.”
“Sounds normal,” Tiffany offered. “Where are you going.”
“We’re meeting at Normandie Farm for Irish coffee.” Even if the date was a bust, she loved the restaurant and hadn’t been there for years.
“Oh, I’d forgotten about that place.” Tiffany sighed. “Mom and Daddy took us there when we graduated from high school.”
“I know. I was hoping our history with it would be lucky.” Sandra thought. “Though I’m not sure I need luck. We have so many interests in common.”
“Like what?” Loreen asked.
“Let’s see . . . a lingering attachment to the band the Pixies, a preference for cats over dogs.” What else was there? “He lives in McLean Gardens, like three miles from me. He’s not into puppets and he’s not into arcades. I asked.” She smiled. “And from the picture, he looks really cute.”
“I have a good feeling about this,” Loreen said. “Seriously. And every once in a while my feelings turn out to be premonitions. Every once in a long while, that is. But still.”
Sandra nodded. “I sort of do, too. I screwed up the courage to tell him the truth about my struggle with weight, and he wanted to meet me anyway. That’s good, right?”
“You should be able to expect that from a decent guy,” Tiffany said dourly.
“Yeah, but decent guys don’t always act all that decent at first.” Loreen turned her attention back to Sandra and nodded. “I think it’s a very good sign.”
“Especially since he might be imagining someone with a much more obvious weight problem than you have,” Abbey added. “I bet he’ll be bowled over by how cute you are.”
“From your lips to God’s ears,” Sandra said.
“Don’t count on that.” Abbey gave a laugh. “But let us know how it turns out.”
Sandra still held to her theory that it was better to be the first one there, and this time it worked out. She sat down in the lounge of Normandie Farm, pleased to see that the lighting was quite dim, and listened to the gentle strumming of the musician’s guitar in the other room.
Doug came in at eight on the dot, and the hostess showed him to the small table where Sandra was sitting.
“Sandra?”
She’d been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t realized he was coming. Startled, she looked up into one of the best-looking faces she’d ever seen in her life. He wasn’t just cute; he was gorgeous.
So, reason told her, he had to be the manager or something coming to tell her that her date had called to cancel.
“Y-yes?”
He smiled, and the face only got better. Tanned skin, light eyes, sandy hair. “I’m Doug Ladd.”
He was Doug Ladd.
And she was speechless. “Can I . . . sit down?” he asked, looking a little disconcerted by her silence.
“Oh! Of course! I’m sorry, I—” She what? There was no reasonable end to that sentence. “Please, have a seat.”
He sat down and motioned for the rapt hostess to wait a moment. “Do you want an Irish coffee?” he asked Sandra.
“Sure.” She nodded. “Yes.”
“Two,” he said to the hostess. “Could you tell our waitress?”
“Uh-huh.” The hostess nodded and peeled her gaze off Doug, looked questioningly at Sandra for a moment, then went on her way.
“Sorry, I just hate starting to talk and then being interrupted two minutes later to place an order,” Doug said when the hostess was gone.
“I do, too,” Sandra said, and she was impressed that he’d thought of that. It made life easier for everyone.
Three Irish coffees later, Doug still hadn’t made a false step, and Sandra, who had switched to decaf after the first one, found herself really relaxing into the groove of their conversation.
This was easy.
Too easy.
And something told her she knew the reason why. “So, Doug, I know you like the Pixies, but what else do you like to listen to?”
“All kinds of things. Just about everything, in fact. Everything from country to show tunes, I guess.”
“Show tunes?”
“Sure.”
“So, like, Judy Garland?”
“Okay.” He paused. “In her younger years.”
Hm. “What about Christina Aguilera? Are you a big Christina Aguilera fan?”
“She’s got a good voice,” he said, looking at Sandra curiously. “I guess. But she’s not my favorite.”
“What do you think of Rupert Everett?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Are you a—” He looked a bit lost. “—big music fan?”
“Sort of.” She nodded.
“Have you ever been to the open mike at the Outta the Way Cafe in Derwood? The guy gets some seriously good musicians in there.”
“Open mike? Is that like a drag show?”
He looked puzzled. “No. It’s just regular music. Good, free entertainment.” He set his drink down. “I’m sorry, I feel like you’re trying to get at something, but I don’t know what.”
“Me? No, I’m not trying to get at anything.” She tried to smile and brush it off, but this just wasn’t feeling right. “I’ve just never been to an open mike before. Wasn’t sure what it was.”
“So what do you like to do?”
“I used to go to the Nine Thirty Club when I was younger, but I haven’t been for ages. Lately, I don’t know. I haven’t really gone out and done much of anything interesting.” She took a sip of her drink and lobbed the ball back into his court. “So how long have you been dating on Match?”
He splayed his arms. “You’re my first.”
“Really?” She set her glass down. “I can’t believe that.”
He shrugged. “I was in a relationship for a long time, and when that ended, I really dug into my work and forgot to socialize.”
“Architecture.”
He nodded. “That’s right.”
“Have you done anything I might have seen?”
“Probably not. I mostly do home interiors now. Remodeling, additions, that sort of thing.”
“Like decorating?”
He smiled. “There’s a certain art to it, yes.”
Oh, boy. It was as she suspected. The pieces were falling into place now.
Sandra looked at the gorgeous, educated, successful man sitting before her and couldn’t think of two reasons he’d want anything to do with her.
She could think of only one.
He was looking for a “beard,” a woman to take out now and then to prove he wasn’t gay.
Which he totally was.
“I guess you really need to be in touch with your feminine side for that.”
He frowned. “I . . . suppose.” There was an awkward silence. “Sandra, why are you asking me all these questions all of a sudden?” he asked, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I’ve never in my life felt like my work or musical tastes were cause for an indictment.”
Sandra heaved a long sigh. “I think we both know what this is all about.”
“We do?”
“Of course.” She nodded, trying to be kind. “I’ve been here before. You’re gay and you don’t want anyone to know, so you want some girl to hang around now and then and make it to the events where you really need to appear straight.”
He drew back. “What?”
“It’s okay, Doug. I get it. The thing is, I just don’t want to be that girl, you know?”
“That’s funny, because I don’t want to be that guy.”
She nodded. “I understand, but I wish you’d just be yourself and say to hell with the rest of the world, but if you’re looking for a cover-up, it’s not me.” She reached into her purse and took out a twent
y, which she thought would more than cover her portion. “I’m sorry,” she said, setting it down on the table.
“Are you serious?” Doug asked, looking truly astonished, though she couldn’t say why.
“It’s been a long night,” she explained. “Actually, sort of a long month. I’m not going to do this, but I certainly wish you luck. You’re a great guy.”
Doug, who had stood up and made a move to barricade her exit, sat down and let her go. “Thanks, Sandra. Right back at ya. Have a good night.”
“Thanks,” she said, but she didn’t even mean that. Mostly she was so disappointed with the way things had turned out, she could cry. She’d gone into this with a bad feeling, and every minute she’d spent there made her feel even worse.
Every one of these stupid, useless, and occasionally insulting dates felt like it pushed her that much further away from the companion—and the family—she’d always assumed she’d have someday.
And the hell of it was, she still wanted it.
She wanted children. Christmas mornings, Easter egg hunts, Halloween costumes that smelled like rubber cement and fell apart halfway through Halloween night.
In other words, just a normal life. And that wasn’t a sketchy normal; it was normal by most people’s standards.
Just not most of the people she had found to date on Match.com.
It was too bad Doug wasn’t straight. And she wasn’t a model. Because between the two of those things, they could have had a lot of fun together.
Chapter
20
You accused him of being gay,” Tiffany repeated incredulously. “Oh, my God, Sandra, tell me you did not really do that.”
“I know, it seems so dumb now, in retrospect.” Sandra covered her face with her hands and groaned. “I’m such an idiot.”
Abbey looked at Tiffany, then Loreen, sensing that they were all fighting the urge to agree.
Tiffany was the only one who did, though. “No kidding. The poor guy.”
“Did he do anything to make you think that?” Abbey asked.
“Yes.” Sandra met her eyes. “He had the unmitigated gall to be good-looking and act interested in me.”
“Then the fool was just asking for it.” Loreen laughed and leaned over with an arm around Sandra. “Come on, honey. It was a mistake—that’s all. Coming from a deep, weird insecurity inside of you that he couldn’t possibly understand.”
“Maybe Mike Lemmington could explain it to him,” Tiffany suggested.
“Mike would end up making a pass at him.” Sandra sniffed, then straightened her back. “No, this was a lesson hard-learned, but an important one. I have to have more confidence. After I stop beating myself up over this colossally stupid mistake, that is.”
“You could call him,” Abbey suggested. “At least apologize.”
“I should,” Sandra agreed. “But I can’t. I just can’t. I can’t ever face him again, even over the phone. I’m just going to stop dating. That will be my sort of universal apology to the guy.”
“You can’t stop dating,” Loreen said.
“No, I can’t keep dating,” Sandra corrected. “That’s where the trouble comes from. I’m just a loser.”
“You’ve just had a run of bad luck,” Abbey said. “It happens to all of us, believe me. You don’t lose unless you quit.”
“That’s true,” Tiffany said, nodding enthusiastically. “Seriously.”
“I don’t need a pep talk,” Sandra said. “I need a nun’s habit.”
“Bullshit,” Loreen said. “You need a good date. Try one more time. I guarantee you things are going to go better if you just give it one more shot.”
Sandra looked at her skeptically. “Are you psychic?”
“Sure,” Loreen said. “If that’s what it takes to make you believe me, because I’m right.”
“I agree,” Abbey said.
“Me, too,” Tiffany added. “So now you have to try again.”
Sandra gave a laugh. “Because the committee has decided so?”
Tiffany nodded. “Yes.”
Abbey felt sorry for Sandra. She knew she was lucky never to have had this particular brand of insecurity with men, and she’d certainly never had such comically bad luck on dates, but—A movement outside the window caught her eye.
Someone was by her car. A man.
Damon.
“Fine,” Sandra said. “I’ll do it, but frankly it’s only to prove you guys wrong so you’ll leave me alone about this.”
“I can live with that,” Tiffany said.
Abbey’s heart raced as she kept her eyes fastened to the window and tried to decide what to do.
“Me, too,” Loreen said. “Abbey?”
“Um,” Abbey faltered. “Right. Me, too . . . I think I left my phone in my car—could you guys excuse me for a minute?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but just hurried out, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll be right back.”
She flew out into the hot midday sun, looking for Damon, ready to kill him with her bare hands if necessary. She’d had enough of this waiting and wondering, enough worrying; at this point, she’d take an assault charge over the artfully silent stalking he was doing.
“Damon!” she yelled viciously. “Where are you? I saw you. I know you’re here!”
Her words fell dully in the silent, sunny block.
“Damon!”
Nothing.
Then she noticed a mark on the side of the car: 10K.
Again.
She had to end this, once and for all.
Somehow.
She went back inside and was relieved to find everyone right where she’d left them. Apparently they hadn’t heard or witnessed her momentary lapse in judgment.
“Did you get it?” Tiffany asked.
“What?”
“The phone. Because I thought I heard your purse ringing while you were outside, but I’m not sure.”
“Oh. That would explain why I didn’t find it.” Abbey gave a false laugh and rummaged through her purse until she produced the phone. “There it is. Go figure.” She glanced at the caller ID. “Just the dentist’s office. So what did I miss?”
“Actually,” Loreen said with a smile, “I was just about to say that this month we made enough money to pay off nearly three quarters of the debt. Can you believe it?”
Sandra clapped her hands. “Wow, you girls have been busy. I’m so proud of you!”
“It’s thanks to you,” Abbey said. She wondered how long it would take her to earn enough money to pay Damon off if she kept working at it. “If you hadn’t come up with the idea and told us how to do it, I don’t know what we would have done.”
“I suspect I’d be in jail right now.” Loreen’s face grew serious. “I can’t thank you enough.” As she spoke, her eyes grew bright with tears. “Any of you.”
“It hasn’t really been as bad as I expected,” Tiffany said. “And this”—she gestured at all of them—“us getting together every week has been great.”
“What are we going to do when we’ve paid everything off?” Loreen asked. “We’ll need to find a new excuse to meet.”
“Hm.” Sandra looked thoughtful. “How do you all feel about shoes? . . .”
The money was rolling in. Loreen checked the number two and three times because she just couldn’t believe how profitable this business was. And it wasn’t just Loreen, Abbey, and Tiffany who were benefiting from the success of the Happy Housewives venture. They’d decided from the beginning that they were also going to take a percentage of their earnings and use it for PTA programs.
They were already making plans to pay for Nick Nicholas, a nationally renowned kids’ educator known as the Math Magician, to come and do a workshop for the Tuckerman kids.
Normally that kind of special program was the sole domain of the wealthier private schools, but the Tuckerman Elementary PTA was suddenly feeling pretty optimistic about its finances.
Not everyone shared that optimism, however. Deb Levente
r and her group of friends were beginning to question the motives and means of the current PTA heads. Deb was bitter that she’d lost the vote for president, so every time there was an opportunity for her to cast doubt on Tiffany’s competence, Deb was right there doing it.
“Where is the money coming from?”
“Wouldn’t it be more prudent to save it, in case of an emergency?” What PTA emergency Deb thought they needed to save for was a mystery. It was hard to imagine Deb envisioning something like, say, one of the officers using the school funds to pay for a male prostitute.
And there was no way on earth Deb had any inkling of what was going on, because if she did, she would have blown Loreen, and her reputation, sky high a long time ago.
“We’ve got a little more than a thousand to go,” Loreen told Tiffany over beer and pizza that evening, after balancing the books.
They were just at Bambinos Pizza, a few blocks from the school, where the kids had stayed late to rehearse for their fifth-grade graduation ceremony.
“A thousand?” Tiffany set her Heineken down and looked at Loreen with amazement. “That’s it?”
“Yup. Can you believe it?”
“I almost can’t,” Tiffany admitted. “It seems too easy.”
“I’m not sure I’d say it was easy,” Loreen said.
“No?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know that I’ve had one successful call yet. I know I haven’t had any repeat business.”
“But you are the one who did the piles and piles of paperwork to get us into business for ourselves.”
Loreen shrugged.
“Then you advertised and got those part-timers working for us, just like Sandra used to do for Touch of Class. Putting the sign up in the drama department at Montgomery College? Brilliant move. That’s worth even more!”
“I hope you mean that.”
“I do.”
Loreen raised her beer to her lips, but the taste was repellent, and she put it down right away.
Tiffany noticed. “What’s wrong?”
Loreen rolled her eyes. “Just my stupid hormonal problem. I’ve got all these mock pregnancy symptoms.”
“Ugh. Really?”
“Yeah.” Loreen picked up a thin slice of pizza. “It’s like my body chemistry is changing, and suddenly my premenstrual symptoms are like early pregnancy.”
Secrets of a Shoe Addict Page 21