When she opened the door and looked into his eyes, she told herself she really did feel normal. And then when he walked in, took off his jacket, and held out a six-pack of Rolling Rock, she knew it was true.
“Went all out, did you?” She took the budget beer from him and hugged it to her chest. “Listen, Sly—”
“You don’t have to say anything. I got the message.”
“It’s not that you’re completely disgusting or anything—”
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She gathered her thoughts. “The thing is, you’re… we’re…”
“Please, let’s not drag this out. I’ve been trying to understand what happened, and the best I’ve come up with is that I’ve been a little confused lately about my life, about the future, who I am, and you were there, it was dark, and you smelled good—”
“I smelled good?” Here she’d been blaming it on the dress. But she’d guessed the life crisis part correctly.
“Not that you usually smell bad,” he added.
“Neither do you, sweetie.”
He looked startled, then laughed softly. “I’m doing this all wrong.”
“You’re doing fine.” She went into her galley kitchen, opened two bottles, grabbed the bag of popcorn she’d microwaved, and joined him on the sofa—where, she noticed, he’d sat at the far end. A pony could’ve sat between them.
“You know how goal oriented I am. I couldn’t let go of it once I’d gotten the idea into my head,” he said.
“Is that where it was?”
Eyes widening, he flushed. Then laughed again. “Go ahead. Mock.”
“Unless you hid something from me, it’s been over six months since you had a date,” she said.
“Eleven.”
“No wonder,” she said.
“I really am sorry.” He held her gaze. “Your friendship means more to me than I can say. I promise to keep my hands to myself from now on.”
“And your mouth,” she said.
“Oh, all right. That too.”
She had to laugh. It was going to be all right. “I’m glad you came,” she said, handing him a beer.
Relief showed all over his face. “Me too.”
They reached over the wide middle cushion to click their bottles together, then started the show.
10
The following Saturday, Cleo found herself looking up at Trixie Johnson’s house again. This time, however, she was ringing the bell next door. Trixie’s son Liam lived there with his wife, Bev, who wanted to learn how to play the new piano they had sitting in their living room. Trixie, apparently, had bought it for her first and only grandchild. Since the baby had only recently learned how to walk, Cleo wouldn’t be teaching her just yet.
She assumed Trixie had given her number to Bev, and here she was. She hoped the lessons were serious and not just another excuse to interfere in Sly’s life. Their relationship was edging back to normal, and she didn’t want to rock the boat.
The door swung open to a dark-haired, statuesque woman in yoga pants and a Fite Fitness sweatshirt. Her bright blue eyes crinkled at the sight of Cleo as she drew her inside. “Welcome, I’m Bev. We’ve got the house to ourselves for an hour. It’s so nice for you to make house calls.”
“I have such a small apartment, it’s nice to get out of it,” Cleo said, looking around. “Wow, what a gorgeous view.”
Huge windows overlooking the bay spread across the living room. A baby grand piano, littered beneath with stuffed animals and plastic blocks, sat between a sofa and a red-and-yellow nylon play tent.
“I tried to clear some space around it,” Bev said. “I’m ashamed to admit it was covered with Merry’s unfolded laundry a few minutes before you got here. You wouldn’t believe how many garments a baby wears in a single day.”
Smiling politely, Cleo studied the piano. “It looks brand-new. Has it been tuned?”
“Yes, Trixie sent somebody over a month ago when she had her own done.” Bev rubbed her hands together. “So, what do we do first? Can I get you something to drink?”
“I’m fine.” She knew how nervous people got, especially adults, about their first lesson. Small-scale performance anxiety. “Just have a seat and play whatever you remember how to play from when you were a kid. And don’t worry about being good or bad or anything. You’re doing this for fun, for yourself.”
Bev gave her a grateful glance and sat on the bench. “I’m so nervous.”
“Don’t be. There’s nobody here but—”
The front door banged open. “Hi, Bev. Hi, Cleo. Hope I’m not interrupting.” Trixie walked into the living room with a garden tub filled with monster-sized squash in her arms. “I can’t let anyone escape without taking some of my zucchini. The neighbors won’t take any more. That crabby woman down the street sicced her nutty schnauzer on me.”
Bev groaned. “I don’t think we can eat any more squash, Trixie. Merry cries at the sight of it.”
“I know how she feels.” Trixie set the tub down and pointed at Cleo. “But I brought it for our lovely pianist. What she doesn’t want herself, she can give to her other students. Or Sly.” She said this last part as if the idea had just occurred to her.
“I love fresh vegetables,” Cleo said. “I don’t have any land to grow my own, so sure.”
“Hope you really, really like zucchini,” Bev said quietly.
Trixie stood there beaming for a moment, watching Bev at the piano and Cleo standing behind her. “Well, that’s settled then. Are you supposed to be playing, Bev?”
“To be honest, I’d rather not play in front of you.” In spite of her words, Bev’s tone was warm. “You’re so good, and I haven’t played in decades.”
“Of course, of course. I’m intruding. But I was wondering…” Trixie flushed. “Cleo, would you have a moment when you’re through to come by my house? Just next door?”
With Bev there, Cleo didn’t want to get too personal and ask why. “Sure, I’ll have a few minutes.”
When Trixie was gone, Bev began to play, with effort, “Deck the Halls,” cursing at herself as she stumbled over the keys.
Finally, she gave up and looked at Cleo. “I wanted to impress everyone on Christmas Eve. Looks like that’s not going to happen.”
Cleo assured her she was doing fantastic for a woman who hadn’t played since the twentieth century, took out a book of Christmas carols, spread it open at an easier arrangement of the song, and began the instruction in earnest.
An hour later, after setting up the next lesson, then putting the tub of giant vegetables in her car and a few of Bev’s homemade oatmeal-raisin cookies in her belly, Cleo went over to the house next door.
Trixie led her into the house, her three little dogs circling her feet. “This is very embarrassing.”
“Look, I’d rather not talk about Sly if that’s—”
“No, no, not exactly.” Trixie picked up one of the dogs for a cuddle, avoiding Cleo’s gaze. Her cheeks were pink. “You know what? Never mind. You go on. Thank you. Did you remember the vegetables? I can’t ask any more than you taking those off my hands.”
Seeing her obvious distress, Cleo was both sympathetic and curious. She hadn’t seemed uncomfortable when she’d been trying to set up Sly, so maybe it was something else. “Come on, you can’t leave me hanging like that. What is it?”
Trixie closed her eyes. The dog began french kissing her ear. “It’s my vet,” she whispered.
“Sly’s uncle?”
She nodded, turning a brighter shade of red. “I shouldn’t call him my vet, as if I were a parakeet.”
“I knew what you meant.”
“I’ve known him for years. We’re friends. Kind of like you and Sly.”
Cleo let that one go without comment.
“But now…” Trixie set the dog on the floor and finger combed her short white hair. “Well, you get the idea.”
Not exactly, but Cleo didn’t know what to say. “What can I do?”
“It’s this trip to Las Vegas.”
“What trip?”
“The one Sly gave to Hugo. He won it in an auction. I thought you’d been there?”
“Sly bought the Las Vegas trip?” Cleo thought back to the silent auction in Carmel. She’d been too preoccupied with other things to notice if Sly had purchased anything.
In a tiny voice, Trixie said, “Hugo has invited me to join him.”
“That sounds nice.” Cleo said, trying not to smile too broadly, which might seem like she was being patronizing. “Isn’t it?”
Trixie studied her hands. “I’ve been on my own for a long time. I’m not sure I want to change that.”
“It’s just a weekend. You’re not agreeing to marry the guy.”
“It’s Las Vegas. Years ago, that’s exactly what it meant.”
Cleo squatted down to pet the ugly dog with the floppy tongue. “Not anymore. But if you want to take it slow, maybe you could get separate rooms.” Then she bit her lip, afraid she might’ve offended Trixie by suggesting she wouldn’t get separate rooms.
Trixie sighed. “Since my husband died, I’ve only dated a few times. I made it to third base once, but that was it. Do people still say that? You probably don’t even know what it means. It’s when, well, you—”
Cleo stood quickly. “No need to explain.”
Trixie smiled. “You’re as prudish as my children. They never want to talk about sex.”
“You are their mom.”
“But I’m not yours.”
Cleo slipped her hands into the front pockets of her jeans. “OK, I admit it. I’m a little uptight.” She would never have admitted that to anyone her own age. It was very uncool.
“That’s all right. I’m sorry to drag you into this. And here I gave you all those vegetables that look like penises.” Trixie smiled.
“I think I can handle a few phallic squash.”
“Handle them all you like,” Trixie said, breaking out into giggles.
“I think I will. Right before I chop them up into tiny pieces and sauté them. Or bake them into muffins.” Cleo peeked at her phone. “I should be going. I’ve got a lesson at my place soon.”
“Of course, of course. But I haven’t—oh, I haven’t asked my favor yet.”
Cleo’s grip on her phone tightened. Somehow she knew what was coming. “Oh?”
“I was hoping you and Sly would join us.”
“I don’t know, Trixie. I work on weekends—”
Trixie clutched her arm. “Please. I know we barely know each other, and I’m much older than you, but I feel a bond. Maybe it’s the music. Maybe I’m as crazy as my children think I am. But as soon as I saw you I felt it. Will you come? Will you at least consider it? It would make it so much easier for me.”
Cleo was touched. “I’d love to help, but Sly would have to—”
“He’s going to invite you,” Trixie said, patting her arm and releasing her. “I’m begging you to say yes. I wanted you to know it wasn’t his idea so you can accept. It’s just to help out two lonely old farts.”
“It depends on—”
“Whenever works for you,” Trixie said. “We’ll work around your schedule.”
Cleo was still trying to understand what she meant by it wasn’t his idea so you can accept. “But I don’t—”
“Don’t tell me now. Just think about it.” And then, with a quick hug, Trixie shoved her out the door.
♢ ♡ ♤
“Please,” Hugo said. “Trixie won’t go unless you and your friend come with us. The prize you gave us is good for four.”
Sly stroked Mouse’s head, distracted for a moment by how huge it was. “I think Mouse is part mastodon,” he said. The Berkeley café where they sat had an outdoor area that allowed dogs, at least informally. Mouse had rested his chin on Sly’s knee, which required the large dog to slump. It also increased the amount of drool seeping out of his jowls onto Sly’s jeans. The wet spot had spread halfway down to his ankle.
“You’d only have to go to dinner with us, maybe a show,” Hugo continued. “The rest of the time would be your own. Hit the casinos, whatever.”
“I’d like to Hugo, but I don’t think she’ll do it.”
“At least ask her.”
Sly wiped his hand on a dry patch of denim before lifting his coffee to his lips. Maybe he should confide in Hugo about the recent complications in his relationship with Cleo. It had been two weeks since Carmel. She’d been as warm and funny as ever, but he thought they were fooling themselves. They couldn’t go back to the way they were. He knew he couldn’t. Maybe women were different, or Cleo was, but now that he’d kissed her once, he frequently thought about kissing her again. He thought about doing all kinds of things with her he hadn’t before, not seriously.
Before, if he’d noticed her body and felt a little curious about sleeping with her, he’d dismissed it as mundane heterosexual male lust, nothing deeper than that. Now, however, he’d felt her respond to him. He’d tasted her interest.
And that enticing knowledge was keeping him up at night.
“I’ll ask her, but no promises,” Sly said. “The last time we spent a weekend together, I got a little too friendly.” He held his uncle’s gaze over his mug.
“You what?”
“You heard me,” Sly said. Mouse’s nose prodded his upper thigh, probably looking for scone crumbs again as he dragged drool strings across his lap.
“When was this?”
“When I bought the Las Vegas trip for you. The charity auction in Carmel.”
“But that’s perfect,” Hugo said. “It’ll be a real double date then. Me and Trixie, you and—”
“We’re just friends.”
“I don’t understand. You changed your mind?”
Sly scratched Mouse’s skull, nudging him away from his balls, a location he’d rather keep drool-free. At least from a dog. “She’s not interested.”
“Of course she’s interested,” Hugo said. “She must be.”
“Thanks, but there really are women on this earth who don’t find me irresistible.”
Hugo narrowed his eyes. “Were you drunk? Maybe she didn’t think you were serious.”
“That wasn’t the problem.”
“I never did understand why you spent so much time with a woman you weren’t sleeping with.”
“It’s called friendship. We enjoy each other’s company. You don’t have to want to have sex with somebody to enjoy her company.”
“But you do want to have sex with her,” Hugo said.
Sly looked past Hugo to the sidewalk where a panhandler was talking on his cell phone. “Yes,” he said softly. “It seems I do.”
Hugo tapped his foot against Sly’s shin. “Weekend after next. Friday flight out of SFO. I’ll set it up and email you the itinerary.” He stood and snapped his fingers for Mouse, who, after shooting a longing glance at Sly, turned to follow.
“I can’t promise anything,” Sly said.
“I’ve known you your whole life. You always get what you want.” Shaking his head, he patted Mouse’s rump. “Eventually.”
11
The Friday after next, Cleo sat on a plane to Las Vegas.
“It’s all a setup to get us together,” Sly had told her the week before. “Trixie’s not really interested in Hugo. She made that up to get you to say yes.”
“Thanks for warning me,” she’d replied. “Now I don’t have to feel guilty about saying no.”
“Sure you do. Think of poor Uncle Hugo.”
“But if she’s not interested—” Cleo had begun.
“Hugo thinks she could be if he gets her away from home. Here she’s got her family and the dogs. In Las Vegas, he thinks he just might have a chance.”
“Maybe,” she’d said. “But why should I be the sacrificial lamb? Can’t you find a date?”
“She thinks you’ve got the hots for me.” Before she could hit him, he’d added quickly, “But since we both know it’s not t
rue, that won’t be a problem.”
No problem. Right.
She’d finally agreed to go, officially for Hugo’s sake, and here she was. Privately, she’d had her own reasons for coming. Although they’d smoothed the waters since Carmel and things seemed to be back to normal, she regretted the way she’d run away from him after that kiss. Instead of explaining to him with a lighthearted laugh that she wasn’t interested, she’d fled like a coward who had something to hide.
She was grateful for the chance to show him she didn’t.
They walked off the plane at the Las Vegas airport into a circular gate area bursting with slot machines and flashing neon lights. Around them, high windows displayed a vista of arid mountains and flat desert. Cleo stopped to gape.
Sly caught up to her and touched her shoulder. “You OK?”
“It’s already like a casino. Right here in the airport.”
“Haven’t you been to Las Vegas before?”
She shook her head. “Never got around to it.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” he asked.
She hadn’t wanted to make a bigger deal out of this trip than it already was. “Didn’t I?”
His eyebrows rose. “No, you didn’t.”
“I felt like I already had,” she said. “From movies and TV.”
“If you find me parked in front of the slots for too long,” Trixie called out behind them, “do an intervention, will you?”
The four of them paused near one of the empty machines while Trixie bent over to tie her hot-pink minimalist running shoes. A sign warned them that the seats around the slots could not be used by tired travelers, only for gamblers.
“If you want to play the slots, play the slots,” Hugo said. “Enjoy yourself.”
“But it wouldn’t be any fun for you,” Trixie said.
“Being with you is all the fun I need.” With that declaration, Hugo pulled a pink rose out of his jacket and presented it to her.
Sly and Cleo shared a look. “Sweet,” she whispered, but he just rolled his eyes.
Cleo stifled a laugh. Romantic, Sly wasn’t. Not that way.
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