The Not-So-Perfect Man

by Valerie Frankel

  Her cheeks flushed bright red instantly. “That’s a courageous statement,” she said. “From the waist down, I could be monstrous.”

  “Show me,” he said.

  Frieda took the challenge, acutely aware of only one thing: She didn’t want Sam Hill to leave. She was having the most fun she’d had in over a year. The only fun she’d had in over a year. She stepped out from behind the counter and stood in front of this Sam Hill person, and allowed him to inspect her.

  “Twirl, if you please,” he said, his finger making a circle in the air.

  She did. The sleeves of her shirt ruffled, her hair lifting off her shoulders. He watched her, taking as much pleasure in her performance as she did in giving it.

  Sam said, “Stand still, please.”

  Doing as she was told, he walked a circle around her, clucking along the way. Finally, he stopped in front of her and said, “You look good.” And then asked, “Shall I?” He made a circle with his finger again.

  “Once around,” she said.

  He turned slowly, giving her a good two seconds to check out his ass, which was, most definitely, not a day over twenty-eight years old. He made it all the way around, and they stood toe-to-toe.

  He asked, “Have you had coffee yet?”

  She said, “I have.”

  “Breakfast?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lunch?”

  “It’s ten in the morning.”

  “I can come back in a few hours.”

  Frieda wanted to say yes. “I have to do a food shop at lunchtime.”

  “Dinner?” he asked.

  A date offer. One she wanted to say yes to. But she wouldn’t feel right unless he knew what he was getting himself into. Then again, revealing her personal history might kill his interest instantly. It was a risk she’d have to take. If he couldn’t handle her circumstances—kissable lips or not—he wasn’t worth her time.

  She said, “I can’t have dinner on such short notice. I’m not sure if I can line up baby-sitting. I have a son. Justin. He’s five.”

  Sam paused. Considering. She watched him closely. He didn’t seem to shrink back in horror.

  “Divorced?” he asked.

  She took a deep breath. “Widowed.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said.

  Frieda realized suddenly that this was the first time she’d thought of Gregg since Sam Hill walked into the gallery. She looked hard at his face, at the dark hair and eyes, the skin.

  “Oh my God,” she said.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “You’re not Not Gregg.”

  “Pardon?” he asked.

  He was not Not Gregg. He was Sam. She stared into his face, and saw his features, and wasn’t thinking about Gregg. She felt a cracking in her mind, a field of ice breaking, calving, fresh air rising from the fissure. Frieda took a deep breath.

  “You have a very strange expression on your face,” said Sam.

  She was all pins and needles, the physical result of waking up from an emotional coma. “Strange how?” she asked.

  He said, “You look like you’ve been slapped across the face.”

  “You don’t say,” Frieda intoned.

  “I do say,” he responded.

  She examined him, this man who’d just walked into her life and changed her outlook in minutes. She’d been right about being taken by surprise.

  Frieda said, “I know we’ve just met, and that my circumstances are probably intimidating to you. This may seem like a preposterous suggestion, especially so early in the morning. You haven’t had your coffee yet. You may think of me as an ancient crone.”

  “Actually, you’re quite the fox,” he said. “And, to be completely honest, which doesn’t endear me to most women, I’m not afraid of you because you’ve had hard times. I’m afraid of people who haven’t.”

  Frieda was impressed. Not many young men—not many men—would like the fact that she had a son and a dead husband to contend with. Sam interrupted her thoughts, and said, “So what was your suggestion?”

  “Let’s kiss.”

  He stumbled back in mock horror. He laughed at his own theatrics. “You widowed mothers don’t waste time.”

  She shook her head. “We don’t. Wasting time falls under the category of ‘Have I Learned Nothing from Gregg’s Death?.’ ”

  “That must be a long list,” he said.

  She nodded. Sam stepped toward her, lowered his head and very sweetly pecked her on the mouth. Frieda licked her lips afterward, to grab the taste on her tongue. Sam watched her.

  She said, “More, please.”

  He put his hands on her shoulders, and leaned in for a real kiss. It knocked her socks, shoes, and pants off. Would have, anyway, had they more privacy.

  He broke away for a breath and said, “There is one thing you should know about me before we go on,” he said.

  Dreading the worst, she asked, “You have cancer?”

  “I am in perfect health,” he assured her. “And I have great medical insurance through Actors Equity.”

  “What then?” she asked.

  He said, “I’m from Maine.”

  Chapter 9

  Tuesday, October 15

  5:44 P.M.

  Peter should have worn a heavier jacket. New York went from summer to winter overnight. What happened to fall? When had the middle ground given way to extremes? He wrapped his suit jacket as tightly around his girth as he could, feeling the tug across his back, fearful he might tear the seams. He had to rush, having promised his sister-in-law, Betty, that he’d get from his office in midtown to the Union Square Burton & Notham by 6 P.M. to pick up his order of books, namely The Zone and Dr. Atkins’ New Diet Revolution. He would attempt a life without bread for a week, but first he would read all about it.

  He walked quickly out of his office building on Madison Avenue and 45th Street, past the Cosi sandwich shop, the Sugar ’n’ Spice pie shop, and the seven street vendors outside of Grand Central Station selling hot knishes, beef on skewers, pralines and hot dogs. The scents shot into his brain like bullets, hitting all his hunger receptors. With superhuman strength, he avoided the temptations and pushed through the revolving doors into Grand Central.

  Blessed warmth. The relief made him shudder. He hurried along a passageway, intending to take the escalator (past Michael Jordan’s Steakhouse and the Cucina takeout) to a subway platform. But first, a quick stop at the Hudson News. He loved New York newsstands, especially this one. It was massive, selling hundreds, maybe thousands, of journals, papers, and magazines. When he’d been promoted to editor of Bucks, he’d come to Hudson News every lunch hour to watch if people bought the magazine. If they flipped through it, he wanted to know which articles made them stop. Good research, he thought. More useful than the contrived focus groups where housewives were paid $50 to bash his hard work while he watched behind a two-way mirror.

  He did a quick scan by the financial journals. Miraculously, a fantastically attractive woman—the whole package: blonde, tight as a tiger in a leather skirt, black boots up to her knees—was reading his magazine. It was like the opening to a Penthouse “forum” letter. He could approach her, introduce himself as the editor of Bucks. She’d be impressed, worshipful—an aspiring young business writer looking for her break into publishing. She’d be eager to please, and who was Peter to discourage her?

  He leaned against the wall of sports and fitness titles, pretending to read Shape, and let his imagination take over. She was incredible, legs as long and curvy as a river. And she’d stopped flipping to read an article on municipal bonds that Peter himself had written. A hot woman, reading his words (not moving her lips), with the crease of concentration on her otherwise unlined forehead. He had to arrange his shoulder bag to hide a growing erection.

  Beautiful women, they had to know men stopped to stare. How could they not? With the sweep of his eyes, Peter realized he wasn’t the only man at the newsstand pretending to read a magazi
ne for the momentary pleasure of beholding this woman. In fact, three others, dressed just like Peter, were rearranging their shoulder bags in front of their trousers. As he made this deflating (literally) discovery, the blonde turned a page of the magazine, her eyes rising to find him in full gawk. Peter could have caught his heart in his hand when she winked at him.

  Logically, he knew the wink meant “Busted!” But, with eternal optimism, Peter let himself believe she wanted him. The thought was both emasculating (was he man enough to make a move?) and exciting. His erection doubled in size, lifting his bag off his hips.

  He really needed more sex.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Vermillion?”

  He turned toward the small voice that came over his right shoulder. She was petite, brunette, vaguely familiar, not altogether unattractive. He glanced back to see the blonde tiger put the magazine back in the rack and click off in her man-killer boots toward the elevators.

  He said looked down at brunette and asked, “Have we met?”

  “Forgive me for interrupting your reading,” she said. He realized with an embarrassed start that he’d been holding Shape upside down.

  “It’s quite all right,” he said, fumbling to close the magazine.

  She said, “I followed you from your office. We’ve met a few times. I’m Bruce McFarthing’s wife.”

  Wife of the man he’d fired. “Mrs. McFarthing,” he said. “Of course I remember you.”

  She smiled ruefully. She knew he’d forgotten her. “I’d like to speak to you about my husband.”

  Peter said, “I have to get downtown.”

  She said, “Bruce is threatening to sue you for discrimination.”

  “Have his lawyers call our lawyers.” Talk about climatic extremes: His mood went from red hot to ice cold in seconds.

  She said, “He said you were jealous of him. He feels he’s been discriminated against because he’s fit and handsome.”

  “I don’t have time for this,” said Peter. This woman followed him from his office to threaten a lawsuit and call him an insecure egomaniac? Discrimination on the grounds that Bruce was too attractive? Peter felt a tightness in his chest. He wondered if he were having a pre-heart attack, if such a thing existed.

  She put her hand on his elbow, stopping him from clutching his chest. “Bruce said the same thing about his last three bosses.”

  Bruce was insane. Peter had been right to fire him. God knows what kind of trouble the magazine would be in if he’d let Bruce stay on staff. Peter said, “If Bruce wants to pursue legal action…”

  “I’m not threatening you,” she said. “I just want to know the truth.”

  He said, “I fired him because of the quality of his work.”

  “You read his clips when you hired him,” she said.

  He didn’t want to get into the detailed explanation. Good clips could mean good writing—or good editing. You could never be sure. Peter said, “His clips were not extraordinary. He came across well. I thought he could fit in at the magazine. He had great references.”

  “So you hired him because he made a good first impression. So why did you fire him?”

  Grossly aware that any word out of his mouth could come back to him in court, Peter said, “I can’t say anything.”

  Mrs. McFarthing (he tried desperately to remember her first name) started to cry. At full volume. Her face reddening with each rattling wail, she teetered in her low heels and leaned against Peter’s bulk for balance. Arms limp and impotent at his sides, he allowed her to wipe her wet eyes and nose against his tie. The contact was excruciating.

  He said, “Please, Mrs. McFarthing.”

  “I’m beginning to wonder if the man I married is all style, no substance,” she said through her tears.

  “How long have you been married?” Peter couldn’t help asking.

  “Fifteen years.”

  That was a long time to begin to wonder. His style was, apparently, good enough for the first fifteen years. Peter thought instantly whether his own substance had a shelf life to Ilene. Was there a point when a woman—any woman—started to want what she didn’t think she had?

  Peter said, “Look, Mrs. McFarthing, I’d be happy to make some calls on his behalf.”

  “Don’t bother,” she said, lifting her face off his tie. She brushed the tears away with the back of her hand. When she looked up, shamed by her outburst, confused about what she’d do next, Peter saw a vulnerability that was, actually, quite terrifying.

  She said, “My name is Peggy.”

  He shook. “Peter.”

  “I know,” she said, sniffing. “Sorry about your tie.”

  “Bruce will find a job,” he lied.

  “I’m sure he will. For as long as that one lasts.” Peggy took a mirror out of her purse. She looked at her eyes. She snapped the compact closed, startling Peter.

  “I look terrible,” she said.

  “You’re fine,” he said.

  She was fine. A fine-looking woman, but not beautiful or sexy. Bruce had chosen Peggy over what must have been an endless supply of sexy women. Maybe Peggy was brilliant, or rich.

  Peter asked, “Are you also a writer?”

  Peggy said, “I’m a nutritionist.”

  “You help people diet?”

  “Yes,” she said, regaining composure.

  “My wife would like me to lose twenty pounds.”

  Peggy said, “I’d say forty.”

  Okay, he really had to go now. “Good luck with everything,” he said.

  “You, too, Mr. Vermillion,” she said. “You’re going to need it.”

  Chapter 10

  Thursday, October 17

  8:12 P.M.

  The three sisters sat together at Bouillabaisse, a tiny bistro near Ilene’s apartment in Chelsea, for their monthly dinner/ agenda meeting. The restaurant’s menu changed nightly and was written in script on a chalkboard that the waiter had to lug from table to table. No liquor license. Diners could bring their own wine. Ilene had selected both the vintage (’01 Shiraz) and the place. Betty noticed that whenever it was Ilene’s turn to choose, she always picked a place in her own neighborhood.

  They all met at Ilene and Peter’s expansive Chelsea apartment first. Betty came up from the East Village with Peter’s package of books. He’d apologized again about blowing her off last week, and asked if he could take her to lunch to make it up to her. Betty had never had a solo meal with Peter. She hesitated, wondering what the two would say to each other for an hour. But Peter had insisted. Betty was stuck. She thought he was decent enough, but they’d never had much of a bond.

  Frieda and Justin arrived next from Brooklyn. Peter and Justin settled in to watch the World Series. Betty had to admit, Peter was brilliant with Justin. He’d offered to step up after Gregg died, and he had, taking Justin to Knicks games, accompanying Frieda to parent-teacher conferences. Ilene must like seeing him with Justin, too. She kissed her husband on the forehead, and the sisters took off for Bouillabaisse.

  Everyone was in a good mood tonight, thought Betty. She smiled across the table at Frieda in a blossom pink sweater. Ilene was in her usual black, but her dress was flirty linen. Betty considered her own baggy T-shirt and jeans. Not flirty. But comfortable, as was her aim.

  Ilene took the lead. “Shall I read the minutes from our last meeting?” she said.

  Betty groaned. “For once, can we just sit down to dinner without the framework of a social-club agenda?”

  “I have an announcement to make,” said Frieda.

  Ilene and Betty turned toward her. Frieda was smiling so hard, Betty feared her jaw might unhinge.

  “I’ve met a man,” said Frieda. “He’s from Maine!”

  “Maine?” said Ilene. “How masculine. He must know how to build a fire and trudge through ice in snowshoes.”

  “He came into the store,” said Frieda. She told them the story of meeting Sam Hill, reciting the Times review from memory, giving some biographical details.

 
“He’s Catholic?” asked Ilene.

  “Oldest of six,” said Frieda. “Non-practicing. Disdainfully so.”

  “Thank God for that,” said the oldest of three.

  “I like it,” said Frieda. “It’s different.”

  “Well, we can’t all be New York Jews,” said Ilene.

  “Of the disdainfully nonpracticing variety,” Betty said. “Can we get back to the kissing part?”

  Frieda blushed. “It started with a peck. And then moved to a full-blown, slobbering kiss. He grabbed me, squeezed the pulp out of me, and then mauled my mouth. He totally took me over, which was such a shock because his first kiss was just that little peck. I thought he might be shy or passive. Boy, was I wrong. We went at it like that for fifteen, twenty minutes. And then someone came in and we had to stop.”

  The way she punched each word—went at it—made Betty jealous beyond measure. She doubted that, in her fumbling sexual encounters, she’d ever gone at it with ferocity.

  Betty said, “He walks in to get something framed, and inside of ten minutes, you’re making out? Why does this never happen to me?” Betty felt Ilene watching her dip a piece of baguette into a dish of garlic-infused olive oil and pop it into her mouth.

  Frieda said, “I am floating on a cloud. I see rainbows in street puddles. I have been sprinkled with magic dust. He is absolutely adorable! I keep thinking of what Mom told me the night before I married Gregg. She said, ‘At the end of the day, only one thing matters in a marriage: When you sit down to dinner and look across the table at your husband, you think he’s cute.’ ”

  Ilene laughed. “She told me the same thing.”

  “I always thought Gregg was cute,” said Frieda.

  In unison, Betty and Ilene said, “Very cute.”

  Frieda nodded. “Sam Hill is of a different order. He has a face people pay to watch. A quick look and he seems almost ordinary. And then, if you look again, he’s stunning.”

  “Did he go from ordinary to stunning before or after the mouth mauling?” asked Betty.

  “I’m thrilled for you, Frieda,” said Ilene. “You need to have fun. And the timing couldn’t be better. Sam Hill is the ideal transitional man. Totally inappropriate marriage material. He’s like a trial run. And when you’re ready to get serious, I have the perfect man to fix you up with. He’s a guy from work, recently separated but not ready to date yet. In six months—you’ll have had your fill of Sam Hill by then—my guy will be raring to go. I could not have planned this better myself.”