Then she realized what she was doing. She was kissing her mother’s rejected boyfriend, and she was liking it! Sig pulled her mouth away, then pushed Paul back. Hard.
“What are you doing?” Sig asked.
“Seems obvious.” Paul shrugged. He reached for her hand. “And I’d like to do it again. I think I could improve on the original.”
“But …”
He took out a handkerchief and began carefully, tenderly, to wipe Sig’s streaming eyes. “You’re very beautiful, Sig,” Paul said. “And you’re very smart. But you’re also a very dopey girl.”
“I’m not a girl …”
“To me you are. Remember, I’m older. A lot older.” Paul smiled, but there was a wistfulness around his eyes. “I hope I’m not too old. That’s for you to judge.” He finished wiping her eyes and cheeks and shook his head. “This wasn’t in my plans. Not at all. Anyway, you’re a very dopey girl, and a woman to me.” He paused. “Lucky for you I like dopey girls. And real women.” He reached for her shoulder, but, despite the flush of heat his touch sent down her neck and back, Sig pulled away.
“My mother,” she croaked. “You’re dating my mother.”
“See what I mean?” Paul said, and smiled again. “Your mother was never interested in me. She told me all about this Monty guy and how much she liked him. I, on the other hand, was always interested in you.”
“What?” Sig simultaneously heard the declaration and the past tense. One filled her with a strange yearning, the other with pain. “Were?” she repeated. “You were interested?”
Paul reached out to her again and pulled her gently to his chest. This time she let him. “See how dopey you are?” he asked in an indulgent voice. “Remember those flowers I sent to the Pierre? They were for you. When you ignored them, I just figured you thought I was too old.”
“You were interested in me?” she asked again, hardly daring to believe. “I mean, you are?”
“Yes, I was interested in you. And I am interested in you. And I always will be interested in you. Anyone could see that but you. So now the basic question that remains is: could you possibly be interested in a geezer like me?”
Sig colored yet again. Did Paul know about Operation Geezer Quest? He looked down at her. His eyes were very serious as well as very blue, his hair more white than pepper and salt. The soft suede of his jacket—very soft—felt so good under Sig’s cheek. She rubbed against his shoulder until he lifted her face to his again. Then he kissed her, this time in a long, lingering way.
Totally shocked, she not only found that she liked it, but kissed him back. Deeply. At last, to her regret, Paul took his mouth off hers. “Sigourney, I’ve been corning around because of you. Since we met. I was at the Pierre that night with Wendy, but I was hoping to meet you. It’s not that I didn’t sincerely like your mother,” he said. “I do. She’s so much like you. Sharp, no bullshit, a real challenge. But I can’t help it, Sig.”
“Help what?” She felt as if she were melting, as if she was in some dream.
“I can’t help wanting to love you. The first time I saw you, Sig, across that charity dinner table, I thought how absolutely open your face was. How smart, how mischievous, and how bold. Your face said, ‘Hey, you’d be a real mensch if you could take me on.’ I don’t see that much. Not the fun, or your feisty joy.” His face got very serious. “I’ve taken a lot of losses, Sig. Life doesn’t play fair or last long. I’m in it for the joy, Sig. Not everyone is capable of it. Your mom is, and you are, too.”
“Feisty joy?” Sig asked, but her own face had softened. She felt transformed by Paul’s praise. Something had happened, something more than the kiss.
“I’m crazy about your mom, Sig. I’ll help you find her, I promise. But it’s you I love. No matter what length your skirts are.” Sig found she couldn’t breathe. “I’m an old-fashioned guy, Sig. Old, and old-fashioned. But all my parts still work. I don’t have much time, so I’m impatient. And I don’t sleep around. So you don’t have to decide now, but do you think that you might marry me, Sigourney?”
Sig did feel flooded with joy. “I don’t know,” Sig said. “I mean …” She paused. “I think so. Uh … yes. I think so.” She paused again. “But first you have to do something for me.”
“Anything. Slay a dragon? Kill Monty Dunleathe? Engineer a hostile takeover?”
“No. Nothing like that. First I want you to kiss me again a few times.”
Paul smiled his devastating smile. “It would be my pleasure,” he said. “And yours too, if I do it right.” He paused. “What else?”
Sig stopped smiling. “Help me find my mother. That’s what I want for Christmas.”
Phyllis stretched and opened her eyes. One of the disadvantages of old age was that she had become a very light sleeper. But now she had found an advantage even to that: she and Monty had spent the night dozing and each time one of them shifted or woke, the other would also rise and they would hug and change positions before falling back to sleep.
Phyllis smiled. It had been a wonderful night. She was no spring chicken, but she was proud of herself.
Monty wasn’t much to look at, and his belly sagged almost as much as her breasts did, but he was a true romantic. Once they had met at the airport he had taken her hand and he hadn’t let go. The whole flight to the Caymans and the taxi ride to the hotel he had kept hold of her. “I’m not going to take a chance on losing you again,” he said. “They didn’t make two of you.”
Phyllis couldn’t argue with that.
The Cayman Islands, though tropical and in the Gulf Stream, were certainly not Florida. Nothing like it. This was a place she could like, Phyllis thought. The beaches were perfect white windswept sand and dozens and dozens of waving, clacking palm trees. There wasn’t a Broadwalk in sight, and while there were plenty of older people, there were young people too and they all seemed to be active and more alive than the parade that had dragged themselves along the Florida Broadwalk every morning. There were young and old playing tennis on the lit courts, riding bicycles, and playing on the many golf courses. The kids would like this place.
When they pulled up to the hotel—a gorgeous white building decorated only with flowering plants at each balcony—Phyllis was impressed. It didn’t look like Dania, Florida. And there were no French Canadians.
“You like it?” Monty asked.
“It’s very nice,” Phyllis said. “Do we have a room or a suite?” she teased. Now that she had stayed at the Pierre suite, she knew the difference between the two. And though Monty had explained a great deal about his financial position to her on the flight—about how his competitors had used illegal means to force him out of business and discredit him, how he wasn’t as rich as he’d once been nor as poor as she’d thought—Phyllis didn’t care. She wanted to see not how much he had, but how much he spent.
“You can have whatever kind of room you want,” Monty told her. “I own the hotel.”
Phyllis laughed. Then she realized that, for once, he wasn’t joking. “I used to think that life could use a little embellishment,” she said. “Somehow I think I’m changing my mind.”
That wasn’t the only surprise: there was a Hanukkah menorah and a Christmas tree, both decorated with bougainvillea, and then more surprises within the hotel: his real engagement ring, this one a huge sapphire, and a necklace to match. Then they were served a candlelit dinner on the balcony, overlooking the pool and the ocean, and then bed.
It amazed Phyllis, in a way, that she felt so much passion. She smiled again this morning, pulling the sheet up over her shoulder. It had been so long that she had forgotten. It was not like riding a bicycle. And, to be honest, Ira had never been, well, an artist. He’d been a meat-and-potatoes kind of man when it came to bed. But Monty! Monty was caviar and peaches. She was proud of herself. You could teach an old dog some new tricks, because Monty had already taught her a couple.
And then there was the cuddling. Ira used to fall right to sleep, but Monty … he
seemed to actually enjoy hugging. She turned her head on the pillow to look at him. Well, he was nothing special to look at. Ira had been a good-looking man. Monty was not, and it didn’t help that he was sleeping with his mouth slightly open. And could he snore! But then, he said she did too.
Monty slept on, but Phyllis wanted his company. She elbowed him in his breadbasket. After all, how much time did they have? The knowledge that this relationship could not last for forty years gave Phyllis a bittersweet feeling. Every moment must be lived, used, remembered. “Monty,” she whispered. “Wake up.”
He didn’t open his eyes, but he smiled. “So it wasn’t a dream,” he said. “You’re here, my love.” And, eyes closed, he reached out and pulled Phyllis to him.
Sig stretched and opened her eyes. For a moment, she became frightened. What if it wasn’t true? What if she turned her head and Paul wasn’t there? Sigourney had been through a lot—some bad relationships, a difficult fight to the top at her brokerage firm, her brother’s near-bankruptcy, her father’s death, her sister’s … everything—and she had survived it all. But, after last night, after the tenderness and heat of last night, she didn’t think she could bear it if Paul wasn’t there beside her. It would truly break her heart if she’d dreamed it or if he really wasn’t going to stay with her. Because, despite his age, despite both of their imperfections, it had never been like that, it had never been like last night.
There was an advantage to older men, Sig found. They took their time, they knew their moves, and they seemed to know what worked for women. At least Paul did. He was sure of himself and he wasn’t afraid to show what he felt. That was more erotic than the flattest abs could ever be. Phillip had been so clinical. Sig knew that, but hadn’t known men could be so emotional. Paul had actually had tears in his eyes and she liked it. While he had been holding her, loving her, he had looked at her with such a melting passion that when she thought of Phillip Norman and their athletic but empty nights she was embarrassed and almost ashamed. This was the way it was supposed to be: she’d realized that and would not forget.
Now that she’d experienced it, Sig knew she’d never settle for less. No more Phillip Normans. She wanted Paul Cushing, she wanted him for the rest of her life, and she’d do anything to ensure that. But when she opened her eyes and turned over she found that Paul was gone. The bed was empty.
“I didn’t know how you take your coffee, but I hope it’s black. You don’t have any milk,” Paul said from the doorway.
She spun around, tangling her legs in the blankets. He was wearing her chenille robe, which looked adorably peculiar on him, but Sig was so happy to see him that she wasn’t going to waste feelings on details. Paul was carrying a tray with two cups of coffee, two glasses of juice, and a plate covered with a napkin. He walked to her side of the bed, put the tray on her lap and then walked around to the other side. “Do you like my peignoir?” he asked, and slipped out of it. Despite the age spots on his hands, his grizzled chest hair, and the rest of the signs of living, he was long and lean and beautiful to Sig. “Mrs. Katz seemed impressed by it. I bumped into her in the kitchen. She didn’t have her glasses on and she thought I was you until I spoke.”
Sig laughed, jostling the coffee. “Hey,” Paul said. “Be careful with that! I don’t cook breakfast that often.” His face got serious for a moment. Sig could always tell because the parentheses deepened on either side of his mouth. “Not cooking is one of my shortcomings. Although for you I could try.” He kissed her, then paused. “I’ve been thinking of other things, though. I already called my office. They traced your mother to the airport. She met Monty there. She didn’t take a flight to a U.S. destination. We think she left the country with Monty, but it’s going to take me a little while beyond there. Sometimes the FAA can be difficult.” He took her hand.
Sig nodded.
“We’ll find her, Sig.”
She had no doubt Paul would. He’d deal with all that later. But right now, all she wanted to do was kiss him over and over for the rest of her life. He was right: she was dopey. Instead of kisses, she handed him his cup of coffee. “Sorry about the milk,” she said. “Is that the way you drink it?”
Paul shook his head. “I like it with cream, Sig. Cream and no sugar,” he smiled. “Why does that remind me of you?” He reached out and rubbed the back of her neck. She wanted to purr. “Probably because everything does.” He put down the coffee mug on her bedside table. “Move that tray over,” he told her. “I have something I want to share with you.”
Sig giggled and put the tray on the floor.
“Will you marry me today?” Paul asked as he wrapped his arms and legs around her. “I’m an old-fashioned guy, Sig. None of these tawdry affairs. I want to marry you. I want you to be my wife. I want you to have my ring on your finger and my name at the end of your name. I’m sure it’s politically incorrect, but it’s a strong urge, Sig. One of two strong urges I’m having right now.” He pulled her to him more closely and Sig found it difficult to catch her breath.
“I want to keep my own name,” Sig said. She paused. “And I want something else.”
“Okay,” Paul breathed in her ear. “Anything you want. But I want you.”
Sig felt her toes curl. She also never knew there was such a direct connection between the inside of her ear and her other canal. Her breath became even more difficult to catch until she heard herself begin to pant. “Oh, Paul,” she moaned. She felt his tongue just touch her ear and at almost the same time his teeth gently bit her earlobe. The dress—the wedding dress at Bergdorf’s had popped into her mind. She pulled away. She had to tell him. “I saw a special gown. It’s silly, but I want to be a bride for you.”
“It isn’t silly,” he told her. “It’s sweet. It’s the way it should be. Of course you’ll have a gown. And a veil, if you want it,” Paul said. “Marry me,” he whispered, “or I’ll never lick your ear again. Will you?”
“Yes,” Sig said. “Yes, yes, yes.”
“We’re in the Caymans. The Islands. We were married two days ago,” Phyllis was shouting into the phone, as if she had to physically bridge the gap between the Caribbean and New York. “Monty is really very wealthy, but he didn’t want to be loved for his money. When he lost everything, back in 1984, he learned who his real friends were. And who they weren’t—which was almost everyone. Then he made another fortune, starting from scratch,” Phyllis yelled proudly. “He just tested us with that bounced-check stuff. I told him it wasn’t nice to test people and he’s apologized. He won’t do it again. He has a nice little gift for you and Bruce and Sharon to make up for it.”
“Mom, I’m getting married.”
“No, Susan, I’m already married,” Phyllis shouted. “Monty and I already got married.”
“Congratulations. But I’m not talking about you! I’m talking about me! I’m marrying Paul Cushing on Christmas Eve Day.”
For a moment, only silence and static hummed along the line. Then Phyllis began talking again, this time in a normal volume. “Thank God. So you finally woke up and smelled the orange blossoms,” she told her daughter approvingly.
“You’re not surprised?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. He was interested in you from the beginning.”
“You knew?”
“Knew? I tried to tell you, but you couldn’t see it. Mazel tov. Now we both will have mixed marriages.” Phyllis laughed. “Well, better than no marriages at all.”
“Mom, I really love him. I mean … I mean, I really love him,” Sig said.
“I knew that, too. I was just waiting for your brain to catch up with your heart. So, did he give you a ring? Is it a sapphire like mine?”
“No,” Sigourney admitted.
“Well, don’t worry, he will.” And then either Phyllis laughed or there was a burst of static, but whatever the noise was, when it was over the phone lines were dead.
“I heard from Mom,” Sig announced to Sharon and Bruce after plugging them into a conference call
from her office. Might as well talk. Sig hadn’t been able to do any work; her head was too full of plans and her heart too full of hope. Corny Sigourney, she thought to herself.
“Where is she?” Sharon asked.
“Where’s Monty?” Bruce wanted to know. “I’m going to find him and choke him.”
“Forget about it,” Sig said, “he’s your stepfather now and he’s loaded. Offshore accounts on the Cayman Islands. His reputation may be no good here, but apparently he’s a really wealthy man.” Sig giggled. “Anyway, that’s not the important news.”
“That’s not the important news?” Bruce asked.
“So what is?” Sharri wanted to know.
“Well, I’m inviting you to a little gathering tomorrow.”
“Oh no. Is this the C-list brunch? Another goddamned Christmas party,” Bruce moaned.
“No. It’s just my wedding.”
Sharon laughed. “I thought you said ‘just your wedding,’” she giggled.
“She did,” Bruce said calmly. “So Paul Cushing got up his nerve and asked you and you said yes?”
“How did you know?” Sig and Sharri asked simultaneously.
“Because I’m truly sensitive to nuance,” Bruce said. “Marriage must be in the air, along with Taiwan flu virus. Anyway, Todd and I have been thinking about it, too.”
“You’re kidding!” Sharri and Sig exclaimed together.
“No, it seems to be the season for it. You know what the song says: ‘’Tis the Season to Be Married.’”
“Not for me,” Sharon said darkly.
“Well,” Sig said. “I’m happy for Mom and I’m happy for Monty. I’m happy for you and Todd. So will you come tomorrow? Paul and I are just going to do the ceremony at City Hall.”
Marrying Mom Page 17