For our first date, Zack is taking me to see Dances with Wolves, which is a movie about Kevin Costner dancing with animals, I guess, and there’s a romance and Native American lore. It’s the boost I need, and I can’t wait. When I get to Zack’s car, I see flowers on the seat. Boys in college never do this, so I wonder if they’re for someone else. I pretend I don’t see them until I do.
“Are those for me?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says hesitantly, though I can see he’s smiling in the dark.
This is typical beta-male behavior, the gift-giving with follow-through in manners. Harrison Ford gives Melanie Griffith her own briefcase after she “forgets” hers for a meeting. That’s beta. Maybe this is the kind of guy I should have been seeing all along. Alpha heroes don’t give you jack!
Zack’s little touches make me ecstatic—lovely flowers, cheeseburgers, cake just for me. From day one, Zack delivers these small items. Plus, he loves movies as much as I do. We see Thelma & Louise on the next date, then The Silence of the Lambs after this. It’s strange to see these ultraviolent movies mere weeks after my victimhood, but I go with it. In fact, Anthony Hopkins’s Hannibal Lecter makes me giddy with joy, even as I face a tumultuous year in and out of courtrooms and the ADA’s office. Zack’s care also helps. We make dinners together, keep seeing films, drive around the city, and listen to music.
• • •
In the spring, I go visit my brother in New York City, a scary trip for me given I’m still recovering and it’s full of noise, danger, and people. I sit on a stool as Patrick performs in Tony n’ Tina’s Wedding, a hit off-Broadway show. It’s one of those performances where the actors interact with the audience. Patrick plays a greasy wedding photographer, and, at one point, he comes over to me in character. His hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing an ugly suit. But behind the costume, I can see he’s happy that I’m there. It’s the first time we’ve seen each other since my ordeal.
“Can I take your picture, young lady?” he says.
“Sure, because I’m getting married,” I respond.
I can see a flicker of alarm on Patrick’s face, but I don’t let his reaction sway me. I’m certain I’m going to marry Zack, though he doesn’t know this yet. Right now, he’s back home, writing an article for some magazine, probably missing me. He’s really the greatest. For the rest of the weekend, Patrick seems skeptical of my overflowing devotion (though if he were really concerned, he could fix me up with his movie-star friend).
Zack and I continue in our sweet vein, engaging in such normal activities that I slowly reclaim my groove. It’s not lost on me how lucky I am to have found such an angel during a difficult time. We talk about new careers and ditching Cleveland forever. He wants to move and so do I, not necessarily to the same place. Though we don’t speak about our future as a couple or apart, I start to wonder—and I think he does, too—if our relationship is meant to be long term. My marriage plans could be a bit hasty. While I only want to be with him, I consider that my first priority is finding a permanent job and focusing on myself.
With my skills, I make a short-term plan for a real career. Let’s see: bilingual in French, nine years of Latin, decent typist. When in doubt, teach high school! I consult a map and pick the most beautiful places in the United States (that I know of). After careful research, I send out a slew of résumés to random schools in Maine, Colorado, New Mexico, California, Virginia, and Georgia.
• • •
In May of that year, Sandia Preparatory School, a private school in Albuquerque, New Mexico, contacts me for an interview to be a high school French teacher. They like my history as a Francophile and my boarding school experience, and my Latin training is icing on the cake. I have no teaching credentials, but what the hell, I hop on a plane and the second I smell the air, feel the peace of a slower life, I know this is the place for me. Private schools tend to like young blood, so I rely on this to help my chances.
I walk out of the airport and I’m instantly enchanted. They don’t call it the Land of Enchantment for nothing.
The headmaster and dean of the middle school give me a tour of Albuquerque before my day of interviews. The school is a palatial, Southwestern version of my boarding school experience, with manicured lawns, cute one-story buildings, and a faculty that cherishes one another and its students. The headmaster, a bear of a man with red hair, becomes a paternal figure the minute he takes a chance on me. The fairy godmother of fate sprinkles me with magic dust, because I am hired.
After a long drive across the country with Zack, fast and furious apartment hunting, and an awkward car-buying experience (the salesman teaches me how to drive a stick shift and then I buy the car immediately), I settle into my small apartment with its hideous wall-to-wall carpeting and beige walls. I sort of love it. Zack helps me unpack and comes with me to orientation at Sandia Prep.
I live about a quarter of a mile from my new school, in a large apartment complex, on the scary first floor (with the apartment number I-69, which is awkward to say out loud). Even though I’m still worried about safety and afraid of living alone in a new place, I fall head over heels for the Southwest, the colors and lighting and sultry desert. I don’t like Mexican food, know nothing of Native American culture, and find Southwestern art superbly ugly, but I love New Mexico. It’s as if Cleveland never happened. I even grow to crave burritos. Before New Mexico, I avoided spicy foods. Now I go for the mouth-burning chili and jalapeños. As much as possible, please.
Since I’m all moved in, Zack decides it’s time for his trek to Denver so he can pursue writing and just have a change of scene. It’s a seven-hour drive on I-25. Not quite next door, but we commute and pretend we’re meant to be just a little longer.
The first time he leaves me, as school is starting, as I’m embarking on this new life, I start to cry, really bawl. It’s a profound sense of loss. This good-bye is the end of a very long eight-month trip. Where did the time go? He really did pick me up off the floor, help me reestablish myself and believe good people are out there. How can I say good-bye to such a positive force? I am so grateful. Zack must smell the inevitable in that first Southwestern good-bye, too. We last six months after leaving Ohio. Maybe we aren’t destined to marry. Some people just appear as angels and help you move on to the next gig. At first, I had hoped Harrison Ford would be my angel, pack me my lunch for my first day of work. He’d stay up nights to help me with a big presentation and crash parties with me, and we’d go merrily down the street, eating scary sandwich-cart sandwiches with white sauce. My Harrison stand-in just left. It dawns on me that my real boyfriend was even better than the movie version. And this one gave me the will to start looking again for that perfect someone for me.
CHAPTER FIVE
If He Says He Doesn’t Reciprocate Your Feelings, Believe Him and Run
1993–1997
New Mexico is an enticing place and I never want to leave. Now twenty-five, I’m about to start the third year of my plush lifestyle. As I lie in my regular candlelit bubble bath, I have a chilled beverage in one hand and a breakfast burrito in the other. My love of love has crept back in little ways: in the Sandia Mountains and then miles of sparkling desert outside my door; in the fascinating people I work with at school; and, of course, in those books I can’t stop reading, such as a military-themed romance by Merline Lovelace, a spooky paranormal story by Heather Graham, and delicious tales by countless other names I’m sure I’ll encounter again. Oh, and a whole bucketful of Harlequins.
Suddenly, I have this great and original idea: Writing + Romance = A Prospective New Career. In the one-hundred-degree heat, I get right to work and tap away on my typewriter.
It’s highly inconvenient that the summer is ending, because my active inner world is just beginning to buzz with genius, with juicy love scenes for Teacher’s Pet, a title that I doubt has ever been used before.
Teaching French is fun, but now that I�
�ve survived two years and have yet to go on a date, I need extra stimulation. I peruse even more romances (it’s research)—a fabulous break from creating interesting lesson plans about Gilles’s vacation in Nice and how to say raincoat. Fast-forward through many hours of Captain Steele bending his new sailor (really a woman dressed as a boy—how homoerotic is that?) over a couch after she gets through the seasickness. She’s trying to escape an arranged marriage, never expecting anyone to find her in the captain’s suite.
These inspired readings make me think I could write a Harlequin romance. How hard could it be? I have my whole plot set up. My hero is a new headmaster, though really an undercover FBI agent. He has dark hair and blue eyes, and speaks in a raspy voice. And the heroine is a red-haired teacher who spends a lot of time thinking and drinking coffee. Christine Laraby is pure fiction and, like any heroine, spends hours in front of the mirror, brushing her hair. I have to fill up the pages somehow.
The point is time is slipping away fast. I keep getting distracted between my reading, teaching, writing, and obsessive movie watching. I have to think of writing romance as a “hobby,” like watching sports, for which I will develop a passion. Maybe I’ll be like Susan Sarandon in Bull Durham, an eccentric woman whose gusto brings her to a bigger cosmic event: Kevin Costner. What I love in this movie is how Susan’s this cultured, wanton teacher who thrives on baseball, seduces a young player, and helps him get to the big leagues (through intercourse). Over-the-hill-yet-gorgeous catcher Kevin is signed to coach the new pitcher, Tim Robbins. Sadly, Susan picks Tim to tutor (sexually) for the season, but she really should have picked Kevin because he’s smarter, hotter, and understands what a lovable freak she is. Maybe the headmaster in Teacher’s Pet should resemble Kevin Costner. It’s easy to close my eyes and conjure Kevin. This takes up the last few weeks of vacation.
• • •
All too soon, the semester begins, and I drive over to the headmaster’s house for a meet-and-greet party. He lives in a serene section of the North Valley on flat, more fertile ground, in a sprawling adobe house with an outdoor area for parties. Upon arrival, I greet friends whom I haven’t seen all summer, like Lou, a fellow teacher (history, English, and creative writing) who’s been a real mentor to me. We give each other the Look, loosely translated as: I can’t believe the summer is over. She’s around my mother’s age, with salt-and-pepper hair and bespectacled green eyes. Like my mother, Lou has this deep wisdom, which she imparts at the right moment. I’ve come to rely on her, and I love listening to her talk because she always makes interesting comments with a fabulous Texas drawl.
After catching up, I go for a soda and a chair, wondering how this year will unfold. Each year has its own personality.
“Hi!”
I look up toward the voice. A sunny redhead leans over me. The cheerful woman standing in front of me could even be from my family, with her auburn hair and freckles.
I rattle off my identification. “Hi! I’m Patience. I teach French.”
“Oooh la la, le français! Très romantique, n’est-ce pas? Hahahahahah! I’m Natasha!” The mysterious woman goes on about how she’ll be teaching middle school English, how she just got her master’s in American studies, how she loves cycling. Goodness, I think. These kids are going to have a blast with this one.
“I’m throwing a party next week and you have to come. There’ll be lots of hot cyclists there. You’ll be like Cinderella,” she says.
I sip the rest of my soda, trying to get rid of the lump in my throat. Any girl who wants you to be Cinderella is truly a fairy godsister. Most budding heroines prefer to play the role themselves. Should I trust this awesome chick who came out of nowhere? Of course I should, so I resolve to elevate Natasha to best-friend status. I’m ready to be her molding clay. This is my new hobby and, I suspect, where any good romance begins.
• • •
On the night of the ball—or Natasha’s party—I call out my mice to pull together my Cinderella wardrobe: a black lacy top with blue jeans and high heels, increasing my height (I’m not tall).
I nervously stumble from my blue Honda Civic hatchback, questioning the good sense of leaving my bed. But life often happens in those moments when you say What the hell and do it anyway.
As I walk up the driveway, my mouth drops.
Over two years in New Mexico, I’ve wondered, Where are the boys? Walking up to the party I realize they’ve been at Natasha’s house all along. It’s like an ad for Men’s Health magazine right in front of me, a flock of spectacularly athletic men, most of whom wear bright uniforms and tight cycling pants as they mill around Natasha’s driveway and the grill.
Hidden treasures at my new BFF’s house. This is definitely a scene from Bull Durham—just a different sport.
Natasha breaks through the crowd, her sunny smile visible from space. “Pay Pay!” she yells, her hips swiveling as she approaches me. She takes my arm and starts introducing me right away.
“This is Patience. She’s our fabulous French teacher. Oui, oui, magnifique, n’est-ce pas?” Natasha purrs.
I say hi to as many people as I can, remembering no one’s name. More fascinating than the idea of dating an athlete is that this energetic, appealing woman would want to bring me into her social network.
“I give good party, don’t I?” she says quickly, passing by with a wink.
I love her instantly and watch her work the room.
The presence of so many cyclists unnerves me, until I have a flash of insight. In my secret romance reading, I know that the athlete is never a desirable specimen. Sure, he seems like he could be the cat’s pajamas in bed, but there’s narcissism involved; he might be more into his body and groupies than lasting love. Then again, Kevin Costner falls in love with Susan Sarandon. He’s not just a dumb jock but a good guy who learns from his early mistakes. He appreciates a seasoned woman who likes slow, wet kisses that last for days—oh my. As for Susan, she bathes in baseball testosterone—and is unapologetic and interesting, the kind of woman I’d love to be.
This is my chance. The athlete with the heart of gold—like Kevin—could be the one for me. Except Susan starts out with the younger guy she can tutor into being a successful athlete, not Kevin. I must rethink my strategy.
“Hi, I’m Chris.” The mighty cyclist in front of me has a buzz cut, greenish eyes, and a long, lean, tan body. He reaches out his hand and we shake. He has a sexy, raspy voice, like what you’d expect from a seasoned athlete hero, like the voice of my hero in Teacher’s Pet. Chris does some mysterious work at the local university and races as a Category 1 pro. Very Kevin Costner. I might just die on this concrete patio.
“Patience.”
Because he watches me too closely, those eyes roving over every twitch, I want to hide. The universe is giving me a gigantic sign—it’s almost too overwhelming. Chris appears as if he knows me, every molecule, every fear, every piece of me. He is familiar to me and must know how awkward I feel, how alone I am. Must regain control over myself.
“Hahaha, your name is Patience. You must have a lot of patience. Hahahahaha!”
How original.
“We must seem like a bunch of weirdos, huh?” He smiles, big teeth.
“Lots of bright colors,” I say.
“Good that you came, uh, I hope to see you again,” he says before someone starts to drag him away.
I smile and look down at my shoes, and a deep flush washes over my skin. He seems so perceptive, a trait every romantic hero shares. The cosmos is no mystery to him. I wouldn’t be able to hide my super-secret qualities from this person, and it scares me.
Maybe I should stick with another beta hero, like Zack. Someone nice.
Natasha pulls me aside to report that I am a hit. Everyone is in love with me. “Who do you like?” she asks. I can take my pick.
As I look around, I notice this dark-haired man sporting a Yale sweats
hirt. He keeps staring at me. Something tells me he didn’t go to Yale.
“What about him?”
“Oh yeah, that’s Ivan! He’s really nice,” Natasha whispers loudly. “I’ll introduce you.”
She brings me over to Ivan. He smiles warmly with these bone-melting brown eyes. Though the instant he speaks, I feel his education could be remedial at best. According to Tash, he’s a cycling machine. By day he is on the bike. At night he buses tables for money. He’s been pegged as a promising athlete destined to ride with the likes of Lance Armstrong, a budding superstar on the cycling circuit. A little past his cycling prime, Chris is his mentor. Wait . . . this setup sounds familiar.
Five minutes later, Ivan and I are a thing. We go on our first date to an Italian restaurant on the northeast side of the city. When we walk into the large, airy eatery, his eyes light up. It’s as if he’s at the Four Seasons, about to taste caviar for the first time. I enjoy being the worldly one, which is so very Susan. This is the young superstar I’m supposed to build into a strong, successful athlete—my Tim Robbins, which will lead me to Kevin.
This year does have a personality—me dating cyclists. I tell Lou about my new love life, since I do want her approval on all matters.
“Is he a good kisser?” Lou asks. Doesn’t she have a wicked streak, now? But I do confide in her and she gives me the encouragement I crave. When I start to have doubts about Ivan as my future husband, she encourages me then, too, sort of like that wonderful older female auntie in many romance novels, the one who says, “Faun, dear, you’re doing okay. Don’t be afraid to love again.” Then they both pull out hankies, drink their iced tea, and munch on homemade shortbread.
Lou is also an advocate for my pushing through the writing process. She’s a writer herself and we often discuss our struggles with getting words down on the page. Teacher’s Pet becomes a burning priority for me, so much so that I break up with Ivan in December. He’s a distraction, and I have a book to finish! Christine Laraby is done drinking her coffee but then is kidnapped by the school’s embezzler, the assistant headmaster. ShKevin ShCostner somehow finagles a rescue and then announces his desire to marry me—I mean Christine Laraby—in front of the whole school. Wild applause.
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