“Shut up, Poppy.” Jeff’s lips land on mine, and they’re soft and firm at the same time. I finally pull away and frantically push my hair behind my ears “Well, it’s a good thing that’s out of our system, right? Now we can just go on our date, and we don’t have to worry about a goodnight kiss. We already took care of that. Monday morning will already be extremely awkward and uncomfortable, and it will force me to get to work on finding a new office space. So yeah. Yeah, that was really good.”
“See? I knew what I was doing. Grab a sweater. It will be cold in the city.”
I open the hall closet and wonder how on earth I’m going to explain to Jeff that there really is nothing between us. Do I think he’s hot? Absolutely. Do I want to take this anywhere? Not on your life. I grab my old grubby sweater, but put it back realizing it ruins the effect of all I went through today. Instead I get a white cashmere cardigan that Sharon bought me for my birthday. It’s interesting how my new lifestyle is conducive to all the gifts Sharon purchased.
Jeff puts his arm in the center of my back, and I look back at the flowers he brought and grab the gift for the shower. I feel my face flush at the sight of the bouquet. “Jeff—”
“Just never mind,” he says, apparently understanding my meaning and a shared belief in not overanalyzing it.
Sometimes being cherished, even if it’s a facade, is not all that bad of a feeling. I’m glad I kissed him. It shows I’m not completely without adventure. I tried. But when all you get is an image of another man? That’s just a sign. Sure, Simon dissed me on a Belmont street, but he also used the word wife in a sentence in Santa Cruz. And most important, he’s the only man I want to kiss me.
I talk when I’m nervous. And apparently I’m very agitated, because I don’t think I gave Jeff’s ears a break for the entire ninety-minute traffic-ridden drive to San Francisco. When he stops the car in front of Lilly’s house, he looks at me and laughs. “Are you sure you have any words left to go in there?”
I cover my mouth with my fingers. “I’m nervous.”
He gives me a close-mouthed grin and laughs. “But you’re beautiful. Let’s go be Barbie and Ken.”
“That’s Morgan and George. We’re more like Skipper and Allan.”
“Skipper and Allan?”
“Barbie’s less attractive sister and Ken’s friend.”
“All right, Skipper and Allan it is, though I think you’d give Barbie a run for her money any day.”
Jeff helps me out of the car, which is no easy feat because of how low that Lexus is to the ground. He practically has to get a corkscrew to make it work, but eventually, I’m up and in his arms. He steadies me and takes my hand, leading me to the door.
“This house is something. What does your friend’s husband do?”
“He’s a TV critic. And he dabbles in San Francisco real estate. Oh,” I add as though I’ve forgotten. “And he’s an heir to a hotel fortune.”
“I guess.” Jeff whistles at the sight of the elaborate house in San Francisco’s posh Marina District. He knocks on the door, and Lilly opens it as though she hasn’t seen me in a year versus a week.
“Poppy!” She squeals. “What did you do? Dang, girl.” She takes my hands. “You look hot! And you’re dressed in my skirt. See? See how simple it is to make a statement! Max, come look at Poppy!”
“Lilly, this is my date, Jeff.”
“Hi, Jeff. Doesn’t she look hot? Oh my gosh, what is up with this?”
Max comes to the door. “Lilly, let them in. What are you doing? Whoa! Poppy?” He lowers his eyebrows, trying to decipher if it’s me.
“It’s me.” I point to Jeff. “And this is my date, Jeff.”
Max thrusts a hand towards Jeff “Nice to meet you. Come on in, make yourself at home. Lilly’s been working all day on this shower. Morgan’s not going to know what hit her.”
“I really wish you’d let me do more,” I say to Lilly. But I know exactly why she didn’t. She was worried I’d serve tofu and grape leaves with hummus. Which are some of my very favorite foods. But Morgan’s from the San Francisco socialite set, and even Lilly, who can cook like a fiend, hired a catering company for the shower.
Two by two, Lilly’s house fills up with people I’ve never seen in my life. They are all sophisticated and well dressed, and Jeff and I retreat to our corner. Since we’re not allowed to discuss what we do, and I’m not dripping in diamonds, and Jeff isn’t wearing Armani, we’re both at a loss for conversation. Apparently, Cupertino chic is not San Francisco chic, and I think even Jeff feels out of place.
After an hour of idle chitchat and finger food, we sit down for the first game. “All right, couples. We’re going to play our version of The Newlywed Game. Whoever knows each other best wins a night at Max’s dad’s hotel complete with a nine-course meal in the Starlight Room.”
“Whooo!” A collective gasp goes up around the room of trendy couples, who all look as though they’ve stepped out of the Neiman Marcus catalog. Why free would mean anything to them is beyond me. They look like they relish paying a lot for things.
Morgan has tried to bring Jeff and me into the fold, but it’s apparent neither one of us is in the mood for more pretending. Morgan is wearing a crisp, white pantsuit that Lilly designed, with a touch of lace at the top. It screams I am the bride and she looks happier than I’ve ever seen her. Not because she’s the bride. Morgan has always been the center of San Francisco attention and written up for social events since before she was in puberty. But this is about family. She finally has one, and all of this fanfare is mere trifle to her, who looks at George like she wishes the rest of the room would disappear.
“You each have a pencil and several cards with your names on them. Write your answers down and number them, and we’ll check them.” Lilly’s in her element here. She loves to be in charge. “First question: what’s your idea of the most romantic date?”
That’s easy, I think. The beach. I write it down, and Jeff scribbles his own. Then we all hold up our answers.
“The first question goes to . . .” Lilly pauses, reading the cards. “Poppy and Jeff.”
I look at Jeff and we laugh. “Beginner’s luck, I suppose.”
“Next question: what would your mate say is their favorite food?”
Easy again: organic chocolate.
Jeff guesses my answer. And he continues to guess. Until we get to: if your mate could go anywhere on vacation, where would it be?
“She’d go to Hawaii and run,” Jeff says directly to me.
“That’s right. I would. I love the tropical weather, and I love to run on the beach more than anything else. I know the beaches aren’t huge there, but I’d run back and forth, back and forth and take in every single wave and memorize them.”
“Who’s the best onscreen couple?”
I say Bogey and Bacall, while Jeff names John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara. At least we both see the romance in the classics, but there’s something about the wise-cracking, aloof Bogey that gets me every time.
“It looks like our winners, with nine out of ten questions right, are Jeff and Poppy.” Lilly says our names slowly as though she doesn’t understand and places the envelope in my hand. “Of course, they won’t be needing a night in a hotel room, so the winner is Paul and Winnie!” She pulls the envelope from my hands.
The other couple shout and hug one another, and Lilly shakes her head at me. I glare back. Did I ask to win such a stupid contest? I didn’t even want to play! I look at Jeff with tears in my eyes. Not because I wanted a hotel room, but . . . How could Lilly do that to me? Make my singleness so public? Did she have to make sure that all her friends knew this couple at the couples’ shower is a sham and that Jeff and I are only pretending? I blink away the tears and Jeff sits closer to me on the couch and kisses my cheek ever so gently. Nuzzling against my neck as though we’re a longtime couple. I smile in gratitude.
“Well, great night, Lilly. You throw a wonderful party. Poppy and I have to get up early tomor
row for church, so we’re going to head home. If I know Poppy, her foot is starting to throb and she’s said nothing.” Jeff stands up and pulls me up from the sofa. “I’ve got your Vicodin in the car, sweetie.”
Lilly walks us to the door. “You okay, Poppy?”
I nod, just wanting to get out of the house as soon as possible and into the crisp night where I can breathe “single” air. Jeff helps me on with my sweater and we head out the door, thankful when it shuts behind us.
“Thank you, Jeff.”
“It’s nothing.”
“No, really. You went beyond the call of duty tonight and you’ve earned your extra office space. Now do you see what I mean about being single in a married world?”
“Oh, please. I’m a single doctor, Poppy. Every time I show up anywhere, the mothers come out in droves trying to set me up with their Drusilla.”
This makes me giggle. “Well, my big foot thanks you.” I hold out my cast. “You did me a huge favor.”
“Did I? You seem to think everyone’s doing you a favor, Poppy. Perhaps my motives aren’t purely selfless. Did you ever think of that?”
I laugh uncomfortably. This is not going well and I try to remind him of our deal. “Well, considering you’re here because you want my office space, I did have a clue to that.” I wrap my sweater around me a little tighter as the brisk spring evening in San Francisco is moist and frigid.
He wraps his arms around me, and we look down at the darkened Bay, whose outline is ringed with lights. The Golden Gate Bridge is lit like a magnificent, red sculpture and our eyes both go to the landmark. “Sometimes I don’t think you do have a clue, Poppy.”
“Join the club.” I say, wondering how I tell him I just don’t think about him that way. I think I am going to be dateless at the wedding after all. See, I said I couldn’t make it two months. Heck, I can’t even make it two weeks without an arrangement blowing up in my face.
“So you’re really not interested in me in that way?” Jeff asks, bringing his arms tightly around me.
His question captures me by surprise. For some reason, I thought a doctor would be far more eloquent than to ask a high school-note kind of question. But more important, I can’t believe he’d care. And I just don’t want to hurt him or his ego.
“It’s obvious we have chemistry—” I say by way of a gentle entry.
“But I want to know what you really think about me. And I don’t mean that line where you think I’m a selfish jerk who mutilates women for a living. I mean the part of you who knows I love my patients as much as you love yours and that I want them healthy, just like you want yours healthy. I mean, let’s get over that we are flat-out, stone-cold attracted to one another and we always have been.”
I look up at him, and I do give into the temptation I’ve felt for two years and snuggle into his jacket for warmth. It must be the sea air. I wonder if that intoxicates me from childhood. I pull back and stare into his eyes, feeling the stubble on his cheeks from the long day.
God, I am so confused. I thought I loved Simon, but what on earth am I doing here if that’s the case? What do You want from me?
“Let’s get some coffee,” Jeff says, pulling away. “You do drink coffee? Or you can get some soy concoction there, all right?”
“Soy mochas. One of my favorite things in life.”
“Good, because there’s not a cold shower nearby, and we’re in front of your best friend’s house, and I want to make out like a couple of teenagers. It’s beneath us.”
“Jeff.” I stop in my tracks. “I can’t do this to you.”
“Do what, Poppy?”
“I just can’t trust my feelings today. This is convenient, you and me.”
“How so? You hate what I do for a living.”
“You know what I mean, Jeff. I’m convenient for you. You don’t even have to step out of your office, and I’m there. I’m as good as the next girl at church.”
“Is that what you think?” He pulls away.
“I just told you, I don’t know what I think. But I think a patient has my heart.”
And how would Jeff know what I think? I did kiss him earlier, and I played The Newlywed Game with him like we’d known each other for a decade. But I can’t get Simon out of my mind, and I don’t know what to think.
Jeff opens his car door and helps me in. I’ll say one thing. When it comes to playing my knight in shining armor, Dr. Jeff is an overachiever. Leave it to me to finally figure out what I want out of life. And for Simon to promptly tell me where to stick it. I really have to work on that timing issue.
chapter 22
Miles run: 0
Laps swum: 0
Motivation: 0
Desperation scale: 9
I take it back. I am desperate. I can’t run, I can’t bike, and I don’t want to swim. Jeff is avoiding me by not returning my phone calls to his cell, and my hopes for a “normal” wedding date have diminished, and he’s taking my office space with him. Leave it to me to be the only person to lose on a California real estate deal. I suppose it serves me right for trying to pretend “normal.”
I sigh aloud. Maybe I was always desperate, and I just never bothered to name it. It’s Sunday morning and the May weather is perfect. Seventy degrees at eight a.m. Usually, it’s my favorite day of the week because I run a full eight miles with a Starbucks CD, and it makes me feel like I’m relaxing with the Sunday paper in the coffee shop like the “normal” people. That’s what I want to be doing, if only I could sit still long enough. But for me, I just need the endorphins that running (and chocolate) brings. I look down at my cast. I hate sitting still and my foot is throbbing.
As I get to church and take a seat in the back row, I find my eyes keep searching for Jeff, but I don’t see him, and my guilt envelops me. Maybe I did give him the wrong perception. I tried to give Simon that same perception, and he left me standing in the middle of the street. Clearly, I’m doing something wrong.
I listen to the worship music, and the hymn “It Is Well With My Soul” is sung. Is there a better song to remind you no matter how big your problems are, they are not what this man went through as he penned this great hymn—the loss of his entire family at sea? It really puts things into perspective. It is, indeed, well with my soul. Well, mostly. Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful. But I am desperate.
After service, I call Simon to say good-bye, and his cell number has been disconnected. I try dialing it again, hoping there’s a forwarding number, but there’s nothing. I try one more time, just because the third time is the charm, and again, just a loud, busy signal. (Something I thought went the way of the rotary phone since call waiting.) When Simon doesn’t answer, I wonder if there’s the possibility that he could be in the house in Santa Cruz. He wasn’t leaving until tomorrow, so he’s got to be somewhere.
I stop at Starbucks after church, and there’s an entire contingent from church, and the line is nearly to the door. I look around and see all the people reading the Sunday paper, couples sipping mugs of coffee, and my heart beats a little faster. I don’t think I’ve ever really felt alone like this. Perhaps I have always lived sort of a solitary life, but it was full. I had my running groups on Saturdays, and my swim meets during the summer, and even a biking group. And then, of course, there’s the Spa Girls. And Wednesday night singles’ group, which I occasionally attended. Lots of things to allow me to gloss over the true loneliness I felt.
I suspect none of those are really intimate relationships (other than the Spa Girls). It was all event related. Which I guess I’m just more comfortable in. But now that life’s events have ceased with my stress fracture, I notice there’s more in my life that’s broken than my foot.
“Aren’t you the chiropractor?” A woman in front of me asks this of me, and I turn around in line and face her.
“Yes, Poppy Clayton,” I say.
“Yeah,” she nods. “You told me once that hydrogenated fats would ruin my life.” She turns back towards the cashier. “I’
ll have a vente mocha Frappuccino. Extra whip on that.” She turns around and clucks her tongue at me. “You’re a chiropractor, not a doctor.” She rolls her eyes and walks over to wait for her fat fest.
The human in me wants to tell her it has ruined her backside, but I refrain because it is well with my soul. “Iced tall soy latte.” I scratch my head. “No, make that a mocha.”
“Whipped cream?”
“No, thanks,” I say, getting in line behind the woman clogging her arteries.
“You know,” I say to her. “I told you that because in Bible study, you said you’d been unable to lose the last ten pounds and you said that you didn’t like to exercise. The body doesn’t digest trans fats. It’s like putting plastic in your system. I was trying to be helpful. Sorry if I offended you.”
This disarms her and she softens her expression for a moment before a call for her Frappuccino reminds her where we are. “Are you a Christian? Or a tree hugger?”
“I suppose I’m both, depending on your definition.”
“You can’t serve two masters.” She says, walking out with her supersized cup o’ calories.
Of course, I could tell her the same thing. She can serve God and the temple he gave her, or her craven desires for drinking her calories. But what’s the use? I leave the coffee shop more depressed than ever. As I’m walking out, Jeff walks in with the blonde from the convertible. This girl is like a bad penny; she shows up everywhere.
“Jeff, hi. Chloe, what a surprise to see you both.” Together. So soon after you kissed me. Granted, I’m pining for another man, and I kissed him back. But still. A little loyalty should last at least twenty-four hours. Is that too much to ask?
“Hi, Poppy.” Jeff purposely takes his hand and places it on Chloe’s back. “Guess who’s coming to church?”
I want to ask where the reconciled husband is, but I’ve learned enough to keep my mouth shut for the moment. If people want advice, they’ll ask for it.
Calm, Cool, and Adjusted Page 23