Eleven

by Karen Rodgers

  “I hear his ex was a real bitch.”

  “She had to be! He has always been such a good guy. He’s so much like his daddy.”

  “I heard they were college sweethearts. She snagged him early.”

  “Lucky bitch!”

  “Didn’t he get his degree in Finance?”

  “I think so. Oh well, that should help him with running the ranch and managing all the money he just fell into!”

  “Oh, Hell, he won’t ever have to worry about money. He’s got more than he knows what to do with already.”

  “Yeah, I think he’s officially a member of the ‘cologne cartel’ now. You know—they drive around in their King Ranch cabs, smelling like a department store’s cologne counter. They only risk getting dirty when they roll their windows down to bark orders at their farm hands.”

  “Did they have any children?”

  “I think so. I think they had two boys. They live with their mama in Dallas. She puts them on a plane every other weekend to come see him.”

  “I’m sure they gave her quite a bit of leverage regarding spousal support.”

  “That’s too bad. Boys that age need their daddy!”

  “Awe, I bet he’s a good daddy.”

  “He’d make a damn fine sugar daddy!”

  “I hear he got his heart broke pretty bad.”

  “I heard she had an affair—early in their marriage, too! And he stayed with her! Can you imagine?”

  Then the attention turned in my direction again, “Don’t you remember him?”

  I did remember him; vaguely. At least, I remembered his family. They were one of the most affluent families in the area. They had gone to the same church my family did when we were growing up. I remembered his grandfather leading prayer on Sunday mornings and watching both of our fathers serving at the communion table together on occasion. Our mothers would always politely chat in the fellowship hall.

  His daddy was well thought of; a salt-of-the-Earth West Texan. He was unusually tall, with broad, rugged shoulders. I remember; in spite of his size, he had a gentle look out of his eyes. He was a good, Christian man. God rest his soul.

  His mother was a lovely woman. She was an iconic Texas matriarch. She had helped her husband build their business and even worked along his side during their early ranching days. When their hard work began to pay off, she resigned herself to a busy social calendar, decorating their estate, and focusing her horse riding interest on cutting horses; until she reached the age it was considered improper for a lady to be riding at all. She was a rather tall woman with impeccable bone structure and posture as straight as an arrow.

  All their sons had been blessed in the genetics department—especially him. According to my friends, he was a “tall drink of water” and “easy on the eyes”. From my best recollection, the last time I had seen him, I was only 4 years old. He would have been 17 at the time. So what I remembered about him wasn’t much.

  In spite of my friends’ suggestions and encouragement, there was something about the subject of him that made me feel uneasy. Something felt intimidating in the thought of him. Maybe it was our age difference. Maybe it was his money and status—and my lack there-of. I figured he was out of my league. Besides, the possibility of us actually meeting was slim to none. I’m sure he had no idea who I was. I doubted if the remembrance of a 4 year old me would stir any kind of recollection on his part. It was a nice thought, but it was never going to happen. I no longer had the energy to entertain fairy tales.

  I politely smiled at my friends’ insistence that I should “Go for it!”; “Snag him while you can, honey!”; “Get to him before someone else does!”; “You’ll never know unless you take a chance!”—and replied, “We’ll see…”.

  It was time for me to get back to my office. I was already running 5 minutes late.

  I said my goodbyes to all the girls and asked my other dateless friend, “Want to get together after work for a drink?’

  “Sure! Pick me up about 5:30. I’ll see you then,” she replied.

  The afternoon was busy and passed by quickly, which is always a blessing on a Friday afternoon of a busy week. I swung by my friend’s place to pick her up and we headed to one of our favorite watering holes.

  As we were enjoying visiting over our second round of Coors Light draft, dark clouds began to drift into the area and the wind started to pick up. Just as they were lowering the tarp sections of the patio in which we were sitting, a loud crack of lightning flashed and the power went out. So we finished our beers and decided to make a run for the car.

  We made it to my car just in time. As soon as we closed the doors, sheets of rain started to blow across the pavement. I started the car and switched the windshield wipers to high. As I put my car in reverse, the gas gauge alarm began to ding.

  Damn it! In the busy hustle of the week, I had forgotten to fill up my tank. It was below empty—well below empty.

  “There’s an old Fina station on the other side of the street about 3 blocks that way, if you think we can make it,” she said, pointing down the street.

  So I carefully pulled out onto the street and veered into the right-hand lane. The rain was coming down so hard; I could barely see the street lights. As we coasted into the gas station parking lot, my car began to sputter. The engine died at the exact moment I pulled up to the pump. We looked at each other and laughed. Whew! We had barely made it!

  My friend offered, “I’ll go pay inside if you will pump the gas.”

  I gave her ten dollars, knowing I didn’t want to spend the time to completely fill the car up in the pouring rain. As soon as I saw her signal me, I got out of the car and quickly removed the gas cap.

  This was an older gas station and the handles were situated on the side of the pumps, instead of the front like the newer models. I tried my best to shield my eyes from the pelting sheets of rain and reached out to grab the gas handle. When I wrapped my hand around the handle, something didn’t feel right.

  Suddenly, I felt a warm, tingling rush surge through my hand and up my arm. The handle was moving! Shit! Had I been struck by lightning? I knew I shouldn’t be pumping gas in a lightning storm.

  I gasped when I realized that someone else’s hand was already on the handle. I should’ve let go. Strangely, I didn’t want to. I slowly moved my gaze up a tanned, muscular arm to the edge of his wet sleeve. Streams of rain were running down his arm onto my hand. When I peered up in embarrassment to attempt an apology, I looked into the deepest, bluest eyes I had ever seen. I stood there frozen in the pouring rain with my mouth wide open in a gawk; my hand still squeezing his. I must have looked like a drowned rat.

  I slowly pulled my hand away and barely heard his muffled reply as he told me he was already finished. He returned to the dry comfort of his pick-up cab. He looked back at me and flashed a sideways grin as he drove away.

  Wow! Things don’t usually rattle me, but I was trembling and felt jittery inside. What in the Hell had just happened? My mind was reeling and my heart was racing.

  I hurriedly pumped the ten dollars’ worth and jumped back into the car with my friend. I couldn’t wait to tell her about my impromptu encounter with the handsome stranger. We were both drenched and wiping the mascara from below our eyes. Then I looked down and a wave of humiliation came over me when I realized the white cotton blouse I was wearing was completely soaked—and completely sheer.

  Dang it! No wonder he was smiling—he got a free peep show at the gas pump! At least I was wearing a pretty bra. Oh, God! My cheeks and ears were burning from the realization of what had just transpired.

  My friend was breathless from her quick jaunt to the car.

  She had seen what had happened and was excitedly repeating, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! I have goose-bumps! Oh my God!”

  I laughed at her and said, “Of course you do, silly! You’re wringing wet.”

  She looked at me and smiled, “No! That was him! It was him! The guy who was on the other side of the
pump! He is the guy we were talking about at lunch!”

  Chapter 6

  A Concerted Effort

  “Okay, who brought money for tickets?” my friend asked at next Friday’s happy hour.

  She was always the ring leader of kicking our butts into gear and twisting our arms into doing something fun. James Taylor was coming to town the last week of September and the tickets were go to on sale the next morning.

  As usual, I didn’t have any extra money. I hated missing out on group activities, especially when I was usually the only one out of the group that wasn’t able to go.

  I replied, “I’m out. Sorry guys. Y’all have fun.”

  I really wanted to go to the concert, but there was no way I could justify spending that much money on something that would just last a couple of hours. My disappointment slowly faded after sipping on a Manhattan as my rainstorm cohort told everyone at the table what had happened the week before at the gas pump. My girlfriends were absolutely giddy, delighting in exclaiming this must be fate—this must be “The One”.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about him; but I wasn’t going to get my hopes up. I knew better than to set myself up for that kind of disappointment.

  Yet, it seemed my luck was starting to take a change for the better. My friend called me the night before the James Taylor concert and informed me that one of the girls had come down with the flu and would not be able to go.

  “She said she would go halfsies with you. She will sell the ticket for half-price.”

  That was an offer I couldn’t refuse. So the next day, after work, I picked out something fabulous to wear to the concert—sleeveless black turtleneck, tight leopard print capris, a matching leopard print belt with black patent buckle to go over the waistline of the top, and black patent platform stilettos.

  Yes, looking good could be painful at times. But as a single woman, it was always important to put my best face forward. James Taylor might be mellow and mild, but I was in the mood to be hot—slammin’ hot!

  We met at a friend’s house and loaded up in one of the girls’ Suburban. Thankfully, she let us out at the curb in front of the arena. That would have been a precarious walk in stilettos!

  We made our way inside and mingled in the foyer before entering the auditorium. Our seats were awesome; the center of the fourth row. The house lights went down and Mr. Taylor took the stage. We stood and swayed to the music as we sang along. All eight of us knew nearly every word of every song.

  During the song ‘Fire and Rain’, one of my friends reached behind the girl next to me and grabbed my arm; pulling me toward her.

  Smiling, she cupped her hand next to my ear and said, “Try not to be obvious, but look who is in the row in front of us!”

  She used her thumb to point over her shoulder. When she was back in her place, I casually looked in that direction.

  It was him! He turned and looked back over his date’s head just as I was looking his way. I immediately jerked my head back and tried to concentrate on the singer directly in front of me. My face was flushed. I did my best to appear calm—and control my breathing. My heart was beating loudly in my ears, almost drowning out the drumbeat on stage.

  Don’t look. Don’t look. I felt as if a magnet was pulling my head to the side. I closed my eyes. I knew: if I looked at him and our eyes met—something was there.

  I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. Slowly, I leaned forward and timidly looked his way. There he was—looking back at me with that same wide, knowing grin he had flashed at the gas station.

  Just then, I heard the words of the song being sung, “I always thought that I’d see you, baby, one more time again. Thought I’d see you, thought I’d see you one more time again.”

  And this time; I smiled at him.

  Chapter 7

  Web

  He knows I exist! The conundrum I faced was: just how was I to go about reaching out to him? I had already made so many mistakes which led to my chronic status as a single thirty-something woman. I knew ‘The Rules’ like the back of my hand: never ever call a man; if he calls, never ever answer, always wait at least 3 days before returning his call; never ever sleep with a man before you have a commitment; never ever tell a man you love him first; always make a man chase you; never ever chase a man.

  Good grief! If I followed all of those rules, I might as well embrace my title of “old-maid-crazy-cat-lady-on-the-block”. I had read and re-read the rules. I had watched and re-watched every episode of every season of Sex in the City. I had to think and re-think this situation. This was big—huge! I couldn’t mess this one up. How could I reach him without breaking the rules?

  Time passed. It was mid-November. Every day, I thought of him. This was ridiculous! I felt like a school-girl again—it had been that long since I had suffered a crush like this! Someone had more than likely beat me to the punch. I knew a man like him wouldn’t stay unattached for long. I had to think of something and find a way to get to him. Oh, God—was I turning from the “old-maid-crazy-cat-lady-on-the-block” into a pathetic, obsessive stalker?

  None of my girlfriends actually knew him personally. Just like me, they were younger than he was and only knew of him through his family. So there was no one I could petition to introduce us. For some reason, I refused to give up hope of meeting him someday.

  I poured myself a glass of wine and sat down to decompress from another hectic day. The phone rang. It was one of my girlfriends on the other end of the line. She excitedly told me she had a rather tasty morsel of information for me.

  “You won’t believe who actually has a profile on Match.com!” she squealed.

  I replied, “No way! What’s his user name?”

  She answered, “His name without the vowels—just type in his name using consonants only. It shows he hasn’t been online in a couple of weeks. But if you send him a message, it will be forwarded to his email. This is your ticket, girl! Go for it!”

  Ah ha! The rules didn’t say a darn thing about snagging someone on the worldwide web! So I hung up the phone and fired up the computer. Although I had told myself I would never resort to becoming a member of an online dating service, I didn’t waste any time signing up and creating my profile.

  Of course, my profile was under a surreptitious pseudonym and did not contain any pictures. I judiciously created my page with just enough subtle nuances to intrigue him. He would not be able to recognize me from the profile.

  I set out with the intent to spark his curiosity. I was going to make him chase me. I wanted to make him desire me in way he had never experienced—before we ever even met.

  This task would need to be handled delicately and intelligently. And I would be required find the courage to do something I had never done before. It was my time to step up to the plate and put it all on the line. I would find a way to level the playing field and advance to his league.

  It was scary. I was afraid of the possibility of rejection. I was intimidated. I hadn’t even met this man, yet he held a strange power over me.

  Ever since he had entered my conscious thought, he had never left my subconscious thought. In spite of how scared I was to take this chance, I was even more terrified of the aspect of doing nothing—and being without him; always wondering what could have been had I been willing to take a chance.

  I had to be careful about what clues I gave him and the information I disclosed. Yes, he had seen me. But he had no idea who I was. After all, it had been a long time since he had known me as a child and there was no way he could recognize me from that long ago. So I decided to start with our beginning.

  I completed my profile and carefully crafted my first message to him:

  “Hello. I know you. You know me. If you desire for us to know each other better then I will send you on a quest to find me. All you need to reply is…Yes.”

  I closed my eyes and pressed ‘send’.

  The next morning, I was quite pleased to discover his prompt reply in my inbox, “Yes”.

>   As a general rule, the busier my work day was, the more quickly it passed. But that was not the case on that day. I thought the day would never end so I could go home. I needed to get home and tend to the task of sending him on his quest.

  When I finally arrived home that evening, I threw my coat and purse on the couch and practically ran to the computer to log on.

  I sent him his first clue:

  “My first recollection of you was when I was 4 and you were 17.”

  He must have experienced a rather anxious day, as well. Obviously, he had spent the day anticipating my reply. I received his quick reply within a few minutes.

  “Hmmm. You are going to make me work for this. Aren’t you?” he inquired.