by Jane Heller
I laughed again. “A definite must see.”
“Or maybe you’d prefer Grigo, the Greek place that has flamenco dancing. Organic salads too. And at L’Allegria, the restaurant to your left, the waiters don’t speak a word of English. When it’s your birthday, they sing ‘Happy Birthday’ in Italian, and it’s like being at the opera.”
I looked at him, this time with a sly grin. “Something tells me you published a restaurant guide when you were an editor, and that’s how you know all this.”
“Nope,” he said. “I just enjoy exploring. New sights. New smells. New people.”
I blushed as I felt his eyes on me. He wasn’t at all shy about saying what was on his mind, and I found it refreshing. I found him refreshing.
“Speaking of which,” he went on, “who are you really, Melanie Banks?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You sort of flinched back at your place when I mentioned your support of your ex and your shared custody of Buster. You let me rave about how civilized it sounds, but it’s not a rosy picture, is it? I misread the situation, and you didn’t want to tell me for some reason.”
Either he was very perceptive or I was a lousy actress. “Yes, you misread the situation,” I admitted. He was hard to lie to. He had the air of someone who didn’t run from the truth, wasn’t scared away by it, and I responded by being as straightforward with him as my convoluted personal life allowed. “I hate sharing Buster, but the support issue has been the really contentious one. And the reason I didn’t tell you was because I assume your divorce is headed in the same direction.”
He seemed surprised by the remark. “You think my ex-wife and I will fight over alimony?”
“You will, believe me. She’ll resent having to support you and you’ll claim you’re entitled to the money.”
He stopped walking and looked at me. “What makes you think she’s the one who’ll be supporting me?”
“Oh. I just assumed that because you lost your job and she—”
“Has one?”
“Yes. You said she’s a successful real estate agent.”
“She is, but we haven’t gotten around to the terms of our settlement yet.”
“Then brace yourself. It isn’t fun.” I gave Evan the highlights and the lowlights of my marriage and divorce, and let loose about my feelings about the spousal support.
“I can see that Traffic Dan gets your motor going,” he said. “There’s a vein on the side of your head that popped out as soon as you started talking about him. It’s still throbbing.”
“What vein?”
He placed the tips of his fingers on my left temple and rubbed it gently. “Feel that?”
I felt it all right. His touch was soft and sensual, and it had been so long since anyone touched me that way that I nearly jumped.
“You okay?” he said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Nobody’s ever told me I had a throbbing vein before.” I reached up to touch my face myself, and there was a lumpy area there.
“It’s your Dan vein,” he said. “Let’s change the subject and see if it’ll go away.”
“Fine with me.” My Dan vein. I hoped it wouldn’t burst and kill me.
“Tell me about this big project of yours,” he said as we resumed our walk. “The one that’s keeping you so busy.”
Okay, so he didn’t know he wasn’t changing the subject after all. “Actually, it’s moving along nicely now,” I said, imagining Ricardo making another entry in his notebook and Isa taking more photos and Mrs. Thornberg going next door to complain about the dancing. “In about two months, I’ll know if it’s a success.”
“Is the project part of your job as a financial planner?”
“It’s financial in nature,” I said cryptically. “If I pull it off, it’ll mean saving a fortune. I’ll be able to move out of the Heartbreak Hotel, for one thing.”
“A fortune, huh? You love money, don’t you? Why else would you be in the profession you’re in?”
“I love the effect of money,” I said. “I love that if you’ve got it, you can pay your bills and your taxes, own a home and a car, have decent health insurance, sleep at night. Money is security. It keeps us safe.”
He cocked his head at me, as if still trying to figure me out. “There’s no such thing as safe, Melanie. People with money die just the same as people without it. They just have nicer flowers at their funeral.”
“I’m speaking from experience, Evan,” I said with more force than I intended. “My mother died when I was little, and my father spent more time on the unemployment line than he did with me. I never had enough. Not for clothes. Not for school. Not for anything.”
“Sounds grim, but was it the money you were missing or the affection?”
“The money.” I met his gaze. “It’s the one thing that doesn’t disappoint.”
“Compared to people, you mean?”
“Maybe.” He was perceptive. He seemed to know me better than I knew myself, and we’d only just met. I’d never been with a man who took the trouble to know me, who cared enough to probe below the surface so early in a friendship.
“May I ask you another question?” he said.
“You will anyway, so go ahead,” I said with a laugh.
“You said before that you never cry. How come?”
“I just don’t. Never did. You’ll probably say I’m holding my emotions inside, but I just think I’m in better control of them than most people.”
“And that’s a good thing?” He looked doubtful.
“It works for me.”
Just then, we came to a traffic light. “Are we crossing here?”
“You bet. We’ve been talking about food, but now it’s time to eat some.”
He took my elbow as we crossed to the other side of Ninth, Buster close by. I felt cared for, protected, the way I always did when he was around.
“Here?” I said when we stopped in front of a nondescript place called the Ninth Avenue Food Gallery.
“Best pastrami you’ll ever have.” He leaned over the counter and ordered a pastrami hero sandwich with lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise, and melted provolone. When the sandwich was ready, he held it in front of my mouth to tantalize me. “Just taste this and tell me this neighborhood isn’t amazing.”
I took a bite, and the flavors exploded in my mouth. God, it was delicious. I’d lived in Hell’s Kitchen for a year and never set foot in the place. I’d had no idea what I was missing.
I was about to hand it back, but he insisted I take another bite.
“You may regret that,” I said. “It could be gone before you get a crack at it.” As I sank my teeth into the sandwich, the mayo squirted out and landed on my chin, a big white wet blob just sitting there. It seemed as if I was incapable of not embarrassing myself in front of this guy.
“Whoops,” I said, grabbing a napkin from the counter and wiping myself off, then handing the hero over to him. “Obviously, this thing is too much for me to handle. It’s all yours.”
He smiled. But instead of taking his first bite, he stuck his finger into the sandwich and scooped out a dollop of mayonnaise, which he proceeded to spread on his own chin.
I roared with laughter as other patrons turned to look at him. “What in the world are you doing?”
“Keeping you company. One of the best ways not to feel silly is to have someone else feeling silly right along with you.”
I stood there, staring at him for a few seconds, moved by his consideration for me. He hadn’t wanted me to feel silly alone. And as a result, I no longer did.
I reached for another napkin and wiped the mayo off him. “Are you for real, Evan Gillespie?”
He nodded. “Very.” He took a bite of the hero, chewed, swallowed. “So will you go out with me Saturday night?”
“What?” The question caught me completely off guard. I wasn’t ready for a date. Friendship? Sure. Romance? No. I was still involved with Dan. Well, “involved” in the sen
se of thinking about him non-stop, about the project nonstop. Plus, I didn’t want another romantic relationship after the crushing disappointment of the last one, not ever. “I like you, Evan. I do,” I said. “But it’s not a good idea. I’ve just gotten divorced and you’ve just gotten separated and—”
“And we both enjoy eating. So we’ll have dinner together. My place. I’ll cook.”
“You cook? I can’t even make decent coffee.”
“Come over Saturday night and I’ll teach you how.”
That was the interesting thing about Evan. About Evan and me. When I was with Dan, I’d been the tour guide. Suddenly, I was the one doing the learning.
I accepted his dinner invitation against my better judgment.
“Great,” he said. “Saturday night. Seven o’clock. Apartment 3F. Leave the evening gown at home. This’ll be a casual affair.”
“Can I at least bring something?” I asked as we headed back to the Heartbreak Hotel.
“Yeah. Buster. He’s more than welcome to join us. Unless, of course, he’s got a date of his own.”
“He’s free. But he only eats premium kibble.”
“Then that’s what I’ll cook.”
“Seriously, Evan. Please don’t go to a lot of trouble. Not for me.” Not for a woman with no interest in anything more than friendship.
“Fine. I won’t go to a lot of trouble. Is a little trouble okay?”
I laughed. “It is.”
Chapter
16
The week sped by—my time with Buster always seemed to go faster than my time without him—and before I knew it, I was confronting Saturday night and my “date” with Evan. I’d considered canceling, but ultimately it was just easier to show up, keep things light and chummy, and then leave. Also, the fact that the site of the date was just down the hall provided me with an easy escape route, should I start to feel trapped. Yes, he was a great guy. We’ve established that. And, yes, I hankered for companionship. We’ve established that too. But my emotions were directed elsewhere, as you know.
Still, I dressed up a little bit Saturday night. Or, should I say, I dressed down a little bit. My uniform—business suit—remained in the closet in favor of navy wool slacks and a white silk blouse. Much too formal for a casual dinner at a neighbor’s apartment, but I had lost touch with “casual.” I was just in my thirties, and yet I wore the clothes of a middle-aged matron. Only my long wavy hair, full lips, and a bust size other women go under the knife for suggested that there was a babe in there somewhere. I had long since covered her up.
Having said all that, I was in a festive mood as Buster and I trotted down to 3F that night. Desiree, Ricardo, Isa, and Antoinette had all checked in, confirming that Dan and Leah were still going strong. Amazing, right? I had managed to cut the three-month cohabitation hurdle down to nearly two months. A mere sixty days—the amount of time the DMV gives you for paying a parking ticket! Ninety days had seemed like forever, but a sixty-day deadline seemed within reach, totally doable. I practically salivated as I imagined calling Robin and declaring, “We’re done! Dan’s on his own! I don’t owe him another cent for the rest of my life!” God, what a glorious moment that would be. And it was so close now I could almost smell it.
Actually, what I could smell was garlic, and it was coming from 3F. I looked down at Buster as we stood by Evan’s door. “What could he be cooking, sweetie boy? He doesn’t have much money.”
He rubbed his body up against my leg in what I took to be a manifestation of his ambivalence—about Evan, not the dinner. “It’s not a real date, and Evan’s not trying to replace Daddy,” I assured him. “He’s just giving Mommy a chance to relax a little.”
Buster perked up, so I rang the bell.
“Here you are,” said Evan, looking mighty fine. He was in jeans and a body-hugging black sweater, and while he had kept his promise and not donned a tuxedo and tails for our evening together, he had definitely taken extra care with his grooming. His unruly hair was sort of slicked back off his face, like a choir-boy’s, save for the cowlick that wouldn’t lay down, and he had a couple of cuts on his face where the razor had nicked his skin. All of which I found rather endearing. “Come on in. Both of you.”
Buster hung back in a rare display of reticence until Evan produced a squeakie toy and tossed it at him.
“Did you buy that for him?” I asked as my dog started playing with the toy and wandered off with it.
“No. I bought it for you. So you wouldn’t have to worry about him.”
“Very thoughtful. Really.” I handed him a bottle of dry rosé champagne, my favorite. “I didn’t know which went better with kibble, red or white, so I split the difference.”
“Good choice. The kibble special tonight is lamb shanks with mashed potatoes and string beans almondine.”
“It smells fabulous,” I said, grateful that we weren’t having ketchup sandwiches or Spam. I felt guilty that he’d spent so much on dinner when he obviously couldn’t afford to. On the other hand, maybe his wife had started coming through with the checks by then. My eyes crossed as I thought about the likelihood of her paying for my meal. At that very moment, Leah was probably at Dan’s, eating off his ex, and there I was at Evan’s, eating off his ex. Talk about a circle jerk.
I followed him into the tiny kitchen, which was identical to mine except that his miniature appliances were hopping with activity. There were pots on the stove and pans in the oven, and it all felt homey and warm.
“Can I help with anything?” I asked as he stirred the potatoes with a big wooden spoon. I was just being polite. I hoped he’d say no, obviously, given my ineptitude in the culinary arts.
“You bet. I told you I would teach you to cook.” He let go of the spoon and nodded at it. “Keep stirring until they get thick and creamy.”
I panicked. “How about the lumps? Are they supposed to disappear?”
“Not completely. I’d leave a few in, just to keep it real.”
He patted me on the back and left me to my stirring. I must tell you, I got a vague thrill from working those potatoes and watching them thicken and smooth. A satisfaction. A sense of having control over something. Yeah, the Leah/Dan thing was very promising, but I didn’t know for certain if it would go my way in the end. The potatoes, on the other hand, were easily manipulated and much more predictable. Perhaps I had underestimated the joy of cooking.
Since Evan had moved out a lot of the apartment’s furniture to make room for his canvases, there was no dining room table. So we ate on our laps as we sat on the sofa, Buster eating nearby. (Evan had bought him a food bowl too—a big, sturdy steel one—and filled it with lamb morsels.)
“This is so good,” I said, licking my lips. “As professional as any of the restaurants on Ninth Avenue. Who taught you how to cook?”
“My wife,” he said. “Kaitlin grew up in a large family, and she and all her sisters are naturals in the kitchen.”
“How long were you two together?” I asked, since, unlike me, he never flinched when he mentioned his marriage.
“Five years,” he said. “Funny how you expect these things to last a lifetime, in spite of the depressing statistics.”
“Were you very traumatized when she told you she wanted a divorce?”
He shook his head in puzzlement. “You and all these assumptions of yours. What makes you think she was the one who wanted the divorce?”
“I think Patty said something. Or maybe I just figured that when you lost your job and took up painting instead of finding another…Well, I thought your wife—”
“Dumped me?”
I nodded sheepishly.
“Is that what happened with you and Traffic Dan? He lost his job with the Giants, so you dumped him?”
“No, of course not. I’m not that callous. There were other factors.”
“Such as?”
“Such as: Dan didn’t just stop working; he stopped trying to work.” I was about to do my usual number on my ex, but I tho
ught it might be awkward for my host, since he too was a bumbo, albeit not as flamboyantly.
“It’s an interesting phenomenon,” I said instead, hoping that if I spoke in general terms, I could avoid bashing Dan. “Men like to have it both ways. They want women to do well financially—or, at least, they say they do—but only if they’re doing well too. The minute the balance of power shifts away from them, they can’t handle it.”
He looked skeptical. “What about you? Can women handle it when their man goes down? You act very enlightened and say it doesn’t matter who’s earning the money, but I think it does matter. I think you women don’t respect a man if he’s got less in the bank than you do.”
“No, what I don’t respect is a man who takes advantage of a woman he claims to love. Dan went on and on about how much he loved me and didn’t want the divorce and wouldn’t I reconsider, and now here he is hoarding what’s mine, what I worked hard for.”
“And you’re hoarding a grudge.”
“Wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe in the beginning, but grudges use up a lot of space in here,” he said, pointing to his heart. “I’m not pretending that life is fair, but sometimes things are what they are and you have to let them go.”
Easy for him to say. He was about to be on the receiving end of the monthly checks. “Getting back to you, Evan, be honest: did Kaitlin give up on the marriage when you flew off to the Bahamas to paint? Was it the lifestyle change that prompted her decision to leave?”
“Assumptions again.” He sighed, exasperated. “I was the one who left her, Melanie.”
“Really? Why?”
“She had an affair.”
“Oh.” I put down my knife and fork.
“I told you she’s a real estate agent. What I didn’t tell you is that she sold this guy a loft in SoHo, then slept with him the day he closed on it. Some people celebrate closings with a bang, huh?”
“You’re making a joke about it? You must have been devastated.”
“Sure I was. But it happened during the third year we were married. We spent the next two trying to get past it, and we couldn’t, so we broke up. Now I’m at the stage where I’m making jokes about it. It’s called moving on. You should give it a shot.”