by Marya Stones
This was really crazy. She had just figured out how, when, and above all what she wanted to write to Mike on Facebook, and there he was, sitting on Stephanie’s terrace. Four hours later he kisses her and two hours after that, she’s meeting him again.
Greta had two messages on the answering machine: one from her mother, whom she could call later, and a message from Nathalie. That call she would return right away.
“What, he was at Stephanie’s?” Natalie burst out.
Greta reported to Nathalie how the afternoon had developed – and that she was going to meet him in just a little while. Nathalie didn’t interrupt her, even once, and as she reached the end of her story, there was a short pause.
“And . . . so what do you think?” Greta asked impatiently.
“What are you going to wear?” was Nathalie’s first question.
“Hmm, I was thinking maybe my skinny jeans and heels. What do you think?”
“And on top?”
“My dark silk top and my leather jacket with the rivets.”
“Good, that goes well together,” Nathalie said.
Greta thought for a minute. What she should wear was one issue, but the other one was . . . “So tell me already what you actually think about the whole situation?” she wanted to know.
Again a short pause.
“Truthfully,” Nathalie said, “I think it’s phenomenal how you’re being drawn together. It’s clear that there is a reason and that you two have a mutual purpose to fulfill.”
“It’s getting a little uncanny for me,” Greta admitted. “I have the feeling again and again that I am really not in the driver’s seat, that I have no effect on what’s happening.”
“Apparently the feeling is part of it. Otherwise you’ll botch it again. And now it’s being seen to that you’ll come together and you won’t be able to bungle it. It fits perfectly with your philosophy of life: You’re being cared for, and in the universe, that which one is supposed to experience is arranged accordingly. I’m more and more sure that you and Mike are destined to have a very special story together.”
Greta hesitated. “Would you come along tonight, please?” It all seems so terribly strange to me, and I’d like to have you there.”
“What do you want me to do?” Nathalie sounded a little exasperated. “I think I didn’t hear right! That’s typical Greta again – you’re blocking the way! You can’t just take me along on your date and I certainly won’t play the chaperone. Pull yourself up by the bootstraps, Greta. You’re usually not a wimp otherwise. What do you think will happen? In the best case scenario, you’ll finally realize that you’re in love and will land in the super-deluxe suite at the Hotel Louis with him . . . with champagne and strawberries! Just like “Pretty Woman” . . . How great would that be!
“Nathalie!” Greta couldn’t quite share Nathalie’s euphoria. “This is real life! Not the movies, not Hollywood.”
“And you’re also not a prostitute – so it can’t be all that Hollywood,” Nathalie responded drily. “No, I mean it completely seriously,” she continued. “Have a fabulous evening. Throw yourself into the tub, put on the glitz and glam, and feel like Julia Roberts. And call me in the morning. Okay?”
Chapter 15
Okay, fine.
If Nathalie was so convinced that she should go on this date, then she would go, Greta thought, after she had stared at the phone for a while, transfixed.
But shouldn’t she consider the decision once more? Or at least weigh it in her mind? Again the pros and cons went through her mind . . .
Oh, no!
Don’t start with this again.
Constantly this chess game in my head, Greta thought. And I don’t even know how to play chess.
Just let it happen for once.
One doesn’t have to plan and control everything, does one?
Leave it alone now!, she scolded herself.
On the way to the bathtub, she got undressed and looked in the mirror. Hm, the little bellyroll; hm, the little love-handles; hm, my behind and my thighs . . .
No! I’m not going to look at myself and criticize, she overruled herself. Everything’s fine the way it is!
Often before a date she had critiqued her body, her measurements, her entire appearance to such an extent that she finally appeared in an outfit that looked like a sack. Naturally, her emotional receptivity was then also in the toilet. And the date was already destined to be ship-wrecked ahead of time. That was not going to happen this time. She wanted to feel good, as she did during the kiss this afternoon. Maybe he’ll kiss her again? Perhaps he’ll do it once more?
Greta stepped into the tub, turned on the spigot and
began to shower, all the while letting the evening before her run its course in her mind’s eye. Again and again, she imagined various sequences: She was taking a walk holding hands with Mike; they were eating; they were drinking wine; there were affectionate, incidental touches; then in the twilight, another walk – and another kiss: full of passion, ardor, warmth, tenderness . . . –
Abruptly, she was torn out of her fantasy, as the doorbell rang forcefully. Then it immediately rang again, this time even more urgently and longer.
Who in the world can that be now?
I really don’t have any time.
If she wanted to show up for the date on time and at least halfway fixed-up, she’d have to step on the gas; it was late.
Wrapped in a towel, she hurried to the door. Marcel stood outside, a bottle of Prosecco in one hand, a box of Kleenex in the other. He was crying his eyes out.
“Oh, God, Marcel, what’s the matter?”
Marcel swallowed. “Imagine, in New York today the first gay couple was legally married in front of the mayor. They waited their whole lives for this day and are so old. One is in a wheelchair, and is very ill; the other has been caring for him for years. Finally they got their wish. Isn’t that an incredibly beautiful story?” Marcel pulled a new Kleenex from the box and dabbed the tears on his cheeks. “I just read about it and am completely torn up by so much emotion, honesty, affection, and wish fulfillment. The world is not bad, Greta! There is something in the universe that guides and leads us. At the end, it’s only love that counts, right?”
Marcel pulled a clipping out of his jacket pocket and showed it to Greta: a couple with white hair, wrinkled skin, two men in a heartfelt embrace, one in a wheelchair, the other standing behind him.
“Come, let’s drink to the couple and to love!” said Marcel, and lifted the bottle of Prosecco. When Greta didn’t react immediately, he looked at her from top to bottom. “Why aren’t you dressed?” he said, somewhat piqued. “You can’t open the door for me like that. I’ll go blind.”
“Oh, Marcel, so much has happened today – besides you will not go blind and anyway, you know me. I’ll tell you everything another time. Now I have a date and have to get ready. Come in, we’ll have a drink together and you’ll stay until I get ready, okay?”
“Good! But tell me now – who, how, and what?”
While Greta gave Mike the news about Mike, Marcel poured them both a glass of Prosecco. Then he followed Greta around the apartment with the glasses in his hands: from the kitchen to the bathroom, into the bedroom, back to the bathroom, to the shoe closet. Then Greta took the glass of Prosecco herself, continued to blither on, with Marcel hanging on every word.
Finally, Marcel looked her over critically once more, from top to bottom. “And that’s what you’re wearing on your date?” he said finally.
“Yes, why? It’s cool.”
Marcel shook his head emphatically. “No, that won’t do. You’re going on a date, not to a beer-garden!” He put his glass down. “Now, pay attention, my beauty. You want to look really hot tonight and you have to totally get into it. I’ll take care of it!” Marcel swung past Greta in a wink, and posited himself in front of the closet.
Arms extending outward, he shoved the clothes hangers back and forth — opened the drawer with the T-shirts
– and again shoved the hangers back and forth. Then he hesitated, and went over to the shoe closet. There he pulled out the high heels which he and Greta had bought together: Brown strappy ones with appliqués and supercool buckles.
Without paying any attention to Greta’s indignant expression, he fixed on the clothes closet again. Decisively, he took the denim mini-skirt out and laid the pieces on the bed.
“Where is that silk tunic with the spangles?” he murmured, while he dug around some more in the closet.
“Oh, not that one,” Greta whined, it’s a little bit see-through!”
“That’s why, exactly!” Marcel said, firmly decisive. Where is it? You have to change your underwear, too – your bra naturally has to be opaque.”
Greta gave in. “The blouse is under the leather jacket in the closet.”
Marcel found the blouse and laid it, along with the matching underwear, with the rest of the outfit. Finally, he found the right belt, too. “So, there we are now!” he announced, clearly highly satisfied with himself. “Perfect!” And turning to Greta: “No objections – I want to see you in it. You can choose the jewelry yourself. You can’t make many mistakes at this point. I’ll fix your hair when you’re ready. But you have to hurry, hurry! Drink up, I won’t give you any more now, anyway. Otherwise you’ll get the hiccups before it’s all over!”
Greta had given up all resistance. She found Marcel’s choices somewhat daring and sexy, and perhaps a little overdone, but one had to admit the man had taste.
Oh, so what, Greta thought decisively. I want to wear that outfit! I want to look really good and now I’m simply doing it.
When she was ready, she really did look awesome!
A real burner.
A head-turner.
A bombshell!
It was a little strange for her to like the way she looked so much. She hadn’t had this feeling for a very long time.
Chapter 16
Greta had arrived in the lobby of the Hotel Louis and sat down in the bar. It was like the scene in “Pretty Woman”: She at the bar with her back to the lobby.
I wonder if he’ll even recognize me?
She had ordered a Diet Coke; Marcel’s Prosecco had been almost too much. And she hadn’t eaten anything.
The Coke stood on the counter, next to a few peanuts and chips. Greta mustered her courage and reached for some, and as soon as her mouth was full, she heard his voice.
“Greta, great that you’re here. I have a surprise and a favor to ask you. Would you drive out to Lake Chiemsee with me, to Rimsting? It’s not that far, approximately an hour away, and very beautiful. A family that I’m friendly with lives out there on a farm. They have a litter of kittens that the veterinarian wanted to put to sleep because they have an infection. The mother cat has already rejected the little ones and yesterday a homeopathic doctor gave them globulin that was supposed to help. The globulin was to be effective overnight, or the kittens would really have to be put to sleep. Would you like to see what happened and how the story of the kittens has developed?”
Greta’s mouth was still full of chips. Nonetheless, she listened to Mike carefully, even though she felt like the gluttonous Cookie-monster.
There are probably chip-crumbs in the corners of my mouth, she thought nervously.
She forced the chips down awkwardly and not exactly in a lady-like manner.
“Yes, of course, I want to know how the story continues,” she said quite honestly, for Mike’s story and his empathy had surprised her again. “But I’m not exactly properly dressed for a farm. What do you think?”
The thoughts running through her mind were more judgmental, however:
What, to a farm, now?
I’m going to look like a city-pick-up.
Once again I’m totally out of it.
Typical, right?
Greta no longer thought of herself as super-chic; rather, she felt super-out-of-it.
“You look like a knock-out!” Mike said, put his arm around her and held her pressed closely against him. “We’ll get you some jeans and shoes in no time, and then we’ll drive out, okay?”
“Where are we supposed to get jeans and shoes so quickly now?”
“Here, in the city!” Mike responded with raised eyebrows. “We’ll go shopping again, the two of us. But this time, I’ll do the choosing. And please accept! I want to give them to you as a gift for taking you by surprise with this excursion idea. Okay?
“Yes, okay!” Greta answered, took the last sip of her Coke and washed down the rest of the chips.
Mike had the tab billed to his room and led her from the bar stool in the direction of the exit.
“Didn’t you say that you wanted to bring someone along?” Mike asked in passing on the way outside.
Greta almost choked on her own breath. “Oh, there was a change in plans,” she tried answering languidly.
Mike said nothing in response but smiled quite noticeably. Although this mute comment didn’t escape Greta in the least, she didn’t want to pursue the topic. She knew that was too slippery a slope for her and she wasn’t exactly a master at repartee.
This time, shopping was completely uncomplicated and super quick. Mike led the way right to a nearby jeans shop, and there a pair of jeans in used denim, boot-cut with some rivet trim, was chosen fast as the wind, tried on, and then purchased in a smaller size.
Then they hurried to a shop two blocks away that Mike apparently knew very well – a cowboy boots emporium. Oh my, Greta thought, but I promised not to say anything, and she simply held her tongue.
Mike noticed Greta’s skeptical look and smiled at her: “You’ll see, you’ll probably never take these boots off,” he assured her. “They’ll become your favorite shoes!”
He chose embroidered boots for her at the shop: Flowers and butterflies on worn-look cowboy boots. Greta was still skeptical, but she held to the agreement and kept silent.
The boots fit and were paid for with his credit card. “So,” Mike said, “now let’s go back to the hotel, change quickly, and be on our way, okay?”
“Sure, let’s go.” Greta laughed.
After she had changed clothes in the bathroom of Mike’s hotel room, she looked at herself critically in the bathroom mirror.
Hm, is that me?
The jeans are really good-looking . . . but the boots! And they’re really not comfortable yet.
Maybe that’ll come later.
And does this suit me?
Well, I’m not going to think about this any longer.
With this attitude, she opened the bathroom door and walked into the room. Mike was standing at the window, his cell phone in his hand, speaking in English. When he heard her, he turned around. “Wow, what a bombshell!” he said loudly.
Greta blushed.
After a short pause, he turned back to the telephone conversation. “Okay, Hogan, good to know, you’re pulling the strings. Gotta run, my girl is waiting for me. I’ll keep in touch with you. Say hello to the gang. Bye.”
Greta understood every word, but in her mind only “my girl is waiting for me” resonated. He had called her “his girl” – which sounded so trusting, endearing, and affectionate. At this moment she really wanted to be his girl.
Mike put his arm around her, held her tightly and kissed her neck and then her mouth. She couldn’t do anything but let it happen. She felt enveloped by his tenderness. His lips were warm and soft; his kiss loving yet firm. The touch did not call for any qualms or misgivings on her part. She returned the kiss, and in the moment everything around her disappeared. His hands wandered up her back to her neck. He held her head tenderly but firmly and looked into her eyes.
Greta felt that now she would have to decide.
How do I get out of the numbers game? Oh, God, what’s happening?! A score, and then? Is that it? How should I react?
All these thoughts raced through her mind with incredible speed.
He said, however: “Greta, do you want to be my girlfriend
this evening - my girl?”
She hesitated and heard herself say: “Yes, this evening. Let’s see what happens then.” The thoughts zoomed through her mind like rockets: What does “my girl” mean, and what does my saying “this evening” imply?
A one-night score in bed?
Oh, man, what kind of trash am I talking here! Greta scolded herself.
Mike cut Greta’s chaotic thoughts off. He let her go and headed toward the door.
Still somewhat confused, she heard him say, “Come, my angel, the kittens – I want to tell you the rest of the story. Let’s go.”
He held the door for Greta as she followed him out.
They drove off in the Mini convertible that Greta had earlier admired at Stephanie’s. The evening was mild and Mike put the top down. The wind blew through their hair, and after Mike had left the city limits, he reached for Greta’s hand as a matter of course. He held it gently and laid his arm on her thigh. It all felt so familiar and so comfortable that Greta didn’t find it at all difficult to assent. In reality it was just what she had wished for, but hadn’t ever dared hope.
A song was playing on the radio, and Mike turned it up and began to sing along. Greta knew the song as well and also hummed along. They both smiled at each other and Mike held Greta’s hand a little more tightly. Singing together, they finally drove into the courtyard of the farmhouse that Mike had been talking about.
It was an old farmhouse, beautifully renovated, with direct access to the lake. It was no longer a working farm. Both the barn and the stable had been rebuilt, and the owners had opened a little market there: fruit and vegetables from their own garden. Also for sale were individual ceramic pots, jewelry and art objects, and a small roadhouse had been added, where cakes, coffee specialties and wine were available. In the inner courtyard several chairs and tables were set up between a lot of greenery. Beautiful pots of flowers, a playground for children, and for the lazy, lounges for lying in the sun had been set up. Everything was very lovely, tastefully and invitingly put together, completely uncomplicated and quite established. Greta immediately felt just great.