Wine&Dine: another romance for the over 40

by L. B. Dunbar

  With silvered hair.

  Which is so not my thing.

  I like younger women, yet I can’t stop looking at her. Her dark hair is nearly gone, the ends cut, and in its place is a shimmery sterling color interwoven with inky black and a hint of blue in gentle waves. I didn’t even know how long her hair was as both times I’ve seen her it’s been pulled up, but it cascades down her back. The silver makes her eyes brighter along with a touch of red lipstick accentuating the dip and curve of her pouty lips.

  “Dolores?” I choke on her antiquated name, and then I swallow. She straightens and smooths her hand down her skinny jeans, which hug her hips and outline her hourglass shape. On her feet, she wears suede booties, and her top is more fitted than the too-large sweater she had on earlier. A deep V accentuates her breasts, hinting at the cleavage in the middle of the exposing material.

  She’s been holding out on me.

  “You look…stunning.”

  I’ve never seen a woman turn so red, and watching the heat crawl across her skin makes me want to chase it. Where does it begin? Where will it end?

  “You don’t think it makes me look older?” She’s worried about looking older when she just looks breathtaking.

  “No. No, I definitely think you can pull this off.”

  She nods with a weak smile. The blush returns.

  “Are you ready to go home?” I ask, hardly recognizing my own voice. She nods again and bends for two shopping bags near her feet.

  “Here, allow me.” I step around her, awkwardly brushing against her hands as we reach for the bags at the same time. We stop and turn to one another, our faces close, our lips not close enough. I swallow again as I find I want to kiss her. I want to taste those rich red lips and run my fingers through those multi-colored waves of silver and ink.

  “Thank you,” she says, slowly standing. My eyes follow hers. When did they start to sparkle? “For everything.” Her voice is so sincere it nearly fills my hollow heart.

  Dammit. What is she doing to me?

  6

  Confessions of a sort

  [Dolores]

  Garrett drives us back to the condo building but hardly speaks. His initial reaction to my appearance was shocking but sweet. His eyes wouldn’t pull away from my hair, and I worried he really did hate it although he said otherwise.

  You look stunning.

  No one has ever said that to me.

  Then I reconsider his opinion. What do I care if he likes my hair? Yet I couldn’t stop running my fingers through the smooth texture or curl the ends around my index. It felt different along with appearing different. I never considered allowing the white to show, but the beautician convinced me I could wear it. Own it.

  You have a young face, and silver is all the rage. She even convinced me the streaks of black won’t make me look like Elvira but enhance the edgy style. I like it.

  When we pull into the garage, Garrett removes my bags from his trunk and then carries them up to Denton’s place. As I turn the key in the door, he finally speaks, blurting out his request.

  “Take a walk with me.”

  I’m too startled to think, so I stare at him for a long moment.

  “I need to take Wally for a walk.” He clears his throat. “Come with us.”

  Ah, the dog. “Sure,” I say. “Just let me put these things away.”

  “No problem. I want to change. I’ll meet you out back in ten.” Wearing his power suit from this morning, he still looks just as handsome as he did hours ago. I wonder if he even expels any stress running his investment company. By three o’clock at the diner, I’m a sweaty mess and exhausted.

  After closing the door, I take off my new booties and find my flip-flops since the day has heated up a bit. My long-sleeved shirt accommodates the coolness of the store, but with the afternoon warmth, I search for a regular T-shirt in my new wardrobe. I bought three of the same style in different colors. I tried to keep things within a strict budget and not splurge too much so I could pay Denton back when I return home.

  The thought of going home doesn’t settle well with me, but I’ll have to return someday. Soon-ish.

  For the time being, I have a few new clothes, and it really does make me feel better about being here—and about myself. The personal shopper told me nothing baggy.

  You still have it all tight, lady, she teased. Form-fitting was made for your body.

  I stroke a hand over my hip-hugging jeans and smooth down the casual T-shirt in solid white. I take one hesitant look at myself in the mirror in Denton’s guest room and then head to the back entrance of the condo building where I find Garrett and Wally waiting for me.

  Wally goes crazy upon seeing me, jumping up like he wants a hug. Thankfully, Garrett intercepts him before he gets his dirty little paws on my fresh new tee.

  “Wally,” Garrett admonishes, and then sheepishly adds, “I think he likes you.”

  “I bet he likes all the girls,” I tease, reaching out hesitantly for the back of the slobbery canine’s ears. I don’t really like to touch animals, but there’s something about the way Wally looks at me—almost begging me to scratch him—that I can’t resist.

  “Who’s a sweet dog?” I say in my best false-impression of a dog lover. “Are you a sweet dog?”

  Wally’s tail wags so fiercely his whole backside wiggles.

  “You’re a pain in the ass, aren’t you?” I’m still using the whiny tone as I insult him, and he continues to wag away. His owner laughs.

  “Let’s walk.” Garret whistles and throws a tennis ball from a plastic stick out toward the water. Wally races after it, and we begin our stroll. Dutifully, Wally returns the ball, dropping it at his feet, and then looks up as if begging Garrett to toss it again.

  “Did you have a good day?” It feels odd to ask him but also strangely appropriate. I don’t know what else to say.

  He shrugs, staring off after Wally. “The usual.”

  Earlier, he seemed excited to tell me about his company. Fox Investors. It sounds important, buying and selling and producing, but I don’t really have the business mindset for products. I’m more into service, food service. Still, he didn’t mention details, and I fully expected him to start bragging about all he’s bought and sold and produced.

  We continue in silence until Wally drops the gnawed ball before me.

  “See? He likes you,” Garrett teases. “He wants you to pick it up.”

  “I’m not touching that nasty thing. It’s been in his mouth where he slobbered all over it.” I shiver violently, exaggerating my repulsion. “He’s probably been drinking out of your toilet all day and licking his—”

  I don’t get a chance to finish my thought before Garrett grips my wrist, forcing my palm open, and places the ball in it.

  “Ewww.” I shudder. I’m so frozen in gross-out horror I don’t consider I can just drop it.

  “My dog does not lick his own balls.”

  “He’s male. Every guy likes to get himself off.” I squeal. “Or is he like his dog-daddy, seeking pleasure from others?”

  Garrett’s eyes open wide. “And what would you know of my sex life? Not that I’m hiding anything. I’m a healthy man.” He pats his stomach, which isn’t the region of his body most healthy, I imagine.

  “Oh, I bet. I heard you through the walls.”

  His pouty mouth pops open, and his eyes sparkle. “Yeah. What did you hear?”

  I don’t think I can repeat it, but with the teasing challenge in his eyes, I give in. “You know, the usual generic sex lines. Right there. Get it, get it. And yes, yes, YES!” My voice accentuates each positive cry, my chest heaving as I grow louder. My eyes close, emphasizing the false pleasure of some woman in his bed. Not that I think of him in his bed. Or a woman with him in it.

  When my eyes open, I find Garrett watching me. The mocking gleam is now a flicker of flames.

  “I can guarantee no woman sounds like that in my bed, nor do I call out such weak commands.”

&nbs
p; When did we step closer to one another?

  “Incorrigible,” I mutter. Another retort rests on my lips. What do women sound like in your bed? Only, I don’t want to know. Not really. Not about other women.

  “Incredible,” he murmurs with a gleam to his light eyes as he watches me. I bet he is. Do you want to be in his bed? The tone of his voice merges with my thoughts, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s asked me that. Our eyes lock in this weird way like we’re trying to look into each other. Around the mind. Down the hatch. To the heart.

  “If you don’t want to hold his ball, just toss it. Don’t tease me by playing with the ball.” Garrett clears his throat. “I mean, him. His ball.” Garrett chokes again. I look down at the nasty, ratty dog toy in my hand. Weakly, I throw the ball forward, and Garrett chuckles.

  “Another reason I shouldn’t be handling his ball.”

  Garrett’s laughter sputters as he mutters ballbuster under his breath. He’s behind me, and once again, I feel his presence like a warm blanket over my shoulders. He’s close—so close—and I inhale. The salty air mixes with his fragrance. Bayberry and ocean—a heady combination.

  He steps away too quickly when Wally returns for another toss. The sexual innuendos dissipate with the throw, falling flat in the wind.

  I can’t be attracted to Garrett. I’m not here for a hookup. I have Rusty. The thought makes me sad, though, because I don’t really have him. And I’m no longer certain I want to consider having him. At all.

  Garrett seems to sense my thoughts are a thousand miles away, and he begins to chatter as we walk. The weather. The ocean. The Los Angeles area. The sound of his voice and the trivial conversation give me the distraction I need from my thoughts.

  After we return to the building, I thank him again for the ride and including me in his walk. He escorts me to Denton’s door, and for half a second, I have a sense of him kissing me, like a good night kiss after a date. I don’t think I’ve ever been kissed at the door, though. The only doors I’ve seen have been opened for me to walk in and follow a man for more than a kiss.

  “I’ll see you later,” I say, disrupting my own displeasing thoughts, and Garrett tips his chin without a word. As I slowly close the door, willing myself not to ask him inside, I watch him until he’s nothing more than a sliver behind the wood. He remains in the hall, watching me in return, our eyes locked in that strange manner until I finally shut Denton’s door. Once closed, I lean on the barrier and tilt back my head.

  Like a lingering bad dream, Rusty fills my thoughts again. What would he think of my hair? My new clothes? My comparison of him to the man across the hall?

  He wouldn’t care for any of it. He wouldn’t even notice my hair. He’d remove my clothing too quickly to note I had new things. As for another man—I was his—although he’d never said as much. He’d never called me his; I’d made myself the label. And he certainly didn’t belong to me. He belonged to many women.

  Was that really good enough for me? Why do I think about these things?

  You just shared an innocent walk with a flirty man who did something kind for you, that’s why. It’s nothing more, Dolores. Don’t daydream.

  I press off the door, shaking away my thoughts of Rusty…and Garrett.

  I’m not much of a drinker. In fact, I don’t indulge because of my father, but I find a bottle of wine and decide one glass won’t hurt. After filling a bulbous crystal, I walk out to Denton’s balcony. He explained to me how I could wirelessly connect my phone to his speaker system. With his step-by-step coaching and a frustrating phone call, I figured it out. Now, the rich voice of Otis Redding fills the balcony, telling the tale of a person who left his heart in Georgia and sits on a dock wasting time.

  Am I wasting time? I wonder. I stare out at the waves crashing into each other. I have no idea what I’m doing here. It’s been a week, and other than sleep, I’ve done nothing productive. Yet I find I’m content. I’ve never just sat, and for a moment, I feel relieved. Is this what relaxing feels like?

  I also feel…pretty. My new cut and color flits in the breeze, and my clothes feel foreign but flirty. I’ve propped my feet up on the edge of the railing as I sip wine at four o’clock in the afternoon.

  “Hey.” Garrett’s deep voice startles me. With his condo as the other half of this floor, his balcony is only a few feet from Denton’s. “You like Otis?”

  It takes me a moment to comprehend his meaning. The man. The song.

  “I love this song. I love older music.” I don’t know why I offer the information. Rusty hates older tunes, preferring heavy metal and the like. He especially hates when I try to make him dance to classics or any music, for that fact.

  “Like who?”

  Etta James tops the list of those I rattle off while he smiles as I speak. He doesn’t offer commentary; he just listens, so I keep talking.

  “When I was a girl, my mother loved to dance. My father never took her, although she claims that’s how they met. She’d make me dance with her in the living room. Swing dance was her favorite. Big band.” I huff a laugh with the memory. “I was never very good, but she made me practice over and over. I never knew how much I loved it until I didn’t do it anymore.” The memory is sadder than I recall. As I grew older, the last thing I wanted to do was dance with my mother. I wanted to dance with boys instead. For years, I did, and then I fell into Rusty’s bed after James. Neither man would dance with me.

  “I’d love to dance again,” I say, and then my head swings in the direction of Garrett who balances on his forearms against his balcony railing. “I have no idea why I told you that.”

  His mouth curls, and he tips his head. “I’m glad you did.”

  We look at one another for a moment like we did earlier on the beach and in the hall. We aren’t exactly staring. We’re just looking—eyes focused on eyes. What does he see when he looks at me?

  “Let me…” Garrett begins, but then his phone rings. He frowns at something on the device and holds up a hand for me, signaling one minute. Then he turns back for his condo with the phone at his ear.

  Let me come over, I foolishly thought he’d say, but there would be no reason for him to ask.

  When he’s gone for more than five minutes, I decide I’ve had enough of the day. Taking my wine and my music, I go back inside Denton’s condo and head to bed.

  + + +

  Garrett and I spend several days in a routine. Every day around four, he comes to the door and asks me to take a walk with him. Wally is growing on me. He gives me this doggie look with his strange blue eyes, and I pretend I’m offended, exasperated at the interruption to my not-so-busy life, but I always give in, secretly pleased to spend time with both of them. I don’t want to admit it to myself, but I look forward to the time.

  “Hey, can you dog sit for me?”

  “What?” I’ve stopped in my tracks at the request as we walk along the beach.

  “I have to go out of town for one night. My usual dog hotel can’t take him on such short notice.”

  “There’s a dog hotel?”

  “Yeah.” He looks at me like I have two heads for never hearing of such a thing, and I look back at him, equally puzzled at the concept. “So will you?”

  “I can’t dog sit.”

  “Why not?” Garrett asks a bit surprised, his eyes shifting sideways when we begin walking again.

  Because I hate dogs, I want to remind him. I watch Wally race into the waves and then chase a sea gull, kicking up sand at his feet as he runs. Dirty. Smelly. Dog.

  “It’s only one night. I need a sitter.”

  “What do you do when you have one-night stands?”

  Garrett scoffs. “I don’t have them. Wally is my excuse not to stay.”

  “Interesting,” I mutter, without realizing I’ve said it out loud. “What about a girlfriend?” I saw the blonde come and go from his apartment the first week I was here.

  “Don’t have one of those either.” His voice lowers, and I glance over my
shoulder at him.

  “Ever?” I’d be shocked. He’s too good looking, too smooth not to hold a woman’s attention.

  “Had a few. They didn’t stick.” He refuses to look at me, and I’m wondering if there’s a story. Of course, I have my own. I loved James Harrington. He was my knight in chrome armor. The bad boy my dad disapproved of, and I gave everything to him although his heart was never mine. Then came Rusty, who was a rebound when James went for Evie. Eventually, Rusty became my regular. In a small town, there aren’t many options once you’re over thirty. I was thirty-seven when we began hooking up. The thought makes me shudder.

  “Where are you going?” I ask, my voice laced with complaint. I shouldn’t ask. I shouldn’t care. I don’t want to sound needy, but I look forward to four o’clock each day.

  “Atlanta. Why? Want to go home?”

  The question throws me off as much as him asking me to dog sit, but I don’t stop walking this time although my feet stumble in the sand.

  “I don’t think I’m ready,” I reply quietly. It’s not that I don’t want to go home ever again. I’m just not ready to return to who I was despite feeling a little lost in California. With Mother gone. With the condition of the diner. With Magnolia’s crumbling house. Rusty. My life feels like it’s all been for naught, and I’m relieved when Garrett doesn’t ask for an explanation.

  “Still searching for the ruby slippers, Dorothy,” he mocks, and it takes me a moment to register the reference. “I get it.”

  He finally stops walking and looks at me. “But the yellow brick road doesn’t always lead to the Emerald City. And Dorothy had the power to make decisions all along.”

  He’s quiet as he looks off in the distance.

  “My granddad invested in me, my future, and I ran with it. Searching for my own ruby slippers in a masculine, non-threatening, I like women way.” He smiles, and I chuckle at the clarification. “I try to remember his gift of a chance, his gift of faith in me, and I never want to let him down. Well, at least, the memory of him. So I understand the idea of chasing after something, even if it isn’t clear what you’re looking for.”