by Jane Green
ELEVEN
A large crowd of people fills the forecourt of the restaurant, beautiful people lounging on the rattan sofas dotted around the small square, the bar at one side five deep in men with dark tans, and women in floaty sundresses and high-heeled sandals. There is a buzz of laughter, excitement, and potential filling the air as Sophie and Emma thread their way through to get a drink.
This is awful, thinks Emma, catching the eye of an older man with an open shirt that’s exposing a copious amount of chest hair. He raises his glass in a toast, with what she can only interpret as a lascivious self-congratulatory smile. Everything about him seems sleazy. Emma looks away, rethinking the whole idea of a night out in what appears to be the worst kind of singles bar.
Emma has never done the singles scene. As someone who does not like crowds, and who is not actively looking for excitement, she cannot compete with the kind of women who now surround her. Emma is pretty, but she knows she is a quiet pretty; she is more girl-next-door than sex siren. As Sophie muscles her way to the bar, Emma steps back slightly and looks around. The laughter here is a little too loud, the men a little too tanned, the women a little too done. All cleavage, and legs, and teeth, and necks thrown back to expose golden clavicles. Blown-out hair, glossy and long, curled at the ends to bounce on bare, brown shoulders; legs lean and muscled from hot yoga and Pilates; fingers heavy with cocktail rings glistening in the fading light.
Small globes twinkle overhead, strings of tiny fairy lights woven through white hydrangea trees in giant square planters. There is an air of possibility, as if anything could happen here. Indeed, as Emma backs away from the cluster at the bar, another man lays a hand on her arm as he moves past her. She looks up as he smiles and winks in a way that makes her want to run home, crawl under the covers, and never go out again.
“Isn’t this fun?” says Sophie, eventually reappearing with two French martinis as they find the last available sofa and settle down. “I never go out to places like this anymore. God, being married is boring. You’re so lucky.”
Emma looks at her as if she is entirely nuts. “You actually think this meat market is more appealing than curling up in bed with the man you love? Oh my God, Sophie, have you lost your marbles? Do you not smell the air of utter desperation?”
“Nope,” Sophie says happily, looking around. “I think this is fun. Two men told me I was beautiful while I was waiting at the bar, and a third asked for my number. Honestly, I haven’t had this much attention for years. I should come here more often.”
“Which men?” demands Emma.
“Just some guys.”
“Was one of them wearing an open-necked shirt with a mat of curly chest hair?”
Sophie pauses. “Maybe.” She looks around with a frown. “Isn’t everyone here wearing an open-necked shirt with a mat of curly chest hair?”
Emma bursts out laughing. “Come on, Soph, you have to admit this is pretty awful. You would have to be desperate to come here on a regular basis.”
“I think it’s great. If I weren’t married this is totally where I’d come.”
“You’re only saying that because you are married, so it’s fun. If you actually were single and this were about the only option available for you to meet some potential suitors, you’d kill yourself. The only decent men in this place have wedding bands on, and that’s not good, either. That guy over there”—she points to a tall, good-looking man in red pants and a blue polo shirt—“the one all over the skinny blonde with the big boobs? He’s got a wedding band, and I’ll bet you my pension she’s most definitely not his wife.”
“Don’t be such a Debbie Downer. Come on, play the game. If you could have a date with anyone standing in this courtyard right now, who would you choose?” Sophie sips her drink as she challenges Emma, who looks around with a slight grimace.
“There really isn’t anyone.”
“I know, I know, because the cute landlord isn’t here . . .” Emma shoots her a warning look. “Okay! Sorry! Of the available men in this courtyard right now, if you absolutely had to pick someone to go on a date with, who would you pick? And by the way, before you say chemistry isn’t something you can predict and you don’t go out with people based on what they look like blah blah blah, I already know all of that. But you have to pick someone. Just for the record, if I had to pick someone, I would choose the guy in the red pants and the blue shirt.”
“Ew!” Emma shakes her head. “He is so full of himself. That’s not my type at all.”
“He’s not full of himself. He’s confident. He’s probably a trader who lives in a great big gabled new house in Greens Farms with four small children and a wife who thinks he’s in a business meeting right now. I didn’t say I’d marry him, but he’s my type. So who would you pick?”
“If I absolutely had to . . .” Emma looks around, her eyes finally landing on a man deep in conversation with a friend, short brown hair, slightly geeky glasses, no interest, it seems, in the women around him. “Him.”
“Really? Him?”
“Yes. He looks interesting. And normal. He looks like an architect or a graphic designer.”
“He does. And he actually looks like a nice guy. No wedding band, either. Just saying.” Sophie takes a big swig of her martini, then stands up. “I’m just going to the bathroom.”
Emma continues people-watching while Sophie is gone, wanting to feel a little less uncomfortable than she does. She tries not to catch anyone’s eye, for even though she is single, she doesn’t want to look single, doesn’t want anyone here to think she’s the sort of woman who comes to a place like this in the hope of meeting someone.
Sophie is gone for a long time. Emma gets out her phone and busies herself scrolling through her Facebook news feed, when suddenly Sophie is back, clearing her throat, and introducing her to the guy with the glasses Emma had pointed out, and Doug, his friend.
“I just started chatting with these guys,” says Sophie, “and this is Jeff. He’s a real estate agent. I told him that you were renting but were probably going to start looking to buy something in a few months, so I thought I should introduce you.” Sophie makes big eyes at Emma as the men step forward and shake her hand.
“Here,” says Sophie, pulling a chair forward. “Join us. Sit down.”
When Sophie finally sits, Emma leans toward her and says, under her breath, “Girls’ night?”
“Single friend needs sex?” says Sophie, equally quietly, as she smiles brightly, raising her voice to normal levels. “Emma? Jeff is divorced and lives very close to you at Compo Beach.”
“Really?” says Emma, forcing a smile, for small talk was not something she had anticipated on her girls’ night out. “What street?”
“Appletree Trail?” says Jeff, as Emma shakes her head.
“I don’t know it. I’m sorry. I’ve only lived here for about five minutes.”
“Where’s your place?”
She explains as Jeff’s face lights up. “Dominic’s house? I love that house. Now those are two properties that are going to be worth some real money. I can’t believe he hasn’t sold them yet and cashed in. Every real estate developer in town wants those houses.”
“Really? What’s so special about them?” asks Emma.
“One’s on a double lot. If you combine them, you can build a big house and a pool. That’s pretty rare down by the beach, unless you’re on one of the private roads. I’ve talked to Dominic about selling for years, but he won’t do it.”
“How do you know Dominic?”
“We were at school together. I’ve known him forever.”
Emma is starting to feel more comfortable. The fact that he knows Dominic means he must be a good guy. “Do you know his son, Jesse?”
Jeff nods. “He and my nephew, Chad, are pretty friendly. They’re in the same class at school.” He smiles. “Big first-graders come September.�
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And Emma risks asking the question she hasn’t been able to ask anyone else, not even Dominic. “Did you know Jesse’s mother?”
Jeff laughs. “Oh yes. Everyone knows Jesse’s mother. I’ve known them both for most of my life. We all grew up together. Stacy is . . . huge fun, but a party girl. Not the type who ever wanted to settle down. She’s a holy handful.”
“What does that mean?” Emma couldn’t help asking.
“Stacy’s a wild one. I don’t know, I kind of thought she was crazy, but Dominic’s always liked a bit of crazy.”
Emma opens her eyes wide. “That doesn’t sound good.”
Jeff shrugs. “He is such a great guy. He would do anything for anyone, and we all love him, but he’s always been a disaster with women. His parents were totally nuts. I remember going to his house as a kid and his parents would literally be screaming at each other. One time when I was there, his mom cracked his dad over the head with a frying pan and there was blood everywhere. The police were always going over there. Dominic grew up in crazy drama, and for years he’s dated the kind of women who like crazy drama, and then he wonders why he gets hurt. Stacy was never really interested in him. I mean, she liked that she had him wrapped around her little finger, but there was no way she was the type to settle down. She was a huge partier, and— Oh, I shouldn’t say this. This is gossip.” He trails off.
“Cone of silence,” encourages Emma.
“She wasn’t exactly the faithful type. Stacy was never faithful to anyone, and then she got pregnant, and she didn’t find out until it was too late. So she had the baby, and boom! Took off. Dominic woke up one day because the baby was crying and he discovered that Stacy had literally run away in the middle of the night. And that was it. I don’t think he’s ever heard from her again.”
“Oh my God. That’s really awful. But she must come home at some point, to visit or something? She doesn’t know Jesse? What about her family? She must be in touch with some people, surely?”
“There are a couple of girls in town who know where she is, but they’re loyal to her and won’t say. Apparently she doesn’t want to be found. I heard she moved to Alaska, but who the hell knows. So Dominic is raising that kid by himself.”
“He’s a great kid.”
“He is. So, what brings you to Westport? What’s your story?”
“I don’t really have a story. I was working in banking, gave it up, and just moved out here for a quieter life.”
“So you did what they all dream of doing and managed to get off the treadmill.”
“I did.”
“Boyfriend? Husband?”
“None of the above.”
Jeff nods thoughtfully. “Hm. Interesting. So maybe you and I could go look at houses sometime? If you’re actually interested in buying something.”
“I’d love to,” says Emma.
“And maybe we could grab dinner or something afterward?”
“Oh! That would be nice,” says Emma. He is nice-looking, and perfectly pleasant, but there does not seem to be an ounce of chemistry between them. She thinks of Dominic. She likes Jeff. She very much likes that he’s not a banker type. But she doesn’t like him as much as Dominic. She doesn’t trust him the way she trusts Dominic. She pushes thoughts of Dominic aside, bringing her focus back to Jeff. She had no idea she was about to be asked on a date, given how little they have talked. Perhaps she’s wrong, perhaps it’s not a date. The only thing they have established they have in common is Dominic, and that doesn’t really count.
“What are you guys talking about?” says Sophie, who has been engrossed in conversation with Doug.
“We’re planning house hunting and maybe dinner,” says Jeff.
“Ooh, a date! So quickly! I like your style.”
“Thank you,” he says, before checking his watch. “Damn. We have a dinner. We have to go, unfortunately. It was so nice meeting you. Here.” He roots around in his wallet, pulling out a business card. “Call me and we’ll set up that date.”
“Oh. Okay,” says Emma, eyeing the card suspiciously. This isn’t how it is supposed to happen, surely? Granted, it has been a while since she dated, but isn’t he supposed to take her number? Or her e-mail, at the very least? Isn’t he supposed to be the one who gets in touch with her rather than the other way around?
As Jeff and Doug walk away, she fingers the card and turns to Sophie with a frown. “Call me old-fashioned, but isn’t he supposed to take my number if it actually is a date? This feels like business. I think he only suggested dinner because he thinks he might get a house sale out of it.”
Sophie shakes her head. “I don’t know. I have no idea how dating works these days. Honestly, I think it’s probably okay. You don’t have to call him, though. I’d e-mail him and leave the ball firmly in his court. You can just say it was nice to meet him. Was he nice? Are you interested?”
“I don’t know,” says Emma. “He was pretty forward, but all we talked about was Dominic. He knows him pretty well, and he filled me in on some of his history.”
“Oooh. Gossip! Let me get us more martinis. Then I want to hear all about it.”
• • •
The house is quiet. Jesse is on the sofa, fast asleep, a blanket over him, and Hobbes curled up in the crook of his neck. Emma pauses, smiling at the scene of domestic bliss, when she sees the glow of a candle in the garden.
Opening the sliding doors, she steps out to find Dominic, sitting in an Adirondack chair with a glass of what looks like it might be whiskey, earbuds firmly in place, his eyes closed. He doesn’t see her until she is right in front of him, and when he does, he opens his eyes and jumps.
“I’m so sorry!” Emma says, lowering herself into the chair next to him with a smile. “I didn’t know you were sleeping. I didn’t mean to give you a fright.”
“I wasn’t sleeping. I was listening to some music, and I didn’t want to wake Jesse. Did you have fun?”
Emma frowns. “I’m not sure I’d call it fun. It’s a bit of a scene. Sophie loved it.”
“You didn’t?”
“I’m more of a quiet, glass-of-wine-in-a-corner kind of girl. We met someone who knows you, though. A real estate agent. Jeff Mulligan?”
Dominic smiles. “Yeah. Another townie. I’ve known him forever. Small world, huh?” He peers at Emma. “I think I know everyone in town. So, did he ask you out?”
Emma feels herself blush. “I’m not sure. He suggested dinner, but he didn’t take my number.”
“Did he give you his business card?”
“Yes!” She laughs. “So I don’t quite know what he meant by dinner. I think he sees me as a prospective client.”
“Jeff sees everyone as a prospective client. Which doesn’t mean he won’t also see you as a prospective something else. Although I’ll admit I wouldn’t have thought he’s your type.”
“No? What do you think my type is?” Emma leans forward to see him better. It’s so dark, his features light up every now and then as the candle flickers in the breeze.
“I don’t know,” Dominic says slowly. “Why don’t you tell me?” The candlelight glints in his eyes as he looks at her, as he leans toward her, never taking his eyes from her face. Emma’s heart skips, then stops. They stare at each other, not speaking, the garden completely silent, as a cat yowls from the garden opposite, breaking the spell.
“I’d . . . better go inside,” she says softly.
Dominic sits back, the moment gone, both of them wondering what had just happened; what might have happened had the cat not stolen that moment away.
• • •
Emma can’t stop smiling. She locks the front door feeling as if she is walking on air. What did it mean? What does it mean? None of this should make sense; this is not the kind of man she thought she would fall for. Even that sentence sounds ridiculous. What kind of man
did she think she would fall for? A banker? A hedge-fund manager? One of the tanned men at the bar tonight, buoyed by alcohol and their own narcissistic sense of self-importance? Jeff? She shudders.
Has she fallen for Dominic? Has he fallen for her? That moment, in the garden, when they stopped speaking, when they just stared at each other as Emma’s heart skipped a beat before racing wildly. Wasn’t that the moment he was supposed to kiss her? She could feel it, could sense it in the air, the intimacy, the chemistry, the excitement, but then, the cat. He had pulled away.
There was something there. She felt it. She is old enough and experienced enough to recognize chemistry, even in the most unexpected of places. She does like him. Every time she sees him, she feels happy. Sometimes when she’s in the house, and she hears his truck pull in the driveway, without even realizing she is doing it, she starts to smile. She doesn’t know when this started. She thinks of him guiding her through the garden gate the other night, his hand on the small of her back, the feeling of safety that came over her. She feels safe with him. He is the kind of man who would look after her. He is the kind of man who is looking after her. Look at how he takes care of Jesse. She is still smiling as she thinks of him building her shelves, helping her out in the kitchen, and just now, in the garden, almost . . . almost . . . kissing her.
Could she see herself with a man like Dominic? A few months ago she would have said no. Not because he wasn’t a city boy, but because they come from such different worlds. She thinks of the world she comes from, the world she moved across the Atlantic to escape. The formality and pretension of her aspirational mother, the expectations everyone held for her, expectations that led her into banking in the first place. And during those New York years, all the parties, the competitiveness, the one-upmanship, how relieved she is to have escaped to a quieter life.
“Stop!” she says out loud, realizing how ridiculous it is to project into the future, to think about what kind of a life she might have with Dominic. This isn’t what she does, what she has ever done. She has never been the sort of woman to dream about getting married. On girls’ nights out, in her twenties, even when she was with Rufus and knew the path down which she was supposed to be traveling, she was never comfortable having the conversations the girls sometimes had: where they would get married, what kind of flowers they would have, what—oh, how many times did she listen to this one—the dress would be like.
