What people, Grace? A voice from inside me posed this question. I’d never heard the voice before. What people, indeed? So what if someone thought this boy was my—nephew? Simon dated women barely out of their teens and no one batted an eyelash.
Why couldn’t I do the same? This boy—young man—was adorable and sexy and he looked at me with such intensity, but not the creepy kind, the kind that makes you go weak in the knees. It had been a very long time since a man had made me go weak in the knees.
“Sure,” I said. “Okay.”
Alfonse smiled that lovely smile. He offered to carry my package and I let him. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk, protecting me from any cars that might leap the curb. He had been trained well. I wondered how old his mother was. And then I pushed that thought away.
We found a little café, somewhat dingy, just down the block. There I learned that Alfonse had been born in Frankfurt, Germany, and that he’d been in Boston for a year, working as a graphic designer at a small firm owned by an American exchange student he’d met back in college.
“So,” I asked, “do you like it here in Boston?”
Alfonse nodded. “Yes. I have work and there is much to do here for fun. But I miss my home. I am close to my sister and her children.”
We talked then a bit about our jobs and about another current exhibition at the Museum of Fine Arts. After a while, Alfonse checked his watch.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to go. I’m meeting a friend to see a film.”
We paid for our own coffees. I doubted Alfonse had much money and I was tempted to pay for his coffee, but I didn’t.
“Thank you,” I said. “I enjoyed our talk.”
“As did I. Will you see me again?”
There was something so sweet about the way he phrased the question. Not “Wanna have dinner sometime?”
I glanced again at his slim, expressive hand resting on his thigh and at the other one cradling the tiny espresso cup. And I did something entirely shocking.
“Yes,” I said. “Let’s get together tonight?”
“Face it, Grace. You’re an idiot.”
I stood naked in front of the freestanding full-length mirror in my bedroom. The mirror was an antique, far too large for the tiny room, but it had been such a deal I just couldn’t pass it up.
Now, looking at my nearing-forty-year-old reflection in its glass, I wished I had.
I turned away and grabbed my robe from the bed. It was utterly insane to even consider going on a date with a guy almost half my age! I flashed back to those young girls I’d seen earlier, just before meeting Alfonse at Jefferson’s Paints. Weren’t they more the kind of girl he should be dating: nubile, carefree, and wearing flip-flops?
But then again, Alfonse had asked me out, not those belly-baring girls.
Me!
Was he on drugs? Had the paint fumes altered his perceptions?
I sat heavily on the bed and took a few deep breaths. It would be easy enough to call Alfonse and beg off, make some excuse and avoid any suggestions about a rescheduled meeting. It would be easy enough; he’d given me his cell phone number. Twentysomethings lived by their cell phones; there was no way Alfonse would miss my call and wind up waiting all alone for me at the restaurant where we’d agreed to meet.
I reached for the slip of paper on which I’d written his number. It sat on my nightstand, right by the phone. I looked at the neat handwriting and smiled. No doubt about it, Alfonse was sweet. And he was sexy, in that unconcerned, unaffected way some young men have. I was attracted to him. I enjoyed our conversation.
But could I go out on a date with him?
Maybe, I thought, I should call Jess and get her opinion. She went out with a much younger guy. I reached for the phone, then stopped. I wasn’t sure reminding Jess about her affair with Seth, the event that had led to the breakup of her marriage, was such a good idea. Besides, I thought, you’re an adult, Grace. You can make this decision on your own.
An adult. A grown woman with the beginnings of a middle-aged tummy and lines around her eyes and an occasional gray hair. What business did I have spending time with a guy who could—technically speaking—be my son?
Business. What business? What, I wondered, did having dinner with a man, even a very young man, what did that have to do with business, with right or wrong, with rules and regulations? Was I so—flattened—by years of tending to Simon that I’d completely forgotten how to do something purely for the pleasure of it?
Yes. Yes, I was so flattened.
And then the phone rang. I hurried into the living room where the machine was hooked up. I turned up the volume and waited. If it was Alfonse, would I pick up? Maybe he was calling to cancel, and if so I’d be glad, really.
“Gracie! Where were you today? I told you I’d be by.”
Simon. Of course, Simon.
The sound of a car horn cut off his next words and then, yes, I heard it distinctly, the giggling of a woman, a young woman, the woman for whom he’d bought that expensive bauble.
“Jane, stop,” Simon said, and I pictured him halfheartedly pushing away her grasping hand.
“So, I’ll come by tonight, okay? Be there, Gracie.”
And then Simon was gone and I was alone again in my living room, wrapped in my robe, facing another night all by myself or . . .
I marched back into my bedroom and flung open the closet. If the Diane Keaton character in Something’s Gotta Give could do it, well, why couldn’t I? If Demi Moore could do it in real life—well, the Hollywood version of real life—why couldn’t I do it, too?
I was going out on a date with a much younger man.
I went into the bathroom and studied my face in the vanity mirror. An extra dab of moisturizer around my eyes and lips might just do the trick. And I prayed for low lighting at Rose Café.
“And so, now that I have told you about my obsession with eighties dance music, why don’t you tell me about your obsession with whatever it is you love and are embarrassed to admit you love?”
I smiled at Alfonse. He was adorable, self-deprecating within reason, and oh, so sexy. In the low and—yes—flattering light of Rose Café his face took on a maturity it lacked in the light of day.
“Jellybeans,” I said. “I am obsessed with jellybeans. I’ve tried every flavor imaginable, even some horrible ones. I don’t know what it is about them that attracts me.”
Alfonse lifted my hand and kissed it. “Your dread secret,” he said with mock seriousness, “is safe with me.”
The conversation all through dinner was like that, light and pleasant, such a contrast to dinners with Simon where he’d bemoan his lack of money, lament about the sorry state of the Boston art scene, rant about his latest nemesis—and never once ask anything about me. And never once want to talk about the state of our relationship.
And never, ever pull out his wallet when the bill came.
Alfonse, twenty-one-year-old Alfonse, paid for our meal. Out of habit I suppose I insisted on leaving the tip. He was gracious about my offer. I wondered if this were the last meal he’d ever pay for but pushed the thought away. Alfonse wasn’t Simon. Even if he proved to share some characteristics with my ex-husband, he was not my ex-husband.
The very fact that he held the restaurant door for me proved that.
When we came out onto the sidewalk, I shivered. Alfonse put his arm around my shoulders and gently squeezed. “Are you cold?” he asked.
“A little,” I admitted.
His arm felt good around me. We walked like that, close and side by side, for blocks. We didn’t talk much. Bright green buds glowed under the streetlamps. The air was fresh as it is only in April.
When we reached the corner of my block, I stopped and turned to him.
“I live just a few doors down,” I said. I don’t know what I wanted to happen then. Suddenly, I felt terribly shy.
Alfonse leaned down and kissed my forehead. “Let me walk you to your door,” he said. “It would m
ake me happy to know you are home safely.”
I nodded and we continued down the block. And my mind raced.
Come up for coffee, come up and see my etchings, want to come up and fool around?
What should I say, I wondered, and should I say anything at all?
Sex. Suddenly, it loomed large. I hadn’t had sex in well over a year and then, once; it had been with Simon, a slip on my part. I’d regretted it for weeks.
Was I ready to have sex again, and with this very young man? Calm down, Grace, I told myself as we drew nearer to my building. Don’t be crazy. If you invite Alfonse up to your apartment, it doesn’t necessarily mean you have to have sex. All it means is that you could have sex if you choose to. If he wanted to and if you wanted to and . . .
“Grace?”
I started and realized we had stopped walking.
“Is this your building?” Alfonse asked.
I looked to my left, then back to Alfonse. “Yes,” I said. And then I really looked into his eyes and liked what I saw there, someone honest and sweet and funny. And then, somehow, I found the courage to say: “Would you like to come up for a while?”
Alfonse didn’t seem at all surprised. He smiled back at me and said, “It would be my pleasure.”
I looked over my shoulder, half expecting to see Simon loping toward me, hand outstretched for my credit card. But the street was empty.
“Okay,” I said.
I tripped on the first step outside my building. I fumbled with the keys to my door. I couldn’t find the light switch on the wall in my apartment.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled into the dark.
Alfonse drew me to him. I felt his hard chest beneath his jacket.
“For what?” he whispered into my ear.
And then he kissed my ear and then my eyes and my cheeks and then my mouth and I forgot all about the lights being off and forgot all about Simon hurting me and forgot all about everything and was aware only of that moment and of Alfonse’s lips on mine.
Ah, yes, I thought before all thought ceased, pleasure. If this was what pleasure felt like, I’d been depriving myself for far too long.
Chapter 10
Nell
Forget the Yellow Pages. Forget the Internet. The best way to find the right lawyer to handle your divorce is to ask around. Listen to the stories of your divorced friends and colleagues. Who’s vacationing in Hawaii? Who’s eating spaghetti from a can?
—Finding the Perfect Divorce Attorney
“You don’t look very good.”
Jess sighed and dropped into the seat next to mine. The four of us were meeting for dinner at Le Chat Noir.
“I don’t feel very good.”
“What’s wrong?” Grace asked.
My sister was eyeing her pinky nail as if she’d just discovered a colony of minuscule aliens on it. I wondered if she was aware Jess had joined us.
Jess sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m fine. I’ll get my act together. Let’s have a nice evening.”
“Friends are allowed to destroy a good mood,” I pointed out. “Not that we were swinging from the chandeliers before you came.”
“Thanks, Nell. How about I order a drink first?”
She did and when it was served and sipped, she said, “Here’s the thing. I’m plagued by guilt. It didn’t even feel this bad when I was embroiled in the affair with Seth. It’s getting worse as time goes by.”
Laura finally looked up from her nail. “It hasn’t been that long since you came clean to Matt,” she said unhelpfully.
Jess ignored her. “Some days,” she said, “the guilt feels like a physical thing, like a cancer, something chewing up my insides, something that really can and will kill me. I’m embarrassed to look at my own face in the mirror. I feel like a freak. I feel evil. I scare myself. If I could cheat on my husband, what other horrible thing am I capable of?”
Poor thing.
“Infidelity is not an atrocity,” I said with conviction. “It’s not an admirable thing, not something one should aspire to, but it doesn’t make you a criminal. At least, in this country and in this day and age, infidelity is not a crime. No one is going to brand you with a scarlet letter. The men in the village aren’t going to beat you to death.”
Grace patted Jess’s hand. “I hate that you’re feeling such guilt, Jess. You’ve got to work past it.”
“I’m trying,” she said. “Sort of. Not really.”
“Look,” Grace went on, “the experts say that when a spouse has an affair, it’s not really about the other person, the bimbo secretary or the milkman or whoever. It’s about what’s lacking in the marriage. And yes, of course I’ve considered that maybe one of the reasons Simon cheated on me all the time was that I really wasn’t the right woman for him. The point is, Jess, that you’re not entirely to blame. Matt wasn’t the right man for you.”
Jess nodded. “I know that. I know that now, anyway.”
“Seth was a convenient way for you to leave Matt,” Laura announced, as if she’d been rehearsing the thought and its delivery. “Have an affair, confess, get a divorce. Simple.”
I glared at my sister but she refused to be cowed.
Jess laughed awkwardly. “Oh, great. Now I feel guilty about having used Seth. Which was not my intention, believe me.”
“Didn’t you tell me that by the time you ended the affair, Seth was already eyeing some other lady professor?” I asked her.
“Yes. But is that the point? Anyway, I’ve been wondering. Maybe I’m addicted to falling in love, not to being in love.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I said brusquely. “You’re not addicted to anything. Tell me, was Seth your first affair?”
“Yes. I was always one hundred percent monogamous in my relationships before Matt. But I was never married before Matt.”
“Maybe marriage just isn’t for you,” Grace suggested.
“Or,” Jess said, “maybe it is, maybe it can be with some other man, someday. I’d like to know for sure. I’d like a crystal ball to show me the answer.”
“You’ll know the answer when you next fall in love. You’ll know then how you feel about marriage and if it’s a good choice for you.”
Jess didn’t look too sure about Grace’s optimistic vision.
“See a therapist,” I told her. “Go to a support group. See a minister if you have to. Get some perspectives other than those of your friends. And above all, promise me you’ll get rid of this ridiculous guilt.”
Jess nodded but didn’t voice any promises.
We needed to lighten the mood. “So, Laura,” I said, “how’s the daddy hunting going?” My sister’s escapades were sure to amuse us.
Laura shrugged. “Well,” she said, “I can’t say I’ve made any real progress. Last night, I went to a singles mixer—can you believe it? It was really called a mixer, like something from the fifties!—in the basement of a church.”
“A Catholic church?” Grace asked. She had been raised in the Catholic Church and, though she didn’t practice the faith, she retained a keen interest in its comings and goings.
“No. It was some new denomination, I think. Something like the Second Church of Good God . . . No, that’s not it. The Third Church of the Sacred Candle . . . I forget. Anyway, I won’t be going back!”
Jess barely restrained a grin, which must have been hard since it was probably the first time in days she’d felt like smiling.
“Oh?” I asked. “Why is that?”
“Well, we had to sing hymns. And they weren’t good hymns, either.”
“You would know what constitutes a good hymn?” I asked.
“I know ‘Amazing Grace’ and that’s a great hymn. Everyone says so.” Laura made a face. “But these were sort of—stupid. Like the writers were trying to be cool or hip or something but they just didn’t get it.”
“So,” Jess asked, “what happened after the hymns?”
“Not much. They had some disgusting punch with, like, a pound of sugar in i
t. I mean, I like sweets but this was gross. And the guys were all seriously nerdy, like they still lived at home with their mothers or something. It was kind of creepy. Plus, I was the only woman in pants. Everyone else was wearing some loose flowery dress, like a sack.” Laura shuddered. “It was like a scene from what’s that old show, Little House on the Prairie.”
“Well, did you talk to anyone?” Grace asked.
Laura nodded. “This one guy looked fairly normal, so I went over to him and we started chatting, you know, about the weather and what we did for a living. And . . . well, I don’t know how it came up, but I mentioned that I was getting divorced and it was like I’d just admitted to being a child molester or something.”
“Oh,” I said. “What did he do?”
“He marched right over to some people behind the punch table—I think maybe they were the priests or something—and they all started to glare at me like I was some evil criminal. One even pointed his finger at me! Ugh. It was horrible.”
“Did they try to stone you?” I inquired sweetly.
“It wasn’t funny.” Laura pouted. “I was really scared. So I just grabbed my jacket from the back of a folding chair and ran. I mean, I actually ran.”
My sister, I thought, is an imbecile.
“What were you doing at a Christian singles event, anyway? You haven’t been to church since grammar school. And by the way, Mom and Dad were Episcopalian.”
“Whatever. I don’t have time to waste. I have to find a guy soon. I’ve got to stay open to new ideas.”
Ideas old or new were never my sister’s strong suit, but I felt no need to point that out.
“I’ve got,” she said, “to have that baby.”
“A baby,” Jess replied, “isn’t going to guarantee anything other than more expenses. A baby can’t grant you eternity. A grown-up child is not necessarily going to take care of you when you’re old. Remember your Shakespeare: ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is/To have a thankless child.’”
“My sister never read Shakespeare,” I said.
Back In the Game Page 5
