We stood at the door to the porch, about to head out to see my parents and the other guest, when Al hesitated, seemingly lost in thought. Couples like Al and Susan amaze me. Together for thirty-five years. Next month, my parents will have been together for thirty-two, themselves.
It makes me wonder if things were more simple back then. In an age of self-help books, Internet dating sites, and “meat markets” like gym clubs and even some church singles groups, you would think that getting a date would be a breeze, and meeting your soulmate would be easy-cheesy, cyberspaceezy.
But it’s not.
I’m living non-dating proof.
Yet, even with all that, I feel sometimes just like that verse that always gets quoted at weddings “if I have not love, I am but a clanging cymbal.”
Hmmm. I know I’m not the only one, though. Maybe with all those clanging cymbals out there, we could start a rock band or something.
Everybody knows people in rock bands get lots of dates.
* * *
Al and Susan’s patio overlooks a nice-sized pool with a built-in waterfall, as well as Lake Travis. The sun is just barely beginning to turn that deeply burnished orange that heralds that sunset is on the way.
Sunsets over Lake Travis are special. One restaurant on the lake bills itself as “the sunset capital of the world” and has dozens of decks terracing down the hillside so patrons can enjoy nature’s finest end-of-day glow show as they dine on chips-and-salsa, guacamole, and fajitas. The back of Al and Susan’s house is like that on a mini-scale, the view unobstructed by any houses or errant trees—just a clear sight line to the sky overhead and the radiant sparkles stretching across the lake below.
Al leads me outside, where I see Mom and Dad seated with a man about my age. He has dark, almost-black hair, and appears to be of average height (it’s hard to tell when one is seated) and a stocky build.
“Kate, this is Paul White. Al met him Wednesday morning at that men’s group breakfast, and since Paul is new in town, he thought it would be nice to have him over for dinner,” Mom says, patting the chair between herself and the pastor. “We’ve been enjoying talking with him while we were waiting for you to get here, Kate.”
Paul jumps into the conversation. “Your mom tells me you wanted to go to the John Mayer concert this Sunday night, but your friend had to cancel on you.”
Great. Mom’s made me out to be some kind of friendless loser. “My roommate, Mimi, had something come up this weekend, and now has to go out of town with her family.” I neglect to mention that this event is my ex-boyfriend’s engagement party at the family lake house.
“So, you have tickets then?” Paul says. “Are you still planning on going?”
“Oh, goodness no!”
Oops. That was louder than I planned.
Methinks I doth protest too much. Over-protestation is definitely a sign of friendless loser status.
“Well, if you’ve already got the tickets, and you don’t mind, I’d like to take you.” He looks up and makes direct, but not uncomfortable, eye contact. “I’d hate to see you miss something you’ve been looking forward to. And your parents have told me a lot about you tonight. I need some new friends in town, and I’d like to get to know you better.”
Daaaaaang.
That line rolled off of his tongue and into my ears as smoothly as freshly Zambonied ice at a hockey rink. How could I possibly even think about skipping the concert or going by myself now?
“That sounds like fun,” I reply. “I’ll give you my number later and we can discuss the details.”
He looks me straight in the eyes again. Many times, direct eye contact can be disconcerting. But with Paul White, it isn’t. It feels good to have someone want to look into my eyes… if that doesn’t sound too strange.
I notice his eyes are blue. Not the clear, Mediterranean blue that Jack Cooper sports, but a dark, glassy shade that in some lights would probably match the smoky shade of his hair.
Normally, I’d be annoyed with Al, even though his blatant attempts at matchmaking over the years have all been well-meaning. But they’ve all been so obvious, and “met him at the men’s group breakfast and decided to invite him over” is no less in-your-face. In some cultures, a neon sign would be considered less subtle than Al’s ambush of potential Kate suitors.
But recently—especially since Mimi broke the news about Mark—I’ve realized something: What I’m doing isn’t working. My mother always tells me that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing the same way and expecting different results.
Among other things, accepting a date with blue-eyed Paul White gets my mind off blue-eyed Jack Cooper. I mean, there’s the very definition of insanity—getting a schoolgirl crush on your client.
That’s almost Chimp-like in its ridiculousness.
Going to a concert with an articulate, handsome man—well, that’s not insanity. That’s seeing potential. That’s being mature.
“So, will I see you with Al and Susan at church sometime?” Strangely, all the other members of the dinner party have gone inside and it’s just Paul and me left sitting on the patio.
“No, I actually go to Lake Shore Church now. It has a younger crowd and a more contemporary service. I still go to First Central with Mom and Dad on most holidays, though.”
“Well, maybe I’ll meet you over there on Sunday. There’s no rule that says I have to attend the church I eat breakfast at.” Paul White leans in toward me and smiles. His incisors are a bit crooked, unlike Jack Cooper’s dental-dream teeth.
I must brush all thoughts of Jack from my mind. He is not here, and he is not reality because he is not an option for me. Besides, crooked can be charming.
“Kate, are you okay? Is there a mosquito buzzing around you?” Paul’s head is cocked slightly to one side. I realize that I’ve been brushing my hand around my face, trying to get those thoughts of Jack to dissipate.
Great. Not only did I discover I lack a verbal filter with one man, apparently, but I also lack an involuntary movement filter with another. “Yes, I’m fine, sorry. I think it would be great if you visited Lake Shore on Sunday.”
“Dinner’s ready, come on inside…after all, Katie, you should have discovered he’s Mr. Right by now. You’ve had five minutes to yourself out there.” Al chuckles then rings the dinner chime for those of us on the patio. (Yes, the house has one. Susan bought it at a market in Taos. She swears it’s cute.)
Funny thing is that today, it sounds to me like a bell, and not at all like a clanging cymbal.
What I’m getting ready to say here is the mental equivalent of taking a fresh-off-the-showroom-floor Lamborghini full-throttle through a school zone, but I can’t shake this feeling all of a sudden. Even my toes are tingling as if they’re resting in a carbonated footbath. The corners of my mouth are tugging upward of their own volition.
This guy is easy on the eyes. He’s nice. He even goes to church. I don’t know any guys who go to church. That would totally make my mother happy—as I’ve already seen.
And he wants to spend time with me. He wants to get to know me.
This is crazy. This is so unusual.
This is so awesome.
Cancel the Clanging Cymbal Rock Band Tour. I can’t help but feel that Sunday just might be the first day of the rest of my life.
6
“In contrast, large groups in which at least half of the community is present are called gatherings. Gatherings may last a week or more, and like parties, are flexible with individuals arriving and leaving. Gatherings are highly social events where group members play, breed, and groom. Jane Goodall describes gatherings as ‘the hub of chimpanzee social life.’”
--From the website of Save the Chimps, savethechimps.org
* * *
I return home Friday night and, my apartment seems strangely quiet. Mimi has already left for the weekend’s events at her family’s lake house in Marble Falls. It’s not even particularly late, but the stillness around the apar
tment makes it seem like it’s much, much later. Even the party animals upstairs seem quiet, and I know they’re home because I saw their two-door Ford coupe in the parking lot downstairs. It’s almost as if it is one of those “be still and know that I am God” moments.
Because of all of this—not that one needs to have a reason—I roll over in bed, snuggle up with my extra pillow, and make sure my feet are tucked up near my poodle for warmth, then I think about all the things I am thankful for.
I am thankful for my family, and those friends who seem more like family—like Al and Mimi. I’m thankful for my job, in which the next few weeks will give me an opportunity to prove myself. And I’m thankful for my date on Sunday. It feels like some of the loose ends of the past six months or so are tying together into a nice bow.
Tomorrow is a big day, and I’ll be up early, so I think I’m going to roll over one last time and let the last thoughts in my head be of gratitude.
I close my eyes, and everything quickly fades to soft, velvet darkness.
It’s six-thirty in the morning, according to my alarm clock.
In all of the English language, the two words which least describe me are “morning” and “person,” together and in that order.
I told Jack I would be at the ranch around ten o’clock to help set up, and everyone else was invited for noon. It will take me an hour or so to get to his place in Wimberley, so I need to be on the road by nine. I also need to stop by the grocery store to pick up food for the day. There’s another hour. So, I need to leave by eight o’clock.
Ugh.
By the time I go downstairs and make a cup of hot tea and toast a freezer waffle, it will be close to seven o’clock.
I can be ready in an hour, but it isn’t always pretty.
The good news is that before yesterday, I probably would have spent extra time getting ready, as I am going to see Jack today. But, since I have my bonafide date with nice-guy Paul in about 36 hours, I don’t have to get bogged down by these small details. I’m all about focus today—it’s a good opportunity to show how serious I am about doing a good job on the zoo project.
At 9:06 a.m., I am on I-35 heading south to Wimberley. I pass billboards heralding the largest outlet mall in Texas in nearby San Marcos. To actually take my exit instead of driving just a little bit further is difficult, considering it might be nice to have a new outfit for my date tomorrow night. But, keeping in mind today’s goal of focus, I drive onward and take the correct ramp off the freeway.
The first part of Highway 12 takes me through San Marcos and past the campus of Texas State University. Once out of the city, though, it’s clear that I’m headed for the heart of the Hill Country. I read once in a magazine that Wimberley was named one of the best small towns in America, and with surrounding scenery such as this, it’s easy to see why.
The view from behind the driver’s seat is everything I love about the west side of Austin…just on steroids. The hills roll in majestic waves. The trees and brush cover the sides of the landscape like a fuzzy pashmina of green. And through it all winds the Blanco River, its glassy blackness interrupted by white bubbles against slate-toned rocks.
The Cooper ranch, known as Cielo Blanco, is several miles down a twisting drive known as River Road, obviously named because it runs right alongside the banks of the Blanco River. In many places, there doesn’t even appear to be a shoulder on the road—just river—and I’m thankful I’m not driving at night and haven’t passed any of the area’s resident deer. Getting spooked by Bambi would likely send my convertible and me for a swim.
As I pull up to the gate of the property, I find myself a bit overwhelmed by the vista. It would be so easy, especially in the status-conscious world we all find ourselves in today, to attribute some of the glory and splendor of this land to its owner, who I’ve admittedly spent some time lately contemplating the splendor of.
“Kate!”
I turn into the circular drive in the front of the main house, and Jack is standing there shouting my name and waving at me. He’s wearing a polar bear-white collared knit shirt and a pair of khaki cargo shorts, with a pair of blue flip-flop sandals that match the blue horse riding on the crest of his shirt. I’m officially over my mini-crush on him—for so many reasons—but there’s no point in denying the facts. Even on a casual, holiday-weekend Saturday, I’ve got one good-looking client. But I’m glad I’ve resolved to just be disinterested and focused on my work ahead.
I park the car and pop the trunk, where all the groceries, goodies, and my bag of personal belongings are stowed.
“Hey, Kate. Mornin’.” There must be something about ranch living, because I’ve never heard Jack speak in anything other than the “polished businessman” dialect. I must say, though, that unleashed drawl makes him sound hotter than ever.
Or, it would, if I still had a crush on him. But since I don’t, it just makes him sound like a native Texan.
And being one myself, that’s something I can appreciate with or without a crush.
“Hi, Jack,” I say as I step out of the car. He’s already reaching in the open trunk and pulling out the day’s necessities. “Your place is lovely. In fact, this whole area is just breathtaking. I’ve actually never been out to Wimberley before, but the whole drive along River Road was gorgeous. God was definitely smiling when he created this area of the Hill Country.”
Jack answered with a smile of his own. “You know, my dad used to say something like that. We came out here almost every weekend when I was a kid, and he used to say that God lost track of time and spent a whole day creating the Hill Country because it’s so distractingly beautiful. My dad also said that’s why other places aren’t quite as pretty. God spent so much time on this corner of the earth here that he had to play catch up everywhere else, in order to get all of creation finished in six days.”
A conspiratorial twinkle flashed in his eyes. Jack might be talking about God, but that grin on his face sure didn’t belong to some choir boy.
Following Jack into the main house, we wind through living areas which are well-appointed with comfortable cocoa-brown leather couches and chairs, along with oak tables, built-in cabinets and shelves, and what appears to be a state-of-the-art media center.
Where the deer and the antelope play, well, Cielo Blanco clearly is not. However, some Chimpanzees I know might just frolic here nicely.
“I’ve already started working on the burgers in the kitchen,” Jack calls to me.
“Great. All the lettuce and tomatoes and pickles are in the top grocery bag you’re holding, and the mustard and mayo and paper goods are in the other bag.”
He places the brown paper grocery sacks on the counter, and peers inside. “Sweet. You got pickle spears, too.”
“Well, of course. How can you have a proper holiday weekend cookout with only hamburger dill slices? It’s just not done. You must have the spear.”
Walking into the kitchen, my eyes immediately fix on a huge, intricately ornamented silver-framed mirror hanging over the professional-grade cooktop. It has raised angels and vines, complemented by flowers in relief, studded with semi-precious stones. A striking piece, the silversmith captured the intricacy and beauty of a garden. It is large—I would say, close to three feet tall—yet, reflects a sense of delicacy.
My eyes will not tear from it. I want to study every line and detail.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Jack follows my train of thought as easily as if my brainwaves were instead some kind of short-wave radio. “It was the last thing my mom bought before she…” He pauses, with the appearance of someone who has often practiced not pausing. “Before she was killed. It was hard to have it up there at first, but as the years have passed, it’s a nice reminder of who she was—always reflecting the beauty of the world around her.”
“I didn’t realize your mom had passed away, Jack. I’m sorry. With my work at the paper, I’ve known of your dad, moving and shaking in the community all the time. I guess I just assumed your mom
was right there with him.”
“She was. All the time my sister and I were growing up, she was very active in the community. She served as president of the Junior League in town one year.” Jack’s eyes briefly locked with mine. “She never worked in an office, per se, but my mom was the hardest-working person I’ve ever known.”
I felt the most peculiar sense wash over me, almost as if the mirror was watching us—as though there was an unseen party testifying to this conversation.
“In fact,” Jack keeps speaking, at the same time busying himself in an almost hypnotic fashion all around the large kitchen. “When she was killed, she was helping others.
“It happened about fifteen years ago. I was about to go off to college, and Mom wanted the two of us to take a trip together. But my mom wouldn’t have just been satisfied with a trip to New York to see the shows and shop. Not Marianne Cooper—that wasn’t her style.”
I followed Jack’s face with my eyes, and I wondered if Marianne Cooper’s only son was a reflection of her in physical appearance, personal conviction, or both.
“Mom arranged for the two of us to go to Mexico,” Jack becomes enveloped in his role of storyteller, lost in the memories of a decade and a half past. “We were to spend two weeks working on a humanitarian relief trip in a small village in Jalisco.”
Jack passes just in front of me, pulls out a barstool that had been hidden beneath the overhang of the brown-and-gold flecked granite countertop of the island in the kitchen. He gestures at the stool with two fingers, wordlessly inviting me to take a seat. As soon as I am seated, he pulls out a stool for himself and does the same.
Strain crosses his face as he continues to speak, and in his blue eyes, I can almost see a black shadow. I know it’s a wall rising, a wall to help shield his heart so he can continue to speak.
Gorilla Dating Page 6
