Perfect on Paper

by Janet Goss

  He offered me his arm and led me to his regular banquette in the back of the restaurant. A waiter scurried over with his usual bottle of Brouilly, and the two of us sat there, smiling and sizing each other up, until the wine was poured and we were alone.

  “You’ve lost weight.” He hadn’t.

  “Liar. Love the stones.” He reached across the table and fingered the faux sapphires. Vivian had already closed up shop by the time I left the apartment; she’d never know I’d taken them out for a night on the town.

  I laid my hand over his. “I have to ask you something before we move on to more… pleasant topics.”

  He groaned. “Why do I know this is going to involve certain residents of the Sunshine State?”

  “Sorry. Mom’s planning a hundredth birthday party for Dad. And she thinks it would be nice to have all his children in attendance.”

  He sighed and retrieved a datebook from his Hermès man-purse. “April first… Damn. I’m free. Oh, what the hell—tell Lucinda I’m looking forward to it.”

  “She’ll be delighted.”

  “That makes one of us. So, what’s the happy couple up to these days?”

  “The usual. They were about to have margaritas on Twofers when I spoke to Mom.”

  Tom-Tom shook his head slowly from side to side, but I noticed he was suppressing a smile. “Honestly. What a thing to do to Aunt Lizzie.”

  Dad’s older sister. She was long gone by the time I arrived on the scene. “What about her?”

  “She had a stroke. Never did quite get her speech back—she sounded like somebody with bad dentures. A lot of sibilant esses.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Not really. Once she learned how to drink left-handed, she was pretty much back in action. Whenever she came to visit, we’d set her up on the couch with a Chivas and soda, and whenever her glass got low, she’d shake her cubes at Dad and say, ‘Twoferssss, Tommy!’ ”

  “That’s terrible!”

  “I know. You always felt like a real shit when you laughed.” He shrugged. “We’re not the Cleavers, sweetie.”

  “I always wondered how that boat got its name.”

  “Mystery solved.” He took a deep pull from his wineglass, then looked me in the eyes. “So… who is he?”

  “Who’s who?”

  “The person you were hoping to hear from instead of your devoted brother this afternoon.”

  I felt my face flush. “It’s not important.”

  “You’re not having trouble with that new beau of yours, are you?”

  “Of course not. This is a somewhat… older problem.”

  Tom-Tom leaned back in his chair, studying my expression. “Oh no,” he finally said.

  “Oh no, what?”

  He sighed and laid his hand over mine. “Why in the world do you persist in flogging that dead horse known as Ray Devine?”

  “It’s not like that! It’s—”

  “Honestly, Dana. Reparenting is one thing when you’re in your twenties, but after all these years…”

  “Reparenting, Dr. Freud?”

  “What would you call it? It’s a perfectly reasonable way of dealing with an absentee father. I did the same thing myself with a charming, ruggedly handsome antiquities dealer back in the early sixties, when I was the one who’d just fallen off the turnip truck. I owe my entire career to Percy.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I know what you’re about to say, and dear Percy’s treatment of me could hardly be categorized as parental, either. That’s not the point. Between me and your Mr. Devine, you wisely formed relationships with protective, experienced older men who could lavish you with the attention you deserved.”

  “It sounds like a book: Dana Has Two Daddies.”

  “Exactly! Ray Daddy and Gay Daddy!”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Gay Daddy?”

  “It takes a village, sweetie.”

  I pondered the ramifications of my half brother’s theory during the cab ride home. I couldn’t help but regard his logic as skewed. My relationship with Ray was simply too sexually charged to be labeled Ersatz Paternal.

  But Ray Daddy did have that unconditional love thing down pat: My conversation was scintillating, my witticisms inspired guffaws, my paintings were invariably deemed masterpieces. I could do no wrong.

  I thought back to my lunch date with Lark and the expression on her face when she talked about Sandro. I knew it well. Maybe you had to be that young, and your boyfriend had to be that old, to experience that kind of love. Had I been wasting the last two decades trying to recapture the kind of relationship I’d simply outgrown?

  Hmm. Ray Daddy. Maybe Tom-Tom was onto something.

  For his part, Gay Daddy had been an exemplary sort-of-father as well—always ready with a few hundred dollars to cover a rent shortfall or treat me to an unaffordable, yet perfectly cut, pair of jeans. And he’d made sure I ate a decent meal—generally the sole meunière at Le Veau d’Or—at least twice a month. And who could forget that unfortunate incident back in my college days, for which he’d provided expert criminal defense?

  Hmm. Maybe Tom-Tom was right. Whenever I’d needed somebody to take care of me, one of my daddies had always come through. Thanks to them, I had finally been able to parlay that support into a healthy, mature relationship with Hank Wheeler.

  Naturally these thoughts didn’t stop me from racing to the computer to check for email from Billy Moody the instant I’d unlocked the door to my apartment.

  There was nothing from Gridmeister, but Elinor Ann had been in touch twice. I opened the first message, which had a subject heading of “Forgot to tell you”:

  Just packed up your phone. Will try to get it out tomorrow.

  That was good news. We’d only been able to converse a mere two or three times daily since I’d left it behind. Her second message bore the heading “Krumsville”:

  Have to start getting off at that exit both to and from work. Came home to find Angus laundering his football gear all by himself.

  I hit Reply, typed in the words, “I’m proud of both of you,” and sent it off to Kutztown.

  I was just about to settle in with a game—or twenty—of computer Scrabble when I heard the ping that signaled incoming email.

  It was from Gridmeister.

  He thought I was a genius.

  At least, that was what it said in the subject line: “You’re a genius.”

  I could hardly wait to read the rest of it:

  Fantastic theme for a Thursday-ish puzzle… unless it’s been done before, but I don’t recall one that utilized blank squares. Let me do a little digging in the database to see what I can find.

  Even if it has been done, you still qualify as a genius—I look forward to a long and fruitful collaboration (and perhaps dinner, at your convenience?).

  Keep ’em coming!

  W.W.W.

  Wow, I thought. Somewhere in the five boroughs—probably two or three stops into Brooklyn on the L line of the BMT—Billy Moody is sitting at his computer… calling me a genius!

  I opened up an email, typed, “You just made my night,” and clicked Send.

  He immediately responded with, “I could do even better in person.”

  Okay, I thought. Enough. Any more back-and-forth would most definitely constitute flirtatious banter. And you already have a boyfriend.

  The Brownstone Whisperer. Who hires floor guys. And consults diagrams to install switch plates, irregardless of the words painted on the side of his truck. Was I fooling myself into thinking I’d found the right guy?

  I shrugged. Maybe there was no such thing as the right guy.

  I was seconds away from launching my Scrabble program when yet another ping froze my hand midway to the keyboard.

  “Where do you live, anyway?” Billy wanted to know.

  “9th St. near 2nd Ave.”

  “No way! 3rd between C/D!”

  Okay, I thought. I am not answering that email. I am not—

  Pin
g!

  Okay, I thought. This is absolutely the last email I’m reading tonight:

  Want to meet at the halfway point and have a beer? Like …right now?

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TWO ACROSS, SIX DOWN

  I quickly nixed Billy’s initial suggestion, which entailed my walking east and his walking west until converging at one of the bars along Seventh Street. The way I had it figured, we might make contact right in front of Hank’s truck—or Hank himself, if he happened to be sitting on the front stoop. Instead, I proposed walking down my side of Avenue A and meeting him on the corner of Third.

  It was a long walk, psychologically speaking. By the time I reached Saint Mark’s Place, I’d convinced myself there was nothing wrong with having one measly beer with someone who could reasonably pass for a colleague. By Seventh, I was a duplicitous harlot with her foot pressed firmly on the accelerator to hell. At Sixth, I didn’t care—I was too busy picturing Billy’s compelling profile and springy, dirty-blond ringlets. And on it went: cradle robber; budding crossword superstar; pervert; adventurer.

  I’d forgotten about the paucity of drinking establishments along the stretch south of Fourth. A large housing project, devoid of storefronts, spread for blocks on the far side of the avenue. On my side, what looked like a promising bar turned out to be a vacuum cleaner repair shop.

  Billy was standing in its recessed doorway. “Nothing on tap here, that’s for sure.” He shrugged. “Want to try Houston Street?”

  We wandered east until we came to an off-puttingly slick-looking place that seemed poised to become the next hot spot, judging from the stanchions and velvet rope set in front of the entrance. But no clipboard-wielding bouncer was manning the door, and no assembled throng clamored for admission.

  “I’m thirsty,” he said. “Let’s give it a shot.”

  We stepped into what was quite possibly the most romantic setting on the island of Manhattan. Little marble-topped tables, set with groupings of votive candles, were scattered across the floor, separated by potted palms that afforded protection from prying eyes. Swell, I thought, wondering if God had decided to put me on some sort of trial for loyalty to my boyfriend. If He had, at least He’d chosen extremely flattering lighting for His courtroom.

  Only a couple of the tables were occupied by patrons. A lone bartender sat fiddling with his cell phone at the far end of a glamorously backlit bar.

  “You serving?” Billy said.

  “Sure am. It’s our first night—we’re having a soft opening before Saturday’s premiere party.” He looked out over the room. “It’s a little softer than we anticipated, though. What’ll it be?”

  Of course I should order a beer. Beer was casual. Beer only got one so drunk. Beer turned a potential date into Just Hanging Out.

  But I didn’t want a beer.

  “Stoli and tonic,” Billy said.

  “Dewar’s rocks.”

  The bartender hesitated and turned to my potential date. “Listen, I hate to do this to you, buddy, but can I see some ID?”

  I knew right then and there that I would never, ever tell Elinor Ann about this part of the evening.

  Billy probably turned red, but it was hard to tell in the dim lighting. Besides, I was studiously avoiding looking at him by feigning fascination with the liqueur selection behind the bar. He reached for his wallet and presented his license. “Jeez, dude. I’m twenty-five.”

  Twenty. Five.

  Oh well. At least Tom-Tom can’t accuse me of reparenting with this one, I thought to myself.

  We collected our drinks and settled into a burgundy velvet love seat at a corner table. I didn’t dare touch my drink; my pulse was pumping so furiously that I was sure my wrists were visibly throbbing. Instead, I kept my hands in my lap and stared at Billy Moody’s ridiculously handsome face, which looked even better in the chiaroscuro of candlelight than the fluorescent glare of the Bieber bus. God, he was sexy.

  “I gotta tell you, I started setting up a grid right after I got your email,” he said. “I’ve already got some killer fill words.”

  “Fill words?”

  “You know—all the words in the grid that aren’t related to the theme. I’ve got ‘guayabera’ in the southwest.”

  “The southwest?” I said, too embarrassed to reveal my ignorance by saying, “Guayabera?” God, his eyelashes were long.

  “The lower-left-hand corner,” he explained. “Constructors refer to the different sections of their grids directionally.”

  “Interesting.” Oh, right—a guayabera was a shirt. My brain seemed to be on strike. The hell with my throbbing wrists, I thought, reaching for my glass. If I don’t get some scotch into my system, I’m liable to have a coronary episode. Unless the alcohol causes a coronary… God, he has beautiful hands.

  Billy lifted his drink and offered it in a toast. “To crossword domination. And new friends.”

  I clinked glasses and said a silent prayer that somewhere behind that glamorously backlit bar lurked a CPR kit.

  Our eyes locked over the rims of our drinks and stayed that way after we’d returned our glasses to the table. “So, Miss Mayo.”

  “So, Mr. Moody.”

  “Before we continue this conversation, there’s something I really need to do.” He sidled closer, turned my face toward his, and kissed me.

  Of course I kissed him back. My entire body had lost its musculature, and I became flooded with pure desire, physically incapable of pulling away. Not that I wanted to pull away. Either the bartender turned on the music or my own imagination decided to provide a soundtrack as Billie Holiday began to croon “You’re My Thrill.”

  Was he ever. The kiss was so heated and seemed to go on for so long that when we finally stopped, I was surprised to discover the ice in my drink hadn’t melted.

  “What was that for?” I said.

  “I thought it would decrease the tension.”

  “Oh yeah, that really did the trick. I’m not in the least bit tense now.”

  He chuckled. “Sorry. I’ve been wanting to do that since Port Authority.”

  “Yeah, but… why? You get that I’m a lot—uh, I’m somewhat more mature than you, right?” And I have a boyfriend, I meant to add, but somehow I managed to forget that part.

  “What can I tell you? Girls my age aren’t all that fascinating—at least, not the ones I’ve been meeting. The cute ones would all want to be lined up behind that velvet rope outside when this place opens on Saturday night. And the nerds are… well, nerdy.”

  “Oh, come on. They can’t all be that bad. I’m a nerd.”

  He grinned. “I know. So am I.”

  Uh-oh, I thought. He’s sidling over again. What’s taking him so long? God, he has gorgeous skin.

  Just before he kissed me, he turned his head to whisper in my ear.

  “Don’t worry. This isn’t Oedipal. My mom had me really late in life.”

  “You’re a cougar!” Elinor Ann said when we spoke the next morning.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Cougars are at least fifty.”

  “Not necessarily. Good Morning America had one on who was in her mid-forties. I don’t have to point out how soon you’ll be reaching that milestone, do I? Less than two years!”

  “I thought you didn’t have to point that out.”

  “Did you tell him exactly how much older than him you are?”

  Our get-together had not, in my view, been an occasion for precise accounting. “I didn’t quite get around to it.”

  “What a shock. And what about Hank?”

  What, indeed. I’d been overwhelmed with remorse seconds after kissing Billy goodbye—again—on the corner of Third and Avenue A. I checked my watch: just after midnight. Maybe Hank would still be awake, or at least amenable to being awakened. I could go over there and pretend the last couple of hours had never happened, which would be the wisest decision I could make that night. What had I been thinking?

  Oh, right. I hadn’t been thinking. My brain had been
otherwise engaged. And Billy Moody kissed as expertly as he constructed crossword puzzles.

  I reached into my purse and cursed out loud when I remembered my cell phone was still in transit from Kutztown.

  It’s not the end of the world, I told myself. They still have pay phones on street corners, don’t they?

  The one on Fourth Street had been covered in some kind of sticky, noxious-smelling substance. I moved on to Fifth, where I found the metal box with its array of buttons, but not the receiver or its connecting cord. The only evidence that a phone had sat on the corner of Sixth was a rusting metal spike poking out from the sidewalk.

  Finally, just past Saint Mark’s, I hit pay dirt. I grabbed the receiver and started to punch in the first digit of Hank’s number, only to discover that the buttons had all been Krazy Glued into the pushed-down position. Defeated, I turned down Ninth Street for home.

  I unlocked my door and came face-to-face with the half-finished painting of Dinner.

  “What are you looking at?” I asked him, stifling a pang of guilt.

  I awakened late the following morning to the sound of Vivian’s broomstick pounding on the floorboards. Never had I so fervently wished she’d climb onto it and ride far, far away. I reached across Puny and fumbled for the phone.

  “I still need a day to finish that painting,” I told her.

  “What the fuck is taking so long?”

  “I had some… complications last night. I’ll bring it downstairs tomorrow morning, right after you open.”

  Complications, I thought to myself after hanging up. Such a useful euphemism for doing the wrong thing.

  I finally managed to summon a modicum of professionalism and approached my canvas. It was actually a relief to focus on something other than Billy Moody. I settled into a comfortable flow, completing the background and fine-tuning Dinner’s expression, until I was interrupted by the harsh buzz of the intercom. I glanced at the clock on the microwave: ten minutes to three. Not bad. I’d been working for nearly four hours.