by Libby Malin
“Besides, if you move back here, you can save money. Didn’t you say you want a place with a pool?”
My father eats silently. If he wants me to move back home, he shows it by a healthy appetite. If he didn’t want me to move back home, he’d obviously be too sick at heart to eat well.
“An in-ground pool.”
“Those are expensive,” my father says, reaching for the salt.
“Not if she gets one of those garden apartments, Frank. They have pools. But the rent is usually higher. There are some in Timonium, I think. Or Lutherville,” she says, mentioning sections north of the city.
“I was thinking of moving back into town,” I say, peering through the darkness looking for butter for my potato. My parents’ dining room is always dim, even though it has a large sliding glass door that leads to a deck. They keep the curtains drawn so that the room won’t heat up and the air-conditioning won’t be overtaxed. It’s unseasonably warm today and they’ve turned on the AC.
“What do you want to do that for? You can’t get a pool there,” my mother states.
“I miss city life.”
“Gina says you have a boyfriend.” That traitor Gina. I mentioned Henry once and she already told Mom.
“I’m seeing someone. Nothing serious.”
“You should bring him by.”
“Maybe.”
After dinner, I help Mom clean up, sit on the deck with her a little while, then tell her I want to get home before dark, which she likes to hear. She doesn’t like the idea of people driving after dark, especially since my accident.
All the way home, I keep telling myself I won’t call Henry. It’s a mantra—do not call him, do not call him, do not call him. But that damned lavender plant is screaming its own mantra back at me across the miles—he wants you to phone, he wants you to phone, he wants you to phone. It’s a test of wills.
I lose.
As soon as I enter my lavender-scented home, I am pulling out the card he gave me yesterday. Since he expects me to call and he knows I know he expects it, this call isn’t really a capitulation, I rationalize. It’s the acknowledgment of a joke.
Laughter in my heart, I punch in his number and am half surprised when he answers the phone. His voice is husky, though, which immediately makes me suspicious. Looking at the lavender, I remember its meaning: distrust.
“Hey! Just thought I’d call and say thanks for the plant. Even though I expected it, it was nice. Cute.”
“No problem,” he says in that noncommittal voice people use when they’re trying to figure out who they’re talking to. Then, “I dozed off watching the news.”
Dozing off—or screwing another broad? The lavender plant appears to pulse and glow. I close my eyes and shake my head.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you. I can call back later.” Call back later? Why?
“No, no, that’s okay. What are you doing?”
What I am doing is nothing but feeling sorry for myself, which I have perfected to a high art—I have an exhibit at the Baltimore Museum next month, did I mention it?
Henry coaxes me out of my gloom by telling me about a boat he looked at, and then by asking if I’m doing anything special and would I like to have dinner with him at his place?
Before you can shout “Warning! Warning!” I am throwing some clothes into a duffel bag, putting out extra food for Trixie and trying to find my leopard-print thong. It’s hidden in the back corner of the linen closet.
By this time, I’ve given myself the Millennium Woman speech about five times. It’s a cross between a Virginia Slims ad and a feminist manifesto. It goes something like this: Henry is good for me, in the physical sense. I am mistress of my own destiny. If I want good sex, I should get it, as long as I’m careful. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. A stitch in time…
No, wait a minute. Those aren’t Millennium Woman words of wisdom.
So you see the problem—every time I start thinking New Woman, I end up back at Old World. And then my Inner Feminista morphs into some babushka-covered grandmother shaking a clawlike finger at me and croaking out, “A man doesn’t buy the cow if he can get the milk for free,” except she says it with this thick accent that sounds all guttural and flu-like. And then a debate ensues between New Woman and Babushka Crone with New Woman howling that if she wants to give away her milk and keep the cow to herself, that’s her decision, and Babushka Crone retorts with some curse where all the words end in sneezes.
Let’s face it. I’m a mess. But one thing’s for sure—I’m not going to get any more straightened out by living like a nun, right? Right. Even Babushka Crone would agree to that. (Surely she would.) Besides, I’ve put both her and her sparring partner back in their boxes for the night. The night belongs to Henry.
Henry does not disappoint. His coffeemaking skills are matched by other cooking talents. When I arrive at his condo, the smell of something with lemons and garlic fills the air, soft music is on the CD player, the lights are low, candles glow in every room, and two glasses of ruby-red wine sit waiting on the coffee table in front of his black leather sofa.
Do I tell him I already ate? Hell no. I’ll just do a Scarlett O’Hara routine, right? Stuffing myself before the big party so I can eat daintily in front of the boys.
But the food’s too damned good for that tomfoolery, so I decide to test Scarlett’s technique a different day. Besides, I didn’t eat much at Mom’s—it was too early for dinner. Henry has prepared some pan-fried chicken thing with a capers and lemon sauce, risotto, fresh asparagus, and berries and cream spiked with brandy for dessert.
“You get these at the market?” I ask as we polish off the berries.
“Yeah. Yesterday.”
Hmm…so Henry and Sam were wandering around Lexington Market this weekend and they didn’t even know it.
If Henry uses his culinary skills to entice women into bed, well, it works. After that seductive dinner, I am in his bed faster than you can say “plants don’t lie.” Actually, we don’t make it to the bed. At least not at first. We make it on the sofa, and in the shower. And eventually, in the bed.
I was wondering if my recollection of his skills in that regard had been skewed by my own long fast. But no, he really is an incomparable lover. I’m thinking I should be the one sending him flowers.
It’s nearly midnight by now and his bedroom is lit only by the wan light cast from the parking lot lamps outside. His breathing tells me he’s falling asleep. With my head on his shoulder, I listen to his heart thudding away in his chest. He has not said a word about staying the night, and since tomorrow is a workday, I figure I should go home. Sure, I packed a bag, but I’m not going to force myself on the guy. I have some standards.
Creeping out of bed, I grab my T-shirt from the floor and pull it on without my bra. Henry wakes up and eyes me.
“Where you going?”
I see him staring at the outline of my breasts in the snug shirt. His eyes glisten like some sexy wolf’s.
“Home. Gotta work tomorrow.”
Reaching out his hand, he gently pulls me back to bed and kisses my neck. Then he reaches up and fondles my breasts, sending electric shocks down my spine.
“Don’t go,” he murmurs, nipping my ear. “Stay all night, conchita.”
Do I need a second invitation?
I slip back under the sheets and he is, amazingly, aroused again already. While he fumbles in the bedside table for protection, I close my eyes. I feel like Trixie. I feel like purring and nuzzling my head against his arm. In a few seconds, he’s doing enough nuzzling for the both of us.
The next day, I am left wandering around his condo after he vamooses off to work at seven-thirty. While he is Mr. Get-Ahead, my shop doesn’t open until nine-thirty-five. Sure, it’s supposed to open at nine-thirty, but I always manage to rush in about five minutes late each day.
Over coffee, he asked me if I’d like to go sailing some time. Of course I would, I said. But I really don’t like sailboats or plan
es or anything but terra firma. However, I also don’t want to encourage Henry to look elsewhere for companionship.
I know, I know—I remember what my Inner Feminista said about getting good sex and to hell with the rest. But that damn Babushka Woman has a hold on me. I can’t seem to relinquish the idea that this might be a prelude to a relationship. Some kind of relationship. As I stared at Henry over my coffee, I did the tally. He’s a good listener. He’s a good cook. He’s good in bed. Is there a down side here?
As soon as he leaves the condo, I am faced with an ethical challenge. Do I rack up thousands of dollars on his telephone, trash his apartment, or should I just look through his personal things?
Being a good girl at heart I opt to just look through his personal things.
It’s a futile search. Henry’s condo is as empty as Henry’s heart. He doesn’t own anything personal enough to count. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if he’s camping out in the model condo without the Realtor’s knowledge.
His clothes are folded with fascist precision. The only photos he keeps are two old pictures of what appears to be his mother and him on his various graduation days. His bills are paid, and his kitchen cabinets would have Martha Stewart filling out adoption papers for him.
The only clue to a personal life is in his refrigerator, which is stocked with the instruments of last night’s seduction—bulbs of garlic, white wine, lemons, butter, shallots. I open the freezer, expecting it to be empty, but my heart turns as cold as its insides.
Häagen Dazs ice cream. A new quart. Coffee-flavored. I open it up and notice only one portion is missing. Henry hates coffee ice cream. He told me Sunday morning. I didn’t believe him because he loves coffee itself. Since I love coffee ice cream, I’d joked that he was probably hiding some to keep it all to himself. So he had opened his freezer and shown me that it was bare except for ice cube trays and two bags of frozen broccoli.
Now there is Häagen Dazs in his freezer. Someone must like coffee ice cream. Someone for whom Henry bought this coffee ice cream. Someone for whom he bought it some time between when I left Sunday morning and when I arrived Sunday night.
The man’s a dynamo is my first thought. The way he and I did it I can’t imagine him having any energy left for someone else. But maybe this someone else doesn’t put out. Maybe it’s some version of Tess Wintergarten. Someone he really wants, someone who listens to her Inner Babushka, and when he can’t have her, he opts for Door Number Two, Amy Sheldon, who’s so desperate for a good lay she reaches for the most-likely-to-sting brand from the shelf.
I am tempted to finish the ice cream and place the empty carton back in the freezer. That will show him. Next time he has Ms. Dazs over and she goes to get her coffee ice cream, won’t she be surprised.
Before grabbing a spoon, I stop myself. This is ridiculous. Two nights together and I’m already a green-eyed monster? And if I eat this ice cream, I’ll be a fat green-eyed monster.
Better to replace these negative vibes with constructive ones. Maybe leave notes hidden throughout his condo for the next woman to find? Beware, these notes will say, you are in the home of a philandering misogynist. Turn back, before it is too late.
Listen to the flowers!
chapter 6
Chinese chrysanthemum: Cheerfulness under adversity
Dealing with Rick’s mother was like negotiating with an inscrutable foreign power. We’d meet, we’d talk, we’d go over seating arrangements, color schemes, flowers, and I’d walk away from the rendezvous happily assuming we were of the same mind. Invariably, she’d call Rick shortly after our meeting and tell him her true wishes, which were usually at odds with mine. Poor Rick became the messenger of these thwarted plans, and he was so apologetic about it that I usually ended up feeling sorry for him and compromising away my own desires for the perfect wedding. It was more important, after all, to have the perfect marriage.
When you work in a flower shop, you usually don’t get flowers delivered to your office.
So I’m pretty surprised when a Floral Garden truck double-parks out front and a confused deliveryman races in with another one of those white boxes. After I sign for it, I put it aside and finish an order for a customer standing in front of me.
Then, I take a few phone sales. Then, I fill some orders.
It’s a good hour before I actually turn to the box and rip open the tiny note. Yeah, yeah, it takes enormous self-control, but it makes me feel so damn good to ignore it, as if I’m ignoring Henry himself, making him wait for my attention and affection.
I get through the hour of delay by imagining instructing “Brad” to open the note for me—“Take care of that, will you, Brad?” And then while I focus on some other task, imaginary Brad fumbles the card out of the envelope and reads it aloud.
What a satisfying fantasy—me, all ambivalent and desired, and Brad, all hunky and jealous.
But that Brad—he isn’t very good at reading aloud, so this daydream falls a little short and I have to read the note myself.
This time, the note says, “Words cannot express… All my love, Henry.”
All my love? Henry Castle, gigolo judge of gigolo contests, is confessing his love for me? I don’t think so.
“All my love,” is a euphemism for “Cordially.” For about six months during my senior year in high school, I had a British pen pal. He always signed his letters “All my love,” which had me mentally calculating how long it would take to get homesick after I married him and we moved to the English countryside. The way I figured it, a good five years would roll by before I’d be hankering for my homeland. My calculations were brought to an abrupt halt, though, when I discovered my pal Sheila was getting letters from him, too, as was our English teacher, Mrs. Beckwith, who, come to think of it, looked a lot like the Babushka Crone of my recent imaginings. Our British friend from “across the pond” signed all our letters the same way—“All my love.”
The flowers themselves don’t speak of love. This time it’s an oleander plant. Oleander means “beware.”
At least he’s honest, I think with narrowed eyes. Honest but cryptic. Why send hidden messages? Why not just come out and say: “I’m a philandering playboy and as long as you want to play, I’m game.”
My hand reaches for the phone and I hear myself thanking Henry and asking him outright why he doesn’t just say things to me instead of hiding them in flowers. And then I remember that I am not after a relationship. Ah, yes. Not after a relationship. Uh-huh. Is that Babushka Crone I hear laughing in the background?
Now I’m the one hiding things. From myself. I pull my hand back from the phone. Better that I should try to get in touch with my own feelings before raking over his. Luckily for me, I have to hurry to finish several bouquets—one for a funeral—before the delivery boy comes in. No time for moping, psychoanalyzing or rash phone calling.
Every time I think of calling Henry, I force myself to remember what I felt when I discovered the Häagen-Dazs. Betrayed by ice cream. Would I ever eat it again?
Actually, I think so.
But will I trust Henry? No. He’s obviously sending me messages that let me know up front what kind of relationship we’ll have. Good sex. But batten down the hatches on your heart, matie, there’s a bad one blowin’ in. Why buy the boat when you can sail for free?
Between flower orders and other work that afternoon, I scan apartment listings and even make a few calls about them. Despite my bluster about moving back into the city I’ve decided I’m better off in the country, so I peruse the listings in my neighborhood and in Carroll County.
Nothing opens up, though. Two places I call have already rented. And one had their phone disconnected.
I’m drumming my fingers on the countertop thinking, when the phone rings late in the day.
It’s Henry.
“Well? Did you get my flowers?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to sound cold. But there’s something about his dark voice that reminds me of how he sounds when he�
�s in ecstasy. And besides, he’s breaking his rule. He’s calling me, instead of waiting for me to call him. Despite myself, I melt a little inside, and I think that I should try to be less judgmental, and more open. “Do you know what oleander means?”
“No. What?” he asks, and I can’t tell if he’s pretending.
“Beware.”
He laughs heartily. “How appropriate.”
“At least you didn’t say ‘thanking you for an incomparable night’ again.”
“Now wait a minute. I said ‘thanking you for a really incomparable night’ the other day.”
“I’m kind of busy,” I say, even though the shop is dead and empty. I want to sound cool and hip. I want my Inner Feminista to come out. Where is she when I need her? “What’s up?”
“I have to go to a banquet on Thursday. Baltimore Legal Defense Fund. At the Hyatt. Want to go?”
I die inside. I’ve been to that gala, but with Rick. What if his father is there? What if my memories are still there? Yet Henry asking me means, well, something. And it would feel so good to go out on his arm, any man’s arm, to a big party and to show everyone—anyone, strangers even—that I have a guy. Even if he’s just a good roll-in-the-hay guy.
“I…I don’t know. I don’t have anything to wear,” I lie. I have a blue silk dress that I’ve never worn. I’d bought it for the rehearsal dinner. I wonder if it still fits.
“Buy something new,” he says, the laugh still in his voice.
“That’s expensive!” I say, indignation in my voice.
“You must have something, Amy.” His voice is softer, even a little pleading. Or maybe just exasperated.
I don’t know what to say. Of course I have something. If not the blue silk, then some black evening trousers. When I don’t respond, I hear him sigh quickly and a voice in the background tells him someone is on the phone.
His tone changes to ice. “Okay. Whatever. I have to go. I’ll see ya.”
I’ll see you? What happened to “all my love”? My hand lingers on the receiver and I have an irresistible urge to call him back and say in a rush that I want to go with him but I can’t because, you see, you took my fiancé’s job, and his father isn’t too keen on seeing me anymore because of the accident, and oh yes, did I mention that I was driving, but I’d really like you to see me in the blue silk dress because I know it would make your eyes shine the way they did last night and what I want most of all in life right now, besides an in-ground pool, is to make a man’s eyes shine with desire. And you’re a man. My man. And boy does it feel good to say “my man.” Even if it’s just for the time being at least.
