Date with Death

by Elizabeth Lenhard

  “I said, you seem more excited about this date than I am!” Paige said. She grinned as she pawed through Phoebe's filmy clothes.

  “Oh,” Phoebe said, pausing for a moment. Was there a kernel of truth to that? Why was she so into Paige's swinging single thing?

  Phoebe shook the question out of her head and smiled brightly. “Just trying to be supportive. You know, I'm new to this whole big sister thing. It's kind of fun!”

  “It is fun!” Paige said, eyeing a transparent tank top with a raised eyebrow. “I only hope Josh Skilling provides as good a time.”

  Phoebe froze. “Did you just say Josh Skilling?” she asked slowly.

  “Yeah, why?” Paige asked. She stared at Phoebe and her face fell. “You know him! It's all over your face. Oh, no, tell me. Is he a jerk? A freak? Am I in for the worst night of my life? Give it to me straight, doc.”

  “No, no, he's not a freak. . . .” Phoebe said, feeling her giddiness evaporate like a potion that had gone poof. “And he wasn't a jerk. Not until right before we broke up.”

  “What?” Paige said. Her white skin went even paler. “You're telling me that my Kiss.com date is your ex?”

  “Um, yeah,” Phoebe said quietly, flopping onto the bed next to Paige. “That about sums it up.”

  “I'm canceling,” Paige said, jumping off the bed and stalking across the room to the phone. “Dating your sister's ex is completely taboo.”

  “No, wait,” Phoebe heard herself say. She tried to act breezy. “Please, Paige. I'm engaged to Cole. Why should I care? And besides, I was the one who broke up with Josh.”

  “Okay, then why are you all trembly?” Paige retorted. She planted her fists on her hips and stared at Phoebe.

  “I'm not, I swear,” Phoebe said with a little laugh. A . . . trembly, little laugh. Paige stared her down.

  “All right, I'll tell you the whole deal,” Phoebe agreed. “Josh and I dated for a few months about five years ago and, at first, everything was blissville.”

  “And then what?” Paige said, sinking to a seat on the floor. She folded her legs beneath her and gazed up at Phoebe. “He cheated? Stood you up? Stopped calling?”

  “No . . .” Phoebe said. “He just changed. It was like, all of a sudden, he couldn't quite look at me anymore. He got sort of distant and sullen. I tried to talk to him about it, you know, see if he was going through something he wasn't telling me about. But he completely shut me out. And he didn't show any signs of changing. Finally I didn't feel like I had any choice but to break up with him.”

  “Ugh!” Paige said. “Men are so weird!”

  “Yup,” Phoebe said, trying to ignore the tension roiling in her stomach. She started to return her attention to Paige's date outfit, but she paused. Then she looked at her sister.

  “Doesn't it seem like everyone has one relationship that they just can't figure out? Where it went wrong? What could have been?” she said. “Well . . . Josh was mine.”

  “Josh?”

  Phoebe started.

  “Cole!” she said, staring at her fiancé leaning against the doorframe. He was wearing sweats and had a towel draped around his neck. “When did you—”

  “I wasn't eavesdropping, I swear,” Cole said, giving Phoebe a quick smile. “I was just heading out to the gym and was going to say good-bye. And . . . Josh?”

  “Oh, Josh, shmosh,” Phoebe said, grinning at Cole. “It's nothing . . .”

  “He's . . . a friend?” Cole asked.

  “An ex-friend,” Paige piped up.

  Great, Phoebe thought, thanks for the help, sis. It wasn't that she didn't want Cole to know about Josh. She could tell Cole anything. But talking about ex-boyfriends? Was that ever a good idea?

  “Anyway we were trying to find the perfect outfit for Paige's date,” Phoebe said, bouncing over to the bed and scooping up some shiny red pants. “What do you think of these, Cole? Would these make you interested in a woman?”

  “They did make me interested in a woman,” Cole said. “You wore those on our second date. Remember?”

  Phoebe gazed at Cole with a shy smile. He remembered something like that? Cole could still surprise her.

  “So who's your big date with, Paige?” Cole said, shooting Phoebe a wink.

  “Oh . . . Josh,” Paige said with an awkward shrug.

  “Josh,” Cole said. “Phoebe's friend?”

  “Ex-friend,” Phoebe and Paige blurted at the same time.

  “Uh-huh,” Cole said, giving Phoebe a hard look. “The plot thickens. I don't know what that plot is, but . . .”

  “Sweetie,” Phoebe said, rolling her eyes and hoping Cole wasn't going to get all macho on her. “No plot. Just ancient history.”

  Then she shot Paige a sly grin.

  “And,” Phoebe added, “maybe a new romance.”

  chapter

  3

  Paige was on the second leg of her date with Josh Skilling—the post-dinner cocktail—and she was not happy. She sipped her cranberry juice-and-tonic and sighed as she watched a band gyrate wildly on P3's stage. She'd seen this group before. Chubby Hubby. They were the shimmery, poppy, slightly thrashing kind of group Paige loved. But for some reason, they weren't doing it for her tonight. She could barely wrap her brain around the music, much less get her booty shaking. She felt like her feet were glued to the floor.

  Furtively she glanced at her watch.

  Nine thirty-six, she thought. Let's see, I think the last time I looked at my watch, it was 9:30. This is not good.

  She shot Josh Skilling a sidelong glance. Then she sighed again.

  This just proves that taste in men is not DNA-driven, she thought ruefully. I mean, Josh is the one that got away? The one that haunts Phoebe to this day? What's the big deal? Look at him: that wavy brown hair, bright blue eyes, chiseled jaw, broad shoulders . . . hey, wait a minute. It sounds like I was just describing a complete babe. But, for some reason, all those fabulous parts add up to zero for me.

  It must be Josh's personality that's got me bummin', Paige thought. Even though . . . the dinner conversation had been pretty cool, when she thought about it. Josh had told her hilarious stories about growing up on a farm in Ohio. And when she told him she didn't drink, he'd canceled his own order for a glass of wine. Totally sensitive.

  So why was Paige yawning and yearning for an end to the night? And why, after downing a huge pile of Thai noodles, was she feeling so empty and unsatisfied?

  Why, come to think of it, did she feel like she was walking through a fog?

  “Do you think there was MSG in our dinner?” Paige asked Josh.

  She watched his beautiful head turn toward her as if in slow-motion.

  Jeez, what's with this guy, Paige thought. He's so slow!

  “What?” Josh shouted over the music.

  “MSG? In the Thai food?” Paige yelled back to him.

  “MG? I guess it's a cool car,” he yelled back to her. “Why do you ask? Don't tell me you only date guys with swank cars. Because I love my ancient Saab. I will give it up for no woman!”

  He was funny. And charming. Paige knew this in the back of her head. But something prevented her from laughing or responding much at all. Josh's face turned hopeful.

  He's waiting for me to belly up to this date, Paige thought to herself frantically. And I'm just not up to the task. I've got to admit, if anyone's been a drip tonight, it's been me. And I have no idea why. Josh is . . . really nice. He's certainly trying to show me a good time. Why aren't I enjoying myself? What's wrong with me?

  Taking a distracted sip of her juice, she stared hard at Josh's profile. She tried to will herself to turn on the charm, touch his shoulder . . . something!

  But she just stood there, motionless.

  Josh must have felt her stare because he turned back to her. And for an instant, their eyes connected. Paige started. Josh's eyes almost sparkled, the way they do on cheesy TV shows. She felt a surge of energy pass between them.

  At last, she thought, a connection
!

  But when Josh looked away for an instant, the spark dissipated immediately. At the same time, Chubby Hubby's last drumbeat echoed through the club and the lead singer called out, “Let's hear it for P3! We love it here, which is why we're taking a break, y'all. Back in twenty.”

  As the bar filled with chatter, Paige and Josh stood facing each other awkwardly. Paige opened her mouth, but somehow her entire repertoire of quips seemed to have flown out of her head. All she could lamely manage was, “Whew, what a great band. You know, I've got to get up really early tomorrow.”

  “Oh, me too,” Josh said quickly. Paige could almost see his face slacken with relief. “But, uh . . . this was fun.”

  “Yeah, oh, totally,” Paige said in a monotone voice.

  Why even bother? she wailed inwardly. This date was a complete bust. And to think, I have lunch, coffee, and dinner dates tomorrow.

  By the next afternoon, Paige had a theory.

  She'd come up with it in the car on the way back from the most unstimulating cappuccino she'd ever drank. She blamed the man who bought her the cappuccino. Just James had been drippier than drip coffee.

  But he'd been an absolute rock star compared with the simpering social worker she'd met at lunch.

  Paige had finally escaped the coffee date with a limp handshake and her standard, “Don't call me, I'll call you,” routine. Then she hurried to her VW and slumped into the driver's seat. She grabbed her cell phone from her purse and speed-dialed home as she turned the key in the ignition.

  “I have a theory,” she announced to the first person who picked up.

  “Who is this?” said the voice.

  “Phoebe, it's Paige,” Paige said, rolling her eyes. “I thought sisters didn't have to ID themselves over the phone. I thought that was part of the whole closet-raiding, boyfriend-swapping—”

  “Theory-spouting,” Phoebe blurted.

  “Yeah, theory-spouting package,” Paige said.

  “It is,” Phoebe said. “But sue me, the TV was on. So spout away. What's your theory?”

  “Internet dating sucks,” Paige said.

  “Uh-huh . . . and your theory?”

  “That's it.”

  “Oh, honey,” Phoebe said. “Give it a chance. You've only had one date—”

  “Three,” Paige corrected her.

  “Three?” Phoebe gasped. “Paige! You're fast!”

  “Thanks,” Paige huffed, as she pulled into traffic and headed back to work. “I don't know what's wrong, but all these dates seem really empty. I feel like I'm only halfway there. Their jokes aren't funny. They don't look as cute as their pictures. Even the food is boring.”

  “That's weird,” Phoebe said.

  “Tell me about it,” Paige said. “I mean, I am usually the first-date queen. I can spin a conversation out of nothing. But with these guys I can't think of a thing to say. I blame Kiss.com. It raises unfair expectations or something.”

  “I guess . . .” Phoebe said hesitantly. “So what are you gonna do?”

  “What can I do? I've got to go on my dinner date tonight,” Paige said, as she pulled into the clinic's parking lot. “It's this guy—a lawyer—named Max Wolf. I'm sure he'll be as blah as the rest, but I figure I should give it one last shot.”

  “That's the spirit,” Phoebe said. “What are you wearing?”

  “Not that it matters, but your blue capris and that little green sweater you always wear,” Paige said, glancing down at her very cute outfit.

  “Oh,” Phoebe said flatly. “Um, did I offer you my favorite sweater?”

  “Um, not exactly,” Paige said with a gulp. “But I thought, you know, that whole sisterly closet-raiding thing . . .”

  “Yeah, it doesn't apply to my favorite sweater, Paige,” Phoebe said. Then Paige heard her sister's voice lighten. “Just do me a favor and don't spill soy sauce on it.”

  “Absolutely!” Paige said. “Mea culpa, Phoebs.”

  “And please, try to enjoy yourself,” Phoebe said. “You never know, maybe this next guy will be the one!”

  “The one, brought to you by Kiss.com?” Paige muttered as she clicked off her cell phone and flounced out of her car. “Fat chance.”

  • • •

  This guy is so the one, Paige found herself thinking a few hours later.

  She was sitting at a tiny table in an Italian restaurant, gazing at the fabulous face of Max Wolf. She was seriously smitten with him by the salad course.

  Max was on the short side. And while his face was handsome, it was also a bit rugged. He looked like someone who'd been through a lot in his life.

  His shiny, black hair was slicked back in a lawyerly do that Paige—she of the spiky-haired bad boyfriends—had never really liked.

  In fact, objectively, Max wasn't nearly as cute as most of the Kiss.com dates she'd had. But there was something about him that captivated her.

  Maybe it was his hazel eyes. They were almost yellow. And they mesmerized her. She almost couldn't take her eyes off of them as Max chatted through the meal.

  “Ah,” he said, peeling a leaf off a crispy Roman artichoke. “I was raised on this kind of food. Pure, authentic Italian.”

  “Excuse me, um, Max Wolf? That doesn't sound very Italian to me,” Paige said with a giggle.

  “Well, it's true, I'm a Jewish guy from New York City,” Max said with a charming shrug. “But Paige, have you ever had a matzo ball? Ugh. My mother did us all a favor and put the old country recipe book in storage. Then she became a premier Italian chef. We had homemade pasta almost every night in my house.”

  “That's crazy!” Paige had gushed, surprising even herself with her delighted laughter. “And what did you have for dessert in your house?”

  “Exactly what we're having tonight,” Max said smoothly. “The best crème brûlée you ever tasted. Waiter!”

  The night went on like that. Max said the perfect things and made the perfect moves. And after he drove Paige home, he walked her to the door and gave her the perfect good-night kiss.

  “Wow,” Max said, gazing down at Paige, his eyes sparkling a little bit in the porch light. “You were not what I expected to find on Kiss.com.”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth,” Paige replied, dreamily. She closed her eyes and leaned in for another kiss.

  “Why don't we take care of that on our next date,” Max said softly, brushing Paige's cheek with his lips. “Will you see me again, Paige?”

  “After a tease like that, I guess I'll have to,” Paige joked, though her stomach was fluttering madly. “When?”

  “Sunday?” Max proposed.

  “You got it,” Paige said.

  “Call me.” When she slipped quietly into the Manor, she was hit with a wave of dizziness. She stumbled back against the door and felt her chin hit her chest. After just a moment, the icky feeling passed.

  Man, Paige thought, drifting across the foyer to the stairs. She couldn't seem to shake the goofy smile from her face. That was some date!

  “Okay, Leo,” Piper was saying the next morning. “Here's a good one. ‘Would you compare your wife to a sycamore or an oak tree?’”

  Phoebe almost choked on her toast. She was lounging in the dining room with Piper and Leo, sucking down some caffeine and waiting anxiously for Paige to come down for breakfast. She was dying to know how her date went last night with that lawyer guy. She was also dying to know that her favorite sweater made it through the evening without any stains or snags. And she was really hoping for a distraction from the old-marrieds on the other end of the table.

  “This is so far from romantic, it's not even funny,” Phoebe said, gnawing on her toast and gazing balefully at Piper and Leo.

  “That's what I said,” Leo complained. He was mushing his scrambled eggs around his plate, looking completely trapped. “Piper, these quizzes make no sense. I would never compare you to a tree. I mean, that's not very poetic, is it?”

  “Well, you're not very poetic,” Phoebe pointed out.


  “Right,” Leo said, before he did a double take. “Hey! Phoebe, whose side are you on?”

  “Face it, Leo,” Phoebe said, leaning farther back in her chair. “You are what is known as an old-fashioned guy. A man's man. Men like you don't write poetry.”

  “Men like me can simply appreciate their wives without having to compare them to trees,” Leo said, glaring at Piper.

  But Piper ignored him and consulted the next question.

  “All right then, snippy,” she said. “Answer me this: ‘Your wife is sick with a cold. She tells you she's fine and that you should go out with the guys and have some fun. Do you a) Happily wave good-bye and hightail it out of there? b) Say you wouldn't think of it, run her a nice bath, and make her some homemade soup? or c) Compromise by having the guys over for pizza and beer?’”

  “This . . . is . . . a trick . . . question,” Leo said, staring at Piper. “I'm trying . . . to eat . . . breakfast.”

  Uh-oh, Phoebe thought. When Leo does that slow-talking thing, it's time to get out of the way. Suddenly, Phoebe heard a sound that made her forget about Piper and Leo. I think I hear the pitter-patter of Paige's mules on the stairs!

  Clunk-clunk-clunk-clunk.

  Paige came into the dining room and flopped happily into a chair.

  “I have two words for you,” she said to Phoebe.

  “They better not be ‘ruined sweater,’” Phoebe quipped.

  “Max Wolf.”

  “Good date?” Phoebe asked excitedly. “Tell all!”

  “He's a dream!” Paige gushed. “It was so weird. My dates with all the other Kiss guys were so dull, I felt like I was walking through mud. But with Max it was like hiking in high altitude. Everything was crisp and clear. It was like my senses were heightened!”

  “That sounds more like a marathon than a date,” Phoebe joked, “but whatever rows your boat.”

  “Oh, it's hard to explain,” Paige said. “All I know is, Max is it. I'm looking no further.”

  She popped out of her chair and went into the foyer to grab her purse. When she returned to the breakfast table, she was holding her Palm Pilot.