Better Off Without Him (Romantic Comedy)

by Dee Ernst

  Doug took one look at me and began unrolling paper towels. “You’re dripping. Is something wrong? Are the girls all right?”

  “They want me to start dating,” I said, my voice low, because his three sons were looking at me instead of the TV screens.

  “Ah,” he said. Soaking wet I did not feel charming and vulnerable like Kate Winslet in Pride and Prejudice. I did not feel sexy and mysterious like Gene Tierney in Laura. I felt chilly and wet. I needed to be wrapped in soft, scented towels, swept in front of a roaring fire and handed a snifter of very fine brandy. I did not need to be patted down with crumpled Bounty.

  Doug took my arm, and led me out of earshot of the boys. “Listen, Mona, don’t be mad at your daughters. They are really concerned about you, and they talk to my guys about stuff, and I’m usually in the same room, so, you know.” He looked concerned. “They love you.”

  “I know that. I’m not mad at them. But who the hell are you to agree to ‘practice date’ me? I do not need a mercy date from you or anybody else. If I want to go out with a man, I’ll ask him myself.”

  “Oh. That. Well, the girls were trying to find somebody you’d be comfortable with.”

  “I got that. But you’ve gone through more women in the years I’ve known you than most ten men go through in a lifetime. And they’ve all been young, flippy things who never stayed longer that a few months, according to your war stories. So to think that I’d – that you and I – well, I mean, God, Doug. It’s insulting.”

  “How? Aren’t I good enough for you?”

  I was flabbergasted at his response. “That’s not what I mean.”

  “Then what do you mean? I’m more than happy to take you out to dinner or dancing or whatever you want to do. I’m offering to spend an evening or two or more in your company. I’m actually looking forward to it. So what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that the girls want me to practice on somebody. Somebody safe. And they picked you, and you agreed.”

  A smile played across his soft, full lips. “You don’t think I’m safe?”

  I could smell his skin. Salty, slightly musky. His hair was a little frizzy from the rain and haloed out from his scalp. His shirt was, of course, mostly unbuttoned, and the skin on his chest looked dark and smooth. “I’m pretty sure you’re not,” I said slowly.

  “Good. Then how about tomorrow night? The rain is supposed to stop, and we’ll walk someplace for dinner. Seven?”

  I cleared my throat. “Seven is good.”

  “Okay. Since this is a date, remember to dress nice and brush your teeth.”

  I grinned, “Yes, teacher.”

  “Be polite and don’t pick your nose.”

  “Anything else?”

  “You might want to shave your legs. Just in case.”

  I stopped grinning.

  “Only kidding,” he said holding out both hands in front of him, as to stop a speeding train. “Honest. Kidding.”

  I walked back home. Drenched. But I had a date.

  That night I called Patricia.

  Patricia also spends her summers within the sight and sound of the Atlantic, but she does it in South Hampton, about twenty minutes, with no traffic of course, from the house she was born in. Her place is a fourteen room shingled beauty, right on the beach, a gift from her godmother upon her graduation from Sarah Lawrence.

  Some of us, when we graduated from college, got U.S. Savings Bonds.

  Patricia is surrounded by the very rich and famous. The Spielbergs. Billy Joel. Martha Stewart. But Patricia comes from a class of people who think that THEY should be impressed upon meeting HER. What’s-his-name is right. The rich are different.

  But - she can be very patient. “The girls suggested this?”

  “Yes.”

  “The same girls who wanted you to have your eyebrow pierced to protest the war?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who bought you spandex running shorts for Mother’s Day?”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “And who signed you up for a fashion Feng Shui class last Christmas? I can’t believe you’re taking dating advice from these people.”

  I sighed. “I know. But they’re so sincere. They mean well, honestly.”

  “Darling, they all mean well, going way back to the Pope trying to save all those poor infidels from eternal damnation by torturing them all and cutting off their heads. Meaning well is universal. It’s also the worst reason in the book to take anyone seriously.”

  “How do you feel about dating?”

  She laughed. “For myself or for other people?”

  “Either. I don’t know. That lady shrink on the radio says that you shouldn’t date anyone for at least a year. And that’s after the divorce. She says you haven’t gotten over being married for at least that long.”

  “Anyone who takes a whole year to get over a bad marriage isn’t trying very hard. This Keegan person, the one the girls want you to practice on, is he that neighbor of yours? The rich, short one?”

  “Yes. Doug Keegan. He goes through women like you go through shoes. He doesn’t need practice.”

  “And he would, what – give you pointers? Make sure you’re up to speed on dating etiquette?”

  “Something like that. The thing is, Patricia, honestly, it’s not a date that I need. Or want. But I’ve got to tell you, I’m so horny I could scream.” There, it was said. It was out there, floating in the cosmos. I was so desperate for sex, I was starting to look at dildos in on-line sex stores.

  Brian and I always had a great sex life. Actually, even before Brian, I had a great sex life. Not that I was a loosey-goosey. Before Brian, I was involved with a few other nice, serious young men. And with all of them I had good to great sex. I was never one of those women who needed to be seduced. My idea of foreplay was someone saying, ‘So, you wanna?’ With Brian, I really hit my stride. That was the best part of being married at first – all that sex whenever I wanted, and if I happened to get pregnant, I wouldn’t have to kill myself. And I really came to want sex. Especially when I was writing. It wasn’t just those long descriptive passages of the erotic physical manifestation of emotional love, it was the whole creative process that turned me on. The past weeks of writing had been torture, and now, surrounded by half-naked bodies and glistening skin, I was near hysteria.

  “Hmmm. Yes, I know how you get. How well do you know this Doug person? Maybe you could work out a deal.”

  “Deal?”

  “A fuck buddy. That’s what you need. Do you think you could ask him?”

  “You mean, ‘Hey, Doug, forget the lobster, let’s get laid?’”

  She made a noise. “Mona, please. You’ve made a career out of romantic give and take. I’m sure you can come up with something a little more subtle than that.”

  Sex with Doug. It’s not like I’d never thought about it before. In all honesty, I thought about it every summer when I watched him roller-blade down the street with his kids, bare-chested, with thigh muscles to die for. I’d think about it, then jump Brian. Now there was no Brian, but there was still the bare-chested, muscled-thigh roller-blader setting my little heart a-quiver. Did that mean I could jump Doug?

  “Well, whatever. We’re going out on our first practice date tomorrow night. I can’t wait for Marsha-Marsha to get here.”

  Marsha-Marsha spent a month with her parents, in a bay-front house twelve blocks away, every summer. She had since she was little. In fact, her sun-drenched childhood memories prompted me to look for a summer house in the first place. She and her boys were due in a few weeks.

  “You’ll be fine, Mona,” Patricia soothed. “Have dinner with this person. It might not be such a bad idea. And if you want, have sex with him as well. You’re a grown woman, for God’s sakes. You can do as you please. You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone. Go. Do. That’s what freedom is all about.”

  We hung up. Freedom. Is that what I’d been feeling these past few months? I’d recognized anger, and sadness,
and crushing loneliness. Freedom hadn’t popped up yet.

  Maybe it was time.

  You would think that there is nothing in the world more embarrassing, not to mention humbling, than taking dating advice from your teen-aged daughters.

  Well, there is.

  Try taking fashion advice from your teen-aged daughters.

  Jessica struck at the kitchen table. “What are you wearing?” she said around a mouthful of the chocolate Pop Tart that was her breakfast.

  I was peeling an avocado. For my lunch. It was, after all, past noon, but the girls and I are on very separate dining schedules during the summer. “What am I wearing when?”

  “Tonight. With Mr. Keegan. He’s a very young-thinking guy. All his other dates have been twenty-something, so he’s used to fashion-forward women.”

  “Are you suggesting I’m not fashion-forward?”

  She looked at me with skepticism. To be fair, I was wearing khaki walking shorts with very frayed cuffs and a navy T-shirt that said “Republicans for Voldemort”.

  “Black would be good,” she said. No surprise there.

  “I’m not going to a funeral,” I pointed out. “Besides, wearing black may suggest a pre-assumption of a dreary experience. I’m trying to be optimistic.”

  “You could wear my black pencil skirt. With high, spiked heels. And a red camisole. I could lend you the whole outfit. I even have some great necklaces.”

  Perfect. The Goth-Whore look. “I’ll think about it,” I promised.

  Lauren was next. She came in a few minutes later from her tennis game with Devlin Keegan, all glowing and sunny. She swigged from her water bottle and eyed me critically.

  “You look good, Mom,” she said at last.

  I was folding towels at the time. My “Republicans for Voldemort” shirt was covered with lint. I sensed a trap. “Thanks, honey.”

  “Maybe it’s time for a haircut,” she said.

  “I just got it cut two weeks ago,” I reminded her. I had it cut pretty short, as a matter of fact. Brian always liked my hair long, down past my shoulders, which required constant maintenance. This summer, I decided I wanted something easy, and I’d gotten it. All I needed after a shower was a half-teaspoon of hair gel and a few licks with a comb.

  “Well, then maybe you should let it go all curly. Kind of an afro. That would be different,” she suggested.

  “Yes, it certainly would. Why do I need to be suddenly different?”

  “For Mr. Keegan, of course. He sees you all the time. You need to, well, surprise him.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “So, what are you wearing?”

  “Jess suggested a black pencil skirt, red camisole and spiked heels.”

  Lauren shook her head sadly. “She’s so lame. You’d look like a hooker. That’s too much of a surprise. How about a twirly skirt? And that pretty pink ruffle blouse you bought last week?”

  I took a deep breath. Next, she’d be suggesting white gloves and poke bonnet. “I’ll think about it.”

  Miranda, coming in from the beach that afternoon, took the most direct approach. “Mom, we really need to bring you up to speed. You’ve got four hours until your date. Let’s go out to Bay Village and see if we can find something that makes you look like someone other than a forty-five-year-old mother of three who hasn’t had a date in over twenty years.”

  “I’m not buying a new anything for this.”

  “Mr. Keegan sees you almost every day. He knows all the clothes in your entire wardrobe. Don’t you want him to think you’ve made an effort here?”

  “Jess wants a black skirt, red cami and heels. Lauren wants a junior-league prom skirt and ruffles. Those are two looks he’s never seen.”

  She chewed her lower lip. “Well, wear hot pink. It will show off your tan. A skirt would be good, you’ve got nice legs. And open sandals, cause your feet are pretty. No panty lines, okay?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  In the end, I actually borrowed Jessica’s skirt. On her, it hung down around her hips and ended mid-calf. On me, since we’re built very differently, it settled right around my waist and came just above the knee. Hot pink sleeveless linen shirt. My tan did look great. Also hot pink sandals. As for my hair, I used Lauren’s mousse and put a diffuser on the hair dryer, creating a halo of soft curls instead of my usual slicked-back hairstyle. Why not?

  The bell rang at seven. The girls were politely on the back porch, not hanging around the front door. I straightened my shoulders and marched out to meet Doug Keegan.

  I stopped on the threshold and stared. He was wearing a white, button-down shirt, actually ironed, with the sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. Navy walking shorts with a slim black belt around his narrow waist. Leather loafers with no socks.

  “Nice,” I blurted.

  He grinned. “Yeah. I clean up pretty good. You look very pretty. Like the hair. Ready to go?”

  I nodded, flustered. I was so used to seeing his bare chest and equally bare feet that seeing him so clothed was disconcerting. “Where are we going?” I managed.

  “Harvest Tavern. I made reservations. It’s too far to walk like we planned, but it’s great for first dates.” He flashed a wicked grin. “ But first I thought we’d go to Scott and Steve’s for a drink.”

  Scott and Steve are our resident gay couple. There are a total of twelve houses on our little block, and eight of us live here all summer. The four houses that are rentals have interchangeable families going in and out. The rest of us have become pretty good friends over the years, and it’s generally accepted that any time after four in the afternoon is cocktail hour, and that any of us can go over to somebody’s porch or deck for a few drinks. But at least once a week, a formal party turns up somewhere, invitations issued as we walk to and from the beach, and Scott and Steve usually throw a real shindig.

  Their house is the epitome of what they like to call beach kitsch. Stone mermaids on either side of the front door. A wide assortment of pink flamingos on the tiny lawn. Crushed shell walkway. Potted palm trees in the front yard and paper lanterns all out in the back. They are very generous hosts and Scott is a great cook. I love going there.

  They both came to meet us as we came around to the back yard. Scott, very short and bleached blond, kissed me on both cheeks. “I love the idea of you two dating,” he gushed. “Even if it is just for practice. You’re perfect together. Really. My blessings on you both.”

  Steve, much taller and also bleached blond, rolled his eyes. “I can’t wait for the he-said, she-said. You both need to report in tomorrow. Mona, you come early for coffee. Doug, sometime after lunch.”

  I looked at Doug. “Did you tell the whole block?”

  “I posted it on the community bulletin board.” He laughed and wandered off, returning with two tall drinks, colored bright pink and tasting of rum. We sipped and scanned the crowd. Scott and Steve tended to invite anyone they happened to meet, not just the usual suspects, so there was always someone to giggle about.

  Doug spotted her first, and whispered wickedly in my ear. “Look. It’s Our Lady of the Bodacious Ta-Tas.”

  “Oh my God,” I whispered back. “And I think they’re real.”

  I recognized her as the woman renting the house at the corner. Her breasts were stupendous. And I am a keen observer of breasts. Since I’ve spent so many years writing about them, frantically searching for the right adjectives and, in some cases, adverbs, to describe them, I’ve become an expert observer. In fact, for a heterosexual woman, I spend an inordinate amount of time looking at and thinking about women’s mammaries. But this woman was off the scale.

  They started about four inches below her chin, jutting out like the prow of a ship, then cutting back in about three inches above her belt buckle. She was showing ample cleavage, enough to reveal not the perfect rounds of flesh so easily identified as silicone, but the soft, undulating skin that God alone can create.

  She glanced our way, must have seen us
staring, and waved before working her way through the crowd to where we were standing. I imagined that, in her head, each step was accompanied by a little brass band playing ‘ba-boom, ba-boom’.

  “Hi,” she said breathlessly, “I’m Vicki Montrose. I’m renting the Keller place. You’re Mona Berman. I love your books. I can’t believe I’m meeting you. I’ve never met anyone famous before.”

  I tried to look modest. Doug tried to look anywhere but down the front of her shirt. “Thank you, Vicki. It’s nice to meet you. This is Doug Keegan. He lives right next to Scott and Steve. He’s famous too. He invented Death Ride 66. Ever hear of it?”

  She turned to Doug, forcing his eyes up. “Yes. My sons play it all the time. It’s terribly violent, isn’t it?”

  I could see the strain of his keeping his eyes on her face. “Yes. But it made me a lot of money. You should have your sons come over. They can test Death Ride 2000. My own boys are loving it.”

  She fluttered a perfectly manicured hand. “Oh, they’re staying with my mother this summer. I’m going through a divorce right now. I feel the need to be alone. I have to try to gather all my inner strength and focus on healing. It’s been a terrible ordeal.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said instantly. “I know how you feel. I’m going through a divorce myself.”

  She had very pretty blue eyes that widened and filled with tears. “Isn’t it terrible? The feeling of abandonment and isolation? I’m completely at a loss. How are you coping?”

  “It’s getting easier” I sighed, and took a long drink.

  She got a little closer. “So, tell me,” she murmured. “What are you doing for sex?”

  I must have looked a little taken aback, because she suddenly fluttered her hand again. “I’m only asking because, well, your books, and everything. You must be very enlightened about sex. Open, you know. Free. I’m going crazy, myself. Especially when I see happy couples together. All I can think about is - ” she lowered her voice, - “you know.”

  “No, I don’t know,” Doug said innocently. “Tell me.”