by Dee Ernst
“Mona, give all those people a little credit. They haven’t been reading you all these years because you know how to describe eighteenth-century dresses, or even because you write good sex. They read you because you write characters that they love. And everyone will love Sydney.”
“That’s what Anthony says. He’s been leaking bits and pieces onto Maura’s website, and he insists the feedback has been very positive.”
“See? And I love the character of Stella. She’s very familiar.” She looked at me through narrowed eyes.
“Well. Yes, she’s you. I could never put you in any of my other books, because you’re such a contemporary person. But this time, it seemed right.”
She raised an eyebrow. “So, a single parent of an autistic son who throws pots in a small town seemed right for me?”
I laughed. “Perfect for you.”
“Well, whatever. I’m very flattered, of course. But I’m telling you right now, if this book is ever made into a movie, I want Michele Pfeiffer to play my part.”
“Also perfect for you.”
Patricia winked. “Bet your ass, baby.”
Doug came back the same day as my date with Mitch, so I had to decline his offer to get together and fuck like bunnies. I had a manicure, pedicure, and touched up my roots. The girls watched with interest. They made the usual helpful suggestions, which I ignored. Mitch picked me up in his cool silver car. I felt like a Bond Girl.
We drove to the northern tip of the island, just past the lighthouse, to a small, shabby-looking place with fabulous seafood and tables huddled right out on the water. He had made a reservation, and we were seated right away. The breeze was perfect, tiny white lights climbed the pole next to our table, and the waiter was attentive. We ordered, and after the first awkward three minutes, Mitch began to talk.
Mitch had bought everything the guy in Virginia had stashed in his garage, and had arranged for it all to be shipped to a temperature controlled warehouse, which took him several minutes to explain to me. I managed to prop my chin up with my hand to keep my head from crashing to the tabletop from boredom. When he was apparently done, I said “Golly.”
“Shit,” he said. “I probably just cranked the geek meter all the way up to ‘Danger Will Robinson’.”
I had to laugh. “Possibly. But you’re very cute when you get excited, so it was almost worth it.”
“It is exciting. Even if it’s exciting just for me. This is art, really. This guy had a background piece, done all in watercolor, that was breathtaking. You could have framed it and put it in a museum.”
“I believe you. And I’m glad you love what you do. You’ll be a much happier person in the end.”
“Do you love what you do? Vicki says you write. Anything I’d have read?”
“Probably not. I’m a writer of historical romance. At least I was. My latest book is kind of the anti-romance. And yes, I do love it. I’d do it if I never got a thing published, and spent my life shuffling manuscripts to friends and family members.”
“You didn’t order anything to drink, not even wine. Are you sure you don’t want something?”
“No, thanks. I don’t want you to think I’m a closet alcoholic.”
He made a face. “Don’t worry. I don’t believe much of what Vicki says. She’s a great person, really. I mean once you’re her friend, she’ll give you the shirt off her back, but she sees everything through a haze of self-doubt. She grew up having a body men would kill for, and she thinks that’s the best part of her. It’s hard.”
“In that case, I’ll have six shots and a beer.”
He laughed. “Vicki said you were funny.”
“Yeah? What else?”
“Going through a divorce.”
I made a face. “Yeah. Hopefully, things will be final in a couple more months. We, ah, speeded things up, since there was obvious desertion, adultery, etcetera, but I’m still signing things and waiting.”
“That really sucks.” He tilted his head. “So, okay, what did she tell you about me?”
“Hmmm. She said you were an entrepreneur.”
“True.”
“And that you had no game, no self-confidence. And that you lived with your parents.”
“What? God, why didn’t you just shoot me when I came to your house?”
I shrugged. “Because I didn’t know who you were. If you’d have been wearing a nametag, it would have been a different story.”
He laughed. Then he started telling me stories of his childhood, and I started telling him stories about mine, and by the time we were arguing about who had a worse prom date, I was floating. What a nice guy.
We had finished dinner and were sitting in the bar of the restaurants, looking out over the bay and talking about boats – he loved to sail! me too!! – when my cell phone rang. Now, I carry a cell phone at all times, but very few people know the number. Brian knew, of course, but I doubt he’d have anything to say to me at this point. Anthony knew it, but he and Victor were up in Lake George, so I doubted it was him. That left one of my girls. So when it rang at 10:47, I panicked just a little. Caller ID told me it was the house.
“Hello? Who is this? What’s wrong?”
“Mom.” It was Jessica. “Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s an emergency.”
I was reaching for my purse, getting ready for a quick exit. “What? What happened.”
“The printer is out of ink.”
I stopped. Took a breath. Put down my purse. “What did you say?”
“The printer. The ink cartridge is empty and you don’t have another one.”
I looked over at Mitch. He was looking concerned. Ready to help. What a nice guy. “The ink cartridge is empty?” I repeated.
Mitch sat back and grinned.
“Mom, this is serious. I need to print this out.”
“Honey,” I said, trying to keep my voice even, “it’s almost eleven at night. What is so important that you need to print it right now?”
Heavy sigh over the phone. “Mom, it’s too complicated to explain. I just really need another cartridge.”
“Okay, honey. Listen. Take the old cartridge out of the printer. Can you do that?”
I heard muffled sounds. “Okay, Mom. Got it.”
“Good girl. Now, set it down on the floor.”
“Really? Okay, hold on. It’s on the floor.”
“Good. Now, walk slowly around the cartridge three times, chanting ‘Ink Fairy, Ink Fairy, bring me more ink.’”
Mitch chuckled. Jessica made a different kind of noise. “Oh, right, Mom. Like a real Ink Fairy is going to drop a cartridge out of the sky.”
“Jessica, there’s just as much a chance of that happening as there is a chance of me leaving my date and driving around Long Beach Island trying to find an all-night office supply store.”
She was silent. “Yeah, well,” she said at last.
“Listen, Jess, are the Keegans still up? Check to see if the lights are on and the front door’s still open. I’m sure they have two or three printers over there.”
I heard more muffled sounds. “You’re right. They’re still up.”
“So go over and ask Mr. Keegan to help you, okay?”
“Okay. But what should I tell Mr. Keegan if he asks where you are?”
I felt my face get red. “Don’t worry, he knows I have a date.” And I hung up.
I looked up and met Mitch’s eyes. They were very still.
“So, you’ve mentioned him a few times. And Vicki’s talked about him,” Mitch said. “What about this Keegan guy, anyway?”
Now, we all know what a hypothetical situation is, right? So, let’s put this in a hypothetical setting. Suppose, just suppose, there’s a woman in her forties, going through a divorce, who has just had a lovely dinner with a sweet, thoughtful man who, incidentally, gave her butterflies in her stomach. And let’s also suppose that this same woman has been having a purely physical relationship with the man across the street for a number of w
eeks, because the woman felt lonely and vulnerable and really just needed a hand to hold. Figuratively speaking, of course. Not literally. Literally, she needed to get laid.
So what happens when the woman gets questioned about that purely physical relationship? And the question is asked by the sweet, thoughtful man? What to do?
Option One: Lie.
Deny any and every allegation. After all, the sweet, thoughtful man is a visitor, and the woman may in fact never see him again. By lying, the man thinks the woman is pure and saintly. Even though what she really is is a liar.
Option Two: Confess all.
Even though the sweet and thoughtful man is a visitor, the purely physical affair is pretty much common knowledge among the adults on the block, and the sweet man’s own sister probably got details from any one of several valid sources. By confessing, the woman may appear to be a real slut, but an honest slut. There’s something to be said for honesty.
Option Three: Burst into tears.
Men usually react when a woman starts to cry. And they usually react badly. They don’t know what to do, what to say, or how to gracefully exit the room without looking like a real schmuck. Also, sobbing and talking at the same time allows a woman to say just about anything, without having a single word understood. So, while crying, a lie or the truth sounds just about the same. There is the vanity factor at play here, though. Very few women look good while crying.
I looked out over the bay, looked down at my drink, and decided to go for it. “Doug Keegan is the man across the street. I’ve known him for years.”
“Yeah,” Mitch said encouragingly.
“I’ve been sleeping with him.” That came out badly. Too abrupt. I cleared my throat and tried again. “He and I, ah, have been, well, you know. Just, well, sex. I mean, we’re friends and all, but us, ah, together, it’s just. Well. Sex.”
Oh, that came out so much better.
Mitch also looked out at the bay. “Would you call this a phase?”
“Yes,” I said gratefully. “Exactly. A phase. See, when I got down here, I was just so hurt and mad, the best way to get it out seemed to be with Doug. Doug is the perfect rebound guy. The perfect revenge-fuck guy. He’ll tell you that himself. He’s a very uncomplicated man. And I needed an uncomplicated solution. We’ve both known that at the end of the summer it would be all over. I just needed a little something to get me through a rough spot, you know?”
“Vicki said you’d gone out with a few other men. Did you sleep with them too?”
That stung, but it was a fair question. “No, I didn’t sleep with any of them. I didn’t even like any of them. In fact, I physically resisted a few of them.”
“And what about me?”
I felt a little squishy. “Mitch, you are such a nice guy. And I’m not saying that so I can tell you I think we should just be friends. I’m telling you that because I can’t think of any other man I’d rather spend time with. You’re great. Really great. But I’m still married, sleeping with a guy just to keep the emotional bogey-man away. I’ve just written a book that may very well fall completely flat, and although I would have written it out of pure love, if it does fall flat, it could ruin my career, and I happen to value my career very much. My daughters are ignoring the fact that their home is now broken, which I think is a bad thing. When I think of Brian, my husband, the first emotion in still anger. I should be over that part by now. I’m kind of a mess.”
“I noticed. But you’re a terrific mess. You’re a smart, funny, lovable mess.” He smiled wryly. “You’re exactly my kind of mess.”
“Is that a good thing? Didn’t you say you had bad taste in women?”
“Yeah. But I think my luck in changing. Can I see you again?”
I felt a flutter. “Sure. When?”
“I really have to get back to work and take care of a few things. But I could drive down next Tuesday.”
“I have plans next Tuesday, as it happens. Some very good friends of mine are taking their boat down to Atlantic City for dinner, and I was invited along. Could you join us?”
“I’m not a big gambler.”
I laughed. “I’m not either. But I bring a roll of quarters and let myself go crazy at the slot machines.”
“That sounds great. I’ll call you the end of the week and let you know for sure.”
He drove me home, gave me a very nice good-night kiss, and drove off, leaving me standing on my front porch, doing the happy dance.
Doug Keegan took his fall from grace-or whatever-with style. He came over early the next morning after my dinner with Mitch poured himself some coffee. He perched on my kitchen stool and looked at me sharply.
“So, how did your practice date go last night?”
“Doug,” I said slowly, stirring in cream and sugar, “I don’t think it was practice. I think it was the real thing.”
He raised his eyebrows. “The geek comic-book seller? The living with Mom and Dad guy? We’ve been making fun of him for weeks.”
“Yeah, I know. But he’s none of those things. He’s…” I looked straight at Doug. “He’s really nice.”
Doug whistled silently through his lips. ‘Wow. That’s deadly.”
“No, Doug, I mean it. He’s a terrific person.”
Doug nodded his head. “Okay, then. So I suppose this means we won’t be having any more sex-on-the-beach?”
“I don’t think so,” I said slowly.
“Well, Mona, I gotta tell you. We had a great run.”
I nodded. “Yes, Doug, that we did.”
“Shall we have a favorite moments recap?”
I laughed. “No, not necessary. But thank you. Really. This could have been the crappiest summer of my life, but because of you, it wasn’t.”
“So, listen, when you write the book, make sure I’m taller. And handsomer. But you may have to tone down my sexual prowess, because no one would believe you.”
And that was that.
Mitch called me on Sunday. “Hello,” I said.
“Is this Mona Berman? Quincy? Mona?”
“No, I’m sorry Mona-Berman-Quincy-Mona was admitted to a padded cell yesterday because some guy who was supposed to call her at the end of the week didn’t.”
“Oh. This is Sunday. Isn’t Sunday the end of the week?”
“Not really. She was referring to the end of the work week, which would have meant Friday. The end of the calendar week is Saturday. Either way, you’re too late.”
“Wow. That’s too bad, because I was planning on driving all the way down to see her on Tuesday. Can this date be saved?”
“Possibly. I spoke to my friends and you’re welcome to come along. They want to start down around noon. Can you be here by then?”
“No problem. See you then.”
I gave him directions to the marina, hung up and did the happy dance again.
MarshaMarsha was very excited. “You met a nice guy? Oh, this is great, isn’t it great, Al?”
Al was busy stowing things below deck, but grunted in approval.
“This is going to be our second date,” I explained. “I figured you guys could help with any awkward pauses.”
Al grunted again, then came up from below deck with a bottle of Sam Addams.
The Riollos’ boat was nothing like Peter Gundersen’s yacht. It was a sturdy, scruffy little cruiser, with a blue canvas canopy for shade and one seat behind the controls. You sat on bench seats along the side of the boat, and when the tide got low, you got out and helped push the boat off the sand bars. Brian and I had gone with them on many a trip to Atlantic City in past years, and it felt strange to have Mitch along this year when only last year we had splurged on champagne for the trip home after Al hit it big at the blackjack tables.
Al took a long swig of beer. “So, you aren’t seeing Doug anymore?”
MarshaMarsha shushed him. “Al, don’t be nosy.”
“What the hell, you’re dying to find out too. Well, Mona?”
“Doug and I agr
eed to end our most current relationship and return to our previous one.”
Al nodded approval. “Good. Cause I gotta tell you, Mona, Doug was a bit of a come-down for you. You deserve somebody a lot better-looking.”
MarshaMarsha rolled her eyes. I grinned. There was no point in trying to explain to Al that what I needed, and got, from Doug had nothing to do with his looks.
I had been watching the parking lot for Mitch, and saw a flash of silver. There was a lot of silver in the lot. The official car of New Jersey is a silver SUV, but Mitch’s long, sleek car stood out. I watched as he came onto the pier. He was dressed in shorts and a polo shirt, a Mets baseball cap on his head, a faded blue tote over his shoulder. I smiled at the sight of him.
Al waved for him to come on board. “It’s a good thing you’re wearing that hat, ‘cause if you were a Yankee fan, I’d have to throw you overboard.”
“If I were a Yankee fan,” Mitch said, climbing down, “I’d throw myself overboard.”
Ah, sports. The only thing two men need to become best friends is the love of a common team. Or the hatred of one.
We had a wonderful time. The ride down was smooth and sunny, we wandered around the dark, noisy casinos, and Mitch won three hundred dollars on a dollar slot machine, and treated us all to a very expensive dinner. We had eaten early, so that Al didn’t have to cruise back in the dark, and we docked back in Long Beach Island just after eight.
Al invited Mitch back to the house for a drink, but Mitch backed off, citing the long ride home as an excuse. I walked him back to his car.
“You have great friends,” Mitch said, running his hands up and down my arms.
I pulled him close, very close, and kissed him. He kissed back. Wow.
“So, next Tuesday?” He whispered in my ear, his hands still moving.
“Tuesday? What about next Tuesday?” I was having trouble concentrating. I kept kissing him.
“I could drive down again.”
“That would be good.”
More kissing.
“Good,” he agreed.
I could feel the handle of his car door pressing into my back. It should have hurt, but it didn’t. Now I was having problems breathing. “Maybe we should stop,” I gasped.
