Hook, Line and Single

by Marcia King-Gamble

  “Dammit!” I yell, thumping the steering wheel and cussing up a storm. I reach into my purse, find my cell phone, clamp on earphones and punch in X’s programmed number. Voice mail pops on. That means one of three things: X has turned off his cell phone; the flight from Milan is delayed; or if I am lucky he is working his way through customs. Number two and three sound like good options to me.

  Earphones still on, I punch the number again just to listen to X’s seductive message.

  “Prego. You’ve reached 212 555-3145. At the sound of the beep you know what to do. Ciao.”

  I know what I want to do, all right. I want to jump his bones and put common sense on the back burner just for one night. How shameless I am.

  The blast of car horns brings me back to the ugly reality of where I am, sitting in airport traffic. Irritated motorists are screaming obscenities at each other. My fantasies are over. I inch along until I see the signs for the terminals ahead.

  Traffic comes to a dead halt again. In moments I am back to indulging in erotic musings. Mr. X is in the passenger seat next to me, one copper-colored arm draped around my shoulders, the other stroking my thigh.

  Heat is radiating from his palms as his nimble fingers stroke the flesh on my legs. A couple of featherlike touches cause my stomach to flutter and my heartbeat to accelerate. I am pulsating and moist, wishing I can push my Victoria’s Secret thong aside, open his fly and have him inside.

  Behind me a driver sits on his horn. His foul expletives rip loose over the noise. New York is reality. Time here waits for no man. Impatience rules.

  “Stupid women drivers!” someone calls. I am hoping they’re not referring to me.

  Another motorist attempts to come around me. He almost collides with a minivan with the same idea.

  “Eat dirt and die, cretin!” I shout.

  Since traffic is now moving, I step on the accelerator and shoot ahead.

  The digital clock on my dashboard confirms I am over twenty minutes late. But my cell phone hasn’t yet rung. Traffic slows again. A silver Toyota the size of a pretzel is being hauled off by a tow truck. The drivers involved in the accident are on the side of the road, screaming and duking it out, while two of New York’s finest try to put an end to the fight.

  The driver ahead of me slows down and continues to gawk.

  “Enough, already,” I grumble, resigned to being even later than I already am.

  Another twenty minutes goes by before I slide into a parking spot across from Delta’s terminal. Keys in hand, I race toward the baggage area. By some miracle my cell phone still hasn’t rung.

  Mr. X is waiting curbside, hidden behind his usual dark glasses. His hands rests on the handle of a cart piled high with baggage.

  “I’m sorry,” I huff. “There was an accident. I tried calling you.”

  X lays a gloved hand on my shoulder. I am out of breath and not just from the running.

  “You worry too much, bella. I have been waiting maybe five minutes.”

  I have fantasies about that hand. I smile up into those shrouded eyes, wondering how a man who has traveled all the way from Milan, manages to look so rested and relaxed. His silver-flecked curls are meticulously trimmed, not a hair put of place. His tailored gray slacks that still hold their crease peek from under a Burberry coat. There is just the faintest smell of ginger spice to him.

  I am Bella. Beautiful. My professionalism kicks in. Maybe he calls every woman Bella?

  I shoot him a rueful grin. “I can bring the car around if you’d like,” I say. “The cops are a bear about double parking.”

  I need to put space between us and collect myself.

  “I will walk with you,” he says. One leather-gloved palm taps the handle of the Smarte Carte holding his luggage. “This will make it easy. Besides, I need the exercise. I have been seated far too long.” He bends his wrist revealing what looks to be a Baume and Mercier watch. “Already eleven hours. Far too long.”

  Mr. X has been my client for going on two years now. This is the most we’ve ever said to each other.

  I reach across to take possession of his cart. I am his chauffeur after all.

  “Bella, please, I insist.”

  He’s called me “bella” again, and my insides are quivering.

  X holds steadfast to the trolley and effortlessly pulls it behind him. He inhales audibly. The autumn air is crisp. Invigorating.

  “Feels good to be back,” he says, holding out his free hand to me. Hand in hand we walk across the street.

  This new shyness I’ve developed comes and goes. It reminds me of a first date I had with Vernon, a doctor I’d met on the dating site. It took me three weeks to answer his message and all because of the photo he’d posted.

  I’m not a shallow person. What I am is visual. If I can’t picture myself sleeping with a man then I won’t accept a second date. And I couldn’t picture myself sitting across from Vernon much less getting next to him.

  Vernon’s photo on the site was what my grandmother used to call boo-boo ugly. Nevertheless I agreed to meet him in person and to my surprise he was hot. The electric sparks shooting off us could ignite a room.

  But Vernon also came with three kids and a wife that was supposedly an ex but was not. Vernon and the Mrs. couldn’t live together but couldn’t live apart. The kids ruled. He used them to conduct negotiations between us. If Vernon was busy, which was almost always, the kids called on his behalf. Needless to say Vernon and I didn’t last long.

  X clears his throat. We are standing in front of the Land Rover and I’m not sure how long we’ve been there. Embarrassed, I click open the back hatch and reach for his luggage. But he deftly tosses the pieces inside and climbs into the passenger seat.

  In minutes he is asleep or at least appears so. I fantasize, while navigating what remains of rush-hour traffic, and get him safely to his elegant brownstone on the Eastside. X’s head, eyes still shaded behind those disarming sunglasses, lolls to one side.

  Go for it, Roxi. You know how to handle sleeping passengers.

  But this isn’t just any sleeping passenger. This is a man who literally leaves me breathless. I cannot concentrate when I am around him. I am weak-kneed.

  Reaching over, I gently touch X’s shoulder. It produces a slight exhalation. A taxi honks behind us and he is jolted awake.

  “Have we arrived?” he asks, his accented voice husky with sleep.

  “Yes, you are home.”

  He gets out of the car and I pop the trunk. By the time I make it around to the back, his bags are on the sidewalk beside him.

  “Invoice Alexandra as you usually do,” X says, folding something into my palm. Before I can protest he takes off and does not look back.

  I am mortified. I’ve just been treated like a chauffeur. In the past, X has handled gratuities in a much more diplomatic manner. They’ve been added to the bill by his assistant, Alexandra, who pays me by international money order.

  Feeling lower than a deflated tire, I heave myself back into the driver’s seat. Taking a deep breath I open my palm. How much am I worth to him?

  I am holding an expensive cream-colored business card in my hand. I have X’s real name and telephone number.

  “Carlo DeAngelo,” I say aloud, liking the sound.

  Carlo and Roxanne DeAngelo, even better. I am ahead of myself, jumping the gun.

  I have two hours to think what this means while I drive back to Long Island, shower and dress for a date.

  This one’s a recently divorced man and supposedly someone my friend’s husband works out with.

  It’s a blind date.

  Yes, yes, I know. I am definitely a glutton for punishment.

  CHAPTER 4

  “So what is it you do?” I ask the man across the table from me. We are seated in a cozy banquette at a Caribbean restaurant on the north shore of Long Island. So far the food is good and the customers decked out in expensive designer gear are upscale. Service has been impeccable up to now.

&
nbsp; “A little of this and a little of that,” Jeff, my date says. “But primarily I sell medical equipment.”

  I translate that to mean he is unemployed or still figuring out what he wants to do. Jeff is tall, fortysomething, in good shape, and judging by the way he positions things, thinks highly of himself. A red flag is already fluttering. I’ve already been left cooling my heels for a good fifteen minutes at the bar. About to leave, he’d finally showed up and didn’t even bother to apologize.

  “Roxanne!” he announces loudly enough for the entire restaurant to hear. “Hugo and Betsy’s description of you hardly does you justice.” Then he links an arm through mine as if we are a couple. I guess he decided I was presentable or he would simply have left me sitting there.

  We are whisked to a secluded banquette by the host before a waiter comes over to take our order.

  Jeff continues his running commentary. I am supposed to be impressed by his portfolio. Since I haven’t been able to get in a word I nod and act as if I’m hooked.

  “Do you like to dance?” he asks.

  “Love to.”

  Finally I’ve been able to say something.

  “Good. Then that’s settled. I know a wonderful jazz club we can go to afterward.”

  He is taking control, trying to manage the evening and have it come out his way. My attention turns to the menu. We order. Jeff is still talking, telling me what he owns, the types of vacations he enjoys. Yada, yada, yada.

  The grandstanding continues while we wait for the meal. All the while I am conscious of Jeff looking me over. I already know we will not be a love connection. He is a man of a certain age and badly in need of validation. I don’t have the personality to flatter or give him constant reassurance. Nor will I allow him to always get his way.

  “The last woman I dated was frigid,” Jeff says out of the blue.

  I pause in the middle of spearing my Jerk Steak. “She was?” I mean, what else is there to say. I wait for him to explain.

  “She actually thanked me for not putting pressure on her. She wanted me to wait before we had sex.”

  What an obnoxious man. How am I going to make it through this meal?

  “Does that make her frigid or careful?” I ask.

  Jeff’s jaw muscles tighten. He hates that I call him on it. Too damn bad.

  “No one waits five dates anymore,” he says through clenched teeth. “Not if they want things to work.”

  “I would if I had concerns about the man or just wasn’t interested.”

  Jeff clears his throat and tries to make light of it. “Are you saying you have concerns about me? Or should I have concerns about you?”

  How to answer that? “I don’t really know you,” I say, hedging. “I just know what Betsy and Hugo tell me about you.”

  Betsy is my old college pal. Hugo is her third husband. He is an entrepreneur and hugely successful. They work well together. I’ve long suspected that Betsy, a lawyer, is the one bringing in the income and Hugo provides window dressing. He is a good-looking man and in perfect shape. Hugo and Jeff are supposedly gym buddies and Jeff is a regular guest at Hugo and Betsy’s dinner table, or so I’ve been told.

  “How long have you been divorced?” I ask.

  “Three months.”

  I hike an eyebrow. “And you’re ready to date?”

  It is not a fair comment especially since I put myself out there almost immediately. By the time you summon up the courage to ask for a divorce you’ve been mentally divorced for years. The papers are just a formality.

  My date doesn’t blink. “My philosophy is brush yourself off and move on. Women are a dime a dozen. They come and they go. At this stage of life I’m not expecting butterflies to flutter, I’m just looking for commonalities.”

  Nice guy. Practical, too. As long as she’s breathing that’s good enough for him.

  “I’m expecting butterflies,” I say, and wait for his reaction.

  Warning to the not so wise, stay away from a guy like Jeff who thinks women are a dime a dozen. He has user and maybe player written all over his handsome face. I make a mental note to have a nice long talk with Hugo and Betsy when I get home. And home is where I plan to be as soon as I finish my meal.

  “You’re not drinking your wine,” Jeff points out ignoring my comment.

  And for good reason. I want all my senses about me when I make a quick departure. I oblige Jeff by taking a tiny sip.

  “Hugo says you were married for fifteen years. That’s a long time. What happened?” he asks.

  I resent the personal questions. Some things I will not and cannot discuss with strangers. Besides it’s none of his business.

  “Life happened,” I answer, my eyes on my cooling dinner. I’ve lost my appetite. I already know Jeff is clearly not for me, and I am definitely not for him so why are we wasting each other’s time. He needs a “fun” girl; someone living in the here and now and not looking to make a connection. And I need to make it through dinner and make my way home.

  “That’s a rather vague answer,” he persists.

  Vague or not that is all he is getting.

  “We grew apart.” I wonder what he will do if I turn the tables on him so I do. “What happened with your relationship?”

  “Which one?”

  Oh, boy, I’ve opened a can of worms. Not that his answer has come as any big surprise.

  “The most recent one.”

  “Oh, Tracey. She was my third wife. In retrospect I realize I might have married her on the rebound. She was too demanding. It wasn’t a good time in my life.”

  Demanding means Tracey asked questions Jeff didn’t want to answer. As I had picked up on earlier, he is used to getting his way. Imagine being on a third wife and not yet forty.

  Yawning, I make a production of covering my mouth. “It’s been a long day.”

  Jeff pretends not to hear.

  “You own your own business. That’s impressive. I bet you scare away a lot of men.”

  I want to scare him away.

  “Only if they’re not secure,” I shoot back.

  He smiles. He is all bluster. “You don’t scare me. I like an independent woman.”

  I bet he does. And I bet he is hoping I’ll pick up the dinner tab, too. I can be persuaded if it means an end to the dismal evening. I’ve had just about enough of Jeff.

  “How about we pass on dessert and head for the jazz club I mentioned earlier?” he suggests.

  I yawn again, loudly, hoping he’ll get the message this time. “Sorry, like I said, it’s been a long day.”

  Jeff’s clenched jaw indicates he is none too pleased. When he signals for the check I decide to let him pay. As obnoxious as he is, it is only fitting.

  When we stand outside waiting for the valet there is an awkward silence.

  Jeff tries again. “Sure you don’t want to go dancing?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Nodding coolly, he tips the driver who brings around a black Infiniti. With a wave of his hand he takes off.

  I am learning to trust my instincts more and more and I’m listening to that inner voice. I’d driven my own car to the restaurant tonight for a reason. Having your own wheels ensures you’re in control. If I’d been dependent on Jeff for transportation it would not have been good.

  What could Betsy and Hugo have been thinking of?

  But I am nothing if not polite. Next day when I power on my laptop and check my messages, I send Jeff a quick e thanking him for dinner. He has after all paid. Plus, it is the right thing to do.

  Then I go about my business. I have a breakfast meeting with three of my employees, all students. This is a standing engagement every Wednesday. I use this opportunity to update them on any changes and give them the next week’s schedule. Other than that we communicate via e-mail.

  The diner where we usually meet is right off the Southern State Parkway. It is one of those mom-and-pop operations that’s been around forever. The waitresses are all fixtures and the food, t
hough not fancy, is filling. The owners treat everyone as if they are the only customers in the place. Me they treat like a queen.

  The moment I walk in, Connie, the hostess, greets me like long-lost family.

  “How ya doing, hon? Your friends are seated already.” She points a crimson talon at a booth in the back.

  Connie has one of those annoying outer-borough accents that makes all her A’s sound like O’s. She has big platinum blond hair that frames her face in ringlets and thick black eyeliner rimming her eyes. I try not to laugh but she does remind me of an ageing Orphan Annie.

  Vance, Kazoo and Lydia, who are my staff, are already working their way through the bread basket. Vance is an African American like me and wears his hair in long cornrows secured back with a thong. He stands when he sees me coming. Despite his less-than-conservative appearance, his mama has brought him up well. He is a gentleman and as polite as can be.

  Lydia who is as white bread as they come is busy holding court. She is one of those porcelain blondes who looks as if she might fall over if you stare at her too hard. But don’t underestimate the woman. I’ve seen her sling a forty-pound sack of dog food over one shoulder and carry it around like tissue paper. Lydia takes the train in from Connecticut for meetings and to perform jobs requiring more than a computer.

  Rounding out my threesome of students is Kazoo, a naturalized U.S. citizen who hails from Japan. Kazoo is my rock, trustworthy, always dependable and a good problem solver.

  “Hey, Roxi, how’s it going?” Vance greets, holding out a vacant chair until I slide into it.

  I thank him and sit. My smart pumps that I think are so stylish are beginning to pinch. I slap down my Coach briefcase on the Formica table and ask, “Has anyone ordered coffee?”

  “I did.” Lydia’s voice is modulated, cultured. Her folks came over with the Mayflower if I were to hazard a guess.

  The waitress, a pretty dark-haired Latin woman hurries toward us, two pots in hand. She is a mind reader. She sets them down, fumbles through her pockets and hands me a menu.

  “Has everyone else ordered?” I ask.

  “We did,” Kazoo says.