Hook, Line and Single

by Marcia King-Gamble

  “That would be her.”

  We watch her navigate her way around the crowd, followed by two men carrying our drinks. I assume that she is bringing one of those men back for me.

  “Pretend you and I are hooked up,” I plead with the stranger.

  “I’ll go one better.” He puts an arm around my shoulders and brings me close to him. He lowers his voice and tells me about his day, acting as if he and I are already planning our great escape.

  “You move fast,” Margot hisses in my ear when she arrives. “Now what am I supposed to do with this guy?” She hands me my drink. “Thank Dwight who’s behind me for your drink.”

  I shrug. Not that I’m ungrateful, but Margot has taken it upon herself to pick up Dwight for me, let her handle it.

  So there we are, two women and three men, shouting over the music and doing “bar speak.”

  The guy Margot has her mitts on seems nice enough. She is doing her helpless-little-girl routine and he is eating it up. Mine—the one I don’t want—seems overly impressed with himself. He informed me almost immediately that he is a mortgage banker with a home on the north shore.

  “Let’s step out and get some air?” my newly acquired man suggests.

  Excusing myself, I follow him out.

  We stand on the sidewalk awkwardly.

  “Out here I can breathe,” he says, handing me his business card. “I’m Josh by the way. Joshua Calloway.”

  “I’m Roxi.” I fumble through my purse, find my card and tuck it into his open palm. We continue to face each other inhaling the chilly evening air.

  “Think there’ll be snow for Christmas?” he asks when we seem to run out of things to say.

  “I’m hoping. I like a white Christmas.”

  Mundane conversation, but expected between strangers. At that precise moment I make up my mind to spend the holidays anyplace but New York. There is nothing to keep me here anymore. Max has fallen off the face of the earth and I can’t count on Margot. She’ll find a man just to get her through this bleak holiday period.

  Cold penetrates my bones. I shiver. I feel as if the world is closing in. In a short space of time I’ve dealt with a break-in, a man who’s gone missing and a daughter who’s decided to skip town. Tomorrow I have to face a man I have an irrational crush on. Talk about sensory overload.

  “You’re cold. I should have insisted you bring your coat,” Josh says, rubbing my arms.

  He seems sweet enough but right now I am off men. I just want to go home, crawl under the covers and feel sorry for myself.

  Josh is trying to rub some warmth back into me.

  “You look unhappy? Are you?” he asks.

  I don’t know him but he seems sensitive and intuitive, two qualities I never ever associate with men. Since he is a stranger and I probably will never see him again I feel comfortable unloading. It will be therapeutic if nothing else.

  So I tell him about what I’ve gone through these last few days. And by the time I am through I am damn close to tears.

  “You poor baby,” Josh says. “Let’s go inside. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  I follow him back in where it is warm and I let him buy me that drink. I look around for Margot but I can’t find her anywhere.

  I am tired and depressed. I want to go home.

  I will walk home. My house is in walking distance. And I will use that time to clear my head.

  Bah humbug. I really do hate Christmas.

  Next morning I experience that slightly hungover feeling that drinking on an empty stomach creates. I’d only had three drinks. But there is something about being in tight quarters with no fresh air and inhaling the stale smell of booze that lends itself to a pounding headache. I have one of those aches now—the kind that lurks at the temples.

  I pop a couple of aspirins, wash them down with two cups of coffee and hop into a hot shower. Afterward I go in search of something to wear.

  I need an outfit that is professional yet sexy. Carlo DeAngelo needs to know I am a woman. I settle on a pair of tailored wool slacks and a silk kimono top. I step into my high heeled ankle boots, twist my hair into a knot and add chandelier earrings. Then I do a walk through of my “decorated by Roxi” house.

  Satisfied that things look neat and tidy I sit down at my desk and boot up my computer.

  The graphic designer I’ve hired has sent me prototypes of three different holiday cards. One I hate instantly, the other I am so-so about and the third I just love. I shoot him off an e-mail giving him the go-ahead on the third which is a singing holiday card.

  Then I divvy up all the pending jobs between Vance, Lydia and Paula, my temporary hire. I send them all individual e-mails with specific instructions. I also make sure they know that this week our standard meeting is on.

  I glance at the wall clock realizing it is already midmorning. Perhaps I have time to peek at my personal e-mails. There is still the matter of my unanswered mail to “Delicious.” Is he trolling to get laid? The screen name has turned me off but I am curious about the sender.

  I take a deep breath and type, Send me a photo. Not that I am shallow or anything but I want to see who I am e-mailing. And I don’t want to waste time.

  As I am shutting down my computer, the doorbell rings. I take a few seconds to center myself and then I go off to answer.

  Carlo DeAngelo stands on the front steps, gloves in hand. I feel like a teenager.

  “Ms. Ingram? You are a Ms., I presume?” What he’s really asking is if I’m married.

  He looks pointedly at my left hand. I am wearing a ring on my wedding finger.

  “I’m Roxi,” I answer. “Please come in.” I stand aside.

  Carlo enters. Before I close the door behind him I notice the black Saab parked at the curb. There is no chauffeur waiting. He’s driven himself here.

  “Nice place,” he says, looking around carefully.

  My Tudor suddenly feels small. Carlo’s very masculine presence makes me feel dwarfed. A citruslike scent fills my nostrils.

  “I’ll give you the tour,” I offer.

  This is business and he is here for a purpose.

  “That will not be necessary. I have seen enough.”

  I scrunch up my nose. The man has driven all the way from Manhattan, fighting traffic all the way, to take a quick look at my living room and foyer. I wave a hand, inviting him to sit on my sectional couch. He sits, one leg crossed over the other.

  “Tell me about Bacci? What does she eat and how often? Does she like toys?”

  Carlo frowns as if I have said something wrong. “Do you not have pets of your own, Roxanne? You strike me as a most compassionate woman.”

  “I feed a stray cat.” I explain about Bo Jangles. “My lifestyle does not allow for an indoor pet. I am too busy taking care of other people’s needs. I’m like the shoemaker who repairs others shoes but his are rundown.”

  Carlo throws his head back and laughs. His caramel-colored eyes sparkle. “This is not good.”

  The conversation is becoming much too personal for my liking. Time to shift back to business.

  “How long will you need me to care for Bacci?” I ask.

  “I am thinking two weeks. The college student who normally feeds her is going home to New Hampshire. So I am in a bind.”

  “Is she declawed?” I think to ask, thinking of my leather upholstery.

  “Yes, I took care of that long ago.”

  I whoosh out a sigh of relief.

  Carlo stands and holds out his hand. His grasp is warm and firm.

  “I will make arrangements to have Bacci dropped off on the twenty-third,” he says. “Is that good?” I nod. He has one hand on the doorknob when he calls over his shoulder. “You are a most beautiful woman Ms. Ingram. And you are an intelligent business person. I am most impressed with you.”

  I am openmouthed as he closes the door behind him.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Hey, girl, why you sound so sour?” Margot asks the moment I pick up the phone
. “I’m calling to invite you to a party.”

  “Who’s throwing it?”

  My focus is on the monitor of my computer and my dwindling funds. Business is dropping off and the numbers are not where I need them to be. I am seriously getting worried.

  Margot’s sentences come out in gushes. I listen with one ear while trying to figure out what’s going on. I’ve picked up a bunch of new clients, but that’s still not enough. I’m losing old ones, steady ones. I make a mental note to do something to get their attention, maybe send my singing holiday card with a credit or discount inside; this is in addition to other offers. Retention equals profits.

  I am obsessing so hard about the drop-off in business that my brain actually hurts. I’ve already sent off e-cards offering a sizable discount to those who’ve used the service more than once. And I’ve snail mailed holiday cards to each and every client. My fingers still cramp from signing those cards.

  “You’re not listening.” Margot’s voice intrudes.

  “Yes, I am, you said something about losing your key.”

  Margot’s laugher bubbles through the earpiece. “No, hon. I asked if you wanted to go to a lock-and-key party with me.”

  Despite the dismal figures flashing before my eyes and my aching head, my interest is piqued.

  “What’s a lock-and-key party?”

  “Back in college it was called a social, except this is the grown-up version. People come with the express purpose of hooking up with a member of the opposite sex. It’s at a really nice location in the city. The women are given locks and the men have the keys. The object is to meet and mingle until you find the person whose key fits your lock.”

  “Sounds slightly perverted to me.” I chuckle.

  “It’s effective from what I hear.”

  “Sure.”

  Margot fills me in on the date and place. The party is scheduled for five days before Christmas. By then I definitely will need some cheering up and it sounds like a pretty good idea to me.

  After I get off the phone, I pick up the receiver again, this time calling my banker. I need to find out if my loan has come through. I am starting to think radio ads and maybe some strategically placed advertising in the better newspapers might be worth it.

  By the time I hang up with my banker I am feeling better than I have in a long, long time. I have excellent credit and have been approved for much more than I asked. I am not going to let the competition get the better of me.

  I go out back, hoping to share my good news with Bo Jangles but can’t find the cat. I come back in and plop down at my desk again. In just four days my baby will be winging her way to Paris. The thought makes my heart ache, but now I’ve decided to look at it as a positive thing.

  I’ve always encouraged Lindsay to set her sights high and go for her dreams. Whatever those dreams might be. Nothing ventured, nothing gained I’ve often said. That has been my motto in life. And I’ve practiced what I’ve preached, risking everything to set up this business. I left a good-paying management position and used my savings to establish a company that has been reasonably successful. Until now.

  I need a diversion. I am not going to let myself get crazy. I check the mailbox I’ve set up expressly for getting e-mails from the dating site. “Delicious” has responded to my request for a photo. I decide I will save looking at his picture for last.

  After I’ve scrolled through a number of prospects, I decide none are for me and I return to Delicious’s mail. He’s attached a few photos of himself and is not at all what I expect. Brother-boy looks like the poster boy for corporate America.

  Delicious is dressed in a crisp white shirt and burgundy power tie, his suit jacket dangles from one finger. He looks both powerful and intimidating. His hair is close cropped and has silver threaded through it. His nostrils flare slightly and his smile reveals strong even teeth. He is a man who exudes confidence.

  Why is he on a dating site? I wonder. He should not have a problem finding women. Then again the same could be said of me. I am reasonably attractive, successful, and I don’t have self-esteem problems nor do I come with a slew of children.

  Since I am not sure what I want to do about Delicious. I do what any reasonable woman does. I do nothing.

  My doorbell makes that ding-dong sound and I quickly log off. I can’t imagine who would be at my front step at this time other than someone looking to sell me something. Since we’re talking Long Island here I am cautious. I put an eye to the peephole.

  “Who is it?”

  A flash of silver. Some kind of a badge.

  “Detective Hernandez,” the voice says. “I’m in the neighborhood and took the chance you might be home. I have an update for you.”

  I open the door and Jolie Hernandez stands there, cup of coffee in hand, looking petite and slightly bedraggled.

  The detective wipes her feet on the front mat and walks past me.

  “We caught the thieves,” she says before I can ask her to sit down.

  My chest immediately feels less heavy. “That’s great news. It’s probably too much to hope that my bracelet and earrings were found?”

  She chuckles. “Already sold and probably for a couple of bucks. We’re talking teenagers here, although two of them might be in their early twenties. We caught them last evening in the middle of breaking into someone’s home.”

  I thank Jolie. And yes, hearing the news does make me feel better. I am still nervous at night, fearful to close my eyes. What if they come back?

  After Detective Hernandez leaves, it occurs to me that maybe I need to do my own snooping. I’ll take a drive and cruise by Service Not Incidental. I hop into my car and follow Margot’s directions. I set off to find where the two ingrates have set up shop.

  I have to give my competition credit where credit is due. My ex-employees have chosen an area on the border of Hempstead and Garden City. They’ve done their homework. Garden City is too ritzy an address, but Hempstead suggests regular people. And the border where they’ve set up shop is well maintained.

  I slow down in front of a row of homes set back from the street and squint until I find the number. The Victorian; a rambling monstrosity seems out of place in that location. But it has been restored and freshly painted. It has a huge wraparound verandah that holds gigantic pots of poinsettias. Boughs of greenery and red velvet bows adorn the balustrades.

  I am drooling with envy. I rack my brains, how can these two young women afford such expensive rent? It makes me wonder what the heck I am doing wrong. Maybe I shouldn’t have used my own money and used the bank’s all along. Things are about to change now. I am inspired.

  As I idle by, feeling just a little bit envious, a Honda Civic pulls into the curb and a woman gets out. It is my employee Lydia; the fink.

  I burn rubber getting out of there. I make a stop at the post office to pick up a client’s mail, then call a florist to order flowers for a client’s mistress and his wife. This happens so often that the florist has jotted down the colors and flowers each woman prefers and is careful not to screw up the order. Irritated and not knowing who I can trust, I battle rush-hour traffic and head back. I am still steaming.

  Usually I love this time of year, but now the holiday decorations and the piped-in Christmas carols are starting to get to me. Why do I feel as if life is leaving me behind?

  Determined to take my mind off my misery, I think about the lock-and-key party instead, and the outfit I will wear. Not that I am expecting much in the way of meeting men, but dressing up and going out will give me something to do, and maybe I won’t miss my child as badly.

  I decide I need an endorphin high. My normal remedy for that is to go to the gym.

  I am on my way to work out my angst.

  “I think the bitch is pregnant,” Margot says when we are halfway into Manhattan.

  It’s a week later and we’ve decided to take the Long Island Railroad so as not to worry about drinking and driving.

  “What bitch?” I ask, keepin
g my voice low. I have a pretty good idea who she means but several people are taking an interest in our conversation and now they are shooting us strange looks.

  “Earl’s live-in or whatever she is,” Margot says, impatiently. “If he has another mouth to feed, that’s bound to affect my alimony payments. What am I going to do?” The sentence ends in a wail. I wonder if she’s taken her medication. She is in one of her low moods, and I’ve been listening to her complain from the time we met at the Long Island Railroad Station.

  I glance over at her. Margot’s voice carries. The guy seated across the way from us has been listening intently. It still amazes me that a woman as attractive as my friend has such low self-esteem and doesn’t value herself. Margot has a degree from New York University. She is able to get a job if she wants to. She doesn’t.

  “Earl’s mandated by the court to pay you. He’s never stiffed you before.”

  “That bitch will do anything to make sure I’m cut off. She’ll find some way to convince Earl that their baby should have all his money. Just you wait and see.”

  I think she is being paranoid but I keep my mouth shut. “You’ll make yourself sick worrying about nothing,” I say.

  The issue here seems more to do with Earl having another child than the actual money. Of course, I don’t say so. Money has always been important to Margot. It is how she defines herself, and although we seldom speak of it, it must have hurt her deeply when her children, Malek and Sienna, were taken from her.

  When your ten-and twelve-year-old children are given to your ex and a woman he is living with, it has to be an awful blow. I can’t imagine having limited contact with my child with visitation only if properly supervised. And now Sienna and Malek are about to have a sister or brother.

  The train arrives at Penn Station and we go outside and flag down a cab.

  Fifteen minutes and a lot of traffic later, Margot says to the taxi driver sharply, “Make a right. You’ve almost missed the entrance to the park.”