Hook, Line and Single

by Marcia King-Gamble

  I explain why I’m here.

  “That’s so nice of you,” she greets in an accented voice I can’t place. “I’m Yvette, by the way.” She stands aside and waves me in.

  “I’m Roxi.”

  This is a first. I have never been in the Applebaums’ house before. It is a Tudor like mine. Yvette works, or at least I assume she does, judging by when I see her leave home and return. And Jessica more often than not roams the neighborhood unsupervised, either that or she is beyond the babysitter’s control.

  The inside of Yvette’s house is sparsely furnished. But what pieces there are, are expensive and tasteful.

  “I’ve just opened a bottle of merlot, would you like a glass?” she asks.

  “Love one.”

  We sit at her kitchen table, a huge oak piece with inlaid brass protected by a glass top.

  “Where is Jessica?” I ask.

  Yvette shrugs. “Impossible to tell. I can’t keep up with that child and I can’t keep her in the house. Since her father and I divorced she doesn’t listen.”

  So that was the problem. No man in the house to keep an impressionable child in line and the mother is exhausted.

  Yvette and I sip on our wine and make small talk. “You’re a single woman, too, aren’t you? What is it you do?”

  I tell her. Yvette’s eyes grow wide. “I am impressed. It has always been my dream to have my own business. I’d love to own a boutique that sells fashionable clothes.”

  “What do you do?” I ask her.

  She sighs. “I waitress now, helps with the bills. In my country I majored in accounting but my degree is useless in the United States. Waitressing is the only thing I could find when I was forced to get out there again. I’m a cocktail waitress at this restaurant in Freeport. Tips are good but customers suck.”

  I sympathize with her. Being on your feet for hours has to be brutal, plus getting hit on by paunchy, balding players, isn’t anyone’s idea of fun.

  “Where’s the accent from?” I ask, although I now have a pretty good idea.

  “I’m French but I’ve lived in the States a really long time. I think no one notices anymore.”

  We talk some more. I tell her that Lindsay is in Paris trying to become proficient in French and trying her hand at a modeling career. Yvette tells me how much life has changed since her divorce. I listen but she’s singing to the choir. My life’s changed, too, and all for the better. I’m in control now, responsible and accountable for my own actions. My daughter, Lindsay’s, grown and capable of making her own decisions. She’ll have to accept the consequences of any rash behavior.

  I suddenly get an idea. Maybe I should hire Yvette to work for me. I can tell she hates her job, and I need reliable, dependable people. Plus, she’s right next door. Customers, especially men, are going to love that accent. If I have a righthand person it will free me up to work with the marketing company. I need to put Wife for Hire back on the map.

  Maybe Yvette and I can help each other out.

  “How would you feel about working for me?” I ask.

  “In what capacity?” she asks, her gold-flecked eyes wide.

  I describe what I want her to do. She’s to handle the phone calls, deal with difficult people, set up schedules and straighten out the books.

  “I accept,” she says before I can even finish.

  “But I haven’t even told you how much I’d pay you.”

  “Tell me over dinner. You will stay, won’t you? We’ll have your chef salad and that delicious-looking tuna.”

  I am about to protest, but Yvette holds up her hand silencing me. The other picks up the receiver of the wall phone.

  “Let me call around and see if I can find Jessica. That child gives me premature gray hairs.”

  Yvette shakes a full mane of chestnut hair that has escaped its rubber band at me. I don’t see one silver strand.

  She gets a lead on Jessica and hangs up. “Now, what is it you were saying about salary?”

  I have now hired another employee. And something tells me she is going to be good.

  New Year’s Eve arrives sooner than I’ve anticipated. Meanwhile I’ve been busy planning parties and making sure caterers deliver what they are supposed to. In between, I’ve spoken to Reed twice. I am liking him more and more. He isn’t as charismatic as Carlo, but he is kind, smart and has good manners. He tells me he is an architect and that he’s been divorced twice. The red flag should be fluttering but it isn’t. Things happen.

  So here I am two hours before our date, agonizing over what I’m going to wear. Margot is sitting on the edge of my bed, chastising me.

  “How come you didn’t try several outfits on days ago?” she chides. “Where is he taking you, anyway?”

  I don’t have a clue. I’ve taken a big gamble and given him my home address; something I never do. But I’ve met Reed and I’ve had an attorney friend run a background check on him. He’s checked out, so I feel pretty confident that he isn’t an ax murderer. The only thing we haven’t been able to verify is if he’s officially divorced. I’m figuring he has to at least be separated, because no woman in her right mind is going to let her man out of sight on New Year’s Eve.

  Margot has agreed to stick around until Reed picks me up. She claims to have plans for later; a house party or something; probably with Earl, if he doesn’t stand her up. Something tells me he and his other woman are on the outs.

  I toss a handful of clothing on the bed beside Margot.

  “Come on, help me pick. I need to look elegant but not overdressed.”

  “Why not overdressed? It’s New Year’s Eve, probably the one time you can afford to break out the satin, sequins and furs. You don’t really know this guy. You should be ready for anything.”

  It takes us another fifteen minutes to make a selection. I settle on a black-off-the shoulder dress and dress it up with a glittery shrug. I wear high-heeled strappy sandals with rhinestone buckles. It’s cold outside and my feet are probably going to feel like blocks of ice.

  Bacci is howling loudly as if sensing something is up. Perhaps she knows I am about to step out on Carlo.

  “What’s up with that cat?” Margot asks, making a face. She has never been much of an animal lover.

  I finish my makeup, sweep my hair off my face and put on my good jewelry.

  As Margot is helping with the clasp on my necklace the doorbell rings.

  I take a deep breath and send Margot off to get it.

  I can’t wait to see Reed again.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Well, what do you think so far?” Reed asks as we are standing in the lobby of the theater during intermission, clutching two champagne flutes and sipping slowly.

  Earlier we’ve had dinner and now we are at the show.

  “The lead is giving an electrifying performance. He’s a Thespian trained in the classics, did you know?”

  “No, I didn’t know.”

  The lobby of the Algonguin Theater is packed, and despite my efforts to dress up, I am feeling underdressed. There are people in black tie and ankle-length gowns. One dowager is actually wearing a tiara and there are men in tuxedos and satin bow ties. There is one man strutting around in a top hat, carrying a silver cane.

  Reed places an arm around me and brings me closer. He looks very handsome in his black double-breasted jacket and gray flannel slacks. His collar is open and I can smell a very subtle cologne that makes me think of Christmas. We are getting along so well it’s actually scary. Reed anticipates my every move and seems to know what to do and say. There is a boyish charm to him that is very appealing. He makes no bones of letting me know he is interested in me. I am eating up all the attention. It feels good to be someone’s fantasy.

  “We have that house party afterward,” he reminds me, “I hope you’ll still be up for it. I’m looking forward to introducing you to my friends.”

  I smile at him. I am excited and pleased that I mean enough to him that he is letting me into his life. Earlie
r he mentioned the host lives on Park Avenue, in a building well known for its celebrity tenants. I am hoping to rub elbows with some prominent pop stars, a New York Times bestselling author and maybe a model or two.

  The lights in the lobby dim, signaling time to take our box seats again. Reed has gone all out this evening to show me a good time. It must be costing him a fortune. I watch the rest of the show with his arm around me. I feel as if we’ve known each other a lifetime. When I sniff through the sad parts of the show, he kisses my cheek.

  “You know what I like about you?” he whispers. I shake my head. “You’re smart, independent but still vulnerable.”

  Those kind words make me sniff even more. I’ve never had a man be so open and honest with me.

  The play finally ends and the lights go up. The actors get a standing ovation. We leave and at my insistence—Reed would have come back to get me—we walk two freezing blocks to the garage where he has parked his Saab.

  Twenty minutes later I am dropped off in front of a swanky apartment building and turned over to a doorman. I wait in the lobby for Reed who’s gone to park the car.

  I look around the white on white lobby with the impressive columns and low brocaded divans, and I think money, lots of it. I admire signed artwork, wondering how the management company dared leave originals here. They must be well insured I decide.

  Reed comes sailing through the smoked-glass revolving doors with confidence. His hazel eyes roam the area looking for me. My breath gets caught in my throat. I think this man with the threads of silver running through his hair is breathtakingly beautiful, and with a gentleness to him that can’t be beat. He will calm me down when I get hyper.

  When Reed spots me his eyes light up. He throws an arm around my shoulders and my stomach actually does flip-flops. This hasn’t happened since high school. And I’d begun to think it isn’t possible.

  “Let’s go get a drink,” he says, leading me toward the elevator.

  Another couple comes racing across the lobby shouting in unison, “Hold the elevator.”

  They are wearing silly hats and sequined glasses, the kind that spell out the new year. They carry noisemakers and a wrapped gift for the hostess. They get on the elevator and I can tell they have already been partying.

  Reed dutifully stabs the button when they are safely in.

  “Penthouse, please,” the male half says to Reed, one finger in the air.

  “Already done.”

  They eye us speculatively. The female says, “Are you going to the same party we are?”

  “Could be,” Reed answers cryptically.

  We smile at each other and then the lift stops. Reed takes my hand and we exit, treading our way across plush carpeting and down a long hall. I still have no idea whose party this is, but what I do know is that anyone who can afford to live here has money. Raised voices greet us before we even approach the door. If the other penthouses haven’t been invited there will be complaints.

  Before we can ring the bell, the door pushes open. It is the first time I have seen a butler up close and personal. The round-faced solemn-looking man in tails intimidates me.

  Reed sails us by him, “Hey, what’s up, Hadley? Isn’t my date beautiful?” He knows what to say. He makes me feel like a million bucks.

  I float along with renewed confidence and tread my way through the wall of people. The place is packed and the smell of champagne is in the air. Tuxedoed waiters and waitresses squeeze themselves between guests, platters held high in the air. We lose our couple in the crush.

  “We’ll grab a drink and go find our host and hostess,” Reed says close to my ear. He smoothly navigates me around groups of chattering people. Finding the host is easier said than done.

  The bars have people three lines deep, making it impossible to get drinks anytime soon. We settle for the champagne the waitstaff is serving. Reed lifts two flutes off a tray and passes one over.

  “Whose party are we attending?” I ask while sipping.

  He names a singing duo famous in the eighties that currently own a restaurant.

  “Wow!” I say. “I had no idea you moved in such circles.”

  “I’ve known them awhile,” he says. “I designed their first house.”

  My mouth opens and closes. And just in time, too, because we finally spot our host outside on the rooftop garden surrounded by people. He is tall and lean and his hair now is shorter. I remember him from concerts when he had flowing locks and women tried to lure him away from his wife by tossing their underwear onstage. There is no sign of his petite, attractive wife amongst the group chatting. We make our way over and stand on the periphery of his admirers, hoping to catch his eye.

  Finally he sees us.

  “Reed, glad you made it, man.” He nods at me. “Your taste is definitely improving.”

  I am introduced and Nick and Reed talk some more. Then Nick moves on to find his wife. This leaves us to weave our way through an animated crowd in search of food.

  The buffets are filled to capacity. And although I am still full from dinner I must sample the Alaskan king crab and at least one of the miniquiches. As time passes people become increasingly merrier. Soon champagne and noisemakers are passed out, and we bring in the new year singing “Auld Lang Syne” and kissing each other. Reed kisses me on the mouth, a real kiss, our tongues dip and circle. When he finally lets up I feel as if I have grown wings and can fly. It must be the champagne talking.

  A half an hour later, the crowd is thinning out and Reed and I thank our hosts. After promising to come back for dinner we climb aboard a crowded elevator. Reed again leaves me in the lobby and goes to get the car.

  While he’s gone, a drunken male wobbles over. I’d seen him making his way around the party chatting up a number of women.

  “Want to go home with me?” he asks.

  “Sorry, not tonight. I’m already taken.”

  “You’re no fun,” he slurs.

  I look around frantically hoping that the man who can barely stand has friends, a spouse, someone. He is in no condition to drive.

  “Know who I am?” he continues.

  He does look vaguely familiar, but frankly, I don’t care. His breath is enough to ignite a fire.

  Reed pulls up out front, thank God. I make a run for it, stopping to plead with the doorman, “Please put that man in a cab. He shouldn’t be driving.”

  Reed pats my knee when I slide into the passenger seat. He wiggles his eyebrows. “So, do you want to come see my etchings?”

  He is cute. My insides go all fluttery, but it’s too soon to sleep with him. I know only what he’s told me, and personal details have been far and few. I have met his friends and that counts for something. But can I really believe that he is who he says he is? My Internet experiences make me skeptical. Reality is often far different from what you see on the surface.

  I know I like Reed, and although he is not Carlo, he makes my engines rev. But things are happening too fast. I need to slow them down. I have my heart to consider. What if this is his modus operandi: get a woman interested then move on?

  Reed pinches the flesh above my kneecap. “Am I moving too fast?” he asks, putting what I’m thinking into words.

  He doesn’t sound as confident now.

  “I don’t want to be a quick hit,” I say. “I’m not interested in a quick hop in the sack.”

  “I’m not talking sex. I was hoping you’d come home with me and we’d drink more champagne and watch the sun come up together.”

  Now, that sounds very tempting to me. I’ve already brought in a new year with this man. Still, my caution buttons are on high. Reed and me alone in his apartment? He could be a serial killer, for all I know. And what if I can’t stop myself from jumping his bones?

  “I need to call my girlfriend and tell her where I’ll be,” I say, just in case. “What’s your address?”

  Reed gives it to me and hands me his cell phone.

  How sweet is that?

  His ap
artment overlooks the East River. The furniture, what little there is, has nice lines and is expensive. Reed has the requisite sectional couch and coffee table in his living room. He has one of those pricey plasma televisions mounted on the far wall. His kitchen is galley-style and the appliances actually look used. There are cookbooks lined up on the counter and gadgets hanging from the ceiling that I have no idea how to use. I may have found myself a gourmet chef. Another plus in his favor.

  He pours us glasses of champagne and then gives me the tour: bathroom, bedroom, study, all equally austere. I notice several bows and arrows in one room and wonder about them. Before I can ask, I hear a whining, scratching noise and say, “Are you holding someone hostage?”

  Reed smiles and takes my hand. “Come meet Guinness.”

  I look at him curiously.

  “He’s my killer dog.”

  He opens the door to the laundry room and the hugest beast I’ve seen in a long time comes bounding out, tongue hanging from his mouth. The dog begins slurping on him.

  “Down, Guinness,” Reed says.

  The dog’s attention turns to me, and now I am the beneficiary of several wet kisses.

  Feeling an immediate bond, I hug Guinness around the neck. His long pink tongue darts out, covering me in slobber.

  “Guinness adores you,” Reed says, stating the obvious. “He is a very good judge of character.”

  I accept a few more wet kisses, and then the dog settles down. He spreads out on the floor of Reed’s den and looks at me adoringly.

  “Stay, boy,” Reed says, linking an arm around my waist. “Come. I want you to hear something.” I follow him through the apartment wondering what it is that I am to listen to. Reed flips on the stereo to a smooth jazz station. He pats the sofa motioning for me to sit. “Be right back.”

  I sip my champagne and listen to Earl Kluge play a mean guitar. Reed comes back with guitar case in hand. He lowers the music, takes out the instrument and begins strumming before breaking out in full song. I think I have died and gone to heaven. In the back of my mind I am thinking this man is too perfect. There must be something wrong with him.