PUBLISHED BY:
Cate Masters on Smashwords
Don’t Wait Too Long
Copyright © 2016 by Cate Masters
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Thank you for buying my book!
I hope you’ll love my characters as much as I do.
For Gary, always.
For any woman who’s ever believed she deserves less...
you deserve the best.
Chapter One
I’ve never been one to believe in Happy Ever Afters. When other little girls were walking their white-gowned, stiffly perfect Barbies down the aisle toward an equally stiff, tuxedoed Ken with an eternal plastic smile on his face, I was out in the yard swinging, trying to put my head in the clouds, or at least dip my toes into their puffs. I’d watch them float across the sea-blue sky, happy in my childhood Zen moment.
As it turns out, I should have planned ahead better. Because when you don’t envision a specific future for yourself, you can end up with a second-rate one. At best. If my life had had a movie version, it would have gone direct to video. And no one would want to watch.
Especially me. It was bad enough the first go-round.
These are my thoughts as I sit in the dark theater. Usually a kind of refuge from my predictable days.
Not tonight. My head’s crammed full of what-if’s and should-have’s. Worst of all, the what-now’s, which paralyze me with panic.
I dig into my box of Junior Mints, trying to push those thoughts away, but not even my favorite chocolates sweeten my sour mood. With the exception of my job, everything I like seems to be bad for me.
The pounding soundtrack vibrates the walls and thrums through me. For a moment, my pulse beats in synch, and I’m absorbed within the vivid images flickering across the screen. My breath swells along with the music, and I’m caught up in the larger-than-life people whose heartaches resonate within my already tattered heart, and whose triumphs heal my sadness as I rejoice for them. The drama unfolding in the two-dimensional world of the movie envelops me.
Just as quickly, the mirage slips away again and I’m just a fifty-year-old widow, sitting in the third row. Alone.
After spending most of my life that way, you’d think I’d be used to the solitude. Except now, there’s no alternative. Now, it’s beginning to worry me. Now, it threatens to become a permanent state.
Like I said, I should have planned ahead better. There are only so many lost chances a person can stand.
The credits begin to roll, and the house lights come up. I take my time putting on my jacket and shuffling into the line of exiting people. A few others are even slower than me, couples lingering in their seats. A twinge hits my stomach at seeing the guys with their arms around the girls, who dab away tears of joy. Fictional happy endings give hope for the real world variety. At first, that’s why I started going to the movies solo. Then I liked how I could disappear into another world, however temporary it might be.
Tonight the respite seems shorter than usual, and the moving crowd nudges me out into the real world again. I hate to leave the theater, where my own life story pales in comparison to the movie characters’. If only I could yell, Cut! and order changes to some sections. Or toss the entire script and start over.
I squint against the harsh overhead lights in the lobby, pull out my cell and power it up. Two texts pop up, both from Trish: Let’s meet for coffee after your movie and How about The Golden Bean at nine.
A groan surges up my throat, but I silence it. Save me. She must be on a mission again. Ignoring Trish will only make the woman more relentless. With a sigh, I push open the glass doors. A biting April wind sends a blast of cold air down my neck. The all-over shiver hurries me across the dark parking lot toward the Saab. I coax the old engine to life, and turn the heater up as far as it will go. Actual warmth will take minutes, so I type a quick response into my cell, On my way there. Better to meet it head on, whatever new remedy my lovely friend devised to save me from loneliness.
I’m sorely tempted to drive in the opposite direction. But I can’t leave Trish waiting by herself, that would be cruel. Besides, it’s not if anyone waits for me at home. A hot drink will take the chill off the blustery night, and caffeine might bolster my defenses. I have a feeling I’ll need them.
Especially when I catch sight of my oldest, dearest friend at the front window, peering out into the night like an owl searching for mice. Sometimes after a bout with Trish, I feel as shredded as those poor rodents. Not that she intends to make me feel like a pathetic loser. It’s an unfortunate side effect of our long friendship. I’d spent more than a few nights crying on Trish’s shoulder over the years. She knew about my darkest times.
And I knew about hers. When I visit her home, I don’t look too long at the framed photos documenting her marriage, along every step from the formal wedding shot to the pregnancy shots, to the baby pictures of her daughter Hannah, the three of them the ideal family. Sometimes her smile looks as vacant as a Barbie doll’s, like she’s trying too hard to convince us that everything’s just perfect. They’re the typical American family with 1.5 kids , only the .5 still breaks Trish’s heart. Seventeen years later, and I can still see the sadness around her eyes when she smiles.
That’s what gives me the courage to put on a happy face and wave at her. Her return wave is the poster child of enthusiasm. Another burst of cold air hits me like an omen. I wrap my jacket tighter around me and hurry inside the warm café. I smile at the barista, order a chai latte tea.
I carry it to the bistro table and sit opposite Trish. “You weren’t waiting long, I hope.”
“Hey.” Trish manages to look surprised to see me. "Glad you could make it. How was the movie?”
“Wonderful. George Clooney at his debonair best.” Though I didn’t buy his act as a warm-hearted guy looking for his One True Love. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t lose myself in the portrayal, because his smile had a smug coldness about it. Too much like…
Another shiver, and I wrap my fingers around the mug to ward it off.
Trish shifts in her seat like a teenager. “I’d love to see it.”
To the untrained eye, she’s a forty-something woman. Only I can perceive the subtle shift in her demeanor. The nearly undetectable ratcheting up of her internal matchmaker, a combo motivational speaker/dating mentor/marriage militant ready to shoot rays of sunshine at Gloomy Gertrudes like me.
“You should have gone with me.”
Trish gives an exaggerated shudder. “I get a little dizzy if I sit so close.”
And miss the full experience. I promised never to shortchange myself again of any experience, not even the movies. In the third row, with no one else in sight, I can pretend I’m the only soul in the theater. “Come to think of it, you might not like this one. It’s more action than romance anyway.”
A spark lights Trish’s eyes. “Romance needs some action too. Speaking of which…” She looks ready to bust with whatever news she holds back.
I can practically hear the click of the sunshine bullet
in the chamber. And I’d apparently played into her hot, trigger-happy hands by providing the perfect segue.
“You mean action?” I already know from the gleam in Trish’s eyes that I may as well wish for the stars to turn razzle-dazzle pink tonight.
“Nope.” She says it with an implied ‘silly’ hanging left unsaid. “The other thing. The one you desperately need.” She reminds me of myself, speaking to my students.
Did I mention I teach first grade?
I brace against a flinch, but can’t help at least thinking, ouch. “I’m far from desperate. I have nineteen sweethearts.” And love each sweet little one.
“Your school kids don’t count. I mean someone your own age.” Her gaze turns shifty. “Or thereabouts.”
This doesn’t bode well. “There-a-bouts?” I tiptoe my tone around the dubious word.
“Our generation. Fifty and above.” Her one-shoulder shrug is too slow, too controlled to be genuinely casual.
“No thank you.” To whatever she has in mind. I sip the latte, and its spicy sweetness lingers on my palate.
“Hear me out.” Trish taps the table to emphasize her words. “There’s a singles gathering every month at Sunny Valley.”
My smirk curls like the Grinch’s. Of course, I know about the largest fifty-five-plus community in the city. “Also known, not very affectionately, as the Valley of Death.”
As if I haven’t spoken, Trish continues. “Do you know how many people move there so they can take part in all the fantastic activities?”
Now Trish sounds like a television commercial, overselling the defective product. To be difficult, I prompt, “How many?”
Trish points her cup at me. “A lot.”
“Impressive.” Stifling a chuckle, I blow a long whistle, then sober. “Listen, I love you for being there for me when I needed a shoulder to cry on.” The Doug Decades. I can joke about them now, having marked the one-year anniversary of Doug’s death in February. But Trish had picked me up from the floor too many late nights, when I truly was desperate—to get away from my husband.
“You did the same for me many a time,” Trish says.
“Not nearly as often. Besides, your marriage was worth saving.” An accidental eavesdropper might think me harsh, but Trish knows the truth.
A sad, lopsided smile from her lulls me into thinking I’ve won. “I need to stretch my wings a little. Even if I have to fly solo.” A sore point between us. Trish hates that I go out at night by myself, even to safe venues like gallery openings, or movies, or museums. Her mothering instinct’s stuck on overdrive.
She slumps—everything from her shoulders to her smile to her eyes. “Try Sunny Valley one time. For me? Please?”
Oh no, the nice tactic. Playing to my softie side with double the pressure. I’ll probably cave, but I have a slim chance to work this to my advantage. To use a little pushback for once. “For you? Then why don’t you go yourself?”
I raise the mug to my lips and hold it there to hide behind. After a few ill-fated setups orchestrated by Trish, I’d begun turning down her dinner invitations and instead, went out alone. Movies first, because the dark theater hid me. Then to art galleries, and finally—the biggest challenge—dinner. At first, it proved a torturous experiment, only highlighting my loneliness rather than easing it. Over the course of a year, I’ve grown comfortable with navigating social events on my own. And absolutely prefer solitude over awkward ‘getting-to-know-you’ conversations with men.
“Very funny,” Trish says with a genteel sneer. A born social butterfly, she surrounds herself with people, and flits from home to work to her daughter’s school and sports events with ease. She thrives in the chaos and noise of people.
“I wasn’t joking.”
“Claire, honey, it’s time.” To Trish, silence means something has wound down and requires attention. And she never hesitates to jump in and crank away.
Me, I’m good with quiet. “Time to what, move on? I am.”
“Not by yourself, sweetie.”
“Why not? I wish I’d discovered sooner that going out by myself doesn’t brand me as a social pariah. I’ve missed out on so much, and now I want to make up for all that lost time. Lost freedom. An occasional date might be fine, but I’m not on a mission to find a new man.” I leave out the next bit, that the thought of marrying again strikes me cold and numb with fear. Having been down that route, I find the unexpected twists and turns more nauseating than the world’s largest roller coaster.
“You can still go out and meet new people,” she coos at me like I’m a cornered rabbit. “You might find someone interesting. Someone worth spending more time with.”
She reminds me of my mom, who’s unable to imagine a life alone. I bite back that insult, but can’t help arguing, “Before they croak, you mean? What’s the average age of a Sunny Valley single person?”
“An average wouldn’t be a fair representation. The age range varies.”
I shake my head. “Trish…” Half warning, half plea.
“Give it a chance. What can it hurt?”
The most ominous words I can remember hearing. And she says them with such determination, it frightens me even more.
The stakes in this challenge are high, so I’ll see her determination and raise her an ultimatum. “All right, but one time—and only once. And this is absolutely the very last time.” Better expand this clause to include all such gatherings. My teacher tone creeps in. “And from now on, you don’t argue about me going out by myself, whether to the movies, or to dinner, or a show, or any and all individual outings. Capiche?” The tremor in my voice surprises me, a gong whose reverberation’s been delayed too many years. It’s all the pent-up frustration pushing forth, hard to suppress after all this time. Anyway, I’m tired of repressing my feelings. That’s how I’d gotten so deep into my mess of a marriage.
“Okay, okay, got it.” Trish slides a flyer across the table timidly. “So long as you show up Friday night at Sunny Valley’s Community Room. Five thirty.”
“Five thirty?” I blurt. “Because their bedtime is at seven?” A snort of derision stops short when Trish slaps a twenty dollar bill down between us.
She gives a wry smile. “I’m betting you meet a nice guy there.”
Some bet. I glance pointedly at the bill. “Your confidence overwhelms me.” Of course, there will be ‘nice guys’ there, in an acceptable age range. That doesn’t mean I want to spend the rest of my life with them.
Trish leans back and folds her arms. “Too chicken to lose?”
“Funny, I could ask you the same thing.”
The smile gives way to an arched brow. “Okay, let’s up the ante. A weekend getaway.”
Now the bet’s becoming interesting. Travel is the next thing I want to tackle alone. “Where to?”
“Anywhere within a three-state radius.”
At least a dozen sites spring to mind. “Anywhere?” The difficulty will be in choosing only one.
Trish catches my look of mischief. “We’ll cap it at four hundred. That’s how much I have in my Mad Money jar. Deal?”
No sarcasm in my whistle this time. “Four hundred dollars, huh?” Might be worth it to get Trish off my back. Her husband John has no clue about her Mad Money—or at least, sweetheart that he is, pretends he doesn’t—so it won’t cause problems between them. Tempting.
Trish’s soft hen clucking restores my lagging resolve. I straighten my spine. “You’re on. But you won’t win.”
“Never say never, sweetie.” Trish sounds cocky.
I sip my chai through smiling lips.
I won’t say it. Not out loud, anyway.
****
Fifty is not old.
I dare my reflection to argue otherwise. The mirror reveals the spray of fine lines fanning on either side of each eye. Other than those fault lines, my skin’s not half bad. A tad on the pale side, but that’s nothing new. People compliment me on the contrast with my light skin and dark brown hair. Still as dar
k brown as ever. Okay, a few silver strands peek through here and there. I’ve no intention to fuss about hair color. If it goes grey, fine. Dye jobs can look worse than natural silver. I’m not going to hide my age.
And I’m not about to rush toward that senior center with open arms, either. I have some living to catch up on before I settle into Decrepitville. Way too much. So much living, I may never be ready to join The Toothless Gang. The Porch Biddies. The Silver Desperadoes.
My reflection’s standing taller, prouder. The sparkle in my eye is proof of my vitality. I’m energized to face my sweet owlets for the day, to tend their hungry cries with patience and caring. For a special few, I hold real love. At the end of the year, I find it hard to let those special few go. But that’s all part of growing up.
A pang slices my belly. If things had turned out differently… my oldest would have been twelve in April. My next would have been eleven. The youngest, because I waited an extra year to try again, would have been nine. If things had been different.
My Wonder Woman façade fades. I push away the sadness and dress in brown pants and an orange top. Like every day, I add an owl of some sort. The Daily Required Owl is a pin today, and secures the scarf I drape around my neck. Before they set one sneaker in my classroom, my students know I’m cuckoo for owls. Over twenty-two years of teaching, my kids have provided me with owls to spare. Pins, bracelets, earrings, mugs, notepads, pens, figurines… some things I have no idea where they found them, but I adore each one, as much as I adore each one of them.
With a grateful heart, I punch my security code into the back door keypad at Solebury Elementary. How many times have I passed through this same entrance? A brief sense of the weight of all those years passes over me like a stormwind, and vanishes just as fast when I realize it doesn’t matter. I can’t imagine having any other job than this. Every morning when I walk through these halls, I get the same mix of contentment and anticipation. The buses won’t arrive for another forty minutes, but a low-level energy hums. The drawings hanging along the walls, the art projects in the glass display case are remnants of the kids. Their happy faces, their exuberance, their rainbow- and flower-filled worlds.
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