“Maybe a push-up bra,” I suggested under my breath.
He howled with laughter. “After four kids, I don’t think she has anything left to push up.”
It was my turn to laugh. “Any more boys like you at home?”
“No, the rest are girls. I’m the only son.” He picked up a small figurine of a fluffy white dog, begging on its hind legs.
As I stood behind him, I noticed how he moved down the store aisle. “That must put quite a lot of pressure on you.”
“At times. My mother is hot for grandchildren and she thinks now that I’m thirty-three, I should be married with kids. Her idea of a successful life is a Mercedes in the garage, a large house, a doting spouse, and two kids in private school.”
“I have an aunt like that. You met her at the wedding. She thinks life begins and ends with who you marry.”
I observed his hands as they glided from one fine porcelain piece to another. He had thick, almost clumsy-looking hands, but they were oddly graceful.
“What does your father think?” I pursued.
“Whatever my mother wants him to think,” he snickered. “My father has learned to survive in a house dominated by women by going with the flow. Sort of like me.” He smiled warmly for me.
He did have a nice smile. Several women had stopped to look at him, as we made our way around the mall.
“What about your sisters? Have they each married the right man with the right two car garage?”
“No, only one was married. Now she’s divorced with the two kids and struggling to hold onto the house. My other two sisters are in school. Kathy is going to be an attorney, and Leanne is studying marketing at LSU.” He picked up a small gold broach and turned it over in his hands. “I think she would like this,” he stated.
“I’m sure she would.”
“Yes, well I don’t think I can spare any more time away from the office.” He checked his gold watch. “I’ve got a patient scheduled in ten minutes.” He raised his eyes to me. “And I think I’ve dragged you into just about every store in the mall.”
“That’s all right. I’ve found almost everything on my list.” I reassured, holding up my shopping bags.
Secure in his decision, he brought the broach to the counter and asked to have it wrapped. Then he walked back to me.
“Thank you. You’re my savior.”
“You had better get back,” I commented.
“I can’t go until I ask you something.” He looked around the shop, trying not to be overheard. “Would you have dinner with me Friday night?”
My stomach fluttered. Was I to be thrown back into the brutal world of dating so soon after my realization? I thought at least I would get a cordial phone call and then the formal request for a date. This way, I didn’t even have the opportunity to give him the wrong number.
“Yes. I would like that,” I answered before I could say no.
I had wanted to say no, but something inside of me struggled with the word. It was time to start over and I knew the best way to forget about one man was to find another. As I looked over the stocky figure of Michael Fagles, I knew there was no danger of me falling in love with the odd man. I was sure that I was safe. What harm could come of it?
***
Once home from the mall, I carried my shopping bags into the living room. There, I found my father, standing on a ladder in front of the fireplace, and hanging the framed portrait David had painted of me above the mantle. I walked up behind him and stood silently taking in his efforts. There were still moments when David’s memory would ensnare me and cloud my thoughts, but those moments were fewer and receding more with every passing day.
“You had it framed,” I remarked.
Dad turned to face me and almost toppled from the small ladder. “I didn’t hear you come in. Did you get your shopping done?” He climbed down and kissed my cheek.
I held up the bags in my hands. “I amazed myself and got something for everyone on my list in one trip.” I gestured to the portrait. “Care to explain?”
“I hope you don’t mind. I had it framed right after you brought it home. I wanted to put it in a place of honor. It is really a wonderful likeness.”
“No, I don’t mind. It doesn’t hurt as much to look at it anymore.”
I marveled at the way the panting filled the room with color. It was a commanding energy in a room of ordinary things. I never appreciated David’s talent more than at that instant. He had caught the essence of me, the life force inside of me. A force I felt he had also taken with him. It was strange to despise the man, yet revere the artist.
“I have a date Friday night,” I proclaimed.
My father nearly dropped his hammer. “You heal quick.”
“It’s someone you know. Michael Fagles. I saw him at the mall. We spent some time shopping and talking, and he asked me out.”
He nodded his head. “Good. I think that’s exactly what you need right now. Just don’t jump into something else too quickly. I know you like to think you’re tough, but give yourself a little more time. Promise?”
“It’s just one date, Dad. We’re not getting married.”
“That’s good. I don’t think I could take another wedding.”
I chuckled. “That makes two of us.”
Chapter 16
At seven o’clock on Friday evening, I was pacing the hardwood floors of my living room, waiting for Michael. As I glanced from the gold clock on the mantle to my portrait hanging above, I kept vacillating between my feelings of guilt and anger. Was this the right thing to do? Was I ready to date again?
Michael had called earlier that morning to tell me he had planned a lavish night on the town for us.
“I’ve got the entire evening worked out,” he had told me over the phone. “I thought first we could have a romantic dinner at Antoine’s and then perhaps a walk in the Quarter.”
“You have been busy, haven’t you?” I had responded, trying not to give away my disappointment.
Men who spoke of romance were usually more interested in romancing you straight into bed, rather than getting to know you. They were the same kind of men who would take you to a cheap restaurant on the night of the date, and then spend fifty dollars sending you a dozen red roses the day after.
“We don’t have to spend the evening that way.” He had sounded hurt. “I just thought…I wanted to make it memorable.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be flippant. I’m pleased you have taken the time to plan such a nice evening.” At least I had tried to sound sincere.
“Not to worry,” he had returned. “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty.”
So there I stood in the living room, counting down the minutes on the ornate gold clock until our date began. I was nervous, not so much about my date, but about how my date with Michael would affect my feelings for David. If the evening turned out to be a disaster—which Vegas odds favored—then I would be even more inclined to pine after the man who had broken my heart. If I actually enjoyed myself with the confidant Dr. Fagles, then I could, perhaps, learn to forget about David.
My father entered the living room and sat down on the sofa. “When does the quack arrive?”
I glared at him, wary of his intentions. “Why?”
“I would like to meet him again.”
I shook my head, knowing trouble was ahead for my date. “Please, Dad, not tonight. I know that look.”
“What look?” My father scrutinized the conservative wool dress I had selected for the evening. “Going to try out for a church choir later on this evening?”
I scowled at him. I was well aware of my father’s tactics. He would lull me into a false security and then attack my poor date. He had frightened away many a boy with threats of shallow graves and Uncle Lance’s Mafia connections.
The doorbell thankfully interrupted us. Michael was ten minutes early.
“Behave,” I ordered, turning for the front door.
Michael was dressed in a form-fitt
ing gray suit that flattered his blue eyes. He was better looking than I remembered, but he had put on way too much cologne. We would have to drive with the windows down.
I motioned to my father, hovering close by. “Michael, you remember my father, Bill Beauvoir.”
Dad shook his hand and immediately shot me a dirty look. “Hello, Dr. Fagles. It’s a pleasure to see you again. I’m glad you and my Nicole have a chance to get acquainted.”
I choked back my laugh. Dad only called me Nicole when his fatherly instincts went into overdrive.
Michael wasn’t paying attention. He was distracted by something in the living room. I followed his eyes to the portrait above the fireplace.
“What a wonderful painting,” he remarked.
“Yes.” My father beamed proudly at the portrait. “It’s a real beauty, isn’t it?”
I rolled my eyes at my father. “Come on, Michael, we had better get going. Dad….” I left the sentence unfinished.
“You two have fun,” my father said, following us to the door.
When I reached into the entrance hall closet for my coat, my father came from behind to help me. He leaned in close to me, and whispered, “Don’t marry that one. You’ll have ugly children.”
“Thanks. Where were you when I needed you over a month ago?” I muttered back.
“I would have liked having a spy for a son-in-law.”
As quickly as I could, I urged Michael out the front door and into the chilly evening air.
“You look very pretty tonight,” he commented, as we were buckling up his red Porsche. “Not like some other women who wear way too much makeup and tight dresses.”
“Thank you, Michael.”
“You would be amazed at some of the things women have worn on dates with me. I’m more conservative myself. I like a woman who doesn’t dress to flaunt her assets.”
“Somehow I knew you would say that.”
***
The conversation at dinner was strictly medical. I must admit, it was refreshing to converse with someone who was knowledgeable about all the medical terminology I had spent so long learning.
“Unlike most psychiatrists out there, I have an uncanny knack for being able to isolate any set of symptoms and make a very accurate diagnosis,” Michael bragged, between mouthfuls of crawfish pasta.
“You haven’t won the Nobel Prize for that yet? Amazing.”
He snickered at me. “You have a wicked wit.”
I picked at my grilled shrimp. “I use it to slice my dates down to size.”
“I was worried about you after the wedding, Nicci. You seemed to be in such a state of shock about the entire affair. I know it was the wedding from hell, but you seemed to take it very hard.” He suspiciously cocked one eyebrow.
“I received some distressing news in addition to all the antics at the wedding. I guess everything got to me at once. It was very kind of you to stay and help me.”
“I was hoping we would have a chance to talk that night. I could see that you weren’t well, but it’s all over now, right?”
“Yes, I’m fine now.” I caught sight of our waiter coming toward us, and I signaled to him. “Can we have a bottle of wine?”
The waiter smiled blandly. “We have a very nice house chardonnay.”
“I prefer a bottle of Pouilly-Fuisse,” I stated, confidently.
After the waiter had gone, Michael turned to me. “I’m impressed. Where did you learn so much about wine?”
“Alcoholics Anonymous.”
Michael laughed, thoroughly amused. “You’re going to be very difficult to handle, I can tell.”
I did not say anything. I was sure I didn’t want to be handled by the likes of Michael Fagles. This was just a date, after all, not the beginning of a relationship.
***
After our meal, we sat at the table while I finished off the bottle of wine. The conversation was not as strained as before, and I started to feel more relaxed.
Michael kept talking about a subject I was beginning to suspect he loved more than anything …himself.
“I love watching the sun come up in the morning and eating beignets. I have often felt the most peaceful time of the day was just at daybreak. I remember many a morning coming off call and walking outside to see the sunrise. I never knew how much I loved mornings until I went to medical school.”
“Why did you become a doctor?” I asked, noting how the pale yellow wine swirled around in my glass.
“I went off to college with the expectations of studying dentistry, like my father. Then one summer, I took an elective physics class with a bunch of pre-med students. I got the highest grade in the class. I decided if I could outperform that group, why not go to medical school.” He laughed. “Looking back, I think that was a mistake.”
I looked up from my wine. “Mistake?”
“I would have been happier in dentistry. I could use my hands more than in psychiatry. I thought about going into surgery, but when I saw the hours and the length of the residency involved, I changed my mind. I’m not a masochist. The guys and gals that can pull that off…well, they’re better than me.”
I put my wineglass down on the table. “You finished medical school and a psychiatry residency. That was no small feat.”
“No, but it wasn’t the best choice for me. I think I’m cocky and arrogant enough to have been a great surgeon.”
I laughed, agreeing with him. “You have a point there.”
After we left the restaurant, Michael wanted to walk around the quaint French Quarter streets. We headed down St. Ann Street, to look at the river. I didn’t realize where we were until we passed the coffee shop where I had gone with David so many months ago. I paused outside on the sidewalk and looked in through the dirty windows. It was half-filled with people sitting around the wooden tables and drinking coffee. I searched each table, feeling my heart beat faster.
Michael tugged my hand. “You want to go in there?”
I turned away from the window. “No, I was just looking at the people.”
“It’s probably just the art crowd. I hear a lot of painters hang out in there. I don’t think we would have much in common with them.”
“No, we probably wouldn’t,” I breathed.
We walked along the cobblestone sidewalks to the river. The large ships were all lit up as they made their way down the Mississippi. The wind was brisk and we huddled close together against the guardrail just above the swirling black water. I stood there, wrapped inside Michael’s coat, feeling his muscular body next to mine.
I found myself surprised to be actually enjoying his company. It had been a pleasant evening, and he had turned out to be interesting and somewhat entertaining. I regretted wearing my frumpy dress. He had not been the lecherous monster I had imagined. Michael had been a gentleman. He also lacked something; something David had possessed in spades, but I could not define what it was.
“I had a wonderful time tonight,” Michael murmured. “I hope you have enjoyed yourself. Even though I get the distinct impression you’re not here all the time.”
“I’ve had a lot on my mind with Christmas and everything.”
“I understand.”
He lowered his head to me, and I could see his lips getting closer. Suddenly he stopped, and I thought for a moment that he was going to say something, but then his lips gently touched mine.
After the overpowering storm of David’s kisses, this kiss felt like a quiet afternoon drizzle. It was soft and lacked the desperation and hunger I had grown addicted to. It was a nice, gentle kiss, and then it was over.
“I like kissing you,” he murmured, as he held me close.
I began to shiver. I wasn’t sure if it was the weather or the wine.
“Better get you home before you catch cold,” Michael fussed.
We started heading back toward the busy streets of the French Quarter, leaving the roaring waters of the Mississippi behind us.
***
It was a little
after one in the morning when I got home. Several more nice kisses later, I was standing inside the safety of my front door, listening to Michael’s Porsche pull out of the driveway. I felt a flood of relief, as I bolted the door and turned on the alarm. It was over. The date had concluded and I was home. I was free to kick off my high heels, and not feel as though I were under the scrutiny of a microscope.
Once in my room, I undressed, put on my green fluffy robe, and relaxed. Not that the date had been that much of an ordeal. It was just that my heart had not been in it.
I sat down at my desk and gazed into the small makeup mirror I kept there. My eyes were dull and my skin, which used to glow, was now pale and sallow. I appeared thin and drawn. I was not the vibrant and fiery girl in the portrait over the fireplace downstairs.
I searched the desk in front of me for a distraction, and started playing with some papers scattered about. I was inexplicably gripped with an urge to write down the details of my date with Michael. I took out the notebook from the bottom drawer and opened it to a clean white page. I sat there, pen in hand, ready to make an entry, but I found myself unable to write. It wasn’t that I had lost the ability. It seemed that I had lost the desire. It was as if the light that had left my eyes had left my soul, as well.
“It’s time to bury the past,” I griped. “The only way to rid yourself of the past is to forget it ever happened.”
Without another thought, I gathered up all the notebooks I had hidden in the bottom drawer of my desk over the years. With my collection in my arms, I went downstairs to the living room and threw the notebooks on the floor in front of the fireplace. After several minutes of searching, I found the lighter fluid. I sat in front of the fireplace, ripping page after page from each notebook until all that was left were the metal spirals. I poured lighter fluid on the first set of papers in the hearth and then set the match to them. The flames reached upward and consumed each helpless scrap.
It took an hour to burn up a lifetime of effort. When I was done, I crawled into bed and closed my eyes. I slept soundly that night, without dreaming. I had no desire to dream anymore.
The Nicci Beauvoir Collection: The Complete Nicci Beauvoir Series Page 19
