Just A Little Romance

by Mary Jane Russell

  Sam pointed to herself, then the kitchen.

  Paul shook his head, telling her she didn’t have to leave the room. “No, I’m not alone. Sam’s here. I told you she would be.”

  Sam studied her fingernails. She needed a manicure.

  “It was your choice to be with your family every night this week. I told you I understood,” Paul said. His patience was genuine.

  Sam took the empty bottle of wine into the kitchen, rinsed the container, and tossed it into the recycle bin. She took a new bottle out of the refrigerator and opened it, filling her glass.

  “Yes, I miss you. You know I love you.” Paul’s voice lowered. “I always want you.”

  Sam picked up her duffel from beside the front door and carried it to the far end of the house.

  Paul had completely renovated the 1970s ranch house shortly after he bought it ten years ago. He had a wall knocked down, turning two small bedrooms on the end of the house into a large master suite with a dressing area. Sam loved the king-size bed with firmness controls for each side. If she wasn’t so frugal—Paul said cheap—she would buy one. Instead, she called Paul and spent the night when her back problems flared up.

  The kitchen would satisfy a gourmet cook. Half of the long, narrow garage had been converted to an office. Paul had been lucky enough and young enough to call on friends to do the work. He still dropped everything when one of them needed his help on a project. He never forgot the years he spent living in rentals while working any hours available to scrape together the down payment for a house. In Virginia, even an amiable split meant half of a couple’s assets went to the attorneys, leaving the other half to be divided between former husband and wife.

  Sam returned to the silence of the living room.

  “Sorry if that was more than you wanted to hear.” Paul’s eyes were focused on the television screen. “I’ve no idea what I’m watching.”

  “Would Scott enjoy his relationship with you as much if he didn’t have a wife and children to deceive?” Sam asked.

  “Damn, you could have softened that just a little.” Paul frowned at Sam. “Probably not. He sets the nights that we’re together, then sneaks away from them to call me and go on about how much he misses me and that I deserve a better boyfriend. I can’t criticize him but so much. I was married and lived the straight life for ten years, then walked out on a nine-year-old daughter. God knows what that did to make Jane and Angela how they are.”

  “Miserable?” Sam said. “Sorry.” She took another sip of wine. “Both you and Scott date other people?”

  Paul nodded. “Scott has to choose, not so much me as lifestyle. He’s just dabbling.”

  “With his wife and children on the verge of paying for his ambivalence?” Sam made herself stop. “Why do we put ourselves through all this?”

  “We all want that love we see on the cable channels.” Paul nodded toward the television screen.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “And for $19.95 a month…” Paul reached to the coffee table for his laptop.

  “Oh, no.” Sam made a cross with her index fingers. “No more. I’ll just buy new batteries for my handheld device.”

  “Girl!” Paul logged on to his Internet service. “Come on. I tell you what. I’ll pick out someone for you to flirt with, then you can find someone for me.”

  “And later we can braid each other’s hair?” Sam clapped her hands and feigned excitement.

  “Later, we’ll open the third bottle.” Paul scrolled through his favorite sites. “Or we could go on Facebook and take quizzes until we’re too drunk to type.”

  “You do know how to show a girl a good time. I don’t understand why Jane let you get away.”

  Paul grabbed his chest as though he had been shot. “I’m up to five hundred friends on Facebook now. Have you finished your profile?”

  Sam punched him. “Honey, a friend is someone next to you on the sofa in their pajamas understanding why your child temporarily hates you.”

  “And playing on your Wii does not constitute socialization.” Paul raised his eyebrows at Sam. “We both live vicariously through our electronic fixes.”

  “I’ll drink to that.” Sam did a double take at the woman in the ski cap and sunglasses with a snowy mountain in the background on the Match site after Paul logged in with Sam’s user name.

  “We have a winner. Hurry up so you can do me.” He handed her the computer.

  “I’m so glad Angela’s not here.”

  “You and me both, kid.” Paul pointed to the list of qualities the skier was looking for. “Perfect, she likes petite butches.”

  “Shut up.” Sam sent a wink. “Now let’s find you someone who doesn’t want to be around children.” Sam focused on a handsome, young blond with a mischievous smile.

  They each ended up with dates for the following weekend.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Sam struggled to think of another subtle way to check her wristwatch as she made herself not fidget with the salt and pepper shakers flanking the cruet. She had been amazed when she took the gold Seiko from her jewelry drawer and found the battery still running the watch—it had been a long time since she had dressed to impress for an evening out. She felt disloyal to her usual preference of a Mickey Mouse or Snoopy watch.

  “Just my damn luck. I’ve been stood up. Why didn’t I wait in the vestibule? No, I had to come in to our table.” The last time Sam checked, her date was twenty minutes late. In those twenty minutes, the restaurant had filled and there was now a waiting line staring through the glass entry doors.

  Sam looked up from her menu to check the doors again. She had already consumed two glasses of wine and half a basket of breadsticks—not that she was nervous.

  The waiter pounced on her once she made eye contact. “Madam is ready to order?”

  “Madam is ready to go home, but she’ll order first. I’m here and dressed for it, I might as well eat.” She thought about calling Paul and decided against it. She needed to overcome the self-consciousness of being a woman alone in a busy restaurant; men dined by themselves and never gave it a passing thought.

  The waiter shrugged consolingly. “I’m sure there’s a good explanation. Don’t give up too easily.” He winked as he waited for her order.

  Sam was ready with a deprecating comeback when she spied a woman on a mission heading her way.

  The woman stopped at the table and waited to be seated. She pointed to Sam’s glass. “I’ll have one of those, and I believe she’s ready for another.”

  Sam smiled and extended her hand. “I’m Samantha Moyer.”

  “Everyone calls you Sam, I’m sure.”

  The woman gave Sam an appraising glance as Sam did the same to Shirley Eckels. Shirley was at least half a foot shorter than Sam and pear-shaped. Her upper body appeared a nice 36C and her lower body was a ripe size twenty. Sam smiled, liking the combination. Shirley wore glasses on a chain around her neck yet squinted at the menu. Her hair was dyed a medium brown and cut just below her ears with the layers fluffed away from her head. She appeared about ten years older than Sam and had stated so on Match. Sam gave her kudos for not hiding her age or figure.

  Shirley looked up. “Am I very late? I don’t believe in watches and tend to let my appointments run long.”

  Sam glanced at her wrist. “Just a half hour.”

  “And the way you said that, it matters to you, yet you waited. Good decision, by the way.” Shirley carefully examined her silverware and rearranged the setting, precisely aligning the very tip of the handles.

  “What type of appointments?” Sam asked, nodding her thanks to the waiter for the fresh drink.

  “I’m a psychiatrist. Most of my sessions are about sexual counseling. Are you ready to order?” Shirley gave her choices in rapid succession with precise preparation instructions without waiting for an answer from Sam.

  Sam felt her neck prickle. Surely, her warning system wasn’t clicking on already. She ordered the courses she had decid
ed upon after looking at the dinner menu online at the office that morning.

  “And what do you do?” Shirley asked.

  “I manage the county’s business incubator, helping new businesses stay in operation and solvent during their first years.”

  “Oh, yes, you’re an ombudsman. I read an article about that recently. It’s a shame there’s such a high failure rate in what you do.” Shirley opened her purse and removed a cloisonné pillbox with seven inner compartments. She carefully arranged a row of differently colored pills alongside the very edge of her cloth napkin. She studied her silverware again and motioned the waiter over. “I’d like this replaced. I see spots.”

  The waiter nodded and caught Sam’s eye, raising a single eyebrow.

  “What about the success rate of the time you spend with your patients?” Sam asked.

  “Oh, I can’t discuss clients.” Shirley spoke with a New England accent.

  Sam would have almost sworn that Shirley unintentionally said cunt—might that be a Freudian slip. Sam covered a chuckle with her napkin.

  The waiter carefully replaced the silverware at both settings. Next, he brought their salad from the kitchen in one large bowl for them to share.

  Shirley picked up the bowl as though roadkill had been placed on their table. She motioned for the waiter. “The menu stated fresh chanterelles. These are common portobellos and simply unacceptable. Either bring good mushrooms or keep the damn salad.”

  Sam gulped. “I’ll have that. It looks fine to me.”

  Shirley frowned in Sam’s direction. Sam served her plate and concentrated on the mixture of greens. Another salad was brought for Shirley, with no mushrooms in the large bowl, accompanied by a small plate of chanterelles.

  “Thank you,” Sam said when it was obvious that Shirley wasn’t going to be gracious about extra service.

  The waiter didn’t return until their main course was served. He gingerly set the large plates on the table and waited.

  Sam immediately picked up her fork. The food looked incredible. She recognized the detail given to the plating from watching Top Chef.

  Shirley glanced at her dinner, then glared at the waiter. She shook her head. “That’s not what I expected. The arrangement is horrendous, the portions too large. I can’t eat that much rich food.”

  “What would madam have me do? This is the chef’s serving.” The waiter’s expression never faltered.

  “We’ll deal with it,” Sam said quickly. “Won’t we, Shirley?”

  Shirley swallowed half the pills beside her napkin as the waiter seized the opportunity to leave them.

  “Are you not feeling well?” Sam asked.

  Shirley’s cell phone beeped. She checked the small screen and texted a message before responding. “You said something just now?”

  “Are you not feeling well?” Sam inclined her head toward the remaining row of pills.

  “I am a long sufferer with fibromyalgia, as well as acid reflux and several other stress-related conditions. I self-prescribe these as a preventative to discomfort.” Shirley began sampling the meal, moving her fork counterclockwise for a small taste of each item, then repeating the order and portion size.

  Sam watched as Shirley ate. She kept hearing the theme to The Twilight Zone in her head. Her food was delicious. It was all she could do not to trade plates with Shirley when hers was emptied and Shirley’s two-thirds full.

  “I’ve been told that the tiramisu made here is the best in Richmond,” Sam said.

  “Oh, no! Sugar does not agree with my system at all.” Shirley shook her head vigorously as she pushed her plate away.

  Sam took a deep breath, trying to think of a topic of conversation to distract both of them. “While there’s an expert present, do you mind a professional question?”

  Shirley answered neither way, so Sam continued. “I have a friend who’s in an abusive relationship. Her partner threatens her, hits her, and mismanages her money. What should I do to help her?”

  Shirley moved her chair slightly back from the table. “I might have known. It never fails that I’m recognized as a doctor and asked out by someone who actually needs an appointment. Clearly, you’re no one’s victim and clearly there’s no friend. I would recommend that if you cannot control yourself, you let the poor woman leave you. I’ll recommend one of my colleagues if you’re ready to see someone professionally.”

  Sam did not believe her ears. Did her size automatically make her believable as an abuser in other women’s eyes?

  Shirley stood. “Do not call my office now that I’ve seen you socially, not that this will be repeated.”

  “Honestly, it’s about my friend.” Sam threw her hands up and was amazed to see Shirley flinch. This was not a conversation to be conducted in public. She should never have brought Haley into this. “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have asked you out again anyway.”

  Shirley left the restaurant much as she had entered it, focused only on her objective and without a word of thanks for the dinner she left Sam to pay for.

  The waiter eased the black folder on the edge of the table. “If it was up to me, I wouldn’t give you a check for tonight.”

  Sam shook her head. “Serves me right. I should know better than to go out on a blind date based on a few glib e-mails.” She left a generous tip and leaned closer to the waiter as she passed him on the way out of the restaurant. “That’s the cheapest I’ve ever broken up with someone.” He coughed to disguise his laughter.

  Sam talked to herself as she walked to her car. “At least I didn’t wind up in the ER fighting with Lisa, even if that would have been more fun.”

  Sam dialed Paul’s number as she drove out of the parking lot and left him a message. “Another fine mess you got me into.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Sam rolled over in bed and couldn’t figure out why she was suddenly wide awake. She wasn’t having a hot flash and she wasn’t sick. She looked at her clock radio—1:35. She listened and heard a round of barks throughout the subdivision as though the dogs were checking in with one another before being threatened by their owners.

  She turned over on her back and listened. There it was—noise from the front of the house but not involved with her house directly. “Maybe if I ignore it, it will go away.” Sam had no desire to leave the warmth and comfort of her bed.

  She sat bolt upright with the sound of metal crunching against metal. Selfishly, she was thankful that her Nissan was locked in her garage, but what in the hell was going on in the street?

  Sam slid out of bed and pulled her sweats on from the previous evening. She stepped into her tennis shoes without tying the laces. She trotted through the house and opened her front door, not turning on any lights to throw off her focus.

  The streetlights illuminated the drama taking place in front of her house. KD was behind the wheel of her ten-year-old Ford F-150 that was aimed to make another run at Haley’s two-year-old Toyota. There was already a long dent down the side panel of Haley’s Tacoma.

  Sam immediately dialed 911 on her cell phone, giving her address and the situation to the dispatcher. This was no time to tiptoe around the trouble between Haley and KD.

  Sam walked to the edge of her yard and waved her arms over her head to get Haley’s attention. “I’ve called the county police.”

  Haley frantically gestured to Sam to go back to her house, but it was too late.

  KD rammed into Haley’s truck, then threw the transmission into reverse and stomped on the brakes to stop even with Sam. She jumped out of the truck, leaving the motor running. “You what?”

  Sam stared at KD. “I’ve called the police. Enough is enough, KD.”

  “Enough!” KD strode to the edge of the pavement and stopped, facing Sam in her yard. “I’ll show you enough!”

  Sam pointed to the shallow ditch running parallel to the street. “I’m on my property. I’m telling you to stay off my property. Do you understand?”

  KD grinned at her. “Do you unde
rstand that I don’t give a shit what you say or do?” KD reverted to childhood. She jumped back and forth across the ditch between the shoulder of road and Sam’s yard. “I’m on your property. I’m not on your property.”

  Sam held up her hands. “Enough, KD. I will press assault charges against you. Do you understand?” Sam repeated.

  KD closed within a few feet of Sam, deliberately standing in her yard. “Do you understand that you have interfered with my wife?”

  Sam shook her head. “How much have you had to drink or snort?”

  “Sam, are you all right? I’ve called 911.” Ava stood on her front stoop, clutching a flowery housecoat about her.

  Sam didn’t take her eyes from KD. “Stay there, Ava.”

  “Stay there, Ava.” KD mimicked Sam. “Do you think I’m going to hurt some old woman who hasn’t done a thing to me?”

  “I think you’re high and out of control.” Sam stood her ground.

  “I think you’re an interfering bitch who’s been advising Haley to leave me. What do you think I found tucked away in our attic tonight but a packed suitcase? It wasn’t filled with any of my things.” KD took a step closer. “Are you so hard up for a woman in your life that you’re trying to take mine?”

  “Haley’s my friend. I only want to help her,” Sam said.

  “By taking her away from me? I love her.” KD screamed the last statement so that the entire neighborhood heard her.

  “Well, you have a damned odd way of showing it.”

  Before Sam could react, KD swung her right fist followed by her left, striking blows to Sam’s temple and stomach. Sam staggered and fell backward to the ground. KD closed in and began kicking Sam in the sides and back as Sam tried to move away from her.

  “Let’s make it assault and battery,” KD said. “It won’t be the first time.”

  The last thoughts that Sam had were wondering why Haley was screaming and where the blinking strobe lights were coming from.

  The next thoughts that Sam had were that Paul needed a shave and the lights in the room were too bright.