When we were kids, Dad would tell us that all musicians went to jazz heaven after they left the earth, and sometimes they liked to come back to pay a visit. Bendrix often said he’d heard gunshots before he went to bed as a kid, while I was being tucked in with stories about jazz heaven. What could I say? That’s how we grew up. And while I didn’t really see visions (no, I wasn’t that wacky), I did like to imagine the greats looking out for me.
On the night I’d first met Avery, for instance, I’d imagined Miles Davis paying me a visit. He leaned next to one of Avery’s paintings at the gallery, playing “My Funny Valentine” on his trumpet. I stared at Avery and then at Miles and knew I was done for. When I stepped closer, Miles said in his gravelly, throaty voice: This Avery Brooks motherfucker is the fuckin’ real deal; he’s a fuckin’ cool cat. (Sorry to drop the f-bombs, but that was Miles—F this, F that.) He continued: If I was alive right now instead of in this fucking fantasy of yours, I’d buy all these motherfucking paintings. I should’ve known that seeing an image of Miles when I’d met Avery was a bad sign, though. Miles and that fusion period. What was that about? Dad, and everyone, said he needed to expand—that’s what a genius does, but I still thought his foray into that period opened the road to all the pseudo-contemporary mess we have to put up—
“Abbey? I’m Samuel.”
“Yes, you are. I’m Abbey.” I’d been so lost in thought I hadn’t realized he had approached me.
“Yes, nice to meet you.”
“I should have worn a dress.”
“Excuse me?”
I felt myself grow hot. Had I said that out loud? Shit. “Nothing.” I reached for a save: “I just said I feel—slightly underdressed.”
“You look fine.” I caught him looking me over as he pulled out my chair.
I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until he smiled full on, a razzle-dazzle, top-hat-and-tails, kick-up-your-heels smile. “It’s very nice to meet you in person.”
Ella peeked out from behind him with a big grin and pinched both of his cheeks. He likes you! Isn’t he cute? She sang a few bars of “Stay As Sweet As You Are” before floating back from whence she came.
Samuel sat down across from me and stared as if he’d just received good news from a friend.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Tell me.” Now I was smiling, too.
“It’s nothing. I just . . . I’m happy you look like your picture—better, even. I’ve been looking forward to this, but you know, you just never know if a person, if, well—”
He started to stumble over himself. But knowing that he was relieved that I looked like my picture meant that he’d been nervous about meeting me, which helped me relax a little. “You don’t have to explain,” I told him. “I feel the same. You never know with online dating, right?”
“Right.”
He smiled his smile and I felt myself grow warm around my neck and chest. I watched as he evened out his knife and fork so that the ends were aligned. It struck me that he hadn’t a clue about how handsome he was. Erase that. Surely he knew; how could he not? But at least he didn’t carry himself with an I am the man; I am all that and then some vibe, which, as we all know, can be a total turnoff. I wondered how it came to be that he still had some self-conscious humility intact, if he was raised not to focus on looks, or if maybe he’d been hurt in a relationship, or both. I knew I couldn’t ask about either after we’d barely said hello, but I was determined to say something about the hot, sexy elephant in the room: Why did a man like him need to meet people through online dating?
I waited as we discussed the weather and asked, “How was your day?” We’d chatted on the phone, after all, so it wasn’t like we were complete strangers. I folded my hands on the table. “So I’m curious,” I said. “Why does someone like you need online dating? Seems to me all you have to do is walk out the door.”
He chuckled. “I could ask the same about you.”
“Thanks. But you’re avoiding the question.”
“It’s nothing you haven’t heard before. I don’t like the bar scene, stopped going to clubs years ago, and I put in long hours at the office. It’s as simple as that. Why are you doing the online thing?”
“My best friend sabotaged me. Although right about now, I’m really glad he did.”
“Same. In my opinion, it’s not how a couple meets; it’s whether they stay together or not. I have to tell you, Abbey, I’m looking for something that lasts, and if I have to find her through online dating, that’s fine with me. I just want to find her. Dating gets old.” Embarrassed, he smiled and centered his already centered plate between his aligned knife and fork. “I’m sorry. Way too much information.”
I imagined little hearts fluttering from my chest and floating toward him.
“No need to apologize. I feel the same.”
He took out his phone and laid it on the edge of the table. “Sorry about this, but my father is out of town and I’m looking after my mother. She tends to worry if I don’t pick up. Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
The waitress came with the wine list and they began talking Wine. I couldn’t speak that language so let them have at it. When he saw a wine he liked listed on the menu, Samuel asked if I would mind if he ordered a bottle for the table. I realized how much I was starting to like him. Not because he knew wines, but from the way he spoke with the waitress and carried himself. He reminded me of Bendrix in that he was smart and handsome and had a smattering of pretention around the edges. Although, goodness knew, with Bendrix there could be much more than a smattering.
The waitress returned with the wine and poured a touch in Samuel’s glass to see if it was to his liking. It was. After pouring, she clasped her hands in front of her long white apron and described the specials. “Tonight’s special is Samuel Sterling Howard. Thirty-seven. Six feet tall with a sexy, toned body. He’s been a partner with Gibson Davis McCarthy for several years. Unlike other men you’ve dated in the past, he does not come with the requisite artist’s baggage, which, let’s face it, once appealed to you. He follows politics, reads The Economist, and listens to NPR. He’s not a fan of Brussels sprouts or broccoli. If you notice the phone on his left, he’s obviously a man who loves his mother.”
“I’ll let you look over the menu and decide?” She bowed slightly and left the table.
• • •
We chatted about anything and everything, letting the conversation fall on whatever topic it wanted to land on. Something about the way Samuel ate his food—with exact movements, his long fingers like a praying mantis over his knife and fork, which he used at the same time—completely charmed me. He chewed thoroughly between bites and sat up properly. He ate, in short, like a man who’d grown up in a series of boarding schools. But I knew he’d gone to public schools in Alameda and later El Cerrito: nothing fancy. He was shy in telling me he’d earned a 4.0 and was valedictorian of his class.
Halfway through the meal and the bottle of wine, we were flirting heavily, tasting each other’s food, and laughing and talking in overlapping sentences. The men in the restaurant shook their heads and thought, Looks like he’s getting laid tonight, while the women sighed with envy: I remember when my husband/boyfriend/partner looked at me like that. She’s so lucky.
When his phone dinged, he held up his finger and apologized. “It’s my mother. Mind if I take it?”
“Of course not.”
“Mother? Yes. Hello. No, I told you that wouldn’t be possible. No, Mother. I told you I didn’t have time.” I wasn’t sure if I thought it was odd or endearing that he addressed his mother as Mother. He shot me a look, then turned slightly. “I can’t right now,” he said in a muted voice. “No, I’m not.” He glanced my way and mouthed, One second.
I decided to stop staring and check my messages so that I wouldn’t a
ppear to be eavesdropping, even though that’s exactly what I was doing.
A text from Bendrix: ????????!!!!
I texted back: Hot smart nice!
My second message was from Carmen. Her appointment for the pregnancy test was tomorrow, and, as promised, I was taking her. She wanted to know if she could sleep over tonight. I texted back a yes. Carmen spending the night was a win-win, actually. The old Abbey had a habit of sleeping with a man before she knew his middle name or how he liked his coffee. I was determined to date responsibly, and I liked that I was now locked into my decision: No matter how attractive I found Samuel, he would not be coming home with me.
“No, Mother. Saturday. Yes. Father told you he would pick them up directly. How was your doctor’s appointment? What did she tell you? Good. Glad to hear it.”
Okay, yes, he might have sounded like he belonged in an era when men wore black tie to dinner, but it was obvious that he cared about his mother and looked out for her.
“I’ll call later tonight to see how you’re doing. Because. Because,” he said, lowering his voice further. “I’m out. It doesn’t matter where. If I have time, but I’m not sure right now. Yes. I’ll call you later. Yes, I promise. Bye.” He hung up. “Sorry about that.”
“Didn’t want to tell her you were on a date?” I teased.
“Date is a dangerous word as far as I’m concerned. I use it around my mother and she’ll immediately jump to marriage.”
“It’s nice that you look after her.”
“I feel it’s my duty. I have a lot of respect for my parents. Dad is originally from Trinidad. Mom is from Atlanta. They met in college and have been married for over thirty years. I know marriage is passé in many respects, but I grew up seeing two people work damn hard to raise their kids and stay together no matter what. My parents are old-fashioned, and I appreciate their values. I’m just old-school when it comes to certain things. Like marriage. I think we as a nation, and especially we as a people, have completely lost sight of the value of the institution. Nowadays people marry and divorce like a vow means absolutely nothing in the world. Anyway, don’t get me started. How about you? Your folks married?”
“Uh . . .” I thought for a second. How to explain that my family was anything but old-fashioned? As for the institution of marriage . . . ha! I took a sip of wine. “Uh . . .” Then another. Wait. One more. “Well, let’s see. . . . My mom and dad divorced when I was ten. She lives in Connecticut. My dad? My dad . . .” Has been married so many times it’ll make your head spin. “My dad is married to a woman he loves very much and they recently gave birth to a baby boy.” I felt something closing off inside. Sure, I’d told him the truth, but that I’d omitted the rest of the story made me feel guilty. I’d never been ashamed of my family and I didn’t want to start now. So I told him everything. I told him about the wives, the exes, and my twelve siblings. So much for the value of the institution or whatever he was ranting about. I had a feeling I’d reached the breaking point. Which was fine. It wasn’t as if I didn’t value marriage. I loved the idea of two parents—together forever. I wanted to know what that would be like more than anything, but I didn’t want someone judging my family either.
I watched Samuel whirl the wine in his glass, his eyebrows knitted. “Thirteen of you.” He let out a hollow-sounding whistle. “And you said your dad has been married four times?”
“Five. But who’s counting?”
He didn’t smile as I’d hoped. He looked at me, his tone earnest. “Do you see yourself ever getting married, or are you one of those free spirits?”
“I love my dad and my mom, but I would like to spend my life with one person. As much as I love my stepmothers, I’d like for my own kids to have one mother.”
“So you do want kids?”
Yes!
“Yes, I do. And I know my family sounds strange, but they’re very important to me.” I felt my cheeks grow warm. “Now I’m giving too much information.”
“Don’t worry about it. We’re being honest with each other.” He reached across the table and gave my finger a shake. “It’s been nice getting to know you. I feel very relaxed around you. You’re a relaxing person.” He looked down and saw that our fingers were still touching, then took his time to hook his finger around mine and pull it toward him. When I tried to take my finger back, he grinned and pulled harder. It was silly, our game of tug-of-war across our table, but it was a way to finally address all that sexual energy going on between us. I liked him. I also thought I got him. I even gathered what he was like as a child and could so easily picture him at the age of five, dressed neatly in a long-sleeve shirt tucked into crisply ironed pants, making sand castles in the school yard, every detail of his castle painstakingly neat and perfect. And then my five-year-old self would come along, my hair in two huge Afro puffs, and I’d laugh and start to destroy his sand castle, thinking that was the point of a sand castle, the destruction! And later we’d color together and he’d tell me I was doing it all wrong because I’d colored the people on my page purple and green. I’d ruined everything because I’d colored outside the lines. That’s when I’d laugh and take my crayon and color all over his page, too. I saw us so clearly as kids.
After letting go of my finger, he cleared his throat and straightened his fork on his plate.
At this point there was only one last hurdle. I swallowed. “So. I have a question.”
“Shoot away.”
“Do you like jazz?”
“Is that the kind of music your dad plays?”
“It is. He’s actually well-known. Lincoln T. Ross?”
His face remained blank.
People either freaked out when I told them who my father was or they responded like Samuel, clueless to the jazz world. (I will confess that I was disappointed, however, because if he didn’t know Dad’s name, that meant he didn’t know jazz.)
“Can’t say that I know the name,” he said. “I’m not a big fan of jazz. I don’t like it.”
“How can you not like jazz? That’s like saying you don’t like happiness.”
He grinned. “I don’t know. All that tootin’ and blaring.” He wiggled his fingers in the air and made loud noises like a player high on acid. “It’s too much.”
I sucked in a breath. “I’m trying my best not to judge you right now.”
He laughed. “Thanks.”
I sighed. First red flag of the night and it was a doozy. Of course, whether a guy I dated liked jazz wasn’t all that important, except—it was really, really important! I was from a jazz family. I spoke jazz. Hell, as many exes and wives as Dad had brought home, they all shared a love for jazz—well, everyone except Dahlia, who was an oddball anyway. Even Avery, for all his problems, loved jazz. It was as if we could always fall back on our two private languages—art and jazz. During the heady days of money and fame, we went to see Jason Moran at the Village Vanguard. Moran was lost in every song, and whatever he was feeling he sent through his fingers and onto those piano keys and out to us. Avery and I didn’t touch or look at each other for the entire set, we were so transfixed. Once we were home, though, without warning, Avery kissed me hard on the mouth, then pushed me over the couch headfirst, and somehow my pants were off and he was behind me and—Hell, Avery was a liar and a cheat and a lying cheat, but, oh glory, he was so good in—
Anyway, enough of Avery. There was a red flag on the table I had to deal with. Samuel didn’t like jazz. Not the biggest problem, but it was a problem, and I could feel the doubt creeping in as different parts of me bounced off one another.
My heart: He wants kids and he’s great with his mother and he’s so cute. Who cares that he doesn’t like jazz?
My head: Slow down! You haven’t known this guy for two hours. Give him time. It’s just the first date. You can teach him about jazz!
My gut: Date’s over. I’m out. This is bullshit. I don’t wa
nt to date anyone who doesn’t like jazz. And I don’t trust the whole uptight thing you find so charming. Something seems off, like he’s too rigid. Check, please!
I considered my options until he took my hand.
“Hey,” he said. “You okay?”
Suddenly nothing else mattered except the feel of his skin on mine. “I’m fine. Except I have one more question: You don’t like smooth jazz, do you?”
“No, not really. That’s not a problem, is it? Does your father play smooth jazz?”
I almost choked. “Never. Ever.” I sighed, relieved. “Well, that’s a start. Not all jazz is like what you think. Ever hear Bill Evans play ‘All of You’ or Miles Davis’s version of ‘My Funny Valentine’?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“Good. I’ll have to play a few songs for you sometime. Open up your world.”
The waitress appeared with the dessert menu. Bucciolio’s was perfectly fine for dinner, but not the best when it came to desserts. I didn’t know their pastry chef, but he or she tended to pair odd ingredients for the sake of surprising the patrons and not from any sense of taste.
“I wouldn’t mind sharing something,” Samuel said, looking over the menu.
“How would you feel about a pear tart served with crème fraîche?”
“Sounds good, but I don’t see it listed.”
I looked at him from over the top of my menu and smiled. “It’s not.”
7
In the Middle of a Kiss
I turned on the lights at Scratch, and my bakery was instantly flooded with a soft glow, as if lit by candles. It was after eight, and even though the rooms were empty and silent, I liked to think that the wood tables and floral bouquets in mason jars helped the place emanate warmth and comfort.
A Pinch of Ooh La La Page 7
