Dating Game

by Danielle Steel

  “No, thanks, I have friends waiting. But thanks for the offer,” she said blithely. And as he saw her climb into a cab alone twenty minutes later, he raised an eyebrow and caught her eye. She waved, as they took off for the city, and as soon as she got to the hotel, she threw away his card.

  Chapter 12

  For the next four days, Paris felt as though she saw every house in town. She saw four apartments, and decided in short order that an apartment wasn't what she wanted. After years in a fairly substantial house, with plenty of room to roam around, she wasn't ready for an apartment. In the end she narrowed it down to two houses she liked. One was a large stone house in Pacific Heights reminiscent of the house in Greenwich, and the other was a quaint Victorian with a mother-in-law apartment on Vallejo Street in Cow Hollow. It had the advantage of being close to the water, had a view of the bay, and the Golden Gate, and what she liked most about it was that Wim could use the mother-in-law apartment whenever he wanted, and still feel as though he had a certain amount of independence from her. He could even bring his friends there. It was perfect. The price was right, and the owners were willing to rent it. And she was an ideal tenant. She was solvent and a responsible adult. The whole place had been freshly painted and looked cheerful, clean, and bright.

  There were beautiful hardwood floors, and the main part of the house had three bedrooms, one on the top floor with a spectacular view, and two just below it, which she could use for Meg, and whoever else came to visit, or they could just stand empty. There was a pleasant country kitchen, and the living room looked out on a small, well-manicured garden. Everything was on a smaller scale than she was used to, but she liked that about it. She was going to have to pick and choose among her furniture, and send the rest to storage. And the realtor told her that he could rent furniture for her until her own arrived. They settled it in one afternoon. She signed the lease, and the realtor dropped off the keys to her that night at the Ritz-Carlton. She had paid the first and last months' rent, and a sizable security deposit. All she had to do now was rent the Greenwich house, but even if that took a while, there was no reason for her to wait around in Greenwich. She could move anytime she chose.

  She had dinner with Wim on the last night, and then drove him over to see it. She had rented a car, and was getting used to driving around the hills. And he fell in love with the mother-in-law apartment.

  “Wow, Mom! Can I bring my friends to stay sometime?”

  “Anytime you want, sweetheart. That's why I took it.” There were two small bedrooms in the downstairs unit, and he shared the garden with her. It was everything she had wanted. It had charm and privacy for her, and more than enough space, and would provide Wim a nest to come home to, although she didn't expect him to come often. He was having a ball in Berkeley. From everything he had told her, he had made a lot of friends, and was even enjoying his classes, and doing well.

  “When are you moving in?” Wim looked excited, and Paris was pleased.

  “As soon as I pack up Greenwich.”

  “Are you going to sell the house?”

  “No, just rent it.” For the first time in months, she had something to look forward to, and was excited about her life. Suddenly something good was happening, instead of disaster and trauma. It had taken her eight months to get here, but she had.

  She drove him back to Berkeley that night, and the next morning she flew back to Greenwich. Her seatmate this time was a very old woman who said she was going to see her son, and slept from takeoff to touchdown. And Paris felt as though she'd been gone for months when she walked into the house in Greenwich. She had accomplished a lot in a short time.

  She called Natalie and Virginia the next morning, and told them what had happened. Both of them were shocked, and saddened by her news. They hated to see her go, but said they were happy for her if that was what she wanted. She didn't tell Natalie that her dinner party had done it. She had already called a realtor, and they were starting to show the house that weekend. They told her it might take a while to rent it. It was a dead time of year, as people were more likely to rent, move, or buy in spring or summer. She had already called movers, and was planning to start packing over the weekend. She had a lot of decisions to make over what to take with her, and what to put in storage. And Virginia called her later that morning. She had told Jim the news, and they wanted to give her a farewell party. And Natalie made the same offer the next morning. By the weekend, at least four people had called and said they wanted to see her before she left, and wanted to have her for dinner. Suddenly people weren't feeling sorry for her, they were excited about what she was doing, though sorry to see her go, and she loved it. It was as though she had finally managed to turn the ship around by deciding to move to California. It never dawned on her that the change in attitude and outlook was more on her part than anyone else's. But overnight the whole atmosphere of her life had changed.

  And much to her amazement, by Sunday afternoon, the house had been rented. They were only the second people who had seen it, and the first ones called an hour later, and were severely disappointed that it was gone. The family who were renting it wanted it for a year, with an option for a second year. They were being transferred to New York from Atlanta, and had three teenage children. The house was perfect for them, and they were relieved that Paris didn't object to the children. On the contrary, the thought of her house coming alive again and being well lived in made her happy. And she was astounded by the rent she was able to get for it. It was going to cover the house in California and then some. So the move made sense in every way. She spent the next weeks packing and sorting, seeing friends, and saying good-bye. She was planning to be in San Francisco by the end of January, and when the movers came, she was ready.

  She had booked a room at the Homestead Inn for the last weekend, and had her last lunch with Virginia and Natalie before she left. She had actually enjoyed the parties they had given her. They had invited only old friends, and no more strangers to woo her. It felt like old home week. She had never realized how many people she knew and genuinely liked in Greenwich, and for a minute or two she was almost sorry she was leaving. But in her last session with Anne, she knew she had made the right decision. There was a kind of carnival atmosphere to everything she was doing. But she knew it would have been different if she'd stayed. She would have been sitting alone in her house, depressed and in the doldrums. Although she was going to be alone in San Francisco. She still had to find a job, and meet new people. And she promised to call Anne, they were going to have phone sessions twice a week until she got settled.

  She left for the airport at eight in the morning on Friday. And as the plane took off for San Francisco, she forced herself not to think of Peter. Although he knew from Wim and Meg that she was moving, he never called her. He was busy with his new life, and she had to make her own now. And if it was a disaster, and she found that she had made a mistake, she could always come back to Greenwich. Maybe she would one day. But for the next year, she was going to spread her wings and fly, or try to at least. And this time, she knew she had her parachute well in place. She wasn't free-falling through space, and no one had pushed her out of the plane. She had jumped, and she knew what she was doing and why. Moving to San Francisco was the bravest thing she had done so far. Wim had promised to come and see her that weekend. And when the plane touched down in San Francisco, she was smiling broadly to herself.

  She gave the cab driver the address of her new home, and the realtor had done as he'd promised. He told her he had rented enough furniture for her to tide her over until hers came. She had a bed, and dressers, a dining table and chairs, and a couch and coffee table and some lamps in the living room. It all looked respectable when she got there. She carried her suitcase upstairs and set it down in the bedroom, as she looked around. It was early afternoon in San Francisco, and she could see the Golden Gate Bridge from her bedroom window. And as she saw herself in the mirror hanging over the dresser, she smiled. There wasn't a sound in the
silent house as she whispered “Honey, I'm home!” to her own reflection, and then as she stood there, feeling giddy and hopeful for the first time in months, she sat down on the bed and laughed. Her new life had begun.

  Chapter 13

  There was very little for Paris to do in the new house until her furniture arrived from the East. The rented furniture was spare but adequate, and although the view was spectacular, without her own furniture and paintings and decorative accessories, it looked somewhat impersonal and cold. The only thing she could think of to do was to go to a florist and buy armloads of flowers. So on Saturday, after doing some laundry, and a long conversation with Meg, she got in her rental car and drove around. She wanted the place to look as nice as possible when Wim came for dinner with a friend on Sunday night.

  She was thinking of her conversation with Meg, as she drove south on Fillmore Street, and turned right onto Sacramento, where she had seen a number of small antique shops she wanted to browse. Meg had told her that she and Peace had decided to stop seeing each other the previous weekend. She was upset but not distraught over it, and although maybe not for the same reasons, she agreed with her mother that the relationship wasn't right. They had both come to the conclusion that their interests and goals were different, although Meg herself said that he was a very decent guy. And she didn't feel the months she'd spent with him had been a waste of time.

  “So what now?” Paris had asked her quietly. She liked staying current with her daughter's life, and always had. “Anyone else in the picture yet?” Paris asked blithely, and Meg laughed.

  “Mom! It's only been a week! What kind of slut do you think I am?” Even though it had been a minor relationship in the scheme of things, she needed time to let go and mourn. He had been nice to her, and they had shared a lot of good times, in spite of what Paris thought of him.

  “I don't think you're a slut. I think you're beautiful and young, and men are going to be lined up ten deep at your door.”

  “It's not as easy as that. There are a lot of crazy guys down here. The actors are all in love with themselves, although Peace wasn't, but he was more into martial arts and health than acting,” and he himself had said he was thinking of teaching karate instead of taking roles in horror films. He had begun to realize that acting wasn't for him. “Half the guys I meet are heavy into drugs, a lot of them want to go out with starlets and models. Everybody's got an agenda here. And the regular ones I meet, like lawyers and stockbrokers and accountants, are so frigging dull. The men my age are so boring and immature.” That about summed it up, in Meg's opinion.

  “There's got to be someone, sweetheart. At your age the world is full of eligible young men.”

  “And what about at yours, Mom? What are you going to do about meeting people?” Meg was worried about that for her. She didn't want her sitting in yet another empty house, getting depressed in a town where she didn't know anyone.

  “I just got here yesterday. Give me a chance. I promised my shrink I'd get a job, and I will. But I'm not sure where to look.”

  “Why don't you teach? You have a master's, could you teach econ at a business school, or at college level? Maybe you should look for a job at Stanford or UC Berkeley.”

  It was a possibility certainly, and she had thought of it, but teaching jobs of the kind Meg was suggesting were highly competitive, and she no longer felt qualified. She'd have to go back to school herself, and the prospect didn't appeal much to Paris. She wanted to do something more amusing. And thanks to Peter's guilt and generosity, and the small inheritance she had managed well over the years, she didn't have to let salary be the main consideration. “Wim will kill me if I get a job at Berkeley. He'll think I'm stalking him. If I did that, it would have to be Stanford.” In spite of the fact that there were thirty thousand students on the UC Berkeley campus, she wanted to respect the newfound autonomy that Wim was so proud of.

  “What about an office job? You'd meet a lot of guys there,” Meg said, trying to be helpful.

  “I'm not looking for a man, Meg. I just want to meet people.” Her daughter had other aspirations for her. She wanted her to find a husband to take care of her emotionally, or at the very least, a serious romance. She hated knowing her mother was lonely, and there was no question, she had been ever since Peter left.

  “Well, men are people,” Meg insisted, and her mother laughed.

  “Not always. Some are. Some aren't.” Peter had proved that, but what he had also proved was that he was human, with the same foibles as anyone else. No one was perfect. She just hadn't expected him to do what he had. She thought they were married forever. It made it almost impossible for her to trust anyone again. “I don't know, something will come up. I was thinking about taking one of those crazy job-placement tests that tell you what your strengths are. I think they do them down at Stanford. They'll probably tell me I should be an army nurse, or a dental hygienist, or an artist. Sometimes those tests come up with some pretty crazy suggestions. Maybe they give you truth serum to do them.”

  “I think you should do it,” Meg said firmly. “What do you have to lose?”

  “Just time and money. I guess I ought to. When are you coming up to see me, by the way?” It was so wonderful that they had the option to see each other more easily now. It was ninety percent of why she had moved to San Francisco, but Meg told her with regret that she had to work for the next few weekends. She was hoping to come up as soon as they wrapped the current movie, but for the moment she was still up to her neck in it.

  Paris was still thinking about the job situation, and her recent conversation with Meg, when she parked the car she was renting, and wandered into an antique shop on Sacramento. Her own car was on a truck on its way out from Greenwich, and was scheduled to arrive around the same time as the rest of her belongings. She bought a pretty little silver box, and then went next door to another shop, and found a pair of antique silver candlesticks she liked. She was having a great time just walking from store to store and browsing. And next to the last one, she discovered a very elegant, but small florist in an elegant little Victorian house. There were three spectacular arrangements of spring flowers in the window. She had never seen anything like them. The colors were dazzling, the combination of flowers unusual and magnificent, and the silver urns they were in were the most elegant she'd ever seen. And as she walked in, a very well-dressed young woman was taking orders on the phone. She looked up at Paris when she hung up, and Paris noticed that she was wearing a very large diamond ring. This was no ordinary florist shop by any means.

  “May I help you?” the woman asked pleasantly.

  Paris actually wanted to buy some flowers for the house, but it was the three arrangements in the window that had drawn her in. “I've never seen such lovely flowers,” she said, staring at them again.

  “Thank you.” The woman at the desk smiled at her. “They're for a party we're doing this afternoon. The pots belong to the client. We can do flowers in your own bowls, if you like, if you want to bring one in.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Paris said pensively. She had an antique silver samovar that was actually very similar to the one in the middle. She and Peter had bought it at an antique show in England. “I'm not going to have anything for a while, or a few weeks anyway. I just moved out from the East.”

  “Well, just bring them in any time. And if you're doing a dinner party, we'll be happy to set you up with caterers too.” It was a very unusual florist indeed, or maybe the woman was just being helpful. Paris wasn't sure. “Actually”—she smiled again—“that's my end of things. I run a catering service, and I do a lot of work for the owner of the shop. I'm just baby-sitting for them today. The girl who usually works here is out sick. And Bixby's assistant is at a baby shower, she's having a baby next week.” The shop was called Bixby Mason.

  “Is this actually a florist shop?” Paris asked, looking confused. As she glanced around, she could see that the decor was very high end, and there was a narrow marble staircase to
the upper floors at the back of the room.

  “It started out as one. But it's actually a lot more now. The man who owns it is an artist and a genius. He does all the best parties in town, from soup to nuts. He provides the music, caterers, decides on the theme, or works with his clients to create the atmosphere they want, from small dinner parties to weddings for eight hundred. He's pretty much cornered the market on entertaining in San Francisco. The flowers are just the tip of the iceberg now, so to speak. He does parties all over the state, and around the country sometimes.”

  “Very impressive,” Paris said quietly, as the woman reached into a bookcase behind her and pulled out three huge leather-bound albums. There were at least two dozen more on the shelves.

  “Want to take a look? These are just a few of the parties he did last year. They're pretty fabulous.” If the flowers in the window were any indication of his work, Paris was sure they were. And as she sat down to thumb through the books out of curiosity, she was enormously impressed. The homes he worked in were spectacular, the settings more elegant than any she'd ever seen. Mansions, gardens, beautifully manicured grounds on large estates with tents specially designed to accommodate the guests in fabrics she would never have thought of using. The weddings she saw in the book were exquisite. And there were a handful of small dinner parties he had photographed that were any hostess's dream. There were hand-painted gourds on the table in one for a Halloween party, a profusion of brown orchids in another, with tiny Chinese vases holding little sprigs of herbs, and a fifties party with so many funny decorations on the table that she smiled as she turned to the last page, and finally handed the books back, with a look of awe.

  “Very, very impressive.” And she meant it. She wished she had had the imagination to do something like that in Greenwich. She had done some lovely dinner parties, but nothing in these leagues. Whoever the owner was, he really was a creative genius. “Who is he?”