"Just that you're new," he said. "You'll get used to it," he grinned, his teeth glowing in the odd light. "We all do."
He quickly turned his attention to a better bet, a full busted woman who was standing on his other side. "New here?" he asked.
Sara wound away, thankfully, through the cluster of bodies packed close together in the room. There was an endless supply of both men and women. If not one person, another would be ready to fill that aching gap inside.
Sara left the bar, worked her way through the restaurant, and slid out the front door. Once outside, she breathed deeply of the cool night air, wondering how she could get out of here. She felt something at her side, turning to find Cynthia.
"It's your first time, so I'm keeping an eye on you," Cynthia said. "Boy, tonight's crowded. Some new faces too. Cheer up, you'll get used to it. I used to want to run too."
"There's got to be a better way. It's. . . a horror in there," Sara muttered.
"Sure there's horror in there," Cynthia quipped, seemingly unruffled, "but there's also fun. Nobody's putting a gun to your head. I think the people who come are terrific. They got guts."
"There's got to be a better way than this," Sara persisted.
Cynthia looked annoyed. "So, try something else."
"I will," said Sara, definitively, and it was at that very moment, filled with trepidation, that she decided she would answer the emails she received, and place a new online ad.
* * * * *
The ad didn't write itself. It didn't want Sara to write it either. It happened instead by agreement with destiny.
The next Tuesday night meeting of the Girl's Network was to be held in Greta's house. That afternoon, Sara asked Berta, her Haitian housekeeper, if she would prepare dinner and stay late. She had an important appointment to go.
"Oh my!" Berta's eyebrows raised. "I'll be just delighted. It's about time and the Good Lord is looking out for you, ma'am."
Berta had been with Sara since Abel was five. She was a short, immaculate woman in her late fifties, whose clothing was always freshly laundered and starched. She had huge eyes, a wiry body, and an intense belief in God.
Sara didn't have the heart to tell her it was just an evening out with the girls. Also, it felt important to be there, and she found herself getting ready early. It felt odd leaving Berta with the kids this evening.
After she dressed, Sara came down to the kitchen where everyone had gathered for dinner.
Chloe looked up, surprised.
"You look great, mom. Got a date?"
Abel picked up his fork and tapped it on his glass.
"Stop making that noise," Matt snapped. "Of course she'll always be our mom. What choice does she have? She's stuck with us. We're stuck with her."
"I'm not stuck with anybody," Sara said, stung. "I love you all." She sat down and joined them. "I'll always be your mom. But, now that dad's gone, our life's a little different."
That was the first time Sara had actually spoken the words - dad's gone. They all sat stiffly for a moment, taking it in. The unspoken hope that this was a dream they'd wake from, or that at any moment Melvin would walk in through the door, weakened for all of them.
"All kids go through this," Chloe said finally.
"Moms bring strange guys into the house," Matt interrupted, his jaw firmly set.
"I'm not bringing in anyone strange."
No one spoke.
"You have to trust me," Sara said.
Berta, rustling around in the background, shook her head.
"Of course we trust you," Chloe piped up. "How could we not trust you? It wasn't your fault that dad met Alicia."
Berta came over with a platter of roast chicken and held it out to all of them. No one took a thing.
"You can't blame everything on dad meeting Alicia," Matt said. "There was life before Alicia, remember!"
"Eat the chicken," Berta offered.
"What's the point of blaming anyone?" Chloe said. "We just pick ourselves up and move on. Right?"
"Right," said Sara weakly, wondering suddenly where they were moving on to, if there were any way she could have prevented all this from happening.
"You have a piece of chicken too, Ma'am," Berta insisted, plopping one down on the plate in front of her. "I cooked it my way; it's good for the heart."
Sara stayed a little while and ate with them in silence. When she got up from the table and left for the meeting, she felt wobblier than before.
* * * **
Greta lived in an old, stone Tudor house, bordered by high trees, down a winding lane, which forced you to drive along slowly. Sara had been there four or five times, usually for large open houses, which Greta and Jason had hosted regularly on New Year's Day. People came all day long, milled around, chatted for a few minutes with each other, and then left. When she reached Greta's house tonight, all the lights were on, shining bright.
Almost as soon as she rang the bell, Greta flung the door open and greeted her.
"You're almost the first one to arrive. Am I glad to see you."
Sara walked into a small entrance, then turned right into a large, square, beautifully appointed living room with a stone fireplace. A fire raged.
"Like it?" Greta asked.
"Wonderful."
"I re-decorated the minute Jason left. At least I got the house - and everything in it."
Sara swallowed hard.
"Why shouldn't I get it? He dumped me, you know."
Sara walked further into the room, which had an old Persian rug, antique furniture, and oil paintings ornately framed. On a were boards of cheeses, crackers and drinks. Iris was there already, filling her plate.
"Hi, Hon," she said without turning. "Come get the goodies."
The front door bell rang again and Greta left to answer it. Sara heard Greta greet Cynthia and Wanda, walking in at the same time.
"You'll get hooked on these meetings," Iris murmured as she piled all kinds of cheeses high. "They help us get used to everything."
"I hope so," Sara said.
Greta came in with Cynthia and Wanda.
"We're thrilled you're here, darling," Cynthia rushed over and gave Sara a hug. "Positively delighted."
"Thanks," Sara said.
Cynthia filled up her plate and then all of them gathered on the couch.
"Okay," Iris started, "Let's have a report on developments. Who's seeing who?"
"A regular smorgasbord," Cynthia said lightly. "I'm handling a whole bunch at once."
"What an inspiration!" breathed Iris.
"Maybe, but it's not all it could be. Dave, is stable, but boring - too predictable. Louis is nice, but he never calls. Andrew is terrified of commitment, and Carl, the widower, will only talk about his dead wife."
"What about you, Sara?" Iris tossed a gauntlet her way. "Planning to stay alone forever?"
Sara picked up the challenge and ran with it. "I'm writing a new ad," she announced, feeling a flare of victory, as if she'd just bought a ticket for a steep roller coaster ride. "It's going in tomorrow."
"Great!" Cynthia said. "What a way to start the New Year! How does it read?"
All eyes turned to Sara. She looked down. "It's not exactly written yet."
"You're in the right place at the right time, honey, to get organized. We'll write it with you."
She jumped off the couch, ran to an antique desk in the corner of the room that had seen better days, and took a bunch of sharpened pencils stashed in the front drawer.
"Down to business," Cynthia said, holding the pencils pointed up.
Greta followed and ruffled through the desk drawers, pulling out a long pad of yellow paper.
"First you have to know what you want," Greta said. "Focus. Without it, you're all over the place."
"No. It isn't what she wants," Iris mumbled, "it's what they want."
"Outdated," yelled Wanda. "Pass on that suggestion."
"You find their need and fill it," Iris said.
"It's S
ara's ad, let her tell us!" Cynthia said.
Sara had thought about it a thousand times and still had nothing to say. What did she want in a man? There were images and left over dreams from when she was young, but an actual flesh and blood person with whom she could be happy? It's mysterious, she wanted to say.
Greta looked at her keenly.
"First you know what you want. Then you get it. You have to describe yourself fabulously."
"I feel in my bones there's someone waiting for you," Cynthia chimed in, reminding Sara of Camella, her psychic, who repeatedly said the same thing.
"What Cynthia feels in her bones means nothing," Iris chimed in. "It's all dumb luck, doll."
"Luck has nothing to do with it," Cynthia said, grabbing the pad from Greta and started writing feverishly.
"Enormously kind, beautiful woman," she read as she wrote. "Fabulous figure, generous heart."
"Hold it," Sara said.
"Terrific friend," Cynthia barreled on, then came up for air. "Come on now. You've got to really put it on. How do you see yourself anyway?"
"It depends on the moment you catch me in," Sara said. "I can brood, play, cry, or enjoy solitude. I adore nature, cooking and kids."
"Don't put that in," Cynthia growled.
"What's wrong with nature and solitude?" called Wanda.
"Honey," drooled Iris, "It'll never play. The men want a woman who's there for them - completely."
"I can be spiritual," Sara continued.
"Forget that too." Iris looked pained. "What is this? Self sabotage time?"
Sara was startled.
"Spiritual and kids are downers," Cynthia said. "It'll keep men away. Thank God Greta's kids are grown and out of the house - and I'm better off now not having had them. Face it, the men want us all for themselves. Also, if you write spiritual, it creates a strange feeling, like you're walking three inches off the ground. You'll draw creepy types who are overly sensitive."
"I don't exactly agree," Greta said, tossing her full dark hair away. "Don't write spiritual. Write religious," she said.
"Religious? Why religious?" Cynthia cried out. "The last thing you want is a religious man."
"Wait a minute," Sara objected.
"You want to be stifled, torn down? Kept under a thumb?"
Cynthia's eyes flashed. "You want to dress up like your sister Selma, tie a scarf around your head?"
"Those are your pictures, Cynthia," Greta broke in. "I disagree. I think a religious man might be nice for Sara - he'd have a good sense of tradition. He'd be kind."
"I doubt it," Cynthia murmured.
Sara thought of her religious grandfather, of his father before him. Both had been silent, prayerful men.
"My grandmother was happy," Sara said softly.
"What century did she live in, dear?" Cynthia snapped.
Wanda, who had been mostly silent, got up and walked to the window. "Religious is a moot point anyway," she grumbled. "There are no religious men left these days."
"How would you know?" Iris chuckled. "When did you last search for one?"
"My whole life," said Wanda, sadly.
"Come on!"
"Look, this is research," Greta took over. "You'll put in an ad and find out who suits you. There's really no way to know until you try them all."
"Everyone?" Sara shuddered.
"I don't mean it like that," Greta said. "Just put in different ads on different sites and go out with the different men who answer."
The thought exhausted Sara. She wondered if that would be fair to her suitors.
"It's absolutely fair," Greta said, as if reading her mind. "After all, they don't know you. You're all taking a chance. You'll have a cup of coffee together, shoot the breeze. So what?"
Cynthia got up from the couch, stretched and paced around the room, her natural antipathy for Greta returning.
"Ridiculous," Cynthia murmured. "You ask for the best and you get it. I want the best for you, Sara. Not some life of constriction and guilt like you've lived through already."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Greta said. "Don't put your fears into Sara. A religious man's fine."
"They don't exist anymore," Wanda spoke louder. "Drop the whole subject, it makes me want to cry."
"We can't drop the subject," Iris chided.
"Back off!" Sara's heart was pounding. "Who said I wanted a religious man? Who said I didn't? I just said I don't know for sure. Give me a break. I married Melvin when I was eighteen."
They all looked at each other in dismay.
Cynthia softened. "Picture the one you want in your mind, sweetheart."
Sara drew a blank. Images of the men she'd known came to her in waves. Stern faces in the neighborhood she grew up in, demanding obedience and dedication, a loyalty she didn't have to give. Then she saw her grandfather's face, with silky skin and sparkling blue eyes. If he were here now, he would tell her to talk it over with God, ask Him to send whomever was right. Sara saw the face of her father, who died when she was young. He was wearing a blue, formal suit, with his wild, unruly moustache and searing hazel eyes. She had never really known him. It was rumored he liked women though, and they liked him. She pictured uncles, teachers, mentors, trainers. . . She pictured artists and friends. She saw seekers, finders, losers, winners, flashy guys with golden chains. In a quick moment Sara realized there were hundreds out there, just waiting. There were doctors, lawyers, stockbrokers, fast talkers, slow runners, stable and unstable guys. But in her wildest imagination she never imagined she'd find somebody real.
"You've got to open yourself up to everyone," Cynthia spoke emphatically. "The worst thing is to narrow your options."
Suddenly it was perfectly clear. "Okay!" Sara cried. "l'll put two different ads in - on two different sites."
"What are you talking about?" Cynthia was uneasy.
"Each ad will be for a different kind of guy. And describe a different woman who's seeking."
Cynthia grabbed a pencil out of Greta's hand, "Good," she said and started writing, fast.
WANTED: Wildly handsome, unruly man. Passionate, loving.
Her face flushed as she wrote.
"Unruly?" Sara said.
"Those are the best," Cynthia proclaimed.
"My days with unruly guys are over," Iris piped up. "But if you want a few, be my guest."
"These days the unruly ones are schizophrenic," Wanda said. "There are no real adventurers left."
But the idea pleased Sara. It helped her breathe easier.
"Why not? Write unruly. It sounds like fun," she said. "Ask for someone who is not tame."
"You're asking for trouble," Greta flinched.
"It's research, Greta, remember," Cynthia bared her tiny teeth.
"Okay, but now it's my turn," Greta grabbed her own pencil and wrote. "This ad goes on another site."
Greta wrote fast and then read it aloud.
"WANTED - kind, sensitive, spiritual soul, respectful of tradition. Dependable, with family values. Someone I can trust."
"That's a tall order," Sara said.
"My grandmother would love you, Greta," Cynthia said, "but God forgive me, there's no one out there like that."
"Maybe God won't forgive us," Wanda moaned in the background.
"What do you think, Sara?" Greta asked.
"I'm not sure," Sara answered plainly, as they all stood there, facing each other and the vast unknown.
* * * *
The moment after she placed the two ads, Sara felt momentarily split, as if she were placing her heart in different worlds. After the ads were written, Sara drove home, her head pounding, wondering what the children would think.
First thing when she walked in, she confided to Chloe, who took the news well.
"It's about time," Chloe answered blithely. "We're the ones who wanted you to do it, remember?" After that Chloe went to her room and called her grandmother, who called Sara back a moment later.
"What do you mean you put i
n an ad?" Sara's mother Tova said, breathing heavily over the phone. "An ad for what? For a person?"
"That's how it's done these days," Sara quipped, trying desperately to keep breezy.
"What days?"
"Times have changed," Sara said.
"Nothing changes," said Tova. "The human heart stays the same. What kind of nut do you think is going to answer?"
"Why should he be a nut?" Sara snapped.
"Who else would answer an ad on a computer?"
"You'd be surprised."
"What's this an ad for anyway?" Tova was unstoppable. "A marriage partner?"
Sara couldn't say anything about marriage right now.
"Or a good time?" Tova went on.
"It depends what you mean by a good time," Sara said.
"The loneliness had got you, finally!"
"Nothing has got me. I'm sorry, mom! Do you forgive me?"
It was a litany Sara went through repeatedly. She asked for her mother's forgiveness and seldom got it. By now she barely remembered the original crime she had to be forgiven for. She knew that her mother loved to hear her say 'I'm sorry' though. It justified her perception of life.
"If you would come home and talk straight to God, then I'm sure he'd send the perfect man to you. The perfect man, Sara. Not someone from an ad."
"Maybe he would and maybe he wouldn't!"
"And maybe if you prayed long enough," Tova continued, "God would even let Melvin come home."
Sara froze, surprised to realize that she did not want him home anymore.
"Did you hear from him for the New Year?" Tova persisted. "A woman and three children he leaves behind? It's terrible. And your sister Selma agrees."
"I couldn't care less about Selma and it's none of her business."
"Selma's a wonderful person - faithful, obedient, the kind of influence you could use. You should spend more time together."
"We hate each other."
"In your imagination! Selma doesn't hate you."
Sara's head felt like an echo chamber filled with her mother's injunctions. She couldn't bring herself to say one more time that Melvin had his own life now. She also vowed never to tell her mother that he had a girlfriend, a redhead who'd already moved in with him.
Sara felt a fierce headache coming. It was creeping slowly up the back of her neck - tiny, sharp knives piercing her skull.
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