by Dee Ernst
“Who?”
“Tom. You spent a whole evening with him. Did you form an opinion?”
“He was nice.”
“And?”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t think he was good enough for you. You’re smarter than he is. And his sense of humor is a little forced. And he seemed a little too involved, you know? Like even though it was your house and your party, he wanted to run everything.”
Well, just that one time, when he ran around pouring more drinks for everybody. And then when he told me I needed more chips. And olives. Oh, and that little bit in the end when he kept telling me to light more candles while we were on the deck.
“Regan, honey, those are actually very good observations. But we’re still a new couple. Give us some time to find a way to fit together, okay?”
She sighed. “Okay. Sorry, Mom, but I need to get used to you as a dating person, instead of just my mom, you know? I hope you find somebody to be happy with, I really do. I don’t think Tom is that person, but maybe you’re right, and you both just need time.”
“Thank you, honey.”
“But can I say something without you getting too crazy?”
I sighed. “Sure.”
“Shouldn’t you be out there looking for a man who’s going to sweep you off your feet, instead of waiting around with somebody until they find a way to fit?”
“I’m fifty-five. I’m not sure I’m still sweepable.”
“Well, you should be. Don’t you want to be?”
All I could see was Jake Windom’s face. “Good point, Regan.”
“Are you mad at me?”
“Of course not, honey.”
“Good, because I have a favor to ask.”
“Go ahead. Ask away.”
“Edward Pendergast is flying in on Tuesday. He’s going to spend the next few months here, looking up old friends, that sort of stuff. I think he has some business to do in New York.”
“How nice! I can’t wait to meet him.”
I could feel her smile through the phone. “He’s really such a good man. But he’s flying into Kennedy, and I hate going out there. Would you come with me?”
“As long as I don’t have to drive, sure. I’ll be happy to ride shotgun.”
“Thanks.”
We hung up, and I sat looking at the phone in my hand, while Boone snored gently at my feet.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I had called Dane St. Germaine and told him I’d be happy to volunteer at his center and give whatever tax advice I could to his homeless clientele. That was Monday afternoon. I called Tom up that evening, and asked if he wanted to come over for some pizza and TV, but he said no, thanks. Tuesday morning Dane called me back and asked when I could start. I laughingly said tomorrow, and he said great, he’d line up some appointments, gave me an address, and left me staring at the phone.
Regan was afraid she would be caught in traffic, get lost, or have to battle the zombie apocalypse, so we left my driveway three hours before Edward’s plane was due to land. Since we ran into just a little traffic and no crazed undead, we spent two hours wandering around the airport, where we had an incredibly overpriced and tasteless lunch. I would have called it a touching bonding experience, but she spent most of the time on her cell phone, while I read Vogue magazine, something I hadn’t done in years, not since I realized I would never again be twenty-two, or spend twelve hundred dollars on a single pair of shoes. But it was the fattest magazine on the rack, so I grabbed it.
We were waiting by the luggage carousel. I was watching suitcases go by, playing “Name That Designer” in my head, when she jumped up and ran. I looked over at Edward Pendergast, and a very strange thing happened when I saw him.
I smiled.
It’s not like he was really good-looking. His face was narrow, and his nose a bit long and pointy. His hair was fair and thinning on top. His smile was wide, and his front teeth were a bit crooked. As he hugged Regan, I realized he was not that much taller than her, which would make him exactly my height.
So why was I smiling?
I stood up and got introduced. His hand was warm, his shake was firm, and he had the kind of accent Cary Grant impersonators would kill for. We stood and chatted about his flight, the weather in London, the weather in New Jersey, and if he could rent a car at his hotel, where it would be infinitely cheaper than renting it in New York.
By the time we had collected his luggage (totally non-designer) and paid the exorbitant parking fee (two hours of which was totally wasted time), I had agreed to have dinner at Edward’s hotel with him, Regan, and Phil. Regan was driving Edward to the Hertz rental place in Morristown. And, since I was going to be in the car with them anyway, I said I’d just hang out with him until Regan returned with Phil. That way, Edward and I could sit at the bar, have a glass of wine, and get acquainted, since we were practically related. Afterward, he said, he’d be happy to take me home.
So, that’s what we did, and gosh, what a great guy. Why the hell had he been living in England all that time? Why couldn’t we have met sooner? Because, seriously, if I had known about Edward Pendergast, I never would have bothered with that stupid online dating thing. At all.
Newark is a big city, with lines of traffic snaking around concrete and steel. Thank God for my GPS, because I never would have found the small alley where Dane had his office. Not that it was an actual office—it was a former warehouse, tucked behind a parking garage, a cool, dark space that went on seemingly forever, but packed with people and things—boxes of clothes, dry goods, food, as well as rows of desks manned by earnest-looking students on laptops and phones. I tried not to think about my car parked out on the street, unprotected, but Dane had assured me that all “his people” and their cars were taken care of. The locals took turns keeping watch.
It took me a few minutes to find him. I had been walking around in the dim light of the warehouse when I heard a laugh that I recognized and headed off in that direction. I found him at a long table, sorting shoes.
He looked up from his work and flashed a smile that lit up the room. “You’re here,” he boomed. “And on time. Kate, I cannot begin to thank you enough. So many volunteers think they can wander in at will. I can tell you’re going to be a real asset.”
He spoke briefly to a few kids who had been at the table with him, and led me to a large, empty desk with a huge pile of files on it. I had my own laptop and calculator, as well as copies of all sorts of tax forms. He let me sit down and get comfortable.
“We cannot give any of the people you will speak to today any financial assistance,” he explained. “You look at their situation and tell them what the best plan is for them. Because people are homeless doesn’t mean they are without income. Many of them have P.O. boxes and collect Social Security and pensions. Some of them own stocks and get dividends. They have inherited money or sold their homes but never got around to purchasing another. We have never been able to offer this kind of advice to them before, so we all really appreciate your being here.”
I kept looking around. The place was vast. “What do you do here, Dane?”
He shrugged. “Everything. Distribute food and clothing, offer a place to get out of the cold during the day, although we are not considered a shelter and cannot allow anyone to spend the night. We are open to anyone, but the people who come here are mostly regulars, street people who have been in this section of Newark for a very long time. The Shadow People Solution is privately funded, with a board of directors and eight full-time employees, including myself. Most of our volunteers are college kids and retirees.” He grinned. “And unemployed, overqualified attorneys.”
I smiled. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Good. Around one o’clock I’ll come by and take you away for lunch.”
“Dane, that’s okay. I’m sure I can manage lunch on my own.”
He nodded. “I’m sure you can, too, but I find that once you get started with these p
eople, you forget about things like lunch. Or coffee breaks. Or even going home. I’ve told everyone they are allowed thirty minutes. Which means you have fourteen people who will want to talk to you today. At the end of their time, make them leave. They won’t want to. If you have any trouble, just stand on your desk and yell for me, okay?”
“Okay.”
By the time Dane tapped me on the shoulder and told me it was time for lunch, I felt I had traveled to another world. As Dane had said, I could have spent a lot more time with every person, but each of them understood when time was up and collected their forms and notes, thanked me profusely, and gave their seat to the next person. I saw seven people that morning, and found seven situations I had never faced before. These people wanted to make sure they paid what was needed, because they understood that if they got into trouble with the IRS, they would never be able to get out. My former clients wanted to avoid paying anything at all, because they knew all that money they saved could be used to bail them out if necessary.
I followed Dane out into the heat and sun, to a rundown food truck that had the most amazing smells coming from it. He introduced me to Mel, who ran the cart, bought me two delicious tacos and an iced tea, and we sat and ate on a long bench outside the warehouse, elbow-to-elbow with Dane’s people.
He had been very quiet until after I had eaten. Then, as he gathered up our trash, he asked me casually, “So, do you think you’ll want to come back?”
I wiped my hands on the last bit of napkin. “Sure. Next time I won’t wear khakis, because it’s a little bit grimy here, but I’ll come back. Why? Do your volunteers usually run away screaming after the first day?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “The respectable white ladies usually do, yes.”
“Really?”
He shrugged. “These are the great unwashed. Sometimes it’s hard to see them as individuals, with lives and personalities beyond their problems.”
“Well, maybe to some, but I gotta tell you, Dane, these individuals are unlike any I have ever seen. And their problems present a whole new learning curve. I will be back for sure. Plan on every Wednesday, at least until I get a real job somewhere.”
The rest of the day flew by, and Dane finally came up and told me to go home at six thirty, as I was scrolling through the tax laws on my laptop.
“See?” He laughed. “I told you you’d forget about going home. See you next week.”
My car was where I left it, so I drove home and collapsed into bed after a quick shower and no dinner. It was the best, most exhausting day I had spent in a long, long time.
I got up early the next morning and took the bus into the city and finally saw the Monet exhibit at the Met. It was stunning. I wish I had been with somebody, so we could have stared in awe together. Tom had invited himself when I told him where I was going, but I brushed him off. If it had only been the museum, it would have been fine. But I was also going to be having dinner with Jeff, Gabe, and their friends, and didn’t feel like having Tom around. I wanted to relax and enjoy myself, and did not want to think about whether or not Tom was having a good time.
When I finally left the Met, it was after three in the afternoon, pretty hot and muggy, and my crisp linen crop pants started wilting as I walked down Fifth Avenue. Here was my dilemma: Virgil’s was in Times Square. I could walk there easily and spend an hour or three drinking wine at the bar, but I really wanted to talk to Gabe and Jeff alone, which meant going all the way downtown, and then coming back uptown. See the problem? In the heat and humidity, I’d be a wrinkled, sweaty mess.
So, I popped into Saks, cooled off in the infants’ department, managed to not buy every cute baby thing I saw, then hailed a cab and rode downtown in comfort.
There are blocks in downtown Manhattan that seem frozen in time—faded brick, swinging signs, and tiny tables crowding the sidewalk, where you can sit with wine or espresso and watch people for hours. Gabe’s shop is on a block like that, with a cute bay window jutting onto the sidewalk, filled with baskets of boxed crackers and jugs of olive oil. You thought you were going to walk into a dark, narrow specialty shop, but when you pushed your way in, it opened into a huge, well-lit emporium. The wine side, in one-half of the space, had bins up to the twelve-foot ceiling, and there was one of those cool sliding ladders that libraries used for books, but Gabe used it to climb up and bring down precious bottles. The cheese was on the other side, as well as sausages hanging from brass hooks, barrels of cured olives, and loaves of fresh bread from a bakery in Brooklyn, although those were usually sold out by noon. It smelled great, if you loved cheese like I did. If you didn’t, you should probably stick to the wine side.
Gabe was with a customer, of course, but he waved when he saw me and, after handing over a few wine bottles, came over and gave me a huge hug.
“How excited are you?” he asked, grinning.
“Gabe, I am over the moon. You two are going to be the best parents ever.” I whipped out a onesie from my Saks bag. It was tiny, yellow, with ducks embroidered across the front. “Happy baby!”
“They’re that small? Oh, no, stop the insemination!”
“And they poop.”
“That I know.”
“Is Jeff home?” Home was literally around the corner, the bottom two floors of a brownstone.
“No, he’s meeting somebody about maybe doing an animated cartoon series for Bennie’s World.”
“Really? How cool is that? Okay, then I’ll just wander around.”
Gabe gave me a look. “You have a key. You could always go over and hang out.”
“I know, but it just feels weird being in there without you two. Like being the only live person in a photo shoot for Architectural Digest.”
He laughed and went off, and I wandered happily for the next twenty minutes or so. The place was busy, but then it always was. Gabe had the perfect location for his shop—those West Village people loved their wine. I was starting to feel a little bored when I heard a very familiar voice.
Jake?
Really?
I peeked around a display, and there he was, in a three-piece suit, laughing with Gabe.
When he had met me for a drink, he’d been in khakis and a polo shirt, and had looked just like any other guy. Now he looked like what he was—the CEO of a multinational company: powerful, rich, and a little intimidating.
I came up behind him.
“You were right,” I said. “Very small world.”
He turned around and his eyes widened in surprise; then he reached out and hugged me, lifting me off my feet in the process.
“I was just thinking about you,” he said.
Gabe was watching carefully.
“Really?”
“Yes. Really. Gabe, Kate and I were college sweethearts. And in all the time I’ve been coming here, I never knew that Jeff was her son. Isn’t that wild?”
Gabe was grinning. “My favorite mom-in-law and my favorite customer. That is pretty wild. Was he stubborn and argumentative in college, Kate, or is this pigheadedness an old-age thing?”
I laughed. “Well, he was always reluctant to try new things. He had his favorites and stuck to them.”
“But when it comes to wine, there are hundreds of new tastes. Jake, I mean it, this Shiraz will change your life.”
“Go on, Jake, be daring,” I said.
Jake looked at me. “Only if you share it with me, Kate. I live only four blocks away, and it’s not too early in the evening for a glass or two. How about it?”
What? But Sandra the Beautiful… what about her? He had never answered my e-mail about her, so I had to assume she was still in his life. But I didn’t want to ask about her in front of Gabe, who I could see was bursting with curiosity already.
I glanced at my watch. “Gabe, when are you guys heading up?”
“You’ve got plenty of time,” Gabe said, moving toward the register. “The reservation is for seven thirty. In fact, Jake, would you like to join us? Jeff and I are cel
ebrating the shop opening four years ago today. I think you were one of our first customers. We’ll be at Virgil’s because we want to lick barbecue sauce off our fingers later on. I could change the reservation.”
Jake looked at me. “Kate?” His eyes were smiling, like they used to when the two of us would be alone and he was about to suggest we take our clothes off. I actually started to blush.
“Sure, why not?” I said. There was a hot flash building. I could feel it, so I moved in front of the air-conditioning vent and prayed that Jake would take a long time paying for his wine.
No luck. It took him less than, like, three seconds to check out, and he took my arm and steered me outside, where, luckily, the outside temperature was barely ten degrees cooler than my inside temperature, so the sweat on my upper lip and down my back was perfectly understandable.
“This heat is a killer,” I said, just to cover my bases.
Jake nodded. “Yep. I’m close, though. We should be able to make it before your hair starts to frizz.”
I had to laugh. I spent a great deal of my college career trying to find ways to keep my thick Italian hair from looking like a Brillo Pad when the weather turned warm and humid.
“That is not a problem anymore. I finally found the magical combination. Funny you should remember that,” I said.
“After all the time you spent bitching about it, how could I forget?”
“That’s true. Hey, Jake? What about your girlfriend?”
He didn’t slow his pace. “She’s not my girlfriend anymore. We ended things, quite amicably, just two nights ago. I think she realized I was too old. And I realized she was too, uh—not high-maintenance. That sounds like she was a gold digger. She just liked nightlife, and dancing, and drinking in clubs.”
“I thought that’s why you went out with her in the first place, to have a good time.”
He shrugged. “True. But we were never able to agree on the definition of a good time.”
Can I tell you that my heart did a little backflip?
It only took us five minutes to get to his place, on a quiet, tree-lined street with very expensive cars lining the curb. He led me to a gorgeous four-story brownstone with twelve steps up to a red front door. He unlocked the door and held it open for me. I was a bit confused, thinking I’d have to follow him up to whatever floor was his, and then I realized I was not walking into a lobby of an apartment building—I was walking into the foyer of his home.
