Win for Love

by Isabelle Peterson

  I try to shake the feeling that he’s still looking at me and focus on the exhibits, but I’m finding it hard to read anything, so I just stare at the fish in the tanks, spending an appropriate amount of time at each window before moving on. I’m working so hard at focusing that I almost miss the announcement that the twelve o’clock aquatic show will be starting in a few minutes and that I should make my way to the Abbott Oceanarium. I turn to find a sign to guide me and quickly scan the corner where I had seen the man, but he’s gone. I shake it off as just an odd thing. Maybe I reminded him of someone he knows, and he realized I wasn’t her, I surmise.

  DAVID

  I have been to this aquarium a few hundred times in my thirty-three years. Often, I come to lose myself in the hypnotic tanks of swimming fish and relax. But today, I’m here on business. I’ve just finished speaking with the board about an exhibit they would like to add and for which they are seeking benefactors. My family, of course, is at the top of the list to ask for funds. The meeting is a productive one, and once I speak to the rest of the Waterston Board, a project we’re likely to move forward with.

  I check the time as I’m leaving and see that it’s almost time for the mid-day aquatic show. I love those dolphins with their permanent smiles—they make me smile. But before I head down to the Oceanarium, a delicate woman catches my eye, and I can’t bring myself to look away. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen her before. It’s the Book Girl from the restaurant while I was on that awful date with Vivian, or whatever her name was. Has it really been two weeks since then? I’ve thought about the mysterious reading redhead from the restaurant so much, wondering who she is and if she lives in the city or is just visiting that it feels as though I saw her just yesterday.

  But today, now, I’m not on a date with another woman. I’m at the aquarium on my time.

  I watch her as she studies each tank, reads the placard next to the glass, and then goes back to observing the creatures she read about. She doesn’t race through the exhibit, she makes an analysis of what she sees and reads. Her smile is soft and warm, and I find myself wanting her to smile at me instead of the lake sturgeon she’s currently admiring.

  She’s not flashy like the women I’ve always dated—she’s understated and elegant. She tucks her long, straight chestnut colored hair behind her ear, and my fingers itch with the urge to touch that hair to see if it’s as soft as it looks or that delicate ear.

  When she suddenly looks up and catches me staring at her, she looks away quickly and walks to another window ignoring me completely. Typically, I’m recognized and met with a bold smile. I’m used to girls approaching me or playing coy. But this girl doesn’t seem to recognize me. Perhaps she’s not from the Chicago area. Maybe she’s European.

  “David! So good to see you again,” I hear a familiar voice behind me. It’s a voice that makes my skin crawl. It’s Angelique. She’s the special events coordinator here at the aquarium. And my ex-wife.

  I turn and greet her. “Angelique, good to see you as well,” I lie.

  I’m aware that if my redhead over at the ‘At Home on the Great Lakes’ exhibit sees me with Angelique, she may think that Angelique and I are an item, especially the way Angelique is looking at me. I guide us toward the gift store and out of the line of sight from the Great Lakes exhibit.

  “How are you?” she oozes. “You look well,” she continues as she brushes her hand over my shoulder and pretends to brush away lint or whatever. I step back, plastering a fake grin on my face before I tell her off, and before I know it, she’s trying to straighten my tie. I know it’s so she can touch me. However, her touch makes me cringe. “I read all about your family’s generous donation to the Chicago Symphony last month.”

  I take another half step back, out of her reach, and respond. “Thank you. I’m well. Yes, you know Mother. She loves a good symphony season. How is Tristan?” I ask, calculatingly reminding her of the reason we are no longer married. Her son. Conceived while we were married. Yet, I’d had a vasectomy when I was eighteen, so the child clearly wasn’t mine, only further confirmed when my samples came up sperm free, and the DNA test of the offspring clearly showed he wasn’t mine. I had never been more grateful for the prenup my parents insisted upon.

  “Tristan, yes… oh, he’s doing great. Growing tall. I can’t believe he’s going to be five in just a few months. Very smart. The top of his kindergarten class. Hoping that he’ll test well enough for entrance to The Lab. You know The Lab at the University of Chicago? Of course, his getting in is only half the challenge. Hoping that the financial aid will come through. Unless…”

  And there it is… her never-ending attempt to get money from me. Brandt, her current husband and father of the child, quietly resigned from my family’s company when their affair came to light. Ironically, I hired him as a personal favor for Angelique. She had grown up with Brandt and ‘wanted to help him out.’ I later learned that they were high school sweethearts and had rekindled their relationship shortly after Angelique and I got married. To learn of their affair made me feel like a chump. And it was due to her and her infidelity that I’d remained single for the past five years, never even really dating, much to my mother’s chagrin. Yes, I’d been voted one of Chicago’s 20 Most Eligible Singles last month, but it was far from the first time I’d been in the public eye. When everyone knows your family’s net worth, and you’d already been taken for a fool by someone who supposedly loved you, trusting that someone loves you for who you are rather than the size of your bank account or what your family can do for her career, is a tough pill to swallow. So, I love ‘em and leave ‘em now. And while I’m not exactly happy, I’m at least protected.

  I’ve heard that Brandt has not been very successful in landing another job that paid as well as his employment with Waterston Enterprises, and I’m okay with that. When I first learned that Angelique had landed this job here at the aquarium, I was furious that she’d had the audacity to get a job at one of my favorite places in the city, amongst all the places she could have found work, but then I found a twisted sort of solace in the fact that she had to work. That her gold-digging ways had backfired, and the life she could have had shopping and going to charity functions was gone, and she had to clock in from nine to five, Monday through Friday, and even put in overtime. Now she’s organizing the charity functions, and her attendance isn’t exactly on the glamorous side of things. It might not make me a good person to feel those things about the person I’d vowed to love ‘until death do us part,’ but at least I don’t let the anger control my life any longer. If I could have sent anyone in my stead to the aquarium today to avoid running into Angelique, I would have, unfortunately somethings have to be handled personally.

  “Well, I wish you luck with the school and the financial aid,” I say coolly and decide to head over to the Oceanarium to take in the dolphin show. “Take care.”

  I walk by the Great Lakes tanks to see if I can spot the beguiling woman who’d held my attention in a way that left me vulnerable to Angelique’s ‘pleasantries,’ but she’s gone. Shit!

  I step into the Oceanarium, and the aquatic show is already underway. Right now, the trainers are talking about the sea lions and their behaviors. I’ve heard the spiel a hundred times and could probably run the show myself. I watch the groups of school kids as they sit entranced by the information. Sometimes I find myself wishing I’d not decided to ‘get fixed’ when I was eighteen, and I consider a reversal surgery, but knowing my genetic makeup and the likelihood of any child I create to have the devastating illness I am a carrier for, I know I did the right thing. For me anyway.

  Before I know it, the show is winding down, and the big finale where the sea lions, dolphins, and beluga whale all say their goodbyes, splashing as much of the audience as they can, and the entire crowd erupting in laughter, squeals, and cheers.

  The auditorium starts to empty as groups of field trips and families file out. As the crowd thins, a woman stands out from all the rest. I hold
my breath. It’s her. She’d not left the aquarium. She’s here. This is the third time our paths are crossing.

  I stand from my seat in the back row feeling like a salmon swimming upstream and swiftly make my way down to the front row where she is. She is using the back of her hand to wipe away some of the water that had been splashed by the mammals. As I approach her, I reach into my coat pocket producing a handkerchief. I’d always rolled my eyes when my mother insisted I carry one, now I’m happy that her years of training have paid off.

  “Looks like you got the royal treatment,” I say, handing her the white cotton square. I notice how delicate her features are now that I’m so close. And her height is perfect, yet she’s so dainty she seems petite.

  She looks at me shyly and says softly, “Thank you.” The pink on her cheeks intensifies, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone blush so intensely before. She carefully blots at her face, and I’m not shy in taking in her features. I notice that she’s not wearing any makeup and her natural beauty stuns me.

  “I hear it’s very good luck to be splashed by the dolphins,” I say, making up something to say to her.

  “Oh,” she answers quietly.

  Again, she looks at me briefly, but there’s not the flash of recognition that usually happens, a downside of having had my face plastered across magazines and local newspapers when the most recent Most Eligible list was published last month. As she focuses her gaze on my chest, avoiding my face, she looks alarmed. And somewhat suspicious. Like she is afraid of me. Maybe I startled her when she caught me staring upstairs. Or does she know who I am? And maybe what happened with Angelique?

  “Did you enjoy the show?” I ask.

  She nods a tiny nod, her eyes still fixed on my necktie but doesn’t say a word. “Well, I have to get going. Thanks again,” she says, handing my handkerchief back to me.

  And just like that, she leaves. I start after her, but we are separated by the last group of kids leaving the Oceanarium. By the time I make my way around the pint-sized and boisterous visitors, she’s gone. I’m kicking myself for not getting her phone number let alone her name. And now she’s gone.

  Winning the lottery would be easier.

  That said, I’ve crossed paths with her three times already. God willing, I’ll get a fourth opportunity. And hopefully sooner than later.

  9

  As Luck Would Have It

  CRYSTAL

  As I leave the aquarium, my legs are wobbly. I can’t shake that man’s brown eyes from my mind. So dark and intense but warm and inviting all the same. His voice was smooth and confident. His suit looked expensive. Why he came to my rescue with his handkerchief, I don’t know. He certainly didn’t look like a tourist or a teacher with a school group.

  I could still smell his scent from his handkerchief from when I blotted my face with it. It was the most intoxicating I have ever smelled. I wish I had kept the hanky, but my memory will have to suffice.

  I am slightly kicking myself that I didn’t get to see the rest of the aquarium. I don’t know why I let him run me out of there. Well, he didn’t run me out, but… I have no idea. I’m so confused. Being near him, I couldn’t think straight to string more than a few syllables together.

  I know what I need. The library. I head west until I get to State Street, turn right and soon find myself in front of the immense, red brick building topped with its aged and intricate copper roof at State and Van Buren. Chicago’s largest library.

  Stepping in through the massive front doors, the scent of old paper fills my senses, and I’m both calmed and excited at the same time. I stand in the central lobby and smile at one of the librarians I saw the other day at the circulation desk. I glance to the right and see a sign that says ‘YouMedia’ where I see teens working on computers and listening to music with headphones. To the left I see… the stacks.

  Walking through the tall shelves, I relax into the familiarity. I love how every library is similar. That books are laid out all the same like here in the fiction section, everything is alphabetical by author name… and over in the non-fiction area with numerals, thanks to the Dewey Decimal System. Best of all, the books are free—once you have a library card. And even if you don’t—you can sit in the quiet and read. No one to holler at you or embarrass you. No one needing help getting cleaned up or talking too loudly. Basically, my mother wasn’t here. I seriously doubt she’d ever stepped foot in a library. The library was the ultimate hiding place.

  I locate one of my favorite books, one I have yet to add to my modest collection, and carefully take it off the shelf. I carry the book, Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen, to a quiet corner.

  As much as I try to lose myself in Norland Park and the lives of the Dashwoods along with their financial woes and get lost in the loves of Elinor and Marianne, I can’t shake the image of the man from the aquarium—his brown eyes and sandy blond hair. I wonder what he was doing at a museum, an aquarium, in the middle of a work day. I don’t recall seeing other businessmen there. Maybe he works at the aquarium, I surmise. I plan on visiting the aquarium again in hopes of seeing him hoping that I won’t look too obvious.

  DAVID

  I can’t believe my eyes as I walk into my most favorite place in Chicago. Yes, I love the museums, but I love the library even more. I have always enjoyed the peace of the space. When I was at the all-boys boarding school I attended for sixth through twelfth grade, I spent more hours in the library than my dorm room. At first, I started to go to the library to get away from my annoying-as-hell roommate, but once I started reading the Harry Potter books, I loved the space even more—its high ornate ceilings, elaborate windows, and intricate chandeliers made the building feel like something right out of Hogwarts. Sure, my classmates called me a nerd for spending so much time there, but I didn’t care. I devoured those books, then turned to others, discovering Lord of the Rings, then King Arthur, and I didn’t slow down. I was a fast reader and the librarians at the school always had a book waiting for me.

  Turning the corner, I see her. She absolutely takes my breath away. My mystery redhead.

  It seems she really is a reader, not just a diner who reads while she eats, and that makes me smile. To find her in one of my favorite museums is one thing—it’s touristy. The library is something… different. It is like fate is throwing us together. I see her sitting in the oversized chair in the corner of the fiction section here at the Harold Washington Library reading a book. She has such a simple, unassuming character. An Audrey Hepburn quality.

  I can’t see the cover, but I can see that she isn’t reading a new book. It looks to be one of the classics. I want to go up to her and ask her what she’s reading, but after she practically ran from me at the aquarium, I am afraid she would think I stalked her and followed her here. So, I grab a best seller that is sitting out begging for attention and find a space out of the way where I pretend to read, but secretly I am watching her. I watch as she holds a lock of her beautiful, reddish-blonde hair in her fingers and drags it back and forth over her lower lip as she reads. Occasionally, I see that she is distracted, and I wonder why.

  She shifts in her chair, and I see her pull a phone out of her back pocket. She starts to head toward the lobby placing the book she’s reading in the re-shelving cart as she leaves. I get up to follow her, stopping only to quickly see what book she’d been reading. Sense and Sensibility. One I have not read. I did try once, but the Victorian era left me flat. I much preferred the action of a King Arthur and Medieval era novels. I decide that maybe I will give it another go and race to the front door to catch her. I can’t let her get away again.

  This is the fourth time I’m crossing paths with her. So much for ‘third time’s the charm.’ I’m banking on the fourth time. Not letting this one pass me by!

  CRYSTAL

  My cell phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out and glance at the screen. My heart drops when I see it’s my mother. It’s been almost a full week since I’ve messaged her. Gui
lt courses through me that I’ve not been checking in with her. I’ve been so busy with my new friends, and she seemed to be doing well. Is that still the case?

  “Hi, Mom,” I answer, whispering until I can make my way out of the building, although no one seems to notice that I’m talking on a phone. Mrs. Tinley, the librarian from my Harton library, would be having a fit. Not only because I was talking, but she also viewed cell phones as one of the Devil’s tools.

  “How’s Chicago, baby? How’s the job going? Are you makin’ good money? How expensive is it up there? Are you eating okay? Please tell me you’re not in some rat and roach infested apartment.”

  Guilt floods every fiber of my being. I hate myself for having lied to her. But I can’t deny feeling loved by her concern. “The job, yeah,” I mutter, stalling. “It’s great,” I fib again. “The place I’m living in is pretty nice,” I add as I walk toward my apartment on Van Buren Street. Wanting the discussion off my lies, I ask her, “How are things with you?” I hold my breath and hope she’s going to tell me that things are good, that she’s sober, that she’s got a plan to get the bills paid, and that she’s ready for Jude to come home.

  She’s silent for a few moments. Then she sighs and says, “I miss you. I screwed up so bad. I’m sorry.”

  I’m stunned. I don’t know what to say. It’s the first genuine apology I’ve heard from her in a long while. There’s something in her tone that is so authentic. Then my old thoughts kick in. I’ve heard apologies I thought were heartfelt in the past. I start to worry-slash-panic that she’s about to tell me that she’s in trouble, needs help with paying the bills, or that she blew all the money on booze because not enough guys bought her drinks at the bar lately.