“Okay, the dudes can be the bad guys. I suppose it doesn’t matter.” I acquiesced.
In a sick, convoluted way it was fair. I didn’t even want to say the words out loud. The whole thing wasn’t really equitable, but it was finished.
The firemen came – all cute, thank you, I was quite happy watching them work. They carefully took poor Mr. Fischer away. Heart attack was the explanation, and it was true. I resisted making a comment about a lifetime dominated by resentment and simmering jealously, which is more hazardous to your health than a little pint of ice cream now and then.
Fischer had to leave with his father. We followed him down and out to the street.
“So the new museum will be located where?”
“Not far from here actually, we’re almost finished, that money was the last we needed. It will be small.”
“But with compliant restrooms,” I put in.
“Yes, the restrooms are a thing of beauty. You’ll have to see them.”
I let that invitation pass; I’d follow up with Fischer later. I was much more interested in Ben.
“So you’re a major donor are you?”
“Actually, it was my ex-wife’s idea, we gave a nice amount just once and that put us on the mailing list forever, you know how it is.”
No, I didn’t know how it was. But I did know that Ben still owed me dinner. Actually, I owed him dinner. Either way, I feel better when there is a appointment scheduled and on the calendar.
We stepped outside, the truck was empty, and we had a shaky signature on the receipt in our hands for Hillary who, by April, would remember that she really did want that tax deduction after all.
“Perfect,” Ben held his face up to the sun. “It’s always so perfect here in September.”
“What do we do now? We could go to Nordstrom, there’s a sale on shoes.” He didn’t strike me as the shoe shopping kind of guy, but I thought I’d try anyway.
“No, shopping. That’s a winter activity. Let’s go to the beach. I need to clear my head after that.”
I sighed, the beach. I was not dressed for the beach. But I went along anyway, he was driving.
Ocean Beach was populated with hardy locals and a few tourists lucky enough to land in San Francisco at exactly the right season. The breeze was still strong, but the sky was clear blue, the water was grey blue and the crashing waves blocked out any city sounds.
I always want to pretend that the weather is like this year round – you know, to perpetuate the California myth. The reality is that in June and July, the coast is usually completely blanketed in cold fog accompanied by a brisk wind and mournful foghorns. This surprises most people. October, on the other hand, is lovely.
Our September afternoon wasn’t so bad either.
“Come on.” He helped me out of the truck and lifted me just slightly so my full weight wasn’t on my bare feet. We hustled over the rough, pitted parking lot to the soft beach.
I left my purse, my shoes and my phone in the truck. I glanced at his belt. He had left his phone in the truck as well.
That should be some sort of leading indicator. I wonder if Carrie had read an article about it, “Does he Leave His Phone in the Car? And Other Ways to Tell If He’s Interested.” Maybe I need to increase my magazine subscriptions.
We didn’t hold hands, but strolled at an easy pace down on the wet sand. We kept on the packed, hard sand at the edge of the water for easier walking.
It seemed there was a lot of death in the last weeks. I think I needed a break after this. Maybe go away for a while.
“What are you thinking?”
“Where do you want to go to dinner?” It would be our last dinner together. That thought hit me like a death too.
“Where do you want to go?” he kept his eyes on the horizon.
“Peruvian? Fusion? Thai/Asian?” I suggested. I wanted to take him to something romantic, some restaurant that had low lights and soft music and bizarre modern couplings of food. I wanted a dining room with candlelight.
“How about Mel’s? It’s on the way out.”
“Mel’s?” I squawked.
He won. It was his choice anyway. We stopped at the original Mel’s Diner on Lombard. Mel’s is a true fifties diner. We slid into the red vinyl booth and gazed at the black and white photos of American Graffiti stars before Ron Howard lost all his hair.
We ordered burgers and shakes because there are no Asian fusion dishes on the menu at Mel’s.
“So tell me about the Lost Art museum. You built their restrooms?”
“Yes,” he stole three of my fries.
“Or, you donated the cash to have them built.” I retaliated and snatched five of his fries.
“Same difference.” He took two fries back.
“No, it’s not the same difference.” I stopped his hand from taking more fries before it was my turn. “You aren’t poor at all, are you?”
“Maybe not as poor as you think.”
“And your ex-wife didn’t take absolutely everything, did she?”
“No, she really did take absolutely everything, and I’m still paying.” He dipped three fries into a puddle of ketchup.
It could be considered romantic, if it weren’t for the bright overhead lights and the fact that I almost got stuck in the ladies room because unlike the new ones at the Lost Art Museum, this single rest room was so small it was not close to compliant.
When Ben drove up to my house, the eight o’clock sky was still bright and cloudless. I did not want to end the evening. At all. I fussed with my shoes, I adjusted my purse. I dropped my keys and took my time picking them up (okay, I was still pretty stiff, that wasn’t faked at all). I was running out of delaying tactics when Ben finally jumped out of the truck and circled around to where I stood, my keys finally in hand. I waited for him to approach, because that’s what the heroines do in the movies, even in a Jane Austen movie.
Ben did indeed approach. He paused in front of me, then with no word at all, pulled my head to his mouth. His hands were sure and determined as he guided my waiting lips to his. . . sounds like a romance novel doesn’t it? And since I don’t read them, that’s my whole vocabulary, Carrie will be disappointed but not surprised.
Anyway, Ben finally kissed me and I don’t know how Cooper Boy kisses, but Ben Stone is indeed rock solid.
We kissed for a few minutes, or forever, I’m not sure which, before his attention wandered to my most prominent feature.
He had to step back to rub his palm over the expansive territories that are my breasts.
“Jesus, woman.”
“Is that a hammer in your pocket or are you just glad to see me?” was my answer.
His hands explored my wide breasts, and he didn’t answer the question for another minute. We kissed for a long time – the old fashion full tongue kind of kissing.
“You are like a woman and a half,” he whispered against my lips.
“Thanks, I think.”
He pulled back but didn’t release my breast (one at a time, no one can take both with only one hand, are you kidding?)
“You are my teenage wet dream. It was all I could do to keep my hands off you the first time we met. You are everything a woman should be times ten.”
“Finally, you say the right things.”
“I’ve only seen woman like you in films,” he admitted, still focused on my breasts.
“Just in films?”
“Well, once live at Mitchell Brother’s.”
“Like them, then?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I like the whole package,” he stepped back again and executed a full frontal fondle. “But I will follow these anywhere.”
“You can follow me inside.”
So he did.
And I did have a happy ending.
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Death Revokes The Offer Page 22
