That's (Not Exactly) Amore

by Tracey Bateman

  Mark stands and the two men embrace. “Good to see you, Pop.”

  “Good to see you too, son. Been too long.” Then he turns to me. “But if this is the reason, I don’t blame you.”

  Mark slides back into his side of the booth while his dad ogles me and takes my hand. He steps close and presses my hand against his chest. “You’re a vision, honey.”

  Feeling a little uncomfortable with this man. . . . I can see why Mark doesn’t bring dates around to meet him. That’s for sure.

  Mark looks embarrassed. “This is Laini Sullivan, Pop.”

  Mark’s dad leans forward and kisses my hand. I can’t believe this guy!

  “Hands off,” Mark says. “She’s with me.” He sends me a wink. “I’m sure you’ve figured it out, but this is my dad, Carl Hall.”

  “Nice to meet you, Carl.” Inwardly, I’m begging him to give me back my hand and stop creeping me out.

  Thankfully, he does so and turns to Mark. I tune out their conversation and watch the two men.

  I stare at Mark, whose features are so similar to his dad’s that I picture him in thirty years or so, holding a young woman’s hand, making her feel uncomfortable. Hmm. How far does this apple fall from the tree?

  The food is perfect: shrimp scampi served in garlic butter, an enormous baked potato, crab cakes. I had to forgo the biscuits and dessert, which seemed to disappoint Mark’s dad so much that I finally agreed to take home a large slice of chocolate fudge cake. Not that it took much persuading.

  Carl and Liz walk us to the door. “You make sure you come back, you hear?” Carl says.

  “I’ll do my best.” I’m not exactly one to promise when who knows if Mark will ever want to see me again? And if he doesn’t, I’m not likely to waltz into this restaurant alone and order fish.

  The temperature has taken a dive during the past two hours and a strong north wind creeps under my jacket pretty quickly.

  Mark raises the collar of his bomber jacket as we step away from the warmth of the restaurant. Then he snatches my hand and pulls me along the sidewalk.

  Hand-holding is permitted on a first date. By the time dinner is over, if you’re still interested, a little finger-weaving is definitely acceptable. Especially through gloves. Who can feel a thing anyway?

  He smiles down at me. “I thought maybe we’d walk a little, if it’s okay with you.”

  What is he, nuts? It’s like Antarctica out here! “Um, sure. I love to walk.” Okay, it’s official: I’m lying for a guy.

  He tugs me closer to his side until I’m practically walking on his feet. “Warm enough?” he asks.

  I nod. “Sure.” But my chattering teeth give me away. I shrug. “I will be as soon as I get used to being outside.”

  An indulgent smile lifts his lips. “Let me get a cab. I’m not going to take a chance you might get sick all because of me.”

  I’m so grateful that by the time the cab stops and we slide into the backseat, I’m willing to snuggle close while Mark’s arm encircles me—clearly a second- or third-date privilege, but in this case, I’ll let it slide. I need the warmth.

  By the time we arrive back at Mom’s, I’ve finally thawed out. Mark opens the door but speaks to the cabbie before climbing out. “Wait for a sec, will you? I want to walk her to the door.”

  The guy points to the meter. “It’s your money.”

  Mark’s arm is firm around my shoulders as we walk. “I had a really nice time.” His voice is sort of husky all of a sudden. I have a weird feeling he’s going to move in for a kiss . . . and I don’t care how cold I am, a kiss is not a negotiable option until the third date, and even then only if I really, really like the guy. I’m definitely not ready for Mark to make a move.

  I smile as big as I can and stick out my hand. “Thanks for dinner, Mark. I had a great time.”

  A look of bewilderment, then amusement, flickers to his eyes. “Can I call you again?”

  Is he kidding? Play it cool, Laini. I give a slight nod. “I’d like that.”

  “Okay, then.” He gives my hand a squeeze. “I’ll call. Don’t forget your cake.”

  “Hmm?” My mind is still on the non-kiss when he presses a to-go box into my hand.

  “Oh, yeah. Thank your dad again for me.”

  “Will do.”

  I watch him walk back down the sidewalk and return his wave as he slips into the cab.

  Predictably, Mom is waiting up, sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea and a Soap Opera Digest. She pretends she barely notices me as I float into the kitchen. “Oh, you’re home.” A nod toward the magazine. “Your friend Tabby is in this one. They’re talking about her wedding to David.”

  “Really?” I take it from her and skim the article. Tabby looks beautiful, pictured with David at a charity event for cancer patients. “That was a big night,” I comment and head to the stove. I switch on the burner under the kettle.

  Mom sips her tea. “Did you have a nice time?” Aww. She held out three whole minutes. I’m impressed.

  “Wonderful. Joe’s a great guy.”

  A frown squeezes Mom’s brow. “Joe?”

  I take in a sharp breath. Did I really say Joe?

  “I meant Mark.” I force a laugh. “I’ve been spending too much time at Nick’s thinking about the renovations.”

  She gives me a dubious nod. “I see.”

  Does she? Because I’m not sure I see at all. How come, I finally start dating a great guy with a great family, and all I can think of is Joe Pantalone?

  The next day is a quiet sort of day for me. I do indeed tag along with Mom when she goes to Community Family Church with Aaron. This time they sit together instead of flirting across the room.

  I have to grin when I see Mom tapping her foot during a particularly upbeat song. Afterward, I suffer through a picnic at the park. A picnic. In New York. In the middle of February. I’m not sure who did the planning on that one, but all of us are shivering. But you know, one good thing about it is the picnic doesn’t last long. Everyone’s too cold. By three we’re back home and Mom is relaxing by a cozy fire in the gas fireplace while I pack up and get ready to head back to the train.

  I drop my duffel bag onto the living room floor. “My cab is on the way. I’ll see you next Saturday.”

  “Oh, honey,” Mom says, “about that.”

  “About what?”

  “Next weekend.” Her face has taken on that blush again.

  “Ma,” I say slowly and if I do say so, a little suspiciously, “what’s going on next weekend that you don’t want me coming home?”

  “Oh, no. You can come if you want. It’s just that . . . I won’t be here.”

  “What are you saying?” I fold my arms across my chest and plant my feet. “Ma! Are you going away with Aaron for the weekend?”

  Her face blanches and her eyes go wide. “Well, not like that! Pull your mind out of the gutter, young lady. Aaron is a fine Christian man and would never take advantage of a lonely widow.”

  Lonely widow?

  I hold up my hands in surrender. “Okay, already. Sorry I brought it up, but you have to admit it was sort of a logical assumption. I mean, we don’t even really know this guy.”

  “Correction,” she says belligerently. “You don’t even really know this guy. I happen to know him extremely well.”

  “Come on, Ma. How well can you know Aaron? You just started dating him.”

  “And how would you know that?” She lifts a narrow eyebrow. “You don’t even live here and you never call.”

  How on earth did she turn this into a conversation about my neglect of her?

  “So because I don’t call you, I can’t possibly know what’s going on? Last week, you were depressed. The blinds were drawn and there were no flowers in the house. This week, you’ve turned into Holly Hobbie.”

  “You don’t think I deserve a little happiness after all of my years alone?” Her lower lip trembles.

  Oh, brother.

  “Of course you deserve
happiness. I just don’t want to see you move so fast with a man you just met. Even if he does attend your church.”

  She pats the sofa beside her. “Let me tell you about Aaron.”

  Apparently we’re going to have a woman-to-woman conversation. “Okay, sure.” I sink onto the beige cushions.

  “We met at the senior center a few months ago. His wife had just passed of diabetes.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  She nods. “He’s still very sad. He loved her like I loved your father.”

  “I’m sorry for his loss.” I mean, what else can I honestly say? His loss is your gain? I absolutely hate this conversation. I should have just kept my mouth shut and imagined my lonely widowed mother spending an illicit weekend with the flower shop guy. Instead, I am once again made to feel like it’s all my fault that bad things happen to good people.

  She pats my hand and continues. “I was able to share my own grief with him, and together, we began to heal from our pain.”

  “Does this mean you’ll start wearing the robe I bought for you?”

  Oh my gosh, I don’t believe I just said that. It really just flew out without a thought. I must have latent resentment about that robe.

  She frowns. “What do you mean?”

  Saved by the honking of a taxi. “Nothing. My cab is here. I have to go. Have fun next weekend.”

  It doesn’t occur to me until I’m back in Manhattan trudging up the steps to my apartment that I never did find out where my mother is going with the widower Aaron Bland. I’ll definitely have to call her this week. I wonder if that was her plan in the first place.

  9

  There are approximately one hundred students in my commercial design class. And I’m almost positive I’m the only one who got a D on my midterm. I swallow back tears of frustration, tears of self-pity as the professor stands in front flashing sparkling white teeth that I just know are in contact with whitening strips on a regular basis. I’ll bet he has zero enamel left. He’s gushing about how well ninety percent of the class has done on the test. I’d like to sink into my seat, but I’m about as far down as I can go.

  Jazz is sitting next to me. I show her my paper and receive the expected look of pity. She tries to hide her solid B, but I looked before she could cover it. Later, we walk out of the class together. “Well,” she says, “our final is only one quarter bookwork. And the grade we get from the redesign at Nick’s will be spectacular.”

  I shrug, wishing for all I’m worth that just once I could get a B in this class. I’m tired of Cs and Ds. It’s embarrassing.

  “Why don’t you come to yoga class with me?”

  I shake my head. I mean, have I ever once accepted an invitation to yoga class? You’d think she’d give up. “I’m more in the mood to eat than exercise. Besides, I have a rotten headache.”

  “You sure? Yoga will clear your mind and get rid of stress. It might help the headache.”

  I grin. “So will cheesecake. Believe me, I know.”

  She rolls her eyes and slings her bag over her shoulder. “I’ll call you later. Don’t eat too much cheesecake—the sugar will make you sick.”

  “You’d be surprised how much sugar my system can take. I’ve trained it that way.”

  Her laughter lingers as she descends the steps of the hall.

  I walk the few blocks to the subway station and shove my way onto the train with hundreds of others. The smells of New York public transit—urine, unwashed bodies, and perfumes—combine to assault my already churning stomach. My head isn’t doing great either, and by the time I reach my stop I’m really hurting.

  Home is the only thing on my mind until I realize how badly I really do need that cheesecake. Migraine and all. I turn and walk the block to Nick’s. Glancing at my watch, I realize it’s dangerously close to time for Joe to lock up, but again, it’s worth the risk for that cheesecake. At times like this I desperately miss my friends. Normally, I’d grab a whole cheesecake, bring it home, and we’d sit around the kitchen table talking about my wretched day. Or the last two wretched hours anyway.

  Joe is just at the door with the key when I show up. I feel like a puppy pressing my nose to the glass when he spots me.

  His eyebrows shoot up in question and he unlocks the door.

  “What are you doing out alone after dark?”

  “I have class on Monday night. I thought you knew that.”

  “Nope. Didn’t know. You sure it’s a good idea for you to be walking alone this time of night?”

  “My train stops only a couple of blocks from the apart-ment.”

  He ushers me in and locks the door behind us. “Well, I don’t think it’s a good idea. It’s dangerous out there.”

  I shrug, eyeing the cheesecake he has yet to take out of the glass case and put away for the night. “A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, Joe. And that’s the only time my class is offered.”

  He grunts. “Sit down and I’ll get you some of that.”

  “Some of what?” There are at least six different desserts in that case.

  “Please, you don’t think I know what you like?”

  I grin. Already my headache is easing up. “Prove it.”

  He grins back. “Go sit down and I will.”

  “You sure you don’t mind? I know you’re probably ready to get out of here.”

  “It’s okay. I can’t leave ’til Brandon finishes cleaning up in the back.”

  I wait, my head aching, while he goes back to the kitchen. He returns soon and slides a cake plate onto the table in front of me. “Cheesecake with raspberry swirl. A dollop of whipped cream on top.”

  “Bravo!”

  “Here. I got you some milk too. And a couple of aspirin. Your eyes look like you got a headache.”

  His warm hand presses against mine as he hands me the aspirin. Gratefully, I swallow them down with a swig of creamy milk. “Thanks, Joe. You’re a lifesaver.”

  He pulls a chair around and sits. “So, you want to talk about it?”

  I slip a bite of cheesecake into my mouth. “I got a D on my test.”

  “That’s not so good.” He eyes my cake.

  “Tell me about it. I’m a terrible test taker. I think I have about the lowest grade point average you can possibly have and still be considered a student in good standing.” I shrug. “I think I really might be color blind.” Blinking back tears, I meet his sympathetic gaze. “How can an interior designer be color blind?”

  “Maybe you’re not. Maybe you just need to do eye exercises.”

  I stop. Stare. “What, you mean like build up my color sensory muscles?” The thought strikes me as funny and I grin.

  “Hey, go ahead and laugh. I was just trying to help.” His gaze wanders to my cheesecake.

  I shove the plate toward him. “Here, have a bite.”

  “Thanks. I haven’t had time to eat all day.”

  I make a mental note to add an extra cinnamon roll in the morning and make sure he gets it.

  “That’s not so good,” I say, mimicking his comment about my grade. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”

  “Now you sound like my nana.”

  “Smart woman.”

  He snorts. “If she’s so smart, how come she’s pushing me to marry Nancy?”

  My stomach lurches from the combination of cheesecake, milk, aspirin, and the image of Nancy in a bridal gown. I make a run for the bathroom and lose the entire contents of my stomach.

  Ten minutes later, I rinse out my mouth and stare into the mirror. I’m such a pathetic loser. How can I possibly go back to the dining room and face Joe? At least I didn’t throw up all over his table. I’ve been in the bathroom awhile, but my stomach is still queasy and I don’t want to risk another sprint to the toilet. But I’m not expecting the knock at the door.

  “Yes?” I call, as if I don’t know who’s standing on the other side.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Just embarrassed.”

&nbs
p; “Can I come in?”

  “It’s open. I didn’t have time to lock it.”

  He doesn’t hesitate. As soon as he steps inside, he yanks a handful of paper towels from the dispenser and wets them down. He hands them to me. “Your face is white as my apron.”

  I press the towels gratefully over my aching eyes. “Thanks.”

  “You ready for me to walk you home?” he asks softly. “Or should you take a cab? I’ll take you either way.” He steps back as I toss the paper towels into the garbage can.

  I’d love to bravely refuse his gesture of gallantry, as I’m sure Dancy or Tabby would do, but the words won’t leave my mouth. Besides, I’m too sick to see myself home. I need someone to take care of me. And why do girls always feel like they have to be so independent? God made us to enjoy a man’s strength. I just know He did. Otherwise, why would I enjoy it so much that Joe is concerned about me?

  I scan his strong face. Nose that takes up much of his face, but isn’t too big. Dark eyes that take in everything, including, apparently, the fact that I love raspberry swirl cheesecake and the look in my eyes when I’m suffering from a sick headache.

  “Thanks, Joe. I appreciate it. And I think the walk might do me good.”

  “Okay. The guys are locking up for me. So whenever you’re ready, we can go.”

  Minutes later, I’m walking side by side with Joe. It’s only around nine o’clock, so there are still a lot of people on the street. Even on Monday night. My head is swimming—and my stomach . . . Let’s just say I’m not a hundred percent sure I’m going to make it home without an encore of my performance in Nick’s ladies’ room.

  Joe slips his arm around my shoulders. “You doing okay?”

  “Not so good,” I say wryly. “I think maybe I should get a cab, Joe.”

  “Look, you come up to my place and wait this thing out.”

  “What? I couldn’t do that.”

  “You afraid of anything improper? Because let me tell you, a sick woman isn’t that much of a turn-on. Plus, you know I go to church.”

  Even in my condition, I can see the ridiculousness of his assumption. “I don’t think you’re going to try to make a move on me. I just don’t want to put you out.” Oh, but fire darts are shooting into my head and my stomach is getting sicker with each step. I stop midstep. “Okay, Joe. I’m begging you. Get me somewhere I can lie down. I think I’m dying.”