“Of course I've broken up with people,” I insisted.
“You have not. Name me one former boyfriend that isn't on your Christmas card list.”
My answer would have been immediate had Livvie not delivered the pre-emptive, “And Ryan doesn't count.”
“How can Ryan not count? The break-up to end all break-ups doesn't count?”
Livvie simply knelt down to re-tie her shiny white Nike cross-trainers and patiently waited for my response.
Fine. Trying to work within Livvie's rules, I tried to ignore her smirk as the silence stretched out. Finally, my memory cleared and I yelled triumphantly, “Jared! I have never sent a Christmas card to Jared.”
Livvie shrugged, “One guy. Lame, Bennett.” She began walking again before she suddenly stopped short and swatted me on the arm. “Hey! That's not fair! He's Jewish – of course you don't send Jared a Christmas card!”
“Hey, just because I don't have a big dramatic exit scene with every guy I date like some people I know…”
“Some relationships call for a big dramatic exit scene.” She explained patiently. “Sometimes, you just don't have closure until the ugly words are thrown. And maybe a chair or two.”
“And what, you don't think my words with Ryan were ugly enough?”
“It always comes back to the Great Ryan Debacle, doesn't it?” Livvie sighed.
She was right. It usually did come back to Ryan. “Why did I date that jerk for such a long time, anyway?”
“He was a hottie. A total ass, but a hottie.” My friend answered, and then swiftly changed the subject before I got too morose. “Speaking of which, at least your new co-worker is easy on the eyes.”
“I suppose.” I agreed, reluctantly.
“You suppose my ass. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Great butt. If you wrote a book on the type of man you're attracted to, Morgan could pose for the illustrations.”
I hated to admit she was right, but I remembered thinking the very same thing when Frank introduced the two of us on Morgan's first day at the office. In fact, we had gotten along great until he opened his mouth and started inserting his foot in it on a regular basis.
“I can't believe you looked at his butt.”
“I can't believe you can't believe I'd look at his butt.” Livvie laughed. “Speaking of your new co-worker, are you sure the guy is trying to sabotage you? From what you've told me, he might just be stupid. I mean, he's working for Frank, right? Present company excepted, that doesn't speak very well for him.”
“Trust me, I would prefer stupid over conniving any day.” I replied, no doubt in my mind that Morgan was anything but stupid. “The guy filches files from my desk so that I can't find them when I need them and keeps taking all the credit for the work we're forced to do together. Twice he even pointed out mistakes in my work directly to Frank without coming to me first.”
“Well, did you make the mistakes?”
“Not the point!” I stopped in my tracks. “Okay, how about what happened last Thursday? He placed a call to the opposing counsel in one of my cases. That's way out of line in and of itself, but then he didn't document the file. I called the same guy later in the day and sounded like an idiot.”
My friend nodded reluctantly. “I'll grant you that one. The guy is still in law school and shouldn't go around poaching your cases. Have you mentioned any of this to Frank?”
“Of course. It didn't help, though. Frank thinks Morgan is bright and resourceful.”
“What do you think?
“I think those are the words Bette Davis used to describe Anne Baxter. Luckily you and David believe me. Thank God I've got a new unlimited minutes plan on my cell phone or my constant whining phone calls to New York would have seriously dipped into my new house fund.”
“You know,” Livvie said with the oddest look on her face, “I hate to change the subject from your psychotic paranoia. I mean, it's always so entertaining. But, the answer to your quest for an amazing relationship might be right under our noses.”
“Oh no! There is no way I'm ever going to date Morgan Donovan!” I couldn't believe my friend would even consider such an idea.
“Actually, I was thinking about David.”
I stopped dead in my tracks, stunned by my friend's suggestion. “Are you out of your mind? David? He's like my brother.”
“Like your brother,” Livvie repeated. “But he's not actually your brother.”
“Ew.” I resumed walking at a good clip, hoping somehow that distancing myself physically would shake off the unclean feeling I had at the mere mention of a romantic relationship with David Thornton.
Livvie, though, was not completely deterred. “Okay, if you insist that David is off the table, then why not Morgan? You mentioned him – not me.”
“Were you not listening to me when I said the guy is trying to steal my job?”
“Oh please,” Livvie dismissed my concerns with a flutter of her wrist. “If it ever came down to it, you could take Morgan. Besides, if you dismiss him as dating material just because he's opportunistic slime, you'd have to eliminate the entire Portland legal community from your list of potential suitors.”
“Not making me feel better.” I slowed down and gave my friend a chance to catch up. “I'll grant you the guy's cute, but even if he didn't make me insane, it wouldn't work.”
“Why?”
“Because we work together. If Frank found out two of his employees were dating, he'd blow a gasket and fire us both. I'd be in a relationship alright, but have to sacrifice any hopes of a promotion – and my job itself.”
Livvie pondered my logic for a moment. “Well, then, since we've struck out on the men you know, we need to get you out there and meet some new men. You've only got eleven months to go before you have to be in that amazing relationship, right?”
“Since when did you become so invested in my list?” I asked with distrust. “I thought you were just humoring me.”
“I'm not against the concept of having goals. I just don't think you should meet every one of them within one year. But if you're determined…” She paused and gave me a once over. I felt like a dog at the pound, preening slightly in my hopes to meet with her approval.
“I'm determined.” I rushed to assure her.
“If you're determined,” she continued, annoyed at the interruption, “then you need to meet new men and that isn't as easy as it sounds. Look at our social circle. You hang out with me, a few other single girlfriends, Jeremy and his sons.”
“Fine – we'll go to a bar or something tonight. You know, flirt a little.” The very thought terrified me, but my friend was right. If I wanted a relationship, I first needed to meet some men.
Apparently that wasn't exactly what Livvie had in mind.
“Nope.” She responded with a twinkle in her eye that caused my heart to drop to my stomach. “This calls for drastic measures. You need to make yourself available, and I know just the way to make that happen.”
Drastic measures?
Make myself available?
The combination of my friend's words and the increased speed and lightness of her gait suddenly made me very nervous.
“Livvie?” I increased my own pace to a light jog. “Livvie, what exactly do you mean by drastic measures?”
November
“…SO THAT'S WHEN I TOLD HER to pack up her garden gnomes and get out. You can see my point, right? I mean, I'm right, right?” The man sitting across the table from me leaned in closer with each word, clearly expecting a response to his rants.
“Mmm hmmm.” I nodded in agreement and reached for my rum and coke, taking a healthy swig and sending silent thanks to Captain Morgan for his help in surviving the evening.
I was in hell.
Actually, it just felt like hell. In reality, I was experiencing the ‘desperate measures’ Livvie had referred to in her attempts to assist me in finding a boyfriend.
My supposed best friend had sent me to one of the new “Drive-Thru Dating” se
rvices (patent pending, believe it or not) that had just come to town. For the bargain price of $50, I was spending the evening at a local bar with a group of other singles. Twelve women sat at small tables set up on the perimeter of a downtown club while every ten minutes a bell sounded and the single men at the event rose to rotate around them. It was a modern version of the complicated courtship dances found in a Jane Austen novel.
Unfortunately, instead of being wooed by the dashing Mr. Darcy or Mr. Knightley, I found myself staring vacantly at a greasy young man whose nametag read “Conrad”, and counting the moments until he would go away and regale some other poor, unsuspecting woman with the tales of his ex-wife's garden gnomes.
“You don't own any garden gnomes, do you?”
“Who me? No. I don't even have a garden.”
“Good, good. That's good.” Conrad sighed his relief and I signaled the waiter for another drink.
The truly ironic thing about the entire evening was how difficult it had been to obtain a place at the table. It took nearly a month on the waiting list for a seat to open up for a single woman, but I understood they were still taking applications from single men at the door. It only went to prove what I had already suspected – there really were more single women than men in the Greater Portland area.
Of course, given the production it took to get me ready for the evening, it was probably a good thing that I had the extra time to prepare. As soon as I signed up for the event, Livvie had marched through my closet, an odd combination of General Patton and Joan Rivers. She barked orders while throwing accessories at me, then shook her head, pursed her lips and rejected each and every choice. In disgust at finally reaching the point where nothing remained on its original hanger aside from the bridesmaid dress I wore to my cousin Sidra's wedding, she forced me to go shopping.
At the conclusion of our death march through the mall, my credit card was at its limit but Livvie was finally satisfied with the slim black skirt and cashmere sweater I had purchased. I was a little uncomfortable about the skirt, thinking that it was too tight, but Livvie insisted that I always wore my clothes a size too big and she refused to let me buy another ‘Maude-like caftan’. The v-neck sweater we picked caused no such arguments as I fell in love with it immediately. It was a pale shade of lilac, tapered just right to make my waist look smaller and my chest look bigger.
Very admirable traits in a sweater.
The night of the event, Livvie came over to help me do my hair and makeup. In her mind, leaving me alone in these endeavors would have been akin to Eisenhower hanging out at home and reading the paper to find out how the Normandy invasion had turned out. It took us forty-five minutes to attain the swept-back hair that was intended to look casual and effortless to the naked eye. Simple gold hoop earrings, sparkly eye shadow and a smear of pale pink lipstick finished off the ensemble.
Not wanting to admit all of that time and money had been wasted – since poor greasy Conrad was actually the cream of the crop – I rallied my efforts to try and make a connection. I felt I owed it to Livvie. And the sweater.
“So, Conrad…What do you do for a living?”
“I'm an actuary.” Conrad wiped his cocktail napkin across his sweaty head. “It doesn't start out as an obsession, you know.”
“Being an actuary?”
“What? No. The gnomes. It doesn't start out as an obsession. She only had one at first. Cute little guy. He had green suspenders and a red hat. We named him George.”
“Yes, well, speaking of George, I hear Clooney has a great new movie out.” I silently congratulated myself for the inspired, if a bit clunky, transition. “What genre of movies do you like, Conrad?”
“I think the obsession started when she thought George might be lonely, so we brought home Leo. His hat was blue. We'd been married about a year then and things just got out of hand from that point on. Every time I came home there was a new gnome on the lawn. After a while, the neighbors started to complain.” Conrad's eyes began to well with tears. “At the end it got so I couldn't even maneuver the mower between the…the…”
“The gnomes?” I supplied helpfully.
“The gnomes.” Conrad whispered, head dropped low between his shoulders.
**Ring**
At the sound of the bell, my gnome hater rose from the table. “It was great meeting you, Sarah. I feel like I can really talk to you.”
I smiled vacantly, imagining my future as Mrs. Conrad and waited a respectable three seconds before scratching “No” as indelibly as possible on my handy “Drive-thru Dating” scorecard. Rummaging through my purse in search of a thick black Sharpie to ensure my lack of interest in Conrad was fully understood, I didn't notice as my final match of the night arrived and settled down across from me.
“Well, well, well. What do we have here?”
Oh God.
I recognized the voice of my new dating partner immediately and wondered what I possibly had done to so offend the God of Happy Relationships.
“Aren't you going to say hello?” My companion asked, the smirk on his face obvious from his tone alone.
Unable to avoid eye contact any longer, I looked up and confirmed my worst fears. “Hi, Donnie.”
Donnie DiMarco. Livvie's ex-husband and an insufferable bag of wind in his own right was my last scheduled date of the evening. Even Jane Austen working in tandem with O. Henry couldn't have imagined this twist.
I looked at Donnie with a critical eye and supposed I could understand why Livvie had once fallen for him. Dark hair liberally sprinkled with gray, he had an old movie star quality that seeped through his wide smile and hearty laugh. He was also a partner at the largest law firm in Portland, earning a salary to support his upper class lifestyle of boating in the summer, skiing in the winter and island vacations scattered in between.
As shallow as it seemed, that was not an unattractive trait.
Luckily, I was well-versed in Donnie lore by the time I'd first met him. Livvie and Donnie were already divorced when she and I started law school, but Portland's law community was surprisingly small and the two DiMarcos often ran into each other at bar-sponsored events. Since I was usually my friend's escort of choice, it was only a matter of time before I became acquainted with her ex-husband. While every divorce is unpleasant, theirs more closely resembled Demi and Bruce than Demi and Ashton, leaving the ex-couple free to maintain a cordial public façade so as not to tarnish their professional reputations.
As was the best friend's prerogative, however, I reserved the right to hate my best friend's ex on principle alone.
“So how have you been, Sarah?” Donnie didn't even try to disguise his leer as he followed up with, “You're looking good.”
“Thanks,” I stabbed my cocktail straw into my glass, trying desperately to find one remaining drop of rum. “But don't waste your energy.”
“Just calling it as I see it, Sarah. No need to get testy.” He looked around the room. “Where is my lovely ex-wife, anyway? I assume you came together?”
Giving my first sincere smile of the entire evening, I explained, “Livvie isn't here. She's seeing someone right now. A parole officer named Ben. Great guy. They met when…”
“A parole officer you say? What do they pull in? Forty K? Maybe forty-five?”
“Money is not important to Livvie.”
“Clearly.”
I wished for a moment that Conrad had left behind a garden gnome that I could lob at my new companion's head. Unfortunately, I had no weapons at hand and knew I would have to simply suffer through the remaining few moments.
“So, how are things over at Harris and O'Toole? I read that you're representing the new wind farms off the coast. That has to be pretty interesting.”
“I'm involved in it.” The older man preened. “Of course, I've got a heavy workload myself, so I'm mentoring Ryan. He's really the guy in charge of the account.”
“Ryan?” I registered the fact that a sudden lack of any moisture in one's mouth apparently l
eft one with the inability to swallow. “Ryan who?”
“Ryan Corruchi.”
I'd been referring to my ex-boyfriend as “Rat Bastard Ryan” for so long, that I'd almost forgotten the power his full name had over me. Like Superman confronted by a rock of kryptonite, I felt myself wilt back into my chair.
“Oh, didn't you know Ryan works at my firm now? Has for almost a year. I was assigned as his mentor and we hit it off right from the start. Good guy, that Ryan.”
If only I'd known the horrific turn this evening was going to take, I would have bolted from the bar after my date with Conrad and called the event a rousing success.
“He talks about you, you know.” Donnie smiled as he leaned impossibly closer. “You really should call him.”
**Ring**
With a parting wink, Donnie DiMarco rose and scouted the room briefly before leaving me sitting alone at my table to make a beeline toward a well-endowed blonde hovering near the bar.
Donnie and Ryan work together?
Ryan talks about me?
I should call him?
Did Donnie mean that Ryan wanted me to call him or that Donnie wanted me to call Ryan? And if Donnie wanted me to call Ryan was it because he thought Ryan wanted me to call him?
Head swimming and failing in my attempts to catch the waiter's eye to bring me a much needed drink, I slumped back into my chair and checked my watch, waiting for Livvie's arrival. She may have sent me into battle alone, but my best friend promised to drop by for a drink after the event for an immediate debrief. True to her word, at exactly quarter past the hour Livvie entered the bar, looking the very image of “sporty casual”.
She was apparently so focused on finding me, though, that she didn't notice the couple canoodling near the door. I watched with a mix of amusement and horror as Livvie crashed directly into her ex-husband.
Actually, she walked into the stacked blonde that Donnie was trying to usher out of the bar to admire his house on the bluff, or boat in the bay, or whatever random material possession had been used to lure Blondie back to the lair.
Next Year I'll be Perfect Page 4
