by Hope Lyda
But “our” in the amiable, amorous, collective “we” meaning has not been a part of my vocabulary. Hearing Beau say it several times in the span of minutes makes me want to try it out.
“It’s our third date,” I say to the gentleman next to me, who is reading the Wall Street Journal with great interest to show his great disinterest in my presence. My ears recognize that I have said the “our” part a bit like Tony the Tiger. He shifts to cross his left leg over his right, careful to match the original pant leg crease. He would rather face the wall than a girl who is using annunciation too big for her slight Midwestern accent.
“Just a few more minutes.” Beau assures me with his words and his arm around my shoulders. He rubs his thumb sweetly over the thin straps of my pink vintage dress (thank you, Tess).
I like this action because it is done without thinking. It is a casual and familiar motion. His fingers say, “This is our way of touching our girlfriend. This is our routine.”
I am certain that there is nothing that could make this date more incredible.
I am certain that nothing—not slow service, cold food, or an incompetent violinist—could put a damper on this…our incredible third date.
Destructive Third-Date Behavior
There are many theories about what constitutes destructive date behavior. If backers of all these theories were seated at the next table, ordering seven-course meals at the expense of the Third-Date Research Institute, they would agree my conduct throughout the rest of the meal constitutes honorable mention in their house of records.
Leon serves our freshly baked cheddar rolls. He introduces himself as though he is our butler or our favorite respected uncle. I sit up straighter because of Leon’s pleasant and proper manner. He makes me want to be a better dining woman.
Beau serves me the basket and watches my selection process with interest. I am no dummy. I know this devoted gift of observation will fade by date four, but I like it. “Basking in someone’s attention” now makes sense. My heart is actually warmed by this connection.
I add butter to the porous surface of my roll. A random light shaft from the crystal chandelier above catches my knife. The prism lasers my eye. All dangerous date behavior is triggered by some shift in the single woman’s brain. I still blame the prism-in-the-eye moment.
I start talking about my life. La, la, la, la, la.
It is normal to tell your date about your life. And if it is the third date with a guy you really, truly, admit-it-out loud like, it is practically a requirement.
It is not normal, however, to flood the conversation with references and detailed accounts of negative traits, behavior, and quirks. It can be confused with cute and humble…the first five stories. The Institute examiners would probably cut one off at three stories. Anything after that turns into destructive behavior.
I have passed story thirteen.
“Remember Randy? The guy who always wants to play four square or race down the hall in his wheelchair?”
“Yes…” Beau is still giving me all his attention, but a quick look of concern crosses his face as our meal arrives.
“I got so tired of him challenging me to those stupid corridor races that I started putting glue in his wheels. I said it was WD-40 so it could be a fair race and all, but it was glue. His arms fatigued by the first intersection, so I was in the clear to run ahead and, frankly, disappear…”
“More salad dressing?” Beau asks because apparently Leon tried a few minutes ago and I was lost in conversation…with myself.
“Oh, sure. Thanks.” I watch him carefully pour the Italian dressing from the silver server and I continue with the story. “So here I am hurrying down the hall to get out of his sight, and then I hear a huge crash. Collision. Like steel hitting steel.”
Beau raises his eyebrows with an appropriate look of shock. He is practicing Polite Third-Date Behavior.
“Yes. You got it. That huge, triple-tiered drinking fountain with the hand rails…he hit it hard.” But before Beau can think too badly of me, I temper the horror. “Oh, at an angle, not head-on…because I had accidentally used more glue in the right wheel. He veered. Thank goodness.”
“Yes, thank goodness.” Beau motions to Leon.
I reach for my glass of lemon water because suddenly I am exhausted and dehydrated. When did the meal get here? As I gulp my beverage, fielding lemon seeds with my tongue, the shine from my lapis bracelet reminds me that I removed my WWOMD since it didn’t exactly match my outfit. If I ever needed that, it is now.
Feeling the prechills of self-loathing, I realize I have been going through my “reasons you could reject me and get out now” repertoire for nearly forty-five minutes. Beau’s meal is almost finished.
Now I recall him praying before starting in on the risotto and eggplant. I didn’t pay attention to our prayer. I should have been memorizing it, but I was planning a witty way to share the story of tying my pastor’s shoes together while he was praying at my baptism when I was eight.
I recall Beau feeding me some risotto a few times. It was very good, with a slight nutty taste and the tang of capers.
I feel sweaty, clammy. I have lost track of time and my senses.
Completely.
It is so obvious that Beau is not motioning for Leon to request the dessert menu. He is trying to get the check before I can start one more looney-bin story.
How can I salvage this? One “just kidding” does not override twenty-four tales of disturbed living.
Leon shows up and looks at my face carefully. Has he been listening? Or is it the beads of sweat resting on the crease between my eyebrows that causes the look of concern?
“Yes, sir?” He turns his deep brown eyes toward Beau’s hazel ones. They need few words.
Beau gestures for Leon to lean in toward him. Beau whispers. Leon whispers back. Beau says, “Perfect. I cannot thank you enough.” And Leon disappears quickly.
Well, it is obvious to me that Leon has left to gather reinforcements. Beau has asked that I be removed from the premises. They may not have a cover charge at Divine’s, but I bet they have bouncers for this and other occasions: An older, rich man is seen with an underage woman. Two business partners break up over tiramisu. A married couple exceeds the espresso limit and starts a fight about the tube of toothpaste. There are many unfortunate reasons for bouncer services even at upscale restaurants.
It does not escape me that Beau has fed me carb-loaded food during my diatribes to slow me down before I can beat Leon and his Leons to the stained-glass doors. I push back my chair, just waiting for Beau to bring this disaster to a close or for Leon and gang to gag me and tie my hands behind my back with linen napkins.
Before I can stand, Leon is back.
The only reinforcement he has brought with him is a silver bucket holding a bottle of chilled champagne. A very expensive bottle of champagne.
“What?” Are we not experiencing the same date here?
“I know you don’t drink a lot, but I thought we should toast this special moment.”
“A toast to what?” Toasting a breakup is not polite dating behavior, I’ll have you know.
“You have told me of your every wrongdoing, indiscretion, bad decision, inclination toward evil, and moment of weakness…”
“Well, not all.” Like, I altered your personnel file, for instance.
Beau holds his hand up, his first protest all evening. “And I am more infatuated, interested, intrigued, and captivated by you than before.”
“Charles Manson had quite a following,” I say quietly as I sheepishly raise my flute to meet his at the epicenter of this self-made disaster.
“To Mari. The woman who is not capable of ruining this third date. No matter how hard she tries.” He smiles and I turn the color of the merlot the imaginary Institute committee is drinking.
Then Beau raises his glass even higher, motions for me to do the same, and leans forward to kiss me. Right there…in the eye of the storm. And just like meteorol
ogists are always telling us, there is a surprising peace.
After our short but memorable first kiss, he takes a sip of champagne and clears his throat.
“So…those things…they don’t bother you?” I want to know how he could figure me out so easily. “Didn’t any of those stories—”
“Scare me? Just the one about encouraging your cousin to jump from the top of the barn to test the shocks on his new tennis shoes.”
“He never grew as tall as his brothers. Did I mention that?”
“Yes.” He waves it away as though my violent tendencies are a fly at a picnic. To be expected. “Now a proposal…”
That I delete his phone number from my cell directory?
“We leave.”
Here it comes.
“To quickly put an end to date three…choose a new restaurant for dessert…and officially start our fourth date.”
I love that word “our.”
Fitting In
Mari, it is so good to see you again.” Halo greets me with a half hug. I make a note of the style so I can duplicate it tomorrow. She nods as she peers at me over maroon-rimmed glasses that look fresh off the designer’s table. “You look great. So colorful. But of course you do…you are a fashion muse, right?” I realize she has a slight foreign accent. The first time we met, I had been so focused on her long legs that I had not noticed her long vowels.
All weekend I was tormented about what to wear to Majestic Vista. A corporate-appropriate outfit would seem ridiculous here. I settled on a pair of slacks, a multicolored microfiber shirt, and a short scarf tied close to the neck. Later, when I catch my reflection in the glass wall fountain, I realize I look like a sailor on leave from the Good Ship Lollypop.
“Lionel will meet with you later this week. He wanted me to introduce you around and show you the layout. As the member and guest experience designer, you will have full access to the facility. Here is your pass. Lucas will enter your fingerprints into the security scanner eventually.” Halo is walking briskly up a slight incline in the hallway. Colors of the desert are woven into the plush carpet that feels a bit like shifting sand beneath my heels.
A few swipes of her security card lead us to yet another hallway. At the end of the last one there is a receptionist desk where a young woman stands awaiting guests. “This is Amy. She is the guest hostess for all the individual therapy rooms.”
I scan the girl’s name tag. Her “Amy” is spelled like the French word for friend, Amie. She shows me a series of well-appointed small rooms for massage, aromatherapy, facials, hot stone treatments, mud baths, and every other imaginable physical and beauty treatment. Soft instrumental music plays overhead in the hallway, but each spa space plays its own version of relaxation.
“You are in for a real treat. Your first month here you are allowed to try every type of therapy we offer. Lionel insists on this so that you can become familiar with our services. It’s the best time, isn’t it, Halo?” Amie’s calm manner matches Halo’s. I will have to work on that effect.
“Divine. And then every month you are entitled to two hours of services. It’s quite a perk. Most treatments cost between sixty and two hundred dollars an hour for guests,” Halo mentions.
Maybe that is how they stay so calm.
Amie furrows her defined brow slightly. “Too bad they don’t compensate all the professionals for that expensive rate.” She is speaking in a low voice and looking all around her.
I look around too before responding, not sure who to look for but most certain I could recognize an evil listener should I see one. “The pay is really bad?”
“Let’s just say that it varies. We have several incredible Latino masseuses who don’t get the same rate. I don’t think that is a coincidence.” Amie is all about secrets and inside information. I can tell right away she likes to be the revealer of dark news. I notice Halo becoming a bit bothered by the conspiracy theory.
“I’m very sensitive about such things, and I don’t know this to be true, Amie. Let’s not unload too much on Mari her first week here, okay?” Halo organizes a stack of brochures about the spa treatments.
I try out a soothing voice. It just sounds patronizing. “Halo, you mentioned my title as being an experience designer? Would this be a new term?”
“Lionel’s invention. He doesn’t like the sound of director or coordinator for this setting. His belief is that Majestic Vista is a personal experience with health and serenity. Your job is to cater the spa encounter to every guest’s needs. Some people are here for fitness, some for rest, some for energy, some for illness recovery or remedy, and others are here for a sense of pampering and pleasure.” Halo checks each of these off in the air.
“Don’t forget to mention other deciding factors. Some are here for discretion and some for exposure. There is another wing just like this one across the interior river, but guests enter the spa rooms through a populated central area that has an eatery, a small theater, bridge games, and a cocktail hour. People who want to be seen paying obscene prices for a massage go there,” Amie says.
When I am done saying the word “eatery” to myself over and over until it twists into “eat a tree, eat a tree,” I decide that Caitlin and I would head for Amie’s secluded territory. Angelica and Sadie would probably rush across to the other side. Wait until I tell them I am working at a place that has its own river.
The other two sense my awe.
“It really is an amazing place to be. Work used to be so stressful for me—I was a legal secretary—and now I look forward to Mondays. That sounds over the top, but I mean it,” Halo says with sincere eyes.
I believe her. I believe her.
“Believe me, I understand. The job I left was very stressful.” I say this as if I left my post as head surgeon of a major hospital. “I got to a place where I didn’t even believe in my future anymore. Or if I did, I was afraid of it. I questioned faith.”
Amie leans forward over her receptionist desk. “My Buddhist monk friend says that the future is behind us. Our past is in front of us. That is why we can see our past, but we cannot see our future.”
“That’s interesting,” I say, not certain what it means, but I do find it interesting. What we can see is all that has come to pass. What is out of our range of sight, the scariest part of life, is the unknown…the future.
“That concept changed my life. That and daily meditation. Do you meditate? You mentioned faith.” Amie is very enthusiastic about her faith regime, but when she turns the focus to my beliefs, I feel a bit awkward.
Why is it that I can appreciate someone of another faith speaking so openly, yet I cannot appreciate myself enough to volunteer details about Christianity? I’m a wimp surrounded by authentic people. God must get so very tired of my pathetic efforts. But I must say, I enjoy this setting and these new friends who share their deepest selves so soon.
“I pray a lot as part of my faith,” I say in a noncommittal fashion. “Amie, you know your name means ‘friend’ in French…were your parents Buddhists from France?” I face them both. “And Halo…your parents must have been flower children. My name is so drab by comparison.” I smile a wide, honest smile in celebration of my new friends, who are vulnerable, caring, true, honest…
As I stare at my new coworkers, I imagine us shopping downtown, eating big bowls of pasta at Ricardos, playing volleyball with guests in matching tank tops, talking on the phone after work to discuss the meaning of life and faith…Just me and my new amazingly authentic friends.
“These aren’t our real names,” they look at each other and then toward me.
Hold everything. “What?”
“Most of the girls and a few of the guys make up names here. Security reasons. I’m Laura,” Amie whispers her given name. “And I’m a Lutheran from Montana. I just happen to have a Buddhist monk friend.”
“I’m Carol.” Halo reaches out her manicured hand to grip mine. “My parents are federal judges. Not a tie-dyed shirt between them.”
&nb
sp; “And your accent?”
“Fake,” admits Carol.
With a shake of hands I am let into the inner circle. But as I head home that night trying to think up a good fake name for myself, I am unable to shake the fact that things are not as they appear.
Domino Effect
Not the usual?” Cruella challenges my shift in breakfast preferences.
“Blueberry crepes, like I said,” I repeat to her crumpled face. I figure a new life warrants a new order. She leaves, defeated, shoulders as limp as her apron. “With real whipped cream, please,” I call after her.
“Oo la la,” says Caitlin, picking at her faux-rabbit fur, thigh-high boots.
“We need a new place to meet,” I say with conviction.
“The Santa Fe is popular,” Angelica offers, brushing her hair behind her ears.
She looks pretty today. Clean, I think…but I don’t say this.
“But then we’d have to wait longer,” says Sadie. She is the one who has plans immediately following our study group.
Possessing a long-distance boyfriend who has survived date three…correction, date four…and still calls is the best of both worlds in my opinion. Lots of girlfriend time and then every other weekend I have great, focused, one-on-one time with Beau. I am glad to be back with the girls, and yet I am inspired to make changes here and there. This must be what a new life allows you to do. Scrutinize the old from a safe distance and offer suggestions whether they are welcomed or not.
“It’d be good to shake things up. Carson would wait for you.” I think how nice it would be to trade in these car-shaped salt-and-pepper shakers for those in the shape of saguaros and prickly pears that grace the tables at the Sante Fe.
“Possibly,” Sadie concedes with a sigh of fatigue.
We are all tired. So much has happened recently. Angelica is still “seeing” but not officially dating Peyton. Caitlin has been getting calls and emails about her sophisticated mod look ever since Kevin Milano snapped me in the two shots. I gave the paper Caitlin’s info so I would not be the recipient of such inquiries. She is thrilled with the notoriety and I with the anonymity.
