Authors: Jane Heller
Thankfully, I had all my clothes on this time, wasn't locked out of my apartment, and didn't need help with my belongings. None of those damsel in distress situations, in other words. I admit I liked the feeling of his coming to my aid, but I didn't want him to view me as
needy
, which men think is just about the worst thing a woman can be.
Well, I wasn't needy until the tall-size Hefty garbage bag I'd lugged into the compactor room sprang a leak and all its contents started tumbling onto the floor.
"Oh, no. Not again," I said, throwing up my hands in frustration. "You weren't sure before, but now you're convinced I'm this lonely divorcee trolling for attention."
"Nothing wrong with being lonely," he said matter-of-factly. "And you don't need to troll for my attention, Melanie. You've already got it."
I met his eyes. His pupils were so big that they completely eclipsed the irises, the effect of which was that you couldn't look away from them.
Still, I cleared my throat and refocused on the matter at hand. "I'd better put all this stuff back in the bag."
"Here, let me," he said as we both got down on the floor.
We didn't butt heads this time, but it was a little awkward, as I was feverishly trying to stick the balled-up tissues, the candy wrappers, the mail from advertisers of antiaging creams, and all my other embarrassing personal articles back into the smelly bag.
"I notice there are a lot of these," he said, tossing one of the tissues into the bag. "Have you been crying a lot?"
"I never cry," I said emphatically, tying the bag up and throwing it down the chute. "I use the tissues to clean my dog's face."
"Hey, I told you. It's not a sin to be lonely," he said.
"No, really," I said. "I use them on Buster. With pugs, you have to get the grungy stuff out from between their wrinkles or they can become infected."
"I love pugs," he said after it sunk in that I was serious about the reason for the tissues. "How about introducing me to yours?"
"Sure," I said. "My ex-husband and I share custody of him, but this is my week. You're in luck."
"It sounds like your divorce from Traffic Dan was amicable," he said. "The support. The shared custody. You're so cool about it all."
Yeah, cool. That's what I was. A cool customer, scheming and plotting to defraud my ex out of what was legally his. But Evan didn't have to know that.
We walked to my apartment, and I opened the door to find Buster standing inside waiting for me. As soon as he saw we had a guest, he went right into his Flying Wallenda act, leaping onto the sofa, leaping onto the nearby chair, leaping back onto the floor. If he could have curtsied, he would have. Such a show-off.
"Buster, this is Evan," I said. "He's a painter. Maybe he'll paint a picture of you someday."
Evan bent down and stroked Buster's back. "Hey, boy. I'm the guy from down the hall. Pleased to meet you."
Buster snorted.
"Don't take it personally," I said. "He does that even with people he likes."
Evan smiled. "So you think he likes me?"
"I think it's too soon to tell."
"Well, I'll just have to try and ingratiate myself with him. Why don't we take him for a walk?"
"Now?" I checked my watch. It was eight-thirty. Maybe Dan and Leah were finishing dinner and hopping into bed early, and I could log in another night of cohabitation.
"Melanie? Did I lose you?"
Yes. "No. It's just that I've got work to do and you've got your painting and—"
"Come on. We'll take a quick one, just around our neighborhood."
"Our neighborhood." I rolled my eyes. "The lovely Hell's Kitchen."
"Oh. Right," he said, heading for the door. "Patty told me you're a former Upper East Sider. Well, this neighborhood is lovely, if you know where to look. So grab your coat and let's go."
It was another breezy January night. Not bone chilling but cold. Smoke-coming-out-of-your-mouth-when-you-talk cold. I bundled up in a down coat and floppy wool hat. Not very glamorous, but Evan didn't seem to mind.
"You like to eat?" he asked as we strolled down Ninth Avenue, Buster trotting along on his leash.
I puffed out my cheeks to demonstrate what a piggy eater I'd become. "More than I ever thought possible."
"Then how can you take the Upper East Side over this?" He gestured at all the restaurants on the avenue. "It's the city's premier neighborhood for food."
"No way," I said. "The Upper East Side has some of the most famous places in the world."
"Famous, maybe. But does it have Hallo Berlin?" He pointed to a small, undistinguished-looking fast-food place. "Authentic German. More wursts than you knew existed."
I turned to look at him. He was smiling, and his smile was infectious. "Hallo Berlin, huh?" I laughed.
"One of many treasures in our neighborhood," he said.
We kept walking. Despite my cynicism, the blend of aromas from the various cuisines were definitely whetting my appetite, not that it needed whetting lately.
"Over there," said Evan, nodding at a storefront called Fatina. "Middle Eastern food, plus live music and—you'll love thisbelly dancing."
I laughed again. "A definite must see."
"Or maybe you'd prefer Grigo, the Greek place that has flamenco dancing. Organic salads too. And at L'Allegria, the restaurant to your left, the waiters don't speak a word of English. When it's your birthday, they sing 'Happy Birthday' in Italian, and it's like being at the opera."
I looked at him, this time with a sly grin. "Something tells me you published a restaurant guide when you were an editor, and that's how you know all this."
"Nope," he said. "I just enjoy exploring. New sights. New smells.
New people
."
I blushed as I felt his eyes on me. He wasn't at all shy about saying what was on his mind, and I found it refreshing. I found him refreshing.
"Speaking of which," he went on, "who are you really, Melanie Banks?"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"You sort of flinched back at your place when I mentioned your support of your ex and your shared custody of Buster. You let me rave about how civilized it sounds, but it's not a rosy picture, is it? I misread the situation, and you didn't want to tell me for some reason."
Either he was very perceptive or I was a lousy actress. "Yes, you misread the situation," I admitted. He was hard to lie to. He had the air of someone who didn't run from the truth, wasn't scared away by it, and I responded by being as straightforward with him as my convoluted personal life allowed. "I hate sharing Buster, but the support issue has been the really contentious one. And the reason I didn't tell you was because I assume your divorce is headed in the same direction."
He seemed surprised by the remark. "You think my ex-wife and I will fight over alimony?"
"You will, believe me. She'll resent having to support you and you'll claim you're entitled to the money."
He stopped walking and looked at me. "What makes you think she's the one who'll be supporting me?"
"Oh. I just assumed that because you lost your job and she—"
"Has one?"
"Yes. You said she's a successful real estate agent."
"She is, but we haven't gotten around to the terms of our settlement yet."
"Then brace yourself. It isn't fun." I gave Evan the highlights and the lowlights of my marriage and divorce, and let loose about my feelings about the spousal support.
"I can see that Traffic Dan gets your motor going," he said. "There's a vein on the side of your head that popped out as soon as you started talking about him. It's still throbbing."
"What vein?"
He placed the tips of his fingers on my left temple and rubbed it gently. "Feel that?"
I felt it all right. His touch was soft and sensual, and it had been so long since anyone touched me that way that I nearly jumped.
"You okay?" he said.
"I don't know," I said. "Nobody's ever told me I had a throbbing vein before." I reached up to touch my face myself, and there
was
a lumpy area there.
"It's your Dan vein," he said. "Let's change the subject and see if it'll go away."
"Fine with me." My Dan vein. I hoped it wouldn't burst and kill me.
"Tell me about this big project of yours," he said as we resumed our walk. "The one that's keeping you so busy."
Okay, so he didn't know he wasn't changing the subject after all. "Actually, it's moving along nicely now," I said, imagining Ricardo making another entry in his notebook and Isa taking more photos and Mrs. Thornberg going next door to complain about the dancing. "In about two months, I'll know if it's a success."
"Is the project part of your job as a financial planner?"
"It's financial in nature," I said cryptically. "If I pull it off, it'll mean saving a fortune. I'll be able to move out of the Heartbreak Hotel, for one thing."
"A fortune, huh? You love money, don't you? Why else would you be in the profession you're in?"
"I love the effect of money," I said. "I love that if you've got it, you can pay your bills and your taxes, own a home and a car, have decent health insurance, sleep at night. Money is security. It keeps us safe."
He cocked his head at me, as if still trying to figure me out. "There's no such thing as safe, Melanie. People with money die just the same as people without it. They just have nicer flowers at their funeral."
"I'm speaking from experience, Evan," I said with more force than I intended. "My mother died when I was little, and my father spent more time on the unemployment line than he did with me. I never had enough. Not for clothes. Not for school. Not for anything."
"Sounds grim, but was it the money you were missing or the affection?"
"The money." I met his gaze. "It's the one thing that doesn't disappoint."
"Compared to people, you mean?"
"Maybe." He
was
perceptive. He seemed to know me better than I knew myself, and we'd only just met. I'd never been with a man who took the trouble to know me, who cared enough to probe below the surface so early in a friendship.
"May I ask you another question?" he said.
"You will anyway, so go ahead," I said with a laugh.
"You said before that you never cry. How come?"
"I just don't. Never did. You'll probably say I'm holding my emotions inside, but I just think I'm in better control of them than most people."
"And that's a good thing?" He looked doubtful.
"It works for me."
Just then, we came to a traffic light. "Are we crossing here?"
"You bet. We've been talking about food, but now it's time to eat some."
He took my elbow as we crossed to the other side of Ninth, Buster close by. I felt cared for, protected, the way I always did when he was around.
"Here?" I said when we stopped in front of a nondescript place called the Ninth Avenue Food Gallery.
"Best pastrami you'll ever have." He leaned over the counter and ordered a pastrami hero sandwich with lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise, and melted provolone. When the sandwich was ready, he held it in front of my mouth to tantalize me. "Just taste this and tell me this neighborhood isn't amazing."
I took a bite, and the flavors exploded in my mouth. God, it was delicious. I'd lived in Hell's Kitchen for a year and never set foot in the place. I'd had no idea what I was missing.
I was about to hand it back, but he insisted I take another bite.
"You may regret that," I said. "It could be gone before you get a crack at it." As I sank my teeth into the sandwich, the mayo squirted out and landed on my chin, a big white wet blob just sitting there. It seemed as if I was incapable of not embarrassing myself in front of this guy.
"Whoops," I said, grabbing a napkin from the counter and wiping myself off, then handing the hero over to him. "Obviously, this thing is too much for me to handle. It's all yours."
He smiled. But instead of taking his first bite, he stuck his finger into the sandwich and scooped out a dollop of mayonnaise, which he proceeded to spread on his own chin.
I roared with laughter as other patrons turned to look at him. "What in the world are you doing?"
"Keeping you company. One of the best ways not to feel silly is to have someone else feeling silly right along with you."
I stood there, staring at him for a few seconds, moved by his consideration for me. He hadn't wanted me to feel silly alone. And as a result, I no longer did.
I reached for another napkin and wiped the mayo off him. "Are you for real, Evan Gillespie?"
He nodded. "Very." He took a bite of the hero, chewed, swallowed. "So will you go out with me Saturday night?"
"What?" The question caught me completely off guard. I wasn't ready for a
date
. Friendship? Sure. Romance? No. I was still involved with Dan. Well, "involved" in the sense of thinking about him nonstop, about the project nonstop. Plus, I didn't want another romantic relationship after the crushing disappointment of the last one, not ever. "I like you, Evan. I do," I said. "But it's not a good idea. I've just gotten divorced and you've just gotten separated and—"
"And we both enjoy eating. So we'll have dinner together. My place. I'll cook."
"You cook? I can't even make decent coffee."
"Come over Saturday night and I'll teach you how."
That was the interesting thing about Evan. About Evan and me. When I was with Dan, I'd been the tour guide. Suddenly, I was the one doing the learning.
I accepted his dinner invitation against my better judgment.
"Great," he said. "Saturday night. Seven o'clock. Apartment 3F. Leave the evening gown at home. This'll be a casual affair."
"Can I at least bring something?" I asked as we headed back to the Heartbreak Hotel.
"Yeah. Buster. He's more than welcome to join us. Unless, of course, he's got a date of his own."
"He's free. But he only eats premium kibble."
"Then that's what I'll cook."
"Seriously, Evan. Please don't go to a lot of trouble. Not for me." Not for a woman with no interest in anything more than friendship.