She was silent. “Yeah, well,” she said at last.
“Listen, Jess, are the Keegans still up? Check to see if the lights are on and the front door’s still open. I’m sure they have two or three printers over there.”
I heard more muffled sounds. “You’re right. They’re still up.”
“So go over and ask Mr. Keegan to help you, okay?”
“Okay. But what should I tell Mr. Keegan if he asks where you are?”
I felt my face get red. “Don’t worry, he knows I have a date.” And I hung up.
I looked up and met Mitch’s eyes. They were very still.
“So, you’ve mentioned him a few times. And Vicki’s talked about him,” Mitch said. “What about this Keegan guy, anyway?”
Now, we all know what a hypothetical situation is, right? So, let’s put this in a hypothetical setting. Suppose, just suppose, there’s a woman in her forties, going through a divorce, who has just had a lovely dinner with a sweet, thoughtful man who, incidentally, gave her butterflies in her stomach. And let’s also suppose that this same woman has been having a purely physical relationship with the man across the street for a number of weeks, because the woman felt lonely and vulnerable and really just needed a hand to hold. Figuratively speaking, of course. Not literally. Literally, she needed to get laid.
So what happens when the woman gets questioned about that purely physical relationship? And the question is asked by the sweet, thoughtful man? What to do?
Option One: Lie.
Deny any and every allegation. After all, the sweet, thoughtful man is a visitor, and the woman may in fact never see him again. By lying, the man thinks the woman is pure and saintly. Even though what she really is is a liar.
Option Two: Confess all.
Even though the sweet and thoughtful man is a visitor, the purely physical affair is pretty much common knowledge among the adults on the block, and the sweet man’s own sister probably got details from any one of several valid sources. By confessing, the woman may appear to be a real slut, but an honest slut. There’s something to be said for honesty.
Option Three: Burst into tears.
Men usually react when a woman starts to cry. And they usually react badly. They don’t know what to do, what to say, or how to gracefully exit the room without looking like a real schmuck. Also, sobbing and talking at the same time allows a woman to say just about anything, without having a single word understood. So, while crying, a lie or the truth sounds just about the same. There is the vanity factor at play here, though. Very few women look good while crying.
I looked out over the bay, looked down at my drink, and decided to go for it. “Doug Keegan is the man across the street. I’ve known him for years.”
“Yeah,” Mitch said encouragingly.
“I’ve been sleeping with him.” That came out badly. Too abrupt. I cleared my throat and tried again. “He and I, ah, have been, well, you know. Just, well, sex. I mean, we’re friends and all, but us, ah, together, it’s just. Well. Sex.”
Oh, that came out so much better.
Mitch also looked out at the bay. “Would you call this a phase?”
“Yes,” I said gratefully. “Exactly. A phase. See, when I got down here, I was just so hurt and mad, the best way to get it out seemed to be with Doug. Doug is the perfect rebound guy. The perfect revenge-fuck guy. He’ll tell you that himself. He’s a very uncomplicated man. And I needed an uncomplicated solution. We’ve both known that at the end of the summer it would be all over. I just needed a little something to get me through a rough spot, you know?”
“Vicki said you’d gone out with a few other men. Did you sleep with them too?”
That stung, but it was a fair question. “No, I didn’t sleep with any of them. I didn’t even like any of them. In fact, I physically resisted a few of them.”
“And what about me?”
I felt a little squishy. “Mitch, you are such a nice guy. And I’m not saying that so I can tell you I think we should just be friends. I’m telling you that because I can’t think of any other man I’d rather spend time with. You’re great. Really great. But I’m still married, sleeping with a guy just to keep the emotional bogey-man away. I’ve just written a book that may very well fall completely flat, and although I would have written it out of pure love, if it does fall flat, it could ruin my career, and I happen to value my career very much. My daughters are ignoring the fact that their home is now broken, which I think is a bad thing. When I think of Brian, my husband, the first emotion in still anger. I should be over that part by now. I’m kind of a mess.”
“I noticed. But you’re a terrific mess. You’re a smart, funny, lovable mess.” He smiled wryly. “You’re exactly my kind of mess.”
“Is that a good thing? Didn’t you say you had bad taste in women?”
“Yeah. But I think my luck in changing. Can I see you again?”
I felt a flutter. “Sure. When?”
“I really have to get back to work and take care of a few things. But I could drive down next Tuesday.”
“I have plans next Tuesday, as it happens. Some very good friends of mine are taking their boat down to Atlantic City for dinner, and I was invited along. Could you join us?”
“I’m not a big gambler.”
I laughed. “I’m not either. But I bring a roll of quarters and let myself go crazy at the slot machines.”
“That sounds great. I’ll call you the end of the week and let you know for sure.”
He drove me home, gave me a very nice good-night kiss, and drove off, leaving me standing on my front porch, doing the happy dance.
Doug Keegan took his fall from grace-or whatever-with style. He came over early the next morning after my dinner with Mitch poured himself some coffee. He perched on my kitchen stool and looked at me sharply.
“So, how did your practice date go last night?”
“Doug,” I said slowly, stirring in cream and sugar, “I don’t think it was practice. I think it was the real thing.”
He raised his eyebrows. “The geek comic-book seller? The living with Mom and Dad guy? We’ve been making fun of him for weeks.”
“Yeah, I know. But he’s none of those things. He’s…” I looked straight at Doug. “He’s really nice.”
Doug whistled silently through his lips. ‘Wow. That’s deadly.”
“No, Doug, I mean it. He’s a terrific person.”
Doug nodded his head. “Okay, then. So I suppose this means we won’t be having any more sex-on-the-beach?”
“I don’t think so,” I said slowly.
“Well, Mona, I gotta tell you. We had a great run.”
I nodded. “Yes, Doug, that we did.”
“Shall we have a favorite moments recap?”
I laughed. “No, not necessary. But thank you. Really. This could have been the crappiest summer of my life, but because of you, it wasn’t.”
“So, listen, when you write the book, make sure I’m taller. And handsomer. But you may have to tone down my sexual prowess, because no one would believe you.”
And that was that.
Mitch called me on Sunday. “Hello,” I said.
“Is this Mona Berman? Quincy? Mona?”
“No, I’m sorry Mona-Berman-Quincy-Mona was admitted to a padded cell yesterday because some guy who was supposed to call her at the end of the week didn’t.”
“Oh. This is Sunday. Isn’t Sunday the end of the week?”
“Not really. She was referring to the end of the work week, which would have meant Friday. The end of the calendar week is Saturday. Either way, you’re too late.”
“Wow. That’s too bad, because I was planning on driving all the way down to see her on Tuesday. Can this date be saved?”
“Possibly. I spoke to my friends and you’re welcome to come along. They want to start down around noon. Can you be here by then?”
“No problem. See you then.”
I gave him directions to the marina, hung up and did the happy dance again.
MarshaMarsha was very excited. “You met a nice guy? Oh, this is great, isn’t it great, Al?”
Al was busy stowing things below deck, but grunted in approval.
“This is going to be our second date,” I explained. “I figured you guys could help with any awkward pauses.”
Al grunted again, then came up from below deck with a bottle of Sam Addams.
The Riollos’ boat was nothing like Peter Gundersen’s yacht. It was a sturdy, scruffy little cruiser, with a blue canvas canopy for shade and one seat behind the controls. You sat on bench seats along the side of the boat, and when the tide got low, you got out and helped push the boat off the sand bars. Brian and I had gone with them on many a trip to Atlantic City in past years, and it felt strange to have Mitch along this year when only last year we had splurged on champagne for the trip home after Al hit it big at the blackjack tables.
Al took a long swig of beer. “So, you aren’t seeing Doug anymore?”
MarshaMarsha shushed him. “Al, don’t be nosy.”
“What the hell, you’re dying to find out too. Well, Mona?”
“Doug and I agreed to end our most current relationship and return to our previous one.”
Al nodded approval. “Good. Cause I gotta tell you, Mona, Doug was a bit of a come-down for you. You deserve somebody a lot better-looking.”
MarshaMarsha rolled her eyes. I grinned. There was no point in trying to explain to Al that what I needed, and got, from Doug had nothing to do with his looks.
I had been watching the parking lot for Mitch, and saw a flash of silver. There was a lot of silver in the lot. The official car of New Jersey is a silver SUV, but Mitch’s long, sleek car stood out. I watched as he came onto the pier. He was dressed in shorts and a polo shirt, a Mets baseball cap on his head, a faded blue tote over his shoulder. I smiled at the sight of him.
Al waved for him to come on board. “It’s a good thing you’re wearing that hat, ‘cause if you were a Yankee fan, I’d have to throw you overboard.”
“If I were a Yankee fan,” Mitch said, climbing down, “I’d throw myself overboard.”
Ah, sports. The only thing two men need to become best friends is the love of a common team. Or the hatred of one.
We had a wonderful time. The ride down was smooth and sunny, we wandered around the dark, noisy casinos, and Mitch won three hundred dollars on a dollar slot machine, and treated us all to a very expensive dinner. We had eaten early, so that Al didn’t have to cruise back in the dark, and we docked back in Long Beach Island just after eight.
Al invited Mitch back to the house for a drink, but Mitch backed off, citing the long ride home as an excuse. I walked him back to his car.
“You have great friends,” Mitch said, running his hands up and down my arms.
I pulled him close, very close, and kissed him. He kissed back. Wow.
“So, next Tuesday?” He whispered in my ear, his hands still moving.
“Tuesday? What about next Tuesday?” I was having trouble concentrating. I kept kissing him.
“I could drive down again.”
“That would be good.”
More kissing.
“Good,” he agreed.
I could feel the handle of his car door pressing into my back. It should have hurt, but it didn’t. Now I was having problems breathing. “Maybe we should stop,” I gasped.
“Maybe.”
I could feel other things pressing into my front. I took a deep breath and pushed him away. “I’ll see you next week,” I said with difficulty.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll call you. Maybe tomorrow. Definitely by Thursday.”
“Right.”
He called the next morning. I was on the back porch, busy reading Sylvia’s notes on chapter three, but when I saw his number, I jumped up to answer.
“Hey, Mitch. Hi.”
“Hi yourself. Am I interrupting anything?”
“What? No, not at all. Well, yes. Book stuff. But it can wait.”
“What kind of book stuff?”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. I’m interested.”
“Well, I sent my agent my first draft, and we had a long conversation last week about her suggested changes, and I took copious notes that I can’t understand because I was writing in my lap, and so now I’ll have to call her again and ask her what ‘sex, Jack, ladder’ means.”
“Jack has sex with a ladder?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Jack has sex on a ladder?”
Maybe. I had a great time yesterday.”
“Me too.”
“How do you feel about caller ID?”
“What?”
“Caller ID.”
“This is a test, right?”
“No, of course not. Not in the sense that there’s a right or wrong answer. I’m just curious.”
“None of my phones, except my cell, have caller ID.”
“Not even your business phone?”
“No. Do you have strong feelings about caller ID?”
“Me? No.” I took a sip of iced coffee. “ Nope, not at all.”
“I seem to be missing the guy gene that makes me want to use all available technology, even stuff I don’t need. I have a cell phone, a flat screen, and an iPod, but no caller ID or electronic ignition on my gas grill. I also don’t have a home theater system. Does this mean I can’t come back down next Tuesday?”
“Actually, your disinterest in all things electronic is a plus. Brian couldn’t take a shower without some new technological marvel helping out in some way. But caller ID, well, that’s another story.”
“Every year, on Margaret Mitchell’s birthday, I watch Gone With The Wind.”
“Good save. Come on down.”
He called again Monday. “I can’t come down. My store manager broke her leg last night, and my assistant manager is in Nova Scotia. The manager from my other store is still in rehab. I can’t get away.”
I was surprised how disappointed I was. “Of course, do what you’ve got to do. I’ll be home in two weeks anyway. I’ll see you then.”
“I’m going to miss you.”
“Me too. Call me, though. You can call, right?”
He laughed. “I’m not a big one for talking on the phone. I don’t do small talk.”
“So, we’ll have short conversations instead of small talk. Please call me.”
“I will.”
He did. What a nice guy.
Amanda Witt called me. We normally e-mailed each other when we wanted to chat, or actually met somewhere for lunch. Amanda hated talking on the phone. But when I e-mailed her asking about Nationals, and she actually called back in reply.