Breakfast in Stilettos (10 page)

Then he was disappeared behind his gate with a loud click.

I stood there with a stack of rude parking notices in my hand, thinking about Dr. Steiner’s assessment of my deficiencies and remembering the second-hand assertiveness book sitting unread on my nightstand. Bob didn’t have any issues with assertiveness. I clearly did. I felt a little like that man in the joke waiting for God to rescue him from the flood, where God sends a canoe, a boat and a helicopter, but the guy is still waiting for God to reach down and scoop him up in the heavenly chariot. I wasn’t satisfied with any of the obvious solutions to The Frank Problem. I wanted divine intervention.

I decided to take the hint and went inside to pick up the assertiveness book, wondering if it would be possible to develop a proper backbone overnight
.
If there was any hope for Frank and me, I needed to understand myself a little better before I could understand whatever he might need to dish out tomorrow.

I poured myself a glass of cabernet and checked my email before sitting down with the book. I had a response from the submissive, Pixie Caldwell, who was open to the idea of getting together and had time for a late lunch tomorrow. Her Dominant
had
given permission for her to meet me at a café in
Belltown
.
I couldn
’
t imagine having to ask anyone
’
s consent to have lunch
. She anticipated my reaction
, add
ing
a note that giving and receiving consent was part of the
D
ominant/submissive agreement
and something
they both enjoyed.

“If you aren’t into Dominance and submission, you might not know that there is very little here that isn’t expressly agreed upon. Contracts are even drawn up describing what each party is supposed to do. If my partner isn’t properly Dominant, what’s the point?! That’s what I was looking for.”

There was a little smiley at the end of her email. “The Happy Submissive.” Hmm, that would be a good name for a one of those short stories I intended to write. Someday.

The book sat on the nightstand, looking very unsexy in its plain blue cover. I read the title again.
Assertiveness and Equality
i
n Life and
Love
.

I propped up the pillows, set down my wine glass, and made myself comfortable on the bed. I wasn’t sure how to go at a book like this. I flipped through the pages. There were a few tests inside. But this book seemed to be one of those that you could just open to a page and see what spoke to you. It was a good way to start anyway.

I closed the book, ran my fingers along the edges and opened to a page about a third of the way through. Beneath the
chapter
title was a quote from Henry David Thoreau. “It takes two to speak truth—one to speak and another to hear.”

I thought about that for a moment. Frank had a truth to tell me, but didn’t think I would listen. I had truths to tell him. And while he might listen, I refused to say what I really felt. I wanted him to do all the talking.

A swell of eureka spread throughout my body.
Holy crap!
Of course we had problems.

I looked back at the cover. Maybe this book would help me after all. I flipped back to the beginning, took a sip of wine, and snuggled in for a long read.

I woke to the sound of water blasting against the outside wall. I lifted the shade and saw that Asshole Bob had decided to power-wash his house. Our walls were only a few paces apart and the sprayer was turned up high enough to ricochet with near full strength. The light reflected in rainbow swirls as water sluiced down my bedroom window. Bob appeared impervious to the January chill.

The clock read 8:00 a.m. One hour until breakfast.

I hadn’t made it very far through the book. I had apparently fallen asleep right about the time it told me to keep a journal to track my progress. I wrote for a
living
. Writing anything on personal time, even for the sake of helping myself, had the same effect as a sleep aid. I had passed out with the light still on and the book tented on my chest to the offending chapter.

I listened for Sal doing her usual morning yoga routine with the bizarre porn video breathing. Granted I’d overheard enough of her sexual encounters to know that this same sound accompanied multiple activities. But then I remembered her accident. I hoped she was
OK
.

Vaguely anxious, I put the book on the nightstand, rolled out of bed and grabbed my robe. The room was nippy so Sal must still be asleep. Feeling magnanimous, I clicked on the heater. For once she could wake up to a warm house. I stumbled into the bathroom for a hot shower.

I dressed, sneaking a peek out the window. The day was  turning out to be an atypical sunny Saturday. The sky was a cloudless blue with not a threat of rain in sight. My agenda included shopping for a leather outfit
, meeting up with Pixie
and preparing for a showdown with Frank’s fetish. But first it was time for breakfast at Cafe Luna’s. Mom and I met there every Saturday morning. They opened at nine o’clock and I hated to be late.

Mom was just getting out of her car when I arrived, nine a.m. sharp, at the restaurant. She slowly unfolded out of the vehicle. At just under six feet tall, she still insisted on driving the latest fuel-efficient miniature. The car
du jour
was a Prius. But, zealot that she was, she never condemned my chugalug Wrangler. She simply wasn’t like that.

She flashed a big smile and waved as I navigated into the cramped parking lot. You couldn’t miss her in a crowd, not with the long, flowing robe and
wrists
jangling
in a gauntlet of
thirty or so silver bracelets. She must have been a gypsy in a past life.

“Good morning, Hon.” She gave me the Catholic priest hug, that loose embrace with no breast contact and a light triple pat on the back. Vigorous tree huggers and cheek-kissers did not exist in our family.

I returned the light embrace and then we made the short jaunt to the restaurant. I listened as she gave the running commentary on each plant, shrubbery and tree we passed. She always noticed how things changed from week to week. Winter had set on them in earnest and even the rhodies looked withdrawn and brittle.

I gave her a quick rundown on Sal’s accident. She liked Sal and always bought her a little something at holidays and for birthdays.

The host greeted us at the door of the small vegetarian café and took us to our regular table next to the circular stone water feature. The intimate garden room had floor to ceiling windows on three sides and was filled with giant Ficus Trees, flowering hibiscus and other assorted tropicals. I liked the plants because they seemed oblivious to the changing seasons outside, and made the restaurant appear exactly the same inside each time we ate. Consistency was a welcome change.

As we were taking off our jackets, Christof, the waiter, arrived and set two waters on the table. “The usuals?”

I nodded and he disappeared into the kitchen. Christof was a Saturday morning fixture and he always knew exactly what we wanted. He was cute in that thin, vegan, health-conscious sort of way. His head was shaven and he had one of those strange vampire-slave tattoos on the back of his neck.

I sat down. Mom’s bracelets clinked as she lowered her hands to the table to support herself and then slowly settled in. She wasn’t as young as she used to be. She snapped her napkin before putting it on her lap. “So. Anything exciting happen this week?”

Our breakfast ritual had officially begun.

“You mean, besides getting assigned a story about a sex club?” I took a sip of water, noting her reaction through the distortion of the weighted glass bottom.

She wasn’t shocked, merely curious. “Sex club. As in strippers? I didn’t think
The Sun Times
covered that sort of thing.”

“It is more of a participatory titillation club for intellectuals. Kenner thinks there’s something interesting there.” I set the water glass aside as our tea arrived, along with a tray of enough honey and cream to start our own Elysian Fields. I tipped the teapot lid and stirred the tea leaves, as if that would make them steep faster.

She frowned slightly. “You’d think intellectuals would be smart enough to know better. After all, isn’t that what the Internet is for? Meeting others of your own ilk, right?”

“Oh, like you wouldn’t have gone to such a place in your dating days.” Mom had been a bit of a flirt when she was younger. I spent most of my high-school years waiting for her to come home. Meanwhile she was sipping CC and Sevens at what passed for a nightclub in the little town where I grew up.

My mother had commitment issues and was married and divorced three times before I reached puberty. Finally, perhaps to eliminate legal fees, she’d adopted more of a rent-a-hunk policy with men. They’d live with us for a while. Soon there would be an argument, followed by a vacancy and then another hunk. I never got to know any of them well. I knew their tenancy would be short.

Mom shrugged. “That was before the Web, computer dating, all that. What’s the point anymore?
We
used to have to go out and just hope to God we’d be in the same place at the same time as someone interesting. There were no websites for posting your
profile
. We had nothing more than, ‘for a good time call …’ and, for that, you had to get into the men’s restroom to scrawl it down.”

I laughed, imagining her doing something just like that. “Well, after I go to this place and write my article, we’ll know all about it. Maybe there’s a good reason.”

I swirled the tea leaves again. Tea had to be strong enough for hair to sprout instantly on my tongue. It was difficult to make it too strong. I gave it a sniff and dubbed it drinkable. With Golden Heaven Yunnan it was hard to go wrong.

“When is this event?” Mom was already halfway through her first weakly brewed cuppa.

I told her about the night’s plans as Christof brought our breakfasts—scrambled eggs, potatoes, and toast.

“Who are you going with,  Sal?”

I filled her in on Sal’s upcoming presentation, hoping to forestall telling the news that I was taking Frank. She nodded, assuming by my omission that I didn’t have a date. Giving Christof an appraising look as he stopped by to offer more water, she said, “How about him?”

She was joking, of course, and Christof knew it. He just smiled. “Want something?”

Mom waved him on. “Well, not from the menu anyway.”

I could see her giving him a mental pinch. Unlike most mothers of the world, mine was a bit wanton. Friends often griped about their parents —the miscommunicators, the authoritarians, the
parentis
absentia
—but not me. Mom and I had a great relationship. I mean how many girls would rush home to tell their mother when they lost their virginity?

Mom had married right out of high school with the singular goal of having a little girl as her best friend. My father was merely a footnote in that process and they divorced soon after. To this day, I have spoken to him only a handful of times.

She changed the subject for a while, talking about her own week as the finance manager for a corporation that made some sort of electronic widget. Discussion of accounting issues usually made my brain congeal. My checkbook balanced, and that was the end of my interest. Slowly, subtly, I steered the conversation back to the night ahead.

Mom was paying her half of the bill, as frugal with the tip as she was her fuel. I always left a little extra to make up for it. She looked distracted. “Well, as long as you don’t take Frank, I think you’ll have a wonderful time.”

The comment rankled. “Jeez. Was Frank really that bad? It has been like a mantra with everyone—no Frank, no Frank, no Frank.”

Mom just raised an unplucked eyebrow as she stowed her checkbook inside the boat that passed for a purse. “Emily, you have, unfortunately inherited my terrible taste in men. It is my fault, and I take full responsibility. But it is something you must understand about yourself. Romantically, you are definitely running at a deficit.”

I sat, a little stunned, as she stood and gathered her coat. Leave it to an accountant to keep a running tally of all my past relationships. It took no accounting knowledge at all to know she would view my date with Frank as nothing but one big bad check.