“Of course it isn't
just
to please Grams.” She toyed with her glass. There was such a thing as being too close. “I'm thirty-one. Time is slipping away. I like my job, like my apartment, but... well, I want to be young enough to enjoy my childrenâ”
“Ticktock, ticktock.”
“No,” she said, trying to lighten the atmosphere a little. “I'm not in a panic about my biological clock, but right about now I feel a bit run-down.”
He smiled warmly, and she relaxed. Discussing marriage always made her tense. Craig too. Maybe she wasn't as ready to settle down as she'd thought.
“So, who's the man of choice tonight?”
“Oh, someone Ginny's significant other knows from work.”
“You don't sound enthused,” he said. “Don't trust Mike's taste in men?”
“With the luck I'm having lately, I don't trust my own taste in men.”
“Or women,” he added, sipping his drink.
Her gaze softened. “I really am sorry about Gabrielle. When we were in flight school, she was perfectly normal. Fun, a little crazy sometimes, but definitely not eccentric.”
“Nuts,” he clarified.
“Eccentric.”
“Okay, eccentrically nuts.”
Agreeing to disagree, they lifted their glasses in a salute and drank to the compromise.
Craig's gaze lingered on her. “While we're on the subject, I have someone I want you to meet.”
Temple bit into a slice of lime, studying him warily. After the Gabrielle incident, she wasn't certain a bit of revenge wasn't behind his suggestion.
“I don't know, Craigâ”
“Isn't that the agreement?” he said, arching his eyebrows. “You set me up with your friends, I set you up with mine?”
“Okay,” she relented. “Who is it?”
“Dwight Mason.”
She frowned. “Have I ever met him?”
“No, but you'll like him.” He finished his drink.
“What's he do?”
“Makes money. Lots of it. He's an entrepreneur of sorts.”
“Of sorts? I don't knowâ”
“Sure you do. That's the agreement. I'll call and set it up. Early next week okay with you?”
A deal was a deal. There was no way out. She sincerely wished that she'd never thought up this stupid arrangement. She didn't want Craig mad at her when it didn't work out. Case in pointâGabrielle.
Finishing her drink, she managed a smile. “I'm free any night except Tuesday.”
“Good. I'll call Dwight.”
They left the lounge together. When they reached their cars, Temple had to squeeze into the driver's side of her pickup. Craig had won the race for the parking space that morning.
“Oh, by the way,” he said. “Don't wear the red dress when you go out with Dwight.”
“Which red dress?”
He shut her door and she rolled down the window. “The one that fits you like a second skin.”
That was strange. It sounded as if he didn't like that dress. She'd paid a week's salary for it and worn the garment to the airline's annual Christmas party last year. He had demanded nearly every dance and they'd had a great time.
“Why not?”
“Dwight doesn't like red,” was his dry comment. “Have a good time.”
His hands slapped the windowsill as she started the engine.
“Craig,” she said, studying his face, “why do I have the distinct impression you're setting me up?”
“I am setting you up.”
“No, I mean, âsetting me up,”' she said with emphasis. “Remember the agreement? We don't arrange dates with people we wouldn't go with ourselves. A blind date isn't really a blind date this way. I thought Gabrielleâ”
“Relax.” He smiled, bending to look in the window. “I've recovered from that overdose of fur. Of course, I may have a feline phobia for the rest of my life,” he said. “And have a good time tonight. By the way, what's your date tonight do?”
“He's an accountant. Steady, logical. Dull, but after some of the dates I've had lately, dull is good. Sounds promising. What about you? Got a date tonight?”
“Mmm. An antique-store owner.”
“Antiques? Old books and distressed wood? Should be interesting. Bill set you up?”
“No, Dave tricked...uh, convinced me to see this one,” he told her. “She's twenty-eight, blond, green-eyed and teaches a class on authentication. I asked her about that blue vaseâit's good, by the way.”
“It ought to be. I bought it for you.”
“I know.”
His gaze met hers. No one had eyes as blue as his; eyes that could dance with humor or flash with anger. Right now, she wasn't sure what was behind the intensity in his gaze but her heart did that funny little skip-beat that made her forget to breathe.
“I found it in a little dusty shop in Balboa,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “I don't think the owner knew it was real, but I did.”
“Well, Angela says it's a nice piece. You have good taste.”
“At least in antiques. You sure you're not setting me up with this Dwight to get even with me?”
“You're getting paranoid, Burney.”
“Like I don't have a reason?”
He smiled. “Would I do that to you?”
“Yeah. You would.” She laughed, feeling better.
As she drove away, Temple glanced in the rearview mirror, watching Craig get into the Lincoln.
This Dwight better be good, or I'll dig up another Gabrielle. This time on purpose.
After a hot shower, Temple stretched out on the bed to pen her weekly letter to Grams. She paused for a moment, mentally sorting through her recent dates in an attempt to put her reactions to them into words. They were too dismal to report. Instead, she found her thoughts drifting to Craig.
No, she told herself, firmly.
Dear Grams,
Have I told you about my good friend, Craig Stevensâ
Â
What is it with you today, Burney? He puts his hand on your shoulder to slide past you and you get as giddy as a teenager. Then you dissect every tone of voice and every
nuance of speech
. Maybe this “dating game” she'd embarked on was getting to her. She quit chewing the top of her pen and continued her letter.
Â
He's handsome, smart, witty and one of the best pilots Sparrow employs. Helen and Frank should be proud of himâyou tell them so when you see them in church Sunday.
I guess what I'm trying to say is that's the problem, Grams. But our friendship is just too good to jeopardize it by dating each other. Besides, he's a pilot. And that's enough said about that.
She stopped writing as she considered what she'd just told Grams. It would hurt to lose him, she admitted to herself. Hurt too much. Besides, with Nancy still caring about Craig, obviously still hoping something would work out, anything more than friendship between them would complicate things too much. She couldn't bear it if something happened to destroy the special relationship she and Craig had. If...if he decided to sever their friendship, it would kill her. She fully understood how Nancy felt. Losing Craig would be far too painful. She resumed her letter.
Hope everything is well with you. I will make it home for Christmas. Hang the tinsel and stuff the goose.
Love,
Tootie
Â
P.S. You'll be glad to know I'm dating on a regular basis. Can't say I'm having any success, but I am going out.
Sealing the letter, she rolled off the bed.
Oh, yes, Grams. I'm going out, for all the good it's doing me. So far, I'm zero for fourteen, but who's counting?
7
R
EJECTING FIRST a long skirt and Vctorian-style blouse, then rose slacks and matching sweater, then tan slacks and chocolate-colored long shirt, and a black tube dress she considered too adventurous for a first date, Temple finally settled on a two-piece turquoise casual suit.
It's nerves, Burney. Plain ole nerves
. After the last few dates she'd suffered through, she was paranoid, that was all. It wasn't logical that her string of disastrous dates could continue. Even a blind squirrel found a nut every once in a while, so the odds that tonight should be a winner were running high.
Still, she vacillated between calling Bill Moffit and making up some excuse as to why she couldn't go out tonight, and hoping he'd call and break the date himself.
Neither happened.
Standing in front of an antique mirror in the foyer, she was trying to decide whether to rebrush her hair so it waved away from her face, when the doorbell sounded.
“Dam,” she whispered. “Darn, dam, darn.”
Forcing a smile, she went to the door. Somehow, she kept the smile steady when she found herself face-to-face with a man no taller than herself.
Okay, this is okay. Height is no problem. Only a person with a small mind worries about height.
He was wearing a three-piece charcoal suit, white shirt, gray and white paisley tie with a diamond tack. She relaxed a little. At least he wasn't wearing a straw hat with a pineapple stuck in it.
“Bill?”
“Temple?” He extended his hand. “Bill Moffit.”
He didn't yell, or mumble. “Hello, Bill. Would you like a drink before we go?”
“No.” He glanced at his watch and at that moment it chimed. “I made reservations at Antonio's.”
“Oh...well, I'm ready. Let me get my jacket.”
Antonio's. Five-star restaurant. Maybe I should have worn something a little more formal.
Bill's car was an older-model charcoal BMW with leather interior. It smelled like old paper.
“What kind of music do you like?” he asked as they got in. “I've got anything you want.”
Reaching into the back seat, he flipped open a leather case that held at least a hundred eight-tracks. Eight-tracks! Temple mentally groaned.
“Um, country?”
He looked at her as if she'd lost her mind.
“That isn't even a choice,” he said. “Try R&B, show tunes, opera, Barbra Streisand. She's in a class by herself.”
“Barbra's fine.”
After fiddling with the dinosaurian eight-track player to get what he considered the “exact” right setting, Bill finally started the car and merged with the traffic. Driving with one hand on the wheel, the other draped loosely over the back of her seat, he hummed along with the music.
This is fine. I'm having a whiteout as far as small talk is concerned, but that's okay. Small talk is overrated anyway.
Antonio's was a pricey restaurant specializing in authentic Italian cuisine. The mouth-watering aromas of garlic and pasta drifted into the foyer as they worked their way up to the host.
“Table for Moffit,” Bill said.
“Yes, sir. It will be just a moment, sir.”
He looked at Temple, smiling. “Ten minutes. Tops.”
“No problem,” Temple said, watching a teenager feed dough into a pasta machine then catch the noodles it produced. Somehow, the limp pasta reminded her of her love life. Colorless, flavorless, no body.
The waiting area was too crowded for them to engage in conversation. As they were gradually shoved against one wall, Bill jingled change in his pocket impatiently. The room grew close and the aromas of garlic and tomato sauce were getting to her. A small headache was forming at the nape of her neck. Temple wished she'd followed her first instinct and called off the date. But if she had, she told herself, Ginny would never have let her forget it.
“Moffit, party of two?”
“That's us,” Bill said, his hand firmly clasping her elbow to direct her to follow the hostess.
They followed the woman to a corner booth that, if Temple had wanted to consider it as such, could be called romantic. The restaurant's cozy, dark corners, candles on the tables, soft music, the low tones of conversation, made her relax just a little.
A waiter in a modified black tux approached to take their drink order.
“No drinks,” Bill said quickly, then glanced at her as if he'd just remembered she was there. “Okay?”
“Fine.”
The waiter smiled. “Then permit me to tell you tonight's specials.”
“Shoot,” Bill said.
They listened as he recited the list.
“Thanks,” Bill said when the man had finished. “We'll need a few minutes to look over the menu.”
“And what will you be drinking with your dinner, sir?”
“Iced tea is $1.50,” Bill mumbled. His forehead furrowed in thought as his gaze skimmed the menu choices.
“Sir?”
“Iced tea. Iced tea.”
“Thank you. Madam?”
Temple followed Bill's lead. “Tea with lemon, please.”
Bill was still studying the menu when the waiter left. He let out a low whistle. “It's been a while since I've been here,” he said. “They've upped the prices.”
“They are a little highâ”
“Never mind. Order what you want. What looks good?”
“Well, the manicotti sounds good.”
He whistled again. “At $18.95 it should be.”
Made uneasy by his tone, Temple quickly rechecked the columns. “Well, there's always lasagna.”
Bill started figuring on a napkin, shaking his head. The waiter appeared beside him, order pad at the ready.
“What may I get for you tonight?”
“Temple?”
Swallowing, Temple's gaze swept down the menu, checking the midpriced items.
Apparently the cost of the entrées is going to be a problem for Bill. So why did he bring me to a five-star restaurant? Great thinking.
She closed the menu. “Pasta fagiole with a salad.”
Soup and salad. You can't get much cheaper than that, Burney.
“Excellent. And you, sir?”
“I'll have the...spaghetti, no meat sauce. Does that come in a luncheon portion?”
“No sir, not for the dinner meal.”
“Okay. Spaghetti.”
“Salad, sir?”
“No salad. Does the bread come with the entrée? Or is it charged separately?”
The waiter seemed surprised by the question. “Uh, why it comes as a courtesy, sir.”
“At these prices, I'd hope so.” He handed both menus to him. “Hustle a basket out here.”
After a brief hesitation, the waiter spun on his heel and left, a pained look on his face.
“Now then,” Bill said, settling his elbows on the table, holding up his tea glass to inspect it for smudges, “tell me about yourself.”
“I'm a flight attendant. I fly with Sparrow Airlines.”
“How long have you been flying?”
“Ten years. Five years with Sparrow.”
“Have you ever thought about doing anything else? I mean, can you be a hostess until you retire?”
“Well, I never thought about it,” Temple admitted. “The airlines have less strict guidelines now than a few years ago so I guess I could fly as long as I want to.”
A devilish look came into his eyes. “How old are you?”
She glanced up, surprised.
“Only kidding,” he said. “I don't expect you to admit your age.” Setting down his glass, he leaned forward. “You women have to stay pretty thin. How much do you weigh?”
Damn!
Another one bites the dust.
Over dinner, Bill dominated the conversation. Temple ate, listening with one ear as her mind raced with reasons she shouldn't leave right then. Rude, she decided. No use wasting good food.
“Well, you'll be settling down with a family soon,” he was saying. “Statistics show that a woman is usually married by the time she's twenty-three. That's up two years from ten years ago. A man is normally twenty-five, up three years. Though women usually work until they're twenty-eight before having children. Still, most continue to work after the kids come along. Economics being what they are today, the woman is taken out of the home to work as well as raise the children.
“They shouldn't, though. Too much stress in trying to work and keep house, especially when there are children.”
An alarm bell went off in her head. “Men don't help raise the children?”
“Not at first. Women are better nurturers,” he proclaimed. “Statistics tell us that men are assuming more of a role with younger children, but I'm not sure those figures aren't skewed by men wanting to take advantage of the family-leave opportunity afforded them now. Women, you have to admit, are better with children. How about you? Planning to have children?”
“Not right away.” Like Craig said, marriage first and that prospect was looking dimmer by the moment.
“Can't wait too long. You're over thirty.”
She didn't like the turn of this conversation at all. “I understand you're a CPA, Bill?”
“Yes. With Whitney, Mannes, Gowan and Peterson. One day, Moffit will be added to that door. Within five years is my plan.”
Accounting? Good ole Bill here could balance her checkbook and do her taxes for her.
“Do you have an area of specialty?”
“Corporate taxes. Though I really enjoy the statistical format.” He leaned back with obvious satisfaction. “At the moment, I'm deep into a complicated audit. A utility company. I suspect they're not using their invested funds properly and I know they're not reporting income from those investments. You wouldn't believe what people think they can get away with...or at least fail to find out that they've got to report. And these people are supposed to be trained and informed.”
“Must be complicated,” Temple murmured, her eyes starting to glaze over. An image of him naked surrounded by ledger books flashed in her mind, and she recoiled.
“It is. I've been working on this one area for a week now and I've just begun to scratch the surface. By the time I'm finished,” he said pompously, “they're going to have quite an education in how to use a reporting systemâ”
He droned on, detailing the steps he was taking to track down errors in the company's accounting system, none of which she understood. Math had never been her strong pointâwitness her inability to balance her checkbook. Craig kept telling her it was simple. Mark off the checks returned with the bank statement with a red pen along with noted deposits, add up those not checked offâand she lost him there. Though she followed instructions carefully, somehow her checkbook never balanced out.
But then, Craig made everything look easy.
Bill never missed a beat in his continuing narrative about various complicated tax situations he'd had to unravel over the past two years. It seemed that most of them required several weeks of intense work equal to the development of the atomic bombâwork he was obviously willing to relate in intricate detail. But, he'd said not once but three times, it was soooo satisfying when the last column of figures was added up and balanced, stacks of forms completed perfectly and presented to the errant comptroller or head accountant.
“May I offer you one of our wonderful desserts,” the waiter suggested, displaying a tray of luscious-looking plaster facsimiles. “Spumoni, of course, French silk pie and a light pastryâ”
“Nothing for me. Temple?” Bill was figuring on the napkin again.
Temple eyed the French silk, but knew she didn't dare order. Bill was already calculating the total of their meal and frowning.
“No, thanks. Maybe coffee, though.”
“We have a very nice latte, or perhaps a cappuccino?”
“Latte, please,” Temple ordered. To heck with Bill. He'd chosen the place. He should have checked out the prices first if that was a concern.
“And you, sir?”
“Just decaf.”
“Cream, sir? There's no extra charge.”
“No, black.”
The waiter's remark went right past Bill and Temple swallowed a laugh.
The latte was exquisite. Temple leisurely sipped it as Bill continued his litany of tax errors most common to companies as compared to individual tax problems. Her mind began to numb.