Dating Game (31 page)

And she couldn't help but think that he was exactly the sort of man that she should have been going out with, but he was dating a woman half her age, who in this case happened to be Meg. It was a very odd thought. But she didn't hold it against him, and they were sitting alone in her garden while Meg went upstairs for a few minutes, when Paris turned to him with a concerned expression.

“I don't want to be intrusive, Richard, but do you worry about the age difference between you?” He was twenty-four years older than Meg, exactly twice her age. And a year older than Paris.

“I try not to,” he said honestly. “The last woman in my life was older than I am, she was fifty-four. Generally, I've always gone out with women my own age. My ex-wife was, we were college sweethearts. But your daughter is a very special young woman, as you know.” He was handsome and rugged and looked younger than his years. And oddly enough, he looked very much like Meg and Paris, with green eyes and sandy blond hair. He looked almost more like Paris than Meg. And the two seemed extremely well suited to each other. In his company, Meg seemed to flourish and relax. She looked as though she felt totally safe with him. They had been dating for exactly two months, and Paris had the feeling it might be getting serious between them, from everything he said.

“I don't want to be terribly old-fashioned,” Paris said apologetically, feeling foolish, particularly given the closeness of their age. “It's too soon for either of you to know what your intentions are, but don't play with her, Richard. I don't want a man your age coming along and breaking her heart. She doesn't deserve that.” She was thinking about Chandler Freeman as she said it. He would have made mincemeat of a young girl. But Richard didn't look to be cut of the same cloth. And wasn't. “You're a lot older and wiser than she is, and stronger. If you're not serious about her, don't play with her, and don't hurt her.”

“I promise you, Paris,” he said intently, “I won't. And if I am serious?” He asked the question pointedly, and held his breath. “Would you object?”

“I don't know,” she said honestly. “I'd have to think about it. You're a lot older than she is. All I want is for her to be happy.”

“Happiness doesn't always respect the boundaries of age,” he said wisely. “In fact it often doesn't. Age has nothing to do with this. She is the woman I love,” he said simply. “I've never felt like this about any woman, except my ex-wife.” What he said rang a bell with her, and she frowned as she looked at him.

“How long have you been divorced?”

“Three years,” he said quietly. And Paris was immediately relieved. At least he hadn't been divorced and playing for fifteen or twenty. She remembered all the warnings she'd had from Bix.

“That's respectable.”

“I haven't met anyone important to me yet. Until Meg. And I didn't expect it to be with her. She and my daughter are friends.”

“You never know how love is going to walk into your life, or if. And when it does, you don't know what face it's going to wear. In some ways, for both of you, I'm glad it's hers.” She liked him a lot. It was just odd to have her daughter's boyfriend be the same age as she was. But it also allowed them to be friends, and far more candid with each other than she ever could have been with Anthony or Peace, who were mere children. Richard was a man, and a good one, and she said as much to Meg when they left. Meg looked peaceful and happy, and thrilled that her mother had liked him. She was madly in love with Richard, and he was equally so with her.

And after they left, Paris couldn't help musing about how strange life was. The kind of man she should have been with was with her daughter. And she was left to damaged goods like Jim Thompson, playboys like Chandler Freeman, and blind dates like the sculptor from Santa Fe. There wasn't a decent one in the lot, except Jim, who was a nice man, but wounded beyond repair. She was beginning to wonder if that was all she would find, and all the good ones belonged to someone else. She wondered if there was another one like Richard Bolen out there somewhere. She doubted it, and if there wasn't, she was better off alone. She had finally come to accept that. It no longer felt like a life sentence to her anymore, but a simple fact of life. If she never found another man to love, she knew she'd be all right. Better alone than with the wrong one. She no longer had the energy for that, or the interest. Love at any price came too dear.

She told Bix about Richard the next day.

“That's too bad,” Bix said sensibly. “He sounds like just the kind of guy you need, instead of all these weirdos and freaks running around, and wounded animals with thorns in their paws. Christ, sometimes I wonder if there's anyone normal left.”

“So do I. And you're not dating them, I am. Or I could be, if I were crazy enough to try. And the good ones like Richard want women half my age. By the time they want me, they have to be a hundred years old.”

“Hardly. A nice fifty-year-old would do you just fine. All we have to do is find one.”

“Good luck!” Paris said, looking cynical.

“Do you think he'll marry her?” Bix inquired with interest.

“I don't know. He might. Last week I would have said ‘I hope not.’ This week I'm not so sure. He's too old for her theoretically, but shit, Bix, if they're happy and they love each other, why not? Maybe age doesn't matter as much as we think.”

“I don't think it does. Look at Steven and me. We have almost as much age difference as Meg and Richard, and we couldn't be happier.”

“Maybe I need an old one,” Paris said with a grin. “If I find a guy twenty-four years older than I am, he'd be seventy-one. Maybe that's not such a bad thought.”

“Depends on the guy,” Bix said openly. “I've met some seventy-year-olds I would give my right arm for. These days, if they want to be, men can be young into their eighties, and beyond that. I know a woman who's married to an eighty-six-year-old man in Los Altos, and she swears their sex life is better than ever, and two years ago, they had a baby.”

“Now, there's a thought.” Paris looked amused, although eighty-six seemed a little over the limit, at least for the moment.

“What, an eighty-six-year-old? I can find you one in a hot minute. They'd love to have you!” He was laughing.

“No, a baby. God, I'd love that. It's what I do best, Bix, bringing up children.” For just a minute, there were stars in her eyes.

“Please!” he said, and rolled his eyes. “I hired you because you're a grown-up, single, your kids are out of the house, and you're not going to get pregnant, and give birth at our next party. If you go and get pregnant on me, Paris, I'm going to kill you!” But she wasn't thinking of getting pregnant. More and more lately, she had been thinking that she would be alone forever, and she'd love to adopt a baby. But she hadn't said anything to anyone about it, not even Meg, and surely not Bix. He would have had the vapors if she told him. And she didn't know if it was something real she wanted to pursue, or a pipe dream she had to cheat Father Time and delude herself that she was still young. Starting out with a baby at this point would be a major challenge, and she wasn't ready to do more than think about it yet. But the idea had crossed her mind.

And the following week she felt as though she had almost been psychic, when the subject of babies came up again. But it came up very differently this time. Meg called her to tell her that Rachel was pregnant, and expecting a baby in May. She was six weeks pregnant, and Meg admitted to her mother that Peter was thrilled. And when Paris hung up the phone, she sat staring into space for a long time, digesting it. There was no question now. He was really gone. His life was enmeshed with Rachel's forever. And she felt it almost like a physical blow to her heart and soul.

Much to her surprise, Wim called her the next day to tell her how angry he was about Peter and Rachel's baby. He thought it was a terrible idea, and that his father was a complete fool, and too old. Meg was a little more moderate about it, but she wasn't happy either. They both seemed to feel threatened by it, which surprised Paris at their age, since they were both out in the world and had spread their wings, and they would hardly see their father's new child. But it also told them that Rachel was there for good, and important to him. And even if only out of loyalty to their mother, neither of them was crazy about her. She seemed to devour their father's energies and attention, and had him wrapped around her two little boys, who never saw their own father. Meg said he was thinking of adopting them. The landscape of their family had certainly changed in the last year and a half. There was no denying it anymore. And somehow, in spite of the two children she adored, Paris felt like the odd man out. Wim and Meg would go on to their own lives one day, and in fact already had. Peter had Rachel and his new family, and was starting over again. And she was alone. Sometimes it was tough to swallow.

And as always when she was troubled, Paris buried herself in work, with Bix's help. They did the opening of the opera and the symphony, which were the two most major social events of the year, and a slew of parties to mark the beginning of the social season. They were nearly halfway through most of them, when Bix came into her office looking sheepish. By now she knew him well. They spent so much time together that sometimes they seemed like Siamese twins, with one brain. She could hear him in her head.

“Okay, you look guilty as hell,” she accused him. “What have you done? From the look of it, I'd say you booked three weddings on one date, or maybe four. Something equally nightmarish, I'm sure.” He hated to say no to anyone, and sometimes he booked four or five events in one day, which nearly drove them both insane

when they had to pull them together.

“It's nothing like that. I just had a thought.”

“Let me guess. You want to go to Carnival in Rio and do the entire event?…or… you're taking over Pac-Bell Park and turning it into a garden party…or you want me to fly the Rockettes in for some event and they won't come….” He was laughing at her, she knew him too well, but he shook his head.

“It's nothing like that. I want to do something I know you won't like.” Her eyes opened wide as he said it.

“Is Jane coming back? Are you firing me?” Her only fear these days was of losing the job she loved so much.

“Hell, no. I think she might be pregnant again. She said something about it when we last talked. She's gone forever. I'm never letting you go … but I want you to do something for me. Promise you'll do it, and we'll discuss it after.”

“Does it involve nudity or lewd acts in public?” she asked suspiciously, but Bix shook his head. “Okay, I promise. I trust you. What is it?”

“I want you to go on a blind date. You know how I hate them, and I don't believe in them. All those people who claim they met their husbands that way have to be lying. I've never met anyone but psychos and drips on blind dates. But this guy is perfect for you. I met him last week. He's a fairly well-known writer, and he hired us to do a birthday party for his mother. He's an incredibly smart guy, and has a lot of style. I think he's just what you want. He's been widowed for five years, but he talks about her sensibly, he's not obsessed. He has three grown kids. He travels between here and England. He has kind of a tweedy look. He just broke up with a girlfriend six months ago who was approximately your age, and he seems surprisingly normal.”

“He probably isn't. Did you ask him if he cross-dresses?”

“No, but I asked him everything else. The minute I saw him, I thought of you. Will you meet him, Paris? You don't even have to go to dinner with him. I didn't say anything to him about you. But you could come with me on our next meeting, or go alone. Will you meet him at least?” She had heard him out, and although she didn't want to date anymore, or so she said, she was intrigued. And when Bix told her who he was, she said she had read three of his books. He was very good at what he did, and was always at the top of the best-seller lists. And Bix even loved his house.

“Okay, I'll go with you,” she said, more cooperative than usual on the subject. After Sydney's artist friend, she had sworn she would never go on another blind date. But this wasn't a blind date. It was a blind meeting. “When are you seeing him again?”

“Tomorrow morning, at nine-thirty.” Bix looked pleased that she'd offered no resistance. He was convinced it was a perfect match.

Paris nodded and said nothing, and the next morning Bix picked her up at nine-fifteen. The writer they were seeing, Malcolm Ford, lived only a few blocks from her. And when they got to his address, Paris had to admit the house was impressive. It was a solid brick residence on upper Broadway, on what was referred to as the Gold Coast. All the biggest bucks in the city were there. But there was nothing showy about him when he opened the door. He had salt-and-pepper hair and steel-blue eyes, and he was wearing an old Irish sweater and jeans, and as they walked through the house, it was handsome but unpretentious. They settled into a library that was lined with first editions and rare books, and there were stacks of more current books on the floor. He went over the details for his mother's party calmly. He wanted something elegant and nice, but not too showy. And since he didn't have a wife, he had hired them. His mother was turning ninety, and Bix knew Malcolm was sixty. He had a very distinguished look, and he chatted with them for quite a while. Paris told him she'd read his books and enjoyed them very much, and he seemed pleased. There was a nice photo of his late wife on the desk, but he didn't talk about her. There was an equally nice one of his last girlfriend too, who was also a well-known writer. And he mentioned that he had a house in England. But everything about him seemed normal and human, and surprisingly low-key considering how successful he was. He didn't drive a Ferrari or have a plane, and he said he went to Sonoma on weekends, but admitted that his place there was a mess, and he liked it that way. He had absolutely everything going for him, including looks and money, and as they left his house after the meeting, Bix looked at her victoriously. He had found a gem for her, and he knew it, but the expression on Paris's face was blank.