I Almost Forgot About You (33 page)

“We can't plan everything, can we?”

“Sometimes we can. Although I like having some control over what happens next.”

“Look at my right hand,” he says, holding it out just as I unlock my front door and it swings open. There's a turquoise ring on his middle finger. It's mine.

“You forgot to put it back on,” he says. “And I'm here to return it.”

I'm about ready to crumble. I take a deep breath, and when we get inside, he looks around slowly and says, “Very cool pad.”

“Thank you.”

“I'll bet a million bucks that you're responsible for all this. Tell me I'm wrong?”

“You're not wrong. But I'd like that million as an advance against something.”

“I want to see what's in the garage.”

“Why?”

“Because I know that's where you do your art.”

“Who told you that?”

“Your neighbor. Naomi. And so did Wanda. But they both said you're hiding it or hoarding it out here.”

“Wanda and Naomi have big mouths. They don't even frigging know you.”

“I'm just grateful Wanda knew enough.”

“Well, I'm not sure I feel real comfortable showing it to you, Stan.”

“Well, I'm not leaving until you do.”

“Okay. But if you don't like what you see, just lie. You don't have to love it. Everything isn't for everybody.”

He raises his eyebrows and follows me past the kitchen and out toward the garage.

I turn on the garage lights and try not to feel as if I need to explain or apologize for what I've made.

He walks all the way over to where my works in progress are and takes his time looking, touching, smiling, shaking his head, and then he turns to me and says, “Well, now. How fucking remarkable is this? So you found it, huh?”

“Found what?”

“Your second calling. I've never seen anything like this before. You're a talented woman.”

“Thank you. I'm having fun, and like I said, you don't have to say anything to make me feel good.”

“If I weren't impressed, I'd just say, ‘Interesting.' At any rate, you don't need me to validate what you're doing, now, do you?”

“No, but it's nice to hear people say they like it.”

“Why are you doing this in the garage? You don't have a studio?”

“Not ready yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I just started doing this.”

“Well, look. If there's a slight chance we can rekindle what feels like a potentially amazing friendship, even though I'm pretty sure I'm going to marry you and we're going to live happily ever after, without taking into account that I'm still white and all and I'm older, then I'd be more than happy to help you find one, or build or rebuild one for you. What do you think?”

“I don't know what I think right now, Stanley.”

“For the last time, it's
Stan.
”

He walks right up to me just as I'm beginning to turn off the garage light. He smells good. Like clean air. I want to back away, but I can't move.

“Well, as much as I know you'd love for me to stay over and make slow, tender, and ultimately passionate love to you, considering this meet-and-greet doesn't really constitute a second first date after thirty-some-odd years, I think I'm going to be a gentleman and not press my luck. On that note I will bid you good night and, again, sweet Georgia, a very happy birthday.”

He puts his arms around me and holds me like I've wanted to be held for years. I feel his heart ticking, and my breasts are keeping it warm, and I swear I could stand here like this for the rest of my life. But then he kisses me softly on both cheeks and then on my forehead, and then I feel him press his lips gently on top of my head, and then I watch him slowly back away and stop. He smiles at me like he's known me all his life.

“So where are you staying, Stan?”

“At the Clift in the city.”

“And how long are you going to be in town, Stan?”

“Until I win you over.”

And then he's gone.

And so am I.

I had a hard time falling asleep. In fact, I don't know if I slept or not. I look up at the ceiling and wonder if maybe I dreamed that a young man I secretly slept with while in college really did reappear and sweep me off my feet in a matter of hours.

I need to go for a walk. I don't brush my teeth or make coffee. I just put on a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt and walk outside, and who's in her driveway waving at me? Naomi, of course.

“Great party! Black folks sure know how to bring it!” she says, zipping up her sweat jacket and joining me as if I'd asked her to. She has on sneakers. As always.

“That it was. Not everybody was black, you know,” I say, laughing.

She of course looks down at her hands.

“Oh, I know! What up this morning, girl?”

“I have no idea.”

“That much I can see, because you're walking up this steep hill instead of down it.”

I stop dead in my tracks. Most people have to shift gears to make it up our street. I turn around.

“Looks like somebody finally got laid.”

She holds her palms up into this cold morning air. We both need gloves.

“No,” I say, putting my hands inside my jacket pockets. “Something almost better than getting laid.”

“Like what? Because I would sure like to order some of it.”

And I tell her the whole story.

“I say go for it. You only live once, and let's face it: we're not getting any younger. He sounds like a dream, and if I liked men, I'd marry him even though we're both white!”

She cracks up and takes off her ski hat. She's dyed her hair black. It looks too severe. But I don't say that.

“I fucked up my hair, so don't say anything. I have to let it grow out. I was trying to be adventurous.”

“So how're things working out for you?” I ask.

“Much better.”

“And Macy's back.”

She nods.

“I get it, Naomi.”

“I'm going to AA.”

“Why?”

“Because I needed to stop drinking.”

“Well, at least you're doing something about it.”

“It's what sent her running. I'm the one who turned her into a bitch. I never would've married her if she'd started out as one.”

“Is it hard to stop?”

“Hardest thing I've ever done. I've lost two partners over it, but I'm not about to lose my wife. So game over.”

I give her a maternal hug, even though I don't think I'm old enough to be her mother. “As always, let me know if there's anything I can do.”

“I told you. Let me buy that stool.”

“And I told you, you can have it. I meant it, so let's go get it when we get back down the hill. In fact, let's turn around.”

“And I'm telling you I would prefer to buy it, but why don't we do this? Wait until you build up your inventory and see who wants to buy some of your work?”

“I might actually be getting a studio.”

“Smart move. Let me know if you need some help finding a place.”

“I think I might already have all the help I need.”

She waves at me as she turns into her driveway. I trudge up mine and sit on the cold steps at the front door. When my cell phone rings, I don't look at it. I just answer.

“Is it too late for breakfast?” he asks.

“Who is this?” I feign.

“A blast from the past.”

“I'm over the moon,” I say. And then suddenly realize what I'm doing. Acting like some lovesick teenager when I'm more than a half century old. I need to slow my roll. This isn't some fantasy or some game I'm playing—this is real. I don't really even know Stanley. I remember him. What I do know right now is I'm all shook up, and whatever drug Stanley injected into my heart, I want to get a prescription for it. With unlimited refills.

“Would you mind meeting me in the Velvet Room at the hotel?”

Lord.

“No, I don't mind that much. It'll take me about an hour.”

“I'll wait.”

I really want to call Wanda, but not now, not yet. I have no idea what I'd say. I'm falling for a man I don't even know, and he's not even black, and this is scary but exciting as hell. I'm trying to open my heart and shut down my brain, which is talking me out of something that feels beautiful. I shower and put on something soft and sincere. Jeans with a creamy cashmere sweater. My lips are red.

My heart is beating so hard I place my hand over it and pat it like I would a crying baby. I take a tissue from my purse and dab my forehead, careful not to wipe off my makeup. I know where the Velvet Room is, and when I walk in, I see Stan sitting in a dark corner, on one of those long leather seats I think they call banquettes. He smiles at me in a sinister way and with his index finger motions me to come on over as he slides out and stands up and shakes my hand heartily and says, “Good morning, Miss Young. I'd first like to thank you for joining me for breakfast, but I'd also like to ask why you saw fit to make those beautiful lips of yours candy-apple red so early in the day?”

I'm glad it's dark in here, because I'm sure I'm blushing.

“Good morning, Stan,” I say, and I swear I want to stand on my tiptoes and kiss him, but I wouldn't dare. “I wear red lipstick a lot. And how are you this Sunday morning?” I ask, and it almost sounds phony, because I haven't asked any man that question in years. At least not standing this close.

“I'm happy to be alive and in San Francisco with you.”

He slides into his seat and turns the corner and does not let go of my hand and pulls me down close enough to him so our shoulders touch. It's already pretty dramatic in here, what with the purple lights and those floor-to-ceiling purple velvet drapes behind us, and the bar looks like one giant piece of stained glass the way the light shines through the bottles. On our table, which I know is mahogany, sits a three-foot cylindrical glass vase full of flowers I don't think I've ever seen before.

I have to admit I'm nervous as hell. I don't really know what I'm doing here and what I expect to come from this little fantasy that Wanda has tossed me into. I have to remember not to thank her when this is over.

“So,” he says, handing me the menu, “what do you have a taste for?”

I look down at the menu. But first I read how the chef has partnered with local farmers and growers so he's able to produce dishes from items that've been grown in a sustainable and organic manner. Well, okay. That explains everything, but of course my eyes become transfixed when I see the Texas pecan French toast. However, I force myself to skip over it as well as the Belgian waffles with fresh berry cream and candied almonds and scroll down to the disgusting organic steel-cut oatmeal with brown cane sugar, walnuts, and golden raisins.

“What appeals to you?”

“Hard to choose.”

“The French toast sounds like it should be ordered.”

“I wouldn't dare.”

“Please don't tell me you're on a diet.”

I look over at him. Like: And so what if I am?

“Come on, Georgia. You look good. Live. Anything else you see that you might like?”

“Everything except oatmeal.”

“I have never liked oatmeal. Do you like French toast?”

“Of course I do.”

“Do you believe in sharing?”

“Depends.”

“How about I order the smoked-salmon Benedict and the French toast for you, and let's have that ruby red juice to match your ruby lips? We can start with coffee. Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“I try to be democratic about everything.”

And he orders, and the coffee comes, and we sip. I'm trying to prepare myself for something outrageous, because I know it's coming. I just do. But I decide to see if I can bring this fantasy down to reality, so I ask, “What have you been doing the last ten years of your life since your wife passed?”

“Let's cut right to it, then, shall we?” he says after he takes a sip of his juice. “Well, first of all, my wife didn't die. She was killed. Drunk driver. We had no children together, because she fixed that before we met, but she had two sons when I met her, and I'm the only father they know. One lives in Miami and the other one in London. They're thriving. Both in their mid-thirties.”

He then takes a sip of his coffee and raises his hand to get a refill.

“To be honest, we'd been thinking about divorcing but just never got around to it. We'd been together for more than twenty years. Anyway, it took me a couple of years to get used to being alone, living without her, and that's when I knew it was time for me to make some dramatic changes in my life, so five years ago I retired from NASA and started working to clean up the neighborhood I grew up in, but I worked with real developers, and that's pretty much it.”

“That's not all of it.”

“You mean my personal life, of course. Okay. So suffice it to say I haven't had one.”

“You mean you haven't dated or been in a relationship?”

“I've been on dates. It's different when you're almost fifty and even more difficult at fifty-six.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Hold on a minute. Let me interject and ask, what's your love life like? Are you dating?”

“I have no love life. I don't date because no one asks me out, and I don't know how to flirt, and I'm too afraid to go online, and old men bore me, and I'm not a cougar, so it looks like I've pretty much been waiting for you.”

And I cover my mouth. Oh, no, I didn't just fucking say that! But then I burst into laughter.

He bends over and kisses me on the lips, and his are now pink. I wipe them off with the burgundy napkin.

“I can't believe I just said that. I might have to take it back if we can go to the videotape.”

“As my older son would say, ‘Shit happens for a reason,' and this is no accident. I've read magazine articles about how people reunite with lovers from their past, going as far back as middle school and even kindergarten if you can believe that, but I never put much weight on it. First you have to find the person to see if you feel anything.”

“I feel something.”

“Then this is going to work,” he says, and they bring our meal, and we sit there and eat every bite.

“You feel like walking?” he asks.

“I almost walked this morning, but I'd love to walk again for real,” I say.

“No. How about we take a drive across the Golden Gate and sit on a bench and then maybe do a little windsurfing with the sharks?”

“Black people don't windsurf,” I say sarcastically.

“Black people do everything white people do, so let's roll.”

And off we go.

The fog is almost gone, and it's cold, but Stan was smart enough to bring a heavy trench coat. We turn into Vista Point and sit on the hood of the car and look out at the sailboats in the bay and San Francisco and Alcatraz, and down to our left is the tip of Tiburon and Belvedere. The sky is an unbelievable blue, and I know for a fact that this is the coolest dream I've had in years and that I do not want to wake up.

“So when can you come to New York to spend some time with me?”

“I'm spending time with you right now, Stan.”

“You want to know how I live?”

“Yes.”

“Wait. Let me ask you. Do you travel much?”

“Not as much as I'd like, but I'm hoping after I leave my practice I'll have more time to, but how much I'll be able to will be contingent on how I end up making a living. Answer your question?”

“Yes it does. Okay. So I live in a hotel.”

“Oh, Lord. Please don't tell me it's a shelter.”

He's shaking his head and smirking at the mere thought that I would think it.

“I have plenty of shelter, and it's on the thirty-sixth floor, and I've got a hundred-and-eighty-degree view of Manhattan and the Hudson River.”

“What would make you want to
live
in a hotel?”