Chapter Fourteen
I
didn’t tell my friends that I had called Doug. I didn’t tell them that we were going to the opening of a show at the Biddle Gallery. I didn’t want them to know. I was afraid of their knowing, afraid their disapproval—spoken or implied—would ruin the night for me.
Childish? Maybe.
Face it. When you’re in your twenties, your getting involved with a married man meets with almost universal curiosity and interest among your friends. When you’re in your thirties, a bit more bruised and jaded, your getting involved with a married man meets with cautionary tales and concern. A twenty-something woman can take care of herself; she has plenty of time ahead of her in which to rebound. At least, that’s the general assumption. A thirty-something woman is no longer so lucky. Time is wasting. Forty looms large. Abandonment and perpetual singlehood are no longer distant nightmares, but real possibilities. Thirty-something women start saving money in a serious way and thinking about having a baby on their own if they’re not married by thirty-five or forty. They don’t pursue a married man for what is sure to be just a fling, not something secure and long-term.
But that’s just what I was doing. Only I didn’t think too hard about the goals of my relationship with Doug. I was immersed in the thrill of the moment, tossing aside the occasional doubts and fears.
Go ahead, Reason said, disdainfully. Waste a year or more on this bozo. Then what?
It won’t be a waste, Romance said, confidently. True love is never a waste of time or energy.
True love? Reason scoffed.
Yes, I thought, maybe. Maybe true love.
E—send recent photo; want to see how you look. hope bad haircut has grown out. too bad you have your father’s hair. M
I wore a soft brown Ann Taylor pantsuit with a shimmery violet blouse, and matching shoes and purse I’d splurged on just for that pantsuit. My hair looked just fine.
I got to the gallery at ten minutes after five. Doug wasn’t there and for a second I thought, He’s not coming, and, Maybe I should just sneak off now, and ...
Then he was walking down the street. He spotted me and nodded and kept coming. There was no way out and I was glad.
Doug was wearing a black suit with a white shirt, open at the neck. He looked very male.
“Hey,” he said when he’d reached me.
“Hey, yourself.”
He smiled and nodded toward the stairs that led to the upper story gallery. “Want to go in?”
We did. The room in which the opening was being held, in which the paintings were hung, was small but well lit. Two waiters circulated among the twenty or so viewers with trays of finger foods; at the far end of the room was a table set with champagne glasses. A waiter poured Veuve Cliquot; seltzer for those who preferred something nonalcoholic.
“Be right back,” Doug said, touching my elbow as he headed toward the champagne table. I watched him go, noticed the set of his shoulders, the breadth of his back. I watched him return, noted strong thighs through the excellent cut of his suit pants.
Doug handed me a glass of champagne. His fingers brushed mine as he did.
“You strike me as the champagne type,” he said.
“I’m also the Yoo-Hoo type.”
“A woman of contradictions.”
“No. Just a woman of complexity.”
Doug grinned. “Let’s look at the paintings.”
The paintings were—well, they sucked. They were nicely hung, but they sucked. I refrained from sharing that sophisticated, learned judgment. Doug made no comment, either. We circled the room and after only five minutes, we were done with the show.
What next, I wondered.
“Is the artist here?” I asked.
Doug said, “The owner said he might not make it. Car trouble. We don’t have to stay, if you’d rather ...”
“No,” I said, far too quickly. “I mean, let’s stay for a bit. Unless you ...”
“More champagne?”
“Yes, please.”
While Doug was getting the champagne I grabbed a miniquiche from the tray of a passing waiter. I hadn’t eaten since half a salad gobbled at noon. The last thing I wanted was to get silly.
We drank another glass of champagne and talked and drank yet one more glass and talked some more. Our conversation was light and flirtatious. It was some time before I became aware of the fact that except for two other men, the room had emptied of viewers.
“Uh, I think the opening’s over,” I said, trying to hide the reluctance in my voice. “I should go.”
I thought: Please suggest we have dinner.
“Can I give you a lift home?” Doug asked.
Rats. No dinner.
“Oh, that’s okay,” I said. “I’m not far. I live in the South End. I can walk.”
Doug smiled. “I know you can walk. I’ve seen you do it. I’m asking if you’d let me drive you home.”
Oh, God, yes.
“Yes. Thanks. I’d like that,” I said brightly.
Doug’s car was parked on Newbury close to Dartmouth Street, a miracle spot. We walked the few blocks in silence. Maybe Doug was comfortable with it; a—pleased?—smile played about his mouth. I could stand it no longer.
“So, what did you think of the work?” I said.
Doug shrugged. “Mediocre. Derivative. Did nothing for me. You?”
I laughed. “What a relief. Frankly, I thought the work was pretty bad. But I wasn’t going to say that after ...”
“After?”
“Well, it was your idea that we go,” I said awkwardly.
“Yeah, but I’m not responsible for the art, am I? You can be honest, Erin. I wish you would be.”
We’d reached the car. Doug unlocked the passenger side and opened the door for me. When I was safely in, he closed the door.
Score another point.
“Do you know the artist?” I asked when Doug got behind the wheel.
“Yeah. He’s my cousin. Nice guy but lousy with a brush. He should have stayed in law school.”
“Oh. Should you have stayed to see if he ever showed up?”
“If I’d wanted to stay, I would have.”
Doug’s own honesty impressed me. No false emotion or dainty words to cover up the truth of what he thought. Imagine.
“Where am I going?” he said and I was startled. Where, indeed, was he going? Where were we going?
“What?” I said. “Oh, make a right on Clarendon and I’ll point the way from there.”
More silence.
“So,” I said, “how long will it take you to get home?”
What a fool, I scolded. Why did you have to mention “home” ? Doug’s with you now. Enjoy it while it lasts.
“Not long,” he said.
A few moments later we turned onto Warren Avenue and stopped in front of my building.
“Nice block,” Doug said. “Do you like living here?”
I nodded. “I do. I own my place, so ...”
So, what?
Doug’s hands were on the wheel. Clearly, he was not sticking around.
“Can I call you?” he said suddenly, seriously.
I could hardly breathe. Hardly believe that we were sitting there in the dark, so close together ...
“Of course,” I said. “Okay.”
“Good night, Erin.”
Please, please kiss me, I begged. Come upstairs and ...
Doug leaned in and gently kissed my cheek. It was innocent and not. He smelled so good. His lips were so soft. His cheek was slightly stubbly.
He drew away and that little knowing smile was there and his eyes held mine.
“Good night,” I whispered, and somehow I got out of that car.
Chapter Fifteen
May, Boston
M
ay in Boston is beautiful. The South End is in bloom and fragrant with lilacs, the sidewalks are slippery with apple blossom petals, and the garden competition is fierce.
On a Thursday night, JoAnne, Maggie, Abby, and I had dinner at Truc on Tremont Street. The South End had become a serious restaurant center in the mid to late 1990s. Most nights, the diners were mostly South Enders and other Boston dwellers. Saturday nights, people from the suburbs, such as Lincoln and Brookline, drove in, had their cars valet-parked, and took tables from the locals.
Truc is small and while not precisely cozy, inviting in feel. We ordered—pan-roasted chicken
“grandmère”
for Abby and me, Long Island duck breast with carmelized rhubarb for JoAnne, and steak frites for Maggie—and began to relax with a bottle of Merlot.
JoAnne suddenly looked up and down the narrow front room. Every seat was occupied.
“Why are we all white?” she said suddenly.
“What?” I was sure I’d heard incorrectly.
“Why are we all white?” JoAnne repeated. “I mean, look at this table. Look around this restaurant. White white white white white. Why are we all white?”
“I don’t know. I came out that way. What are you even talking about?” I made a face. Please, let no one else hear this conversation, I prayed.
“Would you date a black man?” JoAnne challenged.
“Where would I even meet a black man?”
“See? This is what I’m saying.”
“Is he a professional?” Abby asked suddenly. “You know, did he go to college and grad school? Because if he did, sure, why not, I’d go out with him. If I really liked him. And if he wasn’t a jerk.”
“I’d probably go out with him even if he was a jerk,” Maggie said. “Knowing me. Which is why I don’t date anymore.”
“See, in New York, this wouldn’t happen. Boston is so weirdly segregated. I feel so—apart.” JoAnne gave a weird little shudder.
“Oh, and you’re telling me that when you lived in New York you were hangin’ with the bruthas and sistas?” I laughed. “ ’Cause I’m not believing that.”
“He’d have to be cute,” Abby said. “Is he cute?”
“Is who cute?”
“The black guy. The one who went to law school.”
“Abby, there is no black guy,” I said slowly. And quietly. Sometimes, it’s like talking to a child. “We’re having a conversation about a hypothetical situation. It’s make-believe.”
“Oh. Well, I’d still go out with him. If he was cute. And if he smelled nice. I wonder if he wears Grey Flannel. Oh, I looove Grey Flannel!”
My father wears Grey Flannel, I thought distractedly.
“Check, please,” Maggie mumbled.
Doug called almost every day after the night of the gallery opening. Our conversations were often brief, as we were both at the office, but I lived for them.
We met again for lunch. Talk of business faded quickly and we laughed about the president’s latest verbal gaff and bemoaned the Red Sox’s ever-growing injured list. Doug had seen the latest super-hyped sci-fi flick and hated it. I’d seen it, too, and hated it for the same reasons. That seemed significant.
Doug walked me partway back to my office before veering off to his. Obviously, on a public street and in broad daylight, he couldn’t kiss me, but I knew he wanted to by the look in his eye. At least, I hoped he wanted to. During lunch, which was otherwise wonderful, he hadn’t so much as touched my arm. I watched him walk away—and was glad that I did. At the corner, Doug turned, as if he knew I’d be watching, waved and smiled. I waved back and felt my heart soar.
And all during those days and weeks of an almost old-fashioned courting, I asked myself: Erin, do you know what you’re doing? And I answered: Yes. No. I have to do it. I can’t—I can’t say no to him. I don’t want to.
It will be all right, I told myself. Everything will be fine.
Abby E-mailed me one morning, asking if I could meet her for lunch. She said she’d come over my way. I E-mailed back saying “sure.”
At twelve-thirty we met at Au Bon Pain for a quick soup and salad.
Abby looked terrible. I mean, beautiful as always, but nervous and—scared?
“What’s up?” I said, concerned.
“Erin, I have to tell you something.”
“Are you okay? Did something bad happen?” Panic cried, She’s dying of cancer, her apartment has burned up, she’s lost her job.
“No! No, nothing bad.”
That was a relief.
“At least—well I hope you won’t think it’s bad.”
I laughed. “What does it matter what I think?”
“It matters a lot, Erin.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, somewhat chastened. “I just meant you shouldn’t do or not do something based on my opinion.”
“Your father—I mean John—well, he called last night when I got home from the restaurant, and he ... he ...”
“He ... ?”
“He asked me out. On a date. For dinner.”
I laughed. “Oh, Abby. Are you sure it’s a date? I mean, he’s ...”
He’s what, Reason said. A man?
I tried again. “You’re ...”
A woman. Very good, Erin.
“It’s a date, Erin. He made it very clear he was asking me out on a date. He asked me if I was okay with that.”
“Well, did you tell him you were absolutely not okay with that!” I said, leaping to my own foregone conclusion.
Silence. Abby looked off to her right, toward the juice bar.
“What ... what did you tell him?”
“I told him yes,” she said, looking back at me. “I told him I would be happy to go out with him.”
Huh?
I was thoroughly confused.
“Since when ... Abby, you’ve met my father before and nothing ... Did you always have a crush on him?”
I remembered Abby in her pale pink suit the night at the Barking Crab and wondered if my father had been the one with the crush.
“No, Erin, of course not,” Abby said. “When I first met your father he was married and I would never even think about ... ” Abby blushed and changed course. “There was something different about him the night at the Barking Crab. He seemed—like a man. Like a person, not just Erin’s father. Do you understand?”
No, not really, I thought. But—yes.
“So ... are you okay with this?” Abby asked gently. “My going on a date with—John?”
If I weren’t, would it make a difference? I didn’t want to know the answer to that question, so I lied.
“Yeah, sure, Abby. I mean, I’m surprised, that’s all. But ... you know. Yeah.”
Abby smiled as if the sun had suddenly come out after a month of hiding.
“Thank you, Erin,” she said. “Thanks.”
When I got home that evening after work I checked for a message on the answering machine even before feeding Fuzzer.
“Erin, it’s Dad. Give me a call when you get in. I want to talk to you about something important. Nothing bad, I know how you worry. Just something—important.”
I didn’t return the call.
I wanted Doug.