Authors: Robin Schwarz
B
ONJOUR,”
Skip said to the maître d’.
“Bonjour. Comment allez-vous ce soir?”
“Bien, merci. J’ai demandé une table prés de la fenetre. Est-elle libre?”
“Absolument. Suivez-moi.”
Skip could speak French? Why not? He was always so understated about his accomplishments. What else could he do that she had no idea about yet? Probably everything.
Blossom loved hearing him speak French. She didn’t know what he was saying, but it didn’t matter. Everything sounded better in French. You could tell someone to go to hell, and it would still sound wonderful.
“Madame.” The maître d’ held out Blossom’s chair. She sat down.
“Monsieur.” And Skip was seated.
“Je vais appeler le garcon. Bon appetit.”
“Merci.”
“Wow, Skip, you speak so beautifully. Just like Maurice Chevalier.”
“You flatter me. I had to learn a language in order to graduate from college. I had to work hard at it. Some people have a knack for it. Not me. And you?”
“Pig latin, that’s my second language. Ipslay oopslay.” They both laughed.
Blossom looked lovely. The pretty ivory dress with a low-slung neck flattered her figure. A simple diamond solitaire rested in the hollow of her throat. While she still felt shy about showing off her shape, she had dared just this once to wear a more revealing dress, which Dolly swore looked fabulous. Her hair was gently pinned up, with a few tendrils falling around her face. The candlelight fell on her soft pink skin, making her look almost ethereal in the mahogany dark.
“You look lovely,” Skip said.
Blossom blushed. ‘‘Thank you. You do, too. I’ve never seen you all dolled up in a suit before. It makes you look very... handsome.”
Sexy.
“Really? I’m so not used to it. It makes me feel like I have an appointment with an arrogant agent. Working days.”
“Oh, no, it’s perfect.” Here was a perfect segue to ask Skip all about his former clientele, but she didn’t care anymore. Funny.
“I also like your necklace, Blossom—simple, yet very elegant. Did you just get it?”
“No. It was the one thing my mother left to me when she died. It had belonged to my great-great-grandma. My mother kept it in her jewelry box. She never wore it—I didn’t even know she had it. She gave it to me on her deathbed, literally. It’s a solitaire, but as I watched her suffer, it filled a void of emotions crying inside me; I couldn’t help thinking of this diamond as a solid tear.”
“You have such a way of turning something ordinary into poetry, like straw into gold. Who have I met as special as you, Blossom?”
“Oh, many, I’m sure.”
“Not true.”
Skip picked up the wine list. “Red or white?”
“White, I think.”
“Good. A nice Pouilly Montrachet.”
“But of course,” she giggled.
He gave the wine steward their choice and settled back.
“So, you must be excited, Skip.”
“I’m happy. I’m finally moving forward toward something I have a genuine interest in. I feel so much better about this than I did about becoming a lawyer. As I told you, it was easy for me, so I took the road most traveled.”
“Do you regret it?”
“Regret? No. That’s a dead-end emotion. Every decision we make has its place. There’s always something to get out of it. If I stayed in law, if I had stayed with Jeannie, I would have had a job and a marriage I wasn’t comfortable in. I can just hear the clinking of silver now during dinner, in lieu of conversation. A country house with all my business partners visiting for the weekend and Jeannie entertaining up a storm. Putting chocolate shavings on the tiramisu. Or better, instructing the cook to. Jesus, she’d have loved that. I would have been discussing cases, stocks, the new Beemer just off the block, billings, and how Bucky J. Worthington managed to sneak in those Cuban cigars during his last trip. As you would say, ‘Just kill me now.’”
They both laughed. “How do you know I say that?” Blossom asked.
“I know.”
“I have some regrets,” Blossom quietly admitted.
“Like what?”
“Like, I waited until this year to take my life by the horns and go after what I wanted.”
“But you’re doing it now.”
“Yes,” Blossom said, thinking how late she’d come to it and how little time she had.
The wine steward came over and showed Skip the bottle. He nodded. The steward opened it and poured a small amount into Skip’s glass. With his eyes closed, he swirled the cold, gold elixir and then took a sip. Again he nodded, and the steward filled both glasses.
“I propose a toast,” Skip said.
Blossom lifted her glass to his.
“No regrets,” he said.
She smiled. “No regrets,” and they clicked the crystal together like tiny silver cymbals, sealing it with a sip.
Their hands brushed as they were toasting; Blossom blushed at the mere feel of it. The tiny touch was nothing, yet it held the impact of an embrace for her. She pulled away, taking a generous sip of wine in an effort to soothe her nerves. Then she searched for conversation to distract Skip from her obvious embarrassment.
“Does Jeannie know you’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
“How does she feel about it?”
“She’s anxious to get our paperwork squared away regarding the divorce before I leave.”
“Sentimental, isn’t she?”
Skip smiled.
“I have to look at it like this. When it was good, it was very, very good, and when it was bad . . .” He shrugged, unwilling to finish the thought. “No regrets,” he said again.
“You know, ‘no regrets’ is a good philosophy if you can do it. Sometimes it’s just too hard to move on. Sometimes you carry the pain or the loss around with you like excess luggage.”
“It sounds like you know something about that.”
“I do, but I’ve worked hard this year to put that in back of me. And for the most part, I have. As you say, no regrets.”
They brought their glasses together again.
“Are you happy now?”
“Happy? That’s a funny word. I’m smarter, freer, more accepting. And that makes me happy. But I could still be happier.”
“How?”
Blossom didn’t want to say she longed for intimacy, love with a significant other before she died, the very same thing she had wanted so many months ago. It seemed odd to say this to Skip. She didn’t want him to feel it was directed toward him, didn’t want to do anything to make this wonderful dinner become awkward.
“How?” she repeated, stalling, searching for an appropriate answer. At this point the waiter came over.
Thank God.
“Our specials this evening are
blah, blah, blah.
Blossom wasn’t listening. She was thinking about her answer. She still believed it was okay for her to desire this connection. She didn’t want love to save her, but to add to what was already good. It had taken her many months and hard lessons to find her center. She didn’t want pity. Just to love a man and have a man love her. This was nothing to apologize for or feel weak or needy about. It just was. And that was fine. In fact, it was as it should be. Men and women needed each other. Of that she was sure.
“Blossom?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“May I make a suggestion this evening?” She suddenly got uneasy. Was he reading her mind? What possible suggestion was he about to make?
Oh, God.
“Sure. What’s your suggestion?”
“Escalopes de Bar aux huitres.”
Jesus, thank you, God.
“Yes, that sounds wonderful.” She paused. “It’s not frogs’ legs, is it?”
“No, not at all.”
Good. It’d be like eating leftovers from science class.
“Rabbit?” she asked fearfully.
“No, it’s striped bass. You’ll love it.” “Good.”
Because frogs’ legs would be a breeze compared to the Easter
bunny.
He handed the waiter the menus.
“So, are you seeing anyone?”
“Me?” Blossom giggled to cover her nervousness. “No.”
“You laugh.”
“A little.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you looked at yourself lately?”
Blossom blushed.
“I’m serious. Have you?”
“No—yes...I don’t know.”
“You’re transformed. And it’s not just the weight you’ve lost. Of course, that’s an obvious change, but it’s other things, Blossom. You’ve just...I don’t know, emerged.”
“Thank you, Skip.” She paused. “Skip?”
“Yes?”
“Will you promise me something?”
“Yeah, sure. What?”
“This might sound like a strange request, but it would mean a lot to me.”
“Sure, anything. What?”
“When you go to... wherever you end up...”
“Stay in touch?” he interrupted.
“No. When you go, will you take the present I gave you?”
“The box?”
“Yes.”
“Of course. I was going to take it anyway.”
“Good. Just something to remember me by.”
“You think I’m going to forget you?”
“No, but it would make me happy if you had it with you.”
“No worries. I’ll definitely bring that with me, Blossom.”
“Good, good.”
“You will come and visit, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” Blossom lied. She wanted this evening to be perfect.
“Anyway, let’s not talk about endings tonight. There’s a whole month left. You still have your list?”
“Absolutely.”
“What else is on it?”
But at that moment she was distracted by the sight of Gene Hackman being escorted past them, to his table. She sat there open-mouthed.
“What?” Skip asked, looking around. “Gene Hackman? Is that who you’re looking at?”
“Skip, this is unbelievable. Ever since I came to Hollywood, I’ve only seen one celebrity. Gene Hackman. This is my fifth or sixth time seeing Gene Hackman. You know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think there are only a handful of actors in Hollywood, and they all play Gene Hackman.”
Skip laughed. “It’s true. He does do a lot of movies. Maybe too many for one man. I bet he’s eating somewhere else at this very moment.”
“You kid. I’m telling you, he’s been cloned.”
Gene Hackman looked over toward Blossom’s table. She looked down, afraid of being caught gawking. Skip gave him a little wave.
“Skip,” Blossom whispered.
“What?”
“Don’t wave.”
“Why?”
“’Cause he’ll think we’re stalkers. One of those weird fans that breaks into your house, goes through your underwear drawer, tries on your red panties, and waits until the owner comes home to kill him.”
“Jesus, Blossom, where on earth do you come up with these things?”
“Movies.”
Skip started to make ridiculous faces at the table where Hackman was sitting. He stuck out his tongue, crossed his eyes, scrunched his face.
“Jesus, Skip, what are you doing?”
Skip laughed again. “Look.”
Blossom turned slowly, self-consciously. He wasn’t there. He had gone to the men’s room.
Thank God.
“So, where were we? Oh, yes, I was asking you what else was on that list of yours.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Blossom said coyly.
“Any biggies? I don’t want to be left out of any biggies.”
Oh, if only Skip knew. Her last and most important wish, desire, whatever she called it, was to tell Skip how she felt about him. She blushed again.
“There is a biggie! What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I can’t, Skip.”
“I won’t tell anyone. I swear.”
“I can’t.”
“Okay. Don’t tell me.” He paused, then continued, “Can I guess?”
“No.”
“Oooo, it’s killing me. Can you tell me another time?”
“Yes.”
Skip was surprised. He was sure Blossom would say no, tell him to stop asking.
“Yes? Well, that’s progress. When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, give me an idea.”
“When do you leave for your new job?”
“I don’t know. I’m thinking around August fifteenth. I can start looking for work and for an apartment. School would begin in September some time. So I guess around August fifteenth.”
“Then I’ll tell you August fourteenth.”
“But you’re going to tell me?”
“Yes.”
“Goody. I love secrets. So what did I say to get you to change your mind and tell me?”
Blossom leaned in close to Skip, her mother’s last words pounding in her heart.
“Because I want no regrets.”
B
LOSSOM LOOKED FOR WRAPPING PAPER
. She had worked on finding just the right present for Dolly for so long, and was thrilled that she had come up with something. It had been hard; Dolly was already rich in books and paintings and friends, rich in money and collections and antiques. What did she need? Nothing. What could she use more of? That was easy. She had taught Blossom what everyone could use more of: love. So she slowly put her gift together with love in mind.
She wrapped it up carefully in bright red foil, crowning it with a glossy gold bow, and headed to Dolly’s, where her friend was expecting her for breakfast. Jigsy and Pip greeted her at the door.
“Hello, sweeties,” she said, scratching them both behind the ears while opening and knocking on the door at the same time.
“Well, hello, yourself,” Dolly greeted Blossom, just behind the dogs.
“I’m starved,” Blossom announced.
“You look it. What are you weighing in at these days?”
“One hundred and twenty-five.”
“That’s incredible. You could do a Subway commercial.”
“A Subway commercial?”
“Yeah, remember that guy Jack, or John, or whatever his name was? Anyway, he was a whale and then he started eating Subway sandwiches—I think he ate roast beef subs for a year—and lost, like, two hundred and forty-five pounds. Now he’s the spokesperson for Subway.”
“Darn. All those endorsement opportunities, and they’ve slipped through my fingers. Anyway, I’d have to do mine for aqua pool paint or chlorine additives.”
“Well, come in and have some lox and bagels, and we’ll think of another way to make millions. Of course,” she continued, “we could always make money the old-fashioned way. We could steal it.”