Perfect on Paper (17 page)

Hmm. Maybe Tom-Tom was right. Whenever I’d needed somebody to take care of me, one of my daddies had always come through. Thanks to them, I had finally been able to parlay that support into a healthy, mature relationship with Hank Wheeler.

Naturally these thoughts didn’t stop me from racing to the computer to check for email from Billy Moody the instant I’d unlocked the door to my apartment.

There was nothing from Gridmeister, but Elinor Ann had been in touch twice. I opened the first message, which had a subject heading of “Forgot to tell you”:

That was good news. We’d only been able to converse a mere two or three times daily since I’d left it behind. Her second message bore the heading “Krumsville”:

I hit Reply, typed in the words, “I’m proud of both of you,” and sent it off to Kutztown.

I was just about to settle in with a game—or twenty—of computer Scrabble when I heard the
ping
that signaled incoming email.

It was from Gridmeister.

He thought I was a genius.

At least, that was what it said in the subject line: “You’re a genius.”

I could hardly wait to read the rest of it:

Wow
, I thought.
Somewhere in the five boroughs—probably two or three stops into Brooklyn on the L line of the BMT—Billy Moody is sitting at his computer… calling me a genius!

I opened up an email, typed, “You just made my night,” and clicked Send.

He immediately responded with, “I could do even better in person.”

Okay,
I thought.
Enough. Any more back-and-forth would most definitely constitute flirtatious banter. And you already have a boyfriend.

The Brownstone Whisperer. Who hires floor guys. And consults diagrams to install switch plates, irregardless of the words painted on the side of his truck. Was I fooling myself into thinking I’d found the right guy?

I shrugged. Maybe there was no such thing as the right guy.

I was seconds away from launching my Scrabble program when yet another
ping
froze my hand midway to the keyboard.

“Where do you live, anyway?” Billy wanted to know.

“9th St. near 2nd Ave.”

“No way! 3rd between C/D!”

Okay,
I thought.
I am
not
answering that email. I am
not—

Ping!

Okay,
I thought.
This is absolutely the last email I’m reading tonight:

CHAPTER TWELVE
TWO ACROSS, SIX DOWN

I
quickly nixed Billy’s initial suggestion, which entailed my walking east and his walking west until converging at one of the bars along Seventh Street. The way I had it figured, we might make contact right in front of Hank’s truck—or Hank himself, if he happened to be sitting on the front stoop. Instead, I proposed walking down my side of Avenue A and meeting him on the corner of Third.

It was a long walk, psychologically speaking. By the time I reached Saint Mark’s Place, I’d convinced myself there was nothing wrong with having one measly beer with someone who could reasonably pass for a colleague. By Seventh, I was a duplicitous harlot with her foot pressed firmly on the accelerator to hell. At Sixth, I didn’t care—I was too busy picturing Billy’s compelling profile and springy, dirty-blond ringlets. And on it went: cradle robber; budding crossword superstar; pervert; adventurer.

I’d forgotten about the paucity of drinking establishments along the stretch south of Fourth. A large housing project, devoid of storefronts, spread for blocks on the far side of the avenue. On my side, what looked like a promising bar turned out to be a vacuum cleaner repair shop.

Billy was standing in its recessed doorway. “Nothing on tap here, that’s for sure.” He shrugged. “Want to try Houston Street?”

We wandered east until we came to an off-puttingly slick-looking place that seemed poised to become the next hot spot, judging from the stanchions and velvet rope set in front of the entrance. But no clipboard-wielding bouncer was manning the door, and no assembled throng clamored for admission.

“I’m thirsty,” he said. “Let’s give it a shot.”

We stepped into what was quite possibly the most romantic setting on the island of Manhattan. Little marble-topped tables, set with groupings of votive candles, were scattered across the floor, separated by potted palms that afforded protection from prying eyes.
Swell,
I thought, wondering if God had decided to put me on some sort of trial for loyalty to my boyfriend. If He had, at least He’d chosen extremely flattering lighting for His courtroom.

Only a couple of the tables were occupied by patrons. A lone bartender sat fiddling with his cell phone at the far end of a glamorously backlit bar.

“You serving?” Billy said.

“Sure am. It’s our first night—we’re having a soft opening before Saturday’s premiere party.” He looked out over the room. “It’s a little softer than we anticipated, though. What’ll it be?”

Of course I should order a beer. Beer was casual. Beer only got one so drunk. Beer turned a potential date into Just Hanging Out.

But I didn’t want a beer.

“Stoli and tonic,” Billy said.

“Dewar’s rocks.”

The bartender hesitated and turned to my potential date. “Listen, I hate to do this to you, buddy, but can I see some ID?”

I knew right then and there that I would never,
ever
tell Elinor Ann about this part of the evening.

Billy probably turned red, but it was hard to tell in the dim lighting. Besides, I was studiously avoiding looking at him by feigning fascination
with the liqueur selection behind the bar. He reached for his wallet and presented his license. “Jeez, dude. I’m twenty-five.”

Twenty. Five.

Oh well. At least Tom-Tom can’t accuse me of reparenting with
this
one,
I thought to myself.

We collected our drinks and settled into a burgundy velvet love seat at a corner table. I didn’t dare touch my drink; my pulse was pumping so furiously that I was sure my wrists were visibly throbbing. Instead, I kept my hands in my lap and stared at Billy Moody’s ridiculously handsome face, which looked even better in the chiaroscuro of candlelight than the fluorescent glare of the Bieber bus. God, he was sexy.

“I gotta tell you, I started setting up a grid right after I got your email,” he said. “I’ve already got some killer fill words.”

“Fill words?”

“You know—all the words in the grid that aren’t related to the theme. I’ve got ‘guayabera’ in the southwest.”

“The southwest?” I said, too embarrassed to reveal my ignorance by saying, “Guayabera?” God, his eyelashes were long.

“The lower-left-hand corner,” he explained. “Constructors refer to the different sections of their grids directionally.”

“Interesting.” Oh, right—a guayabera was a shirt. My brain seemed to be on strike.
The hell with my throbbing wrists,
I thought, reaching for my glass.
If I don’t get some scotch into my system, I’m liable to have a coronary episode. Unless the alcohol
causes
a coronary… God, he has beautiful hands.

Billy lifted his drink and offered it in a toast. “To crossword domination. And new friends.”

I clinked glasses and said a silent prayer that somewhere behind that glamorously backlit bar lurked a CPR kit.

Our eyes locked over the rims of our drinks and stayed that way after we’d returned our glasses to the table. “So, Miss Mayo.”

“So, Mr. Moody.”

“Before we continue this conversation, there’s something I really need to do.” He sidled closer, turned my face toward his, and kissed me.

Of course I kissed him back. My entire body had lost its musculature, and I became flooded with pure desire, physically incapable of pulling away. Not that I wanted to pull away. Either the bartender turned on the music or my own imagination decided to provide a soundtrack as Billie Holiday began to croon “You’re My Thrill.”

Was he ever. The kiss was so heated and seemed to go on for so long that when we finally stopped, I was surprised to discover the ice in my drink hadn’t melted.

“What was that for?” I said.

“I thought it would decrease the tension.”

“Oh yeah, that really did the trick. I’m not in the least bit tense now.”

He chuckled. “Sorry. I’ve been wanting to do that since Port Authority.”

“Yeah, but… why? You get that I’m a lot—uh, I’m somewhat more mature than you, right?”
And I have a boyfriend,
I meant to add, but somehow I managed to forget that part.

“What can I tell you? Girls my age aren’t all that fascinating—at least, not the ones I’ve been meeting. The cute ones would all want to be lined up behind that velvet rope outside when this place opens on Saturday night. And the nerds are… well, nerdy.”

“Oh, come on. They can’t all be that bad.
I’m
a nerd.”

He grinned. “I know. So am I.”

Uh-oh,
I thought.
He’s sidling over again. What’s taking him so long? God, he has gorgeous skin.

Just before he kissed me, he turned his head to whisper in my ear.

“Don’t worry. This isn’t Oedipal. My mom had me really late in life.”

“You’re a cougar!” Elinor Ann said when we spoke the next morning.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Cougars are at least fifty.”

“Not necessarily.
Good Morning America
had one on who was in her mid-forties. I don’t have to point out how soon you’ll be reaching that milestone, do I? Less than two years!”

“I thought you didn’t have to point that out.”

“Did you tell him exactly
how
much older than him you are?”

Our get-together had not, in my view, been an occasion for precise accounting. “I didn’t quite get around to it.”

“What a shock. And what about Hank?”

What, indeed. I’d been overwhelmed with remorse seconds after kissing Billy goodbye—again—on the corner of Third and Avenue A. I checked my watch: just after midnight. Maybe Hank would still be awake, or at least amenable to being awakened. I could go over there and pretend the last couple of hours had never happened, which would be the wisest decision I could make that night.
What
had I been thinking?

Oh, right. I hadn’t been thinking. My brain had been otherwise engaged. And Billy Moody kissed as expertly as he constructed crossword puzzles.

I reached into my purse and cursed out loud when I remembered my cell phone was still in transit from Kutztown.

It’s not the end of the world,
I told myself.
They still have pay phones on street corners, don’t they?

The one on Fourth Street had been covered in some kind of sticky, noxious-smelling substance. I moved on to Fifth, where I found the metal box with its array of buttons, but not the receiver or its connecting cord. The only evidence that a phone had sat on the corner of Sixth was a rusting metal spike poking out from the sidewalk.

Finally, just past Saint Mark’s, I hit pay dirt. I grabbed the receiver and started to punch in the first digit of Hank’s number, only to discover that the buttons had all been Krazy Glued into the pushed-down position. Defeated, I turned down Ninth Street for home.

I unlocked my door and came face-to-face with the half-finished painting of Dinner.

“What are you looking at?” I asked him, stifling a pang of guilt.

I awakened late the following morning to the sound of Vivian’s broomstick pounding on the floorboards. Never had I so fervently wished she’d climb onto it and ride far, far away. I reached across Puny and fumbled for the phone.

“I still need a day to finish that painting,” I told her.

“What the fuck is taking so long?”

“I had some… complications last night. I’ll bring it downstairs tomorrow morning, right after you open.”

Complications,
I thought to myself after hanging up. Such a useful euphemism for doing the wrong thing.

I finally managed to summon a modicum of professionalism and approached my canvas. It was actually a relief to focus on something other than Billy Moody. I settled into a comfortable flow, completing the background and fine-tuning Dinner’s expression, until I was interrupted by the harsh buzz of the intercom. I glanced at the clock on the microwave: ten minutes to three. Not bad. I’d been working for nearly four hours.

“Hello?”

“Package for Mayo!”

My phone! I flew down the stairs and thanked the postman more effusively than an actress accepting an Academy Award.