Toxic Bachelors (22 page)

“I'm not sure I can compete with Mo and Izzy's. Where do you live, by the way?”

She hesitated for a minute, and he wondered suddenly if she was living with someone. She sounded as though she was afraid Charlie wanted to drop by. “On the Upper East Side, in the Nineties.” It was a respectable neighborhood, and he got the feeling she was embarrassed to admit it. He wondered suddenly if Gray was right, and her background was more traditional than her ideologies would suggest. She was very dogmatic about what she believed. He had expected her to say that she lived somewhere on the Upper West Side, not on the East Side, but he didn't question it, or push. He could sense her skittishness. Charlie knew women well, he'd been doing this for a long time. A lot longer than Carole, who didn't have the faintest idea how experienced he was, or what he had in mind. Given even a hint of encouragement, which she hadn't given him so far, he wanted to change her life.

“I know a nice quiet Italian place on East Eighty-ninth. How does that sound?” he offered.

“Perfect. What's it called?”

“Stella Di Notte. It's not quite as romantic as it sounds. It means Night Star in Italian, but actually it's a play on words. Stella is the owner, she does all the cooking, and she weighs about three hundred pounds. I don't think they'd ever get her more than an inch or two off the ground, but the pasta is fantastic. She makes it all herself.”

“It sounds great. I'll meet you there.” Charlie was a little startled by her suggestion. He hadn't expected her to say that, and more than ever, he now suspected that there was a man living at her place. He was determined to find out.

“Wouldn't you rather I pick you up?”

“No,” she said honestly. “I'd rather walk. I'm cooped up here all day, and I live on Ninety-first. I need the exercise, even for a few blocks. It clears my head after work.” A likely story, he said to himself. There was probably a handsome thirty-five-year-old, lying on the couch, watching TV with the remote in his hand.

“See you there then. Seven-thirty? Does that give you enough time after work?”

“That's fine. My last group is at four-thirty tomorrow, so I can be home by six-thirty. I assume it's not fancy or anything?” she asked, suddenly sounding nervous. She almost never went out, and never dressed. She wondered if he expected her to wear a little black dress and pearls. She didn't own either, nor did she want to. He looked the type, but this was work. She wasn't going to get dressed up for him. She'd rather have gone to Mo's in that case. She wasn't about to change her lifestyle for him, no matter how much money the foundation had to give them. There were some things she no longer did, and never would again. Dressing up was one of them.

“It's not fancy,” he reassured her. “You can even wear jeans if you want.” Although he hoped she wouldn't. He would have loved to see her in a dress.

“If you don't mind, I will. I won't have time to dress. I never do anyway. What you see is what you get.” Apparently. Jeans and Nikes. Oh, well. So much for the dress.

“I'll do the same,” he said quietly.

“At least you can wear your watch in that neighborhood,” she chuckled at him, and he laughed.

“That's too bad. I pawned it yesterday.”

“What'd you get for it?” She liked teasing him. He seemed like a nice guy. In spite of herself, she was looking forward to dinner with him. She hadn't been out to dinner with a man in nearly four years. And that wasn't about to change, except for one business dinner with him. Just one, she told herself.

“Twenty-five bucks,” he answered her question about the watch.

“Not bad. See you tomorrow night,” she said, and hung up a moment later. And suddenly, after she did, a bolt of lightning ran through him that terrified him. What if he really was insane? Maybe the jeans and running shoes were about something else? What if the gorgeous six-foot Viking with the heart of Mother Teresa didn't have a man living with her? What if he was even more obtuse? What if she was gay? It hadn't even occurred to him till then. But anything was possible. She was clearly no ordinary girl.

“Oh, great,” he said to himself as he put the card back in his wallet, and called the restaurant to make a reservation. Whatever she was, he would know more tomorrow. And until then, all he could do was guess and wait.

11

C
HARLIE GOT TO THE RESTAURANT BEFORE
C
AROLE
did. He had told no one he was meeting her, not even Sylvia and Gray. There was nothing to tell them yet, except that he was having an informal foundation dinner with her, since he had used a ruse to get her there. It wasn't a date. He had walked to the restaurant himself. It was a longer walk for him, but like her, he needed the air. He'd been anxious about it all day. And by then, he really was convinced she was gay. It was probably why he'd gotten no reaction from her. Usually, women responded to him in some way. Carole hadn't. She was all business, and had been, both times they met. Professional to her fingertips, although she seemed warm with everyone else, especially the kids. And then he remembered how friendly and congenial she and Tygue had been. Maybe there was a man in her life, and it was him. All he knew by the time he got to the restaurant was that there was a knot in his stomach, which was unfamiliar to him, and she was a complete mystery, and maybe still would be after they had dinner together that night. He wasn't at all sure that she was going to open up to him. She had seemed sealed tight, like a shell, which only seemed more challenging, along with her very impressive brain.

She was totally different from the socialites he pursued normally. They dressed, they danced, they smiled, they went everywhere with him, they played tennis and sailed, and for the most part they bored him to extinction, which was why he was having dinner with Carole Parker that night, who appeared to have absolutely no interest whatsoever in him, and he didn't even know if she was gay or straight. And he had lied to get her there. The whole thing was absurd.

Carole arrived five minutes after he did, and joined Charlie at the corner table Stella had given them. She looked smiling and relaxed as she walked in, in a pair of white jeans and sandals and a crisp white shirt. Her hair was still damp from the shower, and she had woven it quickly in a braid. She wore no makeup or nail polish. Her nails were short, and everything about her looked crisp and clean. She had a pale blue sweater draped over her shoulders, and it occurred to him that with what she wore, she would have looked perfect on the
Blue Moon.
She looked like a sailor or a tennis player, she was a long, lean, athletic-looking woman, and her eyes were a clear bright blue, the same color as her sweater. She looked like a Ralph Lauren ad, although she would probably have hated him if he said it. In her heart, she was more Che Guevara than anything as prosaic and fashionable as a Ralph Lauren model. She smiled at Charlie as soon as she saw him.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” she apologized, and sat down, as he stood up to greet her. It was only five minutes, and it had allowed him to compose himself as he waited for her. He didn't want to order wine until she got there, and they figured out what they were eating.

“No problem. I didn't notice since I no longer have a watch anyway. I thought I'd spend the twenty-five bucks I got for it on dinner,” he said, smiling at her, and she laughed at him. He had a nice sense of humor. She hadn't bothered to bring a handbag with her, she had her key in her pocket, and she didn't need to carry a lipstick since she didn't wear any. And surely not for him. “How was your day?”

“Busy. Crazy. The usual. What about you?” she asked, looking interested. That was new for him too. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had asked him how he was, and actually seemed as though she gave a damn about it. This one did.

“Interesting. I was at the foundation all day. We're trying to figure out how much we want to spend internationally. There are some very good programs in dire need in developing countries, but they have a hell of a time implementing them once they get the money. I had a conference call with Jimmy Carter today, on that subject. They do a lot of really great work in Africa, and he gave me some good advice about how to get through the red tape.”

“Sounds good to me,” she said, smiling at him. “Projects like that make me realize how small our scope is here. Mine, anyway. I'm dealing with kids in a radius of forty blocks of me, sometimes less. It's pathetic when you think of it.” She sighed as she sat back in her chair.

“Not pathetic. You're doing great work. We don't give a million dollars to people who aren't doing impressive work.”

“How much does the foundation give away every year?” She'd been wondering about that since she met him. His foundation was greatly respected in philanthropic circles, and it was all she knew about him.

“About ten million. You kicked us up to eleven, but you're worth it.” He smiled at her, and then pointed to the specials. “You must be starving if all you eat is a banana for lunch.” He remembered what she'd said. They both ordered the gnocchi because Charlie told her it was fabulous and Stella's specialty. She was serving it that night with fresh tomatoes and basil, and in the lingering warm weather of Indian summer, it sounded perfect to Carole too. He ordered a bottle of inexpensive white wine, and once it was served, she took a sip.

The food was as delicious as he had promised, and they talked about her ideas for the center until dessert. She had some big dreams and hard work ahead of her, but after what she'd accomplished so far, he knew she was capable of achieving all she set out to do. Especially with help from foundations like his. He assured her that others would be equally impressed, and she'd have no trouble getting money from him or anyone else the following year. He was vastly impressed by all she did, and how carefully she was already planning for the future.

“That's quite a dream you have, Ms. Parker. You really are going to change the world one day.” He believed in her 1,000 percent. She was a remarkable young woman. At thirty-four, she had accomplished more than some people in a lifetime, and most of it by herself, with no one's help. It was clear that the center was her baby, which once again made him curious about her.

“What about you? What else do you do with your spare time? I say that jokingly, believe me. It's no wonder you have no time to eat. You mustn't sleep much either.”

“I don't,” she reassured him. “It seems like such a waste of time to me.” She laughed as she said it. “That's all I do. Work and kids. Groups. Most of the time I hang out at the center on the weekends, although officially I'm not working. But being there and keeping an eye on things makes a difference.”

“I feel that way about the foundation,” he admitted, “but you still have to make time for other things, and have some fun sometimes. What does fun mean for you?”

“Work is fun for me. I've never been happier than since we opened the center. I don't need other things in my life.” She said it honestly, and he could see she meant it, which worried him a little. Something was wrong with this picture, or at least the one she presented. Other than work, much was missing.

“No men, no babies, no ticking clock telling you to get married? That's unusual at your age.” He knew she was thirty-four, and had gone to Princeton and Columbia, but he knew nothing else about her, even after dinner. All they had talked about was the center and the foundation. His work and hers. Their respective missions.

“Nope. No men. No babies. No biological clock. I threw mine away several years ago. I've been happy ever since.”

“What does that mean?” he pressed her a little, but she didn't seem to mind it. He sensed that whatever she didn't want to answer, she wouldn't.

“The kids at the center are my children.” She seemed comfortable as she said it.

“You say that now, but maybe one day you'll regret it. Women aren't lucky that way. They have decisions to make at a certain age. A man can always make a fool of himself and have a family when he's sixty or seventy or eighty.”

“Maybe I'll adopt when I'm eighty.” She smiled at him, and for the first time he smelled tragedy in there somewhere. He knew women well, and something bad had happened to this one. He didn't know why or how he knew it, but he suddenly sensed it. She was too pat in her answers, too firm in her decisions. No one was that sure of anything in life, unless heartbreak got them there. He had been there himself.

“I don't buy it, Carole,” he said cautiously. He didn't want to scare her, or make her back off completely. “You're a woman who loves children. And there has to be a man in your life somewhere.” After listening to her all evening, she didn't seem gay to him. Nothing she had said to him suggested it, although he could be wrong, he knew, and had been once or twice. But she didn't seem gay to him. Just hidden.

“Nope. No man,” she said simply. “No time. No interest. Been there, done that. There hasn't been anyone in my life in four years.” A year before she'd opened the center, as he figured it. He wondered if some heartbreak in her life had turned her in another direction, to heal her own wounds as well as others'.

“That's a long time at your age,” he said gently, and she smiled at him.

“You keep talking about my age as though I'm twenty. I'm not that young. I'm thirty-four. That seems pretty old to me.”

He laughed at her. “Well, not to me. I'm forty-six.”

“Right.” She turned the tables on him quickly, to get the focus off herself. “And you're not married and have no kids either. So what's the big deal? What about you? Why isn't your clock ticking if you're twelve years older than I am?” Although he didn't look it. Charlie didn't look a day over thirty-six, although he felt it. Lately, he felt every moment of his forty-six years, and then some. But at least he didn't look it. Nor did she. She looked somewhere in her mid-twenties. And they looked handsome together, and were very similar in type, almost like brother and sister, as he himself had noticed when he had first observed that she looked a lot like his sister, Ellen, and his mother.

“My clock is ticking,” he confessed to her. “I just haven't found the right woman yet, but I hope I will one day.”