Authors: Gina Elle
The white flowers in the center of the table are resting beautifully in the small vase. Wine and water glasses are in their assigned place as are the plates and cutlery. Hopefully, all those hours I spent gathering ideas for tonight’s dinner on the Internet have paid off. The stage is set for what I wish to be a romantic evening for two. Watching myself now I can hardly believe this is the same man who just over 48 hours ago was on the verge of a major breakdown.
Thoughts of the psycho stalker being one of the many possible wives I’ve been with over the past three years sends shivers of self-abhorrence throughout my body. To put it mildly, the more I think about it, the more ashamed, not to mention remorseful, I am now of my secret life.
How could I have been so selfish? And stupid?
What right did I have to go after someone who was in a committed relationship for the sole purpose of my own gratification? Who was I to take advantage of these women in their own vulnerable states? To lie about myself by using my closest
and deceased
friend’s identity is so fucking . . .
messed up.
Thankfully, my appointment with Leslie is only two days away and I’m counting the seconds until I get to her. As for the latest email from
AXL
, I am meeting up with Raj tomorrow. What can I say?
I need help.
In my bedroom I quickly change into my Rag & B
one jeans (Amy used to call these my sexy jeans
)
and a black linen shirt. I roll up the shirt cuffs as I usually do and slip my Omega watch on my left wrist. The simpler the better. Less is more, I repeat my mantra. With both of my hands I scroll my fingers through my thick hair and check my face up close in the mirror.
Not bad.
No pooping birds in sight, I should be okay.
Back in the living room on my way to the kitchen, I take a final look around and am pleased with what I see. Everything is set and ready to go in less than the three hours I had to prepare. My afternoon with David extended longer than I had planned it to, but, as always, it was great fun to be with him. As I dim the lights throughout the condo and glance at my watch, I snicker to myself recalling David’s words this afternoon.
“So, David . . . do you have a good luck charm?” I ask as we winded our bikes along the trails off Lakeshore Boulevard.
“Yup,” he replies without lo
oking up at me, “my lucky acorn . . . I keep it in my pocket everywhere I go.”
“Really? I had no idea you carried a lucky acorn with you.” It never ceases to amaze me how kids can
never cease to amaze me.
“Does it work?” I ask as we approach the turnaround point on our ride. David keeps his eyes on the path and doesn’t look up.
“When I believe it’ll work, it usually does.” And with that, he speeds up ahead of me and looks back with a you-can’t catch-me smile.
So, there you have it. The nine-year-old sage says
if you believe it will work, it usually will
. What it really comes down to is courage. I guess it takes bravery to believe. As I check on the asparagus in the oven, I think about how close David’s words are to Leslie’s position on never giving up hope. If you believe everything will work out, then it very well might. Fleetwood Mac’s
Don’t stop thinking about tomorrow
plays in the stereo in my head while my iPhone rings in my pocket. She’s downstairs.
The elevator doors slide open and I look up.
Oh my.
The first thing I notice is Caroline’s full watt smile. The next thing I take in is how hot she looks. Dressed in a low cut sleeveless silver cocktail dress and sexy high-heeled silver sandals, she steps out of the elevator towards me and I’m stock-still. But not for long. She steps towards me and I wrap both my hands around her tiny waist reveling in the silky softness of her dress. Next, I pull her towards me and kiss her on her upper right cheek lingering there as long as I can. Her flawless complexion feels as velvety as it looks. Divine. She smells like some exquisite French
parfum
, subtle yet sexy.
“Hello there,” she says looking straight up at me, “this is for you.” She hands me a bottle of Bordeaux wine but seeing how I am still as numb as a stone I don’t reach out my hands to accept the bottle right away. It’s only the sound of her giggling that wakes me from my frozen state.
I’ve never seen a more beautiful woman in all my life.
“A Bordeaux?
Very nice. Thank you,” I say as I take the bottle from her. She steps in beside me and we begin walking towards my condo together, with her hand in mine. I love holding hands with her. I wish I didn’t have to let go. The corridor is filled with the aromas from my kitchen.
Smells delicious if I say so myself.
“You’re welcome. The wine is from my family’s winery in France.”
Of course it is. Princess Caroline probably comes from the longest line of French royalty
. I want to say something witty at this moment, but I decide not to. I release her hand and rattle the doorknob pretending it doesn’t budge. I look up at her with a shocked look on my face.
“Holy shit. It looks like I locked us out!” I jangle the knob back and forth. She stares at me, giggles but remains speechless. Barbra’s voice is bellowing from inside and that’s my cue.
“Here . . . why don’t you try the knob? Maybe it’s me?” I say as I step slightly back to make room for her to open the unlocked door. I watch as she slowly turns the round knob and pushes the door in. It opens and she looks back at me smiling.
“Gotcha!” I say as I wink at her and extend my hand allowing her to enter the condo in front of me. Barbra is singing about love and evergreen.
This time it’s Caroline who is cemented to the floor. I watch as she slowly turns her head and looks around the candlelit condo just as Barbra sings about making each night a first. Barbra’s silken voice coupled with the dim lighting envelops us.
“Please . . .
come in,” I say closing and locking the door behind me.
“Thank you. It smells amazing in here,” she says following me into the kitchen all the while soaking in her surroundings. I take the two champagne flutes out of the fridge and place them on the marble countertop. Before I pop open the bottle of
Veuve Clicquot, I open the oven door and pull out the cooking tray carrying the rack of lamb. I throw in the cut potatoes and season them accordingly.
“I guess I should have told you earlier, Eric
. . . but I don’t eat meat,” Caroline says with the most serious look on her face.
Shit! Why didn’t I ask?
What kind of host has someone over for dinner for the first time and doesn’t ask about dietary preferences?
I am such an idiot.
I look up from the oven and over at Caroline and notice a smirk on her face.
“Gotcha!” s
he exclaims and winks back at me.
Someone likes to play. Love it.
With relief, I reach over and uncork the chilled bottle. Carefully I drop a sugar cube into each flute glass and slowly pour the fizzy champagne over top. Van Morrison is singing “Have I Told You Lately,”
as I hand her a glass and lead her to the couch. I wait for her to take a seat and then sit down beside her purposefully close enough so our knees are touching
.
The appetizers are resting on top of the coffee table in front of us and I offer her some. She accepts one of each and places them on the plate I offer.
“I take it the bad sushi is out of your system, then?” I ask. Caroline eyes are looking everywhere as if she’s searching for something.
“Yes, thankfully I am much better now. Did you know Amy was sick as well?” She asks turning her attention to me. I watch her as she lifts the glass up to her luscious lips and takes a sip.
“She mentioned it in an email. I’m sure she’s feeling better too. She’s leaving tonight for her summer in France.”
Why are we talking about Amy?
“I’m leaving for France soon myself. I know I couldn’t get on a plane feeling as badly as I was the other night.”
She’s going away?
“Are you going on vacation?” I ask.
“Well, I suppose you could call it that. My parents live in the Bordeaux region so a couple times a year I make my way there to visit. With the academic school year over now, I have some time so I’ll be off.”
“You said the wine came from your family’s winery. I’m surprised you’re not working in the family business,” Billy Joel’s “Just The Way You Are,” is playing in the background.
“No, I’ve never really had any interest in the winery business. My father had a longtime partner in the business who passed away seven years ago. His son has since taken over his half of the company and runs it with my father. Although I’m sure if my father had his way, his one and only child would be the one taking over once he retires. But, that’s not going to happen.”
“Never say never, Caroline.
Just think, you could lecture your university students right from the vineyard one day,” I joke, reaching over and passing her the platter of the prosciutto-wrapped asparagus. She accepts one and places it on the small plate in front of her.
“I think in my case it would be very safe to say that would
never
happen,” She places emphasis on the word
never.
“That sounds quite emphatic. How can you be so sure?”
“Let’s just say I love my world in academia thousands of miles away from Bordeaux. My life . . . is in Toronto now.” She finishes off the champagne in her glass so I go fetch the champagne bottle in the kitchen to top up her glass and mine. When I return to the living room, I see she’s taking in the collage of framed photos I have on my living room wall. Shots of David as a toddler on a tricycle, a close up photo of my sister and me on her wedding day, an old picture of my parents when they emigrated to Canada, another shot I took last summer of David with his dog.
“Is that you?” s
he asks pointing to a picture of Danny and me when we were kids playing road hockey. I love that picture of us. We were so young and free, happy, sweaty, laughing. I nod yes to Caroline’s question because emotion is about to overcome me.
Why now?
She points to another picture of Danny and me, this one when we’re much older, maybe in our early twenties, perched on our bikes, as always. Once again, I nod. Then, Caroline turns her head away from the wall and towards my desk.
“That’s the same guy, isn’t it?” Caroline points to the five by seven framed photograph I have of Danny by my desk on the opposite side of the room. I pause and take a deep breath before I say it.
“That was my best friend Danny. He was killed three years ago in a highway accident.” You’d think after three years, it would get easier to talk about him but sometimes emotion takes hold of me at the strangest times. The pain cuts even deeper.
“It doesn’t get easier, does it?”
She gets it.
Time to deflect this conversation, not the mood I was hoping to create. Michael Buble and Nelly Furtado are singing one of my favorite songs, “Quando, Quando, Quando.”
“So, about
Les Miserables
, Dr. Durand . . .” I sit back deep into the folds of the couch and swing one leg over the other on the seat cushion. Caroline adjusts her own position next to me so that our knees are grazing each other’s. She too leans a bit further back into the couch and takes another sip of her Veuve. My arm drapes over the back of the couch behind her head. The space between is diminishing. Her full body gorgeousness, alluring scent, and warm energy envelop me. I’m caught under her spell.
“Please, it’s Caroline to you . . .
in fact, I wish it would be Caroline to everyone . . . I’ve insisted my students call me Caroline but some still use Doctor. Doctor feels . . .
strange
to me even after a year and a half since I started teaching at U of T.”
“You earned the title so you should carry it proudly,” I say staring into her gorgeous hazel eyes. I should probably be checking on the food in the oven right now but I don’t want to leave her side.
“Working on my PhD in French lit was nothing short of . . . life
saving
for me. It provided me with . . . much needed distance and . . . distraction,” her voice trails off and she looks up into the air, “at the time.” She takes another sip and places the flute on the coaster on top of my coffee table. She inches closer to me as she settles back down onto the couch.
“To say I earned it, I guess would be true, but I don’t look at it that way. So, ask away. I’ve been looking forward to hearing some of your questions about ‘
Les Miserables
’?”
The Partridge Family’s “I Think I Love You,” is playing on my iPod and I instantly think of my parents singing this song back when I was a kid. Happy days.
“Eric, I must say I
love
this playlist . . . you’ve some very . . . sophisticated
choices,” she says smiling shyly, looking down at her hands.
“Well, I might as
well tell you that I have this . . .
thing
. . . with music . . . from the decades . . . in particular 70s music,” I pause hoping I’m not about to embarrass myself too much.
A bird shit on your face, can’t get much more embarrassing than that!
I continue.