Lost (7 page)

“Everything all right?” Neil asked.

“Fine.” Cindy smiled, careful to avoid the intense scrutiny of his eyes, eyes she’d noticed immediately that were an amazing shade of blue. Somewhere between
teal and turquoise. With a sparkle, no less, as if it had been dabbed on with silver paint. Trish hadn’t been exaggerating. Neil Macfarlane was cute all right. More than cute. He was drop-dead gorgeous. Cindy had decided immediately that the less she looked at him the better off she’d be.

(First impressions: A man, tall and slender, wavy brown hair atop a boyish face, waits for her at the bottom of the elegant, open, red mahogany staircase, the city stretched out tantalizingly behind him in the long expanse of glass; he smiles, deep dimples creasing his cheeks as she warily approaches and the city blurs behind him; he is wearing a blue shirt that underlines the fierce blue of his eyes; his hands are warm as they reach for hers; his voice is soft as he speaks her name. “Cindy,” he says with the quiet confidence of someone who is used to being right. “Neil?” she asks in return, feeling instantly foolish. Who else would he be? Already she feels inadequate.)

“So what kinds of movies do you like?” Neil was asking as the wine steward approached the table, proudly displaying the requested bottle for Neil’s perusal. “Looks fine,” Neil told him, although his eyes never strayed from Cindy.

Cindy, in turn, focused all her attention on the wine steward, watching as he slowly and expertly began the process of removing the cork from the bottle. “I like all movies,” she said vaguely, disappointed when the cork put up no real resistance, sliding out of the bottle with ease.

The steward offered the cork to Neil, who dutifully sniffed at it and nodded his approval, then tasted the sampling the steward poured into his glass. “Fine,” he
said. “Excellent. It just needs a few minutes to breathe,” Neil advised her.

I know how it feels, Cindy thought, but didn’t say, watching as the steward filled her glass just short of halfway.

“So, you have no preferences at all?” Neil was asking.

What was the matter with him? Cindy wondered impatiently. Why did he insist on making conversation? He didn’t really give a damn what kinds of movies she liked, or how she and Trish had met, or anything about her, for that matter. And if he did, it was only because he wanted to sleep with her, and he knew his chances would be greatly improved if he at least feigned an interest in her. Although why he would want to sleep with her was a total mystery. Look at him, for heaven’s sake, Cindy thought, deliberately looking at the floor. On any given night, he undoubtedly had his choice of any number of much more attractive, much fitter, much
younger
women. Why would he want to sleep with her? That was easy, she decided. He wanted to sleep with her because she was here. It was as simple as that. It didn’t mean anything.

It doesn’t mean anything
.

How many times had Tom told her exactly that?

Cindy raised her head, stared directly into Neil Macfarlane’s brilliant blue eyes. “I like sex and violence,” she stated honestly, the first time she’d admitted that to anyone.

“What?”

“You asked what kind of movies I like. I like sex and violence,” she repeated, reaching for her wineglass, taking a long sip, feeling the wine slightly abrasive as it scratched against her throat. He was right. It needed a few
more minutes to breathe. Cindy tossed her hair back, took another sip. “You look shocked.”

Neil smiled, the dimples framing his mouth like quotation marks. “I understand liking sex. But blood and guts?”

“Not blood and guts so much,” Cindy countered, feeling the wine curl into her stomach, like a contented cat in a wicker basket. “I don’t like watching people get blown up ad nauseum. I guess what I like is more the threat of violence, the possibility that something terrible is about to happen.”

“Women-in-jeopardy,” Neil said matter-of-factly, nodding as if he understood, as if he already understood everything there was to know about her, as if there was nothing more to discover.

“I hate that term,” Cindy said, stronger than she’d intended.
“Women-in-jeopardy,”
she repeated, taking another sip of wine, emboldened. “It’s condescending. You never hear people say
men-in-jeopardy
. And, I mean, isn’t that what drama is all about?
People
in jeopardy? Why is it somehow less valid when it concerns women? I’m really sick of that attitude.” Whoa, she thought. Where had that come from?

Neil leaned back, lifted his hands in the air in a gesture of surrender. Cindy braced herself for his comeback, some smart remark that would put her in her place, reduce her to the role of angry, man-hating feminist. Instead he said, “You’re right.”

I’m right? she thought, relief washing over her, like an unexpected shower. She tapped her heart with her open palm. “I don’t think anybody’s ever said that to me before.”

He laughed. “I guess I’ve just never really thought about it, but now that I do, I see your point—all drama is about people in peril, at a time in their lives when they’re at risk, when they have to take a chance, make key decisions, get out of sticky situations, save themselves. The term ‘women-in-jeopardy’
is
condescending. You’re absolutely right.”

Cindy smiled. He must really want to sleep with me, she thought. “Did Trish tell you I haven’t had sex in three years?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

Neil’s hand froze as he reached for his glass. “I don’t think she mentioned that, no.” Slowly, carefully, he brought the glass to his lips, then took a long sip of wine, holding it in his mouth, almost as if he were afraid to swallow.

“You think it’s breathed long enough?” Cindy asked, enjoying his discomfort.

He gulped it down, exhaled deeply. “Definitely breathed long enough.” The waiter approached, and asked if they’d reached a decision about their order. Neil grabbed for his menu. “Forgot what I wanted,” he said sheepishly, blue eyes quickly scanning the night’s offerings. “I guess I’ll just have the special.”

“The calves’ liver sounds wonderful,” Cindy said, thinking how nice it felt to be in control for a change. When was the last time she’d felt in control? Of anything? “And I’d like the endive and pear salad to start.” Suddenly she felt ravenous.

“I’ll start with the calamari,” Neil said.

“Good choice,” the waiter told him before departing with the menus.

What was the matter with my choice? Cindy wondered, feeling oddly slighted, her power already deflating. What was the matter with her? What on earth had possessed her to tell a virtual stranger she hadn’t had sex in three years? Trish’s accountant, for God’s sake. What he must think of her! “Have you noticed the days are getting shorter?” she asked, a bit desperately.

Neil looked toward the windows that embraced the east and south walls of the tony restaurant. “I guess they are.” He looked back at Cindy, the look in his eyes a mixture of bemused curiosity and wary anticipation, as if he were slightly afraid of what she might say next, but was looking forward to it just the same.

“So tell me all about the joys of accounting. Are there any?”

“I like to think so,” Neil answered, his voice a smile. “There’s something very satisfying about numbers.”

“How so?”

“Numbers are what they are. They’re very straightforward. Unlike people.”

Cindy nodded her agreement. “I can’t imagine you have much trouble with people.”

Neil shrugged, lifted his glass in a toast. “To people.”

Cindy clicked her glass against his, avoided his eyes. “So, I guess you were always really good at math, right?”

“Right.”

“I was horrible in math. It was my worst subject.”

“English was my worst.”

“My best,” Cindy said.

There was a moment’s silence. “Can we go back to talking about sex now?” Neil asked, and Cindy laughed in spite of her desire not to.

“Can we just forget I said anything about that?”

“That might be difficult.”

“Can we try?”

“Absolutely.”

Another moment of silence. “Look, I’m obviously not very good at this.”

“At what?”

“This whole scene. Dating. You know.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well, I’m not exactly a sparkling conversationalist.”

“On the contrary. You sure got my attention.”

Again Cindy laughed. “Yeah, well, sex is a cheap way to get someone’s attention.”

“Not always so cheap.”

Cindy quickly finished off the wine in her glass. “So, what
did
Trish tell you about me?”

Neil sat back in his chair, gave the question several seconds thought. “She said that you were bright, beautiful, and extremely picky when it came to men.”

“Which is a nice way of saying I haven’t had sex in three years,” Cindy heard herself say before throwing her hand over her mouth. “God, what’s the matter with me?”

“You haven’t had sex in three years,” Neil answered with a sly smile.

A wave of heat spread across Cindy’s face and neck, like a sunburn. She felt all eyes staring at her. “Maybe I should just make a general announcement. Hell, I think there are some people in the far corner over there who might not know.”

“Why haven’t you had sex in three years? Are you really that picky when it comes to men?”

“Prickly
is probably a better word,” Cindy admitted. “Men don’t like angry women.”

“And you’re an angry woman?”

“Apparently.”

I’ve always had trouble dealing with your anger
, her ex-husband had told her.

“You okay?” Neil asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“I don’t know. You just got this funny little look on your face.”

“I’m fine,” Cindy said. “I mean, other than the fact that I feel like a total idiot, I’m fine.”

“I think you’re charming. I’m having a great time.”

“You are?”

“Aren’t you?”

Cindy laughed. “Actually, yes. I am.”

“Good. Have some more wine.” He filled both their glasses, then clicked his glass against hers. “To angry women.”

Cindy smiled. “To brave men.”

(Memory: Tom’s voice on the answering machine:
Hi, it’s me. Look, there’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just come right out with it. I’m leaving. Actually I’ve already left. Call me a coward, and a few other choice words I’m sure you’ll think of, but I just thought it was better if we didn’t speak in person. You know I’ve always had trouble dealing with your anger. Anyway, I’m at the Four Seasons Hotel. Call me when you stop swearing
.)

“So, Trish tells me you work in Hazelton Lanes,” Neil was saying.

“Yes. A friend of mine owns this neat little jewelry store. I help her out three afternoons a week.”

“How long have you been doing that?”

“About seven years.”

“Since your divorce?”

“Trish told you about that?”

“She said you’ve been divorced seven years.”

This was the part of dating Cindy liked least. The emotional résumé, where you were expected to trot out your dirty laundry and bare your soul, vent your frustrations, recount your pain, and hope for a sympathetic ear. But Cindy had no interest in trotting, baring, venting, and recounting. And she’d long since given up on hope. She took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m going to get this over with as quickly as possible, so listen carefully: My husband walked out on me seven years ago for another woman, which was no huge surprise since he’d been cheating on me for years. What was surprising was that my older daughter chose to go with him, although I probably shouldn’t have been so surprised because she was always her father’s little princess. Anyway,” Cindy continued, glancing toward the phone in her purse, “my settlement ensured I didn’t have to worry about finding a job, which was good because I only had a high school education, having eloped when I was eighteen. Still with me?”

“Hanging onto every word.”

“After I got married, I worked at Eaton’s for a couple of years, selling towels and bedding and exciting stuff like that, helping put my ex through law school, pretty standard stuff, and then I got pregnant and I quit work to stay home with Julia, and then two years later, Heather came along, something for which Julia never quite forgave me.” Cindy strained to keep her voice light. “Witness her decision to go live with her father.”

“But you saw her, didn’t you? Weekends? Holidays?”

“She was a teenager. I saw her whenever she could fit me into her busy schedule. Which wasn’t too often.” Cindy felt her stomach cramp at the memory.

“That must have been very difficult for you.”

“It was awful. I felt as if someone had ripped my guts out. I cried every day. Couldn’t sleep, wondering what I’d done wrong. Sometimes I could barely get out of bed. I honestly thought I’d lose my mind. That’s when Meg, my friend, offered me a job working at her little boutique. At first I said no, but eventually I decided I had to do something. And it’s been great. I work three afternoons a week; I take off whenever I feel like it. And to top it off, my daughter’s come back.” Again Cindy glanced toward her purse.

“Do you keep her in there?” Neil asked.

Cindy smiled. “Sorry. It’s just that she was supposed to call. Anyway, sorry about unloading on you like that. Can we do us both a favor and never mention my ex-husband or my divorce again?”

“I’ll drink to that.” They clicked glasses.

“Your turn.” Cindy leaned back in her chair, sipped on her wine. “Family history in fifty words or less.”

He laughed. “Well, I was married.”

“For how long?”

“Fifteen years.”

“And you’ve been divorced for how long?”

“I’m not divorced.”

“Oh?”

“My wife died four years ago.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“She woke up one morning, said she wasn’t feeling
quite right, and six weeks later, she was dead. Ovarian cancer.”

“How awful. Trish didn’t tell me.…”

“I doubt she has any idea. I’ve only known her a short time, and all she asked me was whether I was married, and if I’d be interested in going out with her friend.”

Cindy shook her head. “And you, poor man, said yes.”