The Doctor and the War Widow (3 page)

“That is exactly my point. You’re grieving. Distractions in the form of attractive men might help.” Donna grinned mischievously and motioned with her fork.

“Well, the quote-unquote
help
I received when John died almost got me addicted to prescription meds, for Christ’s sakes. You remember that part, don’t you?” Harley arched her eyebrows and grinned. Donna’s cynical good-humor was always infectious. “Besides, what makes you think they’ll be so damned attractive? I may meet old dudes with warts and nose hair.”

Donna raised an eyebrow and sighed. “Okay, let’s look at it your way. Maybe Eden
is
trying to communicate. Like I said earlier, give her the thing she wants. See somebody. Live a little. She always loved it when you dated. Make that little birdie dance. Even if you don’t meet a soul mate—”

“I had my soul mate.” Harley barely heard her own voice.

“I know you did, honey. I know.” Donna smiled gently. “That’s my point, though. Even if you don’t meet your next husband, you can still have some fun. It will get you out of the house.”

“I’m busy, you know. There’s my job and the editing of the manuscript.” Harley suppressed a moment’s irritation, forcing herself to maintain a lighter mood. She put her tongue out at Donna. “I’m not some old lady sitting around knitting.”

“I know. I know. We’re not there yet, and you hate the domestic crap.” Donna was Harley’s senior by three days. They often compared notes on aging. “Like I said, beware the moustache of menopause. Sex might keep you from aging.”

“Is it keeping you from aging?” Harley leaned back in her chair and grinned. “Define
interesting
. For some people, that happens in a good way. For me, it means meeting a psycho.”

Donna threw up her hands and laughed. “I still think you should do it. Hey, you can have kinky sex. It’ll provide good research for your next book.”

“My next book is about a female pirate.” Harley rolled her eyes as she applied lipstick.

“Okay, you can have kinky pirate sex.” Donna leaned in and whispered, “Think Johnny Depp and Keith Richards.”

“You’re obscene.” Harley motioned for the check.

Donna laughed while searching in her purse for money. “I know, but you love me.”

Two hours later, Harley had paid for six months of Internet dating with VoodooMatch.com. Donna, ever tech savvy, walked her through the intricacies of the program. She insisted upon placing photographs of Harley riding a horse, writing at her computer, and waving enthusiastically on the back of a motorcycle. Most of the pictures were of a much more youthful Harley. Harley was wearing a leather jacket she hadn’t seen in fifteen years. Harley was flashing a peace sign at a Rolling Stones concert. Harley groaned when she watched Donna scan the picture, thinking.
What was I, sixteen?
Harley cringed and protested. Donna laughed with good-humored satisfaction as Harley rolled her eyes and wondered who in hell would buy this profile.

Sunday before Memorial Day

When Harley checked her e-mail the next day, her profile had twenty-five hits already. “Thanks, D.” She shook her fist in the air and sighed in exasperation. “All these guys think I’m some exciting siren.”

Harley ignored the e-mails and ‘winks’ for most of the day. She had edits to complete. Jill had sent her electronic galleys. Harley enjoyed this stage of the process, and she couldn’t afford the distractions of men while she edited. Of course, editing no longer took as long as it once did. By noon, she checked her e-mail and found over ten alerts from VoodooMatch.com. Maybe Donna was right. This would be an adventure, but Harley wasn’t sure she’d like this undertaking. She didn’t want the wrong kind of excitement.

Chapter 3

Harley agreed to meet the first interested party the day after Memorial Day. He was already sitting at a bar on St. Charles when she arrived. She heard Donna’s voice echoing in her subconscious. “Meet them in a public place first.”

From his dating website profile, “Mark” wasn’t a bad-looking guy
.
Harley thought that this might not have been a mistake. Match #1 was well built and of average height with dark, close-cropped hair. “Mark” stood when Harley appeared in the restaurant’s doorway. Instinctively, Harley knew he was waiting for her. The man extended his hand. Mark was a nice name. He had a big, toothy smile and firm grasp. He had maybe too many teeth for Harley’s taste, but no one was perfect
.
Harley smiled, took his hand, and let him help her onto the barstool. She told him she was a teacher, and Mark immediately showed interest.

Harley was thrilled that she’d connected with a man who actually showed interest in what she said. She asked about his background and profession. His lips formed one thin line. “I’m an accountant. My wife left two years ago.”

Harley’s heart contracted with pity. She’d been there. She instinctively placed a hand on his arm but withdrew it quickly when he continued with a vehement hiss that made other patrons turn and stare. “You see, my son died in a terrible school bus accident. It was the school’s fault. Then, Linda couldn’t cope and disappeared. We think she’s dead.”

Harley recoiled as if she’d touched a hot iron or an electric current.
She wished she could find a hole somewhere in the floor and disappear.
Harley remembered the tragic case. The boy’s sister had attended St. Cyprian’s High School. So tragic and heart wrenching. Within an hour, Harley heard about the negligence of his son’s school in letting a drunk drive a bus filled with kids, the local’s priest’s collusion with the Archdiocese, and his wife’s despair over the desertion of friends and church.

“I make sure the school never forgets what it did to my family. They have to offer a scholarship for my son. I show up every year to make sure that happens and sit in the first row so I can stare at Fr. Gregory.” Mark jabbed a finger in the air at some imaginary adversary. “My boy was the only one killed in the accident. He went through the windshield.” The man’s voice caught.

“Have you ever thought of moving?” Harley asked softly, hoping he would follow suit and keep his voice down.

“Why?” The man gazed at her with a wide stare.

Harley swallowed. A person in mourning had to do something to break the cycle of depression or risk losing him or herself. She pitied him, but her own losses were too raw to risk being drawn into a black hole of pain. She couldn’t help someone else when she was still so crippled. “Don’t you want to forget the bad memories? I mean, why go to that school every year?”

Mark watched his wine swirl around in his glass. He jabbed a finger in the air yet again. “That school needs to pay for what they did. I’ve even told my kids to show up at the school board meetings if I’m dead and make sure that scholarship is awarded every year. The school shouldn’t have let him and his friends drive off with a drunk for the damned field trip.” The man grew increasingly agitated. “My wife lost her sanity because we were so deserted. She just drove off one day. We have no idea where she is.”

Harley didn’t meet his gaze for a long time. She was sorry for Mark, but the whole experience was surreal. She was mystified as to why the man enlisted her as “Dear Abbey.” She didn’t want to start a relationship in that way. “I’m really sorry. I—I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, your principal was no better. She totally ignored my daughter’s grief. I had two kids still in Catholic school, and St. Francis High School killed one son and expelled the other because he had trouble dealing with his brother’s death. St. Cyprian’s High School treated my daughter like crap because they didn’t want to get in the legal BS that we were brewing for St. Francis.” Mark’s face darkened as he spoke.

Harley took a deep breath. She felt bad for the man, but she was hurting, too, and she didn’t feel a deep enough attraction to nurture him through his hurt. Her throat was so dry she couldn’t swallow. Why did every damaged soul in the world find her? The troubled kids, the misfits, and the Goth outcasts came to her at school, and she understood damaged people only too well. Nevertheless, dealing with hurting teens was part of her job as a teacher and an extension of her own psyche. She was by nature a compassionate woman, but she couldn’t help an individual with wounds so similar to her own. Harley steeled herself and clutched her purse. “Look, it’s getting late. I have to work tomorrow.”

As she headed for the door, Harley heard him call after her, “Can I have your phone number?”

The next date a week later was no better. Harley arrived ten minutes late for a date with “Dick.” Carrying an umbrella, she scanned the people sipping lattes, Frappuccinos, and java in the coffee shop on Maple Street. Many people read books or typed on laptops.

A tall man with salt-and-pepper hair stood as she entered and waved to her.

His whole face was a frown, his mouth one thin line. “You’re late.”

Harley nodded uncertainly, feeling like a chastised child. Shit, she was a teacher, not some kid. What was wrong with the guy? She wasn’t married to him yet. She cleared her throat. “Traffic was bad because of the rain. Plus, there’s road construction on Carrollton.” Why in hell was she explaining anything to the jerk? Her father had never come down on her like the idiot was, and John sure as hell didn’t
.
Harley studied him intensely, a pleasant but indifferent smile plastered on her face. She slid into the chair he pulled out for her and wondered if the man sensed her repulsion.

Dick’s lips gradually twitched and turned into the semblance of a smile. He was heavily tanned. Here was a man used to working outside. Deep-set lines creased his face. The man had done some hard living.

“Would you like something?” he asked, his voice boots on gravel.

June in New Orleans was always hot. “Sure. I’d like an iced coffee.” Well, she’d give it a try, but she clutched her purse tightly and looked for an exit.

“I’m a java man.” Harley sensed he was unimpressed with wimpy iced coffee. He rose and walked to the counter as if he were an ad from some cigarette commercial. The jeans and boots completed the picture.

Harley accepted her iced coffee with a smile and added a brown sugar.

“You know, sugar isn’t good for you. It also puts on weight.” Dick took a sip of black coffee.

Harley cursed the stars and simply shrugged.
A judgmental and bossy one! Hell!
While reaching for another sugar, she added with contrived sweetness, “Everyone has a vice.”

“True.” He took another sip of coffee. “You know, when I was waiting and you were late, I thought of my ex-wife. I felt like every eye in here was on me.”

Now Harley really wanted
to kill the man who’d invented this Internet dating.
How did she hook up with every insecure lunatic
?
Her mother had brought her up to always be polite, but she didn’t need this idiot. She’d lived alone too long to be scolded or chastised. She addressed her mother in the recesses of her mind:
Hell, Mama, you were wrong. You sometimes simply had to be direct with idiots
. Harley set her lips in a firm line. “You know what? I’m really not very thirsty, and I do have some things to do with work.” She rose quickly and headed for the door. When she glanced at Dick through the glass window, he was staring after her, mouth open.
Another divorced guy, no wonder
!

Harley met her next date for lunch at PJ’s Coffee on Maple Street. She arrived five minutes early, checked her makeup in a compact, and switched off the ignition. With grim determination, she strode into the building, ordered her coffee, and sat at a table in the corner of the room. “Hugo” purchased a Frappuccino from the coffee bar and moved to her. He approached her table and sat down without preamble. Hugo wasn’t a bad-looking guy.
Tall with a classic Beatles haircut, he wore a blue short-sleeved shirt with casual white slacks. The brown leather shoes with a tassel made him look somewhat classy.

“Nice to meet you.” Harley smiled and sipped her café au lait. “What exactly do you do? Your profile wasn’t very specific. ”

“I’m in construction. My company is here helping with a new site on St. Charles Avenue.” Hugo ran a hand through his plentiful hair.

Harley smiled. The man sounded ambitious. Eden would have liked that he wanted to go somewhere in the world
.
“Oh, I see. Is it your company?”

“Yes, and I’m also looking for contracts in China.” Hugo fell silent, but his gaze never left her face.

Harley cleared her throat. She was impressed. She’d always liked a man with a cosmopolitan outlook.
“That sounds fascinating. What is your interest in China?” Harley averted her gaze under his intense scrutiny. The man wasn’t very talkative, and his constant stare made her uncomfortable.

After what seemed an eternity of silence, he said with authority, “Well, China is really the only free culture in the world.”

Harley raised her eyebrows. She was hardly jingoistic, but China was not known for its cultivation of freedom. Maybe this guy needed to talk to the Dalai Lama. “Funny, that wasn’t the image I’d gotten from Tiananmen Square.” As a young woman in college, she’d even visited China with a church group, and their sponsors warned them about the dangers of asking certain questions or taking pictures of taboo objects.

“Well, that’s what a corrupt Western culture wants you to believe. China really has no limits to its freedom. For example, people in the provinces are totally free to pursue anything they want.” Hugo leaned closer to her.

Harley leaned further back into her chair. The man’s breath reeked of stale cigarettes. Harley gazed at him with what she hoped wasn’t obvious amusement. “Is it that the people in the provinces are so poor they present no threat to Beijing? Things are only peaceful there when no one has protested anything. When someone takes a stand, the government cracks down with an iron fist.”

“There again, you’re saying what the government wants you to believe. We’re a culture that has been imperialistic and then condemns others.” Hugo was turning crimson as his face contorted into a grimace.

Harley wondered if he was going to have a stroke. She wished she could feel sympathetic, but she only wanted to laugh. Feeling suddenly evil, Harley decided to play his game. “I do see what you mean in a way. Foucault talks about how we categorize people and deal with what some people call the unruly in his book about the birth of prisons. Jacques Derrida does similar work with language.”

The man stared at her blankly.

She stared back. An impish giggle almost erupted from her lips, but Harley suppressed it. She wondered if she could hide the twitching at the side of her mouth for the rest of their encounter. All of his talk was just that. Talk. He knew nothing about social theory and obviously had very little experience with the Chinese political atmosphere. “You don’t know Derrida? He’s the deconstructionist who wrote about language being a social construct.”

She stirred her now cold coffee and smiled placidly, waiting for a response she knew wouldn’t come and made a mental apology to her mother
. All right, Eden, I had to do it. You always told me not to be a snob with education, but I can’t help it. This guy deserves it.

“Would you like another coffee?” Hugo glanced around. She could tell he hoped she didn’t take him up on his offer.

“Oh, no, thank you. I have to be going.” She smiled brightly, hooked her purse over her shoulder, and bounced out of the room.

Harley groaned and buried her face in her hands as she listened to Donna’s encouragement. “This whole experiment has been a monumental waste of time and money. These guys are too damaged. I may be, too, but not that much. Besides, I’ve put on weight meeting these men for coffee or lunch.”

“You have to try some others.” Donna munched on a cracker. “What can it hurt?”

“No, I don’t have to do anything. You talk as if they’re samples of wine and cheese. I can’t just spit them out, and they’re proving to be nut cases.” Harley poured Donna and her husband Mike more wine. They were drinking Merlot and eating cheese in Harley’s living room. She’d been regaling them with tales of her dating adventures. Harley filled her own glass as she provided them with detailed accounts of each Romeo. Nico walked from one human to another and received a pet from each. He soon grew bored with the company and trotted to Donna and Mike for good night affection before heading down the hall to Harley’s bed. Harley glanced at Donna while Donna petted Nico. She narrowed her eyes, staring at Donna with mock severity. “You, old pal, just want to torture me.”

“I have your best interest at heart.” Donna laughed heartily and settled under Mike’s arm. They looked perfectly paired sitting on Harley’s brocade couch. He was toned and dark-haired with bulging muscles. Donna placed her drink on the coffee table in front of her. The Michel family pictures were strategically displayed under the glass. Harley’s parents and other relatives graced the small table.

“Look,” Donna persisted, “
somebody
has to be normal. You can at least have some fun with them.”

“D, none of this has been fun.” Harley shook her head, still laughing, and then followed Donna’s stare. She sat across from them and sighed. The family pictures Eden had lovingly placed under the glass in the coffee table sometimes made her sad. “What picture’s caught your attention?”

“She’s looking at your wedding picture.” Mike tossed a piece of cheese into his mouth.

“Tell me, then, why would I want to meet another guy when I’d had John? Seriously, D, why?” Harley bit into a cracker and gazed at the picture. John was in uniform when they had married. She’d never seen a man as handsome as her husband. Harley sometimes cursed John for leaving her and then was ashamed of her own selfish thoughts. She glanced at the almost-empty bottle, wondering why she didn’t just guzzle what remained. A slow anger rose within her breast. “Besides, why does everybody think fulfillment means having a man? Why? Shit, I only started to write after John died. I did it to have something to do with my time. Then, I finished my certification and taught. None of this has been a bad gig.” Harley laughed and threw up her hands, throwing off her anger. These were her oldest friends, and she wouldn’t stay mad.