The Klone and I (6 page)

I was wearing a white linen dress when Peter
arrived, and turquoise beads, my hair looked reasonable, and the red nail polish on my toes was absolutely perfect. Roger would never have recognized me. I was no longer the poor little drone he had discarded for Helena. Nor was I Helena either. I was me. With a knot in my stomach the size of my head, and no idea what to say to Peter. My palms were damp, and the moment I looked at him, I knew I was in trouble. He was much too handsome, too smart, too sure of himself. He was wearing white jeans, a blue shirt, and his feet were bare in an impeccably shined pair of Gucci loafers.

I stumbled through the appropriate small talk, reminding myself that I wasn't a total loss, and all of my friends, husbands still found me attractive. That had to mean something. But for the life of me, in spite of that, I couldn't imagine what this man saw in me. Besides, he had no way of knowing that I used to have a predilection for dilapidated flannel nightgowns. And he didn't know Roger, so no one could have told him yet how incredibly boring I could be. Besides, we had gone to the Louvre together, and the Ritz for martinis. No one had put a gun to his head. For whatever reason, he had called me. And this couldn't even be called a first date officially. We had already done that, in Paris. So this one would be easy. Or would it? Who was I kidding? I would
have handled a liver transplant with greater ease. Nothing about dating was easy for me.

We had a glass of wine first, and I managed not to spill it on either him or me. He said he liked my dress, and that he had always loved turquoise, particularly on a woman with a suntan. We talked about his work, and New York, and people we knew in common in the Hamptons. It was all very grown up, and by the time he drove me to dinner, the knot in my stomach was the size of a large peach, instead of a grapefruit. Things were improving.

He ordered a martini at the restaurant, and I waited for him to get drunk, and he didn't. I guess he forgot to. He talked about his childhood summers in Maine, and I reminisced about a trip to Italy in my teens, and the first time I fell in love. He talked about his ex-wife, and his son, and I refrained from telling him what a loser Roger was. I didn't want him to think I hated men. I didn't. Only Roger. And that was fairly recent.

We talked about a lot of things, and we laughed a lot. And I kept thinking how different he was from every man I had ever known. He was sensible and warm, and open, and funny. He said he liked kids, and looked as though he might even have meant it. He told me about a sailboat he'd had in San Francisco, and how much he had loved it, and was thinking of buying another. He
admitted to a weakness for fast cars, and slow women, and we laughed at each other's stories about dating. Clearly, many of the people he and I had gone out with since our divorces had been related. I even confessed how I felt about Helena, and how just seeing her sometimes hurt my heart and bruised my ego.

“Why?” he asked easily. “She sounds like an utter fool, nearly as big a fool as your husband for leaving you for a woman like that.” I tried to explain to him that I'd let myself go, that I had let my life revolve around orthodontist appointments and taking the kids to the playground. I failed to tell him, however, that now it revolved around getting manicures and taking the children to McDonald's, and then going home to watch
I Love Lucy.
I figured he expected more than that. A heart surgeon maybe, or a nuclear physicist, something exciting and sexy. But he seemed to be doing fine with the white dress and the turquoise beads. It was midnight before he drove me back, and as we walked into the house, I was less than thrilled to find the kids still awake, watching TV in the living room, with the dog asleep on the couch next to Sam, and the sitter asleep in my bedroom.

“Hi.” Charlotte eyed Peter with suspicion, as I introduced them. Sam just stared at him as though he couldn't believe Peter was actually
standing there with me. Come to think of it, I couldn't either. What was this man doing in our living room, chatting with my kids about the show they were watching? He didn't even look frightened by it, or by the black looks Charlotte was giving him, and me, standing just behind him. And then Sam looked over at me with interest.

“You stepped in it again, Mom,” he said casually, and I looked down and noticed the pasty little tracks behind me, and smiled at Peter.

“It's the neighbor's dog,” I explained. “He rented this house for the same month we did. He's been here since we moved in, and he sleeps with Sam.” I was explaining it as I went to clean up the mess and take my shoes off. I wanted to kill the dog, but didn't want him to think I hated dogs, in case he had one. I didn't want him to hate anything about me. And then I wondered why it mattered. What difference did it make? How many more times would I see him? Maybe never. If Charlotte had her way, and maybe even Sam, surely never. Charlotte's glance at him was colder than the refrigerator that had been fixed that morning.

I offered Peter some wine, but he drank one of the Dr Peppers, and we sat in the kitchen for a while, chatting, while the kids monopolized the living room. And eventually, I went to wake the sitter and pay her. He offered to drive her home,
but she had her own car, and after she left, we stood on the porch for a moment, and he asked if I'd like to play tennis the next morning. I explained that I was a mediocre player, which was stretching it. He said he was no Jimmy Connors either, he had an underlying layer of humility, with an overlying layer of healthy self-confidence. He seemed totally at ease in his own skin. But he had good reason to be. He was handsome, intelligent, and charming. And employed, which was refreshing. He said he'd pick me up at ten-thirty.

“Do you want to bring the kids? They can play on another court, or we can play doubles.”

“That would be fun.’ I said dubiously. But I had nowhere else to leave them anyway. The sitter I used worked all day. I had to bring them.

He drove away in his silver Jaguar, and I went back inside to turn off the TV, and tell the kids to go to bed. The dog went straight to Sam's bed, a lot faster than he did. And Charlotte stuck around to express her views on Peter. I could hardly wait to hear them.

“He looks like a dork,” she said with authority, while I was torn between defending him and pretending I didn't care. Either way, I knew I'd be in trouble. If I looked like I cared, it would have piqued her interest. If I didn't, it was open season.

“Why?” I asked casually, taking the turquoise
beads off. He didn't look like a dork to me. Far from it.

“He was wearing Guccis.” What was he supposed to wear? Hiking boots, or Nikes? The Guccis had looked fine to me, so had the blue shirt and white jeans. I thought he looked cool, clean, and sexy. That was good enough for me.

“He's a creep, Mom. He's just taking you out to use you.” It was an interesting observation. But he had paid the check, so if he intended to “use” me, I hadn't noticed. And if he had other means of using me in mind, I wasn't entirely opposed to that prospect.

“He just took me to dinner, Char, he didn't ask for my tax returns. How can you be so cynical at your age?” Had I taught her that? Listening to her made me feel guilty. Maybe I had spoken a little too freely about Roger. But then again, he deserved it. So far, Peter didn't. But this was only the initial skirmish.

“Is he gay?” Sam asked with interest. He had just learned the word, and a rather broad sense of its meaning, and used it at every opportunity, but I assured him I didn't think so.

“He might be,” Charlotte offered helpfully. “Maybe that's why his wife left him.” It was like listening to my mother.

“How do you know she did?” I asked, clearly on the defensive.

“Did
he
leave
her?”
she asked, looking outraged, the defender of wronged womanhood, Joan of Arc with a Dr Pepper in lieu of saber.

“I have no idea who left who, and I don't think it's any of our business. And by the way,” I said, feigning an ease I was far from feeling, “we're playing tennis with him tomorrow.”

“What?”
Charlotte shrieked at me as I tucked Sam and the dog in, and she followed me into my bedroom, where I'd almost forgotten she was still sleeping with me. “I
hate
tennis!”

“You do not. You played all day yesterday.” My point. But only for an instant. She was quicker.

“That was different. That was with kids. Mom, he's ancient, he'll probably have a heart attack and die on the court.” She sounded hopeful.

“I don't think so. He looks like he might last through a couple of sets anyway. We'll go easy on him.”

“I'm not going.” She threw herself on my bed and glared at me, and I thought about strangling her, stopped only by my deep phobia about prison.

“We'll talk about it in the morning,” I said coolly, walked into my bathroom, and closed the door. And as I stood there, I looked in the mirror. What was I doing? Who was this man? And why did I care if my children liked him? Two dates
with him, and I was already trying to sell him to Sam and Charlotte. All the danger signs were there. This had all the earmarks of a truly frightening story. Maybe she was, right. Maybe I should cancel in the morning. Besides, if my kids hated him, what point was there pursuing a romance with him anyway? A
what?
I squeezed my eyes shut and splashed cold water on my face to douse what I was thinking. I could already hear the lions in the Colosseum beginning to smack their lips, anticipating me for dinner.

I put a nightgown on, turned off the lights, and went to bed, and Charlotte was waiting for me. She waited until I was lying in bed in the dark, and she sounded like the child in
The Exorcist
when she asked the next question.

“You really like him, don't you?”

“I don't even know him.” I wanted to sound innocent, but even I could hear that I sounded lonely. But the truth was I had been. And she was right. I liked him.

“Then why are you forcing us to play tennis with a stranger?”

“Then don't play with him. Take a book. You can do your summer reading for school.” I knew that would get her, and it did. She harrumphed loudly at me, turned her back, and was asleep in five minutes.

And Peter was on the porch with his tennis
racket, in white shorts and a T-shirt, at ten-fifteen the next morning. I pretended to ignore the fact that he had the best legs I'd ever seen. I wished mine were as good as I smiled at him and opened the screen door. Sam was at the kitchen table, eating corn flakes and drinking Dr Pepper. It was a serious addiction.

“Did you sleep well?” Peter asked, smiling at me.

“Like a baby.”

We chatted for a minute, as Sam dropped the cornflakes in the sink and they splashed everywhere, and Charlotte appeared in the kitchen, glowering at everyone. But she was carrying her racket.

He had reserved two courts at a club nearby, a very old exclusive one that Roger had always wanted to belong to, but your family had to bequeath you a membership. Roger would have hated Peter. Peter was everything he wasn't.

And as soon as we arrived, Charlotte suggested we play doubles. I knew then that I was in trouble. He thought she was being friendly. And she insisted that I be her partner. Peter teamed up with Sam, who was just learning, and was feeling mildly carsick from the ride over. And then Charlotte went to town on Peter. She creamed him. I have never seen her play so well, or with such energy, or venom. If she'd been training for
the Summer Olympics, I'd have been proud of her. As it was, I was surprised that Peter didn't hit her with his racket, or try to kill her. She was without mercy. And when it was all over, she smiled at him.

“She plays very well,” he said charitably afterward, looking unruffled by her performance. I wanted to strangle her again, and was relieved when she saw friends having Cokes at the bar, and asked if she could join them. I told her she could, if she took Sam with her, which she didn't. And then I apologized to Peter for her blood lust on the courts. “It was fun,” he said, and looked as though he meant it. That was the first time I suspected he was crazy.

“She was trying to prove a point,” I said apologetically, and he laughed.

“She doesn't need to. I'm relatively harmless. She's a bright girl, and she's probably concerned about who I am, and what I'm doing here. That's pretty normal. I warn you, I'm falling in love with Sam though.” And I loved him for it. I had a moment's fantasy about their being friends, and then instantly repressed it. There was no point getting my hopes up.

We chatted easily for a while, and then had lunch with Sam. Charlotte had lunch with her friends on the terrace, and seemed to have forgotten about Peter. Having disposed of him on
the court, she had lost interest in him. There were two fourteen-year-old boys in the group who were far more captivating than he was.

After lunch, Sam swam in the pool, and we sat at the side and watched him. Peter and I talked about a variety of things, and were surprised to discover we shared the same political views, liked the same books, and had the same taste in movies. What else is there? Nothing, really. We both liked hockey too, and were longtime Ranger fans. And had visited and loved all the same places in Europe. He promised to take me sailing. I told him about a show at the Met I was dying to see, and he offered to go with me.

It was a terrific weekend, and so was the next one, and the one after that. Charlotte still thought he was a dork, but there was less energy in her complaining. They saw a lot of the sitter that summer. And he even came out once or twice during the week to spend the night at a hotel and have dinner with me. He definitely didn't fit the profile of the men I'd been dating. He was human.

We had spent some serious time kissing by then, but nothing more, and every night when I came home, Charlotte was diligently waiting up to grill me. I would come in floating on the cloud Peter had left me on, and meet Charlotte's gaze like a splash of icy water.

“So?” it usually began. “Did he kiss you?”

“Of course not.” I felt like an idiot lying to her, but how do you admit to your thirteen-year-old that you've been making out with a man in a Jaguar? When I was her age, they called it necking. I could have offered a history, of course, traveling through the ages to explain the terminology used for harmless sex acts through the centuries, but I knew her better than that. She wouldn't buy it. Lying to her seemed simpler. Besides, I had somehow kept a firm grip on the belief that, whatever happened, and whatever you did or didn't do, you had to pretend you were still a virgin. I had the same obsession when I was dating in college. Roger always thought it was pretty funny.