The Ladies' Man (29 page)

Richard surveys what pieces are left on his platter and eats something big and beige. “Mmmm,” he says. “Giant clam.” He pours himself more beer from their large bottle and says, “There's a key piece of information you're forgetting about Nora, which, understandably, got lost in the trauma of—you know—lunch with Harvey.”

“Remind me.”

“Nora has a track record as a lesbian,” Richard says solemnly, “but not an unbroken one.”

“Richard,” Adele begins, then sighs.

“I know, I know: Lois says the same thing—”

“Lois?”

“I took her out for a drink on Friday night, and we got on the subject of my love life, and she expressed the same ambivalence over Nora's … ambivalence.”

“She's right. For once Lois is right.”

“Now, now.” Richard's expression brightens at the prospect of delivering gossip. “She's a blonde! Did you know that?”

“Nora?”

“Lois!”

“Does it look good?”

“It does
not
look good.”

“Does she think it looks good?”

“She must. She said she tried on a blond wig at Filene's before she made the decision, and that convinced her.”

“It's sad,” says Adele. “That's what it is: sad. Going blond at fifty-one.”

“How about running away from home at fifty-one? That strikes me as even sadder.”

“She'll be back,” says Adele.

“Did you want to give me shit about Nora? You're welcome to if that would make you feel better.”

Adele smiles sadly. “You're the dearest boy,” she says.

L
orenz's father is not cooperating with efforts to lure him out of the apartment. He says “No thank you” to an invitation from his daughter in Plymouth, and “No!” less graciously to a weekend in Atlantic City with his brother-in-law.

“Papi,” Lorenz finally says. “Look, I'd like to have the place to myself for one night, okay? Dinner through breakfast? A little privacy.”

They are at the kitchen sink, father washing, son drying. Mr. Sampedro evidences no vicarious macho pleasure. “I don't like it,” he says.

“Don't like what?”

“What you're thinking about.”

“Which is what?”

“A private party. The two of you—”

“I thought you liked Kathleen.”

“Don't be a wise guy! You know what I mean.”

“It's not like that. I'm not plotting anything. Kathleen's in on this too.”

Mr. Sampedro stops thrashing his hands in the gray water and barks, “Don't tell me lies.”

“We're not kids. We discuss these things like mature adults.” He pauses. “And we think it's time.”

Mr. Sampedro has never heard of such a thing. He knows
women don't discuss sex as if they're making plans to see a show; they let you or they don't let you. Unless it's a honeymoon, they don't circle a date on a calendar.

“You'd rather we go to a motel? Because we certainly can do that—get a nice unit on Revere Beach Boulevard. Maybe even one with heat.”

Mr. Sampedro shuffles to the stove, takes the front burners back to the sink with him, and dusts them with Ajax. He mutters in Spanish about burnt-on spills, not his doing, then spits out, “Revere? That's your idea of a nice place to take a girl?”

“I was teasing you. You're acting like I'm your teenage virgin daughter. What happened to your big speech when we decided to try this arrangement? ‘Ignore me! Invite your friends over. Pretend I'm not here!' ”

“You're the one who can't ignore me. I
want
to be ignored.”

“I'm forty-nine years old. We're not kids, and we're not cheating on anyone. Don't make us sneak into a motel.”

Mr. Sampedro puts on big blue rubber gloves, then turns the water to scalding. “Take her to the Four Seasons or the Ritz Hotel, by the swans. You can afford a night there.”

“I don't have to show off for her. Besides, she'd give me a hard time and would want to split the bill.”

Mr. Sampedro recoils. “Don't you let her! How much can it be for a big night out—a hundred and fifty bucks?”

“Double that, minimum, plus room tax, breakfast. Coffee's five dollars from room service.”

Mr. Sampedro thinks this over. “You make good money. You can spend it.”

“I'll do that for an anniversary, but I want a routine. I want to take her out to dinner or a movie, then I want to be alone with her.” He tries to take a dripping burner from his father, who won't let go, saying it will leave smudges on his towel. “Are you worried that if things move forward, I'll want you to move out?” Lorenz asks.

Mr. Sampedro is not worried because, one floor below, the widow of Amato Nocera is moving to a place for old people in Randolph that brings you the big meal of the day. She's freeing up a one-bedroom, spotless, with a self-cleaning oven and Levolor
blinds. “I'm not worried about nothing!” he shouts. “Leave me alone. I'll go to Anita's when I feel like it.”

Lorenz reaches over and turns the water off. “What's the real problem? Are your feelings hurt because I'm farming you out for a couple of days?”

His father says angrily, “I didn't raise you to bring girls home to your bed. This is no place for that! We got no nice pillows! Under the pillowcases they're all stained. And the shower curtain needs replacing. It's got mildew on the edges.”

Lorenz laughs and wraps one arm around his father's resistant shoulders for a squeeze. “That's it? You're house-proud?”

“She won't like it. She won't come back.”

“And you want her to? Is that what I'm hearing? You like my girlfriend?”

“You're too old for a girlfriend! You should get married before it's too late.”

“One step at a time. I'm just trying to negotiate the big one.”

“Joker!” Mr. Sampedro raises his wet glove and fakes a chop.

“I'm teasing you. She's not going to be inspecting the apartment.”

“Have you seen her house?”

“The lobby.”

“It probably looks like where you work, with a revolver door and marble on the floors.”

“She thinks her building has no character.” He transfers his towel to his father's shoulder. “Let me finish up here. And tomorrow I'll buy new pillows and I'll toss out all the ones stained with our drool.”

Cornered, Mr. Sampedro fakes a hospitable smile. “What about this: You bring her here. I'll cook something special—I can make Italian food—and then I'll go to bed the minute we're done. I won't even clean up till the morning. You can smooch in the parlor till it's time for her to go home, and then you can drive her.”

“No. You'll go to Anita's. I'll put you on the bus here, and she'll pick you up in Plymouth.”

“When?”

“Monday night. I have Tuesday off, and Kathleen doesn't open
till ten.” Lorenz smiles. “One night. It's the best plan, and it's easier than getting rid of her sisters.”

Scowling, Mr. Sampedro shakes more Ajax on the burners.

“You think I'm going to blow it, and you'll never see her again? Is that it? I'll offend her?”

“She's a nice lady,” he growls. “Not some neighborhood girl with an itch.”

“She likes me,” says Lorenz. “A lot.”

Kathleen doesn't pack an overnight bag at home, because she has all that she needs for her date among her wares at The Other Woman. Lorenz has never ogled any particular undergarment or category of undergarments, so she uses her own judgment and chooses a silvery nightgown, silk charmeuse, fitted and ankle-length, something she could go dancing in if only big bands still played at night clubs. In the back room, she is steaming its creases, admiring its French seams, when the shop bell rings.

“Be right there!” she calls.

A woman's voice answers, “Ms. Dobbin?”

She sets the steamer down and unplugs it. It is Cynthia John in an orange sweatshirt and flowing, flowered palazzo pants, drinking coffee from a Fredo's travel mug. Unbidden, Cynthia pinches a fold of sweatshirt and says, “This is purely for comfort. I'm working at home today.
Finally
.”

Kathleen understands it is a cue. “Finally?” she repeats.

“I couldn't work at home while he tinkered with the same stupid few notes like a broken record.”

“Do you mean Nash?”

“You heard him at the party! He was trying to give the impression that all we were about was work. That he rented studio space from me by day and used the guest room by night.”

“But that wasn't true?”

Cynthia says, “He slept in my bed, Kathleen. With me, his so-called roommate. I'm old enough to remember when that wasn't done, so I hope you know I'm not bragging.”

Kathleen looks away to welcome two women who chat their way through the door, carrying Newbury Street bags that identify them
as serious shoppers, and tumblers of fruit salad that testify to a pass through Quincy Market. Both have subtle and professional blond streaks in their sleek hair, wonderful blazers, and early tans. Kathleen says with true regret, “I'm so sorry, but I don't allow food in here.”

Cynthia raises her coffee mug and says smartly, “This is water.”

“We'll finish and come back,” says the younger woman. “I see all kinds of new goodies.”

“I have some fabulous new washable silks,” Kathleen calls after them.

They stop.

“Kimonos, short and packable. And tees from Fazzoletto.”

“Two minutes!” says one.

“Or sooner,” says the other.

When the door closes behind them, Cynthia asks, “And who might they be, the delirious shoppers?”

“The Perlmutters. The daughter's engaged and the mother believes in trousseaus.”

“Unfortunately,” says Cynthia, “I'll be back to utilitarian underwear and flannel nightgowns. Too bad the teddies aren't returnable.”

“They are if they haven't been worn and the tags are attached.”

“Oh, they've been
worn!
Very much worn. Worn and then fished out from between the bedclothes in the morning!”

Kathleen would like Cynthia to leave, especially now that the Perlmutters are hovering outside, pointing animatedly with plastic forks at the matching bandeaux and tap pants in the window.

“Do you have to get back to work?” Kathleen asks.

Cynthia stares at Kathleen making red felt-tip notations on price tags hanging from the very silk goods just touted. “Are you marking those down? With those women out there salivating and waving their credit cards?”

“I was going to anyway. I've got bathing suits in the back and I need the room.”

“Wait a half hour,” says Cynthia. “Jeesh.”

The Perlmutters return. Cynthia says, “I was just saying that I agree: These silk tees are incredible. I have them in a couple of colors. On two little birds like you they'd be long enough to sleep in.”

“We're shopping for
her
,” says the mother. She smiles. “For her trousseau.”

Cynthia says, “Now, there's a word I haven't heard since nineteen sixty.”

The daughter moves to the circular rack and pushes padded hangers back and forth.

“Men love silk,” adds Cynthia. “My ex did. Although he liked things a little trashier and scantier. Which she carries if you know where to look.”

“Cynthia lives in the building,” says Kathleen.

“And I'm interning here,” says Cynthia.

The women excuse themselves to finger a camisole on a silver mannequin.

“I was kidding! I'm in finance. Which waits for no man.” She sighs but doesn't move.

Mrs. Perlmutter says, “It must be nice to work at home and not have to worry about heels and hose and … dry cleaning.”

“This?” says Cynthia, stretching the side seam of her palazzo pants out at the hip. “This is depression. I'm in the throes of a breakup, which has hit me like a ton of bricks.”