The Ladies' Man (4 page)

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Was it an engagement party for you and Adele?”

“Look,” says Nash. “I was a brash kid. Insensitive and selfish. I admit it. If I could undo what I did that night, I would.”

“Meaning you wish you had gone through with the marriage?”

“No. That's not what I'm saying. What I'm saying is, I wish I hadn't been such a heel.”

Cynthia is not a soft touch, but Nash is exceptional at sincerity and contrition.

“A heel,” he repeats. “I don't blame anyone for agreeing with that.”

“I'm not blaming you,” she says. “I don't know the facts. Besides, I wouldn't want to be held accountable for anything
I
did when I was still a kid.”

Nash smiles gratefully. He is quite beautiful at fifty-five, especially around the eyes.

Cynthia taps his hand. “I've been told I interrogate people as a form of conversation. It's left over from the case-study method in business school. At least that's my excuse.”

“It's charming.”

Cynthia laughs with her head thrown back, revealing molars free of fillings.

“I'm having a wonderful time,” Nash tells her. “Third degree or no third degree.” He fixes her with another stare, this one boyish and hopeful.

“Wine?” she asks. “They have a surprisingly good list.”

“I like an assertive Bordeaux with my meatloaf,” he says. Cynthia laughs again; she points out the window to a man chasing his wife's runaway umbrella.

“Is this what they call a nor'easter?” Nash asks.

“This is nothing,” says Cynthia. “This'll pass before we get our coffee.”

“I'm not so sure,” says Nash.

She thinks he is interested in seeing her again, in pairing up with her, in forgoing a fiduciary relationship for a personal one.

He
thinks: I wonder how long it's been, if she's overdue, and if gratitude makes her a little wild. “Hungry?” he asks.

She tips his wrist toward her. “We're still on Pacific time. Early for dinner.”

“Damn right,” says Nash. “The night is young.”

They argue over the two slips of paper that constitute the check. Nash prevails after saying, “What kind of men invite you to dinner and let you pay?”

“Clients,” she says dryly. “Cousins on my father's side.”

Even with a bottle of wine, the checks total less than forty dollars. Nash leaves a fifty-dollar bill on the table. As he exits behind Cynthia, the waitress mouths, “Thank you,” and Nash blows a clandestine kiss.

The squall has ended, as Cynthia predicted. They walk the few blocks back to her high-rise so Nash can collect his suitcase. Inside her apartment, in her black-and-white marble foyer, she thanks him for a lovely time.

“Am I being kicked out?” he asks, then begs her indulgence to say what is on his mind.

Hanging up her coat, Cynthia listens over her shoulder.

“I am not in the habit of forcing my company on women,” Nash begins. He pauses, then shifts his suitcase to the other hand as if he were a gentleman caller making his first adult declaration. “I know you must be tired after your trip—and I am too—but I have reached a point in my life where I find it harder and harder to walk away from something when every note playing in my head is telling me not to.”

As designed, the reference to “note” reminds her that he is a musician, an artist.

“I'm not a kid,” he continues. “I should be less impetuous, not more. But I'm also less patient. Also, I've been around. I know when something clicks.”

Cynthia waits; does not liquefy; in fact, appears to be unmoved.

“Feel free to jump in at any time,” says Nash. “Second the motion that I'm not the only one who feels something.”

Cynthia reminds him of his mission across town, the woman he flew cross-country for.

“I'm jet-lagged,” he protests. “I think I should wait until tomorrow.”

“You're a big boy,” she says. “Get it over with.”

“I
am
a big boy,” says Nash—but solemnly and without eye contact so that Cynthia will imagine that his double entendre is a figment of her own growing hope.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

“Men,” she says. She uses her fingers to tick off the guidelines: “The no-no's are: Men I meet on airplanes. Men in town for a week. Men far from home who can make up any stories they want. Men who were never married. Men who have unfinished business with their first loves.”

Nash takes Cynthia's hand in camp-counselor fashion and leads her to a living room love seat. “Let's say, for the sake of argument, you're right to be suspicious. I am, in fact, a man. I did meet you on an airplane. I was never married—which I understand is supposed to mean I have trouble with commitment, or the sex act, or both. Yes, I came to Boston, in part, to apologize face to face with a girl I used to date.” Nash pauses. “Have I misstated anything?”

“I have no way of knowing,” says Cynthia.

“My return ticket is for May twenty-third. One month from now. Would you like to see it?”

“I believe you.”

“Do you think all men are alike?”

“Of course not—”

“Do you think a man who meets you on an airplane, who's never been married, can be sincere? Can have genuine feelings? Or are we all cardboard cutouts?”

“No,” says Cynthia.

“Have
you
been married?” he asks kindly, then shakes his head along with her in woeful tandem.

“Do men make assumptions about women who haven't married?” he asks.

“I know they do.”

“Is that fair?”

“No.”

“But it's acceptable to make assumptions about my character?”

“Consider the alternative,” says Cynthia.

He smiles a kind, pedagogical smile. “Go on; say what's on your mind.”

“I meant, falling for the lines and jumping into things with both feet,” she says.

“What things?”

“Bed,” says Cynthia.

“Bed!” he scoffs.

“Look,” says Cynthia. “We're both grown-ups. We don't have to use euphemisms. ‘Things clicking' and ‘notes playing' generally refer to physical attraction. Am I wrong?”

“No,” Nash says sadly. “You're not wrong.”

“In other words—to sleeping together.”

“Is that bad?” he asks. “Is it a terrible prospect?”

Cynthia protests that she is not talking about the prospect, but the timetable, the pace.

“I see,” says Nash. He slouches until his misunderstood head rests on the back of the love seat, then stares at the recessed light above him. After a minute he says, “I wouldn't have opened my big mouth if I didn't think I was picking up on something that both of us were feeling.” He closes his eyes, exhausted.

At last she emits a “Nash”—part question, part declaration.

He raises himself as if in slow motion to a sitting position, and kisses Cynthia. It is a sweet, lingering, but still chaste kiss, as if it's meant to be all the ecstasy he requires in this lifetime. She raises her chin an inch so that her neck is that much more hospitable, and finds his hand.

“My darling,” says Nash.

R
ichard, rummaging through his sisters' refrigerator, asks, “Got any milk that isn't skim?”

“There should be a half-gallon of two percent,” says Adele. “Check the date.”

“What did he want?” asks Lois.

Richard takes his time: shakes some cereal into a bowl, reaches for a banana, and says, “Nothing.”

“What took you so long if he didn't want anything?” Adele asks.

“He needed directions.”

“Why didn't he go to a gas station?”

“I didn't ask.”

“What did he need directions to?”

“A hotel.”

“He was looking for a hotel on a residential side street in Brookline?”

“He was lost,” says Richard, as big chunks of banana fall into his bowl.

“What did he look like?” asks Lois. “Could you identify him if you had to?”

“In a lineup, you mean?” Richard smiles, and shakes his head: You girls.

“Not every criminal looks suspicious,” says Adele.

“You don't think I can spot someone trying to burglarize an apartment or rape my sisters?”

“He could be a con man,” she insists. “They come in three-piece suits with briefcases.”

“It wasn't a con man,” he states calmly. “It was someone we used to know.”

Adele and Lois, in identical motions, tighten their respective bathrobe sashes and wait.

Richard chews and swallows a mouthful of Grape-Nuts Flakes. “It was Harvey Nash.”

Lois gasps and appears to sag slightly, but Adele just stares at him.

“Where?” says Lois, taking a step toward the front door. “Is he here now?”

“He wanted to speak to Adele, and I told him it was late—you don't just show up at someone's apartment in the middle of the night without warning—and he should call tomorrow.”

“Who the hell made you the dorm mother?” scolds the red-faced Lois.

Richard says, “Yeah, right: ‘Come on up, Harv. The girls are in their bathrobes, but I'm sure they'd love the company. That's Adele over there in curlers.' ”

“Did he ask about Adele?”

“He asked
for
Adele.”

“Is he married?” asks Lois.

“We didn't get into things, especially with Adele interrogating me over the intercom. I'm meeting him for lunch tomorrow.”

“Was he wearing a wedding ring?” asks Lois.

“Look,” says Richard. “It took a few minutes before I even realized who he was. I didn't recognize him—”

“How long is he here for?” asks Lois, sharply enough so that Adele looks away from Richard to examine her sister's feverish expression.

“I don't know. I'll find out tomorrow.”

“What if he doesn't show up for this lunch?”

“He'll show,” says Richard. “It was his idea.”

“Why didn't you find out what happened?” Lois cries.

Richard looks at Adele, whose face is white. “I'll find out tomorrow,” he says quietly.

Adele finally speaks. “I'm going with you,” she says.

Nash takes one look at the modest motel on Beacon Street and decides it won't do for someone trying to impress the Dobbin family or Cynthia John. He asks the taxi driver for something more … “a notch up,” is the phrase he chooses, rejecting the adjectives “upscale” and “deluxe” before speaking them aloud.

“The Ritz or the Four Seasons,” says the driver, “but they can run you three hundred bucks a night.”

“Where else?”

The cabby rattles off the names of a half dozen hotels, all of which Nash recognizes as chains, and one that sounds familiar for reasons he can't name.

“The Copley Plaza?” Nash repeats.

“Old,” says the cabby, “but fixed up. Takes up a whole block. Five, six minutes from here at this time of night.”