Through the Grinder (7 page)

I just knew I wouldn’t get through this night without hearing Nan’s rules for the little girls’ and boys’ rooms.

“Okay, remember, five minutes!” cried Nan excitedly, setting the dial on an old-fashioned kitchen timer. “On your marks, get set, go!”

M
R.
Slick.

Mr. Jock.

Mr. Type A.

Mr. Freeloader.

Mr. Superficial Artsy.

Mr. Far Too Old.

Mr. FunnyBook Boy.

Mr. Cabby/Musician.

Mr. Mama’s Boy.

Mr. Moviefone.

Mr. Wall Street.

Mr. Borderline Clinically Depressed.

Okay. I know it’s demeaning to reduce people to single-phrase descriptions, but what can I say? I’d been reduced to twenty separate five-minute “McMeetings” with twenty different men—and our hostess had given me a Hello Kitty notepad and pencil. So how else could I keep track?

Besides, label-writing was in my blood. I’d done it for years growing up in Pennsylvania, helping my immigrant Italian grandmother jar her tomatoes and peaches every August.

Consequently, given a uniform process, I couldn’t see why selecting potential dates had to be any more complicated a recipe than preserving fruit. I simply pictured each man’s face on a canning jar with a succinctly written summation of his chief identifying traits.

In any event, I was still reeling from the news that two of my customers, attractive and intelligent young women, had killed themselves within weeks of each other. And my only child was sitting on the other side of the room, ready to offer herself to one of these potential heartbreakers.

I looked at each with a mother’s critical eye and the underlying question, “Okay, which of you jokers actually thinks in your wildest dreams that you’re good enough to play with my daughter’s affections?”

Scorecard at the ready, I showed no mercy.

Currently at bat was an attractive, well-groomed, well-dressed blond in his early twenties with the nametag “Percy.” Graphic designer. Well educated. Good potential for my Joy.

“Okay, Percy, are you on any drugs or medication?” I asked him.

His gray green eyes widened. “No…well, just an anti-histamine for my allergies.”

“Have you ever been arrested?”

“Uh.” He blinked. “No.”

“Are you sure? I saw that blink.”

“Well,” he admitted, “when I was seventeen, I was swept up in a police raid of a club that allowed underage drinking. But that was it. Really.”

I nodded. It sounded innocent enough. Next question: “What made you come here tonight?”

The young man crossed and uncrossed his legs, then nervously tapped one foot. “Well, I’ve been dating around on-line, you know? LoungeLife.com and SinglesNYC mostly, but nothing serious came out of those encounters, so I decided to try this. My last long-term relationship lasted for a little over two years though.”

“What was the reason for the breakup?”

“Oh, we just weren’t communicating. But mostly, he was insanely jealous, and I couldn’t take it anymore. One of those high I.Q., high-strung types. Know what I mean?”

“Where do you see yourself in five years—” I stopped and looked up from the pink notepad. “Wait. You mean
she,
don’t you? She was insanely jealous?”

“No.”

“You’re telling me you were dating a man?”

“Yes.”

I frowned. “But tonight you’re looking for a woman?”

“Yes.”

Mr. Switch-hitter,
I wrote.

“Aren’t you familiar with the term
bisexual?
” he asked.

“Aren’t you familiar with the movie
Far From Heaven
?” I responded.

“Okay, now your sounding like my ex, forever telling me to pick a team.”

“Well, maybe you should.”

“It’s my life.”

“Not exactly,” I said. “Not if you involve another person in it and then change your mind.”

“That’s harsh.”

“No, honey, that’s a mother’s point of view—the truth is, I’m screening you guys for my daughter, not myself.”

“Oh,” said the young man. His gaze shifted, first to my ringless left hand and then to my outfit.

I’d wanted to fit in tonight, so I dressed in what I felt was appropriate—high-heeled black boots, black stockings, and a form-fitting dark green burnt-velvet dress with a sweetheart neckline. Nothing too upscale or down.

“But you’re not married, right?” Percy said, gesturing to my left hand. “And you’re pretty much a hottie, if you don’t mind my saying so. Why not look for yourself while you’re at it?” He gave me a flirty little smile.

“Thanks. Really. But I’m too old for this. And for you,” I added gently.

“Nonsense. Haven’t you heard of ‘tadpoling’?”

Bing!
went the kitchen timer. “TIME!” cried Nan. “Wrap up your meetings and shake, everyone!”

I stuck out my hand. “You should introduce yourself to my assistant manager, Tucker. He’s right downstairs. Something tells me you two would hit it off.”

Mr. Switch-hitter shook my hand and shrugged. “Whatever.”

“All right, gentlemen,” Nan called, clapping her hands. “Let’s move to your next potential Ms. Right!”

I flipped the Hello Kitty notepad to a fresh pink page.

Next at bat: a muscular guy in his mid-twenties with a strong chin, short black hair, and a trimmed black goatee. He wore trendy, black-framed glasses, black jeans, and a distressed leather jacket. His nametag read “Mars.”

He sat opposite me and stared.

“Mars is an interesting name,” I said, trying to break the black ice.

“It’s a nickname,” he said without changing his expression. Or blinking.

Mr. Intense,
I wrote while waiting for him to say more.

He didn’t.

“We don’t have to talk,” I said. “I mean, if you’ve already made your connections for the night.”

“Connec
tion,
” he said. “Singular. One. You’ve guessed correctly. I’ve already made it.” He looked across the room—in the general direction of my Joy, which made me extremely nervous.

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself anyway,” I suggested, trying to remain calm.
Just in case my daughter completely ignores my pleas to shred your phone number and goes out with you anyway.

“Whatever,” he said, shrugging again.

I waited. Nothing. He just kept staring across the room.

“Are you on any drugs?” I asked pointedly.

That got his attention. He swung his dark, intense gaze back toward me. “Are
you?
” he asked.

“Yes. Caffeine,” I said flatly.

His eyebrows rose, and there was the slightest lifting at the corner of his lips. The minimalist’s version of a smile, I presumed.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll play. I’m not on any drugs. At present.”

“Have you ever been arrested?”

“Yes, actually.”

Why was I not surprised? “What did you do?”

The smile was slightly more pronounced. He interlaced his fingers across his chest. “Nothing you want to hear about, believe me.”

Great.

“Try me anyway,” I suggested.

But there was no answer. He just looked away, across the room again—toward my Joy.

“What do you do for a living?” I asked.

“Paint. I’m a painter. And a genius.”

Bing!

“TIME!” called Nan.

Mars stood up, put his hands in his leather jacket pockets, and stared down at me intensely. “Charmed,” he said, then walked away.

I shivered. Crossing my legs, I propped the notepad on my thigh, scratched out
Mr. Intensity
and replaced it with
Mr. Weirdly Intense Painter.

There was just no way I could let Joy near that guy. No way. If there was any prospective “connection” more potentially dangerous than Mars, I had yet to meet him.

“Well, well, well,” said a familiar voice. “Together again.”

I looked up to find the refined features and curly black hair of Brooks Newman. He wore a cream-colored crewneck sweater over tailored charcoal-colored slacks. Brooks seemed to be on the prowl because his hazel eyes appeared much sharper tonight as he looked me over.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “I thought SinglesNYC.com was your stomping ground?”

Brooks shrugged. He moved to the armchair opposite me, sat down, and crossed his legs. “I told you I liked your cappuccinos.”

“Decaf.”

“Not tonight.” A small smile lifted his thin lips. “Tonight I feel like I might enjoy some…stimulation. How about you?”

“I’ve had mine,” I said flatly, holding up my empty French café cup.

“Yes,” he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “but on a cold, cold night like this…wouldn’t you like
more
to warm you up?”

“No.”

“You look very nice tonight,” he said, leaning back and surveying my green velvet dress. I instantly regretted the low cut of the sweetheart neckline, which is where his gaze remained fixed. “That color brings out your eyes.”

Oh, really? That must be why you’re staring at my cleavage.
I glanced toward Nan, trying to estimate how many more minutes I had to endure this.

“I can’t imagine you’re enjoying yourself,” I told him. “This sort of thing really doesn’t seem your cup of java.”

“Yours, either, Clare. I thought you weren’t interested in hooking up with men. Just screening them for your daughter.”

“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I’m doing.” I took the pencil and scribbled on the notepad.
Brooks Newman: Mr. No Way.

His eyebrows rose. “I’ve met your daughter already—around the little circle here. Joy Allegro. I didn’t consider your having different last names, but then, you’re divorced, so I assume Cosi’s your maiden name? Anyway, she’s quite attractive. Very bubbly. Energetic. I can see the resemblance.”

I frowned and changed the subject. “And how are you coming with the lingerie model fundraiser for vegans?”

My caustic tone didn’t seem to phase him. His smile just broadened. “Younger women threaten you, do they?”

Not for the first time, I pictured pointing the espresso machine’s steam nozzle at his face—with the valve opened full throttle.

“Listen, buddy, I’m not the one visiting Renu Spa every weekend to ward off the wrinkles.”

“Clare, I know what women like you need,” he said lowly. “And it’s not a shot of caffeine.”

“No?”

“No. It’s a good, potent shot of sex.” He leaned forward, toward my crossed legs, and with the tip of his finger, drew a little circle on my stocking-covered knee. “How about it? You and me…let’s hook up tonight.”

A shudder of revulsion ran through me, and I pushed his hand away.

“I’m not your type, Brooks.”

He laughed. “To tell you the truth, the young ones aren’t always as energetic as your daughter. Out of bed, and a lot of times in, too. And I’m betting a mature woman like you makes things interesting…between the sheets.”

The man was dancing around his intentions, but I’d swear he was actually contemplating getting me and my daughter into bed with him at the same time.

If looks could kill, I gave him one that would at least send him to St. Vincent’s ER. “Brooks, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m being less than receptive.”

“Where there’s sparks, there’s fire.” He moved farther forward, and before I could stop him, his fingers were on my knee again and moving up my thigh.

Bing!
Saved by the kitchen timer.

“Hands to yourself,” I hissed, shoving him away a second time. “Move along. I mean it.”

Man, what a creep,
I thought with a shudder. Only Brooks Newman could turn Nan’s innocent little playgroup into a play
grope
.

“All right, gentlemen,” Nan called. “Let’s move to your next potential Ms. Right!”

Still agitated, I flipped the Hello Kitty notepad to a fresh pink page. “More like Ms. Right Now,” I muttered.

“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Now.”

I looked up to find the next Power Meet participant, a fortyish man with chiseled features and a thick head of brown hair. His caramel-colored eyes looked curious and slightly amused by my comment. He held out his hand and smiled.

I shook it. A warm, firm shake.

“I’m Bruce,” he said. “In case you can’t read the ‘Hello, My Name is’ tag covering half my chest here.”

My turn to smile. “I’m Clare.”

I politely looked him over. A gorgeous suede jacket hung handsomely off broad shoulders. Beneath the jacket was a white, open-collared button-down that tapered into worn jeans.

“I’ve seen you here before,” he said. “But downstairs.”

He sat down and leaned back, crossing a workbooted foot over a jean-clad knee. He seemed totally relaxed. “Comfortable in his own skin,” was how Madame would put it in one of her favorite French phrases. In her view, too many urban Americans—“over-educated, over-stressed, over-anxious urban Americans” as she put it—too often weren’t.

I looked at Bruce again. He did seem slightly familiar. “You’re one of our customers?”

“I come in when I can. You have the best cappuccinos in the city.”

Oh, I like this guy,
I thought.
But not for Joy. Too old for Joy.
I relaxed with that thought, knowing I wouldn’t have to grill him with my “Screening for Psychos” list of questions.

“Thanks,” I said. “Are you from New York?”

“Originally, I’m from San Francisco.”

“That’s a real coffee town.”

He nodded, his caramel-colored eyes brightening. “Absolutely. You know, your espressos are like nothing I’ve tasted before. They’re like the perfect cross between the North Beach espressos I used to drink back home and the espressos I’ve tasted in Milan.”

My jaw dropped. “You can’t know that. Like ten people in the world know that.”

He shrugged. “I can’t pull an espresso worth a damn. And I can’t tell you
why
it tastes like that. I just know it does.”

I nodded. “It’s the beans and roasting process. The Milanese Italians like a subtler, sweeter espresso. The North Beach Italians like the more pungent, rougher espresso. Madame likes to say we’re geographically and gastronomically between the two.”