Together Alone (16 page)

“Dinner’s ready, Frank!” she called and began to eat. “This is very good. What a perfect size ham. I’ll be able to make a package for Emily and one for the detective.” She took another bite. “And I’ll mash the potatoes for the little girl. Children love mashed potatoes.”

She wondered when Julia’s birthday was, thinking that a party under the willow would the
most
delightful thing. But something told her that the birthday wasn’t until spring. She couldn’t possibly wait that long.

October was already here. If she didn’t do something soon, the ground would freeze and the snow would come, and then all hope would be gone until the thaw. But she
couldn’t
wait that long.

A tea party wasn’t right. The detective wouldn’t be interested in that, any more than her sons had been, and she had certainly invited them often enough. Dinner, perhaps. Or a cookout. Yes. A cookout. Emily would bring the grill, and Myra would do the rest.

But it had to be soon. Fall was here. The leaves were changing.

She glanced out the window toward the pond, and in the next instant was jumping up from her chair, scurrying out the back door and down the steps.

“Shoooo! Shooooo!” she cried and watched the Canada geese fly off. “Messy little pests,” she muttered, “doing their business under my willow.” She scrutinized the grass there, relaxing marginally when it appeared to be clean. She bent to pluck up the few bits of lint that had gathered in the short time since she had last been out. Then she sat down on the scrolled wrought-iron bench and envisioned the day when she could relax completely, when she would be unburdened and safe. She ached for that day, ached so badly sometimes that she terrified herself, thinking that she was having a heart attack, or a gall bladder attack, or an arthritis attack that would paralyze her for good.

A cookout. That would be just the thing. A hamburger would lure him if he was anything like her sons, and then once he was here, he would know. She wouldn’t have to say a word.

That was the way she wanted it.

A
NOTHER LONG WEEK PASSED. EMILY WAS PLODDING
along in a state of limbo when she arrived at the Eatery Monday evening. After being buffeted in turn by highs and lows, she was emotionally bruised, and there were no answers in sight.

Grateful, at least, to know where she was headed at this very moment in time, she zeroed in on Kay and Celeste and headed their way, only to stop when she found Brian and Julia in a booth along the way.

Her heart skipped a beat, then resurged with a spill of warmth. Brian affected her that way. He was the one most often responsible for her highs.

“Hey,” she said, smiling. Two pairs of pale blue eyes touched her, both mellow and warm. “How are you guys?”

“Not bad,” Brian answered for the two. “Thought we’d eat out tonight.” He shot a look around. “I figured this place would be empty on a Monday, but half the town’s here.”

“Recuperating from the weekend,” Emily said. When Julia offered up a french fry, she took it. “What a sweet little girl. Thank you.” She took a bite. “Mmmmm. This is good. Are you sharing with your daddy?” She smiled when Julia pushed a fry toward Brian’s mouth, and kept smiling when he sucked it in like a piece of spaghetti.

Oh, he was bad, and sexy, and dangerously attentive, looking into her with those appetizing eyes of his. She half-wished she could scoot in and have dinner right here.

But she had more proper plans. With a glance over her shoulder, she said, “My dates are waiting. See you later?”

He nodded, and as she turned away, she thought about twists of fate. The tenant she hadn’t wanted was turning out to be a lifeline for her. Brian was easygoing, understanding, and appealing—for which reason she should be keeping her distance, but she couldn’t. She awoke each morning looking forward to seeing him.

Proper? No. Exciting? Definitely.

Still high when she reached Kay and Celeste, she slid into the booth with a grin. “Hi, guys.”

“Is that Brian?” Celeste asked.

Emily slipped out of her jacket. “Uh-huh.”

“Nice-looking guy. Very masculine.”

“He has a child,” Emily reminded her. “You’re not interested.”

“He has great eyes. I saw them on my way in. They stop you in your tracks, know what I mean?”

Did she ever. “Heeey, lookin’
good
,” she said, scrutinizing Celeste’s face.

“Well,
I
thought so,” Celeste complained, “which is why I agreed to eat out again.” She shot a disparaging glance at the Eatery’s clientele. “Would you believe no one’s noticed?”

“Isn’t that good? You don’t want them to notice. You want them to think you look wonderful but be too shy to say so, lest they imply that you didn’t look good before.”

“Emily’s right,” Kay said.

But Celeste remained doubtful. “There’s still some swelling. They’re probably thinking something’s wrong with me.”

Emily glanced around. She saw familiar faces, one after the other, and acknowledged a few before turning back. “Is anyone staring? No. And you know they would if they thought something was wrong.”

“The surgeon told me to allow six weeks. It’s only been four and a half.”

“So, there you go,” Emily said.

Kay turned to her. “You’re chipper. Does that mean things went well with Doug?”

But Emily wasn’t ready to talk about Doug. “First, you guys.” To Kay, “How’s school?”

“Great. The kids are finally getting into the swing of things. Summer vacation sets them back. It takes a full month to get them working up to speed again.”

“Hi, Mrs. Arkin,” said their waitress, Jenny Yeo. “Can I get you a drink?”

Emily saw iced teas sitting in front of Kay and Celeste. “I’ll have the same. Are we ready to order?” she asked the others. She hadn’t eaten an actual meal since brunch the day before, and she knew the Eatery’s menu by heart. “I’m starved.”

Celeste ordered the Southwestern salad, Emily chicken fajitas, and Kay nachos with extra hot cheese and jalapeño peppers, “Because I’m in a daring mood,” she explained, and, when Jenny had left, said, “I’ve been lobbying for it for years, and the go-ahead just came through. We’re starting a debate team.”

“In eighth grade?” Celeste asked.

“Sure. Okay, so the debates won’t be polished, but it’s a great introduction to public speaking. We’ll be competing around the state on Saturday afternoons.”

“We, as in you, personally?” Emily asked.

“I am the adviser.”

“Does John know?”

“No, but he won’t mind. He doesn’t count on me on Saturdays.”

Emily wondered if that was by choice or default. Kay always seemed to have something to do on Saturdays that kept her occupied and out of reach. One year it was a community service project, another year a class-wide internship with the local newspaper, now the debate team. As noble as those activities were, Emily didn’t know that
she
would immerse herself so totally, if she had as kind a man as John waiting for her at home.

“If we start the kids younger,” Kay was saying, “we’ll get them involved before they reach that disgusting stage where they’re either too self-conscious to speak before a group, or too social to want to bother. Which was it with our kids?”

Emily thought back several years. “For Jill, a little of both. The self-consciousness came from social awareness. She wanted to blend in, not stand out.”

“Marilee was self-conscious, long before she was socially aware. She didn’t like her hair, didn’t like her complexion, didn’t know
what
to do with the things growing on her chest.”

“Dawn never had that problem,” Celeste said dryly. “She is small-busted to this day, but defiant enough not to care.”

“That’s precisely why she won the Shakespeare competition last year,” Kay suggested. “She isn’t inhibited. She just went out there and gave it her all.”

“Yeah. On two days’ notice and with little preparation. I felt bad for those kids who spent weeks rehearsing. It didn’t seem fair. I told Dawn that. She’s going to want something someday and assume that it’ll come just as easily, but it won’t. She’s in for a fall.”

“She’s very bright,” Emily argued on Dawn’s behalf.

“So are the other kids she’s competing with now. If she doesn’t study, she’ll find herself at the bottom of the heap.”

“So, is she studying?”

“She says she is. She says she loves it. I told her that if she wants to keep on loving it, she’d better buckle down, or she’ll find herself booted out and back home with me, in which case I will be
furious
with her.”

“What did she says to that?”

“She says she’d run away first.”

“With a laugh, naturally.”

“Unfortunately.”

“But you have to hand it to her,” Kay said. “She has guts.”

“She gets those from me.” With a flourish, Celeste drew a large manilla envelope from her lap and opened the clasp. “Are you ready?”

“Uh-oh.”

“Responses to your ad?”

“My God, that’s some pile.

“I’m not sure I want to hear.”

“They’re interesting,” Celeste said and picked up the first. “ ‘Dear GC403’—that’s my mailbox at the magazine—‘I am forty-eight and tall, and I do like fine wine, good music, and adventure. My ex-wives say that I’m no knight in shining armor, but I’m working on that.’ ”

“Ex-wives, plural?” Kay asked.

Celeste turned to the next letter. “ ‘Dear Sexy Blond DWF, Everything about you sounds great, only you don’t say how much you weigh. If you are at all ashamed of your body, we aren’t for each other. I am a practicing nudist.’ ”

“He’s direct,” Emily mused. She folded her hands together. “You’re right. These are interesting.” And certainly a diversion from the rest of her thoughts. “Go on.”

“ ‘Dear GC403, I am a gastroenterological surgeon at Massachusetts General Hospital. I have degrees from the Choate School, Harvard, and Harvard Medical School. I have served on three different president’s commissions and have published fifty-six articles in twenty-one prestigious medical journals in ten foreign countries.’ ”

“Humble.”

“Wait,” Celeste said with a grin, setting the doctor aside. “This gets better.” She held up the next for them to see. “Hand-typed, single-spaced, at the very top of the page, with
no
letterhead.” She read, ‘I am the presedent’—misspelled—‘of a large corperation’—misspelled—‘which has offices in New York, Texas, and San Antonio.’ ”

Emily laughed. “Celeste, these are
awful
.”

“Don’t they get any better?” Kay asked.

Celeste nodded, still grinning. “But you gotta hear these, so you can appreciate the good ones.” She waved a torn piece of paper. “Here’s my ad. This guy circles it, writes in the margin, ‘Send picture,’ along with his own post office box. Screw him,” she said with feeling and turned to the next. “Here we go. This one is sweet. ‘Dear GC403, I am blond, too, and my friends say that I’m sexy, though since I don’t turn myself on, I can’t know that for sure. I am a SWM, who is six-four and into whitewater rafting. When I’m not shooting the rapids, I am writing articles for a regional magazine. I love sitting by a campfire and making love under the stars. If you don’t have a hang-up about dating a younger man, give me a call.’ ”

“Younger?” Emily asked. “How much younger?”

“He put his age as an afterthought at the bottom of the page, very small, like he really feels it’s insignificant.”

“How old?” Kay asked.

“Twenty-five.”

“And he knows you’re forty-three? He must have an Oedipus complex.”

Celeste looked doubtful. “He does sound sweet, not to mention honest and interesting. Besides, there is something to be said for young flesh.”

“Please, Celeste,” Kay protested and turned to Emily. “Tell her she’s nuts.”

Emily couldn’t do that. The man did sound sweet and honest and interesting. Not that Emily would want to date a twenty-five-year-old, if she were free. She would want to date someone her own age.

“Is that the best?” she asked Celeste over the rim of her newly arrived iced tea.

“No. Here’s a cute one. ‘I am forty-four, tall, dark, and handsome, and definitely sexy. I am a banker by profession. I am also an avid reader who has just discovered poetry and would like someone to discuss it with. I do feel that I have to be up front and tell you that I am currently serving two to five years at the federal penitentiary in Allentown—’ ”

“Let’s hear the
good
ones,” Kay prompted.

“You don’t want to hear about the guy who says he’s been a victim all his life?”

“No.”

“Or the guy who says he likes black lace?”

“
No
.”

“Okay.” Celeste set down several of the letters. “Here. This one isn’t bad. ‘Dear Sexy Blond DWF, I am a fifty-year-old widower with three children. Now that my youngest has just left home to go to college, I am looking to form new relationships. I am British by birth, am chivalrous to a fault, and do indeed like fine wine, adventure, and song. If five-ten is tall enough for you, drop me a note.’ ” She looked up. “Think he might be too stuffy?”

Kay shrugged. “He says he likes adventure.”

“But what if he’s only saying that because I said it?”

Emily was uncomfortable with the prospect of Celeste actually going out with these men. “Isn’t that what you have to ask yourself? How honest will any respondent be?”

“He doesn’t say he’s drop-dead gorgeous,” Celeste reasoned. “He doesn’t say he’s ultra-tall. And he’s certainly at the same stage in life as me. But if he’s stuffy—”

Kay gestured toward the letters in her hand. “Read another of the good ones.”

Setting the widower aside, Celeste skimmed over the next. “This one sounds straightforward. He starts off by saying that this is the first time he has answered an ad, but that he hates the singles scene almost as much as he hates being fixed up by friends. He says that he doesn’t like dancing around issues, the way men and women often do. ‘I am in health care management. I am also a marathoner, which means that I am tall and slim, but that I spend much of my free time training, so I don’t have time to waste. I am looking for a woman who can be honest with me about things that she does or does not want to do.’ ”

“Hi, ladies.”

“John!” Kay cried. “What are you doing here?”

He shrugged and looked idly around. “There was nothing doing at home. I figured I’d take a ride. The car brought me here.”

“Cute, but you can’t eat with us. There are no men allowed at this booth.”

He looked lonesome. Emily’s heart went out to him.

“Whatcha got there, Celeste?” he asked.

“Here?” Celeste looked at the papers in her hand. “Uh, letters. Letters I wrote to my parents. At different times. Growing up.”

He craned his neck. “Anything funny?”

“Nah,” she said, pushing the papers aside. “Just girls’ stuff.”

“Ah.” He put his hands in his pockets. “What’d you order?”

“Salads, fajitas, and chips,” Kay said. “Did you see Brian over there?”

John looked around. “Huh. Maybe I’ll go say hello. Join him for a cup of coffee. Looks like the baby’s asleep.”

Julia was indeed. Emily melted at the sight of them, her with her head on Brian’s shoulder, and him with his back to the wall and his legs sprawled along the booth bench. He looked like he was half-asleep himself, though he gestured John over.

“Close,” Kay breathed when he left.

Celeste made a noise. “I hate lying.”

“You could have told him the truth.”

“Really.” She drew the papers front and center again. “So. What’s the verdict on the marathoner?”

Emily supposed that he was better than the others. “Not bad.”

“A maybe,” Kay decided. “How many more do you have?”

“Just two.” Celeste lifted the first of those. “ ‘Dear Sexy Blond DWF, I was attracted to the part of your ad that said your second life was just beginning. I feel that way about mine. My wife of twelve years recently left me for a childhood sweetheart.’ ”

“Poor guy,” Kay said.

Celeste read on. “ ‘I’m a veterinarian, with a successful practice. Since I’ve always loved animals, I consider myself fortunate to be doing something that I find satisfying. Many people don’t have that. I am not a playboy, but I am a romantic. I much prefer intimate dinners at home, eaten in front of the fireplace, to dinners at fancy restaurants. I like Bach, Beethoven, and Liszt, though I have been known to go on easy-listening binges with the likes of the Eagles, Cat Stevens, or Simon and Garfunkel. I chop my own firewood, by the way. I am interested in meeting someone who will introduce me to new things, at the same time that she values my quiet life. I may be barking up the wrong tree answering an ad that starts with sexy and blond, but if there is substance beneath the looks, please drop me a note.’ ”