Crave: A BWWM Romance (6 page)

“So anyway, I go up to his Black Jack table and tell him to double down. I ended up winning him a pretty penny. He said he owed me a drink at least and that was it. From that moment on, it was the two of us.”

“A week’s worth of conversation and you’re convinced that you love this guy?”

“Well…yeah.”

Mom looked genuinely confused. For a brief moment, I felt bad for myself. Was I missing out on something essential? How could it be so easy for other people to fall in love? It was at moments like this that I felt defective. There’s a chemical or a muscle or something that makes the body love and I don’t have it. They probably just forgot mine and gave Kaila an extra one.

“Look honey,” Mom added, “sometimes you just click. Sometimes it just makes sense. This is one of those times.”

“And if it isn’t?”

“I’m not worried about if it isn’t. If it isn’t, we split sometime down the road and I move on. I’m more worried about if it is, and I do nothing.”

“You know there’s a happy medium between doing nothing and moving in with a guy a week after you’ve met him.”

“So? This is where it would be heading anyway. I’m almost 60, why waste my time?”

I had no response to that. I hated it when she played the age card. She love hiding behind her age, as if it gave her cart blanche to behave however she wanted.

“Besides,” she added, “it’ll be hard to be married if we don’t live together and there’s no way he’s fitting in my one bedroom apartment.”

Kaila spit mimosa all over the deviled eggs as they were coming out. She frantically began cleaning the dribble off her shirt.

“You’re getting married?” I asked for both of us. I tried to sound judgmental enough for both of us too.

“Oh, I don't know. It could happen, right?” Her smile was met with blank stares. “I mean, there's crazier things that could happen.”

Considering she just spent the week in Vegas with him, I was counting my blessings that they weren't married already. Luckily that was a little bit too cliché, even for Mom.

My mouth went dry. My mom was a class A flake, but this was more than I thought even she was capable of. It was hard to understand how this woman could have possibly birthed my sister and I. As I looked over at her, I could see how happy she was. Those sparkling eyes and that eager smile might melt some people, but not me. When I see a face like that, I can only think of all the thousands of ways that things could go wrong and that smile could disappear. I supposed that was one of the fundamental differences between my mother and I. I wanted reassurances. She just wanted to be happy.

“You seem angry.” She turned to me. “I know this comes as a bit of a shock…”

“Not a shock at all, Mom,” I interjected. “Not at all. This is exactly what I expect.”

“That’s not fair Moneka and you know it.”

I did know it. It was her life after all, her choices. I had enough on my plate with the restaurant; I didn’t need to be babysitting my mother as well.

“She’s not mad Mom.” Kaila dove to the rescue. “She’s just…shocked. We both are. We just want to make sure that you’re going to be happy.”

Mollified, my mom took another sip of her Bellini and smiled. “Well, promise me you won’t worry too much. I’m a big girl after all. Just meet him. Monday. Promise?”

“Yes.” We both sighed into our drinks. The laughter that followed helped to break some of the tension.

We were able to enjoy the rest of the brunch in peace. Kaila regaled us with stories about her more colorful clients and I went on more than one tirade about the repairs that still needed doing on the restaurant. Mom listened attentively, nodding at all the appropriate moments and making commiserating noises. She was good about stuff like that. I had to admit that despite her flakiness, she had some maternal qualities that many others lacked. I never felt more listened to than when I chatted with my Mom. Remembering this brought on a pang of guilt over the way I’d reacted. She would be fine. She always was. No me on the other hand, I wasn't so sure.

E
lysian Fields was
the most epically hoity-toity country club in all of Massachusetts. Just driving through the austere gates made me feel like I’d been invited to a party hosted by the royal family. The main building stretched long and low like a ranch house, oversized windows gazing dramatically out over the green. I could see small figures in plaid shorts or khaki pants, all wearing polo shirts and gloves. Of course, they wouldn’t say they were “wearing” polo shirts, they would say they were “sporting” them. Golfers. What are you going to do?

As I blustered into the parking lot in my Ford pickup, complete with scrap wood from leftover projects, I could almost here them disapproving from across the lawn. Everywhere, pairs of golfers turned their heads toward each other to make some comment or other about the misfit in the filthy truck. I had to admit; this was my favorite part about golfing. I enjoyed frustrating the expectations of the people around me.

For my Dad’s sake, I had at least attempted to look the part. I would sooner come naked than put on a pair of plaid shorts. I met them halfway, however, with some tan slacks and a polo of my own. These clothes felt alien to me, as if I were a child trying on my parents’ wardrobe. Looking down and assessing the damage, I knew with certainty that I would never grow into this. Someday, Dad would accept that.

Admittedly, the inside of the main clubhouse was a feast for a contractor’s eyes. No matter how badly I wanted to hate everything here, I couldn’t deny the expert molding and paneling. The woodwork was pristine. The hardwood floor had an almost glassy look to it, like the surface of calm waters; I felt like I could dive in and swim around in it for a while. The spacious rooms had none of the claustrophobia of the more primitive designs. I thought briefly of the last country club my Dad liked to frequent. It prided itself in being one of the first in the region. It’s club house stood as proof, as creaky and ill-fitting as they day it was built. I shuddered.

My motto as a contractor had always been “if the best thing you can say about a place is that it’s old, then you are overvaluing antiquity”. I remembered delivering that line to Moneka when we were first discussing plans and she had wanted to rent out an old Irish pub. Old? Check. Irish? Check. Leaking? Double Check. Rotting wood? Triple check. I liked to think that she was happier in her current place and that I had something to do with that. I paused for a moment under the lobby’s chandelier, wondering if Moneka would ever let me touch her again.

“Hey Cole, my boy!” My Dad’s voice cut through my reverie like a knife.

Of course, I was happy to see him. My Dad and I have always been close, especially since mom died. But there was hanging out with Dad downtown at Fenway and there was hanging out with him at Elysian Fields. Here he was more than just “Dad”, he was “Francis Saunders: Renowned Architect”. I think sometimes he liked reliving his glory days more than he liked golf.

As I walked over to him, I could see that he had managed to overdress for the occasion. I was impressed. I generally imagined golfers were overdressed as it was. He really managed to take it to the next level. He was wearing freshly ironed dark gray slacks with a button down white shirt and a lighter gray vest. His cuffs were rolled halfway to his elbows and he wore a black golf cap to match his shoes. I couldn’t help comparing him to a 1940s bootlegger. I half expected him to suggest we “give the geezers the slip and head out back for a small bender before the fuzz get here”.

“Hey Mickey,” I said, “Where’s the rest of the gang?”

“You’re smirking.” Dad was not impressed.

“Only at what you’re wearing.”

“Ok, smart-ass.” He smiled and ribbed me. Whatever the airs he sometimes liked to put on, I knew he wasn’t like the rest of these guys.

“Shall we? The piranhas appear to be in full form today.” I put out my elbow dramatically, indicating that we should lock arms and walk into the parlor together. Dad ignored the gesture.

“Piranhas? Last time they were sharks.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. But I’ve decided that ‘piranhas’ is a more fitting term. They swarm on you and pick away until you’re nothing left but bones.”

Dad seemed to consider this for a moment. “Huh. I guess so. Reminds me of your mother’s friends before we were married.”

I liked it when he talked about Mom like this, casually. For a long time after her death, he wouldn’t talk about her at all. Then, suddenly, he’d blind side me on a Sunday afternoon, recalling their first date, first kiss, first walk in the park, first baseball game, and so on. Mom had become the elephant in the room. I hated those times. Now, he could talk about her fondly. That meant I could talk about her too.

“Let’s not keep the piranhas waiting,” he said, tipping his hat in a bootleg fashion and strolling into the parlor. I followed, adjusting my polo and feeling like a real jackass.

The parlor was equally as lovely as the lobby. Though its name gave it a cozy sound, in reality, it was an exceedingly large space. Floor to ceiling arched windows covered three of the four walls. Stairs on either side of the entrance led to a second level that matched the first but for a giant hole in the middle. From there, country clubbers could look down on those entering, figuratively and literally. Chandeliers hung high over the tables. Though tablecloths hid the tables themselves, the high backed chairs with ornate backings hinted at some truly quality (if not a bit gaudy) furniture.

My Dad and I chose a table near a window. Though it was not strictly reserved for him, he considered this table his regular. It overlooked a sloping bit of woods that lost itself to a miniature creek. The occasional rabbit could be seen skittering away the way rabbits do. My Dad liked laughing at them and commenting on the colors of the birds. On a really good day, a cardinal would come through and he’d spend what felt like an hour discussing the reasons why male birds were so much flashier than female ones.

As we sat there, gazing out at the creek and considering our menus, there was a conga line of Dad’s friends coming to greet us at the table. I hated this the most about country clubs. Eating in the parlor was like going to a restaurant where everybody knows you and feels entitled to bother you. Of course, my Dad relished it. He was like a king on his throne, recognizing his subjects as they passed. I, on the other hand, maintained that, if I didn’t come here with you, I don’t want to talk to you. I did my best to smile and shake hands and exchange pleasantries. I was a terrible country clubber, but I was a good son.

“Francis,” a man in a tweed getup said with way too much pressure on the ‘a’. “You missed out last weekend. We had a string quartet out on the green. Cocktails and everything.”

“Yeah Cutter, I heard. Can’t catch ‘em all though. I was on a trip.”

“I heard. Vegas huh? Midlife getting you down?” Cutter gave a shockingly healthy laugh considering how nasal his voice sounded.

“That’s the one. And I don’t just recommend it for mid-life. Go there any time and you’ll have a blast.”

“No kidding. I would, but the missus would lay into me real good.” Cutter leaned forward, one hand cupping his mouth, as if his wife were waiting just around the corner to bite his head off.

“That she would. Well, that’s the bachelor life I guess. You miss out on a string quartet every once in a while.” Dad grinned and tipped his glass toward Cutter.

Thankfully, it appeared that Cutter was the last of our admirers. It was just in time too as the waiter brought over a shrimp cocktail and some dry martinis. I cherished the olive for a moment, mashing it joyfully between my teeth. I did not often drink martinis, but when I did, this was my favorite part. The pop of vodka in my mouth reminded me of gushers from when I was a kid. Only, these gushers could get you drunk.

“So.” I narrowed my eyes at my Dad. “Vegas? You didn’t tell me you were going on a trip?”

“What’s the matter kid? Worried your Dad has more of a night life than you these days?”

“No. Not really.” I grinned at him. “Vegas just doesn’t seem like you, Mr. organization, responsibility, synergy, whatever.”

“Well, I’m learning too late in life that life is, in fact, short. I wanted to step out a little and what better place to do that than the city that never sleeps?”

“That’s New York. Las Vegas is Sin City.”

“Even better!”

I laughed and popped a shrimp into my mouth. I liked seeing my Dad like this. He’d been wound too tightly for too long. I just wondered why he wanted to tell me about his trip here. It would have been way more fun to discuss at a pub downtown.

“So, you had fun?”

“Oh yes.”

“Win any money?”

“A little. Although I didn’t do as much gambling as I’d planned.”

“No? Why’s that. Decided to catch a magic show instead?”

“No smart-ass. I met someone.”

I almost choked on my second shrimp.
Dad met someone?
The same man who had been on three dates in the past ten years and hated all of them?

“Was it terrible?” I asked suspiciously.

“No. It was wonderful. I really enjoyed her company.”

“Her? So it
was
a human woman?”

“Yes, she was a human woman. Jesus Cole, I’m not
that
out of practice.”

“I’m just saying, if you’re last three dates are a testament to anything, human women are not your favorite people.”

“What are you talking about? Those ladies were lovely.”

I paused and took a tour through memory lane. Three years after Mom’s death, he had tried to clamber back onto the wagon. Most of what he’d described of the date made it sound like a lovely evening. But then he started complaining that he didn’t like the way she’d ordered her meal. He hated how she pronounced gnocchi with too much ‘o’. Apparently, and this was news to me, that makes a date completely unsuitable for further consideration.

His second date was with a gorgeous socialite. Five years after Mom’s death, Dad took her to a museum and the park. By all accounts, it should have been a lovely date. However, she liked juice cleanses. I remembered Dad calling me in a huff, exclaiming that he could never love a woman on a cleanse.

His third date was probably the most promising. Seven years after Mom’s death he went to the Arboretum and, later, to an Italian bistro in the North End with an adorable bookshop owner. That one ended with a kiss. When Dad told me, I thought he’d finally found someone he could explore a relationship with. Alas, she was two inches too short. Unbeknownst to me, my Dad has an ideal height range and she didn’t make the cut.

“So what’s wrong with this one?” I didn’t hesitate to ask.

“Nothing. She’s perfect. She’s beautiful and free-spirited.”

“Does she like cleanses?”

“No. But it would be ok if she did.”

“Really? So is this true love?” I smirked over my nearly empty martini glass.

“You know. I think so.”

What? True love?
In ten years, he can’t find a woman he can stand. He spends one trip with one and suddenly they’re meant to be?

“So…Dad…I gotta ask.”

“Ask away. I’m an open book.”

“Are you still drunk from Vegas?”

“No. But that is neither here nor there. I love her sober. I love her drunk.”

I had to lean back for a second. I caught myself praying that a cardinal would flutter by the window and change the subject. Something wasn’t adding up here and it made me very uncomfortable. After a few moments of respite, I thought I had the answer.

“I get it. I do. You had a great trip with a woman in an exotic place. You remember her fondly because you know you’ll never see her again. It’s a big step forward for you Dad, it really is.” I tried to look impressed, but my head was still spinning.

“Actually. She lives in the area. On Monday, I would like you to meet her.”

I supposed this must be what going crazy feels like. Meet her? Monday?

“I can’t Dad. There’s only a week before the restaurant opens. Moneka will kill me if I take off. Even for an hour.”

“Well, it would be longer than an hour. It’s really important to me, Cole. You recall my track record? This is a big deal.”

I did recall his track record, in vivid, Technicolor hilarity. I wasn’t just bullshitting though. Moneka might
actually
kill me if I disappear during the week.

“I can maybe do it if I have permission to tell Moneka that you’re dying from a wasting disease. I think that would be enough of a family emergency.”

“Very funny. Just tell her I had a heart attack, we can fake that.”

“Done. So what’s happening on Monday that you need me for the whole day anyway?”

“Oh. She’s moving in.”

I gave up. He was obviously messing with me at this point. I wondered how far he was going to try and take it. Did he have an actress lined up with a bunch of stuff piled in a truck? Why did he feel the need to tease me anyway?

“Very funny Dad. You really had me going there. And I thought you’d finally moved on.” I finished off the martini and placed it down with emphasis. “I’m going to go get another drink. When I come back, I want to know how Vegas
really
went.” I began to rise from my chair when I noticed a stern look on my father’s face.

“I
am
telling you how it really went,” he said. “I met a woman early on in my trip. We hit it off. We spent the time together. We fell in love. She is moving in on Monday and I would like you to help.”

I lowered myself back into my chair. I could barely feel the motion of it. Instead, I felt a thousand miles away, hovering over the golf course from space. This must be what an out-of-body experience feels like.

“Uh, ok,” I said.

“Ok?”

“Yeah. Ok. But…just…don’t you think this is moving just a little fast? You have to be messing with me.”

“I’m really not. I promise you, I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t feel it was the right thing.”

“You
hate
feelings.”

“Not this time. At my age Cole, you start living again or you get ready to die. I’m living.”

I watched his expression closely, trying to appraise his take on this entire situation. I had no shortage of legitimate concerns. Was she in it for the money? A scam artist or gold digger of some kind? Was this just a stupid mistake that they would both regret the moment they see each other in the harsh light of New England? Whatever it was, it was clearly making him happy. I had no right to deny him that. If she could keep him from dying the slow country club death that he’d resigned himself to many years ago, then maybe it’s not all bad. At this point, any change, no matter how jarring, was evidence of new life. I could get behind that. Plus, if I was appropriately understanding, maybe he’d let me skip on the “playing golf” part of the afternoon.