Dying for a Date (2 page)

I yanked my purse from the back seat, jumped out of the car and slammed the door. As I raced back to the restaurant, I silently thanked Nokia for designing such an effective weapon.

The hostess looked startled as I rushed past her into the ladies room. I dampened a paper towel but it was useless on the bloody splotches splattered all over the sweater. I dropped the towel in the garbage can and leaned against the sink, my hands trembling.

Why had the boring accountant changed into a sex-crazed maniac? Maybe I shouldn't have ordered the tiramisu. Did ordering dessert signify I was willing to be dessert? His behavior didn't seem normal but I was clueless when it came to dating. I'd married my high school sweetheart and Garrett was only the second man I'd gone out with in my thirty-nine years.

By the time I returned to the reception area, Garrett's car was gone and the bright yellow AAA truck was idling in the parking lot. In less than five minutes the door was unlocked and I was on my way home.

I stopped for a red light and then the storm broke. Tears rained down my face and my sweater, enhancing the paisley bloodstains. Between my blurred vision and my heaving chest, I was in no shape to drive. I made a U-turn at the next light and pulled into McDonald's. Waiting in line behind eight cars for a shot of caffeine gave me time to pull myself together. The mascara running down my tear streaked cheeks had transformed me into Goth Mom but at this time of night, the crew had probably seen it all.

The kids were asleep when I arrived home so I didn't have to explain why mottled red splotches adorned my borrowed sweater. I tossed, turned then tossed again all night, finally falling asleep before dawn. The sun blasted me awake around eight. I tied my fluffy pink chenille robe around my waist and padded down the stairs in my matching pink bunny slippers.

"Morning, boys,” I mumbled to Ben and Jimmy, sitting cross legged on the carpet, playing a Nintendo game, “Pillage and Burn.” I could tell them a thing or two about pillaging.

My slippers crunched through a trail of Cheerios leading from the family room into our sunny yellow kitchen. My rooster-covered wallpaper usually cheered me up, but this morning I wasn't in the mood to watch roosters strutting. It might be time to redecorate.

After grinding a few extra tablespoons of fresh roasted beans, I hit the brew button on the coffeemaker then grabbed the Sunday paper. The aroma of Kona coffee wafted through the kitchen as I checked out the advice columnists. Apparently no other single woman clobbered her date last night so I wasn't going to receive any professional advice on my encounter.

The shrill ring of the phone interrupted my reverie. I checked Caller ID. Liz.

"What took you so long?” I rested the receiver against my ear as I poured the first drops of steaming coffee into my mug.

"Thought you might want to sleep in.” Her British accent was in full throttle as she deepened her voice. “In case you boinked your date."

"How did you find out I bonked him?"

"You had sex with Garrett!” Liz shrieked.

Sex? Oh yeah. I forgot that the British definition of “boink” was far different from “bonk,” and did not mean smacking your date with a cell phone.

Liz clucked sympathetically as I recounted each agonizing detail of my encounter. “Well, luv, maybe you were too darn irresistible and he couldn't control himself. Did you wear that luscious lipstick I gave you last week?” Liz owns a full service spa and she is dedicated to preserving her youth and mine, with all natural products.

"You mean Hottest Hottie Red? Nope, I went with Plain Old Pink."

"Wise move. Otherwise he might have attacked you in the restaurant. I'm sure the next guy you go out with will be a big improvement,” she commiserated.

"Nah. I'm done. That was my first and last date. I'm perfectly content to spend the rest of my life alone with my crosswords.” And a pound or two of chocolate to get me through those killer puzzles in the Sunday
New York Times
.

"Laurel, you have to get back on that horse."

"Horse?” The closest I'd been to a horse recently was the horse's ass that attacked me last night.

"You know what I mean. You can't quit after one bad date. Don't forget I went out with more than fifty fellas before I met my sweetie. Your wise friend is ordering you to go back to the ‘Love Club.’ Don't let one rotten apple spoil the apple pie."

My natural inclination was to bury my head in the sand, or better yet, in a book, but Liz did have a point. The agency needed to hear about Garrett's behavior. Not to mention that my bank account had suffered a serious withdrawal when I signed up for the six-month membership. It wouldn't kill me to go out with one more guy.

After agreeing to visit the agency after Ben's soccer game today, I hung up the phone. My daughter slid into the spindle-back chair across from me, her oversized gray sweats covering up a slender and athletic five foot eight frame. Most sixteen-year old girls spend their days at the mall exhibiting an excess of tanned flesh and drooling over gawky, pimply boys. Not Jenna. My math whiz daughter calculates statistics problems as a hobby. When she grows up she wants to be an astronaut. Or a professional poker player.

"So...how was your date?” Her blue eyes looked anxious as she wound her auburn ponytail around her index finger. Was this the time to have that mother/daughter chat about the perfidy of men? Should I share any details about my oversexed dinner companion?

Someday. But not right now.

"He's not my type,” I muttered as I stood up and washed my mug in the sink. Too bad I couldn't scrub away the memory of the previous evening.

"Maybe you should wait a few more years to date.” She refused to meet my gaze as she stared at her gnawed nail stubs. “You know...like after Ben and I are out of the house."

"How about if I hold off until I'm ready for assisted living? Then when I meet some hottie in a wheelchair, we can roll off into the sunset together."

Jenna chuckled. “Good one, Mom."

I kissed the top of her head and walked into the family room. It was time to get the boys ready for their first soccer game of the season. I detached the duo from their Nintendo controls, ruffling Ben's hair and adding several more cowlicks to his shaggy chestnut mop. As they raced each other upstairs I noticed the crest on Ben's royal blue and red pajamas. Superman jammies. Was this a reminder I should stick to pint size supermen and forget about finding a grown up version?

While I dressed, I reminisced about my high school days. Every Friday night, I sat in the bleachers supporting my boyfriend, Hank, the star quarterback. Back then cheerleaders in short pleated skirts constantly chased after him.

When we married right after college it never occurred to me that adult women in short skirts would continue to chase after my husband decades later. But that was past history. Hank had moved on to greener pastures and so would I. Today my concentration would be focused on my son and the grassy green soccer field.

I threw on a turquoise sleeveless shirt, khaki shorts, and a pair of matching turquoise straw mules I'd found at the mall, fifty percent off. The weather was expected to be in the mid eighties, sunny with patchy clouds, so I could multitask and work on my tan while I watched the game.

The second grade teams play in a park located four miles from our house. With the influx of so many new residents in the area, the league was forced to hold games on Sundays as well as Saturdays, until a new field could be constructed. Thirty minutes later, I stood on the sidelines of an emerald green rectangle, cheering along with the other parents.

My son inherited my athletic genes, or lack thereof, which was a huge disappointment to his jockstrap father. Ben had spent the summer practicing his soccer skills by dribbling his soccer ball back and forth across the front lawn. All I could do was cross my fingers and hope for his success.

A whisper of a cloud temporarily blocked the sun as the ref blew his whistle for the second half kickoff. One of the forwards on Ben's team kicked the ball backwards and it smacked into my son's foot. He stood in place, stunned, probably from the shock of having possession of the ball.

Ever the supportive Mom, I screamed, “Go Ben."

Whether it was my yelling or the pack of soccer players bearing down on him, Ben finally began to dribble the ball down the field, a sea of blue and gold hot on his rubber-spiked heels. One of the other team's players, a gold number two emblazoned on his royal blue shirt, towered over my son.

All of a sudden number two's foot shot out and kicked Ben above his shin guard. My baby flew over the white and black patchwork ball. When he landed, his body was as still as...

My heart.

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I sprinted across the field as fast as a woman wearing turquoise mules can run. Never having experienced an injury to my child in a soccer game, I assumed it was natural for his mother to run to her baby's rescue. The tiny kitten heel of my left shoe became mired in one of the muddy ruts so I left it behind in my frantic attempt to get to Ben.

By the time I reached my son, his teammates were gathered around his recumbent figure. Ben's coach ambled over and a big guy from the opposite side of the field joined us.

"Honey, are you okay? What hurts?” I clutched his tiny hand as I knelt down beside him. Tears shimmered in Ben's eyes but he didn't cry. I looked up at the craggy faced coach. “Dan, that little boy intentionally kicked Ben."

The coach ignored me. “Ben, can you stand up?"

"I think I can,” Ben whimpered, “but can you make my mom go away?"

I stood up and stomped my remaining sandal, which sunk into the soft grass. “That monster should be disqualified from playing soccer forever. I'd like to have a talk with his parents."

A hand tapped my shoulder. I looked up, way up, into a pair of hot fudge sundae brown eyes, fringed with outrageous black eyelashes. Only a man would be blessed with natural eyelashes like that.

He scowled at me. “I'm Kristy's father. You want to talk with me?"

"Kristy? Your son is named Kristy?"

The bear of a man folded muscular arms over a faded brown tee shirt that matched his faded brown ball cap. The brown eyes that glared at me weren't faded at all. “Kristy is my daughter. I can assure you, Ma'am,” he said, with a pronounced emphasis on the last word, “she would never deliberately kick your son. She's been taught to play soccer fair and square."

He drew his daughter close and she leaned against him. Now that Papa Bear was protecting her, little Goldilocks had resumed her aggressive stance, shooting me a defiant look. Hard to believe the super-sized girl was Ben's age. She was almost my size.

"Mrs. McKay, can we get on with the game?” Coach Dan asked, his lined face looking weary. “Ben can rest a few minutes and come back in when he's ready."

Ben struggled to his feet. “I'm fine, Mom. Go back to the sidelines and stay there."

I stood up and brushed off the dirt that had caked on my knees.

"Yeah, ‘Mom.'” A deep baritone parroted my son. “Go to the sidelines where you belong."

The middle finger of my right hand itched to respond but I restrained myself. Kristy's father turned and I watched as his long legs loped to the opposite side of the field.

"Men,” I muttered, frustrated with the bunch of them. Small and tall.

With a valiant attempt to look dignified, I limped across the field and retrieved my ruined sandal. As I approached the sidelines, my eyes made contact with a familiar pair of green eyes. Swamp green eyes, as our daughter affectionately described them.

"When did you get here?” I asked.

"I arrived just in time to see your performance.” My ex tipped the visor of his black Giants baseball cap to me and snickered. “Nice job embarrassing our son."

I glared at him. “At least he has one parent who cares.” Despite the fact he lives only thirty miles away in Sacramento and is a self-employed contractor, Hank's attendance record at Ben's games was far from perfect.

I turned away and tried to concentrate on the game. Ben appeared to be fine. He could have limped a little and made me feel less like an overprotective hysterical mom.

Hank cleared his throat. “I heard you had a date last night."

"Yup.” I didn't see any reason to elaborate. One of the kids must have told him I had a date. I'd better institute a “need to know” policy concerning their father. Basically he didn't need to know about my social life.

"Do you think you'll go out with him again?"

Not in a million years but Hank didn't need to know that. “I don't think that's any of your business."

His face flushed and he shot me an angry look. “Of course it's my business. What kind of mother are you? Your job is to focus on our children, not your love life."

My mouth opened so wide in protest I almost swallowed a wasp that had been circling around in search of sustenance. What kind of mother was I? What kind of father was he, leaving his family and moving in with the woman who had hired him to replace some tiles on her roof? It took Nadine Wells less than a week to woo him down from her roof and into her bed.

He didn't just replace her tiles. He replaced me.

Cheers from the parents who were not engaged in close verbal contact with their ex-husbands erupted. The game was over and we'd won. I was furious with my ex so I stood off to the side while he and Ben talked. Hank promised Ben he would attend the game the following week. I'd believe it when I saw it. His erratic appearance in our children's lives was one of the reasons I had started the search for a replacement.

The boys clambered into the back of my periwinkle Prius, a tight fit for the seven year olds, but my car made me feel like I was contributing to making the world greener, one gallon of gas at a time.

I took the boys out for lunch then dropped them off at Jimmy's house. My next stop was the Love Club, which was located in Placerville, one of the more infamous gold country towns whose beautiful Victorian houses were portrayed by Thomas Kinkade in his early paintings.