Falling for Your Madness (5 page)

“Yes! This is a great city to walk in. I love it too!”

“Excellent. If we are ever to be sweethearts, you can join me on Saturday mornings.”

Now he was blushing. I remembered what my mother said. This made me like him more.

“What do you loathe? You must make your answers very passionate so that I can see the real you. And no specific people. That’s unbecoming a lady.”

I laughed. “Popcorn. I hate it when it gets stuck in my teeth.”

“As do I. Perfect. What else?”

“The phrase LOL.”

“Absolutely hideous invention. What else?”

“Bad manners, especially in men. Last week, I was carrying two bags of groceries in the rain, and this guy in my building saw me and didn’t even try to hold the door open.”

“What an unchivalrous oaf. Point him out to me. I shall run him through with my blade.” David’s eyes lit up like they were on fire. He had these little moments of passion, of maybe obsession or excitement, that created a spark. I couldn’t draw it if I tried, and I didn’t think it could be photographed. I knew that not everyone had this kind of passion. But I liked it when I saw it in him, and I wanted to see it again. There was no way that I was missing tea on Monday.

I sniffed and tried to remember if I took my Allegra this morning. “And seasonal allergies.”

“Are you suffering now? Are you too ill to be here? I can walk you home if you like.” He stood.

“No.” I laughed at him. He was a goofus and a gallant all wrapped up together. “What do you loathe, David?” I liked to say his name. I could never say his name as often as he said mine. When I did, I liked it.

“I loathe movie quotes in students’ papers. It wouldn’t be so bad, except they use the same ones year after year, and they think they are being clever. ‘Knights who say
ni
,’ indeed. I also loathe poor grammar, which shouldn’t be a surprise to you. I also loathe bananas, but I have no explicable reason. I loathe current trends of bad behavior that I see in young men, but to get into specifics, you’ll need to sign up for one of my classes.”

Then he took a sip of water. “And this is where you will undoubtedly judge me: I utterly loathe occasions on which I am required to dress casually.” He stood up again. “This—the trousers, the button-down shirt, the tie, the tweed jacket with the patched elbows—is as casual as it will ever get.”

“I don’t judge you at all.”

Then we had one of those awkward silences when it seemed the only reasonable thing to do was catch each other looking at the other one. No matter what David Bowles, Ph.D. called it,
this
was a first date. It was a good one, too.

I had been on plenty of first dates. There was the kind with the insecure guy, the one you felt sorry for, yet you couldn’t ever see yourself with him in a relationship. There was the kind with the pompous jerk, who talked about nothing but himself and expected you to ooh and aah over every little thing, and maybe Trey was in that category. There was the kind that looked good on paper—you had the same friends, the same interests, and the same taste in food, but there was no chemistry, nothing that made you want more. That described Chase, my college boyfriend. It turned out that the only thing we had to talk about was football. He was responsible for my new interest in the Patriots. I had kept Tom Brady and dumped Chase.

First dates like this one were rare. David was interested in me. He came out and said so. David listened to me; how could I not like that? David made it clear what his intentions were and what he expected from me, which was surprisingly little. David made me feel comfortable, like I didn’t have to pretend. He wanted me to be myself and feel safe. This was what every woman wants in a man.

“Are you looking at something? Something you’d like to draw?”

There was no way I would tell him that I wanted to draw his face. “I, uh, I don’t have my pencil with me.”

“Please. Use my pen. And I have a notebook.”

I froze. I wasn’t going to draw his face. I wasn’t. I had to think fast. “Behind you is a piece of art. It’s got an interesting line.”

“Show me.”

I sketched something with the fountain pen he gave me. It was bad. Really bad. But it was done, and I gave it to him. The pen was heavy in my hand.

“I think you’ve captured it, Laura. Well done.” He put his pen and his notebook in his jacket pocket. “Now, what would you like to eat?”

Monday, September 24, 2012

The Boston Tea Party Tea Shop

1477 Beacon Street

Brookline, Massachusetts

3:31 p.m.

I wanted to be the one to ask the questions today. David met me at the tea shop, gave me hydrangeas, kissed my hand, opened the door for me, and sat down. But something was off a little. I was just getting to know him, but it did seem to me that his enthusiasm was waning a bit. I could only hope that it wasn’t because of me.

“You look lovely as always.” He smiled, but he wasn’t really looking at me.

“Thank you. What did you do today?”

“I gave a very unpopular quiz. Serves them all right for not reading the material. I also received a bit of bad news from Oxford University, but I will not trouble you with it. What did
you
do today?”

Now we were on to it. Oxford was the problem. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He leaned back in his chair as if this suggestion was like a cold cup of water. That smile, the one that I was growing so fond of, was almost back.

“I recently applied for a position to teach there. Oxford is, if you’ll indulge me, my personal holy grail. I’ve tried several times to get there and have never once succeeded.”

“You’ve never been to Oxford?”

“I’ve never been to England. Nor has my father.”

“Really? How’s that possible? How could you not have been? You love England! Can’t you just get on a plane and go?”

“Most people would. I had a chance to go when I was 19. A group of us were going for a week to get course credit. Everything was going smoothly. We were to fly from Boston to JFK, then to London; I don’t remember why it was set up like that, but it was. The day we were supposed to leave was September 12, 2001. As you may remember, all flights, especially those from Boston, were grounded for a full week after 9/11, and the trip was canceled.”

“Oh no.”

“So, the next year we tried it again. Same situation exactly. However, a week before the trip, I had a bad riding accident and broke my leg in two places.”

“Riding? Motorcycles?” Could it be that this dapper professor had something in common with my cousins?

“Oh, heavens no. Horses. So, the following year my father was having a bad year, so I decided to stay with him, and the year after that, I was working on my Master’s, and I had very little extra time to go. And of course my postgraduate work was very demanding. I was even planning to go last spring, but then again, tragedy struck and I stayed at home to mourn a loss.”

I gasped. “What happened?”

“My …” He closed his eyes. “… pet falcon died.”

“But why hasn’t your father been?”

“He never had the opportunities that I did. Mostly, my mother wouldn’t let him go. Then after she … my sister and I were particularly needy children, and he thought travel was a bad idea, and then he thought he was too old.”

“That’s terrible. It sounds like a lot of bad luck and coincidences.”

“Some would even say a conspiracy.” He leaned forward across the table. “This time though, I really thought it would happen. Oxford loves me. The department heads rave over me. We’ve emailed and Skyped for weeks, and they have the go from all of the important people, but something happened. The government is holding me up now, and I’ve been told that if, if, the red tape is cut through and I am approved, it could take weeks.”

“So, you may move to England then.”
No! You have to stay here with me!
“Why did you ask me to join you for tea, for the project, if you knew this was a possibility?” This was it. I was a little hurt by this.

He frowned. “Have I disappointed you? Truthfully, I didn’t think it through. The soonest I would get there is next term, January 14. Perhaps I’m discouraged on both fronts of my life. I do not hold high expectations for the success of either endeavor, my professional life nor my personal life. Maybe I thought the success of one would ease the pain of the failure of the other.”

He wanted to go to Oxford. I knew it was too good to be true. I fiddled with my napkin. What was I going to do with David Julius Arthur Bowles now?

“You look upset. Are you? I’d like to gently remind you that you have all the control of this relationship. We are only friends. I need good friends to cheer me on as I pursue my dreams. If we were sweethearts, though, that would change everything.”

Would it? I sat back in my chair. My stomach hurt, and I felt a little dizzy. I liked him. I
really liked him.
I liked talking to him and laughing with him and wondering what else he would say. I liked the flowers and his manner and his interest in me and my work. I would miss this if he moved away. Did I want to be sweethearts yet? My friends asked me almost daily. Ruby thought it was hilarious when she created a Facebook page,
Romantic Updates From Laura.
I cringed that it already had over a hundred “likes.” But it was better than all the texting.

“What did you do today, Laura?”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I had a very successful meeting with a client about his web design and branding. He’s going to be a lot of fun to work for, and he paid me in advance!”

“Congratulations!” He took my hand and kissed it, and I wondered if that was against the rules. It wasn’t a good-bye kiss, but I didn’t care. “It is so very tempting to have you buy our tea now, but that would be ungallant.”

David had a sweater on under his tweed jacket, and while I had never particularly liked this look on other men, I found it on him to be rather cozy. I wanted to know what that sweater would feel like up against my face.

“Laura, your face is red. Are you cold? Would you like my jacket?”

It was almost like he could read my thoughts! “No. I’m fine. You brought hydrangeas!” I
smelled them, even though it was a silly move. I knew that hydrangeas don’t smell that much. “These are beautiful. I love it when the color drains out of them in the fall.”

“Put them up against your face again. The color complements your skin so nicely. Oh, if only we had a mirror. Then you could draw a picture of yourself, and I could keep it. But we’d also need colored pencils, and my pockets are only so big.”

Ruby’s first post on the Facebook page was,
When will Laura want more?
I kept wondering myself. I hadn’t known David for very long at all. It seemed a little soon in some ways to begin a romance. Yet I felt like I had known him for years, as if he were an old soul. As if he were an old friend.

I had to admit, there was so much freedom in knowing that I never had to wait by the phone for him to call, that I had all the control, and David Julius Arthur Bowles would always be there on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, with flowers, kissing my hand, saying silly things, hanging on my every word, standing in my presence, opening the door for me, walking me home. This was, by far, the most freeing, most enjoyable, safest relationship I had ever had, and while I did want to be his sweetheart someday, I was enjoying the friendship too. What was the rush?

David leaned over the table again. “Now Laura. I hear that word “branding” tossed around like a beach ball. I’m afraid it’s one of those 21
^st
-century concepts that I have either ignored or just don’t understand. I am, as you can guess, hopelessly stuck in the 13
^th
century. Can you explain it to me?”

He wanted to be
taught.
This impressed me. David was smart, but he didn’t pretend to know everything. This question told me that he respected my work. Not every guy does that.

“Branding is how you present yourself to the world. My clients choose their words and their websites and their business cards and their colors to convey a consistent message. Part of my job is to help make the right choices and present their image well.”

“That’s fascinating. What do you do when the brand isn’t necessarily true to the client? What happens then?”