My Lost and Found Life (24 page)

On Monday Patrick strolled into the coffeehouse around eleven and we both pretended that nothing had happened between us. I was careful not to pay any special attention to him, yet I was aware of every movement he made. At one point, I looked up to see him staring at me with a half smile on his face. I walked over to the table where he was sitting.

“Did you want something?” I asked. “Another cappuccino?”

“That would be grand,” he said.

As I reached over him for his cup, my breast lightly brushed his arm. With that brief touch, the air between us seemed to become charged with electricity. I froze for a moment, then moved away.

When I caught Malcolm's eye, I realized he had noticed.

He didn't say anything right away. But the next day, when the place was half-empty, Mal invited me to sit down and have a cup of espresso with him.

“How do you like working here?” he began.

“Great,” I said, thinking that only a fool would tell her boss any different.

He must have realized the same thing because he chuckled. “Like you'd say anything else.” In a falsetto, he added, “Mal, you're an idiot and the customers are all cracked.”

I smiled but didn't say anything, not sure where this conversation was going.

He went on. “We probably seem like a bunch of eccentrics and lost sheep to you. Let's face it, you're different and everyone here knows it. You look like a girl who took a wrong turn on her way to Neiman Marcus.”

I started to argue, but he cut me off. “Don't get me wrong, I'm happy you're working here. You're smart, you've got a lot of energy, and you don't take any guff from anyone. But we both know you don't really belong here.”

“But I do. No one could be more of a lost sheep than me right now.”

Mal patted my hand. “Okay, dearie. We're happy to have you in the flock. But, please, listen to a piece of friendly advice. Patrick is, well, he's very attractive. If I were younger and he were gay, I'd chase after him myself. But he's not for you. He's too old, for one thing.”

At my look of protest, he wagged his head. “Hey, I'm your boss. I know exactly how old you are.”

“I'll be nineteen in two weeks,” I interrupted.

“Listen to you! Eighteen or nineteen, Patrick is six years older than you in age and a lot more than that in life experience. He's not going to settle down in the suburbs, drive an
SUV, and raise two point five children. The man is an adventurer and a womanizer, with a girl back home in Ireland and half a dozen scattered between here and there.”

“Come on, Mal. Don't you think I know that?” I teased him. “I'm way too young to settle down, much less have kids.”

“Of course. But you should be dating fresh-faced, beer-swilling college boys, not Irish bad boys with literary ambitions and a trail of broken hearts.”

“Bad boys—now that sounds promising,” I jibed. “Things are so dull in the suburbs. No one I know has ever left a trail of broken hearts.”

He laughed. “Maybe I overdid the purple prose. Hell, I'm a fool for even trying to warn you. You're gonna do what you wanna do, whatever I say.”

I gave him a teasing look. “Relax, Grandpa. Times have changed.” I stood up and paused to add, “Have you ever thought that I might break
his
heart?”

“Maybe you will.” Mal smiled back at me. “Maybe I'll just sit back and watch all of this unfold.”

Not if I can help it, I thought. Whatever happened with Patrick, I didn't intend it to be a source of entertainment for the Madhouse inmates.

• • •

Another Friday night and I was singing along to the radio and playing poker in a gas station with a seventy-year-old grandfather while trying not to think about an Irishman with a crooked smile.

“You can't sing and play poker at the same time. You have to watch what's going on,” Earl scolded me, reaching across the
desk to tap on my cards. “If you don't, you might as well not play. The easiest way to win at poker is to sit across the table from folks who are drunk, tired, or just not paying attention.”

“Sorry,” I yawned. “But we're just playing for fun right now.”

“You said you wanted to learn how to win. To win, you have to work at it and concentrate. The player who isn't distracted or drunk will win your money because he was paying attention.”

I sat up straight in my chair “All right, I'm paying attention. Remind me, is it a flush or a straight when all your cards are diamonds?”

He let out a long sigh, shaking his head. “You know, I think I'm going to call. Let's see what you've got.”

I spread my cards out on the desk and Earl chuckled. “You've got a pretty good hand there. That's a flush. But I've got something better.”

He deftly fanned out his cards. Four queens. “These ladies beat your flush, I'm afraid.”

“I think I see why you made a lot of money at poker.” I sighed, and grabbed a potato chip to nibble on.

“It takes time, baby doll. Like anything else in life, it doesn't come without effort. Luck is for suckers. Poker is a game of strategy. When the cards are cold, you fold, and when the cards are running your way, you throw money into the pot. The secret is to study your opponents and figure out what they're thinking while you make sure they don't have a clue about what's on your mind.”

“I'm good at acting,” I said. “For sure, I'd be good at bluffing.”

He shook his head. “Bluffing is an advanced skill, and it's hard to get away with. Most people give themselves away and don't even know it. I knew a man who always licked his lips when he was bluffing.”

I stretched and yawned again. “Wouldn't you love a beer right now? I would.”

“Don't look at me. I don't drink and I don't give alcohol to teenagers.”

“You don't drink? Ever?” I said in surprise.

“Can't,” Earl said.

“Does it make you sick—I mean, throw up?”

“The stuff makes me drunk, crazy, and sick. I had a bad problem years ago. Almost killed someone in a fight over nothing—nothing!” He shook his head in wonder at his own stupidity. “So I gave it up. Promised myself I'd never touch another drop, and I haven't.”

“And you just quit, without going to meetings and all that? You really are a tough guy.”

“I guess AA works for most people, but it wasn't for me. I believe in being fair and respectful of others and taking responsibility for your own behavior. But I have problems with religion and folks who want you to believe what they believe. I've especially had trouble believing that making love could be a sin.”

“Me too,” I agreed, and then added, “Making love. No one I know calls it that.”

“You kids talk worse than half of the men I used to ship out with.” Earl frowned. “Potty mouths without a clue as to what you're saying. You don't have any idea what love is.”

“Have you ever been madly in love?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Madly in love? Well, I guess so. Madly in love or lust. Sometimes it's hard to tell.”

“How do you know the difference?”

“Well, there's a fair amount of lust in love, or should be. But when you're in love, you want to be with that person and talk to her, not just do the horizontal hula with her.” He stared at my face. “Are we talking in generalities here or is there something you want to tell me?”

“I'll let you know,” I said, smiling a little at his protectiveness.

“You remind me of an article I read about the moose in Yellowstone.”

“I remind you of a moose?” I said, mystified. “Is this another one of your goofy platitudes?”

“Nope. It's a true story. Fifty years ago the wolves and grizzlies were shot and chased out of Yellowstone. For a long time, the moose didn't have much to worry about. A couple of years ago, the wildlife experts reintroduced wolf packs. But those moose were so dumb that they didn't even try to get away. The wolves just had to walk up and make the kill. Quite a few moose died before they wised up and learn to take off in a trot when the wolves showed up. They had to
learn
to become watchful. Don't learn everything the hard way, baby doll. Listen to your uncle Earl.”

“Don't worry,” I promised. “I'll be watchful.”

• • •

Saturday, Patrick left me a phone message saying he was playing that night at an Irish tavern and did I want to drop by? You bet I did. Deciding what to wear wasn't easy, but I finally chose
tight low-rider jeans and a navy top that let my toned midriff show. Plus boots and a raincoat, of course. The rainy season had begun early this year.

He said the music began at nine, so I arrived at ten, not wanting to seem overeager. I had to show my phony ID to get in, but it wasn't a problem. If the guy at the door wondered what an Elizabeth Castillo was doing at an Irish hangout, he didn't ask.

The place was noisy and crowded. I managed to snag the lone empty stool at the crowded bar and ordered a soda. Patrick was onstage, along with a fiddler and another guitarist. I was impressed with his playing. At one point he gave me a wave and a wink. I felt a little self-conscious amid all the boisterous groups of friends. Before long, two guys sitting next to me offered to buy me a Guinness. I laughed and declined, but they persisted.

When the music stopped, Patrick put down his instrument and made his way toward me, stopping to talk to people along the way.

“You're breaking my heart, beautiful,” pleaded one of the guys, trying to persuade me to go with him and his buddy to another bar.

Just then Patrick walked up to us. “Get away from her, you horny bastards,” he said, stopping in front of me and taking my hand. “Shall we get some fresh air then?”

“Sure,” I said, not bothering to point out the rain. I grabbed my coat and headed outside. We strolled silently down the sidewalk toward no particular destination.

“I enjoyed your music,” I said finally, mindful of my manners.

“Did you? Good.” His tone was matter-of-fact, as if his mind was elsewhere. He looked at me and began to laugh. “You're drowning, girl. I'm an ejit to drag you out here in the wet. Let's duck under here.”

We stopped under the awning of a closed appliance store and he lit a cigarette.

“I'll be going back to Ireland soon now,” he said.

My heart dropped. “When?”

“In a few weeks,” he answered. “I'll be spending Christmas with my family and then I'm going off to Spain for a bit. A friend has a job for me there, teaching English, and I'll have time to work on my book.”

I turned my back to him and looked out at the rain. I didn't know what to say except,
Don't go! Don't go!

“I made these arrangements months ago,” he said. “And my visa is expiring.”

“I understand,” I answered. “Still...” My voice trailed off.

“Still,” he echoed, tossing away his cigarette. He shook his head. “You weren't part of the plan.”

I turned around and we stood silently looking at each other. He had such deep blue eyes and a nice mouth, too. What I wanted must have been written on my face, because he pulled me to him for the kiss I had been longing for. And what a kiss it was. My knees went weak, and I kissed him back with enthusiasm.

“I've been thinking,” he whispered into my neck, making all the little hairs on the back of my neck bristle. “We should have that birthday celebration before I leave.”

I just held my breath, afraid to move from this sweet spot.

“A friend has offered me his cabin in the mountains near Lake Tahoe. We could drive up there on the weekend.”

“Would your friend be going?” I asked.

“No way.” He answered. His hand had found its way inside my raincoat and was lightly caressing the skin of my bare midriff. I longed for him to move his hand farther down. “Just the two of us.”

I considered the idea for a millisecond and then said, “We can take my car.”

The next day I went to the free clinic on Haight Street and got a prescription for birth control pills. Was I really ready to begin a sexual relationship with Patrick? Damn right I was!

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With a stack of women's magazines in front of me, I plowed through these articles and several more before the big birthday weekend at Lake Tahoe. I wasn't all that experienced, but I didn't want Patrick to know that. All the magazines said men want sexually confident women, and I was determined to be as confident as possible.

To be honest, the more I read, the more intimidated I felt. Impressing him with my prowess seemed like a whole lot of hard work. Some of the stuff they described seemed gross, like swirling your tongue along the inside of his armpit. Wouldn't that taste a lot like deodorant? Other sexual acts seemed to require gymnastic skills. I may have been a cheerleader, but I wasn't a contortionist. How was I supposed to orchestrate all these moves and be multiorgasmic at the same time?

As for tapping my inner dominatrix, I wasn't sure I had one. I really didn't want to get all involved with dildos and whips and vibrators. I couldn't imagine pushing him down, ripping his pants off, and devouring him like an animal in a sex-crazed frenzy. I didn't think I could talk dirty either—certainly not while concentrating on everything else I was supposed to be doing. The whole thing sounded ridiculous.

If that wasn't enough, one article discussed problems that could occur “when he's got an aircraft carrier and your dock space is only big enough for a dingy.” I wasn't sure about the size of
anything
.

By the time we left for Lake Tahoe Friday evening, I was suffering from equal amounts of anticipation and apprehension, if not outright terror.