Once Upon a List (9 page)

 

12.

C
lara closed her closet door with more force than she'd intended. “Why did I agree to this? This is a terrible idea. The last thing I want to do right now is have dinner with
Todd
.” She said his name as if it were laced with poison. “I don't even know the man. He probably has herpes. And I left my brown boots in Boston!”

“I have a pair of tan, high-heel boots that you're welcome to borrow,” Libby offered in a calm tone, keeping a safe distance from Clara in the hallway outside her bedroom. “And Todd does not have herpes. Why would you say such a thing?”

“I don't know.” Clara moped across her room. “Why would I tell a complete stranger that I'd have dinner with him? If you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly in top form.” She slumped into the chair at her mirrored vanity. “I hope Todd likes ponytails because I'm not doing my hair for him.”

“You haven't done your hair in close to a year. And you're acting ridiculous. Todd is not a
stranger.
He's a perfectly lovely, herpes-free gentleman and you're going to have a wonderful time if you'll just change your attitude and relax.”

“Know what would be
perfectly lovely
?” Clara snorted. She didn't wait for Libby to answer. “Staying home and watching a
Golden Girls
rerun on TV with Milk Dud.”

Reclining on Clara's bed with his new friend, Natalie Marissa, Milk Dud raised his head as if on cue, listened a minute with his remaining ear up, and then put his head back down between his paws.

“And why are you lurking in the doorway like a perp?” Clara demanded.

“Because I'm afraid to get any closer.” Libby had never been one to lie. “And I'm sorry to have to point it out, but you are using Betty White as a form of escape.”

“What?”

Exhaling, Libby entered the room with caution, walking on eggshells toward her daughter. Standing behind her, she placed a hand on Clara's tense, bony shoulder, locking eyes with her reflection in the mirror. “I can vividly remember how it felt going on my first date after your father died. His name was Warren Noble. He took me to Chung's Chinese Palace.” Libby smiled, recalling the event. “I was sure it would be a disaster. It felt like I was doing something deceitful and wrong. Like I was violating a sacred code . . .” She scrutinized Clara's reaction to what she was saying. Then she shrugged. “In my mind, I was cheating on your dad. I was nervous and conflicted—”

“And?”
Clara impatiently pressed, fingering a bobby pin. “Did your date with Warren turn out as badly as you expected?”

“Yes,” her mother said, nodding. “It did.”

Clara got up and began pacing. “Great! Thank you for sharing.”

“At first
,” Libby stressed, “thanks to a rancid sweet and sour shrimp. I tossed my fortune cookies right there at the table. I even got some on poor Warren's bolo.” She shook her head at the memory. “But you know what happened after that?”

“Warren required therapy for the rest of his life?”

“Hey. Watch your tone.
It broke the ice
,” Libby said slowly. She paused to make sure Clara was paying attention. “I was so humiliated that I stopped worrying and feeling guilty about your father, and I started to actually enjoy myself. The next thing I knew, Warren and I were getting on like wildfire. We even went out again.”

“Really?” Standing still, Clara wondered why she had never heard this story before.

“Really.” Libby smiled. “I only wish I'd figured it all out sooner. The point is, eventually, Clara-pie, I realized it was not a crime to spend time with another man. It wasn't even a crime to care about another man. But it
was
a crime to hole myself up in a room with my piano and deny myself the chance at companionship or love. Your father wouldn't have wanted that for me. Not in a million years.” Tenderly cupping Clara's chin in the palm of her hand, she looked her deep in the eyes. Her next words were spoken in the gentlest of tones. “Sebastian wouldn't have wanted that for you either.”

Although it made her heart sink, Clara knew her mother was right.

Libby ambled back toward the doorway. “I also realized one should never order shrimp on a date.
Never.
On that note, can I interest you in a glass of wine to take the edge off?
I
could certainly use one.”

Clara nodded. “Yes, please. I think that's probably a good idea.”

Clara stared at her reflection in the mirror. She couldn't remember the innocence and excitement that once coursed through her veins when she sat in this very same spot as a teenager preparing for a big date, wondering if perhaps that evening she might get a hickey or go to second base—or, if she was lucky,
both
. She couldn't really feel life before Sebastian as something she'd once lived. It seemed light-years away, almost like a dream. It reminded Clara of a line spoken by Satan, the miserable fallen angel, in John Milton's epic poem, “Paradise Lost”:
We know no time when we were not as now
.

Still staring in the mirror, deep in thought, Clara sighed. Considering Libby's anecdote, she removed her ponytail holder, gave her limp hair a good shake, and picked up her brush. Then, feeling badly for behaving like a herpes-hating handful, she thanked her mother before she disappeared down the hallway. And it wasn't the wine for which Clara was grateful.

“L
ook!”
Clara squealed. “It's a mariachi band!” She pointed at the three musicians dressed in traditional, silver-studded charro outfits with wide-brimmed hats weaving their way toward Todd's and her table. “I love mariachi music!” She clapped her hands with delight.

Clara wasn't sure how Todd had managed to score a table on a Friday night with such short notice at Mantequilla, the hottest Mexican restaurant in town. The last she had heard, it took months to secure a reservation at the renowned, vibrantly colored cantina with a private telephone number and secret celebrity entrance in the back. When Todd first mentioned that's where they'd be dining, Clara had immediately wished she was on better terms with Tabitha, a true Mexican food aficionado and celebrity gossip fan, so that she could call her up and tell her all about it. She hadn't spoken to her estranged best friend since she left for Chicago, but she knew Tabitha would have been chomping at the bit for details. Clara might not have been certain how Todd was able to breeze through the exclusive door at Mantequilla, but she was certain that the fresh pomegranate margaritas they were drinking were
muy, muy deliciosa.
“Let's order another round,” she suggested. “These puppies are fantastic!” She slapped her palm against the table, causing their shared basket of tortilla chips to jump. “Hey! Did I tell you I just got a new puppy?”

Amused, Todd ran his fingers through his thick, brown hair. “You did mention ‘The One-Ear Wonder' a couple of times. I'm looking forward to meeting this Milk Dud . . .”

“That's my favorite candy.” Clara drained the last sip of her margarita. “What's yours?”

“Are you sure you're up for another round?” Todd peered at her from across the table as if he wasn't quite positive this was a wise idea. “I'm wondering if perhaps we should get some dessert instead. My old college buddy Luke is the executive chef here and sweets are one of his secret strengths. He makes a vicious vanilla flan. Any interest in splitting one?”

Tilting her head to the side, Clara mulled it over. “Mmmmm . . . no thank you. I'm stuffed from the carne asada. Oh, and
that guacamole
! Guacamooooole,” she repeated. “That's a fun word to say. Talk about green ecstasy in a bowl.” She let out a soft little satisfied moan. “I vote for another margarita.”

“Well, I suppose if you
insist
,” Todd conceded.
“
Who am I to argue with Milk Dud's mom? Not to mention Libby Black's daughter.”

Todd certainly was a charmer, Clara thought to herself. He was also an excellent conversationalist. She appreciated that he really seemed to listen when she spoke about Scuppernong and Boston and rare gingerbread decorations. He knew when to crack a joke, yet he also knew when to be serious and sincere. And Clara had no idea how it had taken her this long to notice Todd's strong, chiseled jaw, or those perfectly shaped lips, or those big, sexy, capable hands. There was no denying the man was blessed with incredibly attractive physical features.

Bouncing to her feet, Clara excused herself to visit the
señoritas'
room.

Before Todd had a chance to rise, Clara was already slipping in and out and sideways between groups of animated people waiting to be seated at the crowded bar. Shaking his head with a chuckle, he waved their waiter over and ordered a final round of drinks.

Clara hadn't quite realized how strong the beverages were until she took a few steps and noticed that her head felt pleasantly light, and the chaotic, Technicolor room appeared to be slightly off kilter, like a carnival fun-house attraction. “Hi!” she said to a primitive-looking mask hanging on the wall when she almost bumped into it on her way to the bathroom. “Wow . . .” She opened her eyes wide, aware that she was mighty buzzed from the booze.

Although able to hold her liquor like a professional, it had been a long, long time, and many lost pounds, since Clara had last partaken of anything stronger than a pint or two of Scuppernong, and she'd completely forgotten what it felt like to be even mildly intoxicated. At the moment, it didn't just feel good. It felt freakin' fabulous. It was about darn time she finally let loose and indulged in some real fun, she decided while searching for a paper towel by the bathroom sink. When she couldn't find anything to dry her hands with, she bent over and wiped them on the inside layer of her skirt.

“Good idea,” said a woman in a revealing black mini-dress standing at the next sink over, mimicking Clara's impromptu maneuver.

The return trip from the bathroom back to her table was a winding, jumbled journey that involved a narrowly avoided collision with a waitress balancing a tray of flan and an accidental pop into the kitchen as Clara struggled to remember where she and Todd were sitting. Eventually, she spotted the hostess, who kindly escorted Clara to her table, winking. “Trust me, between the killer margaritas and the size of this place, guests get lost here all the time.”

“Well, thanks for the assist,” Clara said with a smile. “Next time I go to the bathroom I'll be sure to bring my compass!”

After she and Todd had said a quick hello to his friend Luke and finished their last round of drinks, Todd paid the bill, peeked at his watch, and grinned. “Well? What do you say? Shall I take you home?”

Clara thought about it for a moment. She reminded herself, like a good little dedicated voyager, to
sail thou forth
. . . Then, pushing her hair away from her face, she coyly replied, “No.”

Months ago, while taking a summer stroll through the Boston Common with Tabitha, she had discussed how strange and unsettling it was to know that the last person she had slept with was dead. “It's a tough feeling to describe. It's just . . . I don't know”—Clara had tightened her face, searching for the right word—“
morbid
, if that makes any sense. I know it sounds like a bizarre concept, but I've spoken about it with other people who've lost their partners, and it's a common issue. You'd be surprised. Don't get me wrong, it's not as if I'm interested in having sex for the sheer sake of having it. That's not it at all. It's just
weird
to know that the last person I did it with is no longer living,” she had explained, trying not to remember how wonderful and exciting things had always been with Sebastian in the bedroom. And the shower. And the kitchen. And once in the attic crawl space, but that had been an isolated incident interrupted by a raccoon. Turning to her friend, she had inquired, “Have you ever had sex with a dead person?”

With a horrified look of shock, the elderly gentleman sitting on the opposite end of Clara and Tabitha's park bench feeding the pigeons had stood up and quickly walked away.

“Well, then where would you like to go next?” Todd asked Clara, a look of intrigue crossing his handsome face. “There's a lounge I like called Nightingale's down the street from here. Not that I'm suggesting we need anything more to drink.”

“Oh dear, definitely not.” Clara giggled, kicking her feet back and forth underneath the table. “Hmmm, I don't know.” She shrugged innocently, as if she hadn't a clue in the world. “How about we go back to your place?” She looked him directly in the eyes when she spoke, consciously deepening her seductive smile.

Todd appeared enthralled, as she intended him to be. But, once again, he narrowed his eyes, giving her that familiar, skeptical grin of his. “Those margaritas were
pretty potent.
” He enunciated his
t'
s as if he were performing on a stage. “I must say, I've never been one to take advantage of a beautiful woman. And, in case I haven't told you yet, you
are
beautiful.”

“Oh,
hot-Toddy
.” A blush came to Clara's cheeks. “You say the sweetest things. Don't you want to tune my pipes?”

Todd's brown eyes expanded and his eyebrows arched in a seemingly subconscious gesture.

“Joking!”
she blurted. Seeing his immediate surprise, Clara bowed her head in a girlish manner, trying, unsuccessfully, to suppress her laughter. “I'm only teasing, of course. Thought I'd throw in a little piano humor for ya there . . .”

“I appreciate that.” Todd flirted back, gazing at her. “The world needs more piano humor.”