We Interrupt This Date (5 page)

The insurance salesman with all the
personality of a bowl of noodles was rejecting
me
?
I
was
supposed to be the one to say, “No, thanks.” Was there something
wrong with me? Why had I struck out on my first date post divorce?
For one ghastly moment, I even considered that my mother might be
right and maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to accept the end of
my marriage after T. Chandler refused to dump what’s-her-name and
go to counseling.

“What are you so upset about? I could
tell you weren’t crazy about him. You know how good my intuitive
vibes are and you were simply
oozing
boredom mixed with annoyance.”

“I’m not upset.” I let my makeup case slide
back into my purse.

“Ha! You look like someone stole your last piece of
candy and threw it under a truck. Let it go, Susan. Let the
Universe take it from you.” She spread her arms out to her sides at
shoulder level, closed her eyes, and hummed Ohhhhmmmm. A woman
pushed open the door, caught one glimpse and backed out.

Patty blinked herself back to reality. “We
both know you weren’t any more interested in Herman than he was in
you.”

“True, but I wanted to do the dumping.”

“Hey, we all do, but the Universe doesn’t
always grant our wishes. It’s not a genie in a bottle, you
know.”

“Forget the Universe. What ever made you
think I’d hit it off with someone like Herman? First he tries to
fascinate by telling me, in excruciating detail, how he worked
himself up from number four salesman to number three—in a five
salesman office. Then he tells me that as a woman I don’t have the
faintest idea whether I’m carrying enough insurance to protect my
loved ones. What if, God forbid, I run my car off the Arthur
Ravenel Bridge on my way home from Charleston some day? Is he
trying to date me or sell me insurance?”

“Don’t blame me. I didn’t know him before
tonight. He’s Kyle’s cousin and I thought he’d be like Kyle.” Her
eyes took on a dreamy look at the mention of Kyle. “Forgive me,
Susan? Because I’ve already forgiven myself.”

She pushed the door open and we left the
ladies room. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the nearest busboy
took one look at my face and ran after me with a fire extinguisher.
Patty can forgive herself quicker than anyone I’ve ever known and
forgiving herself means the subject is closed.

I’d have been okay if, the second I sat down, Herman
hadn’t mentioned that my blouse still looked pretty bad. I have
often wondered why some people are rudely compelled to point out
obvious flaws
. Hey, you sure have gained weight since I saw you
last. Wow, you have an enormous zit on the end of your nose. Did
you know your perm looks like Ramen Noodles?

As soon as he spoke, I picked up my glass and
took a gulp of wine. When he said, “Women don’t dress for
practicality, though,” I drained the rest of the contents so
quickly I had to gasp for breath when I put the glass down.

“I’ll have to remember that in the future,” I
said, slurring the words ever so slightly.

“How’s the new job coming along, Herm?” Kyle
shot Patty a grin and put his arm around her, pulling her
close.

I smiled benignly. How sweet. Kyle was trying
to get Herman off the subject of my blouse. Before I knew it, I’d
be home and Herman-free for the rest of my life.

“Going good until I found out the manager is
a woman.” Herman pasted on the expression of someone who had
suffered long and hard and was finally ready to out his inner
chauvinist.

I came out of zone-out as quickly as I’d gone in.
“And what’s wrong with that?” I’d have popped him with the wine
list if it weren’t terribly poor manners to pop one’s blind date in
public.

“It’s a known fact that most businesses that
fail are run by women.”

Patty snickered and nudged Kyle with her
elbow. He slowly shook his head and assumed a confused
expression.

When Mama instilled the manners in me, she
mentioned something about how a lady shouldn’t drink too much,
especially when she’s on a date. I’d already broken that rule. And
now I was about to break another, the rule about how I shouldn’t
brag or lie.

“I suppose, then, I should prepare myself for
failure. My friend Veronica—a successful real estate broker—has
offered me a business partnership and, of course, I accepted on the
spot. We’re going to conduct ghost tours of the old Blackthorn
House, a mansion she owns.” The Blackthorn House wasn’t exactly a
mansion. Veronica had once pointed it out to me, and I remembered
it as a run down brick structure that, even in its finest hour,
couldn’t qualify as more than a big house.

Patty put her glass down with a clunk and
squealed, “So that’s it. I knew you were keeping a secret. My
intuition never fails.”

“Ghost tours?” Herman and Kyle exchanged
man-bonding glances.

I’d only meant to shut Herman up, but now I
was compelled to defend myself. “I’ll be dressing up in period
costume to lead tourists through the mansion.” I’d made up the part
about the costume, but who knew? “The first owner was reputed to a
pirate and he sometimes kept captives chained in the carriage house
or the attic. Wherever. Tourists will pay big money to hear there’s
a bloodstain on the upstairs sitting room wall that won’t wash off.
And learn how unearthly sounding screams have been heard coming
from the attic, especially when there’s a full moon.”

After I made up the costume part, the rest of
the lies came easily. And they served their purpose. Herman and
Kyle had been struck silent and I didn’t need to have what Patty
would call “psychic intuition” to know that Herman was glad he
wouldn’t have to go out with me again.

“That’s fantastic, Susan.” Patty glowed, her
pale face seeming to float like an island in the middle of the
black frame of her hair. “I know you’ll be a huge success running
your own business. Do you think I could conduct a séance at the
mansion some night?”

I blinked to bring her into focus.
“Fine with me. I’ll have to clear it with Veronica,
though--she
is
my business
partner.” I glanced at my wineglass. It was mysteriously
empty.

We finished dinner listening to Kyle tell us how he’d
stuffed a whole raccoon family for a friend to display in his
living room, but his friend’s fiancée objected. To save their
relationship, he had to move the furry family to his garage.

When we finally headed out, Patty and I rode in the
back and Kyle and Herman sat up front. Patty, holding my arm to
steady me, walked me to my door. She had to unlock it for me.

She pushed the door open, and before I could
disappear inside, she said, “Hey, I meant what I said. I think it’s
super you’re moving on to start a new business. You deserve better
than Odell’s store.”

Heat rose to my face. “About that ghost
hunting. It’s just a story.”

“I know, but what a story. Ghosts roaming the
halls? Screams coming from upstairs? You can’t miss,” she trilled,
handing me my key. “See you tomorrow at work, okay?”

“Wait.” Had I said anything about ghosts in
the halls? I couldn’t remember.

She was already halfway down the steps. She
turned with a questioning look and I waved her on. I’d straighten
things out in the morning. I knew Patty would understand why I’d
made up the story—she hadn’t taken to Herman any more than I
had.

Still tipsy, I got ready for bed. When I saw
Veronica again, I’d tell her she was right. I didn’t need blind
dates, especially not when they were arranged by Patty. What was it
she wanted me to do? Convince Steve we belonged together? That
wouldn’t happen, but maybe I could learn to flirt a little.

My thoughts drifted in an alcohol-fueled
haze. What if we started going out and Steve wanted more than a
date or two? What if our friendship progressed to a relationship
and he eventually wanted something else, what my mother would call
an affair? Would I go along or would I hold out for marriage? If I
were being true to my upbringing, I’d hold out for marriage.

But if I were being honest, I’d have to say I
was definitely interested in the something else, even if we ended
up drifting apart after a few months. After all, marriages didn’t
always work out, as I well knew. Why should I give up a chance to
be with a nice, interesting man simply because he wouldn’t put a
ring on my finger? Wasn’t a fling better than a commitment to the
wrong person?

I tried to bring up a picture of Steve in my
mind and couldn’t remember what he looked like. About all I came up
with was an especially bland smiley face with receding brown
hair.

I awoke to the racket of my alarm clock. I
lay in bed for nearly five minutes trying to unglue my eyelids
before I was able to reach across to the nightstand and smash the
off button.

I had to think to remember where I was. When
I did remember, thoughts flooded into my mind and heat flooded my
face. Had I really drunk too much wine last night? Had I really
transformed myself from my own version of a southern lady--a person
who’d often been described by friends and family as sweet and
caring--into a mouthy braggart? Had I, the responsible one, managed
to win a know-it-all competition with a man I’d never see again?
Me, the mother of a college aged son, though everyone told me I
looked much too young to have an eighteen-year-old son. Apparently,
I acted it, too.

What had I been thinking? At least, I told
myself as I scooted to the edge of the bed, I hadn't turned myself
into a southern slut--the worst type of woman according to
Mama.

My head pounded and my mouth felt like
someone had stuffed it full of dirty cotton. I took two aspirin and
headed for the shower where I stood under the steaming water for a
good twenty minutes until my head started to clear.

When I climbed out, I wiped steam off the
mirror and stared at my face. Eyes definitely puffy, but otherwise,
not too much damage. I’d had the little shove I needed. From now
on, I was going to stop letting other people talk me into things.
No more blind dates, no matter how lonely I got. And no more
feeling sorry for myself and no more drinking too much wine, though
that one would be easy. I rarely drank, and other than last night
I’d never had more than I could handle.

I felt better after the mental scolding and
made a resolve to sin no more. I took the time to hunt up my
self-improvement list and stick it on the refrigerator with a
dolphin-shaped magnet Mama had brought me from Florida a few years
ago. Underneath the entries for exercise, makeover, and better job,
I added act my age.Unfortunately, five minutes spent on my list
translated to twenty extra minutes in morning traffic. I ripped my
well-aged minivan around a corner, slid into the Hoganboom lot, and
screeched to a halt in my usual parking spot. Odell insists that we
park around back next to the stinking Dumpster we share with the
seafood market next door. I glanced at my watch. Fifteen minutes
late. Maybe I should add promptness to my list as a gentle
reminder.

I scurried inside, only to be blocked by
Odell. He was standing in the hall outside his office with feet
wide apart, one hand behind his back, and the other inside his
jacket over his heart. He was the image of Napoleon, if Napoleon
were suffering from hemorrhoids and wore modern clothing.

Patty was frantically eyebrow signaling me
over his head. She’d made up for last night by drawing her brows in
thicker and blacker than normal. Patty’s signaling clearly read
that something was wrong and the something involved me.

“Good morning,” I chirped, dropping my keys
in my purse and snapping it shut. I hoped my casual attitude would
prompt Odell to step aside and give me clear path to my office. If
he was willing to forget about my tardiness, I certainly wasn’t
going to bring it up.

“I suppose,” Odell said, not stepping aside.
“I suppose,” he said again, sucking in his stomach and drawing
himself up to his full five feet four, “you’ll give me some lame
excuse as your reason for waltzing in here fifteen minutes
late.”

“Traffic,” I said quickly. “I’ll do better in
the future.”

I expected him to acknowledge my explanation
and move on to a new topic. Either that or go back to what he was
doing when I came in--probably rearranging the jewelry display,
which seems to give him a lot of satisfaction. Instead his scowl
deepened the lines on his face into deep grooves framing his mouth.
Napoleon with hemorrhoids and a hernia and a letter from Josephine
telling him she was having an affair with the gardener.

“What future?”

I glanced over his head at Patty and saw her
face gradually assume the color of a cherry tomato. She made the
throat slashing sign and rolled her eyes up in her head until only
the whites shone. Something tried to dawn in my awareness, but my
thoughts were still sluggish even after the double strength coffee
I’d gulped down for breakfast.

“What future?” I squawked. Even I didn’t know
what I meant or what Odell meant. “Uhmm, my future as your valued
employee?”

“Let’s step into my office, Ms. Caraway.”
Odell turned and strode purposefully away from me.

“Step into your office?” Except for yesterday
when he scolded me for not getting to work until after lunch, he
hadn’t called me Ms. Caraway since the day of my interview. I was
always Susan or, when he spoke to customers, “the office girl.”

I trudged after him. I caught a last glimpse
of Patty mouthing “sorry” at me before I turned the corner near a
shelf sagging under the weight of electronic equipment. Yeah, no
doubt the Universe was sending Patty a forgiveness ticket this very
second.

Odell’s office was twice the size of
mine and twice as cluttered. He swept a pile of
Reader’s Digest
magazines off a chair by the
door and motioned for me to sit.