Your Song (22 page)

“At some point every day, no matter what I’m doing or where I am, I will hear a 1970s song in my head that will perfectly
. . . mirror my thoughts . . . or my actions or my mood . . . I don’t know how . . . but the song just comes to me out of nowhere . . . it’s like I have a stereo in my head that never shuts off. It’s been like this for a few years.”

“Really? So, tell me what was yesterday’s song?” This time she’s staring at me. I so have those butterflies in my stomach. She is so beautiful and perfect and
sitting so close to me
.

“Um . . .
yesterday’s song was . . . don’t laugh . . . but I was in Vancouver yesterday morning and it was raining like hell. I was leaving my hotel to catch a cab to the airport, I had no umbrella . . . I’m stepping in puddles knee deep and then out of nowhere, B.J. Thomas’ “Raindrops Keep Falling On My
Head
,”
comes to me just like that.” And I snap my fingers and sing the first course
.

Caroline laughs.

“How about the song from the day before?” She asks.

“That would be . . .
”Message in a Bottle,” by The Police.” Getting up from the couch to head into the kitchen, I lightly brush my legs past hers.
Sparks . . .
Sade is singing, “No Ordinary Love.”

I pull the two dinner plates out of the warming drawer and begin to place the roasted potatoes, tomatoes and shitake mushrooms on them. Carefully, I divide the rack of lamb with
herbes de Provence onto each of our plates. I pull the chilled bottle of Shiraz out of the fridge and begin to reach into the drawer for the wine bottle opener when Caroline comes in. Her enthralling scent and her close proximity distract me from the task at hand.

“And what about today’s song?” She asks as she takes the salad bowl off the counter and follows me out towards the balcony. I wait for her at the sliding door. Carrying both dinner plates and the bottle of Shiraz nestled in the crook of my arm; I’m at a loss to open the door. Caroline steps up very closely to my side. Her bare left arm grazes my right arm and she looks up at me. We hold each other’s gaze neither of us saying a word.

“Hasn’t come to me yet,” I whisper. My words break the moment. We are now standing on the candlelit balcony and I watch Caroline overlook the incredible view of Toronto at night. I place the wine and the plates on the table and take the salad bowl from her hands and then join her at the balcony ledge.

“This is really the most beautiful night,” Caroline says as she looks up at the stars, her hands resting on the ledge.

“I agree. When I think of all the cities I have travelled to, I still think Toronto is by far, one of the most beautiful, especially at night.” I too look up at the shining stars. The Commodores’ “Three Times a Lady,”
is playing through the speakers on my balcony. I nudge just slightly closer to her.

“I meant this dinner . . . here . . . with you . . .
in your amazing place with the most tender music. You certainly know how to sweep a girl off her feet.” She turns and looks up at me.

“Really? I was trying really hard to sweep you off yo
ur feet that day at the airport . . . but I . . . failed . . . miserably. That was my first try.  Then, I tried again at 7 West Café and . . . no success again,” I lift my eyebrows and roll my eyes and she laughs. Then, she lifts herself on her toes and leans over and plants the softest, lightest kiss on my cheek.

“Third time’s a charm,” she whispers.
I am gone.
I could
so
grab her by the waist right now and pull her to me and kiss the living daylights out of her . . . but I refrain. That would be something Bad Boy Eric would do without a second thought. What I really feel for Caroline is something so much deeper that I fear coming on too strong too fast might push her away. Instead, I leave her side at the balcony’s edge and go and pull her chair out so she can come take a seat. She follows my cue and comes to sit at the table. I make my way to my end of the table and sit down. I pour wine in her glass and then in mine.

“Eric, did I ever tell you who I think you look like?”
Oh no, please don’t say John F. Kennedy, Jr. . . .
I cringe just waiting to hear his name.

“No, you haven’t. So, tell me, who do I remind you of?”

“Him,” she says giggling and pointing upwards towards the sound speakers. Enrique Iglesias is singing “Hero,”
above us.
Really? Enrique Iglesias?

“I have to say . . .
that’s a first. I usually get told I look like someone else.” I start to eat when I see that Caroline has begun her dinner too.

“Really? Who?”  She takes a bite of lamb and then some vegetables.

“Years ago, one of my sister’s friends said she thought I looked like John F. Kennedy Jr. Then he died shortly after that and she rechristened me. Even my sister calls me JFK, Jr. Personally, I don’t see it . . . Enrique though? You’ve just heard me sing . . . .” With the champagne and the Shiraz lingering in me, my body is starting to relax.

“Yes, with your darker Mediterranean looks, serious yet sexy features and funny, self
-deprecating manner . . . you definitely remind me of him,” she replies. I have got to Google him
. . . .

“You on the other hand, do not remind me of anyone,” I say looking up from my plate, “because I can say, with all certainty, that you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on in my entire life.”
No games, I’m laying it on the line.
She looks up from her plate and then shyly looks away from me.

“Thank you. You certainly know how to make a woman blush as well,” she says placing her fork on her plate and looking out at the view.

“Which is why I am dying to know why you don’t have a . . . boyfriend, a husband, a partner, a
girlfriend
?” I don’t take my eyes off her.

“Well,” she pauses a bit before continuing, “you’ve no idea how complicated a question that is for me.” She picks up her fork again and continues to work her way through the lamb.

“By the way, this meal is absolutely delicious. You are a chef extraordinaire,” she says with her exquisite French accent.

“Thank you. Why is that question so complicated?” Suddenly, I’m feeling nervous. No longer an excited nervous but an uneasy nervous. I scratch my head.

“I’m sorry. Yes, I’m single and unattached now . . . but for the longest time . . . I didn’t see myself as that way. What about you, Enrique? I’m just as surprised to see that you haven’t been snatched up by some lucky lady . . .
or ladies.”
She is deflecting again.
Shit.

“Like I said, I was trying to get myself snatched up at O’Hare International Airport but no one was clawing that day.”

“At O’Hare?” Caroline frowns a bit, “The first time I saw you was on the flight back to Toronto, not at O’Hare,” she eyes me speculatively. No games, I remind myself. Put everything on the table.
Okay, almost everything
.

“I was standing in line at Starbucks that morning when I laid eyes on this very attractive, smiling woman standing a few people away in front of me. She literally stopped me in my tracks. There was something about the way she smiled that just did
. . . something to me . . . changed me. From that first glance, I knew this was different.” I rise from the table taking both Caroline’s empty plate and mine with me. I’ll leave her with that and Frank Sinatra crooning “Fly Me To
The Moon,”
for a few minutes while I go prepare the dessert.

Once in the kitchen, I take a deep breath of air. All this honesty and sincerity is tiring me out a bit. Nevertheless, I’m still on a high. She is enjoying her evening: the music, the wine, the meal, the spectacular view, and me (I hope). Apart from worrying about the evasiveness about her personal life, I’m having the best time. On many levels, she is a mystery to me, a beautiful mysterious woman, but I’m intrigued. Tonight I’m proud of myself on so many levels; for not jumping all over her luscious body on the couch (as much as I wanted to), for being as forthcoming as I can with respect to how interested I am in her and finally, for this brilliant dessert I’m about to surprise her with. Quickly, I assemble the butter, the brown sugar, the chopped up mangoes and the vanilla Hagen
Dasz from the freezer. Last but not least, the Amaretto liquor. I work quickly on preparing the dish. I hurry.  I can’t stand being away from her for too long.

Mango Heaven. Vanilla ice cream topped with diced mangoes sautéed in butter, brown sugar, and Amaretto liquor. The sweet, warm fruit mixture coupled with the cold rich ice cream is a blissful combination. And from what I can see, it looks like Caroline is enjoying every spoonful.
Yes, it’s a hit!

“This is . . .
heavenly,” she says looking up at me, “I can taste the Amaretto in here . . . my favorite.” Her eyes close with her next swallow. Van Morrison’s “Moondance,” is keeping us company.

“Let me continue with my story. So, this mysterious woman leaves Starbucks and I watch her walk away. Disappointed, of course, figuring I’ll likely never see her again. So I make my way to the gate to catch my flight and lo and behold,
mystery woman is sitting there . . . at my gate. So I watch her. She, obviously, doesn’t notice the guy in the corner staring at her every move.” Caroline starts giggling and nodding her head as if she is agreeing with me.

“So I’m sitting there silently stalking this stunning beauty when all of a sudden I hear a flurry of names being called through the speakers. Just as luck would have it, this woman gets up, goes to the desk, not once but twice. And I hear her name is Caroline. That’s when the song of the day popped in my head. Do you want to guess what that was?”

“Such a great storyteller, you are. I couldn’t take the punch line away from you on this one even if I tried. I’ve no clue what the 70s hit of the day was. Please, pray tell.” She’s beaming and deep inside I am too. It feels so easy to be so open with her. I can sit here forever with her.
Maybe a little closer to her though.

“Come on . . . guess . . .
I’ll give you three tries.”

“
Ummm, let’s see . . . “Walk This Way,” by Aerosmith?” She chuckles.

“Nope. But that was a decent guess. Try again.”

“Okay . . . .how about . . . Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry”? She laughs teasingly.

“
Ouch
. Salt on the wound. Guess again.” Caroline’s face turns more serious. She’s concentrating. I wait. The track has changed and now it’s Joe Cocker’s turn, singing “You Are So Beautiful,” in the way only he can sing it.
What a great playlist, if I say so myself.

“This is hard, Eric. Let me think,” She looks up towards the dark sky.

“Take your time. I have all night,” I smirk playfully. I lean back on my chair, more relaxed, and watch her closely.

“Well, let’s see if I knew there was someone stalking me in an airport what would have come instantly to
my
mind would have been that song . . . by Chic . . . I think it was called, “Le Freak!”

“No French choices here. Keep guessing.”

“Tough. All I really know from the 70s are Barbra Streisand songs. I seriously doubt that ”Memory,” would have come to you in an airport terminal on a weekday morning.”

“No, Ms. Streisand did not grace me with her presence. Do you want to go out? We can grab a drink or a coffee in Yorkville. Maybe, if you’re up to it, we can even go dancing.” I change tracks. Time to go have some fun.

“Uh . . . sure. That sounds great.”

I get up and start to blow out the candles on the balcony. Caroline stands and watches me. She begins to clear the table but I take the empty ice cream bowls out of her hands and leave everything on the table. Together we enter the condo where I start to blow out the
votives lying around the living room.

While she’s in the bathroom, I run into the kitchen and throw some things in the fridge. We meet in the front foyer where I bend over to blow out some more candles. With each candle’s light blown out, the room gets dimmer. Kenny Rogers is singing to his “Lady,” in the background.  As I bow to blow the last candle out, Caroline comes up beside me and bends down with me. As I am about to blow the candle, she holds my upper arm with both of her hands. Softly, she brings her lips to my ear.

“‘Crazy For You,’” she whispers, ”that’s
my
song of the day.”

I abandon the lone candle leaving it to flicker between us. I turn to her and in one swoop; I take one hand and place it gently on her chin. I explore her mesmerizing eyes for a few seconds. Then I reach down and plant the lightest kiss on her lips, reveling in the deliciousness of this moment.

“And now it’s mine too,” I whisper.

Swiftly, I blow out the last candle, take Caroline’s hand in mine and lead her out of the condo while Madonna sings in my head.

15 “Tears In Heaven”

“Do you cook, Eric?”

That’s how she starts off our session together, asking me if I can cook. Not
how have you been
or
what was your time in Vancouver like
? Leslie is dressed all in white today; white fabric hair tie holding her mass of long brown hair, white sleeveless blouse clinging to her chest, white Capri pants and white kitten heeled sandals. Today the earrings are white hoops large enough to toss a basketball through. Pen poised to her lips, white pad of paper resting on her lap and smiling as always. I’m sitting here across from my own personal angel feeling the ease and comfort I have come to feel in her presence. I can’t wait to begin our session but first I must answer this question about cooking.