I stood on the porch wondering if I'd ever seen such a huge front door and felt like a munchkin in the Land of Oz. Even the doorbell's sound was larger than life, echoing through tall ceilings, announcing my arrival as if I were a lady of the court.
When the door opened, our eyes locked. One. Two. Three seconds. Then we both looked away. And back again. I couldn't tell for sure-the afternoon sun could've been playing tricks on me, but I thought maybe his pupils were dilated. Then he raised his arm on the doorframe and puffed out his chest, a classic gesture of dominance and flirtation. It happened so quickly that I hadn't even realized that I had cocked my head slyly and tossed my hair over my shoulder. I was flirting back. Not just with the orange juice spritzer man from the singles mixer who had been nabbed by the redhead, but with my sister's boyfriend.
Two thoughts ran through my head: 1) Why was he at a singles mixer if he was dating my sister, and 2) why, oh, why is life not fair? He stuck his hand out for me to shake, yet my eyes never left his. “You must be Rachel's sister,” he said.
“Ramona,” I said, and my cool hand met his warm embrace and before he let go, he gave my hand a slight squeeze, and I entered the oversized foyer with a beautiful entry table, large sconces with vanilla candles and fresh fall flowers. I thought of da Vinci, spending his days arranging flowers, something that most men would be terrible at, yet da Vinci had the artistic eye for color and contrast and said he loved the work.
“Cortland,” he said and put his hand behind his head and scratched his neck, another common flirting tactic. I tried not to smile and wondered if I was reading him wrong. He was handsome for certain, tall and well-built with a natural tan and a full head of blondish-brown hair that shone in the sun. “I was disappointed you disappeared the other night,” he said. “Small world, isn't it?”
“Indeed. Are you a singles regular?”
“Hoping to retire,” he said, his fingers crossed. “I'm the current president.”
“President of the Lonely Hearts Club?”
“Something like that. Your sister didn't tell me you were so funny.”
“Surprise, surprise.” Who knows what she said about me? Of course the most attractive man at the singles group would be the leader type: the kind who wouldn't stay single for long. My mother had mentioned Rachel and Cortland had seen each other every day since meeting. When my sister saw something she wanted, she put her hooks in and didn't let go. Cortland didn't stand a chance. Not that he'd be squirming to get off the hook, either.
“The girls are upstairs in the playroom,” he said.
As I began to follow him up, a German shepherd bolted from around the corner, skidded on the tile and leapt up to kiss my face before sniffing my crotch.
“Down, Leibe,” Cortland said.
“ Liebe. German for love. Great name.”
“Thanks. My mother is German, so in a way, I guess I named her after my mom. Sounds better than Phyllis. You have dogs?”
“No, but my boys have been wanting one for years. My husband and I said they could have one as soon as they started keeping their rooms clean and doing all their chores without complaining.”
“So, never, in other words?”
“Something like that. I've never been a dog person. But I don't know. I'm thinking maybe it's time.”
I followed Cortland up the stairs, trying not to stare at his behind, but well, it was right in my face, and I figured he must be a cyclist or runner with such a toned backside. What did I have to lose?
“So I noticed the walking trails in your neighborhood. Do you run or bike?”
“Both,” Cortland said.
Of course. A doubly fit behind. “You have a beautiful home.”
“Thank you.” We reached the playroom, an enormous pink and green room filled with everything a princess, or daughter of a divorced doctor, might desire. “Zoe, your aunt is here to pick you up.”
Zoe pouted. “Oh, Auntie. Do I have to go so soon?” Her language of manipulation worked like a charm. “You know how hard it is for me to a be a lonely child.”
“You mean an only child,” I corrected.
Zoe shrugged. “That, too.”
Lindsey, Cortland's daughter, put her arm protectively around Zoe. She was a full two heads taller and years older, but the two had clearly bonded. The bond of lonely onlies.
Cortland raised his brow. I could tell he was the type who gave in easily. “We could get a cup of coffee unless you're in a hurry.”
I glanced at my watch. Da Vinci would be out of class in an hour and he was going with me to Bradley's football game. I hadn't wanted Bradley to play football-too dangerous, I thought-but he was good at it, a born quarterback, and in the two weeks since da Vinci arrived, he had someone other than the neighbors and me (a terrible passer and receiver) to throw the ball with. Da Vinci was adept at those skills, too.
“One cup,” I said, and the girls cheered and Cortland smiled again, this time a wide smile, all teeth showing, eyes turned up on the ends, reserved for the truly happy. I began to think he wanted to have a cup of coffee with me for me. A ludicrous thought, really.
While he went into the kitchen to get our coffee, I stepped into his office. You could tell a lot about a person by the books he read, and as a linguist, it was the first thing I studied. Cortland's shelves were full of medical dictionaries-expected, and a few literary works-some Poe and Dickens, and on the bottom shelf, the popular fiction-Nick Hornby and a dozen thrillers. His desk was orderly with only one picture, a silver frame with a close-up of Lindsey when she was younger. Then a neat stack of magazines, Sports Illustrated, Time, and on top, Austin Living, the local magazine of the affluent. The glossy cover showed a beautiful fall entryway, one as nearly oversized as Cortland's. I picked it up to study it closer, then dropped it as if it had caught fire. See the home of Austin Young Lawyer of the Year Monica Blevins.
I'd thrown out the copy my mother had brought me, but as soon as the trash truck had taken it away, I'd regretted throwing it out. I'd made up my mind to confront Monica, but first I had to do my research.
My heart picked up speed, and I plucked it from the desk and turned to page forty-eight where Monica sat in her exquisite living room with her dog at her feet and her daughter Rose lying peacefully in her lap. I stared at Monica's face, thinking if I stared long enough I would feel something, understand something, but the longer I stared, the longer I wanted to rip the magazine to pieces and hated myself for wanting to do it. Because what had Monica done that was so wrong, really? Being born into a wealthy family that could afford private school where she'd met Joel Griffen in elementary school and, later, beginning an eight-year love affair that ended with breaking off their engagement one week before the wedding? Shouldn't I be thankful to her for not going through with it? If she had, I wouldn't have gotten my chance with Joel. And just because she personally hired Joel's architectural firm to build her new law office didn't mean she wanted to have an affair with him or that all those morning, lunch or after-work drinks were anything other than work. Right.
Sure, I could rip the pages out of the magazine but I could not rip Monica out of Joel's history. She would always be there, the woman who had shared nearly one-third of Joel's years on earth. “You know Monica?” Cortland said as he handed me the cup of coffee. The way he said it, so lightly, it was as if everyone knew Monica, and I'm sure everyone who was anyone knew Monica or the ones who read this magazine and who lived in this neighborhood knew Monica, but no one knew Monica the way I knew her.