“Like you?”
“Well, I’m a free spirit, too, but not like her. If she’d been around in the sixties she’d have been a hippie. What about you? Where have you been?”
“Oh, overseas. Nothing to write home about. Just the usual business.”
“Yeah, right. International sales. Information gathering and troubleshooting. I remember, Mr. Mysterious.”
“It’s true!”
“Sure. So what are you doing in L.A.?”
“Had to make a stop. A business stop. But I’ve got twenty-four hours of free time.”
“Aww, and you chose to spend it with me?”
“If you’d like.”
“Of course I’d like.”
“I do have to get some rest, though. I’m pretty exhausted.”
She punches me on the upper arm. “Don’t give me that, buster. We might spend the next twenty-four hours in bed but we ain’t gonna be sleeping!”
We reach the restaurant, one of my favorites in L.A. — and San Francisco, too. It’s called the Stinking Rose and it specializes in garlic dishes. Katia’s never been there, so she’s in for a treat.
The place is nearly full, as usual, but we’re a little on the late side of the lunch hour. There’s no problem getting a table. The hostess must sense the romantic tension between Katia and me so she sits us in a dimly lit corner and lights a candle. Katia scans the menu and proclaims that it all sounds good. I assure her it is and suggest the appetizer of bagna calda. We order a bottle of the house red wine and settle in for an enjoyable hour or two.
“So where in the world were you, Mr. Salesman?” Katia asks. Her brown eyes sparkle in the candlelight and I’m tempted to open my soul to her. For once, the specter of Regan is nowhere around. Perhaps my late wife is looking down from the heavens and wishes me well. Regan would have wanted me to get on with my life, find someone to love. After all, Regan and I had separated and weren’t living together when she succumbed to her illness. We remained cordial mostly because of Sarah but I know Regan and I continued to have enormous affection for each other. I also believe Regan would have liked Katia.
“I was in the Far East,” I say. I really don’t want to give away too much about my job. Obviously, Katia has guessed quite a bit. It’s an ongoing debate with myself whether or not to tell her the complete truth. I suppose that if our relationship truly becomes something serious then I’ll have to.
“Let’s see, the Far East,” she says. “That must mean… Japan? Korea?”
“Nope.”
“The Philippines? China?”
“Nope.”
“Hong Kong? Indonesia?”
“Closer.”
“Look, Sam, one thing I ask is that you be honest with me.” She takes a sip of wine and then looks at me intently. “I realize you have a rather hardened heart when it comes to relationships and I don’t want to scare you off. I’m independent, too, and I assure you I’m not a needy person. But I’ve been thinking about our short time together and, well, I just think we’ll have a pretty good time if we keep at it. I’m not asking for a commitment or anything like that, but I am asking that you tell me the truth about yourself.”
Before I can say anything, the appetizer arrives. Bagna calda is an awesome concoction of soft garlic cloves oven-roasted in extra virgin olive oil and butter with a hint of anchovy. Served in a little hot tub, it’s spreadable on the freshly baked bread it comes with.
“My God, this is fabulous,” Katia says when she tries it. “I could just fill up on this.”
“It’s good, isn’t it? You can buy a book of recipes from the restaurant at the front desk if you’re inclined to try it at home.”
We order entrees and talk of other things, the question of my honesty temporarily placed on the back burner. Krav Maga is a big topic of conversation, along with our personal habits for keeping fit. She tells me a little about her life in Israel before coming to the United States. Her father was Israeli but her mother is American, hence the dual citizenship. After her parents’ divorce, her mother brought Katia and her sister to California. Her father died of heart failure six years later.
The food arrives and it’s overwhelming. She has the lemon-baked Atlantic salmon with garlic caper sauce served with acini di pepe pasta. I go for the garlic-roasted medium-cut prime rib, which comes with, naturally, garlic mashed potatoes. As I tell Katia, the Stinking Rose is a great place to take a date because you know you’ll both have bad breath afterward.
Halfway through the meal the conversation returns to what I do for a living. She mentions that she loves to travel but doesn’t get to do it very much. “You’re lucky. It must be nice being able to go places in your job,” she says.
“Sometimes it is. Depends.”
“On what?”
“On what I have to do there.”
“Sam, you do work for the government, don’t you? Come on, your secret is safe with me.”
I don’t commit to an answer, but I do shrug my shoulders to indicate she’s on the right track. It’s the best I can do.
“I knew it. Look, I’ve known other men that work for government agencies. I dated a CIA guy once. We went the longest time before I found out what he did for a living and it really pissed me off.”
“Why?”
“Because he’d been lying to me. He told me he was a lobbyist. He exhibited all the same signs as you — he was secretive about his job, he was gone for long periods of time, he was unbelievably fit for his age, and he was a devotee of martial arts. Believe me, Sam, I know the type.”
“And that’s my type?”
“Isn’t it?”
I let that one ride. The meal continues pleasantly and the conversation moves along to safer subjects. At one point during dessert — we share the Irish coffee chocolate brownie mousse — I feel her bare foot brushing against my calf. She’s removed her shoe and has begun to rub my leg, inching higher and higher until her foot is in my lap. She presses her toes into my crotch, all the while looking at me with a glint in her eye that means business. I’m suddenly immensely aroused, a reaction I know has to do with coming back from a life-or-death assignment. The NSA psych doctors who examine me every year always express surprise when they learn of my years of celibacy. Most guys who perform dangerous missions for the government have a libido that won’t quit. Maybe that’s now finally coming to the fore.
“What say you we pay the bill and get the hell out of here?” I ask.
“I was wondering when you were gonna suggest that,” she says, a mischievous grin playing on her wet lips.
We spend the rest of the afternoon and evening in my room at the hotel. The sex is as intense as it was on my birthday back home in Towson. Katia is insatiable, it seems, and I no longer feel the fatigue that was plaguing me when I arrived in California. Maybe it’s the pheromones surging through my body or something like that, if you believe in that kind of stuff. Whatever it is, the chemical reactions in my loins don’t fail to do the job.
By nine o’clock that night we’re hungry again. I order room service and we have a couple of sandwiches and sodas. We sit on the bed, naked, eat our dinner, and laugh at the absurdity of how we must look. After the meal Katia offers to give me a massage and I readily accept. As she works me over with her strong hands I begin to feel tired again. I’m wonderfully relaxed and seem to be floating on water. The next thing I know, the room is pitch-dark and Katia is in bed next to me. I must have fallen asleep during the rubdown. The digital clock on the nightstand reads 2:35. I slept for a good six hours.