“The refrigerator repairman,” I said, lying wickedly to my own flesh and blood, but it was none of her business.
“No, it wasn't,” she said accusingly. “He's in the kitchen, working on the fridge. He said we might need a new one.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling stupid, and then she noticed the dog tracks that had followed her in, and groaned. I couldn't help wondering what they were feeding him. Obviously, too much of something. Probably a side of beef every day, given what he was producing. And after she left the room, I called the sitter.
I didn't tell them till six o'clock that I was going out, and they were going out for hamburgers and a movie without me. The refrigerator was working again, temporarily he said, but the Dr Pepper was cold again and everyone was happy. I had even gone to the store to buy them more frozen pizza and Rocky Road ice cream.
“Where are you going?” Sam asked suspiciously. I hadn't gone out since they'd come home, and it was obviously cause for some concern. I might get a life after all, and that could pose a real threat to them. Who would be around to drive them to the 7-Eleven? Or change the channels on the TV, or clean up after the dog? Let's face it, I was useful.
“With whom?” Charlotte asked more precisely.
“A friend,” I said vaguely, popping the top on a diet 7-Up and covering my mouth with it, so they couldn't hear the rest of what I wasn't saying. But children have extraordinarily sensitive hearing. Mine at least. She heard exactly what I said, although I had swallowed most of it along with the soda.
“From Paris? Is he French?”
“No, he's American. I met him there.”
“Does he speak English?” Sam asked, looking worried.
“Like a native,” I reassured him. They both frowned in joint disapproval.
“Why don't you stay home with us?” Sam asked sensibly. It sounded fine to him. A little less so to me, considering the alternative, which was exceedingly appealing. In spite of myself, and the fact that I knew better by then, I liked Peter Baker, and also knew I probably shouldn't. He was the enemy, after all, wasn't he? But he didn't look like one. And I had spent a terrific day in Paris with him.
“I can't stay home with you,” I explained to Sam. “You're going to a movie with your sister.”
“No, I'm not” Charlotte glared at me, suddenly balking. “I said I'd meet some friends on the beach at nine o'clock.” I hate thirteen. It leads to fourteen, and fifteen. This was only the beginning.
“Not tonight,” I said firmly. I listened to no further arguments, and disappeared into the bathroom to wash my hair before dinner.
The sitter arrived at seven-fifteen, and, glowering at me, Sam and Charlotte left with her in my car at seven-thirty. They were off to dinner and the latest bit of violence on the screen, something Sam had already seen three times, but Charlotte hadn't seen yet, and didn't want to. I waved happily at them from the porch, praying that the damn dog from next door didn't return to leave one of his little gifts to us on the front steps before Peter got there.
I was wearing a white linen dress when Peter arrived, and turquoise beads, my hair looked reasonable, and the red nail polish on my toes was absolutely perfect. Roger would never have recognized me. I was no longer the poor little drone he had discarded for Helena. Nor was I Helena either. I was me. With a knot in my stomach the size of my head, and no idea what to say to Peter. My palms were damp, and the moment I looked at him, I knew I was in trouble. He was much too handsome, too smart, too sure of himself. He was wearing white jeans, a blue shirt, and his feet were bare in an impeccably shined pair of Gucci loafers.
I stumbled through the appropriate small talk, reminding myself that I wasn't a total loss, and all of my friends, husbands still found me attractive. That had to mean something. But for the life of me, in spite of that, I couldn't imagine what this man saw in me. Besides, he had no way of knowing that I used to have a predilection for dilapidated flannel nightgowns. And he didn't know Roger, so no one could have told him yet how incredibly boring I could be. Besides, we had gone to the Louvre together, and the Ritz for martinis. No one had put a gun to his head. For whatever reason, he had called me. And this couldn't even be called a first date officially. We had already done that, in Paris. So this one would be easy. Or would it? Who was I kidding? I would have handled a liver transplant with greater ease. Nothing about dating was easy for me.
We had a glass of wine first, and I managed not to spill it on either him or me. He said he liked my dress, and that he had always loved turquoise, particularly on a woman with a suntan. We talked about his work, and New York, and people we knew in common in the Hamptons. It was all very grown up, and by the time he drove me to dinner, the knot in my stomach was the size of a large peach, instead of a grapefruit. Things were improving.
He ordered a martini at the restaurant, and I waited for him to get drunk, and he didn't. I guess he forgot to. He talked about his childhood summers in Maine, and I reminisced about a trip to Italy in my teens, and the first time I fell in love. He talked about his ex-wife, and his son, and I refrained from telling him what a loser Roger was. I didn't want him to think I hated men. I didn't. Only Roger. And that was fairly recent.
We talked about a lot of things, and we laughed a lot. And I kept thinking how different he was from every man I had ever known. He was sensible and warm, and open, and funny. He said he liked kids, and looked as though he might even have meant it. He told me about a sailboat he'd had in San Francisco, and how much he had loved it, and was thinking of buying another. He admitted to a weakness for fast cars, and slow women, and we laughed at each other's stories about dating. Clearly, many of the people he and I had gone out with since our divorces had been related. I even confessed how I felt about Helena, and how just seeing her sometimes hurt my heart and bruised my ego.
“Why?” he asked easily. “She sounds like an utter fool, nearly as big a fool as your husband for leaving you for a woman like that.” I tried to explain to him that I'd let myself go, that I had let my life revolve around orthodontist appointments and taking the kids to the playground. I failed to tell him, however, that now it revolved around getting manicures and taking the children to McDonald's, and then going home to watch I Love Lucy. I figured he expected more than that. A heart surgeon maybe, or a nuclear physicist, something exciting and sexy. But he seemed to be doing fine with the white dress and the turquoise beads. It was midnight before he drove me back, and as we walked into the house, I was less than thrilled to find the kids still awake, watching TV in the living room, with the dog asleep on the couch next to Sam, and the sitter asleep in my bedroom.
“Hi.” Charlotte eyed Peter with suspicion, as I introduced them. Sam just stared at him as though he couldn't believe Peter was actually standing there with me. Come to think of it, I couldn't either. What was this man doing in our living room, chatting with my kids about the show they were watching? He didn't even look frightened by it, or by the black looks Charlotte was giving him, and me, standing just behind him. And then Sam looked over at me with interest.
“You stepped in it again, Mom,” he said casually, and I looked down and noticed the pasty little tracks behind me, and smiled at Peter.
“It's the neighbor's dog,” I explained. “He rented this house for the same month we did. He's been here since we moved in, and he sleeps with Sam.” I was explaining it as I went to clean up the mess and take my shoes off. I wanted to kill the dog, but didn't want him to think I hated dogs, in case he had one. I didn't want him to hate anything about me. And then I wondered why it mattered. What difference did it make? How many more times would I see him? Maybe never. If Charlotte had her way, and maybe even Sam, surely never. Charlotte's glance at him was colder than the refrigerator that had been fixed that morning.