I offered Peter some wine, but he drank one of the Dr Peppers, and we sat in the kitchen for a while, chatting, while the kids monopolized the living room. And eventually, I went to wake the sitter and pay her. He offered to drive her home, but she had her own car, and after she left, we stood on the porch for a moment, and he asked if I'd like to play tennis the next morning. I explained that I was a mediocre player, which was stretching it. He said he was no Jimmy Connors either, he had an underlying layer of humility, with an overlying layer of healthy self-confidence. He seemed totally at ease in his own skin. But he had good reason to be. He was handsome, intelligent, and charming. And employed, which was refreshing. He said he'd pick me up at ten-thirty.
“Do you want to bring the kids? They can play on another court, or we can play doubles.”
“That would be fun.’ I said dubiously. But I had nowhere else to leave them anyway. The sitter I used worked all day. I had to bring them.
He drove away in his silver Jaguar, and I went back inside to turn off the TV, and tell the kids to go to bed. The dog went straight to Sam's bed, a lot faster than he did. And Charlotte stuck around to express her views on Peter. I could hardly wait to hear them.
“He looks like a dork,” she said with authority, while I was torn between defending him and pretending I didn't care. Either way, I knew I'd be in trouble. If I looked like I cared, it would have piqued her interest. If I didn't, it was open season.
“Why?” I asked casually, taking the turquoise beads off. He didn't look like a dork to me. Far from it.
“He was wearing Guccis.” What was he supposed to wear? Hiking boots, or Nikes? The Guccis had looked fine to me, so had the blue shirt and white jeans. I thought he looked cool, clean, and sexy. That was good enough for me.
“He's a creep, Mom. He's just taking you out to use you.” It was an interesting observation. But he had paid the check, so if he intended to “use” me, I hadn't noticed. And if he had other means of using me in mind, I wasn't entirely opposed to that prospect.
“He just took me to dinner, Char, he didn't ask for my tax returns. How can you be so cynical at your age?” Had I taught her that? Listening to her made me feel guilty. Maybe I had spoken a little too freely about Roger. But then again, he deserved it. So far, Peter didn't. But this was only the initial skirmish.
“Is he gay?” Sam asked with interest. He had just learned the word, and a rather broad sense of its meaning, and used it at every opportunity, but I assured him I didn't think so.
“He might be,” Charlotte offered helpfully. “Maybe that's why his wife left him.” It was like listening to my mother.
“How do you know she did?” I asked, clearly on the defensive.
“Did he leave her?” she asked, looking outraged, the defender of wronged womanhood, Joan of Arc with a Dr Pepper in lieu of saber.
“I have no idea who left who, and I don't think it's any of our business. And by the way,” I said, feigning an ease I was far from feeling, “we're playing tennis with him tomorrow.”
“What?” Charlotte shrieked at me as I tucked Sam and the dog in, and she followed me into my bedroom, where I'd almost forgotten she was still sleeping with me. “I hate tennis!”
“You do not. You played all day yesterday.” My point. But only for an instant. She was quicker.
“That was different. That was with kids. Mom, he's ancient, he'll probably have a heart attack and die on the court.” She sounded hopeful.
“I don't think so. He looks like he might last through a couple of sets anyway. We'll go easy on him.”
“I'm not going.” She threw herself on my bed and glared at me, and I thought about strangling her, stopped only by my deep phobia about prison.
“We'll talk about it in the morning,” I said coolly, walked into my bathroom, and closed the door. And as I stood there, I looked in the mirror. What was I doing? Who was this man? And why did I care if my children liked him? Two dates with him, and I was already trying to sell him to Sam and Charlotte. All the danger signs were there. This had all the earmarks of a truly frightening story. Maybe she was, right. Maybe I should cancel in the morning. Besides, if my kids hated him, what point was there pursuing a romance with him anyway? A what? I squeezed my eyes shut and splashed cold water on my face to douse what I was thinking. I could already hear the lions in the Colosseum beginning to smack their lips, anticipating me for dinner.
I put a nightgown on, turned off the lights, and went to bed, and Charlotte was waiting for me. She waited until I was lying in bed in the dark, and she sounded like the child in The Exorcist when she asked the next question.
“You really like him, don't you?”
“I don't even know him.” I wanted to sound innocent, but even I could hear that I sounded lonely. But the truth was I had been. And she was right. I liked him.
“Then why are you forcing us to play tennis with a stranger?”
“Then don't play with him. Take a book. You can do your summer reading for school.” I knew that would get her, and it did. She harrumphed loudly at me, turned her back, and was asleep in five minutes.
And Peter was on the porch with his tennis racket, in white shorts and a T-shirt, at ten-fifteen the next morning. I pretended to ignore the fact that he had the best legs I'd ever seen. I wished mine were as good as I smiled at him and opened the screen door. Sam was at the kitchen table, eating corn flakes and drinking Dr Pepper. It was a serious addiction.
“Did you sleep well?” Peter asked, smiling at me.
“Like a baby.”
We chatted for a minute, as Sam dropped the cornflakes in the sink and they splashed everywhere, and Charlotte appeared in the kitchen, glowering at everyone. But she was carrying her racket.
He had reserved two courts at a club nearby, a very old exclusive one that Roger had always wanted to belong to, but your family had to bequeath you a membership. Roger would have hated Peter. Peter was everything he wasn't.
And as soon as we arrived, Charlotte suggested we play doubles. I knew then that I was in trouble. He thought she was being friendly. And she insisted that I be her partner. Peter teamed up with Sam, who was just learning, and was feeling mildly carsick from the ride over. And then Charlotte went to town on Peter. She creamed him. I have never seen her play so well, or with such energy, or venom. If she'd been training for the Summer Olympics, I'd have been proud of her. As it was, I was surprised that Peter didn't hit her with his racket, or try to kill her. She was without mercy. And when it was all over, she smiled at him.
“She plays very well,” he said charitably afterward, looking unruffled by her performance. I wanted to strangle her again, and was relieved when she saw friends having Cokes at the bar, and asked if she could join them. I told her she could, if she took Sam with her, which she didn't. And then I apologized to Peter for her blood lust on the courts. “It was fun,” he said, and looked as though he meant it. That was the first time I suspected he was crazy.
“She was trying to prove a point,” I said apologetically, and he laughed.
“She doesn't need to. I'm relatively harmless. She's a bright girl, and she's probably concerned about who I am, and what I'm doing here. That's pretty normal. I warn you, I'm falling in love with Sam though.” And I loved him for it. I had a moment's fantasy about their being friends, and then instantly repressed it. There was no point getting my hopes up.
We chatted easily for a while, and then had lunch with Sam. Charlotte had lunch with her friends on the terrace, and seemed to have forgotten about Peter. Having disposed of him on the court, she had lost interest in him. There were two fourteen-year-old boys in the group who were far more captivating than he was.