Adventures of a Salsa Goddess (24 page)

Mission Possible

Week Nine Status Report:

Attended Singles Cooking Class. Got sick in the bathroom on undercooked chicken. Left early. Met no one.

Attended Three-Minute Dating event. Met forty men. Chose zero.

Went on blind date with pharmacist from Single No More. By
end of our date, I was begging him to open his pharmacy at two A.M. on pretense I was interested to see where he worked. Actually was hoping that if I threw my arms around his ankles and begged, he’d give me a couple thousand prescription-free Valium. He refused and for some reason didn’t ask me out again.

Ophthalmologist from Brunches or Lunches cancelled our date, claiming to have suffered a sudden bout of situational blindness caused by extreme job stress. (Does this
malady really exist? Sounds suspiciously like he was worried I’d turn out to be fat.)

Continue to have wonderful dates with Robert Mack.

I pressed
send.
Okay, the last line of my report was a bit of a stretch, but that sounded better than calling it what it really was, a bald-faced lie. I was now so deep into pathological liar territory that when I died, they were going to dissect my brain and put it in a jar next to Charles Manson’s and other assorted sociopaths and serial killers.

Why do relationships have to be so difficult? Maybe our great- great-great-grandparents had the right idea with arranged marriages. You met your fiance five minutes before you said “I do,” had eleven children, worked your twenty-acre plot of land, and died at forty-five. Think of the simple beauty of such a life—no choices, no decisions to make. You were stuck with whomever your relatives picked out for you and since everyone you knew was in the same boat, there was no resentment, no room for comparison, no coveting thy neighbor’s hot studly husband.

I was about to make myself a smoothie when the “You’ve got mail” voice boomed from my computer loud enough to cause an avalanche in Switzerland. I walked back into my office and clicked on the new message.

An e-mail from Sally:

“Hi Sam, sounds like you’re a little depressed. This is on the Q-T. Elaine thinks you’re lying about still seeing Robert Mack, and she’s madder than a bull charging at a red cape. My advice is to make your reports sound a little more upbeat—lie if you have to, for goodness sake. And be prepared to produce Robert or a suitable fiance in the flesh for a possible surprise visit from your fairy godmother. No details yet, but if I get wind of anything I’ll let you know. Good luck. Sally.”

A little depressed? Yes, you could say I was a little depressed. Javier makes love to me and tells me that he loves me, and twelve seconds later gets back together with his ex-girlfriend Isabella. Even taking into consideration the fact that I told him I’m dating other men, and one man in particular, how he could do this? Had it taken him all of five seconds to fall out of love with me, if he ever was in the first place? If Javier had been on the rebound from Isabella when we’d met, as Sebastian Diaz had warned me, then maybe I was just Javier’s quickie crush that had lasted only until he’d gotten back together with her?

Then there was Robert. He claimed to love me too, but then why didn’t he call me after I turned him down, but before he saw me with Javier that night at Cubana? He should have taken the mature, gentlemanly approach to my refusal to go to bed with him and gotten even more interested in me. Wasn’t rejection the most attractive quality a woman could possess, at least for most men? But, on the one hand, maybe his fragile state of widower-hood had cancelled out this normal male gene? Maybe when I told him I wasn’t ready to sleep with him, rather than feeling emboldened and spurred on by my rejection, it made him feel like an unused shoehorn gathering dust on the top shelf of a closet?

On the other hand, maybe Robert never really loved me either? The phrase “I love you” certainly doesn’t mean what it used to. Today, people say it all the time because it sounds nicer than the truth, “You’re okay, but I’m only hanging out with you until someone better comes along.”

On the other hand (yes, I know I have only two hands, but if men weren’t so ridiculously complicated, I wouldn’t need more than two), did it matter who called whom if Robert was the
right man for me? Elizabeth said I should stop letting other people and events decide my life for me. Perhaps it was time to take action. Bold action.

So I did. I called Robert, three times in two days, leaving three voice mail messages. And nothing. Nothing!

I’m not a person to be pressured by outside forces, you understand, but it was after I reread the e-mail from Sally that I devised Plan B, and decided to go to Robert’s office or his home. I would just show up, and we’d have an adult discussion about what was going on with us. There was just one problem with Plan B. I found Robert’s business listing in the phonebook, but it only had a phone number and a P.O. box listing, which was very strange indeed; There was no home listing. So I’d had no choice but to leave a fourth message yesterday with his answering service, to which I also got no response.

When I talked to my mother yesterday about my concerns regarding Robert—his lack of family and friends, all of his mysterious traveling, his erratic moods, the P.O. box—she simply dismissed them, telling me that the reason I was still single at forty-one was because I was too picky and looking for reasons to dislike rather than like a potential mate.

“Too picky.” I’d heard that opinion over and over from my mother and even my best friend, Elizabeth. Maybe they were right? So today I put Plan C into action.

I strode from my car, a woman on a mission. I could get Robert to speak to me if only I could find him. I’d worry later about how I really felt about him. I shuddered as I approached the familiar two-story building, although I was ready for anything at this point, including, if absolutely necessary, holding Bunny ho
stage until she’d divulged his home and office addresses.

I pushed on the glass-paned door, but it didn’t budge. Pressing
my nose up against the glass, I peered inside, seeing darkness and dust, normal signs that a business might have gone out of business, except for Single No More. It had looked exactly this way the last time I’d been here. Maybe Bunny had gone home sick for the day?

Now what?

I turned back to my car and there he was, just there, on the sidewalk, as if he’d been standing there his whole life.

“Hi, Sam.”

Club Cubana and now this—he had to be following me. He had the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow and looked tired, as if he hadn’t been sleeping well for quite a while. His hands were in his pants pockets and he was leaning his back against my car, looking like a bored Calvin Klein model facing another twelve-hour photo shoot.

“How have you been?” he asked nonchalantly.

How dare he look so handsome and be so damned casual after I’d wasted valuable minutes scouring the ends of the earth for him!

“What are you doing here?” I snapped.

“I was driving to your apartment when I saw you pull out of your parking garage. I followed you here because I needed to see you,” he said. “By the way, you look great, Sam.”

You better believe I look great. I look awesome as a matter of fact. And what about my four phone messages?

“Have you been out of town?” I demanded.

“No, I got your messages, Sam. Sorry I haven’t called but
... Listen, we have a lot of things to talk about. Can we go somewhere?”

“There’s a coffee shop across ...”

“I meant somewhere private.”

I followed him in my car. Every
time we stopped at a stoplight or stop sign, I looked into his rearview mirror searching for some clue in his eyes about what he was thinking. But each time he had the same blank expression. My sweaty hands slipped on the steering wheel and I wiped them on my jeans.

Robert had suggested going to my place, but I’d insisted on going to his. I wanted to see where and how he lived. Was he a slob? A neat freak? Was he hiding a wife and five children? There were a number of strange things going on that I wanted answers to.

We pulled up to an eight-story brick building in a trendy part of the city, which is always distinguished by the number of coffee shops, gourmet grocery stores, and art galleries about. Taking the elevator, up to the fifth floor, we walked to the end of the hallway.

“I hope you’ll forgive the mess,” he said, as he put his key in the lock. “My cleaning lady’s been sick.”

Sun streamed into the room from two skylights, one overlooking a granite-covered island in the kitchen and the other over the fireplace in the living room. The floors were well-polished oak or maybe maple, and the walls, exposed cream-colored brick. Two butter-colored leather chairs so fat and plump they could almost double as small love seats were set on a red oriental rug. The mess, as far, as I could see, was a couple dishes in the sink, a little dust on the tables and lamp shades, and a pile of clothes crumpled on the floor next to the queen-size bed in the corner of his efficiency apartment.

“It’s gorgeous,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said, not looking at me. “After Sarah died, I sold our house and bought the first place I looked at. This is it. It’s small but it’s home.”

I looked up at the cathedral ceilings and the
generous expanse of floor space that could have doubled as a dance floor in a small club. This was small? It was at least four times the size of my apartment in Manhattan.

We settled ourselves in the living room area with our drinks. The coffee table was the DMZ zone, with a Corona on my side of the table and a Miller on his.

We drank in silence for several minutes. I kept hoping he’d say something, set the tone, since I had no idea what he was thinking or feeling. But I had a strange feeling that my entire future depended on what was going to happen here this afternoon. One wrong move could mean the difference between a future with two well-worn rocking chairs and visiting grandchildren, or a singular hell in a cramped apartment with a baker’s dozen of cats as my entire source of joy and meaning in life.

I looked up and caught Robert staring at me.

“It killed me to see you with that guy at the club, Sam,” he blurted out suddenly.

“I looked for you downstairs to explain, but you’d left,” I said. “Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

“I needed time to think, sort things out,” he said, and then took a swig of his beer. I kept forgetting that it took men at least nine times as long to think about things as it did women.

“I know I probably don’t have a right to ask,” he said, “but what’s going on with you and the salsa instructor?”

Robert looked hurt and upset, but I reminded myself that this wasn’t the time to let my emotions cloud my judgment with a man, yet again.

“Actually, I have a question for you first. What were you doing at Club Cubana?”

“I had a meeting with a client,” he said.

“A client?”

“Yes, Roberto Lopez. He’s a lawyer who wants to relocate to Chicago. I wanted to set up a meeting at his office, but he suggested Club Cubana so I agreed to meet him there.”

“Roberto Lopez, who’s he?”

“That tall, built guy I was on the balcony with. You know, the guy I was with when I saw you with the salsa instructor.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

“He’s a lawyer?” I asked. And if he was, why in the hell did they meet at a salsa club instead of Robert’s office?

“Yes, he does personal injury,” said Robert.

“And his name is Roberto Lopez?”

“Yes, why? What’s wrong, Sam? Do you know him?”

“No. Yes. Well, I’ve met him at the club, but I don’t really know him,” I said.

Why would Sebastian Diaz, if that was his real name, lie about what he did for a living and give Robert a false name? It didn’t make sense.

“Why didn’t you meet him at your office?” I continued. “And where is your office anyway? There’s only a P.O. box listed in the phone book. I must say that seems a little strange for a business.”

“It’s downtown. My associates and I share a small space with three closet-sized offices, three desks, three computers, and no view. We don’t meet with clients at our office. That’s why I didn’t have the address listed. I’ll take you there if you want to—”

“No, no that’s okay,” I said, suddenly ashamed at my suspicions about Robert, who seemed genuinely upset and who was clearly waiting for me to give him some answers about Javier.

“About the salsa instructor,” I said. “He was gi
ving me private dance lessons. He has ... had a crush on me, and well, the truth is, I liked him too, only I didn’t realize it until a few days ago.”

“I want you to know, I understand,” he said. “I don’t like it but I understand.”

“Anyway, he’s got a girlfriend,” I said.

“Sam, I’ve done a lot of thinking,” Robert said, as he began peeling the label off his beer bottle. “I’ve behaved like a spoiled kid. I had no right to act the way I did when you said you weren’t ready to make love. I want you to know I respect your decision and we can wait as long as you want. Will you forgive me and give me another chance?”