All Summer on a Date: Three Romantic Comedy Short Stories (7 page)

Celia waved a hand in front of her face. “Are you even in there? Were you even watching?”

“Yeah. A guy who works in Barbra Streisand's basement. It was really good, really funny. I liked the part about James Brolin. He's on
Castle
, sometimes.”

Celia sighed. “Why do I waste my money on you?”

“It's dollar day.”

“It's the principle. Come on, Jesse. It's been two weeks. You've got to snap out of it.”

“Are you sure he never called?”

“No call, no message, no missed calls from strange or unknown numbers.”

Jesse sank down on a cushioned bench along the wall. “Why do I even care? He called me a soccer mom.”

Celia flopped down next to her. “Really? Your look isn't together enough to be a soccer mom. Look at your hair.”

“Maybe that's what a milf is—someone who doesn't style their hair.”

“A milf?”

“He called me a milf. What's a milf?”

“I don't know. Something from
Lord of the Rings
, maybe? Like a goblin or something?”

“Great.” Jesse stood up and stretched.

“I like that dress,” Celia said. “It's pretty flirty for you.”

Jesse looked down at herself. “Good thing we go to the theatre on dollar days. Or I'd have no place to wear it.”

“Not true,” Celia said, standing so they stood face to face. “You know where he lives. Just go there and
ask him
to explain.”

“What if
she's
there?”

“What if there is no
she
?”

Jesse shook her head, pushing past Celia. And then she stopped as if iced to the spot. She stared at a framed advertisement for
Swan Lake
. The guy on the poster … the prince … the
spangles
!

“What's up?” Celia asked, coming to stand next to Jesse.

But Jesse could hardly speak. She pointed feebly at the ballet pictured in front of her. “That guy … the prince ...” Jesse's eyes scanned down the poster.
Peter Tavock
. She gasped, as if someone had just run a nail file through her diaphragm. “Celia,” she rasped, “he doesn't live with a ballet dancer. He IS a ballet dancer.”

Celia looked at the poster. “It's playing here, at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. Right across the plaza, Jess.”

Jesse's breath hitched.

“Jess, there's a matinee this afternoon.”

Jesse's heart fluttered madly into her throat. The tights …
his
tights. What the hell had she done?

“Go, Jess. I've got my car.”

Jesse looked at her.

“Go!”

Jesse turned on her heel and raced across the flagstones to the theatre on the other side of the complex.When she burst through the lobby doors of the Dorothy Chandler, a few lingering theatergoers looked up. But Jesse didn't notice. Her eyes honed in on a scruffy usher standing by a door to the auditorium. She ran up to him. “When did
Swan Lake
let out?”

“About fifteen minutes ago, ma'am.”

“So the dancers are still here?”

“Uh, ma'am ...”

Jesse dug into her purse, pulled out a card, and quickly scrawled something on the back of it. “Look, can you get this to Peter Tavock? He's, like, the head guy dancer. A prince, right? It's really important.”

“Uh, ma'am—”

Jesse dove back into her small purse and came up with some twenties. “Here's a hundred dollars. Please. This is really super important.”

The young man took the money and the card. “Okay,” he said. “I think I can get a sound guy to talk to one of the makeup people.”

Jesse unzipped the inside pocket of her purse and found the weekend's bankroll. She peeled off some more twenties and thrust them at the kid. “Do what you can. Pay who you have to.”

Snatching the bills, he disappeared through the door to the auditorium.

Peter sat in nothing but a towel, barely looking at his reflection as he wiped off his make-up. He scarcely noticed two fingers sliding a card across the dressing table in front of him.

“Sorry!” Tammy pulled away quickly, as if she were afraid he'd bite her.

And no wonder. He'd been a snarling bear for the past two weeks. “What's this?” He asked as if he were curious, deciding to give the kid a break.

“Oh, sorry. Some woman paid us all, like, over a hundred dollars to give this to you.”

Peter picked up the card.
After Hours Plumbing: no extra $$$ because your AFTER hours are our REGULAR hours. Jesse Rufino.

Peter's hand started shaking. He turned the card over and saw the message on the back.
I'm in the lobby. I want to explain.

Peter shot bolt upright, sending his chair and the towel around his waist flying across the room.

“Ah!” Tammy screamed.

Peter looked around wildly then stilled when he saw Tammy cowering by the closet. “Tammy, hey, can you help me find my pants?” Thirty seconds later, when he was dressed, he hugged her hard before flying out of the room.

Jesse swallowed. She wandered stiffly over to the windows that looked out to the fountain. What had she just done? Peter wasn't a cheater. He was a ballet dancer performing at the The Music Center. And now that she knew that ...

But what about him? All he knew was that on Valentine's night she got cold feet for no reason, then got a text and took off.

What if she was just a one-night stand that hadn't worked out for him? And here she was, showing up like a whirling dervish, heart on a platter.

Jesse felt cold sweat break out all over her skin. What if that usher kid hadn't even gone to get Peter? What if he went to report her for trying to entice a minor or something? Maybe she should get the hell out while she could.

She moved to shove her way through the glass doors when she heard the auditorium doors burst open behind her.

“Jesse!”

She turned around. There was he was, across the lobby. Peter. He was wearing a white shirt buttoned all wrong and a pair of faded jeans. His feet were bare, his hair wild, and one eye was still covered in make-up. But it was definitely Peter.

“You're a plumber,” he said, a cautious smile threatening to break across his face. He looked at the business card in his hand then back across to her. “You're an all-night plumber.”

Jesse shifted from foot to foot. “Do you mind? If you do, please, tell me so at once.”

“Mind?” Peter closed the distance between them in a nano-second, but he stopped just short of touching her. “Jesse, I thought … I thought … the way you just took off … I had no idea it was work. It was after midnight and I thought … I thought you were married. And when you didn't want me to see your car, I figured it had a car seat in it or something and you actually had kids waiting for you at home. I thought Valentine's Day must have been some wild night out for you. I was crushed.”

Jesse stood there with her mouth dropped open and her eyes round as gumballs. “That's why you called me a soccer mom—because you thought I was actually a soccer mom.”

“Yeah.”

“But what about a milf? You called me a milf. What's a milf?”

Peter blushed as he ran a hand across his face. “Jesse, really, it's nothing—”

“Oh, my God. It's something bad. Like a frumpy goblin or something. You called me—”

“Jess, it's a Mother I'd Like to Fuck.”

Jesse looked at him, still as a doe. “Um,” she finally said. “I'm not actually a mother. That's not a deal breaker, is it?”

Peter let out the breath he was holding on a laugh. “Definitely not.” His eyes traveled slowly up her body. “Definitely not,” he said again, more softly.

“Well ...” Jesse said, “I guess maybe it's worth considering now that I'm not the other woman.”

Peter snapped out of his haze. “WHAT?”

“I thought you were shacked up with a prima donna ballerina. When you went down to the garage, I found a pair of black tights in the couch and … and then I snooped. I saw ballet slippers and … I'm so sorry Peter. For snooping and everything. I never even considered that you could be the dancer.”

He nodded, considering. “You found my black tights?”

“What were they doing in the couch?”

“That's where I fold my laundry.”

Jesse shook her head at her pathetic deductive skills. “But what about the poster of the ballerina? You Xed her out. I thought she must mean something to you.”

He moved closer. Head down. “It wasn't the ballerina, Jess. It was the show. When I wasn't cast as—well, things got bad. I left the company. That show, that tour, mark the beginning of the end of my career. You may as well know the worst of it, Jesse. I'm a dancer on the downslide of my glory days.”

“But you're The Prince. In
Swan Lake
.”

“In Los Angeles,” he said. “It's a solid company, but it's a step down.”

“Well … maybe you can be a football coach next,” she suggested. “There are so many teams out here, high school and college. You know, show those running backs some moves so they can juke all nasty through the tackles.”

He tipped his head and looked at her. “You mean, you don't care? That I'm almost a has-been?”

“Of course I care,” she said softly. “I don't want you to be unhappy.”

“Jess ...” Peter pulled her close and kissed her. And kept kissing her. And she kissed him back with a silky warmth that threatened to unravel him. “Jess,” he whispered. “I know we barely know each other. We just met and got everything wrong. But I think this thing between us is more than just electricity.”

“Me, too,” Jesse said, trying to catch her breath.

“Jess, I swear, when I'm with you, it feels like it does when I'm dancing.”

“Peter,” she said on a sigh, her gaze going all dewy. But then her eyes snapped wide open. “Oh!” She jumped back.

“Jess? What's wrong?”

“I … Oh, no! Peter, I can't dance! At all. I'm talking Elaine from
Seinfeld
. I've got no rhythm. I've got no body flight!”

Peter laughed. “It's okay, Jess. If I were a doctor, I wouldn't expect you to remove a gall bladder.”

“But just about anyone can dance!”

Peter took her hands in his. “Yeah, but you're not just anyone.”

Jesse tried to smile, but her eyes were still huge and frightened.

“Jess, it's okay,” Peter assured her again. “I mean, I can't fix a damn thing. Not a leaky faucet or a flat tire—nothing. And what the hell is a Phillips-head screwdriver? There are different kinds of screwdrivers?
Why
?”

“Seriously?” Jesse looked like a kid who'd just won a free Coke on a McDonald's scratch card. “You can't fix stuff? And you don't pretend that you can?” A glow of sheer joy reached into her eyes. “It's going to be better than okay, Peter.”

He couldn't take his eyes off her. “What do you say we get out of here?” he asked quietly. “My place is five minutes away.”

She looked at his feet. “Even without shoes?”

“Even without shoes.”

Jesse smiled, looking up at him through her lashes. “Sounds good.”

As they left the lobby and walked across the flagstones into the late afternoon sun, Peter bumped his shoulder into Jesse. “And don't worry about the dancing,” he said. “Stick with me, and I'll show you a few moves.”

She bumped him back. “I'm counting on it.”

For Ron and McRib:

the best plumber and the best dancer

Jane Austen Meets the New York Giants

First published in the
New York Times
Bestseller

T
he Right Words at the Right Time: Volume 2,
a Marlo Thomas anthology

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman should never come between her man and his Sunday football.

But what can I say? I couldn’t resist. It was Sunday—a time of exhaustion after a six day workweek. I needed my fix of
Pride and Prejudice
. I wanted to escape into a good strong dose of Napoleonic waistlines, rakish secrets, and parlor room discussions about screens embroidered with I know not what.

“Jesus, Ger, I was in the middle of the game!” Ron was not happy.

“You weren’t here.” I offered my defense without peeling my eyes from the screen. I mean, seriously, how could I? It was my favorite part, the end of tape three when Darcy proposes to Lizzy at Rosings. Anyway, halftime lasted half an hour.

As it turns out, halftime does not last half an hour—plus it was only a commercial during the first quarter. Ron had simply quit the couch for a minute to use the bathroom. He didn’t boot me out, though, or wrestle the remote from me. No, Ron tried to reason with me. He pointed out that I watched my tapes of
Pride and Prejudice
all the time, so much so that I had them memorized—that
he
practically had them memorized through osmosis. Then he patiently explained that the Giants played only sixteen games all year. He even accused me of being rude. At that point, I tossed him the remote. Not because he’d shamed me into politeness. Darcy had just taken his dignified leave of Lizzy and tape three was over.

So I got up from the spot on the couch I’d stolen just moments ago, and Ron got lost in his plays and whistles. I took a turn around the room, snagging
Nancy Drew and the Mystery at the Ski Jump
on my way past the bookcase. I’d seen the beat-up classic in the used bookstore by the gas station, and I hadn’t been able to resist. What girl doesn’t love Nancy Drew? As I shuffled into the bedroom with my dusty treasure, I closed both the hall door and bedroom door behind me. The crowds faded away.

I leaned against the closed door, smiling as I hugged the threadbare hardback to my chest. I was about to get lost in adventure with the amateur sleuth. But before I got comfy, I had to fix the pillows. Ron
never
put the pillows right when he made the bed. They were supposed to be tipped up, leaning back against the wall where a headboard would be—if we had one—not just lying flat on the comforter. Finally, settling into the adjusted shams and ruffles, I opened my book and eased into the simpler time of 1950’s Nancy Drew and 1980’s Geralyn.