Getting Sassy (12 page)

When I disconnected from my last call, I looked at the number again. Where had I seen the 805 area code recently? I punched the button on my phone for missed calls and went back to last night when I’d gotten the call from my mother. There had been another caller who had left no message. A cellular call. With an 805 area code.

As the hour of Mick’s arrival approached, my nerves were thrumming at high pitch. I didn’t have much experience at subterfuge, so I didn’t know if I had a knack for it.

Mick was good at what he did. With my modest savings, he had helped me build a respectable portfolio. Although he had this “I’m just one of the guys” air to him, I suspected he was smarter than most of “the guys,” and I cautioned myself to remember that.

The fact that I hadn’t been out on anything resembling a date in almost a year added to the jangling nerves. That ill-fated venture turned out to be my first and last attempt at internet dating, which left me leery of mixing my personal life with the computer’s. Not an awful experience, but the man and I had disagreed on so many issues that we spent most of the evening discussing the breadsticks.

Tonight I spent a long time staring at the contents of my closet. I considered a black and white halter dress, but decided that was best worn when I was feeling less ambivalent. I finally decided to face Mick in a pair of black slacks, a turquoise cami and a black and white silk shirt I tied at the waist. I wore my silver raven necklace, which I’ve always considered lucky. After a moment’s indecision, I slipped into a pair of black sandals without a heel. I doubted that Mick had issues with height—he had more than enough self-confidence to compensate—but I wanted to be safe.

I assaulted my hair with a curling iron in an attempt to subdue its locks, which have a tendency to go all wild and frizzy when the
weather is humid. Failing, I pinned it all up and hooked on a pair of silver, dangly earrings. As I examined my image in the mirror, wiping a smudge of mascara from the corner of one eye, the door buzzed.

Bix charged up to it, as is his habit, barking and prancing around, looking back over his shoulder at me, who he expects to open the door.

“Hush up, little man,” I said.

I’m not sure what I imagined Mick would be wearing, or how I expected him to look on a date. But, seeing him standing there in a shortsleeved shirt over dress khakis gave me an entirely different image than the one of him in his office. It was as though he’d left his sleaze at that office when he’d discarded the professionally laundered shirt and the knotted tie.

Bix, indiscriminate charmer that he is, wriggled in ecstasy as Mick bent over to scratch behind his little pointed ears. “Cool dog.”

“He’s good company.” There was something in the texture of the pale green print shirt he wore that made me want to touch it—to see if it was as soft as it looked. But I restrained myself.

Bix leaned against Mick’s leg, soaking up the attention.

“Do you have a dog?” I asked.

“Nah. I’ve got a ferret.”

I waited for him to say he was kidding—Mick didn’t seem a pet kind of guy let alone a ferret man—and when he didn’t, I shifted to my other hip and said, “I hear ferrets are good pets.” This was only for the sake of conversation, because there was no way I believed a weasel would lick your chin.

“Name’s Fredo.” He gave Bix a final pat and slipped his hands into his pockets as he righted himself.

It was the first time I’d stood beside Mick, and while I didn’t tower over him—at five-five I had about two inches on him—I had to resist a temptation to slouch.

“He’s okay,” Mick added. “Old girlfriend gave him to me.” He paused. “She wasn’t old. It was just a while ago.”

“I get it,” I said, and realized, again to my surprise, that Mick wasn’t totally at ease. I wasn’t sure what to make of that. I am not the intimidating type.

“So,” he made a show of glancing at his watch, “we’d better get going. Got seven-thirty reservations.”

“I’ll grab my purse.”

On the way to the restaurant, Mick explained how I could get a quick five thousand out of my savings without accruing any penalties. It was complicated but legal. I told him to “make it so” and said I’d sign any papers. It would take a few days, but I figured I could hold off the Dryden collectors for that long. While I was glad it was doable, I kind of wished he’d saved the topic for dinner. I wasn’t sure how long I could sustain a conversation with this man.

Mick pulled the Porsche up to the door of Galileo’s, and a valet leaped from the shadows. As he surrendered the car, Mick slipped the young man a bill along with his key.

The valet showed remarkable restraint as he pulled away.

“Do you ever worry about getting it back in one piece?”

“Nah, that’s what insurance is for.”

He held the door open for me.

I’d never been to Galileo’s, but I’d been in town long enough know that it was one of the best—if not the best—restaurants in the area. It’s one suburb west of Fowler, which doesn’t boast much more than a Red Lobster, and a million miles away in terms of the social strata.

The maitre’ d greeted Mick by name and led us to a table for two by a large window overlooking a pond arched by a white bridge. Subtle lighting cast the scene in an otherworldly glow. As I sat I could see myself in the glass, and above me hung the disembodied red letters of a reflected Exit sign. I chose to ignore the warning, and when the waiter asked what I’d like to drink, I said, “Famous Grouse. On the rocks.”

After Mick ordered a bottle of wine, the waiter left us with a basket of bread, the menus and silence. Mick set his menu aside, and I squinted out the window toward the bridge and watched a pair of mallards waddle from the marshy grasses and into the shiny, black water. When I turned back to my menu, Mick was eyeing me. I gave him a brief smile and concentrated on the black, seriffed letters on heavy, cream-colored paper. I did not know how to make small talk with this guy—breadstick man and I probably had more in common—but I knew it was way too early to bring up racing.

I selected a heel of crusty Italian bread from the wire basket and poured a pale green pool of fruity-smelling olive oil onto my plate.

As I set the bottle down, Mick said, “You didn’t really want to go out with me tonight, did you?”

Before I had to answer, the waiter delivered my scotch, a bottle of wine and two stemmed glasses. As he uncorked the bottle, he recited the specials. After giving Mick a taste of the wine and getting the thumbs up on it, he offered me some, but I waved it off. I asked him to repeat one of the specials. No matter how dire my situation, I am never too distracted to appreciate good food. As he walked away, I asked Mick if he’d ever had the trout.

“Everything here’s great,” he answered, “and how about my question?”

The scotch tasted strong. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You ever give a straight answer?”

I hadn’t anticipated playing defense tonight; in the script in my mind I led Mick on a winding path where in the last scene I got what I’d come for. He wasn’t supposed to have the advantage. Ever. After casting a glance in the waiter’s direction and seeing no help from that quarter, I looked Mick straight on and said, “I guess I just had to know why you were trying so hard.” His bland expression didn’t change. “I’m not beautiful; I’m not rich, and I’m not young. If you’ll tell me what it is, I’ll run home and bottle it.”

I caught a flicker of something in his eyes—I wasn’t sure if it was the sheepish look you get when you’ve been busted or if he was a little
hurt. “Hey,” he said, his voice soft, “that’s not fair. I asked you out because I thought you were nice. And you’re pretty.” Then he added, “That color’s real nice on you.”

I glanced down to remind myself of what I was wearing.

“And then you lost that weight,” he said, giving me an appreciative nod. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re looking fine.” He rested his arms on the table, leaned toward me and said, “What I can’t figure is why a woman like you would even wonder.”

In the face of his apparent sincerity—and he was oozing sincerity—I wasn’t sure how to respond. I drank. “Thank you,” I said, thinking how nice it felt to be flattered, despite knowing I was being played. Or was I?

He smiled and leaned back, taking his wine glass with him. He’d moved on too fast, I thought. If he’d really been worried about my believing him, or if he’d been sincere, he’d have said something else or at least kept his eyes on me longer. Or, maybe he was just that confident.

I returned to my menu and attempted to herd my scattered wits, reminding myself it was still early. I had plenty of time to focus the conversation. I saw the waiter approaching and decided to delay my offense until after we’d ordered.

The waiter had a silver crumb scraper clipped to his shirt pocket, and now he swooped in and removed all the unsightly bread debris with three deft swipes. I reminded myself that a place cannot be judged solely by the absence of crumbs, but I placed my order for the trout with high expectations. Mick ordered a steak, rare, and poured some wine into my glass. I nodded my thanks but thought it would have been nice if he’d asked me first.

As I was about to ask him about his career as a jockey, he said, “You ever been married?”

I considered telling him it was none of his business—not yet, any-way—but thought that was exactly what he expected me to do. I’d already succumbed to his flattery. Now perhaps he was trying to intimidate me.

“Briefly,” I said, noting I was almost out of scotch at a time when I needed it the most.

“How brief?” he asked.

“Very.”

He gulped down some wine and poured himself a bit more. “Bet I can beat you.

” Try.

“Thirty-six days.”

“Twenty-three,” I said, not at all proud of my win.

He nodded, conceding the contest to me with frank, albeit misplaced admiration. “What happened?”

“You lost, you go first.” I drained my scotch and pulled the glass of wine closer.

“I caught her giving my buddy a blow job.”

Judging from the way his eyes hardened, this was a true story. “What did you do?” I asked, wondering if the rumors I’d heard were confused and this was the woman who had lost a digit.

“To which one?”

“Let’s start with her.” I started on the wine.

“Divorced her.”

Our salads arrived and I shook off the waiter’s offer of cracked pepper and asked Mick, “That’s all?”

He shrugged. “There’s other women out there.”

“What about your friend?”

“He’s not my friend anymore.”

“Is he still alive?”

Mick chuckled. “What? Now you’re on the attack?”

“It’s called ambush journalism,” I said, getting into it. “So is he?”

“Last I heard.” Then he shrugged and added, “It’s not like we exchange Christmas cards.”

Before I could get another question out, he said, “Your turn. What’d he do?”

I took my time, chewing and swallowing a bite as I considered
my answer. Even after all these years, it still felt like I was getting kicked in the gut whenever I thought about him. I’d been running on instinct when we’d married, and it had gone wrong so fast that it made me question forever my instincts. And that was a lousy place to be. Finally, I said, “He had some habits I really hated.”

“Like?”

Cocaine.

“Yeah,” he nodded, “that’s a bad one. What else?”

“He hit me. Once.” Actually, it was more than once, but I’d never admit that to anyone.

“That when you left?”

“Damn right.”

“Did he follow you?”

I plunged my fork into a nest of arugula. “Not far.”

He studied me for a moment, as though considering whether to follow up on that. I hoped he wouldn’t, because then I would have to lie. There was no way I was letting Mick know how scared I’d been.

To my relief, he asked, “How long you know him before you got married?”

“Almost a month.”

Yes, that was me, I thought. Important decisions—like who to marry, whether to have children, whether to divorce—tended to be split-second choices, once made, never reconsidered. Wrestling between the pasta puttanesca and the pecan-crusted trout had taken longer.

We polished off our salads and when the waiter arrived with our dinners I waited for Mick to dig into his steak and shove a piece into his mouth before asking, “You used to be a jockey, right?”

He nodded as he finished chewing, swallowed and said, “I’ve ridden a few horses.”

“More than a few from what I’ve heard.”

He shrugged, but I could tell by the sliver of a grin that he liked the fact that I knew. And that I’d asked about it. At that moment
there was something slightly disarming about Mick, and that surprised me. “Twelve years’ worth.”

“How’d that happen? How’d you become a jockey?”

“Well,” he said with a grin, “it’s not like the Bulls were trying to recruit me.”

I wasn’t going to let him get off that easy. “Oh, I see. So if you’re under five foot five, the career counselors send you to the race track.”

“Yeah, something like that.” But then he said, “I don’t know. Always liked horses. Hung out at the track. Got to know some trainers who’d let me exercise their horses. Riding came natural.” He shrugged. “Then I stopped growing.” He looked at me and added, “I wasn’t born to it so much as it fit.”