Hot Flash (11 page)

Best of luck to you.

Sincerely,

Bad dates are actually a good thing. If I say that enough, I might believe it.

Can you imagine what it was like in the days when marriages were arranged and brides rarely met or interacted with their future husbands before the wedding? At least with a bad date, you can rule a man out before vowing to stay with him through better and worse. Or should I say worser?

While I’d had high hopes for my traveling salesman, realistically, the odds were that the first horse out of the starting gate wouldn’t be a winner. In fact, the odds, based on my dating history, pretty much indicated that my next good date would occur sometime around 2012.

That’s not to say I hadn’t been excited about the possibilities with Tony, because I had. I simply was relieved that I didn’t have to live with him and his stack of photos.

So there I was on the street outside Patisserie, but 8:14 was wayyyy too early to return home from my
hot
date, especially since the world’s sexiest teacher was likely still haunting my apartment. So I did what any healthy-minded woman would do. I called my dear friend Connie.

“Your date can’t be over already?!” she exclaimed.

“It ended unexpectedly when Kurt kicked us out of Patisserie.”

“Booted, huh?”

“Right on our asses. Wanna meet me for a drink and I’ll tell you all about it?”

“Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll meet you anywhere. I have news, too.”

This did not sound good. Her tone was somber. We quickly chose a bar not too far from her place.

Less than half an hour later, I had a Cosmopolitan in my hand and was doing my best to wash away memories of my non-date.

“To think I nearly scalped my yaahaa for this? There’s a good chance I’m permanently maimed.”

“What happened?”

I waved my hand dismissively because the incident was still too painful. “An amateur bikini wax.”

Connie grimaced. “Before or during your date?”

“Before. I’m not sure which was worse.”

“At least he didn’t pull out a digital camera and insist on capturing your moment together.”

“I would have died.”

Connie seemed a little distracted. She was staring off, zipping and unzipping her purse.

“Tell me your news,” I demanded.

She began tearing her napkin into strips. “Mike is coming back to Vegas.”

“Shit.” Her thieving ex-husband, Mike, had almost done her in emotionally. The last thing she needed was for him to wedge himself back in her life or her daughter’s life, for that matter. I suspected he thought there was money in it for him. Maybe he was under the mistaken impression that his daughter was making the big bucks and would share?

Connie seemed to have some kind of homing device when it came to men, and it went both ways. Freeloaders sensed she was a sucker, but they were the type who most intrigued her. She’d be extremely wealthy today if she hadn’t said, “What’s mine is yours,” to any number of men.

Mike was the worst of them. And Connie was still nuts about him. While I wanted a significant other, Connie seemed unable to achieve any kind of happiness without a guy by her side. She never dumped them—they left of their own accord whenever her gravy train ran out.

She still missed Mike, which says it all. And Mike is seriously bad news for Connie.

“Tell me you didn’t agree to see him.”

“Not exactly.” Her gaze didn’t meet my eyes.

“Then tell me what exactly.”

“He wants to talk. He said he misses me and realizes the mistake he made by leaving me.”

I made a Herculean effort not to snort, but wasn’t successful. “There’s nothing left for you to talk about except repaying the forty thousand dollars’ worth of debt he left you.”

“He’s Rachel’s father. I can’t refuse to speak to him.”

“You can. You should. And if you won’t refuse, then I’ll be happy to tell him to get lost for you.”

“I’m a big girl. I can do it.”

“But will you?”

Connie began tearing the napkin strips into tinier bits.

She’d been miserable after he’d splintered her life a second time. I wasn’t sure she’d be able to cope with a third. “You know what happened, don’t you? Why he’s back now?”

Connie shook her head. She was hoping Mike’s lies were true, that he couldn’t live without her in his life. “He saw Rachel’s photo on the cover of
Vogue
and figured his ship had come in. So he’s returning to dock—your dock. He wants in on any action.”

She pushed the napkin shards away. “You’re probably right.”

“What probably? You know I am. Has he ever paid the back child support he owes you?”

“No.”

There had to be a way to get through to her. “Tell me this. Does he at least have a job?”

“He phoned from Seattle—can you imagine Mike in Seattle?—and said he had a lead on a job here.”

Yeah, I had happy daydreams about him being in Seattle, or even Timbuktu—anywhere but in Las Vegas. Then it dawned on me what she had done. “Dammit, Connie, you didn’t invite him to stay with you while he looked for work, did you?”

Her bottom lip trembled.

“You’re a brilliant woman. Business savvy, articulate, and beautiful.”

“You know what they say, lucky in business, unlucky in love.”

“That is not what they say and you know it.” I grabbed my cell phone. “Give me his number. You’re going to call him and tell him he cannot stay with you.”

“He said he’d have to call me. He doesn’t have a phone.”

“Screen your calls. Don’t answer them. Then he’ll go away and leave you alone.”

Connie slumped with relief. I could tell she hadn’t been up to dealing with him, but she could cope with the idea of simply not speaking to him at all. In fact, the silent treatment was the only way she’d been able to get over him the last two times when he’d disappeared with the last of her money.

Getting her mind off Mike might help. “How’s Rachel?”

Connie smiled. “She’s doing great and getting more work than she can handle. Can you believe it? My daughter, the supermodel.”

“Mike hasn’t tried to sponge off of her?”

“He probably would have, but her number is unlisted.”

“There’s an idea. Unlist your number.”

Connie lifted her drink in a toast. “Here’s to unlisted numbers.”

One-hundred and seventy-five dollars poorer from my dinner date, and with my shoes dangling from my index finger, I opened my apartment door with my mind made up after drinks with Connie. Salesmen, okay. Recently divorced men, not okay.

The room was dark, but my stomach sank when I heard a voice that was becoming increasingly annoying say, “You’re home early.”

“Where’s Stephen? Why are you still here?” The lights in my living room were dim, but I made out the form of Davin Wesley sprawled on my sofa. Alone. Long-forgotten images from my youth, of my father waiting up for me, flooded my head.

“I decided I’d better wait for you to get home. Stephen’s asleep.”

My head shot up. Davin Wesley must still think I was a deadbeat mother. Just where did he get off? It’s not like Stephen was a little kid. “You think my son needs a baby-sitter? He hasn’t had a sitter for years.”

“Can you keep your voice down? Stephen was sick earlier and didn’t want to interrupt your date.”

That took the wind out of my sails. Stephen had been in the bathroom when I’d called earlier. “Stomach?”

Wesley nodded as I headed for Stephen’s room to check on him.

“Don’t disturb him. I just looked in on him and he’s fine. Think the pizza upset his stomach?”

“It hasn’t before.” I sank onto the chair situated kitty-corner to the sofa. “He probably picked up a bug at school.”

“That’s probably it.” Davin rose and stretched, his knit shirt drawing tight across the admirable male torso that housed a less-than-admirable personality. “I’ll head out now.”

“Thanks for sticking around until I got home.” It was very nice of him to care about Stephen, despite the fact that he was even a control freak when it came to my son.

“It’s good you had an early night. Bad date?”

“No. Long day.” My dates, disasters or otherwise, were absolutely none of his business. I bit back a pretend yawn, hoping it would speed Wesley along.

He took the hint and headed to the door.

I thanked him for looking out for Stephen and, feeling extremely magnanimous, added, “Thanks for the lightbulb and faucet repair.”

Davin’s gaze furtively darted toward the kitchen then back to my face. His expression softened as he reached up and brushed a strand of hair from my eyes. “You’re welcome.”

I stepped away. His gesture was too intimate, but he was already walking down the hall.

“Night,” he called back.

I locked the door behind him, then quietly snuck into Stephen’s bedroom. After my night, I needed a Stephen fix. I needed the centering that looking at him always gives me. Connie had cheered up considerably by the time we parted, but my mood had taken a definite downturn.

Stephen’s covers were rumpled at the foot of the bed and his hair was moist at his temples. Fever, poor lamb.

Not wanting to wake him, I gently pulled the sheet up to cover him and watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest with each of his inhalations. I loved watching him sleep and didn’t think it was possible to love anyone as much as I loved my son.

When had we stopped being the closest of friends? When had we stopped talking? I was clueless about how to fix our relationship. Was adolescence the cause of our lack of communication? Or was it something I failed to do right or should have done but didn’t?

His pediatrician had warned me years ago not to wake a sleeping child, not even to give him medicine, but seeing Stephen so feverish made me want to do something. Anything to let him know I was here for him and I cared.

I forced myself to leave before I did something foolish, like grab his face and cover it in kisses as I’d done when he was younger and uncomplicated enough to welcome it.

CHAPTER SIX

Dear Jill,

Ur survey rocks. My grandmother’s got Alzheimer’s, but I know how she would answer if she could remember Granddad’s name.

She’d say: It’s the little moments that count. Savor the little moments, the times U feel especially connected, because odds R, those R all U’ll remember when U R old and have lost Ur mind.

Good luck with Ur surveys!

Luv 4evr,

The next morning I slept until seven, which is unusual for me since I generally get up while it’s still dark. Although I’d planned to sleep until at least nine o’clock, I woke early thanks to nightmares about traveling salesmen chasing Stephen and forcing him to stay in the bathroom and Mandy jumping out of photo albums and insisting she wanted to be Davin Wesley’s love slave.

When I puttered into the kitchen to make coffee, I froze in place when I saw the sink. My faucet now sported an ugly growth. I stepped closer. The maniac-fixer had installed some kind of water purifier!

No wonder he’d looked strange when I thanked him for fixing the faucet. Now he was controlling the quality of the water we drank! Men. Give them an inch and they’ll take an entire football field. Argh!

After calming down and imbibing some caffeine, I spent the morning fielding phone calls. As I’d advised Connie, I screened my calls, but picked up when it was MaryEllen.