I'm Your Girl (26 page)

I
t’s New Year’s Eve Day (what a mouthful), and I have to work. It’s not so bad. There’s hardly a soul in here. Everyone must be getting ready for tonight.

Tonight. I have a date tonight.

But first, I have to know more about Jack.

I use my morning break to read the
Roanoke Times
story of Jack’s wife and son’s deaths on a microfilm reader. I had been bracing myself for the horror of it, but the story was straightforward and detached. Jack’s wife had attempted to cross a bridge over a “swollen stream” during a heavy downpour, lost control, and was swept down the creek. Attempts to revive her and her son failed, and they were pronounced dead at the scene. The story ends with a quote from some deputy: “It’s always dangerous to cross through water since you can’t gauge how deep it is.”

The picture beside the story shows the van half out of the water.

What a horrible way to die.

I scan ahead to the next day and the obituary section. Nothing. I scan to the following day and see…

I know her. And I recognize her son.

I mean, I’ve seen them before. She was “Nice Lady,” and he was “Quiet Kid.” I have nicknames for many of the parents and children who arrive Saturday mornings expecting us to entertain them, nicknames like “Snot Nose,” and “Mrs. Whiner” and “Super Brat.” Jack’s wife and son were so…nice. They used to come to nearly every Saturday morning reading, and both sat in the front row together, him leaning back on her legs. He was quite a giggler, his eyes focused on the book, but I could never get him to answer any of my questions. “Do you know what’s going to happen next?” I would ask, looking mainly at him, and the boy—Stevie—would only shrug and giggle while the other kids shouted out answers.

I focus on her picture, and it had to have been taken at Glamour Shots. She is so pretty, with a slender nose, defined cheekbones, blond hair, and…

She is so much prettier than I’ll ever be.

I knew looking this stuff up would depress me, but this…pretty picture depresses me most. What is Jack doing with me?

So, I get into a funk and watch the clock from the circulation desk in this ghost town of a library, thinking about the ghosts in Jack’s life, which are now in mine. Lord, how You cross people’s paths with each other. I’ll bet You plan the coincidences You throw our way. I’ll bet I checked out those books for Jack’s son, and my fingerprints were on those books in Jack’s home for six months, until he found them and brought them to me when…I touched him. It hurts my head and heart to think about it.

But mostly my heart.

Why me, Lord? Of all the…blond-haired, blue-eyed women in this town, why did Jack choose me? Or, why did You have him choose me?

“You’re deep in thought.”

It’s Francine, who has to be as bored as I am. “Just watching the clock.”

“Do you have plans for this evening?” she asks.

“Yes.”

Francine sits on the counter, something Kim says we should
never
do. “Are you going out on the town?”

I smile. “Yes.” But that’s all I’m going to tell you, Francine.

“Who’s the lucky guy?”

I see Kim coming down the stairs from the reference section, and so does Francine, but she doesn’t move off the counter. Kim eyeballs Francine, and Francine slides off the counter.

“What’s up?” Kim asks.

“Diane has a date,” Francine says.

“You do?” Kim asks.

I’ve been dying to tell someone about my date, but I don’t want to share my business with the people with whom I work. I don’t want my life to be the subject of gossip.

“Yes,” I say.

“Anyone we know?” Kim asks.

“I doubt it,” I say.

Francine raises her eyebrows. “So, what will you and your mystery man be doing?”

I smile. “I’ll let you know.” Not.

Kim smiles. “Is this something…serious?”

Just thinking of Jack reminds me of his book. “Oh, Kim, while I’m thinking about it, there’s a local author who has his first novel coming out in April, and I thought we could preorder it.” I pull a piece of paper from my purse with the title, Jack’s name, and the ISBN and LOC numbers. I hand it to Kim.

“I hadn’t heard about this,” Kim says. “How do you know about it?”

Why lie? “I talked to the author.”

Francine looks at the paper. “D. J. Browning. And he just…told you?”

I blink. “Yes, Francine.” How else would I have known?

“What kind of a book is it?” Kim asks.

I read it, well, most of it. “It’s an interracial romantic comedy.”

Two sets of eyebrows rise.

“And it takes place right here in Roanoke,” I add. “I’m sure our patrons will be requesting it, so maybe we should order at least five to ten copies.”

Kim nods. “We’ll need to get him in here to do a reading. When does the book come out again?”

“April.” I smile inside. Shy Jack in front of a crowd where I work? I wouldn’t know whether to be proud of him or scared for him, especially if other readers find his book as preposterous as I did.

“Do you have his number?” Kim asks.

Say what? “Yes.”

A pause. “I’d like to call him to set up a reading.”

“I can call him,” I say, knowing full well that this kind of thing is in Kim’s domain.

Francine smiles. “Wait a minute. He gave you his number, right?”

I nod.

“And you two…Are you going out on a date tonight with this man, Diane?”

Shoot. “Yes.”

Then, the fluttering begins. They move in close and ask scores of questions without waiting for any answers: “What’s he like?” “Where did you meet?” “Is he handsome?” “Is he rich?” “What does he drive?”

I wait for them to stop fluttering. “Look, we just met. He asked me out, and I accepted. There’s nothing more for you to know.”

Well, almost nothing.

Kim squints. “He wrote an
interracial
romance, right?”

“Right.” I look back at Kim, and she has her little lips pursed. Shoot. I knew I should have just said that he wrote a romantic comedy.

“He’s white, isn’t he?” Kim asks.

Francine looks confused. “He’s white?”

Screw them. “Yes, Jack is white.” As a ghost. He needs more sun.

Neither speaks for the longest time. “Well,” Kim says, “I’ll see about this order, and you, um, you let him know we’re interested in him doing a reading. Okay, Diane?”

“Okay,” I say.

Kim goes back up the stairs while Francine hovers, tapping the counter with her fingertips.

“I have some, um, things to do,” Francine says, and she wanders off.

So, this is how it’s going to be. Do I care? No. My coworkers are distant anyway. Let them keep their distance. “He’s white?” I should have said, “He’s a
man
. Now hurry up and join the rest of us in the twenty-first century.”

What if I had said, “Yeah, he’s a black man writing about getting it on with white women”?

It probably would have stopped Kim’s little heart.

And this is just the reaction from some people I barely know. What will Mama say when she finds out?

I think I already know. “What have I told you all these years…”

And I think I already know how I’ll respond.

He’s a man, Mama, and I like him.

I
didn’t sleep much, and when I wake, I can’t remember dreaming anything important.

You dreamed about lawn bowling in the mountains, Jack.

That was weird.

Maybe it’s a Rip Van Winkle thing.

Maybe.

I spend most of the morning cleaning—vacuuming, dusting and sweeping, filling the kitchen trash can with dust bunnies. I even use the cooktop polishing cream for the first time, making the stove shine.

It smells like apples.

Yeah, it does.

Noël schooled you well, Jack.

I could do all this before.

Yeah, but you didn’t. You were Dan Pace in the flesh with your “one of everything” mentality
.

I only needed one of everything then.

But not anymore. Do you think Diane would want to eat off one plate and share the same spoon?

No. But eating off the same plate is kind of…intimate.

Kinky, I say.

Shh.

During my first cup of tea, I call Bandini’s and find out they don’t take reservations, which is good. When I ask how busy they might be tonight, I hear, “Very busy, so get here early.” What’s early? I asked. “Before ten.”

Hmm. If I pick her up at her house at 9:30, we’ll be fine.

The phone rings. “Hello?”

“Jack?”

It’s my mother. I look at the calendar on the pantry door. Yep, nearly six months to the day of her last call. “Hi, Mom.”

“How are you, son?”

“Fine.”

“How’s the writing coming?”

“Good.”

“Are you going out this evening?”

“I’m going out with a friend to dinner.”

A pause. “Is this friend a woman, Jack?”

“Yes, Mom.”

Another pause, a longer pause. She’s thinking that six months is too short to wait. She’s thinking that in some cultures two years is the “proper” time for mourning.

“What’s her name, son?”

“Diane Anderson. We’ve had lunch together once. Tonight is only our second date.”

“You said she was a friend.”

I roll my eyes. “Friends can go on dates, too, Mom.”

A pause. “Where did you meet Diane?”

“At the library. I was taking back some books I found in Stevie’s room, and that’s when we met.”

“Is she a librarian?”

“Yes.”

I’m sure Mom has the stereotypical image of a librarian in her mind.

“She’s twenty-five, Mom, and she’s pretty,” I say.

“Oh.” I hear a door shut. “Your father wants to talk to you.”

“Hello, son.”

“Hello, Dad.”

“Have you been keeping busy?”

I tell him about all the changes to the house, the cleaning, the trips to the Salvation Army, the sale of the car—all the things Mom never asks or cares about.

“Well, you have yourself a good new year, hear?”

“I will, Dad. You, too.”

“Take care.”

As I hang up, I mentally circle a date in July—for their next call. It’s not that they don’t care about me. They care, but they just don’t know how to show it. They’ve never known how to communicate with me. Everything has always been so formal, so regimented, so…organized. And I chafed at that organization, going to a college farther away than they had hoped, majoring in a subject they thought was beneath my intellect, teaching elementary school instead of college, and marrying a girl I only knew for a few months.

The phone rings again. “Hello?”

“Hi, Jack, it’s Jenny.”

“Hi, Jenny.”

“I know this may sound forward, Jack, but, um, do you have any plans for this evening?”

I knew she was after you!

You said it was only a crush.

I was wrong!

“Yes, Jenny, I have plans. I have a date.”

That was smooth. Just “a date.” Nothing serious.

“Oh,” Jenny says, in a soft voice.

Tell her “maybe next weekend.”

No!

Come on, Jack! You can date two women at the same time! It’s not like their paths will ever cross.

Shh.

“Well,” Jenny says, “you two have a good time. Bye.”

Click
.

Did you hear her voice? She was so sad, Jack. You should have given her a little hope!

She assumed that I didn’t have a date for New Year’s because I’m a widower. She assumed that I would jump at the chance to go out with her “bouncy” body. And that’s all she is—a cute voice in a cute body. I’m focused on Diane now, and I wouldn’t even know how to juggle two women.

But what if you and Diane don’t work out?

I want it to work out.

But you’re cutting off another option!

A
young
option. Diane is…wise for her age.

Excuse me while I stop my eyes from rolling out of our eye sockets.

You’re excused.

You hardly know Diane! How can you say she’s wise?

It’s a feeling I have. You remember feelings, don’t you?

Yes, but—

And tonight, I’m going to get to know Diane a whole lot better.

Yeah?

Not in the way you’re thinking.

Right. Six months after your last morning surprise and you’re not even thinking about it.

It has…crossed my mind, but it’s way too soon.

You’re not thinking about bringing her back here, are you?

No.

Good. This place is still a dump. But maybe her place…

I’ll be picking her up and dropping her off at her place, and that’s it.

What if she invites you in?

I’ll go in.

What if she wants you to spend the night?

I’ll…answer that when she asks it, but I don’t think she will.

She might.

And she might not.

Well, what if she says, “Jack, please spend the night with me”? What are you going to say?

I’m going to say…

I bury my head in my hands.

I don’t know what I would say.

S
ince we’re the only three people in the library at 7:30, Kim lets Francine and me go early, telling me, “Have fun tonight, okay?”

I’m sure Kim was only being nice so I would tell her all about my date on Monday, but it was nice for someone to speak to me. The library is a quiet place, but I truly enjoy talking to patrons.

Even if I can’t stand most of them.

Because I keep a clean house, there’s not much to spruce up. I empty all the trash cans, dust a little, straighten this, fluff that—the usual.

Though nothing about tonight is usual.

I close the door to my bedroom, Psyche’s scene coming back to me. “He’s not coming in here,” I say, with a smile, though it will be nice to have a man inside my house. Hmm. Will I ask him in when he gets here, or will I just meet him at the door? I could give him a tour. I’m proud of my house. I could show him my books—

I’ll have to hide the advance review copy of his book, though. That would be a disaster.

I look at the closed door to my bedroom. I could hide it in there no problem, and since he’s not going in there…At least I don’t think I want him in there.

I put the copy of
Wishful Thinking
in the dryer in the laundry room. I doubt he’ll be nosing around in there.

Then, I get “kitted out” for the evening. I already did my hair this morning, so it just needs a little brushing out. I put on my only formal black dress, a long one with slits up my legs and a daring cutout on my back. For whatever reason, this dress makes me seem taller. I find my only pair of spiked black heels and slip them on without hose. They still fit. Do I need hose tonight? I want to be sexy, so no hose.

I look at my toes. Hmm. I’d better put polish on them, but not black polish. I don’t want to look too Gothic. I apply clear polish, and while they dry, I bathe my legs in lotion. Lord, thank You for giving me these legs. At least they’re in proportion to the rest of my body. I apply a little eyeliner, pluck a few little hairs from my eyebrows, and put on some lip gloss. No lipstick tonight. I want to feel natural so I can
act
natural.

Once I am “fly,” I sit in the living room wondering where we’re going after we eat at Bandini’s. Dancing? I haven’t danced in years. I wonder if Jack can dance. Hmm. I wonder if
I
can still dance.

I see headlights shoot across the room. Someone’s in the driveway. I smooth out my dress and head to the window, where I see…a truck? A beat-up-looking SUV. Maybe they’re just turning around. Who…oh, it’s Jack. At least he didn’t drive that yellow thing, but taking me out in an SUV when I’m wearing a dress?

He’s coming to my door wearing…a black suit with a tie and shiny black shoes. He looks sharp. I wait for the doorbell, hear it, and only then do I get just a little nervous.

I open the door. “Come in.”

Jack steps through the door and looks right into my eyes. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

He looks side to side, first at my dining room, where even I’ve eaten only once, then into the living room. “This is nice.”

“Do you want the tour now…or later?”

I can’t believe I just said that.

“Actually,” Jack says, “I want a hug first.”

This is one hugging man. I hug him gently, you know, so I don’t add more wrinkles to his suit, which hangs on him so much. He would look sharper in that suit if there was more of him
in
that suit.

“Thank you,” he says, taking my hands and looking at me. “You look nice.”

“So do you.”

He’s still holding my hands. Is this where we kiss?

“You mentioned a tour.”

This isn’t where we kiss. This is where I take his hand (I’m taking his hand!) and guide him through the house to look at the living room, the kitchen, the bathroom (why’d I take him there?), and finally the library.

“Wow,” he says, but he won’t let go of my hand. “That’s a lot of books.”

“About as many as—” Oh my goodness, I almost said, “as Dan Pace.” I have to be more careful. “About as many as can fit,” I say.

He takes a step, his hand still connected to mine, and uses his other hand to pull out a book. He flips it over, then looks at the cover again. “This is an advance review copy.”

I could say that I collect them, but that’s a pretty weak explanation. “I review books in my spare time.”

He turns to me, and he smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I step closer to him. “For the Mid-Atlantic Book Review.”

“Really.” He reshelves the book. “Do you know Nisi?”

Like the back of my hand, and I’d like to backhand that heifer for writing that review! “Yeah. Not very well, though.” I look at the floor. “She tends to be, um, overly critical.”

He scans another row of books. “As she should be.”

I release his hand so he can continue his tour. “You know, Jack, I’ve been thinking that maybe I could read your book, too. Do you have an advance review copy I might read?”

“You might find that it’s a one-star book, too.”

There are so many ironies in this situation right now. “Well, I’d like to read it.”

He pulls out
Thicker Than Blood
. “Was this any good?”

“It wasn’t bad.”

He puts it back. “I don’t have any advance review copies, but I do have the second and third drafts on my computer. I could give you a disk. Maybe we could stop by my house tonight.”

He said, “my house tonight.” Even my toes are tingling.

“Oh, I meant…” He shakes his head. “I mean, before I bring you home, I can shoot the drafts to a disk. It would only take a second.”

“Sure. Which draft do you think was best?”

“The second,” he says immediately. “That was before my agent and editor got hold of it.”

Before they made it suck.

He exhales deeply. “Are you ready to go?”

To your house? Maybe. To eat? Yes. “I’m ready.”

“I hope you don’t mind the truck….”

I mind the truck. I almost make another slit in my dress climbing up into the thing. It feels as if I’m in the front seat of a bus, and it rides so stiff. I feel every bump in my booty and spend most of my time holding on to a little bar above my window.

“You need a new car, Jack.” I did it again! How many phrases are there with “Jack” in them?

He smiles. “Yeah, I suppose I do.”

“Well, when you become a famous author, you should get one.”

“If,”
he says. “I wouldn’t even know what to get.”

Well, whatever it is, please keep your passenger in mind. This is no vehicle for a lady wearing a sleek black dress.

We park once again on the top floor of the parking garage, because there are so many cars, and before we can even cross the street to Bandini’s, we see a crowd spilling outside.

“But it’s before ten,” Jack says. “I called, and they said they wouldn’t be that busy before ten.”

“I don’t mind waiting.” Though, normally, I would. My wrap isn’t paper-thin, but it won’t keep me that warm for long.

Jack takes my hand, and we cross the street. He does it seemingly without thinking, while I know I would have to make a conscious decision to take his hand in public. On the other side, we thread through small groups of people, most with wineglasses or bottles of beer in their hands.

“Maybe they just wanted some air,” Jack says.

Once we get inside, the same hostess as before smiles, takes two menus, and leads us to an empty table. She didn’t even ask, “How many?” Oh, yeah. I know why. We’re still holding hands.

We’re a couple.

Jack lets go of my hand, helps me remove my wrap, holds my chair, and slides me in.

And my hand turns cold. It misses his hand already!

Milliseconds after we sit, Mr. Bandini appears.

Now
this
is service.

“Hello again!” he says loudly.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hello,” Jack says.

Gee, we’re acting like old friends.

“Welcome back to Bandini’s. If there is anything I can do, just let me know.” He winks at me. “Is your table okay?”

Jack looks at me. “Is it?”

“It’s fine.” And it is. Kind of off to the side, not much traffic, nobody’s back inches from mine, a white candle in a red glass holder on the table.

“Good. Enjoy your meal.”

Jack leans forward after Mr. Bandini leaves. “It’s almost as if I
did
make a reservation.”

“Good timing.”

“Yeah.”

We make eye contact, and Lord help me, I’m blushing. I never blush. I may feel embarrassed, but I never feel this heat in my face when I’m embarrassed. All I said was “Good timing,” and all he said was “Yeah.”

“Do you want to share our meal like last time?” he asks.

“Sure.”

While we eat four kinds of pasta, I see, of all things,
Lady and the Tramp
running through my head. We don’t share a string of spaghetti, but we do share a bottle of wonderful red wine. Jack only sips his, which is good because he’s driving, but I have three glasses.

“I’ll try to get reservations at Stephen’s for our next date,” Jack says, swirling his wine in his glass. “Maybe when I’m a famous novelist, I’ll be able to get a table anywhere.” He laughs. “I’ll never be famous, not even here in Roanoke.”

“Oh, you never know.”

He sits up straight so fast I think he’s having a heart attack! “I completely forgot to tell you something.”

I hope he doesn’t forget much! That scared me.

“It slipped my mind,” he says. “I guess I’m trying to block it out. The publisher wants to put my picture on the cover and send me on a weeklong tour, mainly of the East Coast.”

I stifle my real reaction—“Are they crazy?”—and only say, “Really?”

“It’s crazy.”

My thoughts exactly. “Did they tell you why?”

“They say I’m a novelty. A rarity.”

Jack is going to take some abuse.

“So, I have to get my picture taken soon.”

I push both plates of pasta to him. “You’ll need to gain some weight first, so eat up.”

“Thanks.”

I look at his hair just…sitting there. “How long have you had that part in your hair, Jack?”

He squints. “For…as long as I can remember. Why?”

I could be delicate, but I can’t. The wine won’t let me. “Why don’t you change your hairstyle?”

“To what?”

I look at all that fine, blond hair. “Can I be blunt?”

He smiles. “Sure.”

“You’re a twenty-first-century author with an early twentieth-century hairstyle. You look like old pictures I’ve seen of F. Scott Fitzgerald.”

He wipes his lips with a napkin. “At least I’m in good company.”

“You’d look better if you, I don’t know, spike it up, make that part disappear, cut it even shorter. Something.” I lean forward. “I like a man with short hair. We could get you some gel.”

He nods. “I’ll…get some gel.” He looks into my eyes. He’s always doing that, and while at first it made me paranoid, now it makes me feel…

Nervous. It makes me feel nervous when a man looks into my eyes. What’s he trying to see in them? And why don’t I see anything in them when I’m applying some eyeliner?

“Maybe you should go with me when I go to the photographer.”

I look away. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“You have nice eyes, Diane, and I’m sure they see things I can’t see.”

I look back at him.

“I mean, I’m sure you can make me look better for this picture.”

“I can try.”

He looks down at his plate. “Good.” He leans back in his chair. “I can’t eat another bite.”

I look at a clock over the bar. It’s a little after eleven. “What’s next?”