Remember The Moon (19 page)

“Dominic.”

Marc turned and shuffled his way through the crowd toward the door.

“Have I kept you from something important?” Dominic said.

“No, I don’t think so. Lately, I seem to keep being reminded of my past.”

“Is he a bad person?”

“No, no, nothing like that.”

“So tell me, do you like photography?” Dom hooked Maya's elbow with his own and guided her towards a settee.

“Some of it. What kind do you mean?”

“My kind.”

“Then of course!” Maya giggled.

Why am I blushing?

Gee, Lenie, is that so difficult to figure out? You should see your combined auras right now. This guy is just dying to get you into bed.

“You’re a photographer?”

“Yes. And an architect.”

“Artistic. I like artistic men.”

“Do you now? Would you consider going to dinner with one?”

“I live in Seattle.”

“As do I. I’m visiting Vancouver this weekend and happened to walk past this gallery so came in to check out the show. I was drawn in, if you want to know the truth.”

“What drew you?”

“Your paintings. They made me want to laugh and cry at the same time. They made me very emotional. I’m not sure why but I would like to find out. How about dinner in Seattle? Or lunch even.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Later, after the opening, Maya sat cross-legged on a cushion on the floor of Amalie’s dining room, her legs tucked under a low table. Saris draped from the ceiling gave the room a tent-like feel, flickering hues of orange and pink in the candlelight. Food sat half eaten on tiny ornate plates – olives, cheese, proscuitto, crackers. Amalie seemed pleased with the success of the night. Several of Maya's paintings sold, bringing in just under thirty thousand dollars. Excitement turned to contentment with the food and wine.

“You’ve done very well, my dear. We sold many of your paintings tonight.” Amalie looked smug. Maya smiled.

“But not Rusty Raven, right?”

Amalie looked sheepish. “Darlink, we got the best price for that one!”

“Amalie! You knew you weren’t to sell that one! That one’s special. I painted it for Jay. I didn’t want it sold.”

“Oh my dear. I am so sorry. But truly it sold for an amazing price – twenty thousand!”

“Can you get it back?”

“No, my dear. It sold through a dealer to an anonymous buyer. I have no way of tracking it.”

“Oh, Amalie. I don’t know what to say.”

“I’m very sorry, Maya. I truly am.” Maya appeared to fight back tears. Amalie gathered plates and got up to take them to the kitchen. Maya followed her with more dishes.

“Who was that man you were talking to for so long?” Amalie placed dishes into the sink.

“A guy from Seattle. He just happened to be walking by. His name is Dom. Dominic.”

“Dom? He was very handsome. He looked a little like a movie star.”

“Did he? I didn’t notice,” Maya said, rinsing her wine glass. Amalie eyed her suspiciously.

“How could you not have noticed
that,
Darlink!”

Maya laughed. “OK, maybe I noticed a little. Do you want to know something odd?” Amalie turned and leaned against the kitchen counter as she poured herself another glass of wine, settling in for a good story. “I think the psychic I saw predicted that this man would come into my life. I think this might be the man I’m supposed to be with.”

Amalie looked skeptical. “Darlink, those people, they don’t really talk to the dead. They are just picking up on your intuition, the things surrounding you, the responses you give. You are paying them to tell you what you want to hear.”

“I don’t think so. This seemed so real. She told me things that she couldn’t have possibly known.”

“Like?”

“Like she knew I had a son and that Jay worried about him.”

“She did the reading at your house, correct? Would there not be evidence of your son nearby?”

“I guess... She also knew that Jay was charming and intelligent.”

“Things any wife would want to hear.”

“And that he was a real bastard.”

Amalie laughed out loud. “OK, Darlink. You have me there. What else did she say?”

“She picked up on our connection to Italy and a cave we swam in. A grotto. She couldn’t have known about that.”

“There were no pictures around?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“OK. So what did she say about your handsome stranger?”

“She said I would meet him at some sort of art function and that he’d be tall and wearing a suit or a tux. She said he would be very handsome.”

“Darlink, that could describe many people.”

“She said his name would be Shawn. Oh! Dom sort of rhymes with Shawn. ”

“Yes. I suppose it does. My sweet, are you sure you’re not reading too much into this?”

“Oh, probably. I don’t know. I was attracted to him. Do you think it’s too soon, Amalie?” Maya grabbed an olive from a small dish and popped it into her mouth and looked at her friend.

“No, Darlink. If you’re feeling it, then you’re ready. I say pursue your heart, my sweet. You deserve some love in your life. But do proceed carefully.”

H
is indigo eyes were locked onto her as she fidgeted – nervously ripping her bread into tiny pieces and buttering each one before popping it into her mouth.

“You’re very beautiful,” he said, making Maya smile. “Thank you. I should tell you that you’re my first date since... for a long time.”

“Am I? I find that difficult to believe. And I am honored.”
This guy has all the lines.

“They’re on a date, what do you expect?” Alice’s voice startled me.

“Yeah, well, he’s smooth.”

Maya and Dominic were having lunch at Le Coq, a small French restaurant near Pike Place Market. Curiosity had me tagging along. I wanted to see what this dude was all about.

“I know we haven’t really talked about our pasts yet, but are you divorced?” Dom asked.

Breath escaped Maya's lungs. Their initial emails would have been an easy way for Maya to have dropped the news, but she had apparently wanted to hide her widowhood, at least for a little while, perhaps thinking she could let him get to know her as an unencumbered single woman, as if such a thing existed in anyone over thirty.

Oh God. Here we go. Will I ever see him again after tonight?
“No. Not divorced.” Her answer lingered in the air.

“Oh. Then separated?” His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Why is she being so cagey about her widowhood?” I asked Alice.

“Perhaps Maya is afraid her widowhood will intimidate Dominic.”

“Why on Earth would she think that?”

“Jay,” Alice said, twisting her mouth in a look of ‘you should know better’, “you remember how irrational fears can be on Earth.”

“Right.”

“She doesn’t trust others to handle strong emotions such as grief, or more accurately, her grief. But she doesn’t yet know she is meeting with a person who is very well versed in loss. Her status of a widow does not bother him.”

“No,” Maya said, looking Dom in the eye now. “I’m widowed.” To his credit, his expression reflected first surprise, and then concern, but no pity. She rushed to fill the awkward silence while he digested the news.

“I’m sorry. I do recall your friend mentioning a funeral at the art opening. I didn’t realize he meant your husband’s.”

“Just over a year now. His car went off the road on the way to Whistler.”

Yup, that was me. The idiot that fell asleep at the wheel.

“I’m sorry, Maya. That must have been very difficult.”
For her or for me?

“Yeah. It’s been a rollercoaster, that’s for sure.”

“I can’t imagine,” Dominic said. They sat quietly for a few minutes, each taking a sip of ice water.

“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but I am drawn to you, and this makes you more alluring, somehow. We have both endured difficult journeys, it seems.”

“We have?”

“Yes. My older brother drowned when I was twelve. I couldn’t save him.”

“That is so weird. My husband’s father drowned when he was fourteen, and he lived with the same guilt for the rest of his life.”

In the silence after the waitress left with their order, his blue eyes bore into hers, challenging her.

“I don’t much care about your past,” he said suddenly. I could tell she was caught off guard. This wasn’t something a widow normally heard. Maya had grimly borne the usual platitudes: “Sorry for your loss, that must have been so difficult, I can’t imagine...” Her mouth opened in surprise at his statement.

Who is this idiot?

“It’s the blank canvas that I’m interested in,” he continued, his hands creating a square across the crisp white linen tablecloth, making the metaphor a literal one. This made sense coming from Dom, a photographer, a visual man, a talent that Maya admired. Before meeting again in person, she’d browsed his website, where she found samples of his work – self-portraits that cast him mysteriously in black and white shadow with an unmistakable look in his eye. I knew that look. He was a player. I watched as she scrolled through photos of sensual, curving spaces, rotundas and curling Gaudi balconies, seducing her with form, something she understood innately. At fifty-three, he was older than Maya by eleven years, but his curly salt-and-pepper hair, slim frame, and angular face were traits I knew she found attractive. In an email before their date, he told her of his desire to “have a relationship that included trust, integrity, passion, abundance, romance, sensuality, creativity, play, and miracles all inside grace and ease.” If I’d been human, I would have thrown up reading it, but for some reason, Maya fell for it.

In the two weeks leading up to the date, I’d heard Maya telling her friends about the emails he sent her with suggestive photos of himself, taken in mirrors, his shirt off, the ripples in his stomach defined. She admitted to being turned on by these images but to her sister, Bethany, admitted the photos made her slightly nervous. She knew the photos were too intimate to be sending to a virtual stranger. But she admitted to being excited for the possibility of sharing chemistry.

“Our pasts can make a frame around the edges,” he continued, “but inside that framework is what I’m interested in. I want to create something new with whomever I’m with. Together we get to decide the colors and the paint strokes and although the past might influence those decisions, what we create together would be entirely new.”

It seemed to dawn on her that her widowhood could become part of her framework instead of the painting itself. He was sly, using a painting metaphor. But could a person be expected to whitewash over her past? I was skeptical.

The many resemblances this man had with my Sean Connery mind burp were uncanny – curly hair, grizzled grey jawline, blue eyes, a closed, dry-lipped smile. The crepey skin on his neck disappeared into his open blue shirt, joining with a clutch of greying chest hairs. Despite his obvious fitness from a regimen of 100-mile bike rides, something he quickly disclosed, he seemed older than his stated age. His profession as a photographer was icing on the cake for Maya. I had never been creative in that way.

This could be him. This could be the man I will eventually be with. No, Lenie. It’s not him. Don’t let him fool you.

He’s older than I thought he would be but this must be him, right? No, Lenie. No, it’s not.

They finished lunch, talking the entire time about things Maya enjoyed – art, photography, painting, life after death, spirituality, transformation. Maya's aura pulsed.

Could I make love to this man?

Oh God, Lenie, no!

After lunch, as they walked down the street toward their cars, I noticed he walked bent over at the waist, but with a ramrod straight back – a painful looking gait. Arthritis probably. They smiled, hugged, waved. Both Maya and I watched as he got into his Mercedes.

At least he’s financially secure.

It might seem that way, Lenie, but be careful.

A few nights later, Maya's friend Deirdre invited her to a play, so she asked Dom to go with her. Maya was very bold in asking him out so soon.

As the hostess showed them to their seats, Maya introduced him to Deirdre. He took a long time making conversation, leaving Maya and the hostess waiting awkwardly in the aisle for him. What was this guy pulling? Was this some sort of control thing? He stared intently at Deirdre’s breasts, not seeming to notice his date’s discomfort.

During the show, his hand began a mating dance – at first his pinky touched hers, and then his index finger stroked the top of her hand until his hand clasped hers, as if he were trying to claim it for his own. Eventually, their hands found some privacy under the table where they played as they rested on her thigh, as his wily index finger stroked higher and higher up her leg.

Later, when he dropped Maya off at home, they stood facing each other beside his car as she teetered on painful-looking fuchsia high heels, a new addition to her wardrobe. Their faces were inches apart.

OK. Here is where you kiss me goodnight
. He gave her an awkward hug.

Rookie! You missed THAT opportunity!

“OK.” She waved at him. “Well, see ya!” I almost had to laugh at the miffed look on her face. Was he being a gentleman? Was he nervous? Or did he know exactly what he was doing?

Maya let herself into the house and, after shedding her black pea coat, flopped herself onto the couch and sighed, looking like a teenager with a big grin on her face. Her thoughts were racing.
Ohmygodohmygod... Is this crazy? Did I actually feel something? Something besides grief? God I need to get laid, but I’ve gotta be cool.
She jumped up suddenly and dashed up the stairs, two at a time. She undressed hastily and shivered as she jumped into the sheets. She rolled over to reach into the drawer of the bedside table and remove her new “wand”.

“Are you sure you want to continue watching?” Alice appeared abruptly.

“Uh, yeah. No. I mean...”

“It’s understandable. It’s how we try to stay connected to our loved ones, but Maya deserves her privacy.”

“I know. I know. I really don’t like this guy, Alice. I need to make sure he doesn’t hurt her.”

“Jay, you won’t be able to stop this. This is Maya's journey.”

“But it’s my fault she’s with him. And now she’s thinking about having sex with him because she thinks I sent him to her!”

“Well, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but not in the right way! I just made him up!”

“Did you, Jay? Perhaps his image appeared to you for a reason.”

“Yeah, because I thought of Sean Connery.”

“Maybe it wasn’t really Sean Connery you thought of.”

“You mean, Domonic
is
the person she is supposed to be with?”

“Perhaps, for the moment, yes.”

“But he’s a creep.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Who sends a stranger naked pictures of themselves? Who tells a widow that her past doesn’t matter? There’s something this guy wants from Maya, and I worry he’s going to do her harm, either physical or emotional.”

“Perhaps Maya needs to learn that in her own time. You can’t help her in this, Jay.”

“I can’t help her, but I can keep an eye on her.”

“Respectfully, I hope.”

Dear Jay,

I think I am falling for this guy, Dominic. He’s very different than Marcus. You would like him. He’s smart and stylish. Not that you would care so much about the stylish part. But you might appreciate his mind. He’s opened me up to new ways of looking at things. It’s hard to feel sorry for my widowed self when he does not consider my past important. What a revelation! That I could turn away from my past and paint a new future. You’d think as a painter I would understand that inherently, that I could paint a new reality. I’m excited at the prospect of shedding my widow-ness, conscious that it’s a place I have dwelled too long, nesting in its comfort. I fear it has become an identity of sorts – that poor single mother, widowed too young. Boo hoo. It’s time to rewrite my personal narrative, piece by piece. I’m ready to dismantle my widow armor: removing that thick layer of sadness and its unexpected crying jags, shedding the guilt that comes with my increasing laughter, kicking off the loneliness that accompanies Christmas parties brimming with what I once saw as joyous couples, something I thought I would never have. I want to be a woman instead of a widow. I want to shed my loneliness and be that happy, vibrant, intelligent, alive woman I know I am. And so I am moved by Dom’s unique take on my widowhood, the deep conversations we share. He is interesting and alive when he speaks, his eyes alight with an excitement I find alluring. I am allowing myself to be seduced. It’s meant to be, just as Liz predicted. This is the man you told me I was destined to meet...

I wish that was true Maya.

A few nights later, Dom invited Maya out for dinner, letting her choose between his place or a restaurant.
Smooth.

She chose the restaurant option. Good. She was taking things slow and not leaping into the sack with this guy too soon. I wanted her to take her time and see this guy for who he really was. But I also knew she needed physical companionship. Who wouldn’t? She’d been single and celibate for over a year now.

I could relate. I missed sex – the sensation of skin against skin, the emotional surrender, the involuntary spasms of an orgasm – there was no equivalent in this world. But she let herself fall for this guy for the wrong reasons.

“Don’t you think you should leave her alone to figure this out for herself?” Alice suddenly made one of her annoying appearances.

“Can’t I tell her somehow that this guy is a fraud? I don’t know what he wants from her, but he’s hiding something. I sense a darkness about him and yet I can tell she’s thinking about sleeping with him.”

“Sex is a powerful antidote to grief, Jay. It’s perfectly normal. Sex helps humans to feel alive again after a loss. In losing you, she’s discovering a new part of herself.”

“She’s discovering her new self through sex?”

“In a way. Grief causes people to shut down emotionally. Sex can sometimes be a first step toward reclaiming life.”