Tempted (9 page)

After I learned a bit about the event I became interested in it on its own merits.
 
It was geared toward assisting women who had experience
d
domestic violence
–
helping them to move out and move on
–
that sort of thing.

As I got into the spirit of the event
,
David suggested I chat with his co-chair, Gigi, a sweet gal who could use some help from someone more
season
ed than she.
 
Based on his description
,
I envisioned a dowager in her sixties with wiry, salt-and-pepper hair, about a hundred pounds of extra weight, decked out in red and purple, a hat the size of my car
,
and dripping with bling.
 
At his urging
,
I called her and found her to be sweet and endearing
...
and about thirty years younger than I expected.
 
We began contacting each other on a regular basis for purposes of planning.
 
We also engaged in a bit of innocent girl talk.

When I got to know her, I found her to be bright and charismatic.
 
There came a point when she sent me a photo of herself with a friend, captioned Chenguang and Giselle.
 
It showed two women, one a petite little Asian
gal
around fifty years of age
,
and the other a striking supermo
del type in her thirties.
 
Dear
Lord.
 
Gigi is short for Giselle!
 
And she’s a knockout!

During our discussions about the event, the topic of date escorts came up.
 
She asked who I would be bringing to the gala.
 
I answered that I was accustomed to flying solo and would love to sit with her.
 
I
inquired
if she was going with anyone and she giggled adorably.

“Well I’ll be going with my boyfriend, of course.”

“Oh, you have a boyfriend?” I asked, always delighted to hear of the fortunes of those who have found rapturous romance.
 
“I’d love to hear all about him.
 
What’s he like?
 
How long have you been together?
 
Tell me everything.”

“Oh, you mean you didn’t know?
 
David and I have been together for the last five years, if you count the time I spent in Italy.”

That was when the other shoe dropped with David
–
more like the glass slipper that shattered.
 
I always believed David too good to be true, but was not prepared for this.
 
After the girlfriend exposé, I found a way to bow out of the gala plan
ning.
 
Giselle had no idea as to the
the reason why, and I never let on that her boyfriend had been flirting wildly with me for over a year.
 
Oh, the pictures I could forward to her!
 

I wrapped up all of my work on the gala and emailed it to Giselle.
 
She was genuinely sad to lose me as a co-worker, as well as a cohort, and made a respectable effort to stay in touch.
 
Claiming an excess of work, I dodged her at every turn until she finally gave up.

“You don’t understand, Claire.
 
It’s you I want to be with.
 
I’m in love with you.”

“Me too, David.”
 
I whisper, resignedly.

“David?
 
Who’s David?”

“Huh, what?”
 

Bret’s voice snaps me back into the present moment and my predicament with him.
 
But what was that he just said?

“Oh, I am doing some gardening here with my mom and my neighbor David came to help us move a big pot.
 
He said he thinks my mom is doing a stellar job in
the garden and I said ‘Me, too,’
” I lie.

He goes on to tell me that he loves me and wants me and wants to build a life with me.
 
It’s just that things are really tough in the economy and he can’t ‘afford’ t
o split from his wife right now,
not with a young child and all.

Numbed by the surprise of his phone call, the pledge of his troth, and my reminiscences of David and Giselle
–
or Gisavid as April refers to them
–
I respond to Bret in pat, canned phrases, without knowing what I’m saying.
 
One minute I am blithely arm-wrestling with my elderly mother, the next my heart is being ripped in twain by thoughts of two of the men I have cared for, both of whom have lives with other women.

I manage to extricate myself from the Bret call, not without promising to stay in touch and even see him
–
saying anything that will help me to get off the blasted phone.

Like a ‘dead woman walking
,
’ I trudge back to the garden to find things neatly planted and secured.
 
We have just a little bit left to do
,
and I am in charge of digging in the dirt.
 
Even wearing gardening gloves
,
it feels good to plunge my hands in the soil, scratching at the raw earth to soothe my heart in quiet desperation.
 
My mother waters the new plantings and I tamp the wet ground around them.
 
My g
loves are caked in mud, as are
my arms and somehow
,
my face.
 
It’
s cathartic to connect with the soil this way.

During this last round of gardening
,
Mom sees fit to lecture me on my appalling taste in men and
my
inability to find emotionally available ones.
 
Still numb, I fail to react.
 
She finally crosses the line of decency, telling me how disappointed in me my father would be.

I look
at her with vacant eyes and stand
up
, using her knee as leverage, h
er white-panted knee, now covered in mud.
 
Woops.

I am out of sorts, ill with a headache and a hefty case of the blahs.

I re
mind myself that it’s s
pring, m
y time of year.
 
Earth’s annual rebirth with its vibrant colors, lyrical sounds and yummy aromas always makes me inexpressibly happy.
 
In my garden, which I naturally refer to as the Garden of Eden, the fruit trees are in bloom and their fragrant blossoms are nothing short of intoxicating.
 
My pansies are proudly showing off and the sleepy violets are just starting to lift their heads.
 
Despite my ineptitude in the garden, the herbs are flourishing.
 
Mom and I planted everything I might use most:
lavender, chive
s, rosemary, basil, cilantro.  A
nd I am happily in the routine of meandering out back to snip a little here, a little there, when preparing to cook.
Martha Stewart, watch
out!

This morning I have come early to the Muir Woods for my weekly Sunday hike
– 
before sunrise, actually.
 
It’s the perfect time.
 
I am on the outskirts of the park proper, and if there are any humans here, I don’t see them.
 
All of creation is speaking to me, offering Valentines of loveliness, not because of my own deserving, but because of its universal generosity.
 
Since that truckside tryst with Bret and my first experience with the chakra shack, I have spent some time looking into what it all might mean, on a spiritual level.
 

My mom grew up going to church and is into religion in a big way.
 
Me, not so much.
 
Though I’ve not encountered a church with which I’ve wished to align, I very much love spirituality, and feel a growing urge to cultivate that part of me.
 
The chakra thing awakened me to that need.
 
So, I’ve begun taking longer hikes, more like meandering walks these days, while in the woods.
 
I want more time to think and listen.
 
And I find the inspirations I get while allowing my mind and body to wander in nature to be so profound and ineffable that I feel I have no choice but to seek out the woods and their wisdom.
 
Each time I do so, my favorite quote comes to mind.
 
It’s by Thoreau and has been my favorite as long as I can remember.
 
It’s really more of a personal creed at this point in my life.

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.
I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear;
nor did I wish to practic
e resignation, unless it was quite necessary.
I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life
...

Gotta love the sagacity of Henry David, as April and I call him.

David
–
that name.
 
I’d not really thought about David in awhile.
 
Once in a blue moon
,
we’ll text each other something that reminds one of us of the other.
 
It’s always something light and frothy and devoid of substance.
 
Even
more rare
are the times when he says something flirty.
 
Although I’d love to ‘go there,’ I purposely ignore the innuendo.
 
After all, the man is taken.
 
I can’t help but wonder if things would be different if we’d met.
 
It’s nearly incomprehensible to believe that the man I fell for is someone I’ve never even met.
 
Aside from April, the few people who know I’ve never come face-to-face with him unanimously scoff and say, “Yeh, it doesn’t count
–
cuz it’s not a ‘real’ relationship.”
 
Well, maybe for them it wouldn’t be, but I have met in person a dozen or so online acquaintances
–
male and female, platonic buds and potential paramours alike
–
some of whom I’ve know for weeks, some for years, and without exception
,
they were exactly as I expected them to be in the flesh, if not better.

As for David, it’s not like I don’t know him.
 
Jeez, we’ve probably spent
...
let’s see
...
2 years times 52 weeks times
...
carry the 1
...
about 1200 hours on the phone
...
plus w
ho knows how many texts, photos and
emails.
 
Bottom line is I know this man.
 
And what’s more, he knows me
–
knows me as none of my family or friends ever have, including April!
 
He knows what makes my soul soar.
 
He knows how to relate to my inner child.
 
And he knows how to turn on my desire like no one ever has.
 
Too bad he’s also a philanderer and a liar and a shmuck.
 
Technically, he didn’t ‘lie’ to me.
 
He ‘withheld’ certain facts.
 
Yeh, he’s still a shmuck
–
just like Bret.

Wow, there’s another one.
 
It somehow slipped his mind to mention he has a wife and child?
 
He and I had only known each other a few weeks when the bold-faced truth was unmasked.
 
But now, a couple months down the line, he’s not only still trying to woo me
,
but is in full-court press mode.
 
He texts begging to see me, and sends me pictures of him holding his son, with the caption, “Your future stepson says hello.
 
You’ll make such a beautiful wife and mother.”
 
This he does to play on my vulnerability, as he knows how deeply I cherish the idea of being part of a family.