Читать книгу Icing On The Cake - Laura Castoro - Страница 12

“I understand that you need your space, Liz. Still, I hoped after our last time together, we’d reached a new level of understanding.” Harrison tries to take my hand, which I avoid by reaching for my glass of Shiraz. “I’d hoped you’d let me be the one you come to when you need someone to turn to.”

“That’s nice, Harrison.” Oh, brother! What’s a woman supposed to do with a man whose idea of romance is reciting lyrics from an eighties Carpenters’ song?

Deprived of my hand he leans in to capture my gaze with his. The effect of this soulful glance makes him look slightly cross-eyed. “How about we drive down to Cape May for the weekend?”

There it is! It’s the reason I’m as tense as he is nervous. He means when are we going to have sex again?

The answer is never. Not ever.

If it had been great sex I doubt I’d remember he tooted between thrusts.

Why hadn’t I listened to my gut, which told me never bed a man as an “oh well, what the hell” response. I have only myself to blame.

“This is the weekend of the Fine Arts and Crafts Show. I have a booth to manage.” I look around in hopes of spying a waiter.

Thankfully our waiter was waiting for a cue and comes over to take our orders.

I don’t usually eat red meat but we’re at Luigi’s Trattoria, Harrison’s favorite restaurant. Frankly, It’s so-so. The marinara sauce is too tomato-y and lacks a “fresh” herb flavor. The pastas have a thick, cling-to-the-teeth gummy texture that is not what’s meant by al dente. So I order the porterhouse, medium rare. There’s only so much a cook can do to a steak.

Sarah says I’m too critical. Riley says I have an “elitist foodie bias against the proletarian need for basic food consumption.” I remind her that basic consumption includes chemically enhanced beef and chicken, and potatoes deep-fried in trans-fatty oils.

When the waiter’s done Harrison scrapes back his chair and rises. “Excuse me. I need to water the petunia.”

I smile but think jeez.

Sally’s right. “Car dealer” has a certain slippery-snake-oil-salesman image. But Harrison’s not just another guy on the lot with the pompadour and picket-fence smile. He’s “The Negotiator,” the owner of a pair of northern New Jersey Lexus dealerships.

I was still working with Ted at Talbot Advertising when we came up with that slogan. Come to think of it, I came up with it. It’s been one of Talbot Advertising’s most successful slogans. It lifted Harrison out of the field of in-your-face car ads and gave him a profile with his targeted audience. I should have left the relationship at that.

A few months ago when I went in to get my car serviced, he came out to talk to me. It was easy enough to slip into the conversation that he divorced a year after I did and that neither of us was seeing anyone. When the bill came it was marked paid.

Now, I’m not one to knock free service but I was uncomfortable with the implication. I told him so when I handed him a check written for the full amount.

He said I was the first woman to turn down the offer. He went on to say that his high-profile business sometimes interferes with his love life. He was looking for someone who didn’t want anything from him.

I told him his explanation of the “bill paid” test could be seen as bragging, paranoia or just plain manipulative. Anyway, I didn’t like being tested without my consent.

There was an awkward pause before he asked if I’d consider accompanying him to a Rotary Club dinner the following evening.

I said yes.

There is something appalling about being single after a long marriage. It’s like rising from your seat at the end of Act III, only to realize there’s another play starting that you hadn’t anticipated. The first three acts had such symmetry: career, marriage and children. To find that the next act of your life has put you back in the prologue of a whole other play is disconcerting and frightening. I felt the need to push on to the opening of a new Act I. That explains my seeing Harrison Buckley.

Oh, we’ve had a pleasant time. I call him to escort me to a Friends of the Library fund-raiser and he calls for things like the Better Business Bureau or Kiwanis functions. But there’s no spark.

At twenty I was clueless. At forty-six my libido’s stronger. Not so surprising then that in a weak moment, a couple of days after Ted’s demise, Harrison found me rather distraught and one thing led to another in a way that never should have been.

Until that night whenever we had the rare one-on-one dinner, we ended up talking about our respective businesses over dessert.

Yes! That’s when I’ll break the news to him, over dessert. I’ll say that this was never meant to be a romance. We agreed we were just friends. We both deserve a chance at more.

Yeah. That sounds good, nonjudgmental and positive.

Hungry and edgy, I stare balefully at a basket of rolls, bulk manufactured like the kind sold in grocery stores. Even the breadsticks come in individual cellophane sleeves.

“Here we are.” I glance up to see Harrison’s back. Our meals arrive right after him.

“Now, that looks good.” He eyes my steak in a way I don’t want him eyeing me.

I slide my knife into the meat and peel back a bloodred center—no, the interior looks like it’s fresh from the cow.

“Is something the matter?” the waiter inquires with dutiful concern. After I explain that the cook didn’t do enough with this steak, he whisks away my plate.

“Here you are.” Harrison holds out to me a forkful of fettuccini con pancetta.

I smile and shake my head, wishing I didn’t have to wait for dessert. Sally would have sent him on his way months ago, thinking that he was just about the luckiest fella on the planet to have even known her.

I’m going to botch this. I can just feel it.

Harrison has stopped eating to stare at me not eating.

“I’ve been racking my brain, Liz, trying to decide on the right approach. A man can’t just pitch a deal if the offer isn’t right. You know what I mean?”

He’s talking business before the dessert? His dealership must be in trouble.

He puts down his fork and spoon for twirling and wipes his mouth very carefully, drawing my attention to the fact that there is a thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip.

What’s going on?

He pats his left breast pocket and begins to smile, only it’s a “lips peeled back from dry teeth” kind of sheepish grin. “So, Liz, I’ve put together a package I think you’re going to like. You don’t have to make a decision now. Take it home, think it over. Terms are still negotiable.”

Oh, Lord! He’s trying to sell me a new car.

He stands up, the scrape of his chair enough to alert our waiter. “So here goes.”

As he goes down on one knee, I have time to notice bits of minutiae. For instance, the red-and-green tweed carpet is actually a houndstooth pattern. He’s wearing brown corduroy trousers in August. There’s a splash of tomato sauce an inch long on his yellow silk tie. He’s missed shaving a small patch of whiskers on the underside of his right jaw. A sweat stain wicks down the collar of his shirt. And why is he on a knee? Did he drop a contact?

Murmurs alert me to the fact that I’m not the only one staring. Harrison’s actions have drawn the eye of patrons who wouldn’t have glanced up if a waiter had tripped with a full tray.

There’s something primal about a man going down on one knee in public. It’s a rare moment of masculine vulnerability on public display. Like a Hail Mary Pass, it’s fraught with the possibility of sweet triumph, or humiliation and miscalculation likely to end in crushing defeat.

Holy crap! It can’t be—

A ring! He’s thrust it before me, nestled in dark green velvet in a box sprung open on what must be two and a half, maybe three carats.

“—Not a deal-breaker. Terms are negotiable. But you’re a sweet deal I won’t let get…”

“No, no! Put that away!” I whisper as I reach out and snap the lid shut.

I must be looking at him as if he’s offered me the finger instead of a ring because he flushes a deep red as he jerks the box back and shoves it into his pocket.

The whiplash of patrons looking away sends shockwaves of silent sympathy toward the poor bastard who couldn’t close the deal.

“Oh, Harrison, I’m so sorry.” I reach for his hand, which is clammy. “I didn’t mean to react that way. It’s just, you took me by surprise.”

He doesn’t even look at me. He fumbles with his fork as sweat runs in rivulets from his brow. “Obviously, it wasn’t a pleasant surprise.”

“I apologize. I do. But a ring? It was the la—least—something I didn’t expect. We’ve known each other such a short time.”

He looks up and if possible I feel even worse as the red-faced humiliation I’ve caused stares back at me. “Fifteen months, Liz. Nearly a year and a half of our lives has gone into this relationship.”

“So much?” Good grief! Time flies when you’re not having fun.

“But this wasn’t that kind of a real relationship, Harrison. I had no idea you thought it was.”

He glares at me. “We’re sleeping together.”

“Did. Once. It was a mistake.” He flinches like a dog struck on the nose with a rolled newspaper.

Dear God! What happened to my no fault/no foul speech?

“I mean, we agreed, we were just keeping each other occupied. Casually. This was never a romance and…and we both deserve a chance at more.”

He pauses with a forkful of pasta near his mouth. “You’re seeing someone else?”

“No. I wouldn’t…” Well, maybe I would, if there was someone else. “I’m not seeing anyone else, but we should. That’s the point. You should, and I should. Okay?”

Instead of answering he just stuffs his mouth with pasta, and I guess I should be grateful.

We ride home in a silence only mortal enemies could appreciate after I insisted on paying for a steak I couldn’t eat.

I go in, pour myself a well-aged Scotch, knock it back like it was cheap bourbon, and then go to bed, facedown in my dress.

About 2:00 a.m. I awaken unable to breathe. My dress has twisted so tightly around my waist it feels like a tourniquet.

I rise, dress for bed and return to a slumber where, in my dreams, farts instead of words issue from Harrison’s mouth.

“Liz! Have I got something to show you!”

It’s rare that Celia arrives early enough to open. Obviously something else has brought her in today because she goes right over to the TV-VCR perched above the counter and pops in a tape. Occasionally we watch a movie after hours as we clean up.

“I’m not always out of the shower in time to catch the local weather report so I tape and replay it while I dress. I’m so glad I did this morning.” Celia picks up the remote and points. “Now watch.”

For a few seconds the jerky movements of fast-forward animate the screen and then under the direction of Celia’s thumb, It pauses and starts again in Play mode. There is our local weather guy chatting with the co-anchors of the show.

“For all of you who’ve ever wondered about the hype at North Jersey Lexus, I’ve got a scoop. Yes, an eyewitness account of my very own. It seems not even the famed Negotiator can close every deal, even if it’s diamond-clad. Stay tuned—”

“Oh…my…God!” I turn in horror to Celia.

“So it’s true?” Celia’s Betty Boop face goes all wide-eyed with surprise. “Harrison proposed to you?”

“Er, sort of. But how did they hear about that?” I look back at the screen. “And why is it on TV?”

Celia shushes me, fast-forwards the tape through the commercials, hits Play again.

“Harrison ‘The Negotiator’ Buckley is well known to Jerseyites as the man who will not take ‘No deal’ for an answer. Well, old Harrison, car dealer par excellence, was certainly off his game last night. While dining at a local establishment…”

I turn away, feeling woozy. Who knew the local weather guy was at the restaurant last night, or that he’d make my proposal—no, refusal—the topic of his water cooler spot on the morning news?

“—So go by and give Harrison a break. ’Cause some little lady broke his heart.”

“Your old man proposed?” Shemar has come out from the back. “And you shut him down in public. Ouch! Now, that’s cold.”

“He wasn’t my old man. And I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I’m only saying, Miz T, you could be driving the hoopty of your choice off his lot, chilling and thrilling at this very moment.”

I turn to Celia. “Isn’t there a law against invasion of privacy?”

“John calls it a reasonable expectation of privacy.” Celia’s husband has twice qualified for Jeopardy and is waiting for the call. “He says Harrison proposed in a public place. He could have no reasonable expectation of privacy.”

“What about me? I was totally blindsided. Don’t I have a right to privacy?”

“Least that chump weatherman didn’t catch the 411 on you, Miz T,” Shemar offers as consolation.

I clutch at this realization. I wasn’t named. No one will know it was me. So, maybe no real harm was done, except to Harrison. Poor Harrison! He’s going to be in all alone in the spotlight of shame.

That fantasy lasts as long as it takes for the door to open.

“Who’s Miss Picky this morning?” Mrs. Morshheimer actually simpers as she comes up to me. “I thought he was just right for you.” She pats my arm. “At a certain point in life a girl can be too particular. Security and companionship are better in the long run.”

She leans in really close to whisper. “The s-e-x never lasts.” She looks up at me with a little shake of her head.

Great. Just great!