The black slacks and ivory silk shirt I had put on for work that morning were as crisp as soggy vegetables. The table for two at Chester’s, Rochester’s newest restaurant was covered with a snow-white cloth and a candle. As I waited, I spritzed my wrists with perfume and nervously smeared on lipstick, and then puckered my lips and blotted it off. I checked my phone for messages. Maddy, the sixteen-year-old girl next door, had been happy to stay with the children for a few more hours and twenty dollars more when I had impulsively called her that afternoon.
Alex entered in a well-cut charcoal suit and crisp white shirt and tie. Michael Jordan-kind-of-tall, he captured the attention of every woman in the room. He came to the table, kissed my cheek and said, “I’m so glad you called. This is such a nice surprise. How’s your ankle?”
My mouth was a river run dry. Damp watery stains were developing under the arms of my blouse. “I wanted to thank you for picking me up. What I mean is …” I stammered. “I wanted to thank you for helping me when I fell. I wanted to thank you for the coffee.” Jesus, Grace, get a grip!
“Well. You’re welcome. Is that why you asked me to meet you here?”
The hum of quiet conversation filled the air. There would be time enough to tell him the knot in my shoulder had returned and about the stress of my day on the unit. The continued uneasiness I felt whenever I saw Officer Anderson. How much the kids still missed Matt. How hard it was to be both mother and father to them. Instead, I looked at him across the table and smiled. His eyes were the color of cool, sweet waters. The tension seeped from my shoulders, beginning to loosen the painful knot. An old Shirley Johnson blues song played in the background. “Unchain My Heart.”
He took off his jacket and hung it over his chair. “Is everything all right?” he asked. A table full of elderly women at the table next to ours shrieked, “Surprise! Happy Birthday!” as the waiter brought out a large chocolate cake covered with what looked like dozens of candles. The birthday girl blew out the candles in four stages. “Come on, Betty, you can do it!” they screeched.
“Sorry I’m late. I was arranging for a medical mission trip in Indonesia when you called. I’m planning to attend next summer. What’s wrong?” He glanced sideways at the raucous birthday celebration. Betty was cutting the cake. After the first slice, the waiter took over and passed thick slices of chocolate cake around the table.
Maybe it would be a relief to talk to another man. “My husband died almost two years ago. It still seems strange to think of myself as a widow. There’s something so dark and old about that. Women my age aren’t widows. I’ve had a hard time with the kids lately. And I wanted to apologize for my adolescent behavior the other day.”
Alex took my hand across the table and the candlelight flickered. “I’m glad you called me, and I have to agree. You hardly fit the stereotype of a widow.” He motioned the waiter over. “Would you like a drink?”
Matt’s face flickered before me. Along with an image of Alex’s hands on my body. So now, Matt’s face and Alex’s hands were on me. “Pinot noir, for me.” I hoped a glass of wine would smooth the jagged edges of guilt.
“I’ll have the same,” Alex said.
“I shouldn’t have called you,” I said as soon as the waiter left with the drink orders. There were more screams from the table next door. Betty opened her gifts and passed them around the table while the ladies oohed and ahhhed and Alex’s brows knit.
“I mean, I’m not sure I’m ready to be in a relationship.” A filmy web of contrition engulfed my heart. What was I doing? Was it crazy to become even remotely emotionally intimate with someone new, no matter how kind he was? “Forget I said anything. Tell me about you,” I stammered.
“Well, I’m divorced. No kids. I’m an infectious disease doc, as you know. I do a lot of traveling. I guess too much traveling. I worked with local clergy in Tanzania to denounce the practice of murdering people with albinism for their body parts. The dehumanization of Africa’s albinos and the superstitions regarding the potions made from their body parts are unconscionable. And the fact those body parts are sold on the black market for profit … I had to do something about it, so I wrote a book to try to expose these practices. All proceeds will go to helping these poor people.” More noise erupted from Betty’s table. They were busy dividing the check.
“My God, I had no idea.” What a wonderful, selfless thing to do. I allowed myself a moment to imagine the feel of Alex’s body next to mine, imagining the warmth of his body and the feel of his breath in my hair.
The waiter arrived to take our orders. The birthday crowd left and the after-work crowd poured in and filled it with an air of joie de vivre. Alex and I breathed a collective sigh of relief. Well-modulated laughter floated through the air. I was still discomfited about my fantasies of Alex. My heart beat faster—my attraction to him was growing like wildfire tickling the edges of my life. “The butternut squash ravioli with sage brown butter sauce sounds good,” I said.
“Were you married long?” Alex asked after the waiter left. “Can you believe it’s finally quiet in here?” His eyes were as warm as caramel.
“Twelve years. Matt died two years ago.” Each time I said it, I still managed to choke up.
Alex met my gaze. The sound of silverware clattering sliced the air. “I’m sorry. That must have been very painful for you. How old were your children?”
“I guess somebody dropped something in the kitchen, huh?” I tried to laugh. I felt sheepish. “This was not the quietest place to come. Anyway, Caleigh was eleven at the time and Dane was three. Oh, let’s change the subject. I don’t mean to pry but what about you? Did your wife have a problem with the traveling?”
He looked away. “Yes. She did,” he said quietly. “With that and other things.” The hint of a shadow crossed his face. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Is this something recent?” I asked cautiously, taking a bite of the entrée.
“It’s been a year. Angela can’t seem to get over it. I wish she’d talk to a therapist about this. That looks good,” he pointed to the ravioli. “How is it?”
“Delicious. How do you feel about that?” Come on, Grace, get over yourself. He doesn’t need a therapist. You’re having dinner, for God’s sake. Relax. I saw it again–the slight tensing of the muscles in his jaw.
He loosened his shirt collar. “Angela still calls and texts. I’ve asked her to stop–there’s nothing to be gained by it. I’m afraid she’s losing it. Our marriage was rocky from the beginning. I was a last-year resident and Angela had just gotten her MBA. You know what a resident’s life is like. Angela was finished with school and working normal hours as an investment analyst. She had a hard time understanding I wasn’t always available for drinks and parties with her new group of friends.”
My fork was halfway to my mouth when I stopped and said, “It must have been hard for you to divide your time like that.” The din in the restaurant rose to a new high. Happy Hour was in full swing.
“The worst was when she began to insist we have a baby. By then I knew that was the last thing I wanted with her. She became obsessed with the idea. I don’t know–maybe it was a means to try to save what was obviously a failing marriage.”
“Did you try counseling?” Grace! You’re not on call here! Why did I feel obligated to plumb the depths of everything he said?
“For a while. She just wouldn’t give up on the idea of getting pregnant. Towards the end, I discovered she’d stopped taking the pill without telling me and that was the last straw. I asked for a divorce. and she refused. I moved out and was granted a divorce by the court a year later.”
“And she still calls and texts?” Maybe he wasn’t perfect. At least he had some unwanted baggage.
“Yup. I’ve tried changing my number but she somehow manages to get it. Wow, this beef bourguignon is outta this world.”
“Maybe there are some legal ramifications.” I don’t know why I kept pressing. Before I could ask any more questions, I took a sip of wine to shut myself up.
“I haven’t wanted to go there yet. Let’s talk about something else, okay? Would you like dessert? The raspberry cheesecake is supposed to be good.”
The waiter edged closer. “Will there be anything else?” A line of would-be patrons snaked around the lobby.
“I’m fine. How about you?” Alex asked.
“Nothing for me, thanks.”
Afterwards, we walked to my car and he took my hand. “This has been great. Can I call you sometime?”
I wanted to melt into him and hold him tight but Caleigh and Dane were home, waiting for mommy to help with homework and tuck them into bed. He pulled me close and kissed me as I closed my eyes and gave him a quick hug. “Alex, I just don’t know.” He did have an ex-wife who still called him.
“Grace, I …” I heard him say but I had already turned and kept walking before he had a chance to finish.
Only the thin beams of my headlights and the stars lit the night on the drive home. It wasn’t late but it was a lonely country road. Jesus! What was wrong with me? He was wonderful. He must have thought I was crazy. I stopped in the garage, took out my cell phone and dialed Alex’s number. I trembled and dropped the phone. Fuck. Alex’s voice sounded from the floor. “Hello? Hello? Grace, is that you?” I grabbed the phone and said, “You must think I’m crazy, but yes. Yes, I want to see you again.”