Blair looked down at his empty glass. He had tried to reach his ex-wife both at home and at work, all in vain. He was more successful connecting with Jeremy Samson in Israel, who had assured him that whoever was trying to knock them off would be stopped.
Meanwhile, for tonight at least, he wanted to forget about his problems. Mandy seemed to be purposely ignoring him. As for Jeremy, he had no choice but to trust him.
The bartender approached with his refill. Blair was just taking a sip when he felt a tap on his shoulder. The blonde was standing next to him, asking why he was ignoring her.
“I beg your pardon?” he said.
“I’ve been sitting here for over ten minutes.”
Confused, Blair waited for the punch line.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Aren’t you going to apologize?”
He saluted her with his drink. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“That’s better.” She thrust out her hand. “I’m Lisa. It’s nice to finally meet you, Richard.”
“And it’s nice to meet you, too.” He figured he could be Richard, if that’s what she wanted.
“I loved your last e-mail,” she said.
“As I did yours.”
A suspicious look crossed her brow, but it didn’t last. “That’s what first attracted me to you,” she admitted.
“What? The way I signed off?”
“No, silly. The romantic in you.”
“Oh, that.”
“The way you write. Your poetry.”
“Jack and Jill went up the hill,” he quoted.
She laughed.
“And speaking of which,” Blair said, “you’re not such a bad writer yourself.”
“I’m not?” She seemed genuinely pleased with the compliment.
“Not at all. You have a certain style, an openness. How do the French say—a joie de vivre?”
“I do?”
Her mouth didn’t exactly fall open with each word spoken, but it came close. And Blair now realized how much she resembled his ex-wife. There was the blond hair, of course. The shape of her dainty nose. Her full lips. Even her style of clothes. Red dress falling a few inches above the knee. Black belt pinching her waist. If there was a difference, it was in her eyes, the left being slightly crossed.
“Do you live around here?” he made the mistake of asking.
This time her brow remained creased. “You’re not Richard, are you?”
He smiled. “Never was; never will be.”
She backed away.
“But, I could be him,” Blair quickly added. “If you want me to be.”
She drank from her glass, some sort of pinkish-orange concoction that was likely a Fuzzy Navel. “I promised to meet Richard here,” she said. “We’ve been corresponding for over a month. I kept refusing his request for a face-to-face. Until now.”
“Don’t sweat it. He’ll show up. You know how men can be.”
“No, I don’t know.” She looked at her watch. “Over twenty minutes late. And I thought he was different, somehow.”
“I’m sure that he is. You just have to be patient.”
“For how long?”
“How about an hour? If he doesn’t show by then, you go off on your merry way and forget about him.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
She muttered something and went back to her drink.
Blair invited her to have a seat.
She hesitated, but not for long.
Jimmy the bartender performed to perfection, with refills flowing endlessly. Blair expected Lisa to object eventually. He began to notice other aspects of Mandy in her. From the way she drank, using all of her fingers to grip the glass. To the color of her nail polish, a pastel shade close to pink.
“Cheers,” he said.
They clinked.
“To Richard.”
“To Richard.” She sort of laughed. “You know, you’re exactly the way he described himself.”
“I am?”
“Yes. Five foot eleven. A hundred and seventy pounds.”
“That is close. What else?”
“Blue eyes, actually.”
“And?”
“Handsome?” he asked.
She smiled. “What’s your name, by the way?”
“BM are my initials. You have to guess the rest.”
“Bruce Matterhorn, like the mountain?”
“Nope.”
“Billy Monte Carlo, like the country?”
“Uh-uh.”
“I give up.”
“Blair Mulligan, in person.” He tipped an imaginary hat.
“Blair.” She paused. “Is it really Blair?”
“I swear on my firstborn.”
“You … you’re married?”
He shrugged. “Was.”
“For how long?”
“Too long. Can we change the subject?”
“What do you do?” she asked without skipping a beat.
“I play with toys.”
“No, seriously, Blair.”
“I’m serious. Ask James.” He indicated the bartender standing close by.
“It’s true enough, I’m afraid,” Jimmy said.
“And what do you do?” Blair asked.
“Masseuse.”
“Oh yeah? In a massage parlor?”
“Silly.” She grinned. “I work for one of New York’s top physiotherapists. Henry Fontaine. You ever hear of him?”
For the first time he noticed the definition in her arms and shoulders. “No,” he said, “can’t say that I have. Is he famous?”
“Very. His clients include members of the Mets, Yanks, and Rangers.”
“No kidding?”
“Very.” God, the drink was getting to him.
“Well—” they both said at once.
“Over an hour,” Lisa said.
“Uh-oh. Time to go.”
“Not necessarily,” she said.
Blair brushed an imaginary hair away from her forehead. Then he touched her glass again. “Here’s to Richard,” he said for the second or third time.
“Uh-uh,” she objected.
“Uh-uh?” he questioned.
“Here’s to us.”