Chapter Thirty-one

Cris and Becca walked into the Uptown Bar as if their names were on the lease. Becca felt nervous energy fuel each step as she navigated her way through the lounge and into the bar. And though she may have looked assertive and bold to the inquiring eyes watching her assets stroll by, inside she was feeling anything but.

Since Becca and Nico’s lusty romp on Oak Street Beach in June, they’d talked twice on the phone and hooked up for sex once in the span of seven weeks. Though she visited him each week at the bar, summer was over and they hadn’t gone out again, and neither had she heard from him. Sidelined first by work and then a cold, she’d been calling him at the bar for the past two weeks to no avail. She’d left a message each time, but he hadn’t returned any of her calls. She didn’t know where he lived, and his home phone was unlisted, so Becca had no other choice but to come to the bar and find out what was going on.

It was only nine P.M., but the Uptown was more crowded than usual on this Thursday night. The throng around the bar was three deep, emitting a contagious energy and a damn near deafening din that managed to drown out even the house music. Becca and Chris pushed their way into the crowd to find the reason for all the hubbub.

“Shots! Shots! Shots!” The masculine chant rose from the center.

Sliding by several guys wearing Chicago Bulls paraphernalia, Becca found Nico pouring shots for a horde of guests there for a bachelor party. Quietly standing out of the fray, at the far end of the bar, was an impeccably groomed black man who appeared to be in his early fifties. Of medium height, well built, and strikingly handsome, he stood there, occasionally stoking his well-groomed salt-and-pepper goatee while keeping his eyes glued to Nico Jones.

“Why don’t you wait over there?” Becca suggested, pointing to Mr. Goatee.

“With pleasure.” Cris smiled as he slid through the drunken humanity and over to the corner to do what he did best—flirt, eavesdrop, and speculate.

“Excuse me,” she repeated, while making her way to the bar. “Hi,” Becca said loudly over the crowd, giving Nico a big happy-to-see-you smile.

Nico returned her grin with a friendly head nod and sauntered over to her.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he said. “What’s your pleasure?”

“It’s Becca,” she informed him, totally recognizing his classic line.

“I know that. Where you been, gorgeous Becca?” Nico said.

“At work, mostly. Hey, did you get my messages? I’ve been calling for a couple of weeks.”

“No. It’s rough around here when it comes to getting messages.”

“Oh. Okay. So…what’s up?” she asked, trying to talk over the noise.

“Not much. Just chillin’.”

“I mean, what’s up with us? I thought maybe we could go out again this weekend. It’s been a while,” Becca said, loud enough for the woman rudely jostling her for position to hear.

“Can’t this weekend. Gotta work.”

“Maybe Monday or Tuesday then?” Becca continued, wondering if she sounded as desperate as she felt.

“I don’t know. I might be busy.”

“So that’s it?” Becca was confused. Where was the sweet, flirtatious man she’d watched the sunset with? And had sex with twice?

“Look, gorgeous—”

“Becca.”

“Hold on,” he said, stepping to the corner of the bar to refresh Mr. Goatee’s drink. Delivering a cognac and a broad smile, Nico chatted for an amicable minute before moving on with a fresh twenty-dollar tip in hand.

“Hey, gorgeous, what’s your pleasure?” Nico flashed his toothy grin at the tall redhead resting her bountiful bosom on the bar. “Long time no see—where you been?”

Becca listened, repulsed by Nico’s newly revealed “playa, play on” persona. Apparently everyone was gorgeous, and satisfying them—whether through libation or libido—was Nico’s self-appointed mission. It was apparent now that Pia had been right. Nico had taken advantage of her inexperience and crush. He’d talked the talk, fucked the fuck, but when it came down to walking the walk, he stumbled over Becca’s feelings like a drunk on moving stairs.

“Shots! Shots! Shots!” the chant went up again. Nico delivered the redhead’s apple martini and slid down to the other end of the bar to pour tequila for his rowdy patrons. It was clear that Becca was forgotten in the mayhem, though it was just as clear that she’d been forgotten long before she’d arrived.

Becca felt the sting of salty tears mixing with mascara. The last thing she wanted to do was break down sobbing in front of Nico and his adoring audience. Through a veil of tears, she spotted Cris conversing with Mr. Goatee and signaled it was time to leave. Cris finished chatting up his bar mate and joined Becca. He waited until they had cleared the crowd and were outside to speak.

“So what did he say?” he asked gently, sensing her mood.

“You were right—he’s just not into me. How did you do?” she asked, making it clear that she was done discussing Nico. “He was cute.”

“Too old. I couldn’t get into him. But you’ll never guess who he is.”

“Flo, you comin’ up?” Dan bellowed from the bedroom. “It’s eight-fifty-seven.”

“Yes, I’m on my way,” Flo called back. Since they discovered them three weeks before, the shows Mafioso and On Call had become must-see TV for the Chases. Every Thursday at nine they settled in to watch Dan’s favorite, a cable program detailing the personal and professional life of a New York crime boss. Mafioso was followed by a network hospital soap/drama set on the left coast. It followed the loves and lives of the staff of Mercy Hospital and was Florence’s absolute favorite program.

Flo climbed the stairs with a tray laden with their favorite snacks—tortilla chips and guacamole for him and, in keeping with her new diet, almonds with fresh sliced mango and strawberries.

“You brought the beer?”

“Yep,” she assured him as she waited for him to clear the space on the bed of the newspaper. Task completed, Dan took the tray from his wife so she could settle in beside him.

At nine on the dot, the credits came up and Mafioso began with an execution-style murder of a member of a competing family. As is common with cable shows, the scene was graphic and brutal, complete with blood and brains spraying the windshield. It made Flo squirm and look away. She didn’t much like the program—it was way too violent and crass for her tastes—but to be fair Dan didn’t really care for hers either, which was way too chick-friendly for his. But their watching each other’s favorite programs together was important to Flo. In her mind, Thursdays at nine had become a solid show of commitment and compromise and an encouraging sign for the survival of their union.

Forty-five minutes and three Heinekens later, after a barrage of murder, mayhem, and wanton sex, the credits rolled, shutting Mafioso down for another week. Florence happily commandeered the remote, flipping the channel to ABC. She’d been looking forward to this episode all week, waiting to see if the chief of surgery would learn that he was operating on his father’s love child.

Flo snuggled up on Dan’s shoulder, ignoring his beer and guacamole breath, and watched the drama unfold. Just as the paternity of Dr. Carvin’s patient was to be revealed, they went to commercial break, leaving Florence on the edge of her seat and giving Dan the opportunity to run downstairs for more chips and dip.

“Will you please bring me up a diet peach Snapple?” Flo requested.

“Sure. Be right back,” Dan assured her as he headed toward the door.

Commercial break over, Florence’s attention once again turned to the saga of Dr. Carvin and his sordid secrets and relationships. She sat engrossed in the stories of her beloved Mercy Hospital staff, not realizing until forty-seven minutes into the show that Dan had not returned with her drink. He had missed nearly the entire episode.

Ten minutes later, Florence read the credits in an effort to block her frustrated tears. She had tried redecorating. She’d tried sex and seduction. Tried surprise and shared interests. Nothing was working. How much longer was she to keep trying to reengage a man who seemed uninterested in reengaging with her?

She clicked off the television. Dr. Cavin’s saga was over for another seven days, but hers threatened to drag on. What was Dan thinking? She had to know.

Florence marched downstairs, prepared for confrontation but wanting clarification. Was he still bored and unhappy with their life together? Was he contemplating leaving her again? She knew they had three months to go before their agreed upon six-month reevaluation, but she needed some kind of interim report.

“Dan?” she called out, not finding him in the kitchen or the family room. “Dan?” she called again.

“In here,” he said from the library. There he was, sprawled out on the couch, Snapple on the table, watching championship boxing on HBO.

In another uncharacteristic move, Florence walked right into the library and headed straight for the remote. A surprised Dan watched as she clicked off the television and sat on the coffee table, facing him.

“Why didn’t you come back upstairs?” she demanded to know. “I thought we were watchin’ my show together just like we watched yours. Plus, I asked you to bring me a drink, which—after all the damn beers I’ve delivered to you—seems like somethin’ you could have managed to bring me.”

“I’m sorry, Floey. I had the Snapple and came in here to check out the fight, just for a second, just to see who was winnin’.”

“And?”

“And Bambino was beatin’ the crap out of the champ and I thought it would be over in that round and I didn’t want to miss it. Next thing I know, it’s round eight and you’re down here lookin’ for me. I’m really sorry.”

Flo was taken aback by his seemingly sincere apology. It deflated the hurt and anger, clearing the way for her questions.

“Dan, are you any happier now than when you left? I mean, what are you thinkin’? Do you still want out?”

“Woman, what gave you that idea?”

“I don’t know. You don’t seem like you’re really into us…into me,” she said, bracing herself for whatever was to come.

“Florence, first, let me apologize now for bailin’ on you like I did. I’m not sure what got into me, but I just needed some time. Seems like with the boys gone and it just bein’ the two of us, everythin’ was feelin’ different. But now I’m back and I’m here wantin’ to stay. Like I said, the bachelor life just isn’t meant for me.”

“Then you’re happy with me? With our life together?”

“I can’t lie. You aren’t the same gal I left and that’s takin’ some time to get used to, but far as I’m concerned, we’ll just chalk me leavin’ up to a midlife crisis and extended vacation. That okay with you?”

“Yes, darlin’, it certainly is,” Flo said, joining him on the couch for a big hug and kiss.

Florence left Dan downstairs to finish watching the fight and went upstairs to dress for bed. She sat at her vanity, going through the rote motions of removing her makeup while sorting out her thoughts, a jumble of divergent ideas. On one hand, she was relieved to find out that her fears about Dan were unfounded. Dan was simply trying to adjust to the new, sensually improved Florence. She would simply have to be patient and keep taking those baby steps.

On the other hand, if she was so pleased by her husband’s emotional state, why didn’t she feel satisfied? While Dan was adjusting to her being a different woman, she was trying to make peace with the realization that he was the same man. The new Flo seemed to want something more. Perhaps that was the reason she found herself constantly thinking about Dr. Clay Bickford.