First Dates and Second Honeymoons
The three stacks of laser copy sitting on my desk are each about six inches taller than the Webster’s Unabridged English Dictionary right beside them.
Aardvark (Orycteropus afer)
Class: Mammalia
Order: Tubulidentata Family: Orycteropodidae
Genus: Orycteropus
Species: afer
You really do learn something new every day.
The aardvark is a nocturnal, narrow-snouted mammalian insectivore native to sub-Saharan Africa.
Early Dutch settlers in South Africa gave the animal its comic-sounding name, which means “earth pig.”
Double wow.
Aardvarks love to eat ants and termites. They use their strong front legs to dig their prey out of their nests. Long, sticky tongues allow hungry aardvarks to consume vast amounts of insects each night, often tens of thousands at a time.
I glance at the clock on my desk. 9:15 a.m. Although Kitty’s station is around the corner and down the hall from my office, I can hear her snoring.
Though similar to South American anteaters and Australian bandicoots, aardvarks are in fact distinct from those animals, mostly due to their unusual dentition.
We’ll see about that. I click to connect to the Internet….
And click again…
And again…
I pick up the phone and dial Cinda’s extension.
“Hello?”
“Hi, it’s Holly.”
“Holly! You settling in okay? Did my mother show you where the coffee machine is?”
“Yes, she did. Thank you.”
“We also have tea. Earl Grey, I believe.”
“I know. Thanks.”
“If you prefer something else, like Orange Pekoe or Darjeeling, just let her know and she can pop over to the Safe-way and fetch some.”
“Oh—and did you notice I put a nice fresh box of red pens in your drawer? I figure you’ll be going through a lot of them!”
“Yeah, I saw those. Thanks. Actually, what I wanted to ask you was—”
“And there’s a new package of Post-its in there, too. The medium-size ones. I know they’re handy to have around in case you want to remind yourself of something, like when you need to check something later. Or you can write me a quick little note and stick it right there on the copy, in case you want to point something out to me. That way, later on, when I go through the changes you’ve made and input them onto my master copy…”
Is she actually trying to explain how Post-its work? “I know, Cinda. Thanks. But, um, the reason I’m calling is that I seem to be having trouble getting online. The connection isn’t working.”
“Oh! Well, I suppose that’s because I’m on now. I’m obsessed with online Boggle! I can’t get enough of it!”
“Oh. So, you mean I don’t have my own connection?”
“No, silly! We all share a line. What they charge for just one is a crime, don’t you think? Plus there was the extra phone line I had to spring for, so I decided this would be best.”
“Uh, okay. So how should I…check things, then?”
“Well, there’s the dictionary.”
“Yes, but for fact-checking I naturally assumed I would have access…”
“Hmmm. Since it’s just the three of us here, and my mother’s not quite up to speed yet with this whole Internet thing, you and I could just work out some sort of system when you need to use it. Mind you, it’s probably best you don’t get too dependent on it anyway, since it’s dial-up service. I understand that means it’s very slow. But I’m used to it, so I don’t mind!”
Dial-up? What’s next—a teletype machine? I pull open my desk drawer and check to make sure the red pens don’t require ink cartridges.
“Also, there’s a Public Library not too far from here,” she continues. “Do you have a MUNI pass? The 44 stops just outside and it’ll take you right there.”
“Oh.”
Cinda must sense my disappointment (which I’m not trying too hard to hide) so she begins extolling the virtues of simpler times.
“Since this whole Internet thing started, I feel libraries are horribly underused, don’t you?”
“I guess so.”
“It’s a modern tragedy,” she sighs. “But you’ll see—the kids will come back to them one day. In the meantime, it’s a great time for encyclopedias!”
I suspect she’s unaware that there is more to the Internet than online Boggle. “So you’re saying I can work at the library?”
“Well, the membership is free and it’s a nice bright space, so I think it would be just fine if you needed to do that from time to time. That’s where I do most of my research, too. Oh, wait a second, now—there might be a charge to laminate the card when you join. But I’ll tell you what—you just bring me a receipt and I’ll reimburse you!”she offers brightly.
Working on my own there could definitely have its advantages. “Okay. Thanks, Cinda.”
I hang up and flip through to the last page of the first stack of copy.
Adler, Alfred (1870–1937). In the annals of psychology, Alfred Adler was a giant. His ground-breaking work alongside Sigmund Freud marked him as one of the founding fathers of psychoanalysis, although he later broke from Freud and put forth his own school of individual psychology. His most important contributions to the field were his theories on dream analysis, archetypes and synchronicity.
Adler was born in 1870 in Venice to a successful grain merchant…
Oh my God. Not only was she confusing Adler’s contributions with Jung’s, but if I remember my Lives of the Shrinks correctly, the guy was from Vienna, not Venice. This was going to take months. Years, maybe.
All of a sudden, I miss Sandeep terribly. My old Ayurvedic mental health practitioner is just the person I need to inspire me. The value of extreme monotony was one of his favorite refrains; indeed, his entire program of meditation, chanting, diet and yoga revolved around it.
I scour my brain for my Calming and Focusing mantra…. Umbumbum? Bumbledybum? Umbalabumbum? That was it! Umbalabumbum…Umbalabumbum…Umbalabumbum…Umbalabumbum…
Around lunchtime, my phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Holly. I’m off the Internet, if you need it.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
An hour and a half later, after six grueling reboots and countless minutes spent watching aardvark pictures upload onto a twelve-inch monitor that possibly dates back to the Reagan years, I have finally confirmed that the toothsome earth pig does indeed have unusual dentition.
“It’s official!” I scribble on a Post-it. “This job sucks.”
I peel it off the pad and stick it to the last page of the third stack of copy, right next to the final line:
Alas, the Spanish conquistadors carried with them more than just a devastating smallpox epidemic—their greed for gold had all but destroyed the mighty Aztec civilization by the early 1500s.
Then I say a silent prayer, hoping never to see that Post-it again.
George and I decide it would be best if we meet Quentin and Vale somewhere nice and public, just in case they’re de-ranged psychos. Vale half-jokingly suggests Fisherman’s Wharf—he knows we’ve been in San Francisco for more than two months and haven’t actually managed to get down there yet (mostly because Remy ranted and raved about how locals never go there). At first we were reluctant to admit that we wanted to go, but our mysterious suitors promised they would protect us from the crowds of nasty tourists.
We meet at Pier 39, out by the sea lions. As soon as I see our dates, I realize of course that I do remember them. Vale is wearing a navy blue peacoat and jeans that look like they’ve been ironed, but he’s cuteish in a preppy sort of way—clean-shaven, short dark hair, collared shirt. He reminds me a bit of a young Warren Beatty (or, since I’ve never actually seen Warren Beatty in anything besides Dick Tracy, what I imagine he must have looked like in his younger and hotter days).
George gives Quentin the once-over and partially relaxes. Her guy is almost bordering on handsome, with a straight, narrow nose; a strong, square jaw and dark blond hair just long enough to suggest he probably doesn’t have an office job.
After the usual awkward fifteen-minute getting-to-know-you conversation, during which we learn absolutely nothing about each other (though it’s mercifully eased by the fact that there are four of us), we begin to walk.
“So, what do you guys have planned for us today?” I ask. “Something good, I hope.”
Vale takes four tickets out of his pockets and flashes them at us. “There’s nothing like Alcatraz in the springtime!”
“It was my idea,” Quentin says and takes a tentative step toward her. “But it can get wicked cold and windy on the boat out…We might have to use bahdy heat to keep wahm.”
George quickly retreats. “Or…we could just sit inside.”
Vale shakes his head and laughs.
“But then we wouldn’t get to see the sea lions!” Quentin says. “They fahllow the boat.”
“We’ll take our chances,” I say. “Maybe on the way back.”
“Awesome!” Quentin turns to give a high-five to Vale, who reluctantly accepts.
“Don’t mind him,” Vale tells us. “He just really likes sea lions.”
“I’m sure,” George says. I can tell by her reluctance to make eye contact with me that she isn’t quite sure yet about this Quentin character, and neither am I. His looks are in the plus column, but the Boston drawl is over-the-top and the jury is still out on his personality.
As we walk around, I try to get as much background information as I can without being impolite.
“So how do you guys know each other?”
“He’s my brother-in-law,” Vale says.
“Oh. So which one of you’s married?” George asks, her eyes narrowing.
They laugh.
“Neither of us,” Quentin says. “Our sisters are married.”
“Legally, now, too!” Vale adds.
George perks up immediately. “Hey! My mothers are married!”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yup,” she says proudly.
Vale nods his approval. “Second generation—that carries a lot of weight in this city, you know.”
“Really?”
“Well, I guess it sort of depends on what circles you run in, but generally, yeah. It’s pretty cool.”
“Hmmm.” George has never considered herself cool for any reason, least of all because she is, as she puts it, “Sapphic progeny.” “I’m the only person I know whose parents are both gay, I think…. Holly and I know one guy back home whose dad came out, but that was, like, after he’d already been married for twenty years.”
“My sistah has a friend who’s third-generation lesbian,” Quentin says. “It’s like some sort of dyke dynasty over there or something.”
Vale nods. “They’re virtually royalty in the Castro.”
We walk a few blocks west, over to the heart of the action. It’s the first really nice Saturday of spring and the Wharf is thrumming with tourists and buskers and street vendors.
“Mmmm…What smells so good?” George asks.
“Bread baking, I think,” Quentin says, glad for an excuse to talk to her. “We have time for a quick bite, if you like.”
“Sounds good to me.”
“Me, too! Come on…” Vale leads us through the long lineups of people ordering chowder and fried seafood at various concessions. “The best place is this way.”
Despite the crowds and midday heat, we manage to snag a table with an umbrella just off the street. Vale and Quentin go off and return a few minutes later with four giant bread bowls full of soup, four lemonades and a huge box of fried shrimp.
“You eat the bowl?” George marvels.
“Yeah, but the soup’s the best paht,” Quentin instructs her. “And I’m from Bahston, so I know good chowdah!”
“Is he for real with that?” I ask Vale as discreetly as I can.
“Yeah,” he whispers back. “His family moved here when he was ten. But he plays up the accent around girls. Don’t ask me why.”
George tears off a big chunk of her bowl and tastes it. “Sourdough!”
Quentin’s eyes widen. He’s clearly taking some sort of carnal pleasure in her appetite.
“George never met a carbohydrate she didn’t like,” I explain.
“Yeah, well when was the last time you ate a vegetable, Holly? And Caesar salad doesn’t count.”
“Do potato chips count?”
“No!”
“Tortilla chips?”
“No!”
“Popcorn? Come on—you gotta give me that one!”
“As you can tell, Holly has never met a partially hydrogenated snack food she didn’t like,” George says to the guys. “At least I try and eat a balanced diet.”
“Well, whatevah you’re doing, it’s working!” Quentin drawls while he leans back in his chair, straining to get a glimpse of George’s rump.
“I’m sitting on it. You’ll have to wait till I get up if you want a good look.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” he answers with a grin.
She rolls her eyes as dramatically as she can, but I can tell she’s flattered. And she definitely feels comfortable enough with the compliment to reach over for another shrimp.
Vale nudges me. “Is it just me or do I hear the pitter-patter of little feet?”
“Could be…they’ve definitely got some sort of weird chemistry happening.”
George flushes bright pink and shoots me an I’ll-kill-you-later look.
“Huh?” Quentin says.
“Never mind,” I say. “Isn’t the boat leaving soon?”
Vale checks his watch (which I can’t help but notice is a Rolex). “Shit! We better go!”
The Alcatraz tour was excruciatingly long, so when we finally return four hours later, we are all hungry again. Vale suggests a great place he knows in North Beach “with pasta to die for.” The owner is an old friend of his from high school and she sends us over cannoli and tiramisu for dessert. Everything is wonderful, of course, and even after spending the entire day together, we all still have plenty to talk about.
Afterwards, we stroll around the neighbourhood until dark. Just as the crumbling bookstores close for the night, the bars are opening, and music and laughter spill out onto the streets. Vale reaches for my hand as we walk down Grant Avenue to Green, where we stop in for a cappuccino at an off-beat little café. It’s no Mulberry Street, but San Francisco’s Little Italy definitely has its charms.
While Quentin and George debate whether or not the Al Capone had ever really taken a shit in the toilet we’ve seen in his cell, Vale and I talk about our jobs and families and friends. Okay, so maybe it’s him doing all of the talking, but I’m definitely interested. On our way back to the car, he redeems himself by paying me one of the nicest compliments I’ve ever received: “Holly,” he says, “I think you have the most soulful eyes I’ve ever seen.”
If you’re trying to woo a skinny white girl from Buffalo, telling her she has soulful eyes is like shooting fish in a barrel. I’m sure Vale Spencer knows that, but it’s nice to hear anyway…especially since sex isn’t on the menu, and I’m sure he knows that, too.
Since the guys definitely aren’t psychos, we gladly accept a lift home. Before they drop us off, we make plans to see each other again the following weekend—separately, this time—after Vale returns from a business trip to Chicago. We do the kiss-on-the-cheek thing (double dates are not the right forum for anything involving open mouths) and wave goodbye as they drive off.
“Well, that was easy,” she exhales, evidently surprised that things had gone so well. I’m pretty shocked, too. Both Quentin and Vale are excellent prospects for the future, just as we’d hoped.
“I know!”
“Maybe a little too easy…”
“Don’t be so pessimistic.”
“You’re right, you’re right,” she says. “I’m sorry. They did seem okay, didn’t they?”
“I think so.”
“And cute!”
“I know! And they’re…” Dare I say it?
“Rich!” George squeals and begins jumping up and down.
“Oh my God, they are, aren’t they?”
She nods. “Let’s walk around the block, ’kay? I can’t go in yet—I need to deconstruct.”
“Okay. So did Quentin tell you what he does? I didn’t hear him mention it.”
“Actually, he’s a…what did he call it?…an adventure capitalist? Something like that.”
“A venture capitalist? No way! That’s good, George. Really good! That means he goes around investing his money making more money! I wonder how he ended up doing that?”
“Oh, I know—he told me! He used to be a gardener at some big company’s head office and he got all these stock options and sold them at just the right moment.”
“You’re kidding. What company?”
“I don’t remember.”
“It hardly matters.”
“Well, his car sure was nice,” she says. “Small backseat, though.”
“Oh, yeah,” I agree. “Jaguar convertibles suck when it comes to leg room!”
She giggles. “Good thing my legs are short.”
“He’s perfect for you!”
We shriek and jump around again, until a strange look crosses George’s face.
“Hold on, Holly. Let’s get real for a second, here. I wouldn’t say Quentin is perfect. He’s a bit of an idiot, to tell you the truth. Your guy’s better. He’s got personality.”
“Naw, ya think?”
“Could be…”
Vale does seem to have it all—he isn’t hard to look at (by the end of the night, I’d decided he’s definitely cute enough to be attracted to), nice (he offered to rub my ankle after I twisted it on a prison sewer grate) and wealthy (a bankruptcy lawyer with an Ivy League degree— “the only kind of lawyer to be, these days!” he’d joked).
Every instinct I have is screaming this is all way too good to be true. Come to think of it, the entire date seemed, well, choreographed, like they’d done it a thousand times before. And Vale was smooth. There’s no doubt about it. But is that a reason not to trust him?
Though all the research firmly supports my Two-Thirds Theory of millionaire dating—hold out for looks, personality and bank account, and you might as well throw in the towel—perhaps Vale is one of the rare exceptions. Hard to say for sure, but I’m willing to stick around long enough to find out. My instincts are notoriously off when it comes to men, anyway, so maybe I’m wrong and he isn’t too good to be true!
“Vale seems pretty well-rounded, I’ll give you that. But Quentin might be one of those diamonds in the rough. Get past the boorish exterior and I bet you’ll find he’s a total pussycat. A real sweetheart.”
“Sure.”
“Well, he does seem to like me.”
“A very important quality in a boyfriend.”
“I’ve never had a normal boyfriend,” she sighs. “It would be so great…They are boyfriend material, aren’t they Holly?”
“Yes, George.”
“Because they obviously weren’t only after…you know…or else they would have just taken us out and gotten us drunk somewhere, right?”
“Right…although maybe that wouldn’t have been so bad!”
By the time George stops laughing, we’re back in front of our house.
“We should have moved here years ago, Holly. I love it. I’m loving this. All of it!”
“Well, our apartment does rock,” I say. “I’ve never felt so much like a real person before. It’s so…exciting.”
“What do you mean? You were a real person back in Buffalo.”
“I know, but I feel like I’m actually contributing something out here.”
“Your job is pretty amazing….”
“Yeah, but not only that. I feel like a real Cosmo girl.” She twirls around so that her skirt flies out.
“Hey—I’ve been telling you you’re fabulous for years. You should have listened to me.”
“I even lost six pounds!”
“Really?”
“Yeah!”
“How do you know? We don’t have a scale.”
“I put a quarter into one of those machines. There was one in the bathroom at the Pier today. And that’s with clothes on and after I ate that huge chowder thing!”
“That’s amazing, G!”
Just as we’re about to go inside, Remy steps out onto the porch with a garbage bag. When he sees us, a huge grin spreads across his face.
“You look like the cat that ate the canary,” he says to me.
“Maybe I did.”
“Ah! So tell me—what have my two favorite little gold-digging hussies been up to all day? Staking out the Yacht Club? Slinking around the men’s section at Neiman Marcus?”
George gives him the finger. “You coming?” she asks me.
“In a sec.”
“Suit yourself.” She shrugs and goes inside.
“That wasn’t very nice, you know,” I tell him.
“I know, I know. My bad. But I can’t help it—you guys are just so teasable.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
He puts the bag down and begins picking up dried leaves off the porch. “I called before to see if you wanted to come up for dinner, but you weren’t home.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but we were on a date.”
“That’s nice.”
“With two really great guys.”
“You don’t say.”
“Yup.”
I can’t think of anything else to add, so I head for our door.
“Haven’t seen too much of you lately,” he calls out after me.
“Now that I have a real job, I suppose you’re missing me terribly.”
“It is a bit lonely. I’ll admit it. But without you around to distract me, I’ve been getting a lot done. It’s only been a week and I’ve already finished the mantel.”
I stop in my tracks. “Really?” Remy had been particularly worried about the mantel, since the woodwork was original to the house and had to be very carefully removed when the fireplace guys came to fix the masonry and reline it.
“Everything’s back up and it looks great. You wanna come in and see?”
I hesitate. George is waiting and we still have so much to talk about. “Uh, no, I don’t think so. Not tonight.”
“Tomorrow, maybe?”
“Maybe.”
Truthfully, I’m planning to wait by the phone for Vale to call. Is there any better way to spend a Sunday than basking in the afterglow of a wonderful date?
“I’ll be around if you change your mind,” he says and heads back inside.
“I’m really beginning not to like that guy,” George says after I’ve closed the door behind me. “His attitude is completely offensive.”
“Oh, he’s not so bad. All that stuff is just an act.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not impressed. And you shouldn’t be either.”
“Remy’s just lonely, I think.”
To: hollyhastings@hotmail.com
From: lustylou2@yahoo.com
Subject: Guess what?
Dear Holly,
I am having a lot of fun in Miami. We are staying in South Beach at a not that bad hotel just off Ocean Avenue. Deb found a cockroach in her bed but we are very happy to be here. Thankfully it was dead. Everyone here is very beautiful and all the buildings look like ice cream.
The manager at the Seaquarium granted me a private audience with Flipper. The only problem was that I found the aquarium to be a little filthy. I made a donation and now I feel better. I also have an autographed picture that I will frame. I also suppose that seeing this dolphin in person makes me realize that he is just a dolphin. But I am just a woman, so there! We are the same.
Also just to tell you that your father was waiting for me at the hotel. He had a dozen roses that he paid too much for, but this is a very expensive area and all the flower shops are run by fancy men who overcharge. Your father bought Deb a plane ticket home and a ticket for her car on the train. She has to go back to work on Tuesday and Uncle Herbie needs her, but I have decided to retire. As you know personally, your father is now very loose with money and I have decided that this is okay because what are we waiting for, anyway? So we bought a Winnebago. The one we got is called a Minnie Winnie. It has air conditioning, a kitchen with a convection oven and all kinds of luxuries. I refused to buy used since you never know who was there before you with the toilet. By the way the toilet uses special chemicals. It’s like a second honeymoon. There is a TV collectibles show in Baton Rouge which is in Louisiana on April 17 then one in Little Rock which is in Arkansas in the beginning of May. Deb is shipping part of my collection to me when she gets home. There is a very big market for this sort of thing in the South and your father agrees that if we want to get serious we should start with other shows too like Gilligan’s Island and Green Acres. Maybe we will do crime shows too like Mission: Impossible and Get Smart because your father likes those. One day these things will be worth a lot of money and then they will be for you and your brothers, but maybe not Bradley. Olivia says he is doing very well for himself now in Detroit with his store but nobody tells me anything.
Love, Mom
From: hollyhastings@hotmail.com
Subject: re: Guess what?
Call me! Call me! Call me!
I hear nothing from either of them for three weeks, and now this? I grab the phone and dial my parents’ house. (Why neither of them has a cell phone is beyond me, especially now that my mom is so technically active).
“Mom! Dad! It’s me! I just got your e-mail, and I want you to call me as soon as you get this message! I am soooo happy and so relieved and so excited about all this…so, uh, call me, okay? Bye!”
I hang up and immediately call Cole.
“Cole?”
“Hey, Holly. Whazzup?”
“Did you hear from Mom and Dad?”
“Yeah.”
“So?”
“So what?”
“Tell me!”
“They’ve gone crazy. Big surprise.”
“It’s not crazy, it’s great! My faith in marriage is restored! All is right with the world again! Mom loves Dad and Dad loves Mom!”
“I guess,” he snorts.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, put Olivia on!”
“’Livia! Take the phone!”
My sister-in-law is far more excited about the whole thing.
“Isn’t it romantic?” she gushes.
“Totally!”
“I gotta tell ya, I did not think your old man had it in him. He just woke up one day and said, ‘Kids—I’m taking a trip. I’m going to get her. Make sure you check the house every two days and don’t let the mail pile up.’ So I called Uncle Herbie to ask him if Deb left the name of the hotel where they were staying and Larry flew out that afternoon.”
“When was this?”
“Last Thursday.”
“And nobody told me?!”
“Your dad wanted to keep it quiet in case things didn’t work out. I bet it’s just about the craziest, most impulsive thing the guy has ever done in his life.”
“Olivia—he hasn’t even been out-of-state since the ’80s!”
“Wow. You know, you had a lot to do with this, sweetie.”
“Me? How?”
“You inspired him! I’m sure of it! People around here tend to forget they actually do have some control over their destinies.”
“He just loves her, and he didn’t want to lose her.”
“Yeah. And I suppose when your wife leaves you for a fish, it’s a real wake-up call.”
“Flipper’s a marine mammal,” I correct her.
“Whatever he is, I’m just glad he was no match for your dad.”
Isn’t is funny how when you’re the one who’s gone, you kind of expect everything to stay the same at home? Especially if the reason you left in the first place was because it felt like nothing was ever happening there. But life goes on, I suppose. Things change. Even in Buffalo.