I found myself thinking about Robert nearly nonstop for the next couple of days. It also didn’t help that he was an ever-present fixture on my phone. He kept sending me pictures of food he might be eating, along with the lyrics from M.C. Hammer’s “You Can’t Touch This.”
Two can play the cheesy music game, he’d texted me, causing me to laugh out loud. I see your REO Speedwagon and raise you M.C. Hammer.
Robert was fun and easy. It felt like I’d known him forever. Was it his playful humor that reminded me so much of Dad? Or was there some deeper, spiritual connection at work? Also, Robert asked if my mother and I were free for a surprise outing the following Friday.
Why do you want Mom along? I texted him.
To make sure you don’t steal my food! Seriously, though, I want to meet her. And ask her about your table manners…
Well, fair enough. Still, part of me wondered what was really going on. I’d never had a man ask me to bring my mother on a date. Curiosity piqued, I said yes.
Besides, it wouldn’t interfere with my next date with George, which happened to be that very evening. To prep myself for George, I played Dr. Susie’s book and listened to Chapter Seven.
“At this point, you may be getting close to someone,” Dr. Susie told me in that ultra-confident, I-can-solve-all-your-problems voice.
True, I was. And that someone happened to be named Robert.
“Careful!” Dr. Susie warned me, her voice shrill. “You do not want to fall into old habits. Keep all options open as you figure out how you feel, what you want, and where you want to go.”
That seemed like reasonable advice.
George planned to take me to a gallery opening, even though, truth be told, I had no idea what that even meant. Art gallery? I guessed so. I’d never been to one before—an opening or otherwise. I wore a nice navy sleeveless cocktail dress and matching heels. I felt grown-up and pretty. The pumps bit into my toes a bit, but that was the price I paid for dressing up. I glanced at my running sneakers in the corner of my bedroom, the same ones I’d worn for the date with Robert. How different could two dates be—or frankly, two men?
George arrived on time, as usual. I buzzed him up quickly while I finished putting on lipstick. He stepped into my place, almost as if unsure if he ought to. Duke trotted up to greet him, but George ignored my dog.
“You look beautiful,” he told me, handing me a small bouquet of pink roses.
“Thank you,” I said, taking the pretty flowers and smelling them. That was a sweet gesture. George glanced at my condo. “And…you have a very nice place. You must work hard to keep it clean, with…your dog.” He glanced at Duke uncertainly.
Duke stared back. Was George not a dog person? Uh-oh.
“I hope you’re not allergic,” I said, wondering if that explained George’s standoffishness to Duke. Robert took to Duke immediately, and he’d rescued a dog from the pound. If George hated dogs, that could be a deal-breaker. Duke wasn’t going anywhere.
“No, I’m not. I just…”
Duke sniffed George’s hand, and he pulled it back sharply.
“Never had dogs growing up.”
“Oh, Duke’s the best. He won’t bite.” I walked over and scratched my golden retriever behind the ears. “Go on, you can pet him.”
George patted Duke awkwardly on the head. “Good boy,” George said. At least he was trying. I figured with a little more exposure to Duke, he’d fall in love with my dog, who was the perfect canine.
“Ready to…uh…go?” George asked.
“Yes,” I said and grabbed my purse from the foyer table. I nodded good-bye to Duke, who whined a little as we left.
A quick drive took us to the new art gallery. People dressed in various degrees of formal wear, from complete suits to khakis and ties, meandered through the art show as waiters passed around miniature quiches and other fine appetizers. Nobody spoke French, but the affair seemed just as formal as our dinner date had been. I found myself standing a little straighter, a little bit more on-my-toes. I knew next to nothing about art, and worried I’d say something dumb. I knew all about Pantone colors for marketing materials, but absolutely nothing about the Impressionists.
“So, how did you learn about art?” I asked George. Was he trying to impress me? I wanted to know. Or, did he really know art? If it were the former, then we could both giggle about not knowing anything about art, and then down the free glass of champagne and get on to food—the most important part of the evening. My stomach growled loudly in my ears.
“Before enrolling in the business program, I studied art in college,” George told me. I tried to hide my disappointment. Ack. No sneaking out the back. This date wasn’t just a stunt; he really liked this stuff. Okay.
“It gave me an appreciation for the way people look at things, the way humans express themselves.”
I nodded, trying to think about something I could say. Did I mention I knew nothing—seriously nothing—about art? “I studied art for a couple of years,” I said. “In preschool.”
I smiled at him. He looked at me blankly. You know, finger paints? I wanted to joke, but didn’t, because he probably wouldn’t have gotten that, either. My joke was falling flat. I needed to change gears.
“It helped me…uh, learn about tactile senses,” I said, trying to pretend my lame attempt at humor wasn’t an attempt at all, but a serious approach to artistic sensitivity. “The way the paint would ooze between my fingers.”
George ignored that comment. Ugh, I knew I’d sounded like I didn’t know anything about art. Because…I didn’t.
“This one really speaks to me,” he said as we stopped in front of an abstract painting of an owl with yellow eyes besides big splashes of blue, red, and yellow paint. Honestly, my nephew could have done this with his finger paints, I was pretty sure. “The color choices, and the owl, front-and-center, acting as a symbol of wisdom, power, intuition, mystery, and change.”
I nodded. Wow, he really saw all that? In…the owl?
“What does it say to you?” George asked, looking hopeful.
Eek. I looked at the painting, and I saw…an owl with oddly striped feet. That was pretty much it. Time for another joke.
“Hoo… Hoo… Hoo?”
At least George laughed this time. “That’s…punny,” he admitted as we walked away from the painting and deeper into the gallery. “How about this one?” he asked as we stopped in front of the next one. It was a mostly white canvas with streaks of black around the edges, a hint of orange, and a tiny bit of blue. Okay, this one gave me nothing to go on. Just a bunch of random lines and splotches. My nephew absolutely could have painted this —when he was just two years old.
George glanced at me, expecting an answer.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said, and I didn’t. What could I say? It looks like a toddler did it.
“Give it a try,” George urged me, blue eyes so very earnest. “It’s art. There is no wrong answer.”
“Okay.” I took a deep breath. I could pretend to be pretentious with the best of them, couldn’t I? “I like the contrast of good and evil, the way the artist has created a dichotomy”—Ooh, Cass! A Boston College word—“of light and darkness, of day and night, illustrating the struggle of human nature, clawing from one moment of relief…”
I couldn’t help but think if Robert were here, he’d totally tease me for this answer. Then, he’d play along, and we’d have a “pretentious-off.” I glanced at George, ready for him to tease me—after all, how could splotches be good and evil? But he didn’t.
“Interesting,” George said, all seriousness. “Not sure the artist would necessarily agree with you, but everybody sees art in their own way…”
“I was just kidding,” I said, wondering how often I’d have to spell that out for George. He looked confused, and for a second, it seemed he thought I was making fun of him. Then again, wasn’t I? Now, I felt terrible. “No, I mean, I love abstract art. The form and shapes are really beautifully symmetrical. I didn’t mean to make fun of it.”
“It’s all right,” George said, looking a little relieved. “I didn’t think you were making fun of it.”
Oh, I totally was making fun of it.
“But we see what we see,” George said, shrugging. “That’s the beauty of art. Everybody sees what they want. Maybe this wasn’t your thing. Maybe you prefer sculptures. Or not. There is no wrong. It’s all okay.”
This surprised me. I liked that George was so open-minded, so accepting of differences. He didn’t judge me for not liking art as much as he did. George always seemed to prove sweeter than I gave him credit for. I wasn’t experiencing those sparks yet, but maybe being sweet was more important in the long term.
“Thank you,” I told him. “That means a lot to me.”
Meanwhile, Mom couldn’t wait to meet Robert. Though she didn’t say it out loud, even I could tell she liked Robert better—his putt-putt date and picnic-in-the-rain date were better than George’s expensive dinner and art gallery offerings in her mind. Still, even Mom couldn’t guess why Robert had insisted she tag along on our third date.
Even better, he showed up to pick us both up in a stretch limo, complete with a stocked mini-bar inside. When she saw the limo in her driveway, I thought Mom’s eyes might pop out of her head. She all but bounded down the walkway in her haste to get to the car. I’d rarely seen her move so fast when chocolate wasn’t involved.
“I can’t believe I’m in a limousine,” Mom gushed like a little girl and clapped her hands together as she slid in next to Robert. “Hello, I’m Gloria,” she said, bubbling with excitement.
“Robert. Nice to meet you,” he said and gently shook Mom’s hand.
“This is so exciting, even though I have no idea where we’re going,” Mom said.
“That makes two of us,” I said, glancing at Robert, who just grinned, mischief in his eyes.
“Wait, time out—a limousine ride isn’t enough?” he joked. “Because this is all there is, ladies.”
I could tell Mom didn’t know if he was kidding or not. I knew he was.
“This is very nice, but I don’t usually bring my mom on dates,” I said. Mom nodded.
“Ah, well, actually, this is Gloria’s date. You’re just along for the ride. Literally.”
“So I’m the third wheel?” I exclaimed.
“Yes. That’s funny.” He slapped his knee.
“Oh, come on, Robert. When are you going to tell us what the occasion is?” Mom was terrible with surprises. Christmas morning, she tore through presents faster than either Nadia or me. “The anticipation is killing me!”
Robert glanced out the tinted back window. “Well, we’re almost there, so I guess I can tell you…” He paused for dramatic effect, and I thought Mom might faint. “We are going to a benefit concert for the Children’s Hospital, and several musicians are…”
Mom and her eagle eye had already spotted the marquee out the window.
“REO Speedwagon!” she squealed in shock and delight.
“REO Speedwagon,” Robert confirmed with a nod of his head.
“No!” How on earth had he managed this?
“No. But, yes.” Robert pulled out three tickets and handed them to my mother. I thought she might faint with joy. A sly smile crept across his face. He was enjoying our shock, but I still couldn’t believe he’d done it. I didn’t even know they were on tour!
“I heard this was by invitation only.” Mom looked both surprised and delighted. It warmed my heart to see her so happy. “These are impossible to get!”
“Our office helped set it up, so I asked for a couple of tickets…and then I asked for another one for the third wheel…” He pointed at me. Robert glanced at Mom. “Because I thought it would be weird if we went on a date without her.”
“Wow,” Mom said, unable to contain her excitement. “This is so incredibly sweet of you. I have loved REO Speedwagon forever, but never had a chance to see them live.”
“Well, tonight’s your night,” Robert said. He grinned.
“Tonight’s my night.” Mom was happier than I’d seen her in…years. Her face lit up with joy. She so deserved this. She’d been through so much.
I felt my heart fill up with gratitude. Robert had gone above and beyond for Mom—and me.
The limo rolled to a stop near the VIP entrance, and as a worker opened our door, flashbulbs exploded. Mom giggled as she stepped out of the limo and onto the red carpet. Robert took my hand in his.
“You did this to try and score brownie points with Mom, didn’t you?” I whispered.
“Me?” He looked shocked. “Why would I do that?” His face grew serious a moment. “Yes. That’s exactly what I did.” He stared at me a beat.
I squeezed his hand. Mom practically sprinted up the stairs ahead of us to get into the auditorium. “But now you have to listen to a whole night of REO Speedwagon,” I pointed out.
“And that’s going to be…awesome.” He grinned at me. I grinned back. He was good. Very, very good. “I’ve decided to give in to the power of REO Speedwagon. Because…” He took a deep breath and began to sing. “I can’t fight this feeling…any longer.”