Chapter Seventeen

 

 

Albuquerque had never looked so good—never felt so good. Did a new love interest make the difference? Probably. It was early evening, but a bath and bed were the only things that sounded appealing. She checked her e-mail. Randy had sent a note wishing he could meet the plane. How sweet. He said he had meetings until nine, but if she had gotten in on time and felt like staying up awhile, please call him. Shelly quickly e-mailed back—

Home, getting a bite to eat. I’ll call at nine.

 

* * *

 

Shelly dialed Randy’s number at exactly nine, but there was no answer. For some reason, her broadband phone rang only four times and didn’t forward to his voicemail. Odd. She hadn’t had problems with it in the past. She tried again with the same results. Oh well, he probably went out to dinner with the guys from the office.

When he hadn’t called back by ten-thirty, she got ready for bed. She was exhausted but didn’t want him to worry. She tried his number from her cell.

“Hi.”

“I’m in a meeting.” This in a whisper. “I’ll call later.”

“I just wanted to say I’m back. Thanks so much for your notes. I’ve got to get some sleep. Let’s talk tomorrow.”

She was a little surprised that he had his phone on during the meeting, but how sweet. His wanting to hear from her was genuine and touching. She cracked a window and turned the swamper to low—it was one of those evenings that air-conditioning felt good. And she felt good. No, relieved was a better word. She could go on with her life now—until she would face the same thing with her mother.

And Ed? There was a feeling of closure there, too. She folded the cover back and crawled under the single sheet. Its cool slickness was soothing. She’d barely wadded her pillow under her head and turned on her side before she was asleep.

The shrill jangle of the phone was so startling, she awoke immediately and grabbed it on the second ring. One fifteen. Who—?

“You self-centered, obsessive bitch—how dare you call me three times in an hour? Who do you think you are? You know what this job means to me. I needed to make a good impression. I can’t lose this job. I’ll have nothing if I lose this chance.”

“Randy?”

“Three times,” his voice escalated until he was yelling. “I was the laughingstock of the group. They pointed out I’d been in the state less than a month and I had this woman chasing me. Some psychotic, demanding broad. Do you ever think of anyone beside yourself? Maybe you don’t have to work, but the rest of the world isn’t like you. How dare you wreck my life?”

He was drunk and in a rage. She couldn’t stop her hand holding the phone from shaking. But where had this person come from?

“Stop it. What are you talking about?”

“It better have been an emergency. That’s all I can say. Why would you call three fucking times? On the company phone? You know that’s the company cell.”

“You told me to. You wanted to know that I was back.” It sounded lame when the words left her mouth. This was not a man who cared anything about her—probably never had. She knew without a doubt that if she were standing in front of him, he would punch her. “What kind of idiot leaves his phone on during a meeting?”

He ignored her question. “So, you tell me how you’re going to make this right. How are you going to keep this from ever happening again?” She could hear crashing in the background like he was throwing things, kicking furniture.

“Just like this. I’m going to hang up the phone and walk away. Good-bye, Randy.”

It took two hands to steady the phone and place it back in the cradle. She was stunned. Why did he go off on her? What was his problem? What had really happened that evening?

Fully awake, she sat on the edge of the bed and willed her breathing to quiet. Who was psychotic? She couldn’t help but think she’d just dodged a bullet. He had been so perfect. But what was it they said about something that seemed perfect? She would have thought that she couldn’t have gone back to sleep, but exhaustion from the day finally won out.

When she opened her eyes, the bedside clock said eight. She halfway thought he might have called—some early morning apology a couple cups of black coffee later. But he didn’t and again, she was relieved.

“You were so lucky. He could be bipolar or any number of things. Think what could have happened if you had been at his house. I think you’re right—with that kind of rage, he would have taken a swing.” As always, Patrice offered a listening ear.

“They’re out there. I need to remind myself of that.”

“I don’t know how long I can talk. I think we’re supposed to have a meeting in five minutes. I should probably go now. Drinks after work?”

“Sounds good. I just needed to hear a sane voice. Give me a call at lunch.” Shelly hung up the phone and put water on for tea, then walked back to her computer.

Another disappointment … in a long line of disappointments. But she needed to be careful. Not so trusting. Still, she had really lost her appetite for more online dating. Maybe Patrice had been right—a service that cost a little more and did a little more careful matching, didn’t allow the individuals to actually interact until they were ready, until they found out more about each other. Would that be better? She guessed she’d try it.

One thing for sure, she’d cancel the service where she’d found Randy. She opened the account, hid her profile, and began dumping her saved “matches.” When she came to Randy’s, she was shocked. Somewhere in the middle of last night, he’d changed his profile to reflect his move to New Mexico and changed the age group of acceptable dates from the forty-five to sixty category to thirty to forty-five. Talk about a gut-punch. She just sat there and stared. Well, so much for the age difference not meaning anything. Was anything he had said the truth? She guessed not. And the thinness. Prolonged drug use? Cocaine chic? It made sense.

 

* * *

 

Drinks after work meant the Two Fools on Central. She couldn’t help but think she upped the ante to three by just crossing the threshold. She had not shown a lot of gray matter lately. No luck with men and that debacle with Ed.

She’d called Jonathan and he reassured her—he was glad the secret was out and sounded genuinely so. But, no, Ed hadn’t called. Had she expected him to contact Jonathan? Yes, she guessed she had. Oh, to have been a fly on the wall when he and Tiffany had gotten back to the motel. She would have hated to have been on the receiving end of his anger. A shove was violence enough.

When she gave in to it, there was a nagging worry that Ed would do something, some irrational, getting-even gesture. But what it might be, she didn’t have a clue. There was just some unvoiced need to be on guard. Was it time to get that gun?

Patrice was running late, but looked perfect when she walked in. A black bolero jacket, white cami, and knee-length black-and-white houndstooth skirt—the look was finished by low-heeled, strappy black sandals. The brown cashmere sweater Shelly had thrown on over jeans didn’t quite cut it. Oh well.

The warm brown did make a nice contrast to her auburn hair, as did the single drop turquoise nugget earrings .She was enjoying not having to be bandbox perfect but being her own person, wearing what was comfortable—and she knew the jeans looked good. But it was time to get rid of the chins. And maybe the tummy. She couldn’t always walk around presenting her backside first. No, it was time to rework the front.

“Are you afraid of Ed?”

Good question. Was she? Did needing to be on guard equate to fear? “There’s a part of me that is. But I shouldn’t base those feelings on a one-time loss of control.” She’d just filled Patrice in on the infamous funeral free-for-all. It was nice to get the perspective of someone who wasn’t family.

“No excuses. What he did was dangerous and threatening. You couple that with spying on you, belittling you—”

“I know. The bad boy always wanted me to get a gun.”

“Not a bad idea. I’d suggest putting in a little time at target practice.”

“Patrice, the very idea of arming myself against my children’s father seems ludicrous. And even thinking that he might be the ultimate target—well, I can’t even go there.”

“Thousands of women have said the same thing— some of them are dead. But not to belabor the point … what I find really fascinating is that Ed’s a grandfather.”

“And I’m a grandmother.”

“And neither one of you had an inkling.”

“The whole thing is pretty bizarre.”

“Jerry Springer material, for sure.”

“Maybe they’ll get past it. Ed will forgive Tiffany, maybe they’ll have a child of their own. They’ll fix up the house—”

“Do you really see that happening?”

“Doubtful. I see Ed’s anger getting in the way. Tough to go from having a dumpling trophy wife with living proof of your virility to being the butt of a bad joke.”

“I agree. Ed’s ego is going to get in the way of any forgiveness. But what about you? You’re finally interviewing docs about a facelift?”

“I see Dr. Chen on Friday.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

Shelly smiled. Patrice was always supportive. “No, it’s just a consultation.”

“Well, I can take the time if you’d like some backup.”

“I’m sure this will be straightforward—meet the surgeon, discuss how many chins I hope to dump, and schedule surgery.”

“I’m sure you’re right. I just hope you like him. I have visions of you shopping all over town for Mr. Right in scrubs.”

“Of course, I need to have confidence—”

“Shelly, I’m on your side. This is one time that holding people to certain standards is a good thing. It won’t be a showstopper if he has ear hair.”

Shelly laughed. “I’m not so sure. That’s really a big thing with me. I’ll let you know my reaction the minute I leave his office.”

“I’ll be thinking of you—with more than a little envy.”

“You’re not sixty yet—you have time.”

 

* * *

 

Dr. Chen assured her she was a perfect candidate for a face-lift. Did he say that to all his patients? She chided him. But in all seriousness, he reminded her that she didn’t need to get rid of wrinkles, only excess skin—that little puffiness beneath the eyes and, of course, the chins. Her skin was in great shape, elastic, little discoloration, prime for what he would do. He’d had a cancellation. Would she be ready to go ahead on Monday?

Monday? In just two days?

A brief feeling of panic … but why wouldn’t she be ready? If she thought about it for too long, she’d lose her nerve. And if the face went well, would he suggest a tummy tuck to follow? He assured her they would talk, but one thing at a time. He’d see her at the hospital at seven a.m. And, oh yes, have a nice weekend.

A nice weekend? Her palms were already sweaty and sticking to the steering wheel on the way home. She was excited, yet frightened. The unknown—but something she’d chosen to do. And in seventy-two hours it would be over.

She looked around the bungalow. She couldn’t just wander aimlessly in twelve hundred square feet for the next two days. She needed to find a diversion. She could go stark raving mad in that time if she didn’t.

She picked up a novel. Death Without Company. Something by a Craig Johnson that Patrice had raved about, said she had to read. The title didn’t give her a warm, fuzzy feeling at the moment. But no matter how good the story, Shelly knew she couldn’t concentrate. Maybe the new online dating service had miraculously found someone in their database.

Actually, a match had popped up on the new service. A man in Florida. The ball was in her court to open a dialogue by sending questions. She picked out five that were of some interest to her. Ones about having a family or marriage weren’t. But do you believe in long-distance romance? How important is chemistry? Those had some potential. This might be interesting.

He fired back answers within thirty minutes. For activities that he hoped his mate would share, he said: “I love to dive, deep-water sail, bike, play chess, and hang out in the hot tub.” Hmmmm. She could match one out of five, maybe two if she ever found her mountain bike. But chess? It had been too long. She’d have to take lessons.

The other two must be Florida interests— could a Southwest sun worshipper ever become a sea nymph? The nymph part was really pushing it. The most adventurous thing he’d done in the past year? “I placed second in a road race from Dallas to Austin.” And his spirituality? “I am a deistic ethical hedonist.” Not the usual. Obviously bright.

His questions to her? What’s one life event that, in hindsight, you’d handle differently? “I’ve lived life pretty much without regrets—I’ve never wanted to wake up one morning and think ‘I wish I’d …’ The one thing I might have done differently is a little too personal to discuss here … maybe later.” It was way too soon to even mention having been married thirty-five years and maybe, just maybe, if she’d had it to do over again, she would have bailed earlier.

Her answer to: What are the three best traits that you have to offer a partner? “I could be flippant and say I’d never bore you—which would probably be the truth. I have an insatiable interest in learning/experiencing new things. But in short, I know how to be a good partner.” She liked her answer. It was the truth.

She could have offered more with her answer to his third question: What do you expect in a partner? But after giving it some thought, left it. “I don’t want someone to bore me.” Did that sound too juvenile? There was more to life. But, in truth, hadn’t Ed bored her? And wasn’t she looking for more than just the humdrum of mere existence? She didn’t need a provider. She wasn’t planning a family. She wanted a companion—on the same wavelength.

Patrice had been right—this was fun. It made her think … and forget.

He made his psychological profile available and she did the same. She studied his at length, and compared it to hers. Intense, forceful, demanding in certain situations, take charge, gets things done—maybe at the expense of others. Was this the kind of personality that she could live with? If you stepped in front of him, would he mow you down? Hers, in contrast, seemed wuss-like, too sweet and caring. Too opposite. Too female? Of course, there would be people who would say that opposites attract. Could her sense of humor and honest caring for people ease some of the sharpness of his personality? Maybe. But it didn’t get any better. Under the situation analysis section of the profile, his personality was likely to have to be in control and have the last word. Yuk!

In addition, he valued “being a good citizen” and excelled at “games of competition and skill.” He’d find out she’d gotten three speeding tickets in the last five years. Oh God, he’d put her in stocks or a pillory in the front yard—her head and two hands hanging through—the neighbors laughing … throwing things.

OK, this had to get better. But no. She was respectful, win-win oriented, enthusiastic, sharing, a planner … Stack that up against reality-grounded, initiator, goal-driven, detail-oriented, forceful take charge, someone who could put feelings aside to reach his goal. This looked hopeless. Especially when the profile concluded that what she must have at all costs was equality and a friendly, social environment free of all hostility. And what did he have to have? Someone as bright and goal-oriented and driven as he. No way! This was a recipe for disaster.

It wouldn’t work. Wasn’t this really just semantic nose hair? Could she live with such an anal … Republican? There it was. Maybe the worst thing she could accuse him of. And she knew he was one … had to be. Hadn’t ‘bleeding heart’ been a part of her vocabulary at one time? Maybe, still was?

They reached the status of opening communication, and he e-mailed to say that she might have heard that they were having some hurricanes in Florida and it would be a few days before he could call. Phone service was spotty and he was pretty busy protecting property and removing downed trees from the storm last month. She e-mailed back that the time frame was perfect. She was entering the hospital and wouldn’t be home until afternoon. Monday. And then wouldn’t be able to talk for a couple days.

Was it a procedure that she had to have done? Or elective? Absolutely perfectly elective, she answered. He excused himself for being snoopy but had been a medical researcher for many years. Did she feel comfortable sharing the type of surgery? Facelift. Had she done her research? Interviewed more than one doc? Talked with several of his patients? Looked at fifty before and after pictures? Yes, yes, yes, and then, yes. Did she have support? Family? Friends? Yes.

He was really looking forward to talking with her. He gave her his phone numbers—a cell and one at home. He’d wait to hear from her. She was to take her time. And even then there was no guarantee that she’d get through. They’d been hit pretty hard by the storms—they were lucky to have an e-mail connection. Had she had a chance to compare their profiles? Yes. What did she think? Either a clear case of opposites attract or there’s absolutely no hope. He agreed, but added, “Won’t it be fun to see which?”