All the Single Ladies (18 page)

“It could probably use a woman's touch, right?” he said.

I shrugged my shoulders. “What do I know? I like the openness of the space. It's very different.”

I walked all around the living area and peeked into a powder room. It was spotless, I'll say that much. There was a dining table near the front window and it was set for two ­people. And there were candles on the table, although darkness was hours away.

Paul went over to the stove in the kitchen that was smack-­dab in the middle of the living area and lifted the top of a pot, peering inside. He turned on the gas under it, presumably to reheat the spaghetti sauce. I sat on a stool at the breakfast bar. He turned on the heat under another large pot, probably filled with water for pasta.

“Well, I had all these plans to decorate it but I've just been so busy and I travel too much. Basically I'm here to sleep and do a little work. Otherwise, I'm in my office or on a job site. Would you like a glass of wine?”

“Sure. Thanks. So you play the piano, I assume?”

“Not as much as I'd like to. Too busy. I hated practicing when I was a kid, but now I'm glad I learned to play. Music soothes the savage beast, you know.”

“Oh, dear! Are you, you know, a savage beast?” I pretended to be horrified.

“Um, no.”

He pulled the cork from a bottle of some kind of Italian red wine and filled two goblets a little less than halfway.

“Here's to you, Lisa, and to getting to know you better!”

He raised his glass in the air between us.

“And here's to you too! Thank you for this lovely evening!”

We touched the rims of our glasses. The gentle clink produced pleasant echoing notes, like slight movements of tiny crystal wind chimes. We took a sip. It was really delicious. Not sweet and not sour. I guessed it probably cost more than ten dollars, because even at room temperature it didn't make me draw up my cheeks like I had just sucked a lemon. And it didn't need ice.

“This is probably the most delicious wine I've ever tasted,” I said.

“It ought to be!” he said, and laughed. “It's an '83 Barolo. I've been saving it for a special occasion.”

“And I'm a special occasion?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Wow, I thought, I'm a special occasion. There was a first time for everything.

 

In the end I decided that I liked the fixtures I had seen at Lowe's better than what I saw anywhere else. I bought what Miss Trudie needed, including a little teakwood bench for her shower so she could sit down to wash her feet. The handyman from Palmetto House gladly installed the grab bars and faucets for a modest fee and Miss Trudie was tickled pink, especially with the bench.

“I never thought about putting a bench in my shower. What a wonderful idea,” she said.

“They even have walk-­in bathtubs now. With Jacuzzis! Maybe you've seen them on television?” I said.

“Yes, I have, but let me ask you this. You go in there in your birthday suit, correct?”

“I imagine so,” I said.

“And then you have to wait around for the fool thing to fill and you have to wait for it to drain. You could get pneumonia with all that waiting around,” she said. “I'll stick with my bench, thank you. That's plenty of excitement for me.”

“Me too!” I said.

We both laughed and I realized again that it was still possible to make new friends. Even at my age and even at hers.

My date with Paul last Saturday night had gone really well. He had not oversold his spaghetti. It had simply been the best Bolognese sauce I'd ever eaten. Ever.

“What's in this?” I'd said. “There's something different.”

“I can't tell you,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because it's a secret.”

“Then I'll have to squeeze it out of you.”

“That's what I was hoping for,” he said.

“You bad boy,” I'd said, and thought, Wow, it's okay to be silly!

I'd forgotten how much fun it was to tease and just give in to having fun. What a dreary woman I'd been. And for far too long. Of course I didn't have a crystal ball to see far into the future and find out if Paul would still be there. It didn't matter. We just liked each other and he brought out the girl in me. I was glad to know the girl was still there. We never got to go through the thirty-­six questions because we were too busy talking about other things. But I told him about the experiment and he thought it was sort of incredible.

“I might be up for that,” he said. “Why don't we have dinner on Tuesday and give it a whirl? There's a new restaurant on Shem Creek I want to try. It's where The Trawler used to be. Remember The Trawler?”

“No Thai food?”

“Ah! You're right. I promised you Thai food. We'll go there another time? Is that okay?”

“Of course. That sounds great,” I said. “I haven't had a decent piece of fish in a while.”

So Tuesday evening he picked me up at seven and very soon we were being seated in The Tavern & Table on Shem Creek. The dining room was beautiful in a rustic and inviting way.

“Gosh! Somebody spent some money on this place, didn't they?” I exclaimed.

“They sure did,” Paul said.

“I remember it from another incarnation, after The Trawler. It was pretty sticky and disgusting, but they still had ­people lined up out the door and into the parking lot.”

“That's when hole-­in-­the-­wall eateries were chic. Now they're just holes in the wall or maybe I just got old and picky.”

I thought, Wouldn't it be wonderful to afford being picky?

The young server approached our table, poured water, and recited the specials. Paul ordered some white wine—­a bottle of Château de Sancerre—­and we looked over the menus again. Eric, our server, had a deep golden tan, longish sun-­bleached straight hair cut better than mine, and I suspected that when he wasn't waiting tables he was riding waves and chasing skirts. This suspicion was more or less confirmed when he replied to Paul's wine order.

“Awesome,” he said, “great choice.”

But then he stunned us when he continued.

“That particular Sancerre has truly piquant citrus notes that totally enhance the experience when it's paired with seafood, but the floral finish complements without being overpowering. The 2014 is total child abuse but the 2009 is pouring really well.”

You could have knocked us out of our seats with the flick of a finger.

“I think I need a moment to give this menu the consideration it deserves,” Paul said.

“Awesome,” he said again, bobbing his head like a wonton just dropped into a steaming bowl of hot soup. “Totally take your time. I'll get that bottle right away.”

Eric stepped away to be awesome in the wine cellar. I caught Paul's eye and we laughed.

“Nothing like a totally awesome studly sommelier to make me feel like a totally decrepit old dude,” Paul said.

“Totally,” I said, and giggled. “I guess he's smarter than he looks.”

“Never judge a book . . . Okay, so before we ask each other the now infamous thirty-­six questions that will change our lives? I'm thinking of ordering the shrimp beignets and a T-­and-­T charcuterie plate, and I'm hoping you'll share the whole fish with me. How does that sound?”

“As long as I can have the salted caramel
panna cotta
for dessert?”

“You'll give me a bite?”

“Of course!”

We closed our menus and looked at each other. It was that dreamy time of evening when the ambient light softens, when you need to turn on a few lights, so you do, but you use a dimmer switch. You don't want to re-­create midday. You want to relax . . . And as for me, I was ready to let the Lowcountry begin its seductive magic.

I still found myself feeling too shy to peer into Paul's eyes for more than a few seconds, but I was going to have to do exactly that as a part of the thirty-­six-­question experiment. I hoped that by the time we reached that point it would seem comfortable. As though he read my mind, he reached across the table and covered the back of my hand with his and squeezed.

“Lisa? May I say something and will you tell me if I'm out of line?”

“Why not? Of course.”

“I've been thinking about you and your daughter since you told me the story and I had a few thoughts about it. A different point of view.”

Eric reappeared with the wine, so we stopped talking. He pulled the cork in a swift movement, placing it on the table in front of Paul. This kid was slick. He poured an inch or so of wine into Paul's glass and stood back. Paul gave it a swirl and a sniff, took a sip, and smiled.

“It's delicious,” he said.

“Very good, sir,” Eric said, filling my glass to the halfway level, and then finished pouring for Paul. “Have you made a decision about your meal? May I answer any questions?”

We told him what we'd like to have and he knitted his surfer-­boy eyebrows in concern.

“Is something wrong?” Paul asked him.

“No, no. I was just thinking it would be perfecto if you had the pork-­belly steamed buns to round everything out. You know, a little bit of Hong Kong meets Lowcountry? But that's your call. They would just balance all the flavors, that's all.”

“Well then, bring on the pork-­belly buns,” Paul said, smiling.

“Yes, sir! I'm gonna bring it!” Eric laughed.

“He's a very good waiter,” Paul observed when Eric was out of earshot. “He didn't even write anything down.”

“I'll bet he remembers everything. No flies on him,” I said. I took a sip of my wine. “You were going to tell me something about my daughter's excellent career path?”

“Yes,” he said, looking pensive. “Okay, here's my thought. I think you have to take the long view on her business, and here's why. I did some Googling and it turns out that the legal marijuana business is about the fastest-­growing business in the country, up to something like three billion in sales last year. That has some mighty powerful implications.”

“Such as?” I said.

“Well, for one thing, every time there's a new trend, big money figures out how to get involved. Look what Home Depot and Lowe's have done to mom-­and-­pop hardware stores. Big money has crushed independent businesses in almost every category and I predict they will do it here too.”

“Good grief. Suzanne had a similar thought but I haven't really thought it through.”

“And although pot's legal in Colorado, it's still in violation of a whole pile of federal laws. So my next prediction is the timing. If the federal government decides to decriminalize the use of recreational marijuana? That's when the big guys will make their move. Could be a year, could be two. Who knows? And I'm sure they already have ­people in place laying the groundwork.”

“So, what do you think?”

“I think you should get her on the phone and tell her to consider the fact that this might be a short-­term business. Tell her she should save her money and plan to reinvest whatever she nets in something else. You know, tell her, ‘Marianne? Let's be practical about this.' Tell her that while free enterprise is at the foundation of capitalism, at some point she's going to get pushed out by bigger players. There's precedent in every sector of the market. Books, furniture, clothes, food.”

“You're brilliant. Do you know that?”

“That's highly debatable. Listen, it's easy for me to step back and look at this differently. Number one, she's not my child, so I don't have an emotional investment. And I completely understand why this is so offensive to you.”

“It really is.”

“Well, my mother always said that when I did something stupid she didn't take it personally. That's the thing. You can't take this personally.”

He was one hundred percent right. It was a eureka moment of true revelation. I had personalized my daughter's choices when it was not about me at all. Marianne had not ventured into the World of Weed to offend me. She wasn't that kind of girl. She had done this with her father's support, and to be honest, that one fact infuriated me as much as anything else. She set out primarily to make money and maybe she ignored the moral questions because she simply believed her business was a legal means to a lucrative end. At least I'm sure that's what her father told her. But was she becoming a man-­pleaser? Was she so deprived of a father's love that she'd do anything he told her to do?

“What about the moral aspect?” I said.

“Well, that's the issue, isn't it?”

“Yes, and there's also the fact that there's not enough medical research yet to show that weed is harmless,” I said. “I just read something about a recent study that said pot can trigger psychosis in ­people who have paranoid personalities. Getting involved with that whole scene just seems stupid to me.”

“Me too,” he said. “I was just thinking you could approach this from another perspective, that's all. This angle might catch her off guard and at least get the conversation going again.”

“I'm a little worried that she's doing this because her father suggested it and she's desperate to please him.”

“I'm sure there's some of that in the mix,” he said. “But it's not the end of the world if she is. That would be normal, given the circumstances.”

This was the moment when I realized why women need men for reasons beyond procreation, carrying heavy things, killing large creepy bugs, taking out the garbage, and making our coats shiny. We need another perspective and men really do have a remarkable capacity to look at things differently. Men are just different.
Vive la différence.
Really.

“You are right. Absolutely, totally, and completely right. I'm going to call her and leave a nice message and I'm going to e-­mail her too. Thank you, Paul.”

“For what? I didn't do anything.”

“Yes, you did. You were thoughtful.”

“Well, you're welcome. I have this funny little sign on my wall in my office that quotes the Dalai Lama. It says, ‘Give the ones you love wings to fly, roots to come back to, and reasons to stay.' I just always loved that.”

“I love the Dalai Lama,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, “me too.”

Eric our waiter returned and placed the beignets in front of us and another dish too.

“These are some wicked good lobster and cheese wontons. Compliments of the chef. Enjoy!”

“Thanks!” Paul said. “Where are you from?”

“Maine, sir. Home of wicked good blueberry pie and Stephen King.”

Eric refilled our glasses and left. I popped a beignet in my mouth. It was insanely good.

“Well, that was nice,” I said, thinking I should ask Eric to send me a pie for my friend Judy.

“It sure was,” Paul said. “Even if the food's only marginal, I'm definitely coming back here.”

“It's way better than marginal. Try the beignets. So, did you ever think about becoming Buddhist?”

He took a bite of a beignet and his eyes grew wide.

“Wow! Is that good!”

“Told you!”

“No, but of all the religions and philosophies that are out there, I think I like Buddhism best. You can sum its core up in three words.
Do no harm
.”

“Good grief!”

“What?”

“I might already be a Buddhist!”

“Me too,” he said, and we laughed.

“Oh! It feels good to laugh, doesn't it?” I said.

“It sure does,” he said. “Now, as soon as I stuff this last beignet in my mouth, let's look at the questions.”

“Sure,” I said, “why not? Meanwhile this wonton is delicious.”

I had brought two sets of the questions, one for each of us. And the questions themselves were divided into three sections, becoming more revealing and personal as they went along. At the end we were supposed to stare into each other's eyes for four minutes. I explained everything to Paul and we began. I went first.

“And we have to tell the total truth. Okay, so, given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you have as a dinner guest?”

“What a question! Male or female? Living or dead?” he said.