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Our conversation shifted and for the rest of our lunch we talked about fun things such as celebrity gossip, real people gossip, and Izzie, and by the time we finished eating, my sister and I found ourselves laughing and giggling and in pretty good moods, given the circumstances. Of course, both of us were pretty buzzed.
“Well, at least we managed to forget about our problems for a little while, right?” Laura said.
“Yup. We celebrated your birthday, Laura. We celebrated your life.” I held up my wine glass and with tears in my eyes I said, “Cheers to your forty-four years of life.”
Laura held up her glass. “To life,” she said with a smile, “To BOTH of our lives.”
Upon hearing my sister toast my life, pain and guilt enveloped me as it so often did now, as if I didn’t deserve to have a life, since my husband didn’t have one anymore.
As if my sister could read my mind, she said, “Stop it right now.”
Over coffee, Laura said to me, “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll consider getting divorced if you agree to go on a date.”
“Tell you what. If Bradley Cooper calls me, I’ll go out with him.”
“That’s not an option. You need to go out with a guy. A real guy.”
“Bradley Cooper’s not a real guy?”
“Em, please?”
“I’ll think about it,” I giggled, pulling out my Blackberry, “Right now, I’m calling us a cab.”
Laura took a sip of her coffee, motioned to my lips and declared, “I have to go get that lipstick.”
I smiled and gave her a wink. “Lancome counter… Bloomingdales…free gift with purchase.”
.
E
arly the next morning, Izzie was sitting on the kitchen counter playing chef’s assistant like she always did when I made salsa. This was becoming an almost daily ritual now. For some odd reason, experimenting with different salsa recipes was therapeutic for me, and whenever I felt sad or depressed or bad about myself (which was most of the time), I did one of two things. I either planted new flowers in my garden or I made (and ate with vegetables or chips) some kind of salsa. After yesterday’s visit to my sister’s house, my garden had several new flowers in it and my refrigerator was stocked with salsa. And still I was making more!
“What should we call this one?” Izzie asked me, referring to the salsa I was concocting.
“Well,” I answered while adding a touch more lime juice to the mixture, “Tell me what’s in it and then we’ll figure out a name.”
My six year-old started naming the ingredients. “Lime juice, tomatoes, onions…”
I nodded my head and added some more garlic.
“Garlic,” she continued.
“Beans…”
“I know!” she exclaimed, “Let’s call it
Try not to fart salsa!
”
I burst out laughing and then, just to be a good mommy I added, “That’s not nice. Don’t say that.”
“Then why are you laughing?” she giggled.
“Because it’s funny,” I answered.
“Hey, mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Did dad like salsa?”
I thought about the question and honestly, I couldn’t really remember Sam having a strong opinion either way about salsa. “You know what dad loved?” I answered.
Izzie’s eyes lit up, just as they did every time we talked about her father. “What??”
“He loved Taco Bell,” I said with a smile.
“He did?” she asked excitedly, “What did he get there?”
“Everything! He’d order at least five things.”
“Cool,” she smiled.
And that was the end of the conversation. And I was pleased, because I thought it was healthy for Izzie to ask about her dad, which she was doing more and more lately.
Just then the phone rang. It happened to be Stacy McGowan, who was confirming our kids’ play date for after camp. It was mid July, and so typical for this time of year in Chicago, the weather was sticky and extremely warm. So, the plan was to head over to Stacy’s at 3:30 and let our kids play in the sprinklers in her backyard.
Stacy and John McGowan had boy girl twins the same age as Isabelle, and the three had clicked since we’d met them years earlier. Because they’d gotten along so well for so long, I had spent a lot of time at their house for play dates and get-togethers, and I’d become pretty good friends with their mother.
Just as Izzie did, I had always looked forward to going over to the McGowan’s or having them over at our house because talking to Stacy was fun, unlike the forced conversations I’d endured with so many other parents of Isabelle’s friends. Some of them, although kind and decent people, were strange or hard to connect with, and I would find it stressful to sit there and make small talk while our kids were playing. Stacy was different. We had connected right away so our get-togethers became more about
all
of us, not just the children.
Now that Izzie was a little older, most of her play dates were drop offs. So today, I could easily have dropped my daughter off at Stacy’s house but I chose to come along.
The only awkwardness between Stacy and I was the same awkwardness I had with everyone in my life, which was that the subject of Sam was constantly being danced around. Like all my other friends and acquaintances, Stacy had tried to talk about his death a few times, asking me how I was doing and if I needed anything. I would quickly brush it off, telling her I was fine. Then I’d change the subject. Eventually, just like everyone else, she stopped asking.
The only people who had never stopped trying armchair psychotherapy on me were Laura and my mother. They would plead with me to open up. They would tell me it was unhealthy to bottle up my feelings. And I would tell them that not only were my feelings bottled, but that the lid was on so tight, not even one of those bottle-opening gadgets from
Bed, Bath and Beyond
would help get the lid off.
So here we sat, Stacy and I, in our bikinis, lounging and soaking up the sun, peacefully watching our kids play in the distance, and definitely not talking about Sam. I’ll never forget, we were discussing the Jennifer Lopez and Marc Anthony break up.
All of a sudden, up walked two men, Stacy’s husband, John, and some other guy whose looks literally made my jaw drop. Both men were dressed in business suits, and I immediately surmised that this hot hot hot stranger, who looked a bit younger than me was one of John’s co-workers from
Winchester Foods,
which was one of the largest food manufacturers in the U.S., second only to
Kraft
and
Sara Lee
.
Upon the sight of this man, I felt as if I’d just woken up from a deep sleep. Maybe Laura had planted the seed in my head the day before, or maybe it took seeing the most absolutely drop dead gorgeous man on earth, I’m not sure. All I know is that suddenly, one look at my friend’s husband’s co-worker had just given me the first sexual impulse I’d had in years. John’s friend was literally causing me to have trouble breathing. And it was very scary, but amazingly appealing.
“Hey, honey!” exclaimed Stacy as she got up to hug her hubby. “Hi, Preston!” she then said as she hugged Mr. Perfect.
Preston?! That was his name? ‘Oy Vey!’ was all I could think. Emma Jane Bricker, nice Jewish girl who married nice Jewish guy (nice during most of the marriage, that is), was now struggling for air at the sight of a guy named Preston, who’s ethnic and religious background were both unknown at this point, the only certainty being that he wasn’t of the Jewish faith.
“Hi, Emma!” said John, leaning down to give me a hug, probably trying to ignore the fact that my mouth was hanging wide open, my eyes were glazed, and my body was trembling harder than the recent earthquake in San Francisco.
The twins began to swarm their dad, and my heart sank while I watched my sweet daughter watching them closely, probably wondering why it was so unfair that she didn’t have a daddy to hug.
“Emma, this is Preston Christiansen,” said Stacy, “He works at Winchester with John.”
Now I almost burst out laughing. This was too much. Christiansen was his last name? How much more non-Jewish could he get?!
“John’s my boss, actually,” said Preston with a wide grin, “Nice to meet you.”
“You, too,” I said to Jesus Christ’s son.
I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it or just wishing it, but Preston held his gaze a little longer than someone would normally, and I wondered if it was because he could sense my attraction to him. Yet, I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone told me that every girl acted like she was in a trance-like state when introduced to him.
“And this is her little girl, Isabelle,” said Stacy.
Preston leaned down and shook my daughter’s hand and at that moment, watching him treat her like an adult, I knew he didn’t have kids. I also knew with certainty that he was single. “Nice to meet you,” he said with a smile.
“Nice to meet you,” she said in her sweet, little voice.
“Preston had to take his car in for service and it won’t be ready for another hour so we thought we’d hang out here while we wait,” John explained.
“Want a drink?” Stacy asked the guys, “Coke, Diet Coke?”
“I’m good, honey,” answered John.
Preston responded, “I’ll have a Coke if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll have
you
!” I felt like saying. But I didn’t. I just sat there dazed.
Stacy headed into the house to get the drink while John went to swing the three kids on the tire swing.
“So, how do you know Stacy?” Preston asked me.
“Our kids go to the same camp,” I answered.
“I see,” he nodded.
His big brown eyes were haunting, almost, and his dark skin seemed so soft and perfect, not to mention the six pack abs I knew without a doubt were hiding under his white business shirt and tie. I had a strong desire at this moment to rip off his clothes right then and there and put my hands all over his chest. ‘What was happening to me?’ I wondered. For so long, not one thought of sex. Now I was bursting with sexual energy.
Just as Stacy came out with the Coke, Izzie came over to me and sat on my lap. “Mom,” she said, “I’m thirsty.”
“I have apple juice in the fridge,” Stacy answered, “Let me go get it.”
“Don’t be silly,” I said, lifting my daughter off my lap and standing up, “I’ll go.” Then I headed into the house to get the drink, holding my stomach in so tight that it was actually painful.
Once in the kitchen, I opened the refrigerator door and got a very annoying surprise. The big plastic container of apple juice practically jumped out at me and fell out onto the floor. It was obvious that one of the kids had put it in the fridge just halfway onto the shelf.
I quickly grabbed a roll of paper towels that was lying on the counter and then got on my knees and began to clean up the spill. As I was wiping up the puddle I heard the screen door open and figured it was Stacy. I was very wrong.
“What happened?” I heard Preston ask me with a chuckle.
I was both frightened and electrifyingly excited when I looked up and saw him standing over me. My heart began to pound literally outside my chest. “Oh, it’s fine,” I managed with a nervous smile, “Just a little spill.”
Mr. Major Christian Person then did something I couldn’t believe. He got down on his knees beside me. “Let me help you,” he said softly, taking the paper towel roll out of my hand. He never took his eyes off of mine. Slowly he began to wipe the wood floor.
“Thanks,” I said. Then I had to look away. This was just too much for me. I was afraid he could see right through me, and see how much I wanted him to grab me, take me to a bed (any bed) and throw me down on it.
“No problem,” he smiled.
“So, you work with John?” I asked in an attempt to make casual conversation.
“Yup.”
“I see.” Now I was looking at the floor, feeling majorly self-conscious due to the fact I was in a bathing suit on my knees.
“Can I say something to you?” Preston asked.
I stopped cleaning and looked up at him. “Okay.”
“I know this sounds really strange, and don’t think I’m a complete weirdo or anything, but I’d love to see you naked,” he said with a shy grin.
My gut reaction to this unbelievable statement was to burst out laughing.
“I’m being completely serious,” he went on, “I’ve never said that to anyone before, I swear to God.” Now he was almost stuttering, as if he just realized he may have crossed the line and regretted his bombshell declaration. “You’re just really, really pretty, and there’s something about you… Oh, God, I’m really sorry. You must be offended.” He put his head down and continued cleaning up.
“What about my husband?” I asked him, “Don’t you care about him?”
“Actually, I asked John what your deal was before I came in here. He told me you’re single.”
“So you think because I’m not married, you can just come in here and tell me you want to see me naked and I’m going to sleep with you?”
“No, not at all. Actually, I’d like to go out with you. On a date.”
“Why?”
“Why wouldn’t I? You’re hot,” he grinned.
I just sat there, unable to speak.
“So, are you offended?” he asked.
“Actually, if you want to know the truth, I think you’re genuine.”
“I’m usually not this blunt.”