My Deja Vu Lover (30 page)

  
Besides sweaters for wives and girlfriends, I had fun measuring guys for clothing. What I knew in the first ten minutes and Elinor conceded a day later was that I could always sell clothing but lord, don’t ask me to explain bindings.

  
The job was the great escape during which I also met a couple of unattached males.

  
Newly divorced Stanley had tickets for a musical at the 5th Ave, a gorgeous old theater in downtown Seattle. Nice. A few drinks afterwards in a small club, okay. One drink too many, not so good.

  
He went from, “I don’t know why she left,” to “The bitch was only after my money.” Bitch? He called his ex a bitch to a new acquaintance and expected me to sympathize? Do guys have any idea what a turnoff that word is? Because as soon as a man calls a woman a bitch, I know the minute I say anything that displeases him, he’ll start calling me a bitch.

  
I told him I had a headache and had the bartender call me a cab. Didn’t give him time to get displeased.

  
So long, Stanley.

  
Remember me as the big-haired bitch in the black dress and killer heels who only went out with you because she wanted to go to the musical, sure, that should help you lick your wounds, bastard.

  
Hunky Harold looked like a better bet, bought ski cap and boots and everything in between. He was also sweet and courteous and took me to a fun bar and grill near the Seattle Center. We sat in a booth and ate fish and chips with our beer and listened to the buzz of a crowded place. He told me the history of every Sonics player. Cute.

  
Also pleasantly hunky with wavy hair and hazel eyes and the kind of suntan people only get on the ski slopes, deep and golden brown with a line of white around his eyes where his glare goggles fit.

  
“Do you go to other things at the Center?”
 
I asked.

  
“I’ve been to a couple of soccer games.”

  
“No, I mean like Bumbershoot? Bite of Seattle? New Year’s Eve fireworks? Playhouse?”

  
Drew a blank on every one so I guess not. I didn’t bother to ask about the ballet. Get real.

  
“I have season tickets to the Sonics,” he said.

  
I hadn’t been to a basketball game since high school and had forgotten the decibel level of the crowd. We were front and center, I am sure they were very expensive seats, but somehow Harold on one side and the guy on the other kind of took up all the room and I had to pull in my shoulders.

  
Not Harold’s fault, of course. And I could have got past that except that all during the game he continued to repeat every statistic he knew about every player, and damn, he knew a lot.

  
Afterwards we ended up in a sports bar at a table with four other exuberant guys, all hunks, and two bored women. We three females tried to interject every topic from politics to lightning storms.

  
Each time the guys paused, looked at us, then resumed discussing player statistics.

  
On the drive home, I learned even more, or maybe he was repeating the same statistics. Who knew? When he dropped me off at my front door, instead of asking if he could come in, he said, “How about tomorrow night? You free?”

  
“What about tomorrow night?” I asked, still brain numb from way too much info.

  
“The game. I have season tickets, April. We can go every night the Sonics are in town.”

  
Wake up, brain, think. “I’m sorry, promised to babysit my nephew tomorrow night.”

  
“Really? Sorry about that. Tell you what, I’ll phone tomorrow, in case you can cancel it.”

  
“Uh huh,” I said and opened the door and stumbled into the lobby. He was already halfway down the walk. Polite can be an invitation and I know that but still. I called, “Thanks, Harold, I had a great time.”

  
He turned and smiled and waved and I closed the door quickly.

  
“So what’s he like?” Cyd asked me later.

  
“Cute, polite, single. And I think I know why.”
 

  
When he said he’d call, he meant it. He phoned every night for the next four nights, started right in talking basketball, explained the history of every player to me while I tucked the phone in my pocket and went on with whatever I was doing.

  
When I heard that faint sound of distant voice stop, I pulled out the phone and tried to talk about something else. Each time we landed right back in basketball statistics. Was this how Tommy felt when Sandra kept leaving messages?

  
Okay, unlike Sandra, Harold didn’t try to bond with my mother, lotsa luck because she’s living someplace in Jersey now. Also, he wasn’t making wedding plans, hell, he hadn’t even asked if he could come inside when he brought me home.

  
Tom had spent a weekend with Sandra and I had only spent one evening with Harold. So the circumstances were different. But he had the potential to turn into a male version of Sandra.

  
I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. So the next time he phoned I invented a returned ex-boyfriend and a surprise engagement.

  
See, I can be kind to guys who remain polite. After a long pause Harold said, “Uh, oh. Hmm. Good luck. I hope this all works out for you, April.” And then, bless his heart, he added, “If it doesn’t, give me a call, okay?”

  
Guess I made some sort of impression.

  
The next week Elinor’s two clerks recovered and returned and she thanked me for all my help. I paid off a few bills.

  
It did not help my love life.

  
Why hadn’t one of my dates turned out to be amazing, someone worth pursuing?
 
Someone to make me forget Graham Berkold.

CHAPTER 33

  
Good me, good person, good intentions for the week I worked at the ski shop.

  
Busy all day and on my feet, I went home too exhausted to worry about much. Squeezing in a couple of dates took major effort. With the week at Elinor’s over, the obvious direction was to line up another job interview.
 

  
I thought about anything else at all. Which is why I thought about Graham. True to my good intentions, when he phoned to say he was back from Vegas and sorry he’d been tied up all the past week and hadn’t had a chance to phone me, I told him I was dating someone else.

  
“Is it serious?” he asked. Didn’t even sound surprised.

  
“Hard to say. Maybe.”

  
“Sounds like someone has come back into your life.”

  
I told him about the job at the ski shop. He laughed and asked me what I knew about skiing.

  
“Nothing.”

  
“That’s what I thought.”

  
I didn’t bother mentioning that what I primarily sold was sweaters.

  
“Met a nice man,” I said.

  
“At a ski shop? And have you told him you don’t ski?”

  
“I think he knew that when he asked about bindings and I didn’t know what the word meant.”

  
That chuckle twanged my heart strings. “You’re putting me on, right? Because I thought you and I had something special. And now you’re telling me we don’t.”

  
This had to be worded carefully. Or I would shoot myself in the foot. “Graham, you’re married. I know I ignored that. I know this is my fault. I know I need to stop seeing you.”

  
Which sounded reasonable to me but Graham took it as a challenge, I guess. He agreed pleasantly, apologized, hung up.

  
An hour later he phoned again.

  
“Getting over you isn’t that easy, darling,” he said. “You are constantly on my mind.”

  
I didn’t answer.

  
“Could we talk? Just talk? I miss you, April.”

  
“There’s nothing more to say.” My mind was made up but I guess I forgot to tell my heart.

  
“Are you crying? Darling, stay right there. I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”

  
He did and I was waiting for him, kidding myself that face to face I could break it off for good. During the drive out to the cottage he turned on the radio and found a good music station, which saved us both from talking. I’d been determined to get it over with, tell him I was through. I had a whole list of reasons.

  
And then there he was and he took my breath away just looking at him. When he pulled into the parking area above the cottage, he touched my shoulder, leaned across the console, kissed me. All my determination and resistance crumbled. He filled my mind.

  
I followed him down to the path and he turned several times to fold me in his arms, cover my mouth with long passionate kisses. He must have felt some resistance in me, though. At the front door I paused to look at the Sound and took a deep breath of the heady smell of saltwater.

  
He said, “You wait right here, enjoy the view.”

  
While I gazed out at the water, he went inside. A few minutes later he returned with a full wine glass in each hand.
         
 

  
The sky was breaking across the Sound, its dull cloud cover quilted with silver streaks. Standing on the porch steps of the cottage, our hands wrapped around our wine glasses, we breathed in the cold, clean sea air and avoided each other’s eyes. He was wearing his cream colored fisherman knit sweater. I loved him in that.

  
I didn’t ask Graham the obvious question, how was his trip to Vegas. Wherever he had been, I didn’t want to hear his version of it.

  
Instead I let him pick the topic and he picked his wife. Barbara Berkold was not a good choice but he didn’t know what I knew. Right. He hadn’t asked me what I’d been doing that weekend when he was in Vegas. He’d only asked about the week after, my week at Elinor’s shop.

  
“I don’t know what to do with my wife,” Graham said. “The doctor says she should be hospitalized but she wants to go to Mexico.”

  
“She’s really ill, then?” I forced myself to ask.

  
“She’s all but destroyed herself. The least infection and she’ll have no resistance.”

  
“Have you explained this to her?” With great effort I kept my voice steady.

  
Graham waved his hand toward the horizon, where the mountains were a blue-gray shadow beyond the dark islands. “Might as well talk to the wind. She’ll do what she chooses.”

  
“That must be hard for you.” I wanted to grab the front of his sweater, pound on his chest with my fist, scream at his face that he was such a liar. But how could I?
 
How could I do it without my heart breaking in a million pieces?