makes no sense.”
“Hey, it was a rough time. My thinking wasn’t entirely clear.”
I laughed and listened to Michael talk about going from photographing senators to selling vaccinations to testing soil. He could be serious as well, mentioning the tough years in Vietnam, and his marriage afterward to a woman named Honey.
“Her name was Honey?” I said, a wry tone to my voice.
Michael wouldn’t take the bait. “She was Southern. And a lovely woman.”
I was silent for a moment. I liked how he wouldn’t engage in the usual divorcé pastime of ex-bashing.
“What about you?” he asked.
“His name was Scott. It’s still pretty raw.”
“Want to talk about it?” Michael had a smooth, melodic voice, and now there was a kindness in his tone that touched me.
I told him I wasn’t quite ready. Not yet anyway. But I had a strange inkling that Michael might soon be someone I could talk to about anything.
When he asked me out, a week and a half after our first conversation, I said, “Took you long enough.”
“Yes, well. I’m not as good at this as I used to be. So, what do you say? I’m in town on Friday. I’d love to take you to dinner.”
“Great.” My voice went a little high despite myself. “That would be wonderful.”
He called a few days later to say he was on his way. It was a moment I’d been thinking about all week, and I was nervous. There were the usual first date jitters, but they were multiplied exponentially because I hadn’t dated since I ran into Scott at our high-school reunion five years ago. Also, I was anxious about the age difference. I had forgotten about it during our conversations, but soon he would be on my doorstep—a fifty-five-year-old man. I was drawn to him on the phone, but what about when I saw him? Could I be attracted to someone so much older?
I flitted around the house, trying to apply lip gloss while straightening the crap that had accumulated during my self-imposed seclusion. I scooped up stacks of newspapers and shoved them in the recycle bin. I pitched old iced-tea bottles and rinsed a couple of crusty plates sitting in the sink. I wished I’d had the sense to get a Christmas tree this week, or at the very least a wreath, something to cheer up the place. But maybe it was just me who saw the house as gloomy, a mere receptacle of what-could-have-been.
I darted into my bedroom, and stood still a moment, gazing at the bay window with its padded silk bench and olive-colored pillows, and at the corner bookshelf filled with mementos. Finally, I let my eyes move to the bed. I hadn’t made up the linens before work this morning, and I debated whether to do so now. Wasn’t making the bed akin to wearing brand-new, skimpy underwear on a date? Weren’t you jinxing yourself? I reminded myself that I didn’t actually want to sleep with Michael. The thought of having sex with someone new was mortifying. Yet I did want the date to go well. Was there some kind of bad karma in making the bed?
I decided I was being ridiculous and quickly pulled the sheets straight, yanked the comforter up and plumped the pillows. I hurried back to the kitchen and opened a bottle of Merlot. It was a good bottle that Scott and I had splurged on last year when we were trying to get over the third miscarriage. We never did drink the wine. We never did get over it.
As I took glasses from the cabinet, the doorbell rang. I froze for a second. No one—save the UPS man—had come to my door in a very long time. I glanced down at myself. Presentable enough—slim black pants, a cream silk blouse, ridiculously high heels. And I’d gotten my hair cut and highlighted. But what was I doing going on a date? My divorce wasn’t even final for three more weeks. I thought of the rumors around town that Scott was dating a twenty-five-year-old law student, someone young and fresh, someone who could probably give him the children he wanted. The thought put my feet into motion.
When I opened the door, I saw a slim man nearly six feet tall, wearing a camel-hair sport coat. He smiled, showing white teeth. A light snow had started, dropping flakes on his brown hair, which had only a few shots of gray at the temples. In his hands, he held a small copper pot covered in cellophane. Inside was a white and purple orchid.
“Kate,” he said, his voice stirring something inside me to life. “This is for you.”
He handed the orchid to me, then leaned forward and kissed me lightly on the cheek. His skin smelled warm, like he’d been in the sun, and it reminded me of getting off a plane in Florida after a long Chicago winter.
I’d lived in or around Chicago for most of my life, and yet Michael took me to a place I’d never been before. It was called Cucina Carrissima, and it was far west on Grand Avenue.
We got a parking spot in front, a bad omen to my mind. In Chicago, the enjoyment of a restaurant seemed inversely related to how far away you had to park. To me, walking a few blocks or more usually meant good food and service.
“How do you know this place?” I asked Michael. He opened my door and helped me from the car. Scott had never done such a thing.
“The owner is an old friend. In fact, he might invest in my restaurant.”
“So, I better be on good behavior?”
Michael grinned, his hand still light on my arm. “You don’t have to impress anyone, Kate. You’re already marvelous.”
I flushed deeply. In my recent existence, compliments were as rare as a solar eclipse.
The door was a black industrial thing, scarred and nicked. The hallway was dark with low-hanging ceilings, the kind you might see in a tenement house. But when we reached the end of the hall and Michael threw open the inside door for me, the world opened up. The space was small and looked like a moonlit courtyard. The ceiling was painted with vines and a half moon and decorated with strings of tiny lights. The tables were covered with crisp white linen. Spotless silverware and vases of vivid blue irises adorned the tables. Violin music twisted elegantly through the room.
A man in a black suit approached us. “ Benvenuto, Michael!” he said loudly.
He and Michael kissed on both cheeks. “Tomaso,” Michael said. “How are you?” Michael’s words seemed strangely overenunciated.
They exchanged a few words, and I noted the man had an odd way of speaking, as if he had something in his mouth, but then he was clearly Italian, so possibly it was a language thing.
Michael turned to me and introduced me as “A new but very dear friend.”
I smiled and shook Tomaso’s hand. “So nice to meet you.”
As I commented on the restaurant, Tomaso bent his head slightly, his eyes intent on my mouth, his face close to mine. I almost pulled back in surprise.
Tomaso caught my expression. “I am sorry,” he said. “I read lips.”
“Oh, you’re…” I stopped short of uttering the word deaf, afraid such a term might not be PC somehow.
Tomaso and Michael both broke into laughs. “I don’t hear so good,” Tomaso said. He pointed to his ears, making Michael laugh harder.
