knew I'd be in trouble. If I looked like I cared, it would have piqued her interest. If I didn't, it was open season.
“Why?” I asked casually, taking the turquoise beads off. He didn't look like a dork to me. Far from it.
“He was wearing Guccis.” What was he supposed to wear? Hiking boots, or Nikes? The Guccis had looked fine to me, so had the blue shirt and white jeans. I thought he looked cool, clean, and sexy. That was good enough for me.
“He's a creep, Mom. He's just taking you out to use you.” It was an interesting observation. But he had paid the check, so if he intended to “use” me, I hadn't noticed. And if he had other means of using me in mind, I wasn't entirely opposed to that prospect.
“He just took me to dinner, Char, he didn't ask for my tax returns. How can you be so cynical at your age?” Had I taught her that? Listening to her made me feel guilty. Maybe I had spoken a little too freely about Roger. But then again, he deserved it. So far, Peter didn't. But this was only the initial skirmish.
“Is he gay?” Sam asked with interest. He had just learned the word, and a rather broad sense of its meaning, and used it at every opportunity, but I assured him I didn't think so.
“He might be,” Charlotte offered helpfully. “Maybe that's why his wife left him.” It was like listening to my mother.
“How do you know she did?” I asked, clearly on the defensive.
“Did he leave her?” she asked, looking outraged, the defender of wronged womanhood, Joan of Arc with a Dr Pepper in lieu of saber.
“I have no idea who left who, and I don't think it's any of our business. And by the way,” I said, feigning an ease I was far from feeling, “we're playing tennis with him tomorrow.”
“What?” Charlotte shrieked at me as I tucked Sam and the dog in, and she followed me into my bedroom, where I'd almost forgotten she was still sleeping with me. “I hate tennis!”
“You do not. You played all day yesterday.” My point. But only for an instant. She was quicker.
“That was different. That was with kids. Mom, he's ancient, he'll probably have a heart attack and die on the court.” She sounded hopeful.
“I don't think so. He looks like he might last through a couple of sets anyway. We'll go easy on him.”
“I'm not going.” She threw herself on my bed and glared at me, and I thought about strangling her, stopped only by my deep phobia about prison.
“We'll talk about it in the morning,” I said coolly, walked into my bathroom, and closed the door. And as I stood there, I looked in the mirror. What was I doing? Who was this man? And why did I care if my children liked him? Two dates with him, and I was already trying to sell him to Sam and Charlotte. All the danger signs were there. This had all the earmarks of a truly frightening story. Maybe she was, right. Maybe I should cancel in the morning. Besides, if my kids hated him, what point was there pursuing a romance with him anyway? A what? I squeezed my eyes shut and splashed cold water on my face to douse what I was thinking. I could already hear the lions in the Colosseum beginning to smack their lips, anticipating me for dinner.
I put a nightgown on, turned off the lights, and went to bed, and Charlotte was waiting for me. She waited until I was lying in bed in the dark, and she sounded like the child in The Exorcist when she asked the next question.
“You really like him, don't you?”
“I don't even know him.” I wanted to sound innocent, but even I could hear that I sounded lonely. But the truth was I had been. And she was right. I liked him.
“Then why are you forcing us to play tennis with a stranger?”
“Then don't play with him. Take a book. You can do your summer reading for school.” I knew that would get her, and it did. She harrumphed loudly at me, turned her back, and was asleep in five minutes.
And Peter was on the porch with his tennis racket, in white shorts and a T-shirt, at ten-fifteen the next morning. I pretended to ignore the fact that he had the best legs I'd ever seen. I wished mine were as good as