myself smiling and taking a step backward, because although I had thought how lovely it would be if he turned out to be utterly gorgeous, I didn’t actually think he would be.
Those fantasies never come true. Except for today.
I turn to look at Sam, who is also gazing at this very masculine, handsome man who is walking toward us with a smile and an outstretched hand.
He is wearing shorts and a polo shirt, and he smells of soap, and clean, and he has perfect white teeth and dimples in his cheeks and short, tousled mousy hair that makes you want to reach up and ruffle it.
His shoulders are broad, his forearms strong. My hand in his makes me feel completely safe and looked after, and looking into those soft brown eyes I almost forget to speak.
“Cat,” I manage to get out, just as the back door opens again and a second man walks in, with an equally big smile, and I falter, because I must have got this wrong. It’s the other guy that’s the son, surely. This handsome one is some kind of ringer, it’s the friend, or the plumber. He looks like a plumber.
“Hi!” says the other guy with a wave. He looks nice, but nothing like the Greek god in front of me. “I’m Billy.”
“I’m Eddie,” says mine, and yes, I’m sorry, but I’ve already decided he’s mine.
“I’m Sam,” says Sam, shaking hands with both of them.
“So which one of you is Abigail’s son?”
Both burst out laughing. “I’m just here to help fix the grill,” says Billy. “Eddie’s a genius with wood but doesn’t know the first thing about gas.”
“Thanks, buddy.” Eddie lets out an easy laugh. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Only if you have a beer, which I know you don’t.” Billy grins. “Nice to meet you all.” He looks at us before heading for the door, as I close my eyes and offer a silent thank-you to the gods.
“Come outside,” he says. “We’re all set up out there, and you can meet Brad Pitt.”
* * *
I used to hate small talk. I would crease up with anxiety when I found myself standing with someone new at a cocktail party, ease the fears with a few glasses of something.
I don’t seem to do small talk anymore. I’m having a very hard time even remembering what it is. Something in me has shifted to the point where I know, very quickly, what the heart of the matter is, and it has brought extraordinary connections into my life.
I think it is because I am now so used to sharing in meetings, and being brutally honest, out of habit I find myself doing the same thing in, well, civilian life. I’m seeing a difference in how people are around me. It’s as if me revealing my true self, flaws and all, allows people to drop their guard, to feel safe enough to reveal their true selves to me in turn.
It’s not unusual anymore for me that when I go to a party—not that I go to a tremendous amount of parties, but when I do go—I walk into a room full of strangers and walk out with a room full of friends, and not just superficial ones, but people who have bared their souls in a very short space of time. I don’t necessarily ever even see them again, but we have bonded, have connected in a very real way by letting down our guards.
So it is tonight. We all instantly connect, have real conversations, and all of us are high on the excitement of finding each other. Sam is completely enthralled by Eddie. Who wouldn’t be enthralled by Eddie? How is it possible, in fact, that Eddie hasn’t been snapped up by some great woman?
Forty-two and still single. Forty-two and never been married. There must be something wrong with him, I think. Who gets to be forty-two and unmarried unless there’s a serious problem?
I think of Alex, a television producer I met years ago when I was at the Daily Gazette. I did a piece on one of his shows, and we became friends, and he’s still, often, my unofficial “walker” when I need a date.
We both must have been around thirty when we first met. He was incredibly handsome, and funny. Oh my God, Alex used to make me laugh more than anyone else I’d ever met. I have absolutely no idea why I never fancied him, because he should have been my type completely, but