Better Off Without Him (18 page)

Peter laughed. He had very white teeth. “Pretty much. It’s a very big small town in the summer. Everybody knows what’s going on, especially with the long-timers, like you. Never liked Brian, by the way.”

“It seems that nobody did.” I started fishing around in my purse for my keys. “Well, thanks for helping out, Peter. I’m sure Jack will appreciate it in the morning.”

“Hey, no problem. Busy Saturday?”

I jerked my head up. “Me? Busy? I don’t think so. Why?”

He shrugged. “I had a cancellation. They paid in advance, and because of the contract, they lost all their money, so I’ve got a free boat this weekend. We could do a little sailing, maybe have dinner out in the bay. What do you think?”

He met the criteria. I knew him. Not as well as I knew Doug, but much better than I had known Jack. He looked sober. And sexy. “You won’t be drinking, will you?”

He looked shocked. “I never touch the stuff on the water. Never.”

“Then I think it sounds great.”

“Okay. Meet me at the marina around three. Slip 43. The weather’s supposed to be perfect.”

“Okay. See you then.”

Another date. I had another date. Jack had proven to be a disaster, but with a guy like Peter, what could go wrong?

The next morning, I had coffee with Scott and Steve. Their kitchen was very 1955. White enamel and chrome cabinets. The table had a red Formica top and red leatherette chairs. Every time I sat down, I expected Donna Reed to serve the coffee. Steve had made oatmeal scones with dried cranberries, and I was trying to take tiny bites instead of shoving the entire thing into my mouth.

I had been telling them about my evening with Jack. They remained silent throughout, except for Scott, who kept sniggering. “And then he threw up.” I reached for a second scone. “I considered that officially to be the end of the date.”

Steve reached across the table to squeeze my hand. “I’m so sorry, Mona. But Jack is a drunk. And a total pothead. Didn’t you know that?”

I stared. “He is? No, I didn’t know that. Why would I know that?”

Scott was brushing imaginary crumbs from the table. “Everybody knows that,” he muttered.

“I didn’t. And you guys couldn’t warn me?”

Steve sighed deeply. “Everybody knows, we thought you did, too.”

“Then why would I go out with him?”

“As an act of kindness?” Scott suggested. “After all, you’re still practicing, right?”

“Maybe I am, but really, guys, you should have at least given me a heads up.” I munched some more scone. “So, what can you tell me about Peter Gundersen?”

Scott lit up. “Very Nordic.”

Steve smirked. “Yes, very.”

“Is he a drunk? A druggie?”

Steve looked thoughtful. “No, not that I’ve heard. He’s very successful with his charter business. Takes the boats down to the Florida Keys every winter, goes after shark or something.”

Scott smiled dreamily. “I love a man with a really long pole.”

I snorted. “You are disgusting. Steve, where did you get this recipe? I may live on these for the rest of my life.” I found my fingers hovering over scone number three, and had to force them back onto my lap.

“Off the Web. I’ll give it to you,” Steve said. “What does Doug think of your, um, branching out?”

I shrugged. “He seems to think he’ll save a bunch of money on wining and dining, and still score big. Which is true. After I came home last night, I felt so depressed I jumped him behind Scoops Away. Got ice cream all over my, well, everything.”

Steve squeezed my hand again. “Well, good luck with Peter.”

I sighed and looked longingly at the remaining scones. “Thanks.”

To: Mona

From: Anthony

Date: July 14

Subject: Playing catch-up

Mona – a few things that keep slipping my mind – Ben keeps asking about you. Particularly about when you’re getting a divorce, and when you’re back from the shore, and if you’ve decided to start dating. Of course, I haven’t said a thing to him about your sexual exploits, but I did tell him the divorce has been fast-tracked. Is something going on here that you’re not telling me? I know he always spent way too much time here to just be fiddling with pipes. Also, Lily wanted three more kittens I said NO. Ben can keep Lily in line, but she ignores me as much as possible. Can you tell her no more kittens? I’d hate to have you come home to a swarm. Love to my girls – Anthony

To: Aunt Lily

From: Mona

Date: July 14

Subject: Kittens

Dear Aunt Lily. The girls say hello. The weather here is fine. Anthony says you want to get more kittens. Please don’t do that. I’m begging you. I think that the three cats we have now are more than enough. When you decide to get your own place again, of course it won’t matter, but I don’t want any more pets in my house. Please. I mean it. I’ve asked Anthony to keep an eye on things. I know that you are more than capable of taking care of yourself, but I’d feel so much better knowing that someone is keeping tabs on things, just in case of an emergency. So please be nice to Anthony if he stops by the house to say hello. He’s doing it as a favor to me. And no more cats. At all. Thank you. Love, Mona

To: Anthony

From: Mona

Date: July 15

Subject: Aunt Lily

Dear Anthony - If you want a tremendous raise, just do the paperwork yourself, but can you please look in on Aunt Lily? I know it’s asking a lot, but I told her you’d be doing it as a favor to me, and asked her to be nice. I also told her no more cats. I was very clear on that point. As for Ben, you’re being silly. Ben, besides from being the best-looking plumber in the world, is also one of the nicest people period. But he has no interest in me other than as an inexhaustible source of work. I’m sure his main concern as to my marital status is whether or not I’ll be able to afford him if I’m my sole source of income. Talk to you soon, Mona

To: Mona

From: Anthony

Date: July 15

Subject: Lily

I plan on buying a small island off Antigua with the raise I just gave myself. I stopped in with perfectly good tuna sandwiches and iced tea to have lunch with Lily, and she hustled me right out of the house to go to a class at the YMCA. Now, I don’t want to alarm you too much, but when she first arrived here back in April, she had no objections to having lunch with me. In fact, a few times it was her own idea. Now she treats me like an IRS investigator. I don’t know if she resents the fact that I am now the designated babysitter, or she’s just becoming paranoid and delusional. Ben says she treats him just fine, but, well, that’s Ben. Who has shown up wearing shorts a few times and I almost had a heart attack. Who still asks for you all the time. I’m telling you, he’s got an eye on you, babycakes. Play your cards right and you’ll be sharing your new Jacuzzi tub with the best legs in New Jersey. In the mean time, have fun with your fishing captain. Love you – Anthony

On Friday, I got a very fat manila envelope from David West. It was my divorce agreement, his version of it anyway. He sent long detailed list of all assets and debts, and beside each item was an MQ or BB. At the end of several pages was a line that read something about miscellaneous household items already determined. I assumed David was referring to the garage filled with Brian’s stuff that he had not come by to collect. It was a very sad document, neatly dividing twenty years of living and loving into what boiled down to two big piles. I read it three times before signing the bottom. Now, it had to go to Brian’s lawyers, who would pick it apart and come up with what I’d like to think of as a reasonable counter-offer, although David seemed to think there might be a bit if a fight. I called Doug, who sent his boys to the movies, made a pitcher of Mojitos, and suggested we get naked. He was very sweet about everything, because instead of having wild sex, I ended up crying all over his sheets and he kept handing me tissues.

“Can I get you some water?”

I shook my head.

“How about food? Maybe if you ate something, you’d feel better.”

“I’d feel better if my husband wasn’t so eager to get rid of me that he’d agree to give me all the IBM stock.”

“Brian is an idiot, remember?”

“Yes, I know. This is your fault. You got me drunk.”

“It’s worked in the past.”

“True. But I think tonight is a bust.”

He gave me a hug and kissed my sticky cheek. “I’m not worried. After a sail on the bay and a sunset dinner, I expect you’ll be easy pickings tomorrow night.”

Miranda, after hearing that her candidate Jack had thrown up in a public place, had declared she was out of the matchmaking business for the rest of the summer, and that all future dates would be my responsibility. She did want to be kept in the loop, however, and thought Peter was ideal. In fact, she was in love with the idea of his owning what she kept referring to as “a fleet of ships”, and wanted me to wear white bell bottoms and a blue-and-white-striped shirt, a la Marlene Dietrich.

I was thinking that Peter was ideal as well, because after parking my car at the marina and following the dock to slip 43, I found myself staring at a sleek yacht, not at all like the fishing boat Brian had rented. This baby looked like it could mosey around the French Riviera and feel right at home.

“Hello,” I yelled, then remembered Gilligan’s Island. “Ahoy. Permission to come aboard?”

Peter bounded onto the deck. “Permission granted. Let me show you around.”

It was a beautiful boat. Not very big, but defiantly rich. It had a small but beautifully decorated cabin with tiny stainless steel appliances in the galley and a flat screen television in the living room. He invited me up to the pilothouse where I sat as he smoothly took the boat out of the marina. He talked at length about horsepower and knots per hour, but I was so impressed with the white leather deck chairs, I was hardly paying attention. It seemed to be a rather large boat for just one person, but he explained that there were no sails involved, and that with all the computer equipment aboard, he could handle it all himself. Then he suggested some champagne.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” I said.

He flashed a smile. “Not for me, Mona. For you. Go below and check out the fridge.”

I went back down below and checked everything out, including the bathroom – tiled with a walk-in shower – and the bedroom. The bedroom was one very large bed with a satin comforter and barely enough room to walk around it. I headed back to the galley and took champagne out of the baby fridge, as well as a platter of cheese and crackers, and a champagne flute made of pink acrylic.

I brought everything topside, Peter opened the bottle, poured me a glass, and snagged a piece of cheese for himself before returning to the wide bank of dials and knobs that I guessed ran the whole boat.

I took a sip. It was lovely, cold and fizzy and slightly sweet. I was stretched out on a deck chair, having kicked off my sandals, and closed my eyes against the afternoon sun. “This is great” I said loudly. The noise of the engine was loud. Peter, looking over his shoulder at me, suddenly reached down, cut off the engine, and stepped away from the steering wheel. He sat next to me on a second deck chair.

“What were you saying?” he asked.

“I was saying this was great. Shouldn’t you be driving or something?”

He shook his head. “No. We’re not in the regular travel lanes, so we shouldn’t have to deal with lots of traffic.” We had only been cruising along for about twenty minutes, but as I looked around I was surprised to find myself surrounded by nothing but sea. There was no shoreline, no buoys, no passing ocean liners.

“I thought we were going to stay in the bay,” I said.

He shrugged. “Why should we?”

Good question. The answer was that I felt very nervous and alone out here in the middle of the ocean with just him, but I didn’t think I should tell him that, so I just smiled and drank more champagne.

“So, some people cancelled?” I asked him.

He nodded. “Yes. German tourists, eight of them. They sounded like a rowdy group, so it’s just as well.”

“Does that happen much?”

He shrugged. “No. But I make sure the contract calls for money up front, so when it does happen, I’m covered.”

I swirled champagne. “This is a much nicer boat that the one Brian usually rented.”

“Yes. Everything is top of the line. It took me over a year to get it. Special order.”

I was kind of waiting for him to maybe ask me a question, or talk about something other than himself or his boat, but so far, no luck. “How many boats do you own?”

“Three.” He ate some more cheese. “Want to go swimming?”

I looked at him, surprised. “I didn’t bring a suit.”

He grinned. “So? We’re alone out here. Just strip down and dive in.”

Uh-oh. “No, thanks.”

“Mind if I go in?” he asked, suddenly standing up.

“Not at all.”

He was wearing blue and white floral swim trunks and a short-sleeved denim shirt. He grinned down at me again and pulled his shirt over his head. He had a very nice back, well-muscled and tan. Then he reached down and pulled off his swim trunks. He stepped out of them, turned to give me a little wave, and dove off the edge of the boat.

I was shocked, of course. But not that shocked. I was suddenly aware that I didn’t find red pubic hair very attractive. I noticed that he had a great butt with no tan line, so he must have spent a great deal of time trunk-less. He was also hung like a horse.

This was interesting. Here I was, in the middle of the ocean, with a man who had no apparent personal interest in me. He did, however, have nudity issues. I drank some more champagne.

Two years ago, when Peter and I had spent an afternoon together in a much smaller pilothouse, we had laughed and traded wisecracks about his passengers, my husband and his band of wanna-be sport fisherman types. Peter and I were united against the equivalent of a common enemy, so of course we felt connected. But now, today, alone with nothing in common but the open ocean, we were total strangers. One of us was drinking champagne, one of us liked to swim in the nude. One of us could travel around the world by the stars in the heavens, and one of us needed a GPS to find north. One of us probably ate whale meat in a previous life, and one of us didn’t know a damn thing about boats.