Every Other Saturday (8 page)

Her thoughts went next to the store. Only two people had returned her calls on overdue credit accounts: one to say she was calling the wrong number, the other to inform her that a long-standing but infrequent customer had died suddenly, leaving a pile of bills behind and no money to pay them. When she tried to clear her head of this thought, she was annoyed to find herself considering whether Dave Bernstein was cute, and wondering how his first date was going.

“Pretty intense about the floral arrangements, aren’t ya?” The deep voice with a soft Irish accent startled her out of her reverie. She turned to see Caroline’s bartender—oh God, what was his name?—dressed in a crisp white shirt and black vest, holding two cases of wine. He had thick red hair with blonde streaks and curls that any woman would envy, short on the sides and carefully sculpted in a pompadour style on top of his head. His freckled forearms flexed under the strain of the boxes.

“Oh, sorry,” she said quickly. “I was just…thinking.”

“Dangerous activity around here.” He grinned. “Caroline wants you at the prep area when you’re done out here.”

“Okay,” Julia said, still trying to think of his name. It was an
S
name; she was sure of that. “Do you need a hand?”

He laughed. “Thanks darlin’ but if I can’t manage a couple of wine boxes at the beginning of the night, I need to find a new place.”

He turned and wove his way out between the round, linen-draped tables. Julia followed him. “How long have you been working for Caroline?”

“You mean ‘with Caroline’? None of us work
for
her. She’s insistent.”

Julia allowed a soft phhhbt to escape her lips and then corrected it with a cough. Caroline would not be thrilled if Julia fostered mutiny her first night here. She really must try harder to show her gratitude. Caroline was making it possible for her to pay her bills, after all.

“It’s been two and a half years,” he was saying. Not Seamus...
Sean
. Definitely Sean. “I came on before wedding season three years ago. Now
that
was an eye-opener.”

“I imagine it gets pretty crazy,” Julia said.

“Busy-crazy I can handle. I tended bar at Trinity College in Dublin.” They were out of the reception tent now, and he raised an auburn eyebrow at her as she jog-stepped to keep up with him.

I should have worn more comfortable shoes
. She curled her toes in a vain attempt to hold her shoes on and preserve her wobbly ankles on the rocky ground.

“But American weddings? It’s a whole different brand of crazy. Fifty-year-old women having catfights on the dance floor. Groomsmen getting completely locked and falling into the wedding cake. More drama than
Real Housewives
.”

“Sounds…entertaining,” she said uncertainly. Truthfully, none of this sounded entertaining in the least. Cute (young) guy and sexy accent aside, Julia wanted to be at home, eating popcorn and watching Disney movies with her kids, not wobbling around on feet that would be bloody stumps by the end of the night, trying to keep the mothers of the bride and groom from tearing each other apart. They passed by the bar area now, and Sean hefted the boxes onto a side table with practiced ease.

“Sometimes. Mostly it’s boring as hell. Get ready to hear some terrible wedding toasts; those are my favorite part. We do bets on what the best man and maid of honor are going to say. Everyone gets a phrase and puts in a quid—sorry, dollar—if someone says your phrase during the toast, you get a share of the ante.”

“What’s your phrase?”

“Mine is ‘like a brother.’ Best men are always saying the groom is like their brother.”

Julia tried to remember the speeches from her own wedding, but considering Adam’s best man actually was his brother, this probably wouldn’t have come up. Was it weird that she remembered so little from that day?

“I’m not a fan of gambling.” The dollars she took home tonight would be hard enough earned; the last thing she wanted was to lose even one because of the speeches. “I always lose.”

“You should go with historical references,” Sean said. “It’s up for grabs and it’s decent odds.”

“The what?”

“The history of weddings, this day in history, the historical role of the best man or the maid of honor, any historical reference.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Another good one is for the groom to pretend he can’t read his wife’s handwriting. That one works for the vows and the speeches.”

“I’m going to hate weddings before I’m done with this, aren’t I?”

Sean laughed. “It can be pretty spectacular,” he said, hands on his hips. He nodded at the covered tent about thirty feet away, where the prep area was tastefully hidden away behind nondescript ivory canvas. “Don’t be late. Your sister is a hard woman.”

“Right. Thanks,” she said, aware that her natural inclination was to mimic his accent, and hoping it wasn’t coming across.

“Good luck.” Sean winked at her.

She tried to make her excruciating hobble as graceful as possible until she was out of sight.

# # #

Dave pulled into the parking lot of Suds and Strokes—a combination sports bar and driving range in the far-flung suburbs—at a little after 7:30. His first date, Lena Herschel, known on J-Date as Mink182, had chosen the location. Dave figured letting his dates pick the meeting spot would make them more comfortable and take some of the pressure off him to come up with eighteen separately awesome experiences. He glanced in the truck’s rearview mirror and checked his teeth one last time, and then headed in, wondering for the millionth time what the hell he had gotten himself into.

He recognized Lena immediately from her profile picture. She stood at the bar: tall and thin, with ebony hair pulled into a bun on top of her head. She wore a sleeveless top in shimmering turquoise and crisp white jeans with heels: a little dressy for this bar, but cute. She reminded him of Betty Rubble, and he decided that would be her pseudonym on the blog.

“So nice to meet you, Dave.” She air-kissed his cheek. She waved an arm covered in bangles at the hostess, who approached with menus. As they followed her to a booth near a big screen showing an old Masters tournament, Lena asked, “Have you been here before?”

“When they first opened a couple of years ago.” He gestured her into the booth before sitting across from her. “We did a SportsZone thing on a Saturday morning. You?”

She shook her head. “I live in Midtown, so this is a bit of a drive for me. I just thought it sounded sort of fun and unique.”

“Are you a golfer?”

“Not really. Well, I’ve never tried. So I guess we’ll find out! If you want?”

“Sure. I’m always up for hitting a few.” Dave scanned the menu, trying to decide what kind of sports bar food you ordered on a first date. Maybe a club sandwich, hold the bacon? Would it bother her that he ate the cheese and meat together? He tried to remember what her J-Date profile said about keeping kosher.

Before he could ask, Lena tapped three manicured fingers—the same shade as her blouse—on the top of his menu. “Do you like Buffalo wings? Want to share some, maybe?”

This surprised him a little. Maybe he was judging too quickly, but she didn’t seem like a wing kind of girl. “Sure, I can be up for that. How do you like them?”

“Oh, definitely. I love them.”

“No, I mean hot, medium, mild…”

She wrinkled her nose. “Oh. Um, mild, I guess? What do you usually get?”

“Mild is great,” he said. The super-hot wings made him sweat like a leaky hose anyway.

When the waitress came, he ordered another drink for Lena and a Blue Moon for himself, along with a dozen mild wings with extra celery. They made small talk about where they’d grown up and their families, and her job as a management consultant.

“So I guess you travel a lot?” he asked as the waitress deposited the basket of wings between them. He pushed the basket toward Lena, and she picked out a small drumstick with her fork, put it on the little white plate in front of her, and began to cut it daintily with her knife.

In what had to be at least a thousand meals in sports bars, Dave had never seen anyone eat a chicken wing with a knife and fork. What was the etiquette here? Was it rude for him to just eat them the normal way now? He was so confused that he missed part of her answer to the travel question and had to force himself to tune back in. “So it’s about three times a month, but only for the first half of the week. Mostly I’m on the Eastern seaboard now, so that helps. What about you?”

Screw it. Dave picked up a wing with his fingers. “I don’t travel much now, except for the occasional special event. When I was a stats guy, I traveled a lot during football season, but that was before my daughter was born.”

“It’s so great that you’re a dad,” Lena said. “Kids are fun.”

“You don’t have any, right?”

Lena shook her head. “No, I’m too focused on my career. But I have two nieces I love, and I’d be a great stepmom.”

Dave almost choked on the wing and took a quick sip of beer to cover his reaction. Lena realized what she’d said, though, and tried desperately to backpedal. “Not that I’m saying I should be a stepmom for your little girl or anything. I’m not against it, of course, but that’s not what I was thinking. Obviously, it’s too soon to talk about
that
.”

“Maybe after dinner, at least,” Dave said.

“Right. We’ll save the serious stuff for the golfing range.”

“Driving range,” he said.

“Right,” Lena repeated with determination. “Driving range.”

Half an hour later, they were three balls into the bucket Dave had bought, when he began to wonder at what point it was socially acceptable to suggest they quit and find something else to do. Lena, apparently, had not touched a golf club of any sort since she’d played mini golf with some girlfriends a few years before. As she teetered on high heels with her cumbersome bracelets banging against the grip and arms vibrating with the impact of the driver on the ground, she seemed surprised that the mini golf experience had not translated to the driving range.

“I just thought golf was golf,” she said. “I’m sure I could learn if I had lessons. Or you could teach me.” Her bottom lip poked out flirtatiously.

Dave knew what this signal meant: it was an invitation to put his arms around her and ostensibly teach her to swing a club while pressed up against her. With her heels, though, she topped him by at least three inches and had long arms. He didn’t think an up-close lesson was going to have the desired effect on either her swing or any potential romance. “I’m actually not a terrific golfer myself.”

“You’re better than I am.” She pouted.

Dave sighed. It was clear Lena had envisioned this as the next step in their evening, and he was beginning to sound rude by refusing. “Okay. But you have to take off your shoes. And those damn bracelets.”

She giggled, a sound that didn’t seem natural to her refined manner, and did as he asked. He positioned himself behind her and showed her how to grip the club. “Now, don’t hit your feet. That will hurt like hell while you’re barefoot.”

Lena laughed at that, too, tossing her head backward so that it rested against his shoulder. He guided her swing until it connected with the ball, the two of them sending the ball about sixty yards onto the lighted green. “Wow!” she said. Her delight seemed genuine, and Dave smiled, too.

“Want to try another?” He put a ball down and stood behind her again. This time as he positioned her hands on the club, she pushed her ass against him, wiggling playfully. He felt his body respond, growing hard against the movement. He wasn’t attracted to her, exactly, but damn. He was human, and anyone could get a rise out of him rubbing like that.

“Whoa, there. Easy,” he said. Like she was a restless horse. He was bad at this.

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about,” Lena said, her tone playful. He hit the ball as quickly as possible so he could back away, desperately sending un-sexy thoughts down to his second brain. Quarterback stats. HTML code. Bubbe’s toenail fungus.

“You’re a great teacher,” Lena said. “I’m totally getting the hang of this.”

“Yep,” Dave said, a little squeak in his voice. “I think you’re ready to hit some on your own.”

# # #

By eleven thirty, they had hit through the balls, taken a walk along a weird little sidewalk that went nowhere, and returned to the parking lot. The conversation had more or less died by then, and Dave had to repress a sigh of relief when Lena led him to her car rather than suggesting another drink.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like her. She was attractive and funny and confident. But something about the evening had felt…orchestrated, somehow. Like she’d seen
Tin Cup
and thought, “Let’s make
that
happen.”

“So, good night.” Lena leaned against the driver’s door, tilting her face toward him.

He kissed her pointedly on the cheek instead of the lips. “Good night, Lena. Thanks for being my first J-Date. It was nice to meet you.”

“I tried to be gentle since it was your first time,” she teased. “I’m looking forward to reading your blog.”

“About that. Can I ask you? If this date were all about you, like if I were going to take you out again and surprise you with something you love to do, what would that look like?”

Lena looked surprised, and then smiled. “You’re not dropping hints about January, are you?”

“Um. No.” He hoped he didn’t hurt her feelings by sounding so definitive. “I was just curious what you’re into. Because obviously it’s not golf and wings.”

She looked thoughtful. “I love music, actually. I used to get season tickets to the symphony every year until I started traveling so much. I quit playing the cello in high school and I always regretted that.”

“You should start playing again,” he said. “I bet you’re good.”

Lena sighed, muttering something about needing to make time for a hobby. She thanked him again for the evening and they said their goodbyes. He watched her drive away before climbing into his truck.

“Maybe it was me,” he said aloud as he pulled out of the parking lot onto the highway. “Maybe I shut her down too soon.”

Not that he hadn’t been tempted. When she’d rubbed up against him in those white jeans, Dave could have easily let the evening go a different way. He hadn’t had sex in months; it’s not like his body would need convincing. But something about it hadn’t felt right: maybe because it was their first date, or even just the first date of the experiment. Something about Lena’s behavior tonight had led him to the conclusion that her expectations would be higher than his. Whatever it was, most of him was convinced that he’d made the right decision.

He wove his way toward Julia’s house, and passed by the park where he and Max sometimes met to go jogging. He hadn’t been for a good run in weeks. He missed it, and, more acutely, he missed the conversation. Every time he’d seen Max lately, it had been with Lianne and the kids. Which was great, but he needed some guy time, too. In the last two weeks, Aaron had called him several times, but Dave had ignored the calls. He wasn’t ready for that, whatever it was.

For someone in a traditionally male industry, Dave often felt like he was swimming in estrogen. When he wasn’t arguing with Debbie, he was playing Pretty Pretty Princess or singing the
Frozen
soundtrack with Lyric. Now he had to prepare himself for seventeen more Saturdays of women asking him the same getting-to-know you questions, while they cut chicken wings with a knife or grinded against his crotch. Not to mention the new complication waiting for him right now: Julia Mendel. Bossy, intriguing, emotionally damaged Julia.

Suddenly, the thought of facing another woman’s scrutinizing eye was too much for him. Dave turned the truck abruptly around, heading back to the entrance to the park. It was closed for the night, but he parked by the locked gate anyway. There was a slightly smelly pair of shorts in the gym bag on the passenger floorboard, along with his running shoes. He put these on quickly and stripped off the Oxford shirt before locking the truck and jumping the fence.

It was half a mile around the playing fields and through a small wooded area back to the gate. After three laps, his chest began to loosen. He punched the air as he ran, trying to exert more energy and clear his mind of all female-related thoughts. By the time he emerged from the woods on the fifth lap, he felt better. Until he saw the flashing blue lights next to his truck.

“Fuck.” He panted. He forced himself not to speed up or slow down, but followed the path just as he had been, making as much noise as possible so he wouldn’t take the cops by surprise. Being shot while jogging in the middle of the night was not how he planned to die.

“Sir, is this your vehicle?” a deep voice asked when he was a few yards away.

“Yes, sir,” Dave said.

“You understand the park is closed? It’s clearly posted.”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

He could see the officer now, a man about ten years older than Dave with a gray mustache and a blue county police uniform. “You want to explain what you’re doing in a closed park after sundown, with your vehicle illegally parked?”

Dave thought simple answers were the best in this kind of situation. “I was jogging.”

“Jogging? Have you been drinking tonight?”

“No, sir. Well, yes. I had a couple of beers but that was hours ago.”

The man squinted, appraising him. Maybe deciding whether to give him a breathalyzer. Dave stepped closer, into the light of the streetlamp. He could see the officer’s face change. “Don’t I know you?”

“Possibly. I’m Dave Bernstein. My ID is in the truck if you need it.”

The officer’s shoulders relaxed. “Yeah. Dave from the Cave, right?”

“That’s me.”

“Wow. I love your blog. Read it all the time.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate that.” He extended his hand over the gate; the officer shook it.

“Liked your dating video. Took a lot of balls. My wife and I got divorced seven years ago, and I still haven’t figured it out.”

Dave nodded. “My first date was tonight. I was just trying to clear my head and figure out what to write about. I’m sorry for jumping the fence.”

The officer looked down at the gate between them, then at Dave’s truck, and then back at Dave, closely. He seemed to make a decision. “Come on back over. I’ll let you off with a warning. Next time, you’ll have to wait for the park to open at seven, though.”