Tempted (43 page)

This is the first time David has ever lost someone he was close to
,
and he’s taking it extremely hard.
 
Ever since the funeral, he’s been drinking
more frequently
, and driving.
 
The combination is something I can’t abide by, and it’s caused more than one
argument at home, both when
blotto and sober.
 
He’s been staying out late again as well, and has adopted an ‘eat, drink
and
be merry for tomorrow you may die’ attitude.
 

As for me, I’ve been burying myself in work.
 
Now that Mom’s gone, interest in the show has slumped.
 
So, I’ve had to do some tap-dancing to keep my sponsors and fans happy.

Neither David nor I think much of how the other is handling the situation.
 
He tells me, “You can carpe diem and play workaholic all you want.
 
I’m gonna carpe me some noctem.”
 
And that’s exactly what he’s been doing
–
seizing the night, partying hard, doing anything he can so as not to have to face mortality.
 
I suspect, specifically, his own.

* * *

A few days after Mom’s funeral, I finally brace myself to go back onto Facebook.
 
I post a note about her passing, at the request of her friends, including information on donating to her favori
te cause in her name.
 
The well
wishes and words of wisdom are overwhelmingly heartfelt and insightful.
 
You never know how much of an impact someone has on others until they are gone
–
especially yourself.
 
More than ever, I am striving to be an agent of healing in the lives of my fans and callers.
 
What else are we here for if not to love one another?
 
Poor David, on the other hand, seems hell-bent on self-destruction. And what’s worse, I am at a loss as to how to help him.

As I work
my way through the mass of personal messages asking how I’m doing, I finally get to Alex’s.
 
I noticed he’d sent one and wanted to save it for last
–
using it as a sort of grand prize
for getting through the rest,
s
ince
I knew his would be beautiful and profound.
 
As such
,
I expected to dissolve into a puddle of tears, both for losing my mom and for losing him.

11:03am

Alexander Armstrong

My Dearest Claire,
 

I just learned from your status update that your mother has passed. And I know that there's little I can say or do to assuage your grief. I love you, though, and it crushes me that I can't be with you now, if only to quietly hold you while you grieve. Do you recall the day we met online? I knew instantaneously that you were extraordinary. I felt you, felt your warmth, felt your generosity, felt your gratitude, felt your strength and felt your joy. I knew, too, and just as immediately, that such obvious and genuine love must come from a place pure and divine. I won't presume to tell you what you already know. But I will say that I have no doubt your mother loved you deeply and was prouder of you than you could ever imagine. You and David gave her a happy and nurturing home environment in her senior years
–
full of love and laughter, pets and even poker.
 
Many people dream of this kind of family life.
 
Few are fortunate enough to actually live it.
 
So please, dry your tears. Or let them fall on me. I'd gratefully bear all of your sorrows if I could. I'm always here for you, love. And neither time nor distance will ever change that.

* * *

The next day I buy stock in Kleenex.
 
It seems the most sensible thing to do.

It’s a miracle!
 
David has quit drinking, altogether, just like that, and with no coercion!
 
The night I read Alex’s note about my mom, I was a wreck.
 
David didn’t know how to handle it and took off to go partying as a way of dealing with everything.
 
I still haven’t written back to Alex.
 
I want to.
 
But I literally don’t know what to say or even where to start.
 
My feelings for him have never diminished
,
and I am still j
ust as in awe of him as ever – a
ll the more reason I struggle knowing how to approach him now.
 
So much has been happening with David.
 
Although it’s been difficult, it’s brought us even closer together.
 
And I know that would make Mom happy.
 
Wow.
 
I can still feel her influence from beyond the pearly gates.

The morning after my Alex’s-consolation-note crying jag,
I waken to find David standing
next to my bed, clear-headed and sober.
 

“Claire, there’s something I want to tell you.”

“Sure Dahveed, you can tell me anything.
 
You know that.”

“Not now.
 
Tonight.
 
Let’s go to Masa’s.
 
It’s been forever since we did anything together in town.”

The word ‘together’ sends a chill up my neck.
 
I know of a certainty he’s been doing plenty in town, just not with me.

“There’s nothing I’d love more.
 
I can’t wait.”

“Good.
 
I’ll pick you up at seven!” And with that, he gives me the one-two punch
–
his megawatt grin followed by a seductive wink.
 
Then he turns on his heel and leaves again.

“Wait.
 
Pick me up?
 
Hello, we live together!”
 
I call after him as the front door closes.

* * *

Masa is one of my favorite restaurants.
 
I never care what they are serving.
 
I expect to love every morsel of it, and as a result, always do.
 
This will be the first time I’
ve ever dined there with another person in tow.
 
I can’t wait to see the look on the maitre d’s face when he sees
me arrive on the arm of a man,
a dishy man
,
no less.
 
I just hope he doesn’t think David’s a gigolo I’ve rented for the evening.
 
He’s dreamy enough to be one.

The last time I got all gussied up was for my two aborted a
ttempts at meeting Alex.
 
T
he
mere
thought makes me choke up, even now.
 

Tonight I know just what to wear.
 
I am an avid ‘little black dress’ lover, and have one that is a classic
,
late 50’s, early 60’s cut.
 
Wearing black can hide a multitude of sins, including the fact that I am bloated.
 
Earlier in the shower, I thought I’d cut my leg while shaving, but realized that my monthly peri
od had begun.
 
Just my luck, as always. 
Feeling decidedly unsexy now, I go to my lingerie drawer
, and pull out the big guns –
black-seamed
, thigh-
high stockings
,
trimmed with lace.
 
I then slip into my highest ‘just-do-me’ heels
,
and dab my favorite perfu
me in a few key, discreet spots.  I
now feel sufficiently vixenish.

I can’t decide whether to wear my hair up or down
,
so I ask the menagerie for their input.
 
At length, the issue is put to a vote
,
and it’s decided that I should compromise and gather the front into some interesting updo
,
while leaving the back down and curled.
 
I do all the things girls going on dates do, primp and preen, pinch and push-up, and after all of the torture, I feel like a million bucks.

Good to his word, David arrives at seven on the dot, looking quite dapper in what appears to be a new suit.
 
Wow, but this guy was made for suits, or vice versa.
 
He asks if I want to drive with the top up or down.
 
Down, of c
ourse, is my response.
 
About twenty
seconds down the road
,
it becomes apparent that my hair is under assault, and he suggests putting the top up.
 
The damage is already partially done, but I don’t care.
 
Nothing can rain on my parade tonight.
 
And if it does,
que sera sera
.
 
The convertible top is already up!

Dinner is everything I would have pictured in my perfect fantasy.
 
In a matter of moments, David has the entire staff wrapped around his finger, and the maitre d’ looks even more shocked than I could have wished.
 
The sommelier is Italian and spends half the evening jabbering with David in Mamma’s tongue.
 
But I don’t
mind
.
 
I love seeing David in action
,
and I’
m happy to keep co
mpany with my other sweetheart –
 
the gourmet viands for which Masa is world-renowned.

Through the course of our convivial conversation, I’ve all bu
t forgotten the reason why we’r
e here.
 
David has something to say.
 
I think I know what it is, but dare not go there.
 
During dessert he broaches the subject.

“Cece, you know there is something I want to tell you.
 
I’m not really sure how to say this.
 
And I’m not quite sure how you’ll take it.
 
But
...
I
...
”

“I already guessed it, David.
 
You’re going back to Italy
,
aren’t you?”

It’s a good five minutes before David can speak again, after laughing so hard and fast that the wine he was sipping has come out his nose.
 
The wait staff are huddled around
,
and the sommelier is slapping him hard on the back, all the while reciting the Rosary to him in Italian, or maybe Latin.
 
Either way, David has the place in an uproar, and as a goodwill gesture
,
he orders a cheese course for everyone there.

When things calm down, he resumes regular conversation
,
and I have to remind him of the topic on the table.
 
The thought makes him laugh and he nearly chokes, again.
 
He takes a couple of deep breaths to regain his composure
,
and falls silent for an agonizingly long moment.
 
He looks warmly into my eyes and says, “Claire
...
”

“David
,
” I respond, mocking his hesitation.

“Cece, I just wanted to tell you I love you.”

“Aww, D,
you know I love you too.”

“No, I mean
...
I love you.”

I feel like I
’ve just been run over by an 18-
wheeler
–
one hauling champagne, chocolates and flowers.
 
Oh, how many times I dreamt of hearing those words.
 
But never could I have envisioned it happening in a more beautiful way or perfect setting.

Eventually
,
I manage to find the power of speech and softly tell him, “And I mean, I love you, too.”

“Do you know I’ve never said that to a woman before?”