The Real Thing (19 page)

His hands fly into the air. “Please stay. She will be gone in two days, three at the most.”

“I don't want to wait.” I turn and give the motor a pull. Nothing. Figures. “You know, you could ask
her
to leave.”

His eyes pop. “You want me to ask
her
to leave?”

I tap my head. “That would be the best solution.
Saggia
. Out with the old, and in with the new.”

“But I have promised—she has promised. If I win . . .”

This is so futile. “
Please
don't start repeating yourself. I know all that. I made a promise, blah blah blah. She has promised, yadda yadda yadda. All you have to do is tell her that you've changed your mind. Tell her to go kiss her own ass for a while.”

“I cannot do this! Not when I am confused like this. It's so, it's so . . .”

“Complicated,” I say, and I give the motor another pull. Nothing. I adjust the choke. “Dante, you are wasting your time with her. You deserve better than Evelyn. You deserve me.”

He drops his chin to his chest. “I do not even deserve you.”

True. It's kind of sweet, but now it's time for some tough love. “I know we were made for each other. We may even be soul mates. And maybe if you take the time to think about it, you'll see it, too.”

He looks up at me. “Made for each other?”

“Do you know any other women who know as much about boxing as you do?”

He looks at the sky, then at me. “No.”

“You know any women who can outfish you?”

He laughs. “You fish one day and get some big ones. This does not mean—”

“Whatever,” I interrupt. “You know any women who can do what I did to you all night long?”

“No,” he says softly.

“You know any woman who would share every bit of your life with you and be content with every bit of it?”

His eyes become little slits. “But, you have a life away from here, just as Evelyn has a life away from here.”

Now
he argues?
Now
he makes some sense? Geez, I'm in the fucking boat! I am within one successful pull of leaving this place forever! “I thought I had a life, Dante. I did. Now I know that there's a big hole in my life, and you've filled it. You fill all the holes in my life, and very well, I might add.”

I am still so hot for this man. And why won't this fucking motor start? Shit. I click the gear level to neutral. Uh duh. It won't start in forward, genius.

“Dante, I've been wanting you inside me all day. Has Evelyn ever wanted you that badly?”

“She did once. But then I lost. I failed.”

“Oh, please don't start that shit again,” I say. “Dante, I'd want you if you never fought a single fight. I'd want you if you lost every fight. In fact, if you wanted to make love to me right now, I'd let you, right there on that dock.”

“You . . . would?”

I start unbuttoning my flannel shirt and expose the tops of my breasts. I'm about to unzip my pants when his eyes drop. Whoa. I have really forced him into a crisis. I button up my shirt.

“Maybe it would be best if you went,” he says.

Ouch. That was a good punch. “Dante, do you really mean that?”

He doesn't answer.

“You can't mean that.” I move close to him, tears welling in my eyes again. “Please say you don't mean that.”

Tears fill his eyes, too, punching another hole in my heart. “I do not know what I mean anymore, Christiana. Evelyn is my
portafortuna
, my good luck charm. She is—”

I take his hands and put them on my heart. “I could be your porta whatever-it-is.”

“But she has already
been
my
portafortuna.
”

“Enough. I give up.” I push his hands away and go back to the motor, giving it a pull. It chugs to life and dies. Close. Next pull and I'm out of here. “I wish you well, Dante. I hope you win.” I look up and see Evelyn on the stairs holding a big plastic bag.

“D?” she calls. “Did you buy these for me? They're very nice.”

Dante doesn't speak.

“They're mine,” I say, locking eyes with Dante. “Go get them,” I whisper, “or do you need her permission first?”

He goes up the stairs, gets the bag, and returns to me, putting the bag in my hand. Evelyn, looking all smug and stupid in her stupid winter coat, still lingers stupidly at the top of the stupid stairs.

“Will you be at the fight?” Dante whispers.

Holy shit! What an asshole thing to say! “You don't need me there, do you? She's your portable tuna, right?”

He moves closer. “Please. I would like you to be there.”

“Maybe, um, maybe it would be
best
that I
not
be there.”

That shuts him up, only for a second. “It is too dark out. You do not know this lake very well.”

“I'll manage.” I pull as hard as I can, and the motor roars to life, smoke filling the air. I push in the choke and the smoke subsides. “I got here all by myself, didn't I?”

“Give me your phone number,” he whispers. “I will call you.”

Geez.
Now
he asks for my number? And in front of his soon-to-be-ex-wife-turned-wife? What the hell. I scribble it on a scrap of paper in one last show of defiance in front of Evelyn and hand it to him. “
Ciao,
Dante.”

I don't listen for his good-bye, backing out and hauling ass across the lake as the sun sets. It is a teary ride, and I narrowly miss hitting a little island that gets in my way. I get to the Landing, beach the boat, put fifty dollars Canadian in an envelope, and slide it under the rental-office door. The rental car, a Ford Focus, starts right up, and I bounce up the long hill away from Aylen Lake.

At the bottom of that first hill, I stop on the bridge over the dam.

And I weep.

I hit the steering wheel with my fists.

I weep some more.

It serves me right. I got involved. I had every chance not to, but I went ahead and did it anyway. I lost my focus.

I am a fool.

I search for a radio station to calm me down, and all I can find are country stations.

Perfect.

I pound the steering wheel again.

I should go back and throw Evelyn over the outcropping. Yes. Her skinny body would hit the water with a tiny little
zoop.

Wait. She wouldn't sink. She'd float. Do witches sink or float? I can't remember. She'd probably skip across the water like a skinny little rock.

I could sneak back to his room and . . .

No.

That will just have to be another of my fantasies. I have a lot of those. When you can't have the real thing, the next best thing is a bottle of wine and a fantasy.

I put the car in gear and bump along the road.

What a perfectly fucked-up life I lead.

Chapter 21

B
ecause of several wrong turns, it takes me four hours to get to Ottawa. I bypass going to a hotel and sleep in the rental car.

I may never be able to sleep in a bed again.

I don't sleep much, but when I do, I dream of water, sun, and a talking birch tree.

I must be exhausted.

Birch trees don't talk. They only peel.

After dropping off the rental just after sunrise, I go into the airport, secure a seat on a plane bound for LaGuardia, and begin the puff piece, which is really a glorified list. People who read
Personality
love lists. It makes life more bite-sized and easier to swallow.

I never asked Dante for his middle name. It's probably something fiery. I also never asked him his favorite color. He asked me. I should have returned the favor. Hmm. He's not quite single, but “trying to win back his ex-wife's love” is too much information for a simple list. See him (don't blink!) in that movie! Sexiness is so relative. What I think is sexy, just about everything about this man, just won't cut it. Shelley will delete the “very” and change “handy” to “He built his cottage in Canada by hand.” Depending upon her mood, she might even redline “amazing” and “washboard abs.” Though true, his abs might be a little too titillating for our readers.
Personality
magazine seems to be shifting away from the surface of the man to what makes him a man. Oh sure, the pictures will take care of the sexiness for me.

I look through the pictures again, and the unguarded photo from town with Dante carrying all our bags is sexy as hell. I'll have to blow that one up and put it over my bed.

Since I have time on my hands, I rewrite the puffer the way
I'd
want to read it:

I have to cover up the screen from the prying eyes of the old woman next to me. I almost hit the delete button out of embarrassment but instead save it to the GP (for “Guilty Pleasures”) folder. I have quite a few GP files, and I have to name this one GP33. Most are, well, pornographic. You know, things I would like to do to some of the men I've interviewed. One day, I may publish them, changing all the names, of course. Until then . . .

I send the original puffer to Shelley and start counting. If she's at her desk—she ought to be there by now—I'll be getting a call on my cell phone in three minutes or less. What a job. You work forty-eight hours on something that takes three minutes to read.

My cell phone vibrates.

“Yes, Shelley?”

“I love it!” she gushes. “I absolutely love it. I might have to tinker with it a bit.”

Here it comes.

“What did you mean by ‘good with his hands'?” she asks.

He knows how to work a booty. “He built his own cottage in Canada.”

“Any other reasons?”

He knows how to squeeze the life into breasts. “No.”

“Nice plug for HBO.”

Gee, thanks.

“We've moved him up to number nine.”

This is good news on an otherwise shitty day. “Really?”

She sighs. “Number ten was picked up for drunk driving and called Romanian people ‘Transyl-vestites.' ”

I chuckle. That's actually an intelligent pun. Mean, but . . .

“Number eleven was quoted in some little magazine years ago as saying New Yorkers don't know quote ‘class from ass' unquote,” Shelley says. Shelley doesn't curse unless she can “quote-unquote” it. “A blogger saw it and posted it online, and now the story has spread like a virus around the world.”

Class from ass. At least it rhymed.

“And number twelve,” Shelley continues, “well, his pictures didn't turn out very well. The lighting must have been terrible or something.”

Oh no, not that!

“Are the pictures you've taken of Lattanza really sexy?” she asks.

“Yes.” But the sexiest one is mine. I may just print out a small version for my wallet or tape it to my bathroom mirror. “I haven't loaded them into my laptop, or I would have sent them to you.”

“You've been too busy to do that?”

“Yeah.” Busy getting busy, mainly.

“I'm still worried about number eight,” Shelley says. “He seemed to be on some sort of bender when McBain interviewed him.”

Number eight wears long sleeves at the beach. He's what I call a “track” star. “He was strung out again, Shelley.”

“His pictures looked nice, though.”

Oh, geez. He has nice pictures but has a habit he can't kick. “Shelley, trust me. If Dante Lattanza were ten years younger, he'd be on the cover.”

“He's sexier than Clooney or Connery? Sean was always my personal favorite.”

“Much sexier.”

“And do you have firsthand knowledge?”

Firsthand, first-tongue, first-lips, first-
figa
, first-
culo
. “They're calling for my flight, Shelley. Gotta run.” I shut my phone.

My flight isn't for another forty-five minutes, so I check all my many notes, numbering the quotes in the order I want to use them. I flex my fingers, then space down, leaving room for the first paragraph, something I always write last.

Now.

How do I capture this man in one thousand words or less?

Especially when he's just dumped me for a shrew?

And I miss him already?

What is wrong with me?