the buzz of bitterness. Dating always sucks, but dating in middle age sucks a whole lot worse because everyone involved has baggage, usually in the form of ex-spouses-either dead or divorced. You have no idea how much fun I had explaining that I had one of each. And even when the bitterness quotient was low, dinner conversation usually degenerated into a discussion of kids and grandkids or comparing whole-grain cereals and doses of Lipitor. Then, if dinner was nice enough, if there had been sufficient alcohol consumption, I’d wind up falling into bed with my dinner companion. You want to talk about baggage… Bed is the Broadway stage of baggage. No, don’t turn me over. My husband always forced me into that position and even when I liked it I hated it.
I tried the younger woman thing for a while. That was even less successful because then most of the baggage was mine, and mine included a murdered ex-wife whom I still loved, an ex-wife I’m not sure I ever loved but still wanted, and enough secrets to choke the Trojan Horse. Besides, it was nearly impossible to find common ground with women my daughter’s age. And inevitably, within an hour or two, I wound up sounding paternal and/or professorial. I found out soon enough that no one finds it dead sexy when you utter the phrase, “Don’t worry, when you get to my age you’ll understand.” There were times, I confess, I yearned for those whole-grain cereal discussions and photos of the grandkids. Modern pharmacology notwithstanding, there are issues for men of a certain age beyond just staying hard. The nature of desire itself changes with time.
I made three phone calls while I waited for Mary Lambert. I put Jimmy Palumbo on alert that his services might be required in the coming days. He was eager for the work, for the two hundred dollars, and, he said, for another steak dinner. The next call was to Palumbo’s boss at the museum, Wallace Rusk. I didn’t figure to get him in the office, not if his security guard was already home. I left a message anyway. What I needed from him could wait until Candy got me those four paintings. Then I put in the call I was least looking forward to, the one to McKenna. Not that he’d kept his promise either-I’d checked my cell phone all throughout the day-but cops can have funny notions of whose job it is to do what. Hallelujah! I got his voice mail and left a message. I’d have to talk to him sooner or later. Every minute later was better.
I found myself looking out the front window of my condo at the moonlight reflecting off the black waters of Sheepshead Bay and beyond to Manhattan Beach. I’d lived here for a lot of years now. I had intended to move Carmella, Israel, and me into a nice house, but I never got the chance. The marriage started to crumble almost from the second we took our vows. Given that we were business partners, that she was pregnant with another man’s child, and that I was still reeling from Katy’s murder, it was a miracle we lasted fifteen minutes. And Carmella had a rage in her that dated back to a time before her name was Carmella or Melendez, to when she had been abused as a little girl. One time I asked her why she chose to spell her new first name with a double l, a very untraditional spelling for a Spanish speaker. She told me it was a final Fuck you! to her mother who had reacted with shame to the abuse. Talk about baggage… I should have known our marriage was a mistake. She should have known. We did know, both of us knew, but we did it anyway. Sometimes I think our stubbornness in the face of the facts is what defines human behavior.
The bell rang and the spell was broken. No more staring into the black waters, not tonight.
I pressed the talk button. “Hello.”
“It’s Mary.”
I buzzed her in and when she came up, I took her coat.
God, she looked spectacular and without trying. Or maybe that was the trick, to seem like you’re not trying. She wore a blue silk blouse that perfectly matched the shade of her eyes over loose fitting black slacks that still somehow managed to accentuate her curves. There was a little bit more makeup on her face than yesterday, but not too much. Between the makeup and the blouse her eyes made the rest of the room seem positively unlit.
“You look nice,” I said. I could be so articulate.
“As do you.”
“Come in. Red or white?”
I’d already selected one of each and had them waiting. They were both ridiculous, of course. It’s funny how I resented our customers who bought wines just to impress and here I was ready to pour a perfectly chilled Montrachet or the Chateau Mouton Rothschild I’d already decanted-purposely leaving the emptied bottle in plain sight for her to see. But until she stepped through my door, it hadn’t occurred to me that she might not drink wine or that if she did, her taste might run to Glen Ellen white zinfandel or strawberry wine coolers. My fears were allayed when she walked slowly past me and carefully inspected both bottles.
“My god, Moe, you don’t skimp on a girl. That’s several hundred dollars of wine there on your counter.”
“Don’t worry about it, I get a big discount.”
“How’s that?”
“I know the owners of a few wine stores. Well, what’s your pleasure?”
“I’ll go with the Rothschild.”
“Excellent choice,” I said like a gleeful waiter calculating his twenty percent tip. “I was going to have some of that myself.”
“I thought you might. You strike me as a red wine man.”
I poured a finger of the wine for her to taste. “I do? Why’s that?”
She didn’t answer immediately, instead focusing her attention on the contents of the glass. She handled the task expertly, though she dispensed with swishing it around her mouth and sucking air in through her lips. That part of the tasting process is a surefire romance killer. It’s like going for ribs on a first date. Then I remembered that I took Katy for ribs at the Buffalo Roadhouse on what was essentially our first date. So much for shoulds and shouldn’ts.
“Oooh, this is amazing,” she whispered. “As to reds and whites and you-whites, even the best whites, are what they are. They tend to be about one thing. Reds are more complex. They have more depth and character, more texture, subtlety, and nuance. Like you, I suspect, more than what they seem.”
I poured some for myself and added more to her glass. “I’m not sure how to take that.”
“As a compliment.”
“And you reached this conclusion how? From spending a few minutes talking to me in the shadow of the Brooklyn Bridge? I didn’t think there was much subtext in my giving you directions back to Greenpoint.”
“Between men and women, there’s always subtext.”
We both drank to that. I might have been a little smitten, but I wasn’t ready to let it go just yet, not on the strength of answers any man would want to hear.
“Seriously, Mary, how did-”
She cut me off. “I asked about you. I had to go back to 4 °Court Street again today,” she said, blushing a bit and taking a prodigious gulp of wine, “and I mentioned your name to one of the lawyers and he…”
“What lawyer? What firm?”
“I’d rather not say, Moe. He’s a client and…”
“Okay. What did he say?”
“I’m sorry, Moe, I wasn’t checking up on you. I was just curious.”
“It’s fine.”
She felt compelled to explain. “Like I told you yesterday, I’m new here and I never expected to be quite so overwhelmed as I feel by it all. I’m a grown woman, for goodness sakes, yet it’s gotten to me. For a solid month now I’ve had lawyers hitting on me every day and I’m weary. Lawyers, Jesus, like I’d date a lawyer ever again.” She took another gulp and held her glass out for more. “People don’t realize how hard it is to make friends when you’re near fifty and in a new city and you don’t really want to socialize with your clients. Then I hit your car and you were so sweet about it and here I am. I guess I’m feeling vulnerable.”
“I understand. I do. So what did this lawyer tell you?”
“A lot of things,” she said, turning away. “About your first wife being murdered and your divorce from your business partner. He said you did good work.”
“And the wine stores?”
“That too. I’m sorry.”
“Cut it out, Mary Lambert. No more apologizing. Deal?”
She pecked me on the cheek. “Deal.”
I poured us both a little bit more wine and Mary, feeling relaxed, went back to sipping and began walking around my living room, staring at the photos on my wall and the ones on the coffee table. That unnamed lawyer had actually done me a huge favor. I now felt spared from the pressure of choosing my words carefully when explaining
