She knew that he had, at some point in his teens, begun doing exercise to compensate for the attractions he lacked. He had studied to compensate for the fact that he wasn’t clever or charming. He was a man who had learned one thing well—that patient, tireless effort would be his salvation—and he was slowly developing confidence.
When the bar began to lose some of its customers, she said, “Well, Greg, it’s getting late. I’m glad I met you. I was beginning to think that there weren’t any men left who were smart enough to talk about something that hadn’t been on TV.” She pushed her chair away from the table.
He said, “It’s been a pleasure talking to you. I—uh—wonder, would you give me your number?”
“Sure,” she said. “I thought you’d never ask.” She took a pen out of her purse, wrote it on her cocktail napkin, and handed it to him. She stood up, and he stood up with her, but she didn’t move. “I’m waiting to be sure you can read it. Can you?”
He held it up and scrutinized it in the dim light. “Yes. I can.”
“Good. Then if you don’t call me I’ll know that wasn’t it.” She quickly turned and walked to the door. Just before she went out, she glanced back at him. He was leaning close to the table, transferring her number to his Palm Pilot. She kept moving, trying to keep from being face-to-face with any of the patrons lingering near the doorway.
The night air had turned cooler now, and after she had walked a few blocks it began to rain. She found that she was in the mood for walking, so she opened her umbrella and kept going. It took her forty-five minutes to get home, and it seemed to rain harder and harder as she went. When she arrived she was wet, so she slipped inside, locked the door, and undressed in the entry. She went into the bathroom and took a long, hot bath. She was winning again. It seemed to have been a long time since she had felt that way.
41
It was still raining in the morning when Greg called Judy Nathan. He spoke as though he had read some article that said women liked to be approached in surprising ways at surprising times, but she tolerated the call anyway. She accepted his offer to take her out to dinner, then said, “Wait a minute. You know, I have an idea. The weatherpeople say it’s going to be raining all day and all night, and maybe we don’t need to get all dressed up to tromp around in the rain. Why don’t we just have dinner at my place? It’ll be really simple, I promise. I have this tiny apartment and I don’t have the equipment here to cook anything elaborate anyway. Come on. It’ll be nice.”
He protested feebly, but she seemed not to have heard. She said, “Good. I can’t wait. Be here at seven, and don’t get dressed up.”
“Be where?”
She told him the address and was ready to hang up when he said, “There was one other thing I wanted to talk about.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you want a job?”
“What?”
“A job. Our company, Prolix Software Design, has an opening. It’s not a huge salary, but it’s okay, and it would put you in a better position to start your business.”
“It would?”
“Well, you can save money, or at least stop living off your capital, and you’ll learn more about the city and the business climate and all that.”
“Let me think about it later,” she said. “Right now I’m busy planning dinner.”
She heard a smile in his voice. “Okay. Just keep it in mind.”
“Sure. See you at seven.”
The clock above Judy Nathan’s stove said exactly seven when she heard the door intercom ring. She said, “I assume it’s you?” and heard Greg’s voice say, “I hope I’m not late.” She said, “Think I’d eat without you?” and buzzed him in. She opened the door and waited in the hallway for him to appear.
He came up the stairs carrying a bouquet of flowers that had the distinctive paper wrap of Fleuriste, and a paper shopping bag from a gourmet shop that held two bottles of wine, one red and the other white. She stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Somebody raised you right.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll call my mom and tell her.” He was looking around him anxiously.
She took the flowers and the bottles. “These aren’t wet. Did the rain stop?”
“No. I kept them under my raincoat.”
He took off his raincoat and she saw that he had followed her orders to the extent of not wearing a coat and tie, but he had on tailored pants, a cashmere sweater, and a pair of shoes that were too good to wear out in the rain. “What beautiful shoes.”
“Huh? Oh, thanks. I got them on sale about a year ago.”
“You did not,” she said. “They’re new. Somebody told you that women are impressed by nice shoes. Take them off, and your wet socks. I’ll get you something to wear.”
He waited while she took his coat to her bedroom and hung it up, then snatched a pair of wool socks from a drawer. He held them in his hand and looked at them. They were just about his size. “Why do you have these?”
“One time I didn’t notice somebody had put some men’s socks on the women’s rack, and I bought a few pairs in a hurry.” She had bought the socks this morning while she was out preparing for the evening.
He put the dry socks on and followed her toward the kitchen area. The open kitchen was separated from the living room only by a high counter with two high stools. She had moved the dining table and chairs out of the kitchen, to the other side of the counter. She arranged the flowers in a vase she had bought this morning, and placed them on the dinner table.
“I have some scotch if you’d like that before dinner,” she said. “I noticed that was your drink.”
“Thank you,” he said.
She poured him a scotch and water that was a good facsimile of the drink he’d ordered last night. Then she brought canapes and caviar to the coffee table, and sat on the couch with him.
He said, “I thought this wasn’t going to be fancy.”
“I said it was going to be simple. You don’t cook caviar. You just open a jar. So how was your day?”
“It went kind of slow,” he said. “I spent most of it looking forward to coming here.”
She grinned. “Wow. Where are you getting this stuff? Is there some men’s magazine that tells you exactly what to say? I thought all they had were pictures of naked girls.”
“If there is a magazine like that, I’d like a subscription,” he said. “I’m always blurting out the wrong thing because I’m nervous. With you I just feel happy, so I don’t get as messed up, I guess.”
“Another good thing to say. Maybe I’ll start a men’s magazine and let you write for it.”
“Have you thought about the job I told you about?”
“Not yet. I will, though. What is it?”
“It’s support—a lot of filing and typing and answering phones. But in little companies you can make your own way quickly. You tear off as much work as you can do, and pretty soon that’s your job, and they hire somebody else to answer your phone.”
“How many people in the company?”
“Only thirty. Our section is ten. There are ten in sales, ten in administration. They’re all young, and get along okay.”
“Would I work for you?”
“No. You’d be in admin.”
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it some more.” She stood up. “Time to get dinner going. Just vault over the counter if you want to see me be domestic.”
He followed her into the cramped little kitchen, and she said, “I promised you cozy. This is cozy, isn’t it?”
“I like it, and I like what you’ve done with it.”
She smiled. She had spent most of the day buying the prints that hung on the walls, the dishes and flatware
