And that night, for the first time in forever, I had a reason to dress up.
After trying on and rejecting half a dozen dresses, I settled on a vintage-style swing dress with a pink bolero sweater that matched the pink flamingo print. It had a kind of 1950s, rockabilly, Florida trailer park vibe, but who cared? I wasn’t trying to impress anybody. I was only the third wheel in this ménage, as I explained to Nan when the phone rang.
“You’re tagging along on Monica’s date? Monica is what—forty-two? Isn’t she a little old for a chaperone?”
“She’s nervous,” I said, foraging through the bathroom drawer for an eyebrow pencil. “She hasn’t been on a date in years. I’m only going along for moral support. And the food. We’re going to The Fish House!” I exclaimed, unable to disguise my enthusiasm.
“Well, la-di-da! Who is he? Tech entrepreneur? Stockbroker? Think he’d like to make a donation to the pet rescue?”
“Doubtful. He’s some kind of carpenter, makes tables. And Monica is paying for dinner. Well, not paying exactly.” I leaned closer to the bathroom mirror and filled in my brows. “Monica knows the manager at The Fish House, and he gave her gift cards—some kind of industry courtesy—but she has to use them right away.”
“But why would this . . .”
“Luke,” I said, filling the blank for her. “Luke . . . Pauling? Patterson? Something with a p. I can’t remember.”
“But why would this Luke want to go on a date with two women?”
“Well, I don’t think he thinks it’s a date—more like a sales call. Monica wants new tables and banquettes for the restaurant, and Luke came over to bid on the job. I was only there because Monica asked if I could pick Alex up from cross-country practice and then drop him off at the restaurant. When I got there, Monica said she’d like to see Luke’s portfolio, then suddenly ‘remembered’ about the gift cards she needed to use and suggested the three of us get together over dinner to discuss the project.”
“Oh. Doesn’t that seem a little devious?”
“Well, yes. But I almost can’t blame her. He’s really handsome. And it’s time Monica started getting out there. I think she’d be a lot happier if she had a boyfriend.”
“Okay, but why did she have to involve you? It’s bound to be awkward.”
“It’s all right. I’m used to Monica roping me into things. Last week she talked me into coming to Alex’s school for a program on the college application process.”
“Already?” Nan clucked. “Alex is only fifteen. They put too much pressure on kids. But why did you have to go to a meeting about helping Alex get into college?”
“Because,” I said, exchanging the eye pencil for a lip pencil, “the forecast was calling for rain, which meant that the barometer was going to drop, which meant that Monica would be getting a migraine just as the meeting was set to start. She begged me to come along and take notes so she wouldn’t miss anything. She’s panicked about Alex not getting into college, staying in Portland, and making her life even more miserable than it already is.”
“You don’t get a headache because it rains,” Nan said. “If that was true, the entire population of Portland, Oregon, would have a headache nine months out of twelve.”
“I know,” I said, twisting a lipstick tube open. “I wish Monica would stay off WebMD. In the last six months, she’s diagnosed herself with shingles, gallstones, plantar fasciitis, anemia, psoriasis, and Lyme disease. But, really, I think she just wanted me to come along to serve as a buffer between her and Alex.”
Monica does that sometimes, uses me as a human shield between herself and her step-kids, Alex and Zoe. Alex is pretty rotten to her no matter what, but he isn’t quite as rotten when I’m around.
“The whole dinner for three thing does feel weird,” I admitted after blotting my lipstick on a tissue, “even for Monica. Luke seemed pretty surprised by the invitation. But he’s just getting his business off the ground, so maybe he’s just anxious to land a client. Or maybe he totally has Monica’s number, realizes she’s nervous about dating and being the one to ask him out first, and is going along with it just so she won’t feel embarrassed. My money’s on that—he seemed too smart to fall for Monica’s ruse. Or maybe he’s like me, in it for the food. I’m not going to turn down free oysters.”
“This Luke, he’s Italian?”
“I don’t know what he is, but definitely not Italian,” I said, recalling Luke’s handsome face, tanned but not swarthy, his wavy, sand-colored hair, and beautiful brown-gold eyes.
Huh. Weird that I couldn’t remember his last name but recalled his face in such detail. Those eyes. But what struck me most was not the unusual color of his eyes, but the intensity of his gaze. When Monica spoke, he really listened. Not too many men know how to do that. I’d only ever known one.
“Not Italian? But I thought Monica was only—”
A dog started to whine in the background. The noise was too high-pitched for Blixen. And Blixen never whines.
“New resident?” I asked.
“He just came yesterday. Misses his mommy terribly, poor boy. I know, Nelson. I know,” Nan said in a low, soothing voice. “It’s all right to be sad, baby.”
In addition to her many other good works, Nan volunteers with Rainbow Gate, a pet rescue providing foster care to dogs whose owners have died.
Nan may be the kindest person I’ve ever met. She raised seven kids—four biological and three adopted, all grown now—and is the reason the term “earth mother” exists.
Nan knits, crochets, tats, and sews.
