Icing On The Cake. Laura Castoro

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      There is something appalling about being single after a long marriage. It’s like rising from your seat at the end of Act III, only to realize there’s another play starting that you hadn’t anticipated. The first three acts had such symmetry: career, marriage and children. To find that the next act of your life has put you back in the prologue of a whole other play is disconcerting and frightening. I felt the need to push on to the opening of a new Act I. That explains my seeing Harrison Buckley.

      Oh, we’ve had a pleasant time. I call him to escort me to a Friends of the Library fund-raiser and he calls for things like the Better Business Bureau or Kiwanis functions. But there’s no spark.

      At twenty I was clueless. At forty-six my libido’s stronger. Not so surprising then that in a weak moment, a couple of days after Ted’s demise, Harrison found me rather distraught and one thing led to another in a way that never should have been.

      Until that night whenever we had the rare one-on-one dinner, we ended up talking about our respective businesses over dessert.

      Yes! That’s when I’ll break the news to him, over dessert. I’ll say that this was never meant to be a romance. We agreed we were just friends. We both deserve a chance at more.

      Yeah. That sounds good, nonjudgmental and positive.

      Hungry and edgy, I stare balefully at a basket of rolls, bulk manufactured like the kind sold in grocery stores. Even the breadsticks come in individual cellophane sleeves.

      “Here we are.” I glance up to see Harrison’s back. Our meals arrive right after him.

      “Now, that looks good.” He eyes my steak in a way I don’t want him eyeing me.

      I slide my knife into the meat and peel back a bloodred center—no, the interior looks like it’s fresh from the cow.

      “Is something the matter?” the waiter inquires with dutiful concern. After I explain that the cook didn’t do enough with this steak, he whisks away my plate.

      “Here you are.” Harrison holds out to me a forkful of fettuccini con pancetta.

      I smile and shake my head, wishing I didn’t have to wait for dessert. Sally would have sent him on his way months ago, thinking that he was just about the luckiest fella on the planet to have even known her.

      I’m going to botch this. I can just feel it.

      Harrison has stopped eating to stare at me not eating.

      “I’ve been racking my brain, Liz, trying to decide on the right approach. A man can’t just pitch a deal if the offer isn’t right. You know what I mean?”

      He’s talking business before the dessert? His dealership must be in trouble.

      He puts down his fork and spoon for twirling and wipes his mouth very carefully, drawing my attention to the fact that there is a thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip.

      What’s going on?

      He pats his left breast pocket and begins to smile, only it’s a “lips peeled back from dry teeth” kind of sheepish grin. “So, Liz, I’ve put together a package I think you’re going to like. You don’t have to make a decision now. Take it home, think it over. Terms are still negotiable.”

      Oh, Lord! He’s trying to sell me a new car.

      He stands up, the scrape of his chair enough to alert our waiter. “So here goes.”

      As he goes down on one knee, I have time to notice bits of minutiae. For instance, the red-and-green tweed carpet is actually a houndstooth pattern. He’s wearing brown corduroy trousers in August. There’s a splash of tomato sauce an inch long on his yellow silk tie. He’s missed shaving a small patch of whiskers on the underside of his right jaw. A sweat stain wicks down the collar of his shirt. And why is he on a knee? Did he drop a contact?

      Murmurs alert me to the fact that I’m not the only one staring. Harrison’s actions have drawn the eye of patrons who wouldn’t have glanced up if a waiter had tripped with a full tray.

      There’s something primal about a man going down on one knee in public. It’s a rare moment of masculine vulnerability on public display. Like a Hail Mary Pass, it’s fraught with the possibility of sweet triumph, or humiliation and miscalculation likely to end in crushing defeat.

      Holy crap! It can’t be—

      A ring! He’s thrust it before me, nestled in dark green velvet in a box sprung open on what must be two and a half, maybe three carats.

      “—Not a deal-breaker. Terms are negotiable. But you’re a sweet deal I won’t let get…”

      “No, no! Put that away!” I whisper as I reach out and snap the lid shut.

      I must be looking at him as if he’s offered me the finger instead of a ring because he flushes a deep red as he jerks the box back and shoves it into his pocket.

      The whiplash of patrons looking away sends shockwaves of silent sympathy toward the poor bastard who couldn’t close the deal.

      “Oh, Harrison, I’m so sorry.” I reach for his hand, which is clammy. “I didn’t mean to react that way. It’s just, you took me by surprise.”

      He doesn’t even look at me. He fumbles with his fork as sweat runs in rivulets from his brow. “Obviously, it wasn’t a pleasant surprise.”

      “I apologize. I do. But a ring? It was the la—least—something I didn’t expect. We’ve known each other such a short time.”

      He looks up and if possible I feel even worse as the red-faced humiliation I’ve caused stares back at me. “Fifteen months, Liz. Nearly a year and a half of our lives has gone into this relationship.”

      “So much?” Good grief! Time flies when you’re not having fun.

      “But this wasn’t that kind of a real relationship, Harrison. I had no idea you thought it was.”

      He glares at me. “We’re sleeping together.”

      “Did. Once. It was a mistake.” He flinches like a dog struck on the nose with a rolled newspaper.

      Dear God! What happened to my no fault/no foul speech?

      “I mean, we agreed, we were just keeping each other occupied. Casually. This was never a romance and…and we both deserve a chance at more.”

      He pauses with a forkful of pasta near his mouth. “You’re seeing someone else?”

      “No. I wouldn’t…” Well, maybe I would, if there was someone else. “I’m not seeing anyone else, but we should. That’s the point. You should, and I should. Okay?”

      Instead of answering he just stuffs his mouth with pasta, and I guess I should be grateful.

      We ride home in a silence only mortal enemies could appreciate after I insisted on paying for a steak I couldn’t eat.

      I go in, pour myself a well-aged Scotch, knock it back like it was cheap bourbon, and then go СКАЧАТЬ