Dating da Vinci Read online

  “Ramona,” I said, and my cool hand met his warm embrace and before he let go, he gave my hand a slight squeeze, and I entered the oversized foyer with a beautiful entry table, large sconces with vanilla candles and fresh fall flowers. I thought of da Vinci, spending his days arranging flowers, something that most men would be terrible at, yet da Vinci had the artistic eye for color and contrast and said he loved the work.

  “Cortland,” he said and put his hand behind his head and scratched his neck, another common flirting tactic. I tried not to smile and wondered if I was reading him wrong. He was handsome for certain, tall and well-built with a natural tan and a full head of blondish-brown hair that shone in the sun. “I was disappointed you disappeared the other night,” he said. “Small world, isn't it?”

  “Indeed. Are you a singles regular?”

  “Hoping to retire,” he said, his fingers crossed. “I'm the current president.”

  “President of the Lonely Hearts Club?”

  “Something like that. Your sister didn't tell me you were so funny.”

  “Surprise, surprise.” Who knows what she said about me? Of course the most attractive man at the singles group would be the leader type: the kind who wouldn't stay single for long. My mother had mentioned Rachel and Cortland had seen each other every day since meeting. When my sister saw something she wanted, she put her hooks in and didn't let go. Cortland didn't stand a chance. Not that he'd be squirming to get off the hook, either.

  “The girls are upstairs in the playroom,” he said.

  As I began to follow him up, a German shepherd bolted from around the corner, skidded on the tile and leapt up to kiss my face before sniffing my crotch.

  “Down, Leibe,” Cortland said.

  “ Liebe. German for love. Great name.”

  “Thanks. My mother is German, so in a way, I guess I named her after my mom. Sounds better than Phyllis. You have dogs?”

  “No, but my boys have been wanting one for years. My husband and I said they could have one as soon as they started keeping their rooms clean and doing all their chores without complaining.”

  “So, never, in other words?”

  “Something like that. I've never been a dog person. But I don't know. I'm thinking maybe it's time.”

  I followed Cortland up the stairs, trying not to stare at his behind, but well, it was right in my face, and I figured he must be a cyclist or runner with such a toned backside. What did I have to lose?

  “So I noticed the walking trails in your neighborhood. Do you run or bike?”

  “Both,” Cortland said.

  Of course. A doubly fit behind. “You have a beautiful home.”

  “Thank you.” We reached the playroom, an enormous pink and green room filled with everything a princess, or daughter of a divorced doctor, might desire. “Zoe, your aunt is here to pick you up.”

  Zoe pouted. “Oh, Auntie. Do I have to go so soon?” Her language of manipulation worked like a charm. “You know how hard it is for me to a be a lonely child.”

  “You mean an only child,” I corrected.

  Zoe shrugged. “That, too.”

  Lindsey, Cortland's daughter, put her arm protectively around Zoe. She was a full two heads taller and years older, but the two had clearly bonded. The bond of lonely onlies.

  Cortland raised his brow. I could tell he was the type who gave in easily. “We could get a cup of coffee unless you're in a hurry.”

  I glanced at my watch. Da Vinci would be out of class in an hour and he was going with me to Bradley's football game. I hadn't wanted Bradley to play football-too dangerous, I thought-but he was good at it, a born quarterback, and in the two weeks since da Vinci arrived, he had someone other than the neighbors and me (a terrible passer and receiver) to throw the ball with. Da Vinci was adept at those skills, too.

  “One cup,” I said, and the girls cheered and Cortland smiled again, this time a wide smile, all teeth showing, eyes turned up on the ends, reserved for the truly happy. I began to think he wanted to have a cup of coffee with me for me. A ludicrous thought, really.

  While he went into the kitchen to get our coffee, I stepped into his office. You could tell a lot about a person by the books he read, and as a linguist, it was the first thing I studied. Cortland's shelves were full of medical dictionaries-expected, and a few literary works-some Poe and Dickens, and on the bottom shelf, the popular fiction-Nick Hornby and a dozen thrillers. His desk was orderly with only one picture, a silver frame with a close-up of Lindsey when she was younger. Then a neat stack of magazines, Sports Illustrated, Time, and on top, Austin Living, the local magazine of the affluent. The glossy cover showed a beautiful fall entryway, one as nearly oversized as Cortland's. I picked it up to study it closer, then dropped it as if it had caught fire. See the home of Austin Young Lawyer of the Year Monica Blevins.

  I'd thrown out the copy my mother had brought me, but as soon as the trash truck had taken it away, I'd regretted throwing it out. I'd made up my mind to confront Monica, but first I had to do my research.

  My heart picked up speed, and I plucked it from the desk and turned to page forty-eight where Monica sat in her exquisite living room with her dog at her feet and her daughter Rose lying peacefully in her lap. I stared at Monica's face, thinking if I stared long enough I would feel something, understand something, but the longer I stared, the longer I wanted to rip the magazine to pieces and hated myself for wanting to do it. Because what had Monica done that was so wrong, really? Being born into a wealthy family that could afford private school where she'd met Joel Griffen in elementary school and, later, beginning an eight-year love affair that ended with breaking off their engagement one week before the wedding? Shouldn't I be thankful to her for not going through with it? If she had, I wouldn't have gotten my chance with Joel. And just because she personally hired Joel's architectural firm to build her new law office didn't mean she wanted to have an affair with him or that all those morning, lunch or after-work drinks were anything other than work. Right.

  Sure, I could rip the pages out of the magazine but I could not rip Monica out of Joel's history. She would always be there, the woman who had shared nearly one-third of Joel's years on earth. “You know Monica?” Cortland said as he handed me the cup of coffee. The way he said it, so lightly, it was as if everyone knew Monica, and I'm sure everyone who was anyone knew Monica or the ones who read this magazine and who lived in this neighborhood knew Monica, but no one knew Monica the way I knew her.

  I cleared my throat. “I know of her. I suppose you know her then.”

  “She's married to a friend of mine.”

  “A doctor?”

  “No. A lawyer.”

  Two lawyers. No wonder they could afford this neighborhood. I remembered back. Of course. The man she left Joel for, the one she studied with at law school. Not just any guy, but Joel's best friend since they were toddlers. Another part of the story Judith refused to talk with me about. I don't know why I suddenly felt sorry for Joel, but I did. Maybe I believed it should be Joel on the page with Rose and the dog and the designer couch in a house Joel probably would've built, his dream house that we couldn't afford because we'd decided I should stay home and raise our kids, not that Joel would've wanted it any different. My part-time job at the Panchal Center had been more for an intellectual reward than financial. The graduate classes Joel encouraged me to take had meant sacrificing vacations and the extras people like Monica could afford.

  “You can take the magazine. I've read it,” he said.

  And thinking about the copper pennies, I accepted his offer and pushed her from my mind for the moment. There would be time to deal with her later.

  I hadn't meant for the article to sour my mood, but thankfully, Cortland was a natural conversationalist. Within no time, I was at ease with him. We drank our coffee on the veranda amidst beautiful gardens not unlike the ones I'd visited at the archdiocese. I scanned my memory for info on Cortland. “I hear you play golf with my dad.”

/>   “Yeah. We hit a few balls every now and then. Your dad's a great guy. Mine passed a few years ago.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah. It's been interesting. My mom just started dating again. Through church, of course. The Singles Again group. Not an easy thing to see your mother get back out there. I went to two socials with her, and if it's not embarrassing enough to have your mother try to set you up behind your back, it's even worse right in front of you.”

  “I'm sure your mom's a great matchmaker, but you're kind of an easy sell. The whole handsome doctor thing can't hurt.”

  Cortland laughed, and I wondered if I'd said too much. My foot-in-mouth disease was aggravated around handsome men. “Well, maybe I should introduce myself as a grocer and see if that makes a difference.”

  “See if they like you for you and not the white coat.” I tried to imagine if my sister would be interested in him if he were just a handsome grocer instead of a handsome anesthesiologist. Nope. Afraid not. “I'd stick with the doctor route. Honesty is usually the best policy. So your mom and my mom conspired to get you and Rachel together. You two must've hit it off.”

  Cortland studied me before answering, clearly thinking before he spoke. “Your sister has more energy than all the doctors at Mercy combined.”

  So he likes her zest, her zeal for life. Well, who wouldn't? Passion oozed from that sparkly smile, and while I still believed half of it was for show, she did manage to pull it off. “Have you seen her show?”

  “No. But I've seen the billboards for more than a year.”

  The one Anh and I called “the boob billboard.” Rachel had the shot done right after her implants, when she was still a little swollen. Her network swears her viewership rose three points after the board went up. “What, no TiVo? I TiVo her. It's the least a sister can do.”

  He shrugged. “Busy, I guess. But why watch her on TV when you can get the real thing?”

  This time I gave him the benefit of the doubt that he didn't mean in bed. I looked beyond the garden at the pool, remembering it was Rachel's first question to my mother about him. “I'm glad Lindsey and Zoe have hit it off, too. Zoe's had a rough couple of years with the divorce and…” I nearly added having my sister as a mother.

  “Lindsey's always wanted a sister. Or brothers. Rachel tells me you have two boys. That must be a handful.”

  Even with a husband. “ They're great. They are definitely the bright spot in my day.”

  “What does your husband do?”

  I could feel myself blush. Rachel had told him about the boys, but not that I'm a widow? It had taken me a full year to stop answering yes when someone asked me if I was married. Now I simply said no. If they pressed, I told them I was a widow, but unlike my sister, I didn't seek any sympathy.

  He wore what was surely his compassionate doctor's face. The one people saw right before they started counting backwards, imagining little Cortland sheep hurdling over a picket fence. “I'm sorry. Rough subject.”

  “Oh, it's okay. I just thought Rachel would've told you. My husband died two years ago. Heart attack.”

  Cortland's smile fell. He seemed embarrassed he hadn't been told as well. “God, I'm sorry. The last couple of years have had to be hell on you.”

  I caught my breath. “Thank you. Yes. As a matter of fact, it has been exactly like hell. Though Pastor Feelgood never said those words to me.”

  “Pastor Feelgood. That fits him, doesn't it? I'm afraid I may never be able to call him by his real name again. How come I've never seen you in church?”

  “You mean you didn't spot me among the 10,000 other attendees?”

  “Fair enough. But I think I could pick you out in a crowd.”

  He raised his eyebrows. I did the same. I felt the coffee swirl inside of me, and I fidgeted to break whatever connection was forming between us, especially so soon after mentioning my husband's name. My sister wanted this man, or at least his pool. I was just the driver, her personal assistant for the day. I should go.

  “Well, thanks for the coffee. I have to pick up da Vinci before Bradley's game.”

  Cortland stood and stretched again, puffing his chest towards me. “Did you just say you had to pick up da Vinci?”

  I laughed. “He's an immigrant student of mine that's living in my garage studio. His name really is Leonardo da Vinci. And to answer your question earlier, my husband Joel was an architect. A very good architect. He actually designed your hospital.”

  “Wow. He did great work. The hospital is a masterpiece.”

  “Thank you. I'm sure he'd be happy to hear that.”

  “And I'd love to meet this da Vinci of yours.”

  “So would my sister. We'll have you over soon.” I noticed I had said we as if da Vinci and I were together. “I mean, I'll have you all over to my house soon. Although it's nothing like this.”

  Cortland waved it away. “This was my wife's idea. Ex-wife's. She would've wanted the house in the divorce, only the guy she left me for has a house twice this size.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Very ouch. But looking back, it's better this way. And I'm actually thinking of downsizing. I prefer a cozy little space.”

  “Don't tell that to my sister.”

  He scrunched his brow. “What do you mean?”

  I shrugged, regretting opening my big mouth. “Oh, nothing. I just mean I'm sure she really likes your house. And your pool.”

  “It does have a nice hot tub,” he said. “It's nice to get in with a cup of hot chocolate when it's snowy outside. That I'll invite you over for. I mean, Rachel and I will invite you and da Vinci over.”

  Our eyes locked again, and I wanted to make a snide remark about hell freezing over before I'd get in a hot tub with my hard-bodied sister, but I didn't think that was really the point. The point, if I was really paying attention, was that we had just made two plans to see each other again.

  Chapter 6

  A FEW THINGS GRIEVERS don't do: We won't tell you to look at the “bright side"; we steer clear of couples' hang-outs; and we absolutely, unequivocally avoid weddings like vampires shun sunlight. The blushing bride and tearful groom and gaggle of well-wishers and sweet sanctimony don't sit well with my kind. We tend to ignore any nuptial events that come our way. (We have nothing against you lovebirds; it's just best not to throw acid into a seeping wound.)

  We normally send a nice Target gift card instead.

  But this wedding invite could not be swept under the rug or stashed in a file because the bride was none other than the daughter of Mahatma Panchal, as in the Panchal Center for Cultural Diversity, as in my boss.

  Besides, Griever or not, I had watched his American-born daughter Marcy sprout from a curious ten-year-old to the girl who gave the commencement speech as the valedictorian at her high school and again when she received her engineering degree from UT four years later. And now, how could I not be there to celebrate her next journey just because it involved love? I had attended nearly every type of cultural wedding over the years, and even though Marcy was marrying a white man, she had decided on a traditional Hindu ceremony, one of my favorites.

  Before I lost Joel, weddings had become a sort of hobby for us. I rarely turned down a wedding invite and with so many students each semester I got my share of them. I'd seen them all: Jewish and Greek and Christian and Catholic. But a Pakistani wedding was right up there with Vietnamese in my book: colorful and long and full of symbolism, something every great linguist admires.

  Joel had made fun of our pastime, and like most guys, generally preferred skipping the wedding ceremony and going straight for the reception, preferably with a stocked bar and lots of food. When we were on a tight budget, sometimes weddings were our very own date nights, and each time, at the close of the reception when we were among the last dancers on the dance floor, Joel would rub his nose against mine and whisper, “I do.” And I would answer with a kiss, “I do, too.”

  This small renewal of our vows had become m
y favorite part of our wedding nights, and we enjoyed our very own honeymoon each time after, our lovemaking revitalized by the romance of the affair.

  Post-Joel, weddings altogether lost their sparkle for me, not just because Joel would not be my date, but because I did not believe I could celebrate in coupledom as a widow. I thought my very presence there would send a signal of half-support, of what “could happen” if the other perishes. I know this half-empty-cup mentality was just my excuse for avoiding any more undue suffering, but this day and this night, I felt like celebrating.

  Anh, my date for the evening, remained a strong believer in eloping after three failed marriages, but with the promise of free booze and a buffet, she agreed to come. “I say, 'save your money for the honeymoon, because if you break up later, at least you got a decent vacation out of it.'”

  “Please don't repeat that this evening.”

  “What? As if half the guests wouldn't agree with me. You know I say half because that's the divorce rate, right? And what good is having a ceremony and a blessing when you can just change your mind, anyway? No one's going to hold their feet to that sacred fire they're going to walk around tonight, I'll tell you that.”

  “We're seating you in the bitter section at the far corner of the church,” I told her. “Come on. Just suspend your ill will toward Cupid for one evening. Can you do that for me?”

  Anh turned to face da Vinci in the back seat, where he sat in perfect view in my mirror. I had stolen glances at him the entire twenty minutes to the church, and it seemed he had never taken his eyes off of the rearview (hence, off of me). “What do you say, da Vinci, are you a hopeless romantic or a skeptic like your namesake?”

  Da Vinci smiled broadly. “My namesake loved all beauty, and what can be more beautiful than two people in love?”

  Anh stuck her finger in her mouth as if to gag. “I'm seriously going to be sick. This car is full of sappy romantics. So you're telling me that you actually like weddings? Because most American men despise them.”