With champagne on ice, Charlie reaches into his backpack and pulls out an XXL, slim fit, navy blue, dress shirt with pearl-white buttons. Like him, it is timeless.
"Try this on," he says. "It's my favorite."
The room is the perfect balance of old and new. Crown molding and high ceilings accented by sweeping silk curtains and king-sized, luxurious bedding in hushed tones of French blue.
I step into the bathroom and set off low, ambiance lighting. Door shut, I undress slowly and stare at my tempered reflection in the mirror. His shirt feels like home on my skin.
He stands tall and proud - undressed at the foot of the bed. His hair is tousled. It is my first glance at his tanned, tight body. I pause to watch his chest slowly heave. He smiles and I blush.
This southern California surfer boy left the beach long enough to obtain a law degree and a master's in literature.
"Where have you been all my life," he asks. "East Coast baby," I tell him. "Ah... Biggie territory," he says.
Like me, Good Time Charlie worships music and his taste is as vast and as varied as mine.
He pours two glasses of champagne, sets them on the side table, then climbs onto the bed - positioning himself upright, in the center of a mound of down pillows.
"You wear my shirt well," he says, then pulls me towards him. And I believe him.
He runs his hands through my hair, pausing to lift the collar of the shirt. It brushes against my neck and I quiver.
We toast to us, two coasts colliding, and as I lift the crystal-fluted glass to my lips, I mutter, "I have cancer."
He wipes my tears away, but my fear consumes me. He wraps his body around me, but my fear consumes me.
He cradles me until his breath deepens, and his mouth parts. He sleeps peacefully beside me but I am unable to rest. My fear consumes me.
I stay until the sun slowly rises.
"I have to go," I whisper, kissing him gently.
"Don't," he pleads. But I am already gone. My fear consumes me.
"Was it the ghost?" he asks.
Throughout the night, while we lay motionless in bed, censor-controlled lights flicker from inside the closet, from low corners of the room, from under the bed, and from inside the bathroom. At one point, classic, concerto music could be heard coming from a ceiling-mounted speaker in the shower.
This paranormal activity does not frighten me. Will death silence me, I wonder.
He insists I take his shirt. I hold it like a prize I didn't earn. And leave.
I walk the four blocks down Royal Street to my hotel - careful to stay out of the spray and step over the puddles from ongoing street washing. The room I share with Robin and Jeanie is darkened by blackout curtains when I quietly step in.
Here, I do not struggle. I am not undone by my fear. I am free to let my angst settle. Here, I am softened and soothed, loved and accepted.
I am not used to high-quality men, I remind them. But they know my dating patterns better than I do.
After the divorce of my third husband - ending a 20-year relationship, 13 of those in marriage - I gave myself the time and space to learn how to love myself and adjust to living without a man for the first time in my life. Then I dove, head first, into familiar, shallow waters.
One man, a devout catholic and lover of the arts, particularly ballet, recently revealed that he is gay. This explains why that "spark" was missing. Another was not willing or able to communicate emotions - an avoidance trait my ex-husband mastered.
The rest never evolved past a date or two, but they certainly were memorable.
Lou, a brawny man who had 10 drinks during our first date, became overly concerned when I stood on a two-foot tall stone wall that bordered the parking lot as we exited the restaurant. Against my wishes, he picked me up to remove me from the dangers of a two-foot tall stone wall, dropped me onto the pavement, and fell on top of me - fracturing my sacrum in two places.
Randy was in the music business. After a few dates where things didn't progress past a quick kiss goodnight, I invited him to my house for a homecooked meal. Halfway through the beef bourguignon, he vanished. Later, I discovered $311.00 cash on my bedside table. I never heard from Randy again but days later realized I was missing multiple pairs of my Wolford panties. I am uncertain if they were clean or dirty but I no longer buy expensive panties, instead, like everyone else I shop on Amazon.
On my first date with Richard, he insisted I call him Dick. This didn't fit. His profile name was Richard and everything about Richard was refined and proper. There was a picture of Richard in a double-breasted navy blazer and paisley bow tie, one in a seersucker suit, and one in pajamas sipping coffee. Not sexy jammies, showing off six-pack abs - this was a pajama set with matching top and bottoms in navy with white piping.
Richard's plan was for me to meet him on his turf, in a neighboring New York village, but after reviewing this idea with a close friend, and cofounder of our, "How to Pick the Wrong Man," club, I changed course and asked him to meet me in town and I would drive us to a private beach in Old Greenwich to watch the sunset.
"I'll pick up a guest pass," I told Richard.
"I'll bring the wine," he offered. "What do you like to drink?" he asked.
"Oaky, California Chardonnay," I say.
He showed up wearing a circa 1990, faded pink polo shirt and loose-fitting, Nantucket red shorts - a color combination that instantly made me nauseous.
We set up chairs along the rocky, eastern shoreline and he opened his bottle of wine.
"No chardonnay grapes in this," he boasted, then poured two glasses of a fruity, Sauvenign Blanc.
Richard talked about his work. I asked how his wife died, as his profile stated he was a widower.
"Lung cancer, 4 years ago. I am raising our daughter on my own. She is 20 and an amazing student...(more about the daughter and her accomplishments)."
When he finally took a breath I asked, "What kind of lung cancer?"
"Oh, I don't know," Richard said, annoyed by my questioning.
"Did she suffer long?" I asked.
"No, it was quick," he answered.
Halfway through the bottle, and with a hazy overcast that removed any chance of catching a fiery sunset, Richard felt compelled to discuss one of his sexual escapades.
"The first woman I brought to my bed after my wife died (as though there is a line of women waiting), opened my wife's bedside table (who does that?), and saw hundreds of sticky notes with little sayings she wrote over the years."
Finally, Richard had something interesting to say.
"What were they about?" I questioned.
"Nothing important," he said.
"What did you do with them?" I asked. "I'm sure your daughter would love to read them."
"I put them all in a garbage bag and tossed them," he said.
For the rest of the date, I remained mostly silent as he elaborated on the women he dated, how important he is, and the responsibilities of his job.
How could he throw the sticky notes away, I thought. And how does he not know what kind of lung cancer his wife died from?
As we headed down the home stretch to his car, Richard turned in my direction to say, "You are very negative, Shannon."
I am so floored by his statement that I pull my car over and ask him to repeat it, convinced I heard him wrong. When he repeats the same words, I give him the direction he clearly needs,
"Get out of the car, DICK!"
"What?" he asks.
"You heard me. GET... OUT... OF... THE CAR, DICK!!!!" Repeat.
Pulling away, I glance at the rearview mirror and see a pathetic man, in poorly matched clothing, holding an empty bottle of subpar wine.
Now I get it. Dick suits him well.
There was the personal injury lawyer who showed me pictures of dead things on his phone during our first date. This included a dead woman whose face had been eaten off by her shih tzu. He showed me this after oysters and before the halibut. These were pictures he stored in his iPhone. I have pictures of myself, concerts, flowers, friends and family. Everything in my phone is alive.
Booty Call lives dangerously close - on the other side of the river. I initially thought this was a great idea until he started showing up unannounced. Once he showed up drunk, playing air guitar and singing Elton John songs at the top of his lungs. Another time he showed up in bike shorts. This ruined it for me. I think it was the ass padding or the way his shorts hugged his crotch. Or maybe it was his helmet. I also learned that everyone knew him in our sleepy little neighborhood and no one liked him. Not even the waiters and bartenders from our neighboring restaurant. Once, we were having drinks at a local pub when the bartender leaned over and said, "He's a total asshole."
Mr. Basketball was the exception. Polite, attentive, generous, engaging, and nice. Too nice. The kind of man I could destroy if given the chance and I was in the middle of a string of losses and couldn't process this new game strategy.
And then, there is Mr. Jones.
To Be Continued...
