Yes, I could tell he was older than me—seven years, I soon discovered—which was just fine. It was time for a guy mature enough to be truly comfortable in his own skin and who wouldn’t flinch at my success, the way Marc, my previous boyfriend, had. I wanted a guy eager for a full partnership.
“Morning,” he says, and flashes a smile. “I was afraid I might have to go more than twenty-four hours without seeing those baby blue eyes of yours.”
I cross to the table, lean down, and kiss him hello. He smells fresh from his shower, with a hint of citrusy-scented cologne.
“I didn’t even hear you getting dressed,” I say.
“I was trying to do my best quiet-as-a-mouse routine.”
“From now on, wake me in the morning when you get up, will you? Even if I curse loudly in protest.”
“You sure? You looked pretty zonked out this morning.”
“Yes, please.” My gaze drifts across the table to the place where I usually drink my coffee in the morning. On a small plate sits a huge, scrumptious-looking scone. “Oh my God, what’s this? Manna from heaven?”
Guy laughs. “Manna from Mrs. London’s bakery. I dropped by yesterday at lunch and picked you up a few blueberry scones.”
“Oh, honey, that’s so sweet. You know how much I adore these.” Guy and I spent our honeymoon in London and then the Scottish Highlands, and I devoured scones and clotted cream almost every day I was there.
I pour a cup of coffee and open the fridge for butter. “So tell me about last night. Did you make any progress?”
“Seems like it. I convinced Mario to join us and he even sang a little at the table. People applauded. I’ll know tomorrow if the donor’s fully back on board, but my bet is yes.”
“That’s fantastic.”
I planned to mention the dream to him, to see if maybe he could offer an objective view on what the new detail means, but he gulps the last of his coffee and I sense he’s ready to fly.
“About tonight,” I say instead. “How fancy are people likely to dress?”
“Not too fancy, at least compared to New York. The guys will wear jackets and the women will be kind of dressy but probably conservative. Not Derek, though. The few times I’ve seen the guy he’s been in old cords and a sweater—and usually the same ones.”
I laugh. “Okay, conservative then. I’ll leave the slutty tops in the drawer.”
“Just until the weekend, okay?” He smiles and then checks his watch. “I’d better split. I’ve got an eight-thirty.”
He taps off his iPad, rises, and kisses me good-bye. Once he’s gone, I shower and dress. Back downstairs again I glance distractedly at the news online, and then putter stupidly around the kitchen, wondering if we have everything the caterers will need tonight. Finally I force myself into my desk chair and open the proposal file on my computer. I stare at the word I typed yesterday: reinvention. It’s a topic that’s been written about plenty but deep down I sense I could bring a fresh perspective. And yet all the word does is stare back at me. Once, I could write for hours on end, even on planes, or in airports or crowded cafés. Right now, though, I feel like someone trying to write a sentence in a language she’s never learned.
I close the file and jump up from my desk.
After an early lunch I slip into a lightweight anorak and pull on the messenger bag I’ve been using as my arm has healed. I drive downtown in the small car I’ve rented for the summer, stopping first at the ATM for cash, just to have it on hand, and then the florist. There are endless bunches of tulips at the front of the shop, and on a whim I buy more than I planned to: four dozen in white for the dining room and two dozen in pink for the living room.
Back home I set the table with flatware, glasses, and the perfectly starched embroidered white napkins that I found late yesterday in a drawer. Then I arrange the vases I’ve filled. The result of so many splashes of white—napkins, tulips, and candlesticks—on the dark table is dazzling. It makes me think of a comment my mom used to make when she was alive: Sometimes more is more. Though she’s been dead twelve years, I still hear her lovely voice in my head, offering the little aphorisms she loved to share.
Gazing at the table, I realize I’m experiencing a kind of adrenaline surge I haven’t felt since late winter, since before the accident. Maybe it’s all a matter of motion begetting motion, I decide. I need to give myself a couple of projects each day, along with some physical activity. I’ve been banned for the time being from running—something I sorely miss—but I could at least force my ass onto the sidewalk each day for a walk.