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= Romantic Novel =

A New England Love Story

by Jean-Thomas Cullen

7.

Rick felt relieved to watch her hurry away. He was fresh out of jokes, and feeling awkward. I’ve done well so far, he thought. I didn’t bungle it totally. I spoke, and words came out of my mouth. I didn’t stiffen up, and I was not a robot.

He was also confused. She was not wearing her wedding band. Or had he been hallucinating days and weeks ago when he thought he saw it on her finger? She always wore the black ribbon, which looked sort of cute on her in a ghoulish way. Hallow E’en was past, and the Munsters were back in their haunted house until next year. She was just so disarmingly, charmingly herself, so direct and guileless, except for those clouds moving across the otherwise clear skies in her eyes. She was sending mixed signals, which was scary. He had never, ever flirted with a married or even an engaged woman; or even some other guy’s girlfriend. Something about this lady kept drawing him back to her when his inner mom and dad told him to grab his rear end with both hands and run for his life. If he looked back, he would turn into a sodium chloride monkey-shape.

Because he was not a born actor or seducer, Rick had developed a way of listening to the other person and responding rather than pushing. It worked wonders in business as well as in friendships and in matters of the heart. He had money, looks, and poise, and could ride that car by just keeping his mouth shut and acting attentive and slightly, humorously bemused. People liked to think they were important, and he reflected their desires back to them like a mirror. It was also a defensive technique because he really preferred sitting alone in a room with a book and a beer or a cup of tea. With his somewhat overbearing parents and a weighty destiny to carry forward (the family business), he had developed the ability to retreat inwardly to a place of peace. For the most part, except for his insecurities and awkwardness, he liked himself and got along with himself well. He’d thought about being a musician (but fingers of clay), or a singer (nice voice, don’t call us, we’ll call you, next!), or an artist (slightly color blind). That left writing and teaching. He imagined he might have been a history professor or some such thing; but Moyer LX Holdings was the ticket Fate had handed him, and he would be a fool to say no.

He had the feeling this Marian the Librarian would not say yes, but she would not say no. He was not looking for anything more than friendship. If he could get close enough to study her, to know her, to savor her, maybe he would understand how not to open himself up to another pratfall like Cindy. He was a reserved, sensible guy, who kept his hands, his mouth, and his appetites to himself. He could be friends with a girl, and never let hormones get in the way of a good laugh. The greatest joy in life was to be friends with a good girl, because there was a warmth in that—he knew from experience—no man could offer. There was always a distance, since doors had to be kept shut that were never in question if he was swilling beer and tossing jockey shorts and raunchy jokes about with a squad of half-bombed bozos. That was a good time also. Being with a nice woman was like having a sister. The right chick could be so warm and companionable, as long as each party kept up the fundamental understanding: no touching, no smooching, no falling for the other. It was hard. He’d had a lot of romantic and sensual relationships, but maybe just a half dozen to a dozen close friendships with women over many years. Of those, maybe a third had ended when she moved out of town and lost touch. Another third ended when she’d found Mr. Korrekto for her life. The last third had ended awkwardly in bed and with regrets for various complex, guilty reasons (like with Louise, who was bi, but committed to a relationship with her pastry chef friend Margo, who did not dig guys at all and might take a cookie cutter to Rick if further provoked). Takes all kinds to make the world go round, Rick thought. His toleration was global except for dingdongs and dingdongettes.

Marian the Librarian would say maybe to lunch one day, and he could work with that. He wanted to study her, to ask what a girl like her wanted in a man. If they became chums (chum and chumette), he could explain his dilemma and ask her for solid advice. What was Mr. Marian the Librarian like? Did she have any girlfriends who might be available—oh god, or sisters? Was there hope? I have the bagels and the cream cheese, Rick thought, but I am fresh out of lox and looking—trying to keep it casual, without missing any stones that should be turned over, or any hedge under which a worthy Easter egg might be hidden.

She seemed a bit harried today—probably busy with a million tasks. He liked that in a woman—strong, busy, determined, but kind and nurturing without smothering.

He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her that remained on the air. Oh God, she was so perfect. Too bad there was a Mr. Marian the Librarian already. Oh, good for her and him. He wouldn’t begrudge the lucky pair.

Rick opened his eyes and watched her back receding from him. He took in the swaying sweater and jeans, the bobbing mass of thick hair, and the long arms with those intriguing hands. Her hands had a softness to them, almost a bit of Mediterranean cream color, with a tapering of the fingers rather than boniness, which described her entire figure: sparse but generous, tall but well-proportioned. He watched her elegant stride in those soft boots, and could only imagine her in an elegant gown with high heels.

He glanced across the worn, mostly out of date books and saw nothing that appealed to him. He would have to select something to make it look good. He had come here for a moment of delight, the way a man walking into a garden will stop to smell a single, special flower in the entrance with his eyes closed and an expression of indescribable enjoyment.

The world was filled with tall and short, wide and narrow women in gowns and high heels. Rick Moyer had lived in a world surrounded by such women and their doting fathers and husband-hunting mothers since adolescence. Growing up amid wealth and power, he had been the object of endless advances, sometimes clumsy maneuvers, sometimes clever but cold-hearted stratagems, often brutal and calculating tactics. He had learned to spar with women of all sorts the way you played at judo or jiu-jitsu. Actually, the women he remembered best were the ones who had been more like sisters to him rather than lovers. Yes, he had scored plenty with beautiful and exotic girls and women over the years. He had plenty of notches on his gun. Then again, the debacle with Cindy had proven to him that he had learned virtually nothing about women over all these years.

He sauntered along the aisle, out of Mammals, past Dinosaurs, and crossed the central aisle to Fiction. He felt more at home here in the land of make-believe. He glanced at his watch and realized, also, that he must get back on the road again.

Business was calling, as usual. The movie ran in Rick’s head, an endless re-run: Dad’s stern eyes and military haircut loomed from behind that desk in West Hartford. Did you close that deal in Manhattan, son? Why not? Take Geoff with you—he’ll line them up before a firing squad if they screw around on us any further. And Mom says not to forget your lunch—there is a boiled egg for you in our fridge, along with an apple juice. Keep up the Vitamin C! Love ya. Now get zipping and zooming! No time to waste. We have a legacy to maintain, and we are always falling behind. Whoosh! Off you go.

Rick had satisfied the modest desire that had brought him here. He had hoped for nothing more than just to catch sight of her once again, maybe amid scattered children’s books and helpful kids, or bent over her carrel sorting books—looking up, surprised, with that blush, that wild look that had drawn him to her in the first place, now several months ago. He had actually spoken with her now for the first time ever. It had seemed fun for a fleeting second, then awkward. He wasn’t sure if it was his own clumsiness, his racing pulse and stammering paralysis, that had driven her away from him. It had been a relief to see her hurrying away so that he could take time to collect himself, take a deep breath, and pretend to look for a book.

Here, finally, he picked one. It was a novel titled The Stars Shine On Us. Its cover depicted a cowboy--gun and hat and all, leading a horse into a barn. On a fence nearby sat a gorgeous woman with a generous and perfect figure in tight jeans and a leather, fringed top. The cowboy was just tipping his hat to her, with glint in his eyes and a kind of raw, hungry grin. The woman appeared to be applauding with both pale, soft hands in the air, while making an admiring face at him. From the angle of their looks, it was evident the artist meant to portray them at that moment before they ever made significant, romantic eye contact. Aside from the woman’s figure, what Rick admired most was the clear, blue country sky and the sun shining over a backdrop of distant trees. Come to think of it, there was kind of an Emery quality about the place. All they needed was a lake, some boats, and a 400 year legacy. Although there was of course at least a 10,000 year legacy across the whole continent if you counted the Native Americans...

As he strode toward the main desk, bemused with such stray thoughts, Rick tossed the cowboy book from hand to hand. He intended to glance inside, but was not sure he’d actually go so far as to read it. He just needed a book as his excuse for coming; almost any book would do. He’d feel awkward leaving here empty-handed. Silly thought—if she saw him, he did not want her to think he’d been ungrateful for her help. Better to make her feel he’d found what he was looking for.

I found what I was looking for, he thought. She cannot be free. She simply does not have that available air about her. This would be too good to be true. But I can study her. I can see what a woman like that is like up close. She must have a husband, that lucky stiff. Maybe if I can dance around her like a butterfly, I can inhale her scent and figure out how I can find a flower like that of my own.

As he approached the Check Desk, he saw with a mixture of relief and disappointment that this woman Marian Whatever was not there to assist him--Marian the Librarian. Instead, it was the older woman he had previously sparred with. The Chief Librarian had gone back to her office, and at the desk once again sat Rose Otto.

He approached, prepared to do battle, but she smiled at him with a surprising amount of warmth. "Hi," she said as if they knew each other.

Rick was relieved that it was Rose and not Marian. He would be spared the stress of confronting the woman of his dreams (how do you act? how do you not make a fool of yourself?). He was simultaneously disappointed, like a coffee addict who is handed a glass of watery diet lemonade instead. Rose Otto’s friendly, humane welcome almost unnerved him.

Rose raised her glance upward as she called into the air: "Marian!"

Was it possible.

Ye-e-e-s-s-s? answered that angelic voice from somewhere in the ether.

"Can you please handle this?" Rose Otto gave Rick a glance as she slid from her high stool. "Excuse me, I have some business in the office." With that, she walked off.

"Hello again," said the divine woman as she appeared from around a corner. She seemed more relaxed. "Are you ready to check out?"

"Please, check me out," Rick said.

She swiped his West Hartford library card without looking up, but with a knowing, chummy glow. "I will check you out," she said. "We go through all the check-out jokes here."

"Your humble servant," he said, with a slight bow.

"I don’t know about humble or servant." She typed some clickety-clicks into that great cloud computer in library heaven, which spoke with government computers across the land. Apparently a message came down from the cloud, saying it was okay for Rick to check out a book in Emery Township. Now that she was done with the licensing formalities, Marian pulled his book toward her. She glanced at the cover. "Well, that’s a horse book like what you said you were looking for," she said. She peered at it closely, inclining her head so he glimpsed traces of a pale line of her scalp through the dark tangle of hair. She wore a hair clip in the form of a small pink plastic bow on top. Her hair was really thick and unruly, but also glossy and fragrant. He close his eyes and inhaled.

"Wow," she said.

"Wow?"

"That looks like Oklahoma. I grew up there as a child near Shawnee."

"No, I’m sure you are mistaken," Rick said. "It looks a lot like Emery to me. See?" He pointed to the barn. "There is the library." He pointed. "There is me leading my horse in for some oats, and there you are, waving to me. You are checking me out."

She looked at it warmly. "Looks like I am clapping. What did you do to deserve applause?"

"I probably just stayed out of trouble all afternoon."

"Well done, Mr. Moyer. We appreciate that in our customers." She slid the book across the demagnetizer in a practiced motion, then ran it over the checker that emitted a red laser signal to record the transaction as she checked it out for him.

"You can call me Rick if you wish."

She gave him an enigmatic look as she pushed the book toward him. Her mouth was slightly open as if she were about to say something (maybe clever) but nothing came out.

Had he frightened or offended her? Talk about mixed signals. Hot one second, cold the next. He felt his stomach lurch. Had he been too forward? Mortified, he drew back. "Forgive me."

She gave him a frank look, distant but warm, a mixed signal that scared him suddenly. "Come see us again—" (she seemed to struggle with what to say for a second)—"Mr. Moyer." Was that struggle about his name or was it about the ‘us’ that she really maybe meant to come out as a ‘me’? Or not?

Unable to speak, he laid his palm down on the desk for a second, gave her a nod, a hum, and a pair of raised eyebrows, and then he scurried out of the library. He almost tossed the book into the Return slot, but did it only because he did not want to send any signals, intentional or not, especially not rude ones. Instead, he tossed the book in the trunk of his car and forgot about it.

Pulling out of the library driveway, waiting to find an opening in traffic, he reflected how foolish he was. Inadvertently, was he doing something he never did—flirt with a married woman? Or was there something else going on? Please, send me sanity, he prayed.

It took him a full twenty minutes, driving robotically in heavy traffic, to soothe his ruffled feelings and forgive himself, then to put everything in an acceptable perspective. The empty seats around him seemed to listen sympathetically.

"I screwed up. I probably offended her. No wonder she was stand-offish. Trying to be polite to me while I probably made her squirm with discomfort. I mistook her warm, simple, beautiful nature for a come-on. I am an evil person. She is probably a married woman after all. A happily married woman. No wonder she was looking at me so strangely, and acting so nervously. What a fool I have been again." Then he comforted himself: "She is the kind of woman I would like to meet some day if I ever can trust myself again. I have paid my dues in life." The sting of what had happened with Cindy remained a fresh wound on his soul. "I carry a thick book of Be Silly and Get Out of Jail Free coupons. I am allowed to fumble a bit, as long as my intentions are pure. If I were married, I’d want a wife who is just like her. Generous, warm, dignified, with that kind of superior librarian air about her. I don’t want to spend my life with a glamour queen or a high-maintenance society babe. I want to meet a nurse or a librarian. Somebody true blue with a simple life to share. Somebody real. Oh Lord why can I never grow up? Why must the woman I want always be someone out of reach? Why do they have these loyal, home-body Penelope types in these little towns? Maybe I just have to move here to find one like her."

In a way, he felt heartbroken. He’d developed such a crush on her, driven by the library windows so many times, and all for nothing. He said out loud to the empty seats all around him: "Lesson learned. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goodies, just as you don’t want him coveting or coming on to your goodies. You know," he told the seats, "I am not a shmoe. I am not the kind of guy who screws around with other men’s wives. I have dignity. I have integrity and honor. I will never be stopping in Emery again and bothering that poor woman. What a sap!" He slapped himself hard on the thigh, two or three times until it stung. "I am a idiot. But I learn my lesson and move on in life."

The empty seats around him agreed completely amid the river of passing headlights and taillights as he hove into familiar home territory. Ahead, a rambling house of empty rooms awaited him. He could throw a party and fill it with women. He could splash in the pool with bikinis, dance with gowns, chat with clowns, sip champagne with high heels and lipstick—but he’d done that all his life. It meant nothing to him. There was no there there.

It was just elevator music.