Playing By The Rules

I never considered myself exempt from the storytelling, but I did think I knew what they said about me: She’s more interested in her career than in men. Chloe’s father started that one. His name is Millson—Millson Kramer III. If he were going to be honest, he’d tell you that he was actually relieved when I refused to marry him. He was just “doing the right thing” by asking me in the first place. Right after Chloe was born, he suffered a hiccup of conscience and tried to make things neat and legal and tidy for all of us. I declined his offer, and that, of course, looked bad for him, so he saved face by informing Philadelphia’s legal community that he had tried his best but that I was a cold and brittle workaholic.

I’m pretty sure that Frank Ethan—the last date I’d had six weeks ago—contributed to Mill’s version of Mandy Hillman when I declined to go out with him a second time. There have been a few others like Frank over the years who’ve failed to excite me, so no doubt they’ve all tossed their two cents into the pot, as well. But I’m not cold. I just like my own company. And your perspective on these things changes when you pass that milestone of turning thirty-five, which I had just done. You don’t need to claw quite as much.

“When you’re in your twenties, you’re just seized by all the possibilities,” I tried to explain to Grace as we waded through McGlinchey’s clientele. For all her jaded world-wisdom, Grace is only twenty-six.

Someone nearly spilled a drink on her, and she curled a lip in the man’s direction. He apologized profusely. “What possibilities are those?” she asked me.

“Sexual. Life advancement. Societal compliance.” We finally reached the bar. I had to raise my voice to order. Then we began trolling for a table, each of us armed with a glass of Chardonnay.

At McGlinchey’s, this is a game not unlike musical chairs. The trick is to be near a table when the inhabitants stand to go. It took us twenty minutes, but we managed it. Grace slipped into one of the vacated seats. Her stockings whispered as she crossed her legs. The noise level in McGlinchey’s was at full throttle, but every male within a six-foot radius heard the sound. Heads ratcheted in Grace’s direction.

“That,” I said, looking around at their faces, “was the sexual part of it.”

Grace shrugged. “It’s the Pavlov syndrome, an automatic response to stimuli. It means nothing.”

I pursued my point. “Anyway, when you’re young, you’re more inclined to settle into a relationship just because the sex is fantastic.”

“That’s a very good reason at any age, Mandy. Assuming one was the settling type.”

“Over thirty-five, you’re less likely to be satisfied by the sex alone,” I insisted, sipping wine. “And you’re less likely to hook up with someone for the express purpose of having children and raising a family. Most people take care of that issue in their twenties.”

“Not so much in this day and age. Women are having their children later and later in life.”

“I said most, not all.” I held up a three fingers. “Third, you’re also not likely to settle down in your thirties just because it makes it easier to get a mortgage. You’ve probably already done that, too.”

“You haven’t.”

“I live in Philadelphia. Real estate is ridiculously expensive.”

“So move out of the city.”

“I love the city. What number was I up to?”

“Four.”

I nodded. “Last but not least, you’re also less likely to take a mate just because society is geared almost exclusively toward couples.”

“That’s the compliance part?”

“Yes. So you see, if you hook up with someone once you get past thirty-five, I think you do it for the purest of reasons. Compatibility. Comfort. Conversation. Then throw in a little lust for fun and games. The whole situation becomes easy and noncombative. You don’t fall into a relationship for what the guy can give you, because you’ve probably already gotten it for yourself. You don’t have the need to demand anymore. You can just accept.”

Grace swallowed wine. “Oh, joy. I can hardly wait. Does this come hand in hand with crow’s feet?”

I ignored that. “It’s why I don’t date…much,” I explained. “And why I don’t have an overriding need to claw.”

“Because you’ve already got a child, you don’t want a mortgage and you don’t care what people think anymore?”

“In a nutshell, yes. I can afford to be selective now, so I am.”

Grace put her wineglass on the table and leaned forward. “Mandy. You haven’t dated lately because you spend all your free time with Sam. Let’s not lie to each other here.”

My spine jerked straight, hard enough and suddenly enough to hurt a little. “That’s not true.”

“What’s not?” Jenny Tower asked, flopping into one of the chairs. By the way she shifted her weight in her seat, I knew she was toeing her shoes off under the table. She looked tired.

“Mandy doesn’t date because she’s too busy hanging out with Sam,” Grace said.

“It’s my choice!” I was going to get that through to her if it killed me. “I can afford to wait for compatibility, comfort and conversation because I’m thirty-five!”

Jenny took her apron off and laid it on her lap, pulling a wad of tips from the pocket. She started sorting the ones from the fives. “I don’t ever want to be that old.”

“It’s better than dying young,” Grace said, “but barely.” Then she grabbed the money from Jenny’s hand. “Honey, you’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Jenny looked around the bar and blinked as though coming out of a dream. If there’s anyone in the world more trusting than Jenny is, then it would have to be Toto himself—and even Toto had the good sense to bark at that goofy wizard. “You think someone’s going to snatch it right out of my hand?” she asked disbelievingly.

Grace took the hand in question and pressed the money back into it, folding Jenny’s fingers over it. “Call me mercenary, but our rent is due in two weeks.”

Jenny sighed and pushed the money into her jeans pocket. “Okay. I’ll count it later. Let’s get back to why Mandy doesn’t date.”

I launched into my theory again. “I haven’t met anyone recently who particularly inspires me, and I don’t need all those other things I was mentioning—the mortgage and whatnot—so I won’t tolerate someone who doesn’t inspire me.”

“Which brings us back to Sam,” Grace said. She cut a look at Jenny. “We were talking about clawing his clothes off, at which point Mandy went off into this business about relationships at a certain age. Compatibility. Comfort. Conversation. Wait, what was the other thing you mentioned?” She glanced at me again and tapped a finger against her cheek exaggeratedly. “Ah. Now I remember. Lust.”

“Lust is good,” Jenny contributed. “But I agree, the other things matter a whole lot, too.”

“You and Sam are compatible,” Grace continued, still aiming her words at me. “You’re comfortable with each other. The conversation between you is great—just ask any of us who’ve ever tried to horn in on it. Therefore, according to everything you just told me, the progression is obvious. You two ought to be having sex.”

I opened my mouth to argue and realized that I had just been boxed in by my own theory. Grace was going to make one hell of a lawyer when she finished clerking for the criminal court judge.

Then she sat up a little straighter and looked over my shoulder. I turned in my chair and followed her gaze and my pulse hiccuped.

Sam had just arrived. He was standing at the bar.

Chapter Two

“Who’s that with him?” Jenny asked, leaning forward at our table to check out the situation.

My gaze hitched to Sam’s left. It was the woman he’d taken out Monday night. Surprise—she had a lot of hair and all of it was blond. “I think he said she works for Fox, Murray and Myers,” I said. “She’s a receptionist.”

“She looks like a bimbo,” Grace observed.

My gaze dropped to her not insignificant bosom. “I don’t think he wants her for her mind.”

Then, as though my attention had drawn his, Sam looked around and saw us. He grinned at me and picked up his scotch-and-water from the bar. I knew it was scotch because that was pretty much all he ever drank—Glenlivet specifically. With his glass in one hand and the blonde’s elbow in his other, he began steering her toward our table.

Jenny ogled them. “He’s bringing her here? He’s bringing his date to sit with Mandy?”

“He probably wants my stamp of approval,” I murmured.