Hand-Me-Down

He shook his head. “Three girls is enough.”

“Why haven’t you remarried?” I wasn’t sure if I liked the idea, but my dad wasn’t really meant to live alone. “It’s been almost twenty years.”

“You’re one to talk, with all your boyfriends.” He grabbed lettuce and carrots for a salad. “You’re a female Lothario.”

“I am not.”

“You’re Lotharia.”

“I’m not Lotharia.”

“You break up with every man you date. I can’t imagine Rip’ll last much longer, poor guy.”

“You like him?” Every time Rip met my father, he tried to sell him a new house.

“The question is, do you?”

“He’s funny and smart and wonderful—what’s not to like?”

“You’re not getting VD?” Dad asked.

No, he didn’t mean VD VD. He meant Vague Dissatisfaction. I’d stupidly confessed to him once that I had an acute case of Vague Dissatisfaction. Nothing in particular was wrong, but nothing felt right. It was why I never stuck with things very long. Dad considered it a low-level social disease, which would flare up periodically into unsightly outbreaks: VD. Dad thought he was pretty funny.

I glared. “Everything’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Then give me an onion.”

I gave him an onion, and we let the subject drop. He told university stories over dinner, and when we’d finished, he offered me Oreos for dessert.

“Is it a new package?” I asked.

“Anne, you’ve got to stop this.”

“My diet starts tomorrow.”

“You know what I mean. Your obsession with newness.”

Easy for him to say. With two older sisters, hand-me-downs had been the primary fact of my young life.

Charlotte had a Malibu Barbie with a full wardrobe. Emily had a slightly used Malibu Barbie with two outfits. I had a one-armed, bald Barbie who enjoyed nudist colonies.

Charlotte wore Jordache when it was popular. Emily wore Jordache when it was passable. I wore Jordache when it was passé.

Charlotte learned to drive on a six-year-old VW Rabbit. Emily learned on a seven-year-old VW Rabbit. I learned on a twelve-year-old, rusted-out junker with suspicious stains on the seats and the faint odor of Gruyère.

But all I said to Dad was, “I don’t like stale Oreos is all.”

He lifted his pipe from the ashtray on the kitchen table and packed it with tobacco. “They’re fresh from the factory.”

“Where are they?” I asked, heading toward the pantry.

“Bottom shelf.”

I pulled the half-eaten package from the shelf and forced myself to take one. From the back. The very back. “Not bad.”

Dad looked pleased as he lit up his pipe, and I surreptitiously pulled a brand-new carton of milk from the fridge—ignoring the one which was already open—and poured myself a glass. I’d let him discover that little treat tomorrow.

When I got home, I found a message from Rip. The nights we weren’t together we usually talked before sleep, and lately we’d been discussing moving in together. I’d lived with other men—Doug and Alex, for about twenty minutes each—but always returned to Charlotte’s guest house when things went awry. I wasn’t sure if living with Rip was a good idea. We already worked in the same office, and spending more time together seemed a great way to kill a nice relationship.

I picked up the phone to call him back, but didn’t feel like talking. I was itchy and restless. I switched on the TV. I’d see Rip at work tomorrow.

CHAPTER 05

By ten-thirty the next morning, I knew that Dad’s words had ruined me. I’d been perfectly content and happy—or at least acceptably content and happy—until he’d mentioned my VD. Now I was in the grips of an enormous amorphous ennui.

The job was fine. Rip was great. I didn’t care.

I sulked through the morning, and slipped out for an early liquid lunch. I sipped my peanut-butter-banana-chocolate smoothie and worried. Was I Lotharia? It wasn’t like I cut a huge swath through the male population. I just hadn’t found the right man, and couldn’t quite bring myself to care. Could Rip be the one? Well, his name was Rip, but that’s no worse than Ralph as in Fiennes, even if it is pronounced Rafe.

At least Rip was pronounced Rip. And his personality was as solid as his elocution. Perfect husband material…if only I were looking for a husband. I wasn’t. It’s far easier to have a relationship when you aren’t. The pressure cooker is off. I’ve watched friends with their cookers clamped down tight, the steamer diddly whirling round and round. Every date, every conversation and sexual experience, every misunderstanding, deviant desire, ambition, frustration and inadequacy is added to the pot until the whole thing blows.

I prefer the omelet approach to relationships. You use what few ingredients you have at hand, scramble them in a hot pan, and enjoy. Quick and simple.

Then why was I feeling such discontent?

Back in the office, I did what I always did when side-swiped by dissatisfaction: a little personal research. I’d collected a file of real estate deals I was interested in—my Recent Developments file. From big money resorts to condo conversions to commercial buildings, all the deals I was sure would make me rich, if I actually pursued them. Well, and could afford them. And knew how to be a developer and all.

My file of dreams. I flipped through it, and decided to call about The Hole, one of my recurring dream deals. A block off downtown Santa Barbara, there used to be a residential hotel for old people. But it was on prime real estate, and the old people were considered well past their prime, so some developer kicked everyone out and tore the place down, with assurances that they’d find the seniors new homes and bring prosperity and joy to downtown. Five years later, all they’d brought was The Hole—the great gaping basement of the hotel they’d demolished.

Well, I had some plans for that gaping basement. I dialed.

“I’m calling about the property on the corner of Carrillo and Chapala,” I told the man on the other end. “I’m representing—”

“You’re not representing anyone,” he said. “I recognize your voice.”

So maybe I’d called once too often. But thank God he didn’t know who I was. I’d never given a name.

“Well, if you’d just fax me the information—” I said.

“Are you a broker?”

“Not exactly.”

“You still think it’d be a great place for an indoor driving range?”

“I never said that!” I said. “That was just my way of getting you to talk to me.”

“And this is just my way of talking.” He hung up.