Why I Love Singlehood: (33 page)

I laughed. “I wasn’t calling about the casserole.”

“Good,” he said, “’cause I’m not taking any.”

“OK, OK already.”

The dome light in his car dimmed, obscuring his form.

“So can I go now?” he asked in mock impatience.

“Yes,” I said. As he shifted into gear and backed out, I peered at his headlights. “But I just wanted to say…” I finished putting my thought together. “Norman, you’re more my family than they are.”

He took a moment to answer. “Wow,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” I paused. “And it’s both special and sad, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.”

I could imagine him nodding as his car waited at the end of the street, turn signal pulsing like a heartbeat. He turned onto the main road and was gone in seconds.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Zan.”

“Same to you, Jayna. Enjoy the day off tomorrow. See you Saturday.”

“Yep. You too.”

“And thanks,” he said. “It’s good to have a home that isn’t going anywhere any time soon.”

“See ya,” we each said and disconnected.

The quiet of the night seemed oppressive and pounding, made tangible by the sudden absence of anyone in my home or on the street. It settled into the house, and I took in a breath, feeling exhaustion mixed with relief that the day was over. Cleaning the kitchen had been twice the work following Olivia’s and my suds fight, but it had been worth it to find my sister for a moment.

30

The Potato Shack

ON THE TUESDAY
following Thanksgiving, at three minutes before seven o’clock, I locked the doors and then went to work on register closeout while Susanna cleaned. From behind the counter, I heard a rapping on the glass door, and when I looked up from the register till, Susanna called, “It’s Car Talk Kenny.”

I stopped counting. “Kenny?”

“Want me to let him in?”

“Tell him to hold on a sec,” I said, counting the change again. When I finished, I grabbed my keys from the counter and let him in.

“Hey,” he said. “You free tonight?”

I looked at him, dazed. “What?”

“You goin’ out with anyone tonight?”

I laughed at the notion that I would go out anywhere. “No.”

“Good. Wanna have dinner with me?”

It was then that I got a good look at him. For starters, his hair was short and styled. Gone were the uneven wisps, and it even looked darker—less sandpaper and more walnut-colored. The cut flattered his features, bringing out his eyes and defining the bone structure of his clean-shaven face.

My eyes moved away from his face only to take in the rest of him—he wore a light blue oxford shirt tucked into dark blue jeans, with a brown leather belt and Nubucks to match. Instead of lanky or gangly, he stood tall and towering, professional. His presence was full, powerful, dominant, not unlike the man I’d seen running on the beach months ago.

In short,
Wow
.

“Is this—are you asking me out on a date?” I asked. “On a Tuesday?”

He nodded. “Guess so.”

“I reek of coffee.”

“I’m not taking you to Tavern on the Green.”

“I really, really need a shower,” I said.

“So I’ll follow you to your place.”

During the seven-minute drive to my house, I checked my rearview mirror every few seconds to make sure he was behind me, driving his sun-kissed orange 1970 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia convertible. The famous Karmann Ghia. The one that had Click and Clack on
Car Talk
so excited. He pulled into the driveway behind me and followed me to my front door. All I could think about was how messy my house was. But I couldn’t very well let him wait in his car.

“It’s a mess,” I warned him as I unlocked the door.

“I’ll only look at the clean parts,” he promised. We entered and he took in the rooms one by one. “Nice.”

“I’ve got some decent DVDs over there,” I said, pointing to the entertainment center. “Not that I’m gonna take that long, but, well, help yourself.”

He perused the DVDs on the shelf in front of him, bending slightly. I then headed to the bathroom, where I hastily showered and mentally ripped apart my closet in search of something to wear. I figured jeans, a V-neck sweater, and boots would suffice.

After hastily blow-drying my hair and applying some makeup, I returned to the living room to find him channel-surfing. When he saw me, he stood up, his hazel eyes sparkling.

“I like,” was all he said.

A bout of shyness overcame me as I smiled. “I’m clean, at least.”

He turned off the TV while I got my leather jacket and scarf.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Dinner,” he replied.

I rolled my eyes, feigning exasperation. “Obviously. Where?”

“You’ll see.”

We walked out to his car. He opened the door for me, and as I sank into the seat and pulled the vintage seatbelt across my shoulder and lap, I put my nose to the backrest and inhaled the scent of leather before catching myself.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

I blushed. “My uncle used to drive a Triumph—the smell of these seats reminds me of him taking my sister Olivia and me out for Carvel ice cream when we were kids.”

He seemed pleased with my candor (and yet, I realized that I would’ve been repulsed had one of my Lovematch.com dates engaged in such behavior) and peeled out of the driveway. We talked mostly about the Karmann Ghia—he was sorry it was too cold to put the top down—and his
Car Talk
show appearance en route to wherever it was he was taking me. Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up to what looked like a small house with a flat roof.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“The Potato Shack,” he said.

He opened both the car and restaurant doors for me. The walls inside the Potato Shack were decorated with aged black-and-white photos of potato farms. We talked as a server escorted us to our table.

“I thought you’d appreciate this,” said Kenny. “The original owner of this place was a Long Islander and his dad was a potato farmer. He moved down here—”

“The son?” I interjected.

“Yes, the son of the potato farmer moved down here because he could get the beauty of the Atlantic coast for half the cost.”

“Good slogan.”

“And he opened this place in honor of his dad, using imported Long Island potatoes.”

“I didn’t think there were any left—potato farms on Long Island, I mean.”

“I think his family still owns a small plot.”

I opened the menu, scanned it quickly, and looked up at Kenny in confusion.

“This is the appetizer menu?”

“No, this is the whole menu.”

“OK, I don’t wanna be like a complete idiot, but—”

“Yeah?”

“It’s all potatoes.”

He grinned playfully. “Isn’t it great?”

“No salads? No steaks or burgers?”

“Smashed, roasted, fried, baked, scalloped, skinned, take your pick.”

“How’d they stay open during the no-carb fad?”

“I highly recommend the smashed with cheddar and bacon. You’ll have died and gone to heaven.”

“With all that cholesterol, yeah.”

He laughed.

“What are you getting?” I asked.

“The fries with meat sauce,” he said.

I looked at him, half-stunned, half-repulsed. “Meat sauce as in spaghetti-and-meat-sauce, meat sauce?”

“Yep,” he grinned.

“You’re kidding.”

“Trust me, they’re awesome.”

The server took our orders, and we sat in momentary awkward silence while the Beatles’
Rubber Soul
album played in the background.

“Where’ve you been, Kenny?” I finally asked, surprised by the pain in my voice.

He turned his gaze down before looking me squarely in the eye. “For one thing, I started a business,” he answered.

“So I heard. Doing what?”

“A small press. I’m the guy that does everything everyone else can’t do. Designing and maintaining the Web site, formatting files, budgeting projections, business proposals, you name it. I’m even drawing a salary.”

“Wow,” was all I could say. “You could have told us. I would’ve given you a complimentary cookie or something.” (God, did that sound stupid.)

“That’s not the main reason I stayed away.” He paused. “I didn’t want to see you and Scott together.”

This confession gave me a crappy feeling. I suddenly felt guilty, responsible for his absence. And yet, I also felt a twinge of disappointment and anger.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” I asked.

“It was too late.”

I couldn’t help but concede the point.

“Did you know we broke up?”

He nodded. “The grapevine managed to wend its way to my ears. Why’d you think I asked you out tonight?”

“And you thought a month was enough time for me to get over it?”

“It’s not like Scott ever swept you off your feet.”

“How do you know?”

“Did he ever take you to the Potato Shack?”

I quickly scanned the place. “You consider
this
a romantic place?”

“Hell, yeah!” He grinned and took a swig of beer.

I changed the subject.

“Did you know that you’re the first Kenny I actually like? No guy named Kenny has ever been a nice guy. Actually, it’s the Ken’s who seem to be the assholes.”

“You don’t say,” he said, amused.

“You’ve never noticed? In real life and on TV. Watch
Law & Order
. The criminals are always named Kenny or Ken—”

“Always?”

“—and they’re all weasels. Then, of course, there’s Ken of ‘Barbie and Ken’ fame.”

“Hey, you can’t judge a guy by his plastic hair.”

“Still, I’m glad you’re not a Ken. But you should really consider changing your name,” I teased.

“To what?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

I took a sip of my cocktail to buy time. He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, grinning in anticipation.

“What’s your middle name?” I asked.

“Richard. Kenneth Richard Rhodes,” he said, the tone of his voice formal and deep.

“Richard Rhodes…” I tried, accentuating the Rs. “Well, the alliteration works well.”

“But…?” He could tell I wasn’t sold.

“I don’t know; ‘Richard’ sounds too distinguished for you. Like you should be running a hedge fund.”

“Gee, thanks,” he said, and quickly added, “I agree with you, though. What about Rich?”

“Nah.”

“Rick? Or how ’bout Ricky?” he asked.

I made a face. “That might be worse than Kenny.”

“How about Chad? Or Chase? I’ve always liked that name.”

“Not unless you’re planning to be a yuppie financier. Are you planning to be a yuppie financier?”

“Not in the near future.”

“Then I’m sorry to say, I think you’re a Kenny.”

“You’re just going to have to live with it. I do.” He paused for a beat before continuing. “Do you like
your
name?”

I tried to recall if anyone had ever asked me that before, and none came to me.

“I love my name; I just wish I had an easier time with the spelling-pronunciation deal.”

“I like your name, too. Your name definitely suits you—it’s pretty, and different from what you’d expect.”

Of all the compliments I’d been paid from dates of the past year, none rang so simple, so authentic. Perhaps because he’d said it not in an effort to impress me, but as an observation. That alone made my insides turn into Jell-O.

Our orders arrived, and I dug in. Kenny was right; the cheddar-and-bacon-smothered smashed potatoes were out of this world. I let out one orgasmic moan after another, and he smiled at me in satisfaction, his eyes saying,
I told you so
. I even tasted his fries with meat sauce and was surprised by how good they were, too.

I resumed the conversation, switching to a more serious track.

“We’ve missed you at The Grounds. I swear there’s been a drop in sales since you went MIA.”

He looked sad for a moment. “I’ve missed you guys, too.”

“Minerva quit school.”

“I know,” he said.

Of course you know. You’ve been having clandestine conversations with her.

I changed the subject without warning. “So what are you going to publish on your small press?”

“For starters, my novel.”

My eyes widened as I forced myself to swallow. “You wrote a novel?”

He nodded.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“You never asked.”

“You could’ve just casually mentioned it—it’s far more important than whether you like peas or the letter H.”

“I wanted to save the good stuff for the date. Aren’t you glad I did?”

“Idiot,” I said, shaking my head. He raised his eyebrows up and down just like Groucho Marx and smiled slyly before taking another bite of his fries.

“What genre?” I asked.

“Literary science fiction mixed with a little bit of pop culture.”

“So what’s it about?”

“A journalist finds out that there was a portal into the past and future in the Port Authority station that was destroyed when the towers came down on September eleventh, which means that countless people wound up trapped in either time dimension. So he sets out to find another portal so he can rescue them.”

I marveled at the concept. “Wow,” I said. “That is fantastic. I never would’ve come up with an idea like that. My novel was about an Italian family who emigrated to New York City after World War II. Nothing nearly as imaginative as yours, but it got good reviews. Limited audience, though.”

“I know, I read it. Very Adriana Trigiani.”

This time I nearly choked. “When did you read my novel?”

“When I first started coming to The Grounds. I took it from the shelf.”

“You stole my book?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

I looked at him, dumbfounded. “You wrote a novel without telling anyone, and you robbed The Grounds.”

“I brought it back.”

“Anything else I need to know?”

“I named my protagonist Chase,” he said after a pause.

“And was he a yuppie financier before he became a reporter?”

He finished the last of his fries. “You know,” he said when he finished chewing, “you should join us.”