“At a Fourth of July party.” She didn't say that he was a friend's father. She was still afraid of her mother's reaction.
“Will I like him, or does he have spiked hair and wear earrings?”
“No earrings. He looks kind of like Dad. Sort of.”
And for no reason in particular Paris moved on to the next question. “How old is he?” She was expecting to hear twenty-four or twenty-five, Meg's usual range, or maybe a little younger, but not if he was an attorney. He was probably fresh out of law school, so maybe twenty-six or twenty-seven. And then she remembered that he had important clients. There was silence at Meg's end. “Are you there?” Paris thought the cell phone had disconnected.
“I'm here. He's kind of older, Mom.”
“How kind of older? Work back from ninety,” Paris said, smiling. To Meg, “older” would be twenty-nine or thirty.
She took it at one gulp and spat it in her mother's lap. “Forty-eight. He's divorced, and has a daughter my age. That's how I know him.”
“Forty-eight?” Paris said in disbelief. “He's twice your age? What are you doing? He must feel like a father to you.” Paris sounded upset, and was.
“No, he doesn't. I just feel comfortable with him. And he doesn't play all those games and bullshit.”
“I should be dating him,” Paris said, still sounding shocked, and not sure what to make of it. He sounded like a player, like Chandler, if he was going out with a girl Meg's age. She was instantly inclined not to like him.
“Yes, you should, Mom,” Meg agreed. “You'd love him. He's a terrific person.”
“How terrific can he be if he's robbing the cradle and going out with children?” Worse yet,
“Those things happen. I don't think age matters. All that matters are the people.”
“When you're forty-five, he'll be nearly seventy, if it gets to that. That's something to think about.”
“We're not there yet,” Meg said softly. But they had talked about it.
“I certainly hope not. Maybe I should come down and meet him.”
“We've been talking about coming up for Labor Day weekend.”
“I think you should. I want this man to know that you're not an orphan, and you have a mother who's keeping an eye on him. What's his name?”
“Richard. Richard Bolen.” Paris was stunned into silence. Her daughter was dating a forty-eight-year-old man. And she didn't like it. But she tried not to get too excited about it when she talked to Meg. She didn't want to push her into it any deeper in order to defend him. And she talked to Jim about it that night. He was concerned too, but willing to concede that major age differences weren't always a bad thing, if he was a responsible, decent person.
“See what you think when you meet him,” Jim said reasonably.
“I'd like you to meet him,” she said, and he was flattered. Other than that piece of somewhat distressing news, they had a nice time that night, and Jim asked her if she'd like to go away for a weekend with him, to the Napa Valley. Given what had been happening between them, it was a major invitation. They had been dating for two months, and hadn't gone to bed yet. A weekend in Napa might make a difference. And Paris looked at him mischievously as he kissed her.
“Two rooms or one, Mr. Thompson?” It was a very bold question.
“What would you like?” he asked gently. She'd been ready for weeks, but she didn't want to scare him.
“Would you be comfortable with one, Jim?” she asked, as she snuggled against him. The one thing she didn't want was to take Phyllis with them. Or Peter. She was ready for Peter to go back in the closet, where he belonged now, with Rachel. Phyllis was a far different matter. And Jim had to put her in his own closet, when he was ready, and so far he still wasn't. She dropped into their midst like a Murphy bed, as often as he let her. Which was often.
“I think I'd be happy with one room,” he said, smiling at Paris. “Shall I make a reservation?” She thought he looked handsome and sexy as he asked her.
“I'd love it.” Paris beamed at him.
Two days later they were on their way to Rutherford, in the Napa Valley, to stay at the Auberge du Soleil. What he didn't tell Paris till they got there was that he had spent his last anniversary there, with Phyllis, only months before she died.
“Why didn't you tell me?” Paris looked disappointed when he finally shared that with her. “We could have stayed somewhere else.” And should have. She was afraid of their single room now, with the huge king-size bed and the cozy fireplace. There was something sexy and subtle about the room, and she would have had a good time there, minus Phyllis. But she had already joined them, and was settling in as Paris unpacked.
