“I don't want to be terribly old-fashioned,” Paris said apologetically, feeling foolish, particularly given the closeness of their age. “It's too soon for either of you to know what your intentions are, but don't play with her, Richard. I don't want a man your age coming along and breaking her heart. She doesn't deserve that.” She was thinking about Chandler Freeman as she said it. He would have made mincemeat of a young girl. But Richard didn't look to be cut of the same cloth. And wasn't. “You're a lot older and wiser than she is, and stronger. If you're not serious about her, don't play with her, and don't hurt her.”
“I promise you, Paris,” he said intently, “I won't. And if I am serious?” He asked the question pointedly, and held his breath. “Would you object?”
“I don't know,” she said honestly. “I'd have to think about it. You're a lot older than she is. All I want is for her to be happy.”
“Happiness doesn't always respect the boundaries of age,” he said wisely. “In fact it often doesn't. Age has nothing to do with this. She is the woman I love,” he said simply. “I've never felt like this about any woman, except my ex-wife.” What he said rang a bell with her, and she frowned as she looked at him.
“How long have you been divorced?”
“Three years,” he said quietly. And Paris was immediately relieved. At least he hadn't been divorced and playing for fifteen or twenty. She remembered all the warnings she'd had from Bix.
“That's respectable.”
“I haven't met anyone important to me yet. Until Meg. And I didn't expect it to be with her. She and my daughter are friends.”
“You never know how love is going to walk into your life, or if. And when it does, you don't know what face it's going to wear. In some ways, for both of you, I'm glad it's hers.” She liked him a lot. It was just odd to have her daughter's boyfriend be the same age as she was. But it also allowed them to be friends, and far more candid with each other than she ever could have been with Anthony or Peace, who were mere children. Richard was a man, and a good one, and she said as much to Meg when they left. Meg looked peaceful and happy, and thrilled that her mother had liked him. She was madly in love with Richard, and he was equally so with her.
And after they left, Paris couldn't help musing about how strange life was. The kind of man she should have been with was with her daughter. And she was left to damaged goods like Jim Thompson, playboys like Chandler Freeman, and blind dates like the sculptor from Santa Fe. There wasn't a decent one in the lot, except Jim, who was a nice man, but wounded beyond repair. She was beginning to wonder if that was all she would find, and all the good ones belonged to someone else. She wondered if there was another one like Richard Bolen out there somewhere. She doubted it, and if there wasn't, she was better off alone. She had finally come to accept that. It no longer felt like a life sentence to her anymore, but a simple fact of life. If she never found another man to love, she knew she'd be all right. Better alone than with the wrong one. She no longer had the energy for that, or the interest. Love at any price came too dear.
She told Bix about Richard the next day.
“That's too bad,” Bix said sensibly. “He sounds like just the kind of guy you need, instead of all these weirdos and freaks running around, and wounded animals with thorns in their paws. Christ, sometimes I wonder if there's anyone normal left.”
“So do I. And you're not dating them, I am. Or I could be, if I were crazy enough to try. And the good ones like Richard want women half my age. By the time they want me, they have to be a hundred years old.”
“Hardly. A nice fifty-year-old would do you just fine. All we have to do is find one.”
“Good luck!” Paris said, looking cynical.
“Do you think he'll marry her?” Bix inquired with interest.
“I don't know. He might. Last week I would have said ‘I hope not.’ This week I'm not so sure. He's too old for her theoretically, but shit, Bix, if they're happy and they love each other, why not? Maybe age doesn't matter as much as we think.”
“I don't think it does. Look at Steven and me. We have almost as much age difference as Meg and Richard, and we couldn't be happier.”
“Maybe I need an old one,” Paris said with a grin. “If I find a guy twenty-four years older than I am, he'd be seventy-one. Maybe that's not such a bad thought.”
“Depends on the guy,” Bix said openly. “I've met some seventy-year-olds I would give my right arm for. These days, if they want to be, men can be young into their eighties, and beyond that. I know a woman who's married to an eighty-six-year-old man in Los Altos, and she swears their sex life is better than ever, and two years ago, they had a baby.”
“Now, there's a thought.” Paris looked amused, although eighty-six seemed a little over the limit, at least for the moment.
“What, an eighty-six-year-old? I can find you one in a hot minute. They'd love to have you!” He was laughing.
