“But girls don’t do that when they’re in love.”
Brad suddenly intrudes on my thoughts. An image of how he looks in the morning with his hair all mussed in a sexy way pops into my head. The acute way his eyes hone in on me over dinner. The warmth that rushes through me after a glass of wine. The anticipation of the night ahead. That little mischievous smile. His soft lips…
“You are so in love,” Marcy interrupts my reverie. “You have this dopey grin on your face.”
I feel myself blushing. “So what?”
“Just be prepared for when he dumps you,” she cautions.
“What if he doesn’t? What if we live happily-ever-after?” I can’t help but hope. Hope fills my daydreams and my night dreams. It fills every pore of my body, and I don’t want anybody to take it from me.
“Does he want kids?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Well, he’s never had kids. That could be a deal breaker for him.”
I bite my lip. It could be. I’m older than him and don’t intend to have any more kids. What if he does want them? Will it be a deal breaker? I don’t want to think about it. He’ll fall madly in love with me and it won’t matter.
“Does he get along with your kids? If he was serious, he’d spend time with your kids.”
“He usually just picks me up.”
“Hmmm.”
“It’s still early in our relationship,” I remind her. “All that will come later.”
“True.” She nods and it makes me feel a little better.
“I don’t think you realize how lucky you are.” I change the subject back to her. How do we keep talking about Brad? It feels too fragile to pick apart. Why does she have to plant doubts in my mind that grow like weeds?
“Doug loves you. He’s a nice guy. You should give him the benefit of the doubt,” I say.
She groans. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours. And I know you really love him, and he really loves you.”
“He’s okay.” She grins at me. “What are you? His PR agent?”
“I just remember your wedding day,” I tell her. “You were both so happy.”
“Yeah.” She frowns. “You know I want things to work out for you, but I’m afraid this one won’t be around long. Guys like him marry their own kind.”
I scowl. “His kind? What kind is that?”
“You know, someone from a rich successful family, not a struggling divorced woman with teenagers. Someone highly educated with some big important job.”
“He’s not highly educated,” I argue.
“It doesn’t matter. He has wealthy parents who want him to marry up.”
“He contacted me,” I remind her. “He answered my ad. The one you made me post.”
“But that doesn’t mean it will turn serious,” she says. “His parents aren’t going to accept you.”
I sigh heavily at her comments. “I just want it to work out.”
“I know.” She gives me a sympathetic look. “I hope it does.”
I don’t articulate my own qualms about Brad, though I can sense the depth of his emotions when he touches me. Even if he can’t recognize it and won’t voice it, I feel the truth deep in my heart. Our souls have touched.
“Vera.” Marcy is shaking her head. “I’m telling you he’ll never marry you.”
Chapter 7
Brad’s parents invite me to dinner to meet me. I’m more worked up than when I’d met Brad for the first time. My stomach twists in painful knots as I yank clothing out of my closet. I should dress conservatively, yet comfortably. I don’t want to exacerbate my anxiety by being uncomfortable as well. Thanks to Brad, I’ve gained a few pounds after dining in pricey restaurants for the past few months, and some of my slacks and skirts are now snug. Luckily, I have a pair of black slacks with an elastic waistband. I wear the same cream short-sleeved sweater I’d worn the day I’d met him hoping it will be lucky. I step into black low-heeled shoes. I’ve worn flats or low heels since I’ve met Brad due to his height. It’s more comfortable anyway. Jewelry is easy – small silver hoops in my ears and a simple silver bracelet.
I debate what to do with my hair and play with it for nearly an hour. I want to do something sophisticated with it. Should I sweep it up on one side, twist it into a French braid, or pull it all back? I’m not adept at fixing my hair. I usually wear it loose or in a ponytail when Brad and I go out. I finally leave it loose, so it won’t undo itself at some point and make me look disheveled. Such monumental decisions.
I put extra deodorant on and am fanning my underarms when I hear Brad’s car pull up. He doesn’t like to come in, so I throw on my sweater, grab my purse, and hurry outside to jump in the air-conditioned car.
“You look pretty,” he says.
It’s a critique because he doesn’t give compliments. He’s fretting about his parents meeting me. He depends on them financially for his business and strives to please them. I can’t help but feel the pressure. This is a significant meeting. It’s imperative that they like me. I’ve never been so overwrought and can’t wait for this meeting to be over with.
We drive in silence out to the coast. It’s a stunning drive, and I stare out at the rolling surf with the bright reflection of the sun glinting off the water causing me to don my sunglasses. I envy the seagulls gliding in the breeze and strutting on the sand with not a care in the world.
As we begin the ascent up a long winding road past large affluent homes, my butterflies perk up and begin a more frenzied dance. I feel like an unwelcome intruder breeching this exclusive community. I place my hand on my stomach to halt my mounting dread.
“Are you okay?” Brad glances at me.
“I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? We could go back if you don’t feel well.” Maybe he’s looking for an excuse.
“I’m just nervous.”
Though I’d prefer to turn around and avoid this meeting meant to judge my worthiness, I’d rather get this unpleasantness over with. If things go well, an approval will be bestowed upon our relationship and it can progress. I’m painfully aware of this. But if not? I don’t know what will befall us.
The stucco house is perched on a hill along with other million-dollar homes. A variety of drought resistant plants are aesthetically arranged in the front yard behind the wrought iron gate which opens after Brad presses in a code. After we park, he jogs over to the passenger car door to open it, and I step out into the heat. The house looks squat and long, and we approach the arched wooden door. Colorful ceramic pots filled with succulents frame the doorway.
Brad leads me into the cool dimness of the foyer without knocking. I exchange my sunglasses for my regular glasses so I can see clearly inside. I also hope they will make me look studious and serious.
“We’re here,” he calls out and shrugs at me.
I study the interior of the house. The living room is ahead sporting a curved gray couch that faces wall to wall windows with an incredible view. To the left is the ocean and to the right miles of flat landscape fan out interspersed with dry rocky hills, clusters of houses, and mountains in the distance.