This all happened before: before the night of the Cartier earrings and my guilt burning a hole in my evening bag, before the night of the restaurant and the dance, when everything had changed. Because although I hadn’t fully understood the deep connection between Evan and me until that night, even though I had been swamped with doubt, the promise was there. I still sensed the hint of something bigger and brighter than I’d ever even guessed at so far in my relatively small and light-muted world.
I started with the question, because in the beginning, that question was everything. Why would a thirty-seven year old, good-looking, widowed, private fund manager want to date me? I didn’t even know what a fund manager was. At twenty-three, I had only a vague, hazy idea about what it would be like to be married. I was completely clueless about what it would be like to wake up every morning and have to cope with the painful wound of losing a spouse.
I didn’t tell Jessica this part, but in the beginning, I figured Evan Halifax had probably expressed interest in me on the dating site for the same reason a lot of guys had in the past. I had a college degree and a lot of blonde hair. My parents’ investment in braces had paid off. I looked okay in a tank top. You know the drill. Like hundreds of thousands of others, I’m swipe-rightable. It means absolutely nothing.
Point being, I figured Evan’s motivation was likely as calculated as mine for expressing interest. His claims of being a Stanford graduate and the owner of a private fund might have been false, and maybe he really didn’t enjoy hiking, jogging, skiing, hockey, scuba diving, sailing, and art, like he claimed. But photos don’t lie, for the most part. Evan Halifax filled out that business suit extremely well.
I didn’t tell my little sister that the attraction between Evan and me was off the charts. I knew hearing about our blistering sex life wouldn’t reassure her. Or maybe it was me who was still in awe, and a little uncomfortable, about the power of our need for each other. A veil of mystery still hung about our shared bed.
“Are you saying everything Evan put on his dating profile was true?” Jessica interrupted skeptically at this point of my explanation. “I tried to look up his profile after you told me about him, but he’d already taken it down.”
“That’s a good thing, Jess,” I reminded her. “And yes. Evan was like the polar opposite of most guys on dating sites. Unlike most girls, too, because there was no need to fluff the personal details. Everything he mentioned wasn’t only true, it was an understatement.”
“I’m hearing Prince Charming’s theme again.”
“Do you want me to talk about this or not?”
“Okay.”
The sound of a chuffing breath and rustling could be heard from the back seat. Both of us glanced over our shoulders. Mom took a heaving breath and sagged again onto my Dad’s shoulder. Ambien to the rescue.
“Just get to the part about how he gets you or sees you, or whatever the hell you were talking about,” Jessica hissed.
I thought back to three months ago, when Evan and I went to the SFMOMA on a gorgeously gray and rainy afternoon. He had showed me a few of his favorite pieces at the museum. Again, I was impressed by his artistic knowledge, clear insight, and sensitivity to the work. It was a novel quality in such a masculine man, an
d far too irresistible for a girl like me.
“Now let me guess one of your favorite pieces,” Evan said, taking my hand.
I laughed. “You’re joking, right?”
He just gave me a bland, knowing glance and began to walk, leading me through the museum.
I was tickled by his playful proposition. What were the chances he would guess correctly? He’d only known me for about three or four weeks at that point. But my amusement quickly faded to amazement as he led me—very accurately—to a small, exquisite portrait from a Nigerian artist of a young village girl. I’ve loved the piece from the moment I first saw it. There was a dreamy quality on the girl’s face, but also a strength that was almost noble, somehow.
“How did you know?” I asked him. My hands and feet tingled with disbelief. I couldn’t comprehend that he could understand me so well.
He shrugged. “It reminds me of you,” he said simply. “Innocence as power.”
The small gallery we were in was empty, except for us. I stared up at him as he studied the portrait for a stretched, silent moment.
“I know that I’m older than you,” he said abruptly. “I know that I’m… complicated, Anna.”
“I like complicated sometimes.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise in my case. But what I’m trying to say is, I care about you. I don’t want to ruin your life.”
“Ruin my life? How would you do that?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe just by being with you.”
“I’ve never been so happy in my life as I have been spending time with you,” I told him in a burst of honesty. He reached and opened his hand at the side of my head, his thumb gently tracing my cheekbone. I waited in anguished anticipation. Was he going to kiss me? Finally? I couldn’t imagine a more perfect moment.
“Thank you for that,” he said. “I’m glad. Because I want you to be happy. I want that very much. I hope you believe me.”
“Of course I do,” I whispered, trying to decode the message in his light eyes, unable to breathe because of my craving to feel his mouth on mine.
But then he dropped his hand from my face and led me into the next gallery.