Page 79 of Come Back to Bed
“Vivaldi’s more of a third date move.”
She finally relaxes and lays back with my arm around her shoulder, and when we can see the tops of buildings around Central Park and the midtown skyscrapers, she gets it. All of New York is still out there rushing around and making noise, but it’s just us in here. Taking our time, taking it all in.
I kiss her hand, her arm, her shoulder, her dazzling elongated neck.
She’s the picture of grace and elegance when she’s silent and still.
Half an hour later, I inconspicuously check my phone, and our romantic, sexy and surprisingly relaxing limo ride comes to an end.
“We’re here,” I say. I wait for the driver to open the door. I step out onto the curb and hold out my hand to help my reluctant date out.
It takes her several seconds to realize that we’re back at the townhouse.
“Wait. What?”
I press a generous tip into the driver’s hand and offer my arm to Bernadette as we head back upstairs. “M’lady.”
She can barely control her excitement. “I’m gonna take my shoes off!” She hands me her strappy heels to carry while she hikes up her gown and runs barefoot up the stairs.
“Wait!” I whisper. “We’re going to a dinner party at Mrs. Benson’s!”
The look on her face is worth every dollar that I’ve spent to make tonight happen.
“I’m kidding. Proceed to 4B.”
She calls me an asshole under her breath and continues upstairs.
In the time since we left, while we were driving around, I had caterers set up the dining area with a three-course meal and dessert, floral arrangements and candles. Before I left, I’d set up a movie screen and projector that I rented. Only Daisy is waiting for us in the apartment when we get back. Vivaldi’sFour Seasonsis playing on the stereo. I had that set up before I left too.
Strings.
They sound pretty good with the right woman.
Especially a classy one.
“I am so fucking excited that we don’t have to go out tonight!” Bernadette squeals.
She’s even more excited when I tell her we don’t have to eat dinner at the dining table. We load up our plates and bring them to the coffee table in the living room and sit cross-legged on the furry rug while watchingHarry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban.
I swear she has stars in her eyes when she looks at me, with a huge cloth napkin tucked into the neck of her dress, eating an ice cream sundae. Daisy is curled up between us, and Hogwarts is glowing on screen. “There is literally nothing else I’d rather be doing right now. And no one I’d rather be with. Thank you.”
This woman.
When she’s sweet, there’s no one sweeter, dammit.
* * *
Sunday is just a hazy blur of sleep and sex and laundry. I let her have the night off from dating so she can clean her apartment and “work on some things.” I can only hope she’s working on more beautiful dirty pictures of us.
All day long, all week, we check in with each other via text. We make and keep plans to meet up for lunch downtown almost every day. A few evenings we’re able to meet up and come home from work together, arms wrapped around each other as we keep our balance, leaning against a pole on the crowded subway train.
She’s so happy about me letting her stay in on Saturday night that she invites me to the Metropolitan Museum of Art on Friday. We walk there through Central Park and eat at the dining room there after she shows me her favorite abstract paintings. Hearing her talk about art history is a huge turn-on. When I tell her about the contracts and deals that I work on as we walk home, she does a really good job of feigning interest.
It feels good and right and easy. For me, anyway. I sense her body tensing up every now and then when I mention the future, see the fleeting looks of uneasiness on her otherwise happy face.
I don’t ask her what’s wrong, because I have a feeling that would count asconverge-sating.
I can only hope that eventually she’ll get used to dating me. For such an otherwise mature, rational and stable person, it’s odd that she seems to find the idea of a serious relationship so agonizing.
My friends think she sounds like the perfect woman—what guy would complain about a girl who doesn’t constantly want to have the “where is this going” conversation and check in with their feelings? Lloyd’s theory is that Bernadette escaped from some kind of new age art cult where she was forced to commit to a controlling artist cult leader and share her feelings in group therapy sessions and then the information was used to blackmail her. When I asked him if there was such a thing as new age art cults, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “sure why not?” I’ve decided to stop talking about it with my friends and just let the delightful mystery of who Bernadette Farmer is unfold before me.
