A fter work on Wednesday, a day that started dull but ended in an exhilarating courtroom scene between warring business partners in commercial real estate who kissed and made up, Kat met Zak Greenfield at the boardwalk in Venice. He handed her a bouquet of lilies, such fine perfume, but so useless, given that she had only two hands. She walked back to her car, slightly miffed at the delay, stuffed them into the back seat, and hoped they had enough water in the little tubes to survive what she hoped would be a tough, sexy night. Then met him as the sun was nodding off into the ocean like a tired baby.
He rented Rollerblades for them both, and she went along with it, though she had a bad ankle and a worse attitude about cruising clumsily up and down the crowded beach walk on unstable tiny wheels. Lashing the laces, she cast glances at him. He looked happy and even knew how to thread the laces without consulting directions.
“Hold my hand,” he advised.
As if she had an alternative plan.
She grabbed hold, teetering, twisting, thoroughly annoyed at herself for pretending enthusiasm, and took off.
They glided south.
On the right, on the beach, foreign tourists who didn’t know any better threw sand at each other, the ocean roaring in the background. On the left, raucous summer renters tossed down tequila in their deck chairs. The twinkling lights of the outdoor cafe they were passing came on.
“You’re doing great,” said Zak.
Yessir, Kat thought, yessir, Mr. Zak Greenfield, sneaking another good look at him. He had not shaved today, which put him into the category of the sexually suggestive, in spite of his clothing, which was a little too Dockers for her taste. Still, she tingled a bit at the thought of rubbing her own cheeks against his prickly beard.
Something about him.
Jacki talked about chemistry between people, how she saw Raoul and wanted him right then and there. But Kat knew all about the wonders of men, their skin, the way they smelled, what they aroused in her. When Jacki tried to explain this chemistry was bigger than Kat’s definition, Kat got as lost as she had when she was forced to contemplate reduction-oxidation equations for a brief moment in her past, not-so-successful college career.
However, the tingling always boded well, that she knew.
“Faster,” Zak said a few minutes later.
They flew down the boardwalk, hands wetly locked, the surf white in the distance, all traditional imagery in place. When she wavered, he held her steadily. When she became exhausted, not too far into their journey, he insisted they stop and sit on a concrete bench to take in the waning light. They sat down and got playful, commenting on their fellow Rollerbladers, the muscle-beach guys with their rippling abs, the girls in their cropped tops and wet T-shirts. Zak made fun but displayed a forgiving and gentle wit, not mean.
Kat disliked mean people but loved this kind of activity. Los Angeles was so made to be lampooned. “Don’t look at him!” she commanded, averting her eyes and turning Zak with a hand to gaze at the ocean, as a shirtless, particularly overdeveloped creature loped by on the boardwalk. “He craves attention. It’ll irritate him, wondering why we didn’t look!”
Zak obliged, examining the sunset, laughing.
While they watched the final purple, peach, orange melting display of a clear Southern California sunset, she asked him about his life, and Zak told her that the main thing she needed to know about him was that he loved his work. He wouldn’t quit until they fired him and if they did that, he’d find another job in his field.
Kat tried to think of a man in her past who had a job he liked. She failed. A little voice said, “He has a steady income and a happy nature. Plus, Jacki approves.” Before Kat could make a further independent assessment of this information, she thought of Leigh. Had she married Ray out of some misguided sense that he would give her the stability Tom never could? Perhaps Leigh had not been misguided at all, but correct. After all, Tom showed his weakness, his lack of steadiness, in the end, didn’t he? He had self-destructed.
They arrived back at the rental place as darkness fell, collected their shoes, and walked to the parking lot. He took her hand in his again, and asked, “What are you thinking?”
Startled, she asked, “What?”
He repeated his question.
She thought about telling him the truth, but how could she? It was too soon to load him up with Tom, her grief, her missing friend. That wasn’t in the rules of the game at all. Automatically, trained in the art of dating, she lied. “I was wondering if you might like to come home with me.”
“Really?”
“Uh-oh. You sound doubtful.”
“No. Really, is that what you were thinking?”
She couldn’t recall any time in the recent past when a man had asked her that when the quick lie didn’t suffice, particularly that one, which was intended to distract. And so, as they walked into the encroaching darkness, and the waves receded, completely uncharacteristically, she told him about Tom, Leigh, Ray, Jacki’s fears for her, the whole shebang.
He listened as they walked.
She realized at some point while she had been so intently unburdening her heart, he hadn’t said a word for at least three blocks. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s come over me. Talk about wrecking a good time.”
“This is good, too,” he said, “learning more about you.” Then: “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Touched by the concern in his voice, she said, “You already have.”
They arrived at the Echo. “Cool car,” he said, running a finger through the dust on the hood.
“Yes, cool’s the word, in more ways than you might think. The a/c went out on it, and today I tried it and it had healed itself. I bet Boxsters don’t know how to do that.”
He turned her toward him, placing her hands around his waist. “Did you mean that, about me coming over? It’s late for a work night.”
“I meant it, but, Zak, I totally forgot I have to be somewhere ridiculously early tomorrow morning.”
The fact that it was true didn’t take the sting out of his good-bye kisses, which whispered and promised and left her aching for more.