Catherine Lanigan - The Texan

It took her nine years to build up the capital she needed and in the process she developed a credible reputation as a Realtor in the nation’s fourth-largest city. Nothing had come easily to Angela but she’d always had twice the determination and drive of her colleagues, and certainly more than her competitors. She was proud of her home and her accomplishments.

Awkwardly loaded down with birthday gifts, mementos, balloons and bows, Angela entered the blue-and-white country kitchen. She leaned over and dumped her belongings on the kitchen counter. Glancing at her phone recorder she saw that the red light was steady. There had been no calls.

Walking into the foyer, Angela found her hundred-and-ten-pound pedigreed six-year-old golden retriever, Rebel, sitting on the third step of the winding staircase happily panting in anticipation of his usual bear hug.

“Hiya, fella,” Angela greeted him, putting her face next to his. Rebel licked the tip of her nose. “Oh, thank you for my kisses. Mommy likes those kisses.” She patted his head. “You had to wait up a long time for me tonight, didn’t you? Well, I really appreciate it,” she said hugging him again.

Rebel kissed her face again and she laughed at him.

“Was that my birthday kiss?” she asked. Suddenly, she heard her own voice turn hollow and empty.

I’ve already gotten my birthday kiss, but I don’t know his name. I don’t know anything about him except that he wasn’t as impressed with me as I was with him.

How very odd that this year she’d dreaded her birthday. Julia had wanted to chalk up her depression to ticking biological clocks and all that sort of thing, but Angela liked to think she was being practical. For the first time since college her birthday would not revolve around the breaking-up, making-up, or getting-over-it stage of another rotten relationship. This year she could honestly say she was “man-free.” She’d kicked the habit of rushing into yet another love affair in which she did most of the loving.

In the past year or so Angela’s greatest revelation had been that she’d always settled for less than Mr. Perfect because she’d felt alone ever since her parents died. She missed them greatly, but nothing could ever bring them back to life. Now she was in the process of teaching herself how to keep their memories alive, yet still continue on with her own life.

Being honest with herself, she had to admit that she liked the peace and serenity of being without a demanding relationship. She didn’t particularly want or need a man. With a wide circle of friends and co-workers who included her in their family traditions, Angela knew how to get through family holidays without a family. She wasn’t the least bit lonely.

The prospect of attending the upcoming holiday office parties and dinners without a date did not daunt her. She’d spent far too many Christmases having her illusions shattered by boyfriends who turned out to be nothing special at all.

“Then you had to show up!” she exclaimed, flinging her arms in the air.

Rising from the steps, she went into the living room and flopped on the new white-slipcovered antique sofa she’d had refurbished for the holidays. She crooked her arm over her eyes hoping to wipe out the vision of her dream man’s face. She could still feel the warmth of his arms and hear his heartbeat. He wasn’t a dream. If anything he was alarmingly real. His presence poked holes in every single one of her resolutions. He had made her want someone special in her life, just as her mother had told her she would.

Angela’s parents’ marriage was one of those incredible romantic flings that old Cary Grant movies depicted, except that their marriage had lasted over twenty years before they died. Perhaps if her parents had divorced, like nearly everyone else in the country, then Angela could at least have blamed her inability to choose the proper mate on her parents’ bad example.

Doomed to believe in true love practically since her first breath, Angela had finally come to understand that her trust in her fellow man was misplaced. The rest of the world was not kind to people like herself. It was too easy for her to be taken advantage of, duped and left brokenhearted. However, Angela had decided years ago she was not the cynical type, like Julia, even though Julia seemed to get through problems with greater ease. Angela’s only defense was to elect to leave the rest of the world to its own devices.

Her plan for the future had nearly worked.

This is all so silly. I don’t even know his name. Or where he lives or works. He only knows I’m a Realtor like hundreds of other women in this city. Crooking her arms behind her head she stared at the ceiling. And what was all that about a “prior commitment,” anyway? Probably some Heather Locklear look-alike with a Ph.D.!

Sullenly, she rose from the sofa, stepped over Rebel who was sleeping on the floor in the foyer, and went up the stairs.

She turned on the light in her bedroom, a mix of her mother’s beautiful Southern antiques and her grandmother’s delicate handmade lace spreads and bed linens. Crossing the room she stopped at the gilded French mirror that had once belonged to her great-grandmother.

Looking deeply into the reflection of her brown eyes she was surprised to see tears forming. Silently, the tears dropped straight to the vanity, not marking her cheeks. Angela knew why they were falling.

I’m the only one who will ever know what really happened to me tonight, she thought, turning toward her closet where she hung up her clothes.

The house held a chill that night, as gusty winds brought a cold front. Sleeping under a down comforter was a luxury in subtropical Houston. This was just the kind of night meant for snuggling, she thought as she crawled between the sheets.

“Julia is right, as usual,” she said aloud to herself. “I have exaggerated this whole thing. It was just a dance. Just a kiss. Nothing more.”

If it was only a kiss, then why can’t I forget his kiss like I have so many others? Why were his lips so divine that their touch has somehow wiped out the memory of every other man’s lips? If our meeting was so darned insignificant, then why can I still hear the particular sweet sound of his voice? Why can I still smell him as if he were lying here in this bed with me? Why is he haunting me like this?

Angela thought she could see his eyes looking at her, flashing like blue crystals in the night, seeking her out in the darkness. As if she were still wrapped in his arms, she could feel the tension in his muscles, still hear the soft sound of his breath as he placed his lips next to her ear. How was it possible to continue experiencing him as if he’d never left her?

Many times Angela had met a man and come home feeling as if she could dance on the ceiling, but there had always been signals telling her that something was not quite right. Maybe she’d forgotten the color of his eyes even on the fourth date. She couldn’t remember his name or where he worked. She didn’t like the cut of his clothes or the thousand and one bad habits or bad manners Tom or Allan or Sid had displayed. There had always been some tiny “thing” she’d convinced herself she would have to abide in order to make this or that relationship “work.”

But this man tonight was different. For the life of her she resisted saying those corny things she’d read in novels or heard in dialogue on the soap operas. Angela didn’t believe in soul mates or destiny. She believed in being practical with her life. For months she’d been hell-bent on raising self-reliance to an art form. Suddenly, she found herself wanting someone.

It’s just the romance of the holidays that is making me think this way. Feel this way.

She hugged herself and pulled the comforter to her neck. She was just fine within the cocoon of the life she’d created for herself. She didn’t need dream heroes walking in and messing up everything.