Danielle Steel - Dating Game

They sat in the dining room, eating omelettes and croissants, as Bix poured them each a cappuccino. He was a fabulous cook, and informed her that it was a good thing, because Steven couldn't boil water. He could save lives, or make people more comfortable, but he was hopeless in the kitchen.

“He tried to cook for me once, when I was sick, and he damn near killed me. I had stomach flu, and he made me tomato soup, out of a can thank you very much, and a can of chili. I do the cooking,” Bix said firmly. Their relationship appeared to be interesting and lively, based on mutual respect and deep affection. Steven talked openly about how traumatic it had been for him when his previous partner died. They had been together for twenty-seven years before that.

“Learning to live without him was a tremendous adjustment. I didn't even go out for two years. All I did was work, read, and sleep. And then I met Bix, we dated for a year, and we've been living together for six. I've been very lucky,” he said with a grateful look at Bix.

“Yes, you are,” Paris said quietly. “I was married for twenty-four, and I never thought we'd get divorced. I'm still reeling from the shock. Sometimes I think about it, and I just can't believe it happened. He's married to someone else now.”

“How long has it been since he left you?” Steven asked sympathetically. He could see easily why Bix liked her. She was a very nice woman, bright, interesting, fun to be with, it was hard to imagine why her husband had left her. She seemed to him like everything a man could want.

“It's been nine months,” Paris said sadly.

“And he's already remarried?” Bix looked shocked, and was more inquisitive than his partner. “Is that why he left you?” She nodded, but managed not to cry for once, which was at least something. Things were looking up. She was feeling better.

“She's thirty-one years old. I guess that's hard to compete with.”

“You shouldn't have to,” Bix said bluntly. “I hope she was worth it. What a rotten thing to do to you, Paris. Have you dated yet?” he asked with interest.

“No, and I don't intend to. I'm too old for that. I'm not going to make a fool of myself competing with girls my daughter's age. And there's no one I want anyway. I really loved him.” This time her eyes did fill with tears, and Steven touched her shoulder.

“I felt that way too. I swore I'd never date again. And you're a lot younger than I was when John died.”

“I'm forty-six years old, and I'm too old for dating.”

“No one is too old to date,” Steven said sensibly. “I have survivors of patients I see who are seventy-five years old and fall in love, and get married.”

“Not all his patients are gay,” Bix said by way of explanation.

“I'm serious, Paris. You have a lifetime ahead of you. You just need time. Nine months is nothing. For some anyway. Others seem to find someone in weeks or months. But no matter how you do it, grieving the loss of a loved one or a relationship is never easy. It took me three years to find Bix, and I never thought I'd feel this way again. We're very happy,” he said, and Paris was touched by their honesty and compassion. What they were sharing with her was valuable information. It made no difference to her if they were gay or straight. The feelings about relationships were the same.

“And it's a lot harder to find someone worth having in the gay world,” Bix said bluntly. “Everything is about looks and beauty and youth. There's nothing harder than getting old alone in gay life. If you're not young and beautiful, it's all over. I was back out in the dating world for two years after my last relationship, and I hated every minute of it. And I was only thirty, and I already felt then as though it was all over for me. I met Steven when I was thirty-two, and I couldn't wait to settle down with him. I'm not a dater,” Bix said honestly, but he could have been. At thirty-nine, he was still dazzlingly handsome. In his youth, after college, he had been a model. But his values were based on something far more solid.

“I'm not a dater either,” Paris said with a sigh. “Can you imagine anything more ridiculous than being out there on dates at my age? It's so humiliating, and so depressing.” She told them about the night of the dinner party in Greenwich with the drunken stockbroker who had told dirty jokes and was wearing plaid pants. It had been the decisive moment in her moving to San Francisco, if only to escape evenings like that among her friends.

“I think I dated his gay brother,” Bix said, laughing, and then told her some stories that made her laugh even more. “I have had some of the worst blind dates on the planet. My last partner dumped me for a younger guy, he was twenty-two, I think, and everyone felt sorry for me. So in order to prove it, they fixed me up with the worst people they could think of. Preferably multiaddicted, or better yet, psychotic. I dated one guy who'd been sleep deprived for two years, and he was so nuts, he kept hallucinating and thinking I was his mother. I came home and found him passed out on the couch in pink hot pants and a black bra one afternoon, ripped out of his mind on Quaaludes, and I told him he had to go. That was nothing compared to the nature lover, who must have been related to the Hillside Strangler. He had five snakes and let them loose in my house. He lost two, and it took him a month to find them, and I nearly gave up the apartment. I had some lulus! I promise you, Paris, I will never fix you up on a blind date. I like you too much. You'll have to do your own shopping. I have too much respect for you to even try.”

“Thank you. How did you and Steven meet?” she asked, curious about them. She really liked them. And the breakfast Bix prepared had been delicious. He said Sydney had taught him how to make the omelettes.

“It was pretty straightforward. I needed a new doctor. We liked each other. It took him about two months, and a lot of sinus problems and headaches and mysterious backaches I kept making up, but he finally got the message, and invited me to dinner.” Steven smiled at the memory, and Bix looked adoringly at him.

“I was a little slow on the pick-up,” Steven apologized. “I thought he was looking for a father figure.”

“Nothing that kinky,” Bix said simply. “Just a boyfriend.”

They were far more than that now, they were more like a comfortable married couple, from what Paris could see, and she respected the relationship they shared. In a funny way, it reminded her of her closeness to Peter, and when she went home that afternoon, she found that it had made her feel lonely. They were so close and at ease with each other, and so comfortable. It reminded her of how nice it was to have someone to share your life with.

She called Meg and she was out. And at six o'clock Wim showed up with one of his roommates. She had promised to fix him dinner, and they had a lovely evening. It had been a nice day, and she was enjoying her California life. Even the weather had been cooperating since she arrived. She had been there for ten days, and although it was February, it was warm and sunny. According to reports from Virginia and Natalie, it was snowing in Greenwich. Paris was delighted that she'd left.

“So how do you like your new job, Mom?” Wim asked with interest as he stretched his long legs out across the couch, and recovered from an enormous dinner. He and his roommate had thanked her profusely, and had eaten as though they were starving.

“I love it,” she said, beaming.

“What exactly do you do?” He couldn't remember. When she had first described it, it sounded confusing. It was some kind of wedding planner, he thought, which was close enough, as long as it made her happy.

“We plan events and parties. Weddings, dinner parties, openings. The man who does the conceptual work is very creative.”