Danielle Steel - Dating Game

Jim had been busy in the kitchen. He was making roast beef for her, with purée of asparagus, and little fluted potatoes. She knew what was coming before he said it, he and Phyllis had loved to cook. And Paris almost shuddered when she saw Phyllis's tired old faded straw hat hanging on a hook near the back door. It was still there after two years, and she wondered how many of her belongings were still around. Probably most or all. Jim had a lot of mopping up to do, and he didn't seem to have done any of it yet, nor want to.

“It's a big house for me alone,” he admitted, as he sat down to dinner. “But the children love it, and so do I. They grew up here, and I can't bring myself to give it up.” No Phyllis, Paris noticed as she held her breath. Now she was counting the times he didn't mention her, as much as she was counting the times he did. It was sick, but she couldn't seem to stop herself from keeping track of how often he spoke of his late wife.

“I had the same problem with the house in Greenwich,” she countered. “I felt lost in it after Peter left. And when Wim left for Berkeley, it damn near killed me. That's why I moved out here.”

“Did you sell it?” he asked with interest. The meat was delicious, and the vegetables better yet. He was a surprisingly good cook. Though Phyllis was probably even better.

“No, I rented it for a year, with an option for a second year. I wanted to buy time to see how I felt out here.”

“And how do you feel?” he asked with genuine interest, as they sat in a cozy corner of the large kitchen that also shared the view. It would have been an ideal house, if it hadn't been quite so dark. There was a lot of dark wood paneling everywhere, which seemed to fit Jim's mood.

“I love it here,” Paris said, smiling at him, and beginning to relax, as she felt the dual ghosts recede, although it was a little odd being in Phyllis's house, with her hat hanging only feet away. “I love my job. I never worked in all the years I was married. And this isn't brain surgery, but it's wonderfully creative. And the man I work for has become a dear friend. He's incredibly good at what he does. Coming out here has turned my life around just as I hoped it would.”

“What did you major in in college?” he asked, wanting to know more about her. But he was already impressed by what he did know.

“Econ. I was practically the only girl, except for two sisters from Taiwan. I got an MBA, but I never used it. I just took care of Peter and the kids.”

“So did Phyllis. She had a Ph.D. in art history, and she wanted to teach, but she never did. She stayed at home with our children. And then of course, she got sick.” Paris tried not to wince. They had already been there.

“Yes, I know. What about you? Tell me about your sailing.” She knew he had been out on the bay in a regatta the day before, and said they'd come in third place. “Do you have your own boat?”

“Not anymore. I sold it years ago. It was just a little thirty-footer.” She knew what was coming next, before she heard the words. “Phyllis and I used to take it out on weekends. She was the best sailor I've ever seen. My kids love it too.”

“Maybe you should get another boat. You could have a lot of fun with it on weekends.” She was trying to think of constructive things for him to do, instead of sitting in the house thinking of Phyllis.

“Too much work,” he said, “particularly all alone. I couldn't do it. At my age, I'd rather crew on someone else's boat.” By then, she knew that he was sixty-one years old. But unlike other men she knew, even those like Bixby who hadn't had surgery, Jim looked older than his years. It was more than likely what grief had done to him. It was a powerful force, and even killed people sometimes, usually when they had been married forever and ever, and lost each other when they were very old. He was young enough to recover, if he wanted to. Paris wasn't sure he did. That was the key. “Do you like to sail?” he asked her.

“Sometimes. Depends on the circumstances. Yes, in the Caribbean. No, in rough waters like these. I'm a big chicken,” she said honestly, smiling at him.

“You don't look it to me. Maybe I can teach you to sail one day.”

He said he was going to visit friends in Mendocino later in the summer. He'd been invited to Maine too, but it was too far away and he didn't want to go. And then he talked about the summer he and Phyllis had spent with the children in Martha's Vineyard. And the next thing Paris knew, she was chronicling every trip she, Peter, and the children ever took. She was about to suggest a pact with Jim, a ban on talking about their late and ex-spouses, but she didn't dare.

And in spite of it, she had a nice evening with him, helped him do the dishes, and left around ten. But as she had the last time she saw him, she felt drained when she got home. There was something so profoundly sad about him. And she noticed that he drank a lot of wine at dinner. Given how he was feeling, it was hardly surprising, but alcohol wasn't going to help buoy his spirits. On the contrary, the more he drank, the sadder he got, and the more he talked about his late wife. It was beginning to seem hopeless.

Jim called her at the office the next morning, and they made plans to go to a movie later that week. He suggested a particularly sad one, which had had excellent reviews, and she countered with a funny one she wanted to see. And after they saw it, they went out for pizza, and he smiled at her.

“You know, my daughter was right to introduce us, Paris. You're good for me.” He had laughed nonstop at the movie, and they were both smiling when they came out. He seemed to be in a particularly buoyant mood. And for once Peter and Phyllis hadn't come with them. Neither of them had mentioned their absent spouses all night. But Paris knew it wouldn't be long before one or both of them reappeared. “You seem like a very happy person,” Jim said admiringly. “I envy you. I've been depressed now for two years.”

“Have you thought about taking medication?” she said helpfully, remembering Meg's warning not to be codependent, but it was hard to resist with him. Being sympathetic was okay, rescuing wasn't. Sometimes it was hard to distinguish between the two.

“I did. It didn't help. I took it for a week.”

“It takes longer than that for it to work,” Paris said quietly, wishing she had met him a year or two later. But she wasn't sure if he'd be any healthier then, unless he made some serious efforts to get there. “I think you have to be patient about those things. I've been in therapy since Peter left.” Although she was only talking to Anne now about once a month, just to check in. And she hadn't called her in about six weeks. She hadn't felt the need or had the time. Although lately, she'd been wanting to call. After talking about Peter constantly with Jim, he was more on her mind than he had been in a year.

“I admire you for that,” Jim said, commenting on her mention of being in therapy. “But it's not for me. I went to a grief group for the first few weeks, and it just made me feel worse.”

“Maybe it was too soon. Maybe you should try it again now.”

“No,” he said, smiling at her, “I'm fine. I've made my peace with things.” Paris had a mouthful of pizza when he said it, and she looked up and just stared at him. “Don't you think? I've pretty much accepted Phyllis's death.” Are you kidding? Paris wanted to scream. He had her propped up in a corner and took her everywhere he went. It was Weekend at Phyllis's , instead of Weekend at Bernie's , although even thinking it seemed disrespectful of him. But it was true. He hadn't even begun to make peace with it, and was in complete denial over the state he was in.