This Time Is Different Read online

  “I was going to ask if you come here often, but—”

  “Yeah, almost every Saturday morning. I exercise, have a big breakfast here, and then head into my office for a few hours to get some stuff done while it’s quiet.”

  “You play a lot of softball?” Stop with the questions! Isn’t that like the tenth question you asked him and he’s been here, what, two minutes?

  “No, that’s only for the hospital’s team. I’m still relatively new and we’ve had some other changes in our lineup, so to speak, in the past year, and I thought it would be good for us to field a team in that adult league. We’re not good.”

  “But that’s half the point,” I said.

  “Exactly. Failing together. My turn.”

  “Okay,” I said, taking another bite of my French toast and wondering what he was going to ask.

  “Spy novels?”

  “Yeah,” I said, sheepish about my reading habits. “Spy novels. You know Daniel Silva?”

  “If I told you that I was reading Jeffrey Deaver before I went to bed last night—” A vision that felt like a memory filled my mind. Us curled up in a big bed, naked and warm and happy with books piled on nightstands. Like an Etch A Sketch, I shook my head to clear away the scene.

  “I’d say Gabriel Allon is way better than Lincoln Rhyme,” I answered, getting myself back on track to this diner, and this table. Not a tumble through soft sheets.

  “Not going to fight you. Allon’s got that whole double life thing. But Rhyme’s got this tragic backstory and Amelia. And now I have a question for you. Clive Cussler.”

  “Nope,” I said, holding out a palm toward him. “Way too outlandish for me. I mean, I like James Bond, but Dirk Pitt—and come on, Dirk Pitt. It’s like a porn star name. And I hate the way Cussler writes himself into books. It totally takes me out of the world of the book.”

  “What are you doing tonight?” he immediately asked.

  “So, I passed your dating test by liking mystery novels?” I couldn’t fight the smile. And I wondered if he liked me reading mystery novels, what he’d think of my secret romance novel habit.

  His blue eyes shifted from his coffee to my face. “It’s not a litmus test. It’s a bonus. Let’s do dinner and a movie tonight. There’s that new thriller out, Cursed Land.”

  I shook my head. “No. Cursed Land isn’t a thriller. It’s a horror movie. I may do murder mysteries and international intrigue, but I don’t do children living in cornfields or clowns in sewers.”

  6

  Thomas

  “What about mob movies?” I asked, trying to be cool. I liked her over dinner last night, but now, she was more. She was real. And she reads great books. Well, not great books with a capital G and a capital B, but good books. Okay, well maybe not highbrow award-winning books, but the same books I do.

  “The Sopranos is one of my favorite shows,” she said. Even though she sat across the table from me at an over air-conditioned diner, I felt the warmth of her melting into me, curled up on my sofa, her head in my lap while my fingers sifted through her dark curls.

  “So, how about this?” I ventured, leaning forward. “How about I pick you up around five, we go see Blood Bonds, and then we go out for dinner and drinks?”

  She rolled her mug between her palms, and her hesitation gutted me. Why wouldn’t she say yes? Is Cassie right about me being an old man? “Yeah. Sounds good. But let me check with my son to make sure he’s busy.”

  I nodded at her, and after thanking the waitress for the plate she set in front of me, I dug in, feeling like a new man. The ache in my jaw barely registering. My question about when to call her. How long I should wait. Or if I should text her instead of calling her. Worry rendered useless when I saw her having breakfast alone and knew I’d join her.

  She was clean and fresh—pale skin slightly flushed, bright green eyes, her hair once again tied up where I couldn’t get my fingers in it. And I wanted to yank out that tie that held it in a knot. Rip her top off over her head. See if her eyes could get as wide as her smile.

  We talked more over breakfast, but the whole time I was plotting. About where we’d go to dinner. About when I could take her hand in mine. About when she’d let me kiss her. And again, it was all rendered useless as she slipped her hand in mine as we left the diner.

  We said goodbye in the parking lot, details for that evening set. But at my office, I couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t flip through the reports and plans and agendas and protocols and checklists any more. I gave up and headed to the yoga studio near my house. The crowds at the Saturday midday classes were usually sparse and I liked it like that. Liked being able to stretch out my big frame and not worry about smacking into anyone.

  I unfurled my mat between a wall and a rail-thin woman about the age of my children. Rolling my ankles, wrists and neck, I released the tension from my early morning rowing session and anxiety about a second date as I set my intention for the practice.

  I’d felt silly about setting an emotional goal at first. Shouldn’t the goal of yoga be to hold the pose?

  Though I’d started yoga for the stretching, the instructors’ banter over the years wormed its way through my thick skull. About focus. About centering. About breathing. About accepting life and yet working toward more at a steady pace, not throwing myself headlong into a project and battling my way to a successful outcome.

  The day’s intention settled over me. To not rush. Not to rush my relationship with Amy. To enjoy what it was. Not worry about what it would be or wouldn’t be or could be or couldn’t be. But to enjoy her and to enjoy myself with her. My intention—to treasure this.

  A few quick texts with Amy to confirm the plans we’d set at the diner, and I was back in her driveway less than twenty-four hours after my first visit.

  I’d gone on dates since Laurie. But they weren’t anything like this. This was anticipation and excitement. Those were strained and awkward. Mainly first and second-round job interviews that weren’t going to result in an offer.

  So far, everything with Amy had been easy. I didn’t have to push. I didn’t have to rush. I didn’t have to game-plan my next move. I hoped that would continue, but wasn’t holding my breath. Nothing in life was that easy.

  7

  Amy

  “Mom! Mom!” Even above the whir of my hairdryer I heard him. I clicked it off and cinched the belt on my robe before the pounding on my bathroom door started.

  “What?” I snapped, pulling the door open.

  “Marco, Peter and I are going to get tacos and we might to go a movie and then we’re going to play video games here tonight. Cool with you?”

  “I won’t be here tonight. I’m going out to the movies and dinner.”

  “With Mrs. Shah? But we’ll be fine without you. We’re seventeen. We’re just hanging out. It’s not a party.”

  “Actually, no.”

  “What do you mean no?” His eyes widened at the thought I was shutting him down. I could see him scrolling through this last week and cataloging his transgressions to see what had earned him a grounding. I saw his temper rise and I went to set things straight before we ended up screaming at each other and totally killing my pre-date buzz.

  “Oh, of course you guys can hang out here. I’m going out to a movie, but not with Mrs. Shah. Going to see that new mob movie.”

  “So, it’s cool then?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Tell the guys. But like always. You know the rule. No girls. Period. I don’t know what Marco and Peter’s parents allow but no girls while I’m not here.”

  My sole goal in life was to hit forty before becoming a grandmother. And ever since I’d seen Grady kiss a girl earlier in the summer, I’d been sweating it. Bert swore he’d had “the talk” with Grady years ago and even said Grady had gone catatonic for a bit. He thought that Grady had finally done the math and realized that he must have been a surprise.

  But we hadn’t had that conversation yet. No one had. It was the unspoken open secret. And
I’d clung to the party line—that when you know, you know, and that Bert and I knew we were ready to get married and wanted to start a family right away. Far cry from the shotgun wedding we’d had over spring break our last year in college. Me, being walked up the aisle of the Vanderbilt University’s chapel by my dad with Grady in my belly. Bert’s robotic recitation of vows while he looked like he was turning green. I couldn’t tell if it was nerves or if he was seriously hung over. When his eyes bounced between my face and the stained glass above my head, I knew it was nerves. This wasn’t the life either one of us had planned, but it was the life we had. The life we chose.

  “Hey, Grady,” I said, as he disappeared out the door. “Got a second?” I bounced my hairdryer in the palm of my hand before setting it on the counter.

  “Yeah?” he said, leaning through the doorway, resting his weight on his fingertips, stretched along the top of the doorframe.

  I breathed and went for it. “I’ve got a date tonight.”

  “With a man?” he asked, his head tilting a few degrees as he tried to wrap his head around the idea of me going on a date.

  “No, with a cup of coffee. Of course it’s with a man.”

  “Oh,” he said quietly, his expression going flat.

  “He’s picking me up in a couple of hours and I don’t want you to be surprised.”

  “Oh, okay,” he replied, clearing his throat.

  “His name is Thomas Popov. He works at Methodist Hospital.”

  “Is he a doctor?” His hands fell from the top of the doorframe to his sides and he shifted his weight from foot to foot. A muted version of the antsy-pants stomping dance he’d done since childhood when he was less than happy.

  “No. He’s in administration. His kids are older than you. College and med school. Moved here a couple of years ago. So there’s no reason that you’d know him.”

  Shortly after the divorce, a dad of one of the boys in Grady’s scout troop had asked me out. And had asked me out in front of Grady, who had turned on his heel and stomped out of the gymnasium, leaving me to apologize profusely and decline the concert invite. Grady hadn’t talked to me for a week afterwards. No date was worth that angst, so I never mentioned the occasional dinners and movies and drinks that I relegated to weeknights when Grady was with Bert.

  I looked in the mirror and ran the brush through my damp hair, waiting for him to show me how the rest of this conversation should go. The way his eyes landed on mine in the mirror told me that while some things had changed in the past few years, the thought of me dating hadn’t.

  “Cool,” came his clipped response.

  I could tell it was anything but. “It’s just a movie. We may get dinner afterwards,” I said, downplaying my excitement about seeing Thomas again.

  “Maybe we’ll hang out at Peter’s house instead.”

  “No. No, there’s no need for that. I’m just going to a movie. We won’t be eloping to Vegas until the fourth date,” I deadpanned, hoping to get him out of the funk and make him realize that I’d just announced I was going to a movie and dinner. I hadn’t announced an engagement.

  “Fourth date?” he asked, emphasizing the number.

  “Yeah, so we went to dinner the other day last week. Grady,” I said, setting down the brush. My empty hands tucked my damp hair behind my ears and then searched for the belt of my robe to play with, as I turned to face him. “Just because I’m going to dinner and a movie doesn’t mean that anything else will happen.”

  “I know. Dad dates.”

  “I know your dad dates. And I can date, too, okay?” I felt myself start to get defensive. That it was okay for him to know that Bert was dating, but somehow, I wasn’t allowed go to the movies without a guilt trip. But before I got my back up, I remembered my place. I remembered that I was his mother. And he was looking out for me. His response was a nod.

  “I love you,” I said, holding my arms wide to capture him in a hug. A hug that I needed.

  But before I could wrap him in my arms, he scooted away. “You, too. Gotta go,” he said, and he was gone.

  I picked the dryer up and went back to trying to straighten my curls. Or at least to try to turn them into soft waves, tugging the big round brush through my long hair. I should wait, I told myself. It’s just another year before he leaves for school. I thought about calling Thomas to cancel, but I didn’t want to. Grady wasn’t going to like the thought of me dating. Ever. And Thomas was as good a place to start as any.

  8

  Thomas

  I rang the bell and she opened the door. A halo of soft brown waves reaching to the tops of her lush breasts, hidden behind a green shirt that complemented her eyes. “Hi,” I said, stepping toward her, reaching out and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear before placing a kiss on her cheek. “Ready to go?”

  “Is this your date?”

  I peeled my eyes off of Amy to find the voice—her son.

  I took a step back from her and stuck out my hand. “Hi, Grady, I’m Thomas Popov.”

  He was tall. Right over six feet. And lean. I rowed each morning and had a few inches on him, but he could probably take me. He gave me a slow look up and down. “Hey,” he said with a pop of his chin, leaving me hanging on the shake and telling me without words that he had his sights set on me. The memory of me doing the same to Cassie and Claire’s prom dates rushed back at me. Karma.

  “Grady,” Amy bit out.

  With a little eye roll, Grady jumped into line. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Popov,” he said. A quick firm shake and he stepped closer to his mom.

  “Um, Mom.”

  “Yeah?” she said.

  “Can I talk with you a minute?” Something passed between them, and I knew I wasn’t wanted.

  “Amy, take your time. I’ll be out by the car.” Without waiting for her response, I walked back to my car, stopping on the way to give her potted flowers another big gulp of water.

  “Okay,” she said, closing the front door behind her. “We’re off.”

  “We can reschedule,” I offered as I wound up her garden hose.

  “No. We’re good,” she said, walking to my car.

  “That bad?” I said, thinking that one, she was still going to dinner with me and two, there wasn’t a chance in hell that their private conversation was about anything other than me.

  “Mmm,” she said, biting her lips together while the corners curled in a smile. She reached for the car door, but I beat her to it and pulled it open. “Thank you. It wasn’t bad,” she said, sliding into the seat.

  “That’s a relief,” I said, closing her door.

  Once we were out of the driveway, she continued. “It wasn’t bad. It was just funny.”

  “Now you have to tell me.”

  “He thinks you’re too old for me.”

  “It’s the hair, isn’t it?” I asked, running my hand across my gray head. “I started going gray around thirty. Shortly after the twins were born. I blame them.”

  “It’s not the hair,” she said, rotating in her seat toward me. “I like your hair,” she said softly.

  “Am I too old for you?” I asked, worried that our age difference would be a deal killer.

  “No.”

  “I’m fifty-three.” I wanted her to know, because if my age were a problem, it was one I couldn’t do a damn thing about.

  “I might have already known that from your chart. I hope you had a good birthday last month, by the way.”

  I felt relief at her words and thanked her for the birthday wishes.

  “I’ll be thirty-nine next month,” she blurted. “You probably wouldn’t ask, to be polite. But I know you’d be wondering, because I’d be wondering and—”

  “You’re fine, Amy.” Stopped at a red light, I looked over at her.

  “Thanks,” she said quietly. But the tension was still in her limbs.

  “How about this? What about we just go out for drinks instead? No pressure. Glass of wine. You tell me when you want me to take you home, and
that’ll be it.” I turned on the blinker and pulled out of her neighborhood.

  “What if I told you that I was really looking forward to the movie?”

  “Then I’d say I’m treating you to the jumbo popcorn.”

  “And a Diet Coke?” she asked, holding up two sets of crossed fingers and pasting an over-the-top nervous grin on her face.

  I responded to her silliness with deadpan. “For you?” I said, pursing my lips and gazing to the sky like I was having to really consider the request. “The gallon-sized one, if you like.”

  “Buttering me up, I see. What’s your go-to movie treat?”

  “Big box of candy. I’m a simple man.”

  We settled into a comfortable silence, but it wasn’t enough for me. To have her so close was good, but I wanted her closer. I moved my right hand from the wheel to the gear box, using my left to steer. I wanted her hand back in mine, like it had been after breakfast. And breakfast felt like a lifetime ago. I looked at her as she watched the world pass by. “Is the music okay?” U2’s “Running to Stand Still” spilled from the speakers, not loud enough to screw up conversation, but definitely loud enough to make itself known.

  “It’s U2. There is no planet on which that isn’t more than okay.”

  “Good.” I ticked a box in my head and smiled. “They’re my favorite band.”

  “I saw them live once. During college. But it was during their Discothèque tour.”

  “Ah, yes. Popmart. I caught that tour, too. Detroit. It wasn’t their best.”

  “It was weird because it was supposed to be like an anti-consumerism theme, but it was so excessive with lights and the screens and the whole huge production of it all. It was a total disconnect for me. I’m not a fan of big stadium type shows anyway. Nothing against them, but it’s not my thing. And before I say more, I should probably ask, what’s your favorite song of theirs?”

  I thought for a minute, trying to whittle the songs that had been with me throughout my life down to one. I couldn’t even come up with a short list. “Can my answer be ‘all of Joshua Tree’ because that’s probably accurate.”