The Last Place She'd Look Page 19

  Meanwhile, the sounds of sirens are replaced by the rustling of a leaf on a tree mere inches from my head. Looking up, I realized I'd just dodged a shoulder full of bird poop. Glad it happened near me and not ON me, I smiled, feeling lucky. Walking south on Fairfax Boulevard, I felt encouraged by it being a warm, sunny day in February. The closer I got to Farmers Market, the faster my heart beat. If these aren't loving, yearning feelings, I don't know what is.

  Farmers Market: chattering crowds of people, talking, laughing, eating different kinds of food. Senior citizens pushing baby carriages. Walking, looking, hoping—there she is—there's Jessica. Should I hug her? Just a friendly smile? I'll let her lead the way. Jessica smiled and leaned into me, not quite a hug, almost like a body peck. Her hair smelled as great as I'd remembered. I tried not to swoon.

  “Hey, how are ya?” she said, more officious than warm, pulling a clipboard and pen out of her purse.

  “Coffee? Anything?” I was trying to push the social angle of the meeting.

  “Um, uh, soy latte?” she said tentatively, as she made herself comfortable at a table with folding chairs.

  I obediently searched the nearby coffee sellers for a soy latte, not easily found in this part of the market. But I knew it would make her happy, so I went to the far end of the market. I brought back chocolate cookies too.

  “Is everything all right?” Jessica asked, concerned I'd been gone a while.

  “Fine. Great,” I said. “They have the coffee you like on the other side…and these too.” I presented the cookies.

  “Thank you. Now I pulled some comps for condos in this neighborhood as a starting point for what you'd be looking for.”

  “How's your coffee?” I asked, easing the conversation to being friendlier.

  Jessica sipped, and went back to her clipboard. “Look at these and tell me what you think.”

  “I trust you'll find great places.”

  “What's your down?” she asked off-handedly.

  “Down?”

  “Down payment, your deposit.”

  I offered proudly, “Work has been going great. I'm syndicated and a big hit in Europe. I just got a check for 22,000 dollars.”

  “That's nice, Sara, congratulations. But how much can you put down to buy a place?” she said officiously, growing impatient.

  “Twenty-two,” I restated, proudly.

  “You brought me all the way here for 22,000 dollars…anything else you can add to that? You should know you can't buy a hot dog stand in this town for that kind of money.” She gathered her things as if ready to leave.

  I grabbed her arm. “Don't go. Listen to me.”

  “I wish you respected me enough to not waste my time,” she said coldly.

  “With my writing and your real estate smarts we could create a real estate column together. I'd quote you the way I quote shrinks and therapists. This would increase your visibility, build client recognition, revenues—yours and mine. We'd pool our resources; we could make enough money to buy a house with a pool.”

  “You're an adorable dreamer, Sara. But I live on planet earth,” she said curtly.

  “Hear me out,” I mustered, not knowing where I was going. “I'm seeing this as a business opportunity that could benefit both of us. You teach me more about real estate; now that I'm syndicated, your point of view could be all over the country. Articles on: How to help women hold onto their homes, or buy foreclosures before auction. I could help you become the Suze Orman of real estate.”

  We each paused and looked into our coffee cups, both surprised by what I'd said, and the potential of it all.

  “You talk a good game,” Jessica said, still not looking at me.

  “I'm not playing. I'm for real. All these months away from you, I was thinking about this moment, and what I could offer you…if it would be good enough—compelling—if I would be good enough. I've grown into a better woman—more mature and responsible.”

  “Who sleeps with men,” she said, insistently.

  “When we first met, you said there was so much you wanted to learn from me. I want to learn from you. Remember that Pet Shop Boys song, I've got the brains, you've got the looks, let's make lots of money.”

  Jessica laughed. “You were always fun to be with.”

  “Work with me. Teach me about short sales, for example. We can work on articles together; down the road, maybe a book. Buying a short sale for the long haul.”

  Jessica looked up and focused on me. “I'm listening. Continue.”

  “See me from a business point of view. Let me show you the potential.”

  “And then what?” she asked.

  “Be open to anything possible.”

  Our eyes met, both smiling. In this moment, I was drenched in hope.

  Chapter 33

  Dream On…It Takes Two

  I knew if I won Jessica's trust I'd have to work hard to keep it and build on it. I immersed myself in learning everything I possibly could about the buying, selling, and maintaining of real estate.

  I pitched stories about the homes and lifestyles of the women I wrote self-help articles for. I got to know a slew of new editors from design magazines such as Elle Décor, Metropolitan Home, and Dwell. Stories like Spruce Up Your Studio Apartment, Living Large on Less, and Ten Steps to Refinancing Without Tears, all sold easily and effortlessly. They also paid better than some of the other publications I'd been writing for.

  Meanwhile, Jessica and I were spending a lot of time together working on story ideas, sharing dinners at night, looking at houses and condos on weekends. At first, we worked together as friends, and then, one night our work life melted… into a romance.

  We were at my place, outlining an article about How to Start a Vegetable Garden, Even on Your Terrace. Jessica was uber-serious. I tried to be playful. We ordered mushroom and garlic pizza. I opened a bottle of red wine. We ate and drank. The pizza was very salty, so we drank some more. On the couch laughing, she reached past me to refill her glass. Her arm grazed my leg. The clean scent of her magnificent mane was intoxicating. I leaned in for a cheek graze that became a smooch. Yes, it was that same couch where I'd had my last night with a man, my infamous misstep with Derrick. I thought how I needed to burn that couch, to silence the stories it could tell. Or maybe that couch was my passport to erotic adventures! That night was incredibly passionate, as Jessica and I both unleashed our wild girls, moaning and groaning each with fierce feline moves and frenetic energy. It was clear to both of us that neither had been intimate with anyone since our break-up. I think that made her receptive to trusting me, again. I saw this night as a small victory. But I knew that battle was not totally won.

  After that, work nights ended with affection, sex, and pillow talk before falling asleep. Our professional goals of building greater magazine visibility and real estate expertise were coupled with growing as a romantic team. But two people collaborating get growing pains. We certainly had our share. I like to be comfortable when I write. Jessica saw this as me dressing sloppily, with dirty hair and a ripped shirt.

  Jessica was repulsed, “Pigpen, stink bomb. Smellier than a man.” “That's a low blow.”

  “You know how, better than I do,” Jessica fired back.

  “Will you ever forget? Will you ever let go and trust my love for you?”

  Another day, another argument, same subject. She thought I was a slob who couldn't wash a glass properly.

  “Oh no, you don't call this clean?”I remarked sarcastically, examining the stained drinking glass. Then I dropped it on the floor, so it would break. “Now it's not a dirty glass…its garbage—I'll clean it up, 'cause I'm a planner.”

  “I don't think I can work with you,” said Jessica.

  “Me either,” I admitted. “But I can't imagine life without you… So I'll do better.”

  That evening we went out to dinner. I was clean, dressed up, and well-coifed. Jessica was all smiles, attentive, and quite turned on in the restaurant. After dinner we stopped off at a
supermarket to get some fruit for breakfast.

  While I was in the produce aisle a man approached me. Seems he recognized me from my photo in the Toluca Times. We spoke for a few minutes. Jessica watched from a distance. She saw him touch my shoulder and give me his card.

  “Who was that?” she inquired, with more than a hint of jealousy.

  “No one.”

  “No one gave you a business card?” she continued, amping up her rage.

  “He reads the column, wants me to write about drywall and mention him, 'cause he's a drywaller,” I explained, hoping this would calm her.

  “You think he's attractive?”

  “He wants me to grow his business, not suck his dick. Is that all you see whenever I talk to a man?”

  “I trust you. But you're an attractive woman. I don't trust men.”

  “Your jealousy can get bigger than a house.”

  “Good we have sleepovers rather than a mortgage,” she snapped.

  We carried the groceries and went home in silence. Once we started unbagging our purchases, a heat came over both of us. We turned, touched, kissed, caressed, and ended up making love on the kitchen floor.

  After a few months of going back and forth between our apartments with overnight bags, we each decided to give the other a drawer and some closet space. So now it felt like we lived together—at her place during the week, and mine on weekends.

  One Friday night, I was standing in my kitchen, at the cutting board, slicing red and green peppers for a stir-fry. Early Joni Mitchell songs were wafting through the air.

  I felt a gentle hand encircle my waist as warm lips kissed my neck. It was Jessica, offering me a glass of red wine. We each sipped from our goblet, locked eyes, and nodded to one another, a pleased expression. After many months together, we had learned each other so well; we needed few words to say, “Yes, this wine is good.”

  She stirred the onions in the wok, and then extended her arm to me, indicating I should bring the peppers. I marched my red and green slivers to the stove. She tossed and stirred them. The peppers seemed to dance in the wok, sizzling.

  Jessica put down her wooden spoon and reached for me. As we kissed, I felt my open heart pressing against hers. A deliciously warm feeling cascaded from my head to my toes. The feeling was not from a hot flash or the hot kitchen. It was from the wonderfulness of being loved and accepted and loving back.

  My life was so much fuller and more joyous once Jessica became a part of it. I finally appreciated and savored the intimacy we shared. We moved together in the kitchen or working on story ideas, or on vacations like a fine Swiss watch: caring, helping, and ticking forward; getting things done and delighting in the journey. Dinner at home, bare-footed, was never so delicious.

  Midlife was smarter. I knew how happy I was because I measured it against decades of disappointment, despair, and aloneness. This moment may not have looked like the life, or love, or partner I thought I'd have at this point in my life. I was glad I was able to be open and accepting to embrace a happiness I never thought was possible.

  After about nine months and 20 articles themed about real estate for women, Beth suggested turning them into chapters for a self-help real estate book. Women Can Own Foreclosures practically wrote itself. The book was an easy sell too. Using public relations ingenuity we were able to get mortgage companies to offer it to prospective clients. Jessica and I appeared on The Ellen DeGeneres Show. We teased Ellen that she'd owned more than a dozen homes, but none were foreclosures. Our book took off!

  We were able to parlay the success of our first book into a second: Women Owning Real Estate, the Workbook This featured tables and worksheets that helped women prepare for mortgage meetings. It also included encouraging quotes and motivational exercises with space for journaling.

  We did a book tour, with question-and-answer seminars. This was thrilling because after months of being huddled over our computer, we were out in the world visiting bookstores in large cities where smart women lined up to buy our books, hear what we had to say and share success stories. It was exhilarating to hear their experiences of feeling empowered, negotiating with lenders, doing things they never thought they'd do, and the freedom and confidence of owning their own homes. We were creating value while building credibility for ourselves.

  Then one day, in the bookstore in my neighborhood, the most gratifying thing happened. We were setting up for a Q&A presentation at the Barnes & Noble & Noble at the Grove, just off Fairfax. It was a huge store with about a dozen little cluster points where you could spend an entire day reading and exploring. The entire store was pretty crowded. Fifteen minutes before the event was supposed to begin, people were filling the event area.

  As Jessica was carrying an extra box of books to the signing area, she walked past the biographies section. A man stopped her, eyed her up and down, and began flirting with her. Jessica smiled and appeared interested. Putting the books down, she began talking to him, like she had time to spare.

  Frantically I searched the floor for her, eager to set up the books, anxious about the day's presentation. Seeing her and recognizing him, all fit, fine, and white-haired, my adrenaline was pumping at double speed. With the confidence of a superhero, I approached him. “Hi, remember me?”

  Ack said, “No.”

  I was enraged, “You don't remember me? I'll show you something you'll never forget!”

  I kissed Jessica deeply and passionately, dipping her back in a long, swooning romantic moment. In front of everyone, I felt all of our mutual jealousies melting away and gloriously happy with my choice of partner. To Ack I blurted, “The next time you kick someone out of bed without fucking them, remember that.” To Jessica I said, “Come on, doll. We've got books to sign.”

  I took her hand and we sauntered up to the table where a long line of eager book holders awaited our signatures. Before picking up our pens, we grabbed each other's asses affectionately and smiled at one another.

  When the second book was published, we received a big advance. This coupled with Jessica's relationships with all of the listings services and mortgage brokers enabled us to live the dream we'd encouraged others to do. We bought a house together— a little pink cottage in Toluca Lake. We got a great price because it was part of an estate sale. It had a big back yard and a pool.

  So without obsessing about the lack in my life I was able to move from magazine writing to books, increase my income, and find love with a delightful life partner. Packing and moving seemed easier. The things I'd been collecting, saving, and hoarding when I lived alone had finally lost their luster. There were more boxes for the trash than the moving van. With less baggage of all kinds, my new life was leaner and smarter.

  Our first night in the house, I luxuriated in the tub. Now I was a home owner, with Jacuzzi bubbles. Another dream had come true! While soaking, I reflected on who I was, and who I'd be now, living in this house.

  I realized, love and sex are ideally a package deal. In my life I hoped sex would bring love. But the outcome was usually life-threatening, disastrous, or just plain loveless. Growing loving feelings and building intimacy seemed like a greater challenge and a more necessary goal as I got older.

  I'd finally relinquished my quest for men. I gave the pursuit one last attempt and found it disappointing and painfully trying. Was I a lesbian by birth or sexual orientation? Not quite. But I preferred the company and intimacy of women at this point in my life because women over 50 are better companions than men. They know how to do things well, in and out of sexual situations. They know what they like and aren't afraid to express themselves (in and out of bed). They have hair on their heads, hope in their hearts, and a timely pedicure.

  I believe that many women and most of my friends who never married (straight or gay) evolved into the husbands they were raised to marry—unclogging sinks, refinancing mortgages, and earning incomes that provide for a small family. They developed into full human beings rather than Barbie dolls waiting for their Ken doll to
complete them. (I don't think married women are Barbie dolls, but many of my generation were raised to think they were deficient without a partner.) Where are those versatile, dynamic women this very minute? They're home re-wallpapering their kitchen or attending a book club with friends.

  Attention must be paid to my invisible demographic! I want Playboy magazine to have a monthly feature, “boomer babes”, rather than a steady diet of bleached blond mammary Amazons, fresh from their cheerleading days, devoid of facial expressions, pubic hair, or library cards. I feel validated and encouraged that mid-life women anchor the evening news, telling America what's happening in the world. America's favorite talk show hosts were mid-life women: Oprah was unmarried, rumored to be in the company of women, yet she vehemently denied it. She earned millions more than any man and wielded greater power and influence than most successful corporate giants. Then there's our new pal, daytime's darling, Ellen DeGeneres, a publicly acknowledged lesbian, with the approval of habitual audience member, her own mother Betty. If everyone's world could be so loving and accepting, life would be a lot easier.

  My late mother wanted me to be happy with someone who loved me. I may not be the woman she raised me to be, but the world had changed rapidly since her youth, and with even greater velocity since my own girlhood.

  If I had less than a half century left, it was my experience that the men I met were elusive, inadequate, and rejecting. Climbing the penis tree became a pointless hike of disappointment on a crumbing branch of dead wood. After much reflection and deliberation, my smart choices were to be alone or with a woman.

  I'd unlocked my heart to someone who opened their arms to me, eager to build and share a life filled with affection and mutual respect. It just happened to be a woman. As a young bride, was I a lesbian in training? Growing and changing is a giant part of leading a healthy life. Repeating the same mistakes (with men, yeah, them again) was self-defeating and tiresome. I had to remind myself of that quite often.