Chapter 5

5

Done being a PIB, Stef texted Frankie.

PIB was right. She had, indeed, been a pain in the butt.

Want to go to Carol's Place for happy hour sliders and peppermint martinis?

No way was Frankie telling Stef she was going out with Brock. That would be salt in the wounded pride. Can't. Catch you at Mom's tomorrow?

KK , came the reply.

Thank heaven Stef hadn't gotten nosy and asked what Frankie was doing. Frankie was surprised she hadn't, but never look a gift reindeer in the mouth.

This was probably only a short reprieve anyway—the topic of Frankie's dinner with Brock was bound to come up. Adele loved living vicariously through her daughters. And romance novels.

"Pretend men are always better than the real deal," she often joked, but Frankie knew that her father had been her mother's hero. Just like Ike had been Frankie's.

"Ike would want you to find someone," Adele had told Frankie on more than one occasion. When she did, an image of Mitch would always spring to mind. Mitch was her buddy. Maybe, in another life, another time, he would have been her man. She'd occasionally caught herself checking out his biceps. Or his pecs. Or enjoying the deep rumble of his voice. That was simply friendly admiration, though, and she didn't indulge those moments for long.

"Dad would have wanted you to find someone, too," Frankie liked to shoot back, turning the spotlight off herself.

"At this age, it's too hard to train a husband," was her mother's typical response. "But you're still young."

Frankie was hardly young. Although, she supposed age was a relative thing. To Adele and her friends, Frankie was a mere baby, with lots of time left for love. But one experience of love dissolving into loss was enough for her.

She kept on her work pants and black sweater for her dinner out with Brock and left the perfume on her dresser. She hadn't worn it since Ike died. Other than brushing her teeth—because who wanted anyone to have bad breath—she did nothing to fix herself up. Not even any makeup refreshing or messing with her hair. To look like she'd tried would send the wrong message.

"You look great," he said when she walked into the restaurant.

Who was he kidding? "Thanks," she said.

He looked great, too. He wore jeans, and she could see a clean shirt underneath his jacket. She caught a whiff of cologne as she got closer.

She wasn't about to tell him how good he looked. And smelled. It would only make him think she was interested. And she had no intention of becoming interested. Instead, she pointed to his shirt. "You're brave, wearing a white shirt to an Italian restaurant. Or else you're an amazingly fastidious eater."

"I'm no slob," he joked.

You sure aren't , she thought. He and Stef should have hit it off. Why hadn't they?

The host seated them at a table with the requisite red-and-white checked cloth and a candle in a red globe holder. The Italian standard "Volare" was playing softly in the background.

"Nice ambience, huh?" said Brock.

"Yes, it is," she agreed.

"I'm glad you're here," he said.

She wasn't. She should have told him no.

Their waiter appeared, saving her from having to respond. "May I start you out with something to drink?"

A little wine would make a difficult conversation easier. She ordered a glass of the house red. Brock changed it to a bottle.

"We're in no hurry, right?" he said.

"Well." It was all she could think to say.

He began to peruse the menu. "How about we start with an appetizer?"

She'd never get out of there. "I think I'm fine with pizza," she said.

"Well, then, pizza it is," he said.

The waiter appeared with their wine. Once it was poured, Frankie took a healthy slug of hers.

"Are you ready to order?" the man asked.

"Not yet," Brock said.

"Let's go ahead and order," Frankie said. The less time she spent at this cozy table with Jack Reacher the Second, the better.

Brock looked surprised but said, "Okay. Pizza with everything on it?"

"Sure," she said.

"Works for me," he said, and gave the waiter their order. "If there's any food better than pizza, I don't know what it is," he added as the man left.

Frankie didn't want to waste time rhapsodizing about pizza. They needed to get right down to business. "This was nice of you," she began.

"You're easy to be nice to," he said.

"Thank you, but I don't think we should make a habit of this."

"Of what, eating?"

"You know what I mean," she said. "You're going to want to get out there and start dating."

"I thought this was a date," he said.

"No, this is...pizza. A friendly dinner sharing pizza," she added, reminding him of the whole friends thing.

He studied her. "It's okay to admit you're interested."

"I'm not interested."

"You could have fooled me. All that flirting."

She gaped at him. "Flirting?"

"‘Lucky us.' Remember saying that? And inviting me over for dinner."

"I was just being friendly. Brock, I invited you for dinner because I really wanted you to meet my sister," Frankie explained. "Stef's actually a lot of fun. And she's closer to your age."

He studied Frankie again. "Have you got some kind of age hang-up?"

"It's not a hang-up. It's just practical. I'm not looking to get into a romantic relationship, especially with someone who's so much younger."

"I can't be that much younger," he protested.

"You're forty, right? I'm ten years older than you. I could have been your babysitter."

"I liked my babysitter."

Was he leering? Yes, he was! "Oh, stop that," she said irritably, and he laughed.

"Come on, now, seriously, at this point in life what does it matter if two people aren't exactly the same age?" he argued. "Admit it, Frankie. You're attracted to me."

"Any woman with a speck of estrogen left in her would be attracted to you." Oh, good grief. Where had that come from? She grabbed a bread stick from the bowl on the table and chomped on it, but it was too late to plug her mouth. The words were already out.

He grinned. "You know, older women with younger men is becoming a trend. Lots of movie stars are hooking up with younger men."

Hooking up. That produced an image that had her reaching for her wineglass and taking a big gulp.

"And lots of younger men end up splitting with their older woman when it dawns on the guy that he wants children." She set down her glass and leaned forward. "Brock, I've got a grown daughter. I'm done having kids."

"Okay," he said slowly.

"Now, someone like my sister..."

"Sorry, Frankie, not interested."

"Or Elinor," she tried.

He made a face. "Too quiet."

"But a good listener," Frankie argued. Brock liked to talk about himself—what man didn't?—which made a woman who wasn't a big talker a good fit for him.

"You seem to listen pretty good. And I think you want to be with me."

She'd have to have been dead not to find this man attractive.

Their pizza arrived. He took a piece and set it on her plate.

"You're a great guy, there's no denying that," she said. "But I'm not interested, and even if I was, I don't see this turning into anything lasting. Like Mitch said the other night, there will come a time when you'll want kids."

His eyebrows pulled together. "There's more to a relationship than kids."

"You'll want them at some point," she insisted.

She still remembered what had happened to her friend Char. Char was beautiful, fit and fun. She'd gotten together with a younger man, and their relationship had been perfect...until he wanted children. She'd tried to hide the fact that she was going through menopause from him, but in the end, he discovered the truth. And he left.

"I really don't want kids," Brock insisted.

She shook her head. "You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. Frankie, I'm really into you. We could have a lot of fun together."

"Yeah? Tell me your favorite band."

"The Strokes."

"That's one of Stef's favorite bands."

"How about you? Do you like them?"

"No. I like the Backstreet Boys. Ever hear anything by them?"

"I've heard of them."

"See? We don't have anything in common."

"We like different bands, and that means we don't have anything in common?" he protested. "Oh, come on, Frankie. That's ridiculous, especially since only last night we were having a pretty good time playing cards."

Okay, that had been a bad example. She tried again. "People are at different stages at different times in their life, and when they're years apart the stages don't match up, especially as you get older. I'll be ready for retirement long before you will."

I'll be a hag while you still look like a stud. It was a thought she didn't particularly want to acknowledge, but there it was. And it was true. A woman got wrinkles, and people said she was old. A man got wrinkles, and people said he was distinguished. Men aged beautifully. Mitch was proof of that.

"Maybe I'll retire early," Brock said. "Frankie, you're a beautiful woman. And full of life. I want to spend time with you. I think we could be great together."

No, great had been her and Ike.

Brock leaned forward and ran his fingers along her arm, giving her the shivers.

No, no! No shivers with this man.

"Let's give this a chance," he said softly. "Go out with me again."

"Oh, I don't think so," she began.

"Look, I'm not saying you have to jump in bed with me. But let's hang out and see where this goes. You know, there are advantages to being with younger men. They last longer."

She knew what he was alluding to, but she couldn't help thinking in broader terms. If she were looking for someone to spend her life with, someone who would make it clear to life's finish line with her, gambling on a younger man would be the safest bet.

And did she want to spend the rest of her life sleeping in that queen bed with only memories, eating breakfast at her kitchen table by herself?

Oh good grief, what a pathetic picture she was painting. It wasn't as if she had no life. She hung out with her mom and her sister and daughter. And Mitch. She had a business to run. And when was the last time she'd sat down at her kitchen table to eat? Breakfast was always an English muffin with peanut butter that she ate at the bathroom counter while putting on her makeup. She wasn't some sad, lonely thing.

"Give me some time to convince you," Brock urged. "Dinners out."

The pizza was good.

"West Coast swing at the White Owl. I hear they have a club that meets there."

"You dance?"

Now there was temptation. Frankie had watched many a post on TikTok with dancers showing off their sexy moves. The dance that had started in the forties had come a long way.

"I do. Used to dance with my ex. I could teach you some great moves."

She just bet he could. She could feel her resolution weakening.

"You deserve to be happy," he said.

"I am happy," she said. What did she look like, some lonely loser?

"Okay, happier?"

She frowned. "I should get home. I have paperwork I have to catch up on." What that paperwork was she wasn't sure, but she'd think of something. And she'd definitely think of a reason to say no next time Brock suggested getting together. This wouldn't work. She didn't care if he could dance.

"Okay," he said, and called for the check. "But I'm not giving up."

Temperatures had dropped while they were in the restaurant, and once outside Frankie saw the light snow that had fallen earlier had turned into a crust of frozen lace that crackled when they walked on it. She slipped a little, and Brock took her arm. Then, someone new appeared, taking her other arm. Where had he come from?

"Mitch, what are you doing here?" she asked.

"Yeah, what are you doing here?" Brock demanded. "You said you had plans."

"Met someone in the bar for a drink," Mitch said, tugging Frankie a little closer to him.

Brock tugged back, making her feet slide.

"Hey, you two, this isn't tug-of-war," she protested.

"Sorry," Brock muttered. Then, to Mitch, "I've got her."

"You sure?" said Mitch.

"Yeah, we're good."

Mitch let go, and Brock escorted Frankie to her car, which wasn't parked far away. In fact, from where he was leaning in the restaurant's doorway, Mitch had a very good view of the two of them.

"I had a great time," Brock said. "I think you did, too, whether you want to admit it or not."

"Thank you," she said. "I enjoyed the pizza." The conversation, not so much. It had left her feeling unsettled.

"Give me a chance to show you some more good times." He caught both her arms and gave her a gentle pull toward him.

This was how the ocean felt when the moon called to it. Powerful as the sea was, the moon was stronger. Primal urges drowned common sense. Maybe she should give him a chance. Give herself a chance.

Brock almost had her lips.

She could feel Mitch's gaze as if he was standing right there between them. She glanced his direction. Yep, there he still stood, leaning against the building, one ankle crossed over the other, his hands shoved in the pockets of his peacoat, an eyebrow cocked as if to say, What are you doing?

She recentered herself and turned her head so that all Brock caught was her cheek, then smiled up at him. "Thanks again for dinner," she said, and slipped into her car.

She drove home, thinking of celebrity matches where the woman had been older, ignoring the success stories and dwelling on the ones that hadn't worked out. Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher came to mind. So did Hugh Jackman and Deborra-Lee Furness. Infidelity, infertility, losing the zing—all were causes cited in media speculation. Zings could, of course, be lost at any age, any time, but why stack the odds against you?

She drove cautiously, slowly...like an old woman. No, like a woman who didn't want to skid into anything.

She passed Adele's house on the corner of her street. The Christmas lights winked at Frankie from the roof, and through the living room window, she could see images flickering on her mother's TV. Adele was probably watching Elf , her holiday favorite. If Frankie had been smart, she'd have turned down Brock's invitation and joined her mother.

The rest of the houses on her street all greeted her with glowing multicolored lights, inflatable snowmen and Santas waving at her from their yards as she drove past. Then came her house, with the wreath on her red front door and the icicle lights Mitch had strung for her dripping along the roofline. She smiled at the sight. She loved her house. She loved her life. She didn't need to be shaking it up with a man she'd never become serious over.

But dancing at the White Owl?

Bad idea, Frankie. He can't replace Ike .

Once inside, she turned on her electric teakettle and pulled out hot cocoa mix along with her bottle of peppermint schnapps. She and Ike had loved to drink jazzed-up cocoa on a cold winter's night.

The memory of them curled up, side by side on the couch, drinking and listening to Christmas music made her sigh with yearning as she dumped the packet of cocoa mix in her mug.

She had just finished making her drink when the doorbell rang. She opened the door to find Mitch the guard dog standing on the porch.

Honestly, she wouldn't stalk him if he was out with someone. At the rate he was going, he was getting a dog collar for Christmas.

"This is a surprise," she said.

"I wanted to make sure you got home safe. You gonna invite me in?"

"I guess I am," she said, and moved aside to let him in.

He stepped inside, smelling like fresh air.

"I'm having hot chocolate. Want some?"

"Has it got schnapps in it?"

"Of course."

"Then I want some." He took off his coat, dropped it over the nearest chair, then followed her into the kitchen.

"I suppose it was just a coincidence that you happened to be at La Bella Vita tonight," she said.

"Like I said, I was meeting someone for a drink."

"Who?"

"Just someone."

He watched while she worked. "So, did you have a good time?" he asked casually.

"I did." She handed him a mug.

He nodded, took a sip of his drink. "What do you think of Brock?"

"I think he's nice."

"Kind of young for you, isn't he?"

Never mind the fact that she'd been thinking the same thing. Had said it to Brock. Hearing Mitch say it made her frown. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, just that he's too young."

"Or more like I'm too old?"

Mitch mirrored her frown. "I didn't say that. I just meant that you should be with someone..." He faltered.

"Someone what?"

"More like you. Someone older."

"Older? As in I'm...old?"

He frowned. "Don't go putting words in my mouth."

"What would be the point? There's hardly any room with your foot already in there."

"Hey, I just meant you need someone more mature."

"I don't need anyone," she snapped. "And I don't need you telling me what I need."

He set down his mug. "Obviously, I hit a nerve."

"No woman likes to be reminded that she's getting old. We have mirrors for that," Frankie said shortly.

"Hey, you're beautiful. And you'll always be beautiful, no matter what your age."

Okay, that was better.

"All I was saying was that he'd be a better fit with Stef. Isn't that who you had in mind for him?"

"I did. He's not into her," Frankie said. "But he is into me." So there. She agreed with Mitch, so why was she being so perverse? Because he had just double-dog dared her to prove that she wasn't over the hill, that was why. She'd show him.

What she'd show him she wasn't sure.

He frowned. "I don't want to see you hurt. Brock's a nice guy, but he's just a big kid. He won't stick."

Now he was insinuating she couldn't hold a younger man's attention. "Thank you for your advice, oh wise one." She pointed to his mug. "Are you done with that?"

He frowned at its contents. It was still half full. "I guess I am?"

"I guess you are."

He heaved a sigh, got up and trudged to the front door. She followed him and handed him his coat.

"Well, good night," he said.

"Good night," she said, and opened the door.

He walked out, frowning, and she shut it after him. Firmly.