strength induced. I feel no guilt whatsoever. Harder he said, and harder he got.
“Well, if he didn’t have a hernia, I hope you gave him one, sweetie,” says a woman leaguer kindly. “I thought he was kind of a prick.”
I smile at her. “Me, too.”
I make a mental note on the drive home: thirteen is definitely bad luck.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A NOTHER GREAT STORY of the horrors of dating. I entertain half the town with Oliver’s Groin, the latest in a series of laugh-out-loud jokes that comprises my love life. Soon I’ll have enough for a daily calendar.
My second date from Father Tim’s list of eligible bachelors is Albert Mikrete. We meet at a steakhouse on Route 1, Al and I. And while he is a good-looking man, financially secure, considerate and pleasant, and while we agree that Maggie Mikrete would be an excellent name, and while he was apparently quite brave during his colonoscopy last month and his cataract surgery in January, we decide at the end of our meal that perhaps we aren’t quite right for each other.
“You’re a lovely girl,” Al says as he pays the check (at least there’s that). He puts away the pictures of his grandchildren and smiles. “And you’ve been so kind to an old man like myself, sitting here all night, listening to me go on.”
“I’ll probably kick myself for letting you go,” I say, horrified to realize that Al’s been my best date in years.
“Well, I can’t wait to tell my bridge club that I went on a date with a sweet young thing. Imagine! Me, dating a woman forty-six years younger!”
We laugh and hug and part as friends, and he drives with painstaking care out of the parking lot, another senior citizen fallen to my charms. When I get home, there’s a wheezing, laughing message on my machine from Father Tim. “Oh, shite, Maggie,” he says, and I smile at the rare curse. “You’ve already gone, then. Well, by the time you get home tonight, you’ll find that wires got a wee bit crossed…” He dissolves into more gales of laughter. “Ring me when you get in.”
I pick up the phone and hit number three on speed dial. “You’re speaking to the future Mrs. Albert Mikrete,” I say when he answers.
“Oh, Maggie!” he says. “I’m so sorry. It seems that Father Bruce was thinking of the wrong person…tell me it wasn’t awful.”
“It wasn’t, actually. He has beautiful grandchildren.”
This causes another shower of laughter, and I lie back on my bed and listen happily.
That Sunday as I field the after-church brunch crowd, I’m surprised to see Al come in. He waves vigorously as I serve the Tabors their pancakes.
“Thought I’d stop by and see you, sweetheart,” he announces loudly, adjusting his hearing aid. The diner becomes quiet. “I wanted to tell you again what a wonderful time I had on our date.”
I smile. “Me, too, Al.” At least this time, I’m not embarrassed. Or drunk.
“W HAT ABOUT K EVIN M ICHALSKI ?” Father Tim asks the next week, taking his usual seat at the diner.
“I used to babysit him,” I answer, gazing out at April. Sadly, it doesn’t look different from muddy March, though the air is a bit gentler. There may be a slight fuzz of red on the distant oaks, but I can’t really tell.
“Ah. And that puts him out of the running, does it?”
“He must be twelve or thirteen years younger than I am, Father Tim. He’s nineteen years old. I’d like someone who can buy a six-pack.”
“All right, then,” says Father Tim. He seems to have really gotten a tickle out of arranging my dates and consults his list with a serious expression. “I’ve one last man to try, and if that doesn’t work, I’m giving up on the world of dating.”
“You realize how that sounds, don’t you?” I ask him.
“This one’s a winner, mind you,” he says. “I’ve been saving the best for last.”
“Crafty of you,” I murmur.
He grins. “You’ll thank me for this one, Maggie. You will.”
“Good,” I say.
“Well, if he didn’t have a hernia, I hope you gave him one, sweetie,” says a woman leaguer kindly. “I thought he was kind of a prick.”
I smile at her. “Me, too.”
I make a mental note on the drive home: thirteen is definitely bad luck.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A NOTHER GREAT STORY of the horrors of dating. I entertain half the town with Oliver’s Groin, the latest in a series of laugh-out-loud jokes that comprises my love life. Soon I’ll have enough for a daily calendar.
My second date from Father Tim’s list of eligible bachelors is Albert Mikrete. We meet at a steakhouse on Route 1, Al and I. And while he is a good-looking man, financially secure, considerate and pleasant, and while we agree that Maggie Mikrete would be an excellent name, and while he was apparently quite brave during his colonoscopy last month and his cataract surgery in January, we decide at the end of our meal that perhaps we aren’t quite right for each other.
“You’re a lovely girl,” Al says as he pays the check (at least there’s that). He puts away the pictures of his grandchildren and smiles. “And you’ve been so kind to an old man like myself, sitting here all night, listening to me go on.”
“I’ll probably kick myself for letting you go,” I say, horrified to realize that Al’s been my best date in years.
“Well, I can’t wait to tell my bridge club that I went on a date with a sweet young thing. Imagine! Me, dating a woman forty-six years younger!”
We laugh and hug and part as friends, and he drives with painstaking care out of the parking lot, another senior citizen fallen to my charms. When I get home, there’s a wheezing, laughing message on my machine from Father Tim. “Oh, shite, Maggie,” he says, and I smile at the rare curse. “You’ve already gone, then. Well, by the time you get home tonight, you’ll find that wires got a wee bit crossed…” He dissolves into more gales of laughter. “Ring me when you get in.”
I pick up the phone and hit number three on speed dial. “You’re speaking to the future Mrs. Albert Mikrete,” I say when he answers.
“Oh, Maggie!” he says. “I’m so sorry. It seems that Father Bruce was thinking of the wrong person…tell me it wasn’t awful.”
“It wasn’t, actually. He has beautiful grandchildren.”
This causes another shower of laughter, and I lie back on my bed and listen happily.
That Sunday as I field the after-church brunch crowd, I’m surprised to see Al come in. He waves vigorously as I serve the Tabors their pancakes.
“Thought I’d stop by and see you, sweetheart,” he announces loudly, adjusting his hearing aid. The diner becomes quiet. “I wanted to tell you again what a wonderful time I had on our date.”
I smile. “Me, too, Al.” At least this time, I’m not embarrassed. Or drunk.
“W HAT ABOUT K EVIN M ICHALSKI ?” Father Tim asks the next week, taking his usual seat at the diner.
“I used to babysit him,” I answer, gazing out at April. Sadly, it doesn’t look different from muddy March, though the air is a bit gentler. There may be a slight fuzz of red on the distant oaks, but I can’t really tell.
“Ah. And that puts him out of the running, does it?”
“He must be twelve or thirteen years younger than I am, Father Tim. He’s nineteen years old. I’d like someone who can buy a six-pack.”
“All right, then,” says Father Tim. He seems to have really gotten a tickle out of arranging my dates and consults his list with a serious expression. “I’ve one last man to try, and if that doesn’t work, I’m giving up on the world of dating.”
“You realize how that sounds, don’t you?” I ask him.
“This one’s a winner, mind you,” he says. “I’ve been saving the best for last.”
“Crafty of you,” I murmur.
He grins. “You’ll thank me for this one, Maggie. You will.”
“Good,” I say.
Similar Books
