CHAPTER TWENTY-2
"Mrs. Bartle, I got the job!" Diana had gotten the call less than a minute ago and had sped immediately downstairs to share the exciting news.
"You got the job! Oh, Diana, I'm so thrilled for you! Working with children is such a rewarding experience. Well, you'll see. When do you start?"
"Well, the camp starts a week from Monday. And if they like me, then I'll get three weeks off at the end of the summer and start back up again as a teacher's aid in September."
"If they like you?" Mrs. Bartle asked, looking confused. For like war, famine, flood, disease, and all the other catastrophic disasters that have plagued great minds across the nations for centuries, the idea of anyone not liking Diana was just too incomprehensible and cruel for her to understand. "They're going to love you."
"Thanks, Mrs. Bartle." If only the rest of the world could see her the way this woman did. If only everyone thought Diana were as lovable and strong. If only there were another soul in the world as genuine and as wholehearted as Mrs. Bartle—and that soul were male and around her age. If only self-esteem came in a bottle and thigh-friendly chocolate grew on trees.
"Have you given Mick your two weeks' notice yet?" Mrs. Bartle asked.
"No, I just found out, just now."
Mrs. Bartle looked deeply touched. "And you came right down here to tell me."
"Well, of course," Diana said, smiling. Who could possibly be a better partner in enthusiasm? Certainly not her mother. When Diana had told her that she was interviewing for an assistant counselor's position at a nursery school camp, she could actually see her mother biting her tongue. She knew that Mrs. Christopher had been just burning to criticize, but the fact that she'd struggled to contain her "advice" had made Diana feel powerful. It meant that her mother must have noticed the positive changes in her—the six pounds, the exercise class, the way that being the big blueberry in the back of the room didn't make her want to drop out of the exercise class. Perhaps noticing these things had made her mother decide that criticism was no longer appropriate. Maybe when someone shows signs of an expanding self-image—and a shrinking physical one—the critic feels threatened, like her counsel will be laughed off or, at best, disregarded. So, Mrs. Christopher hadn't said anything at all. She'd just raised her eyebrows and forced the corners of her mouth up into an exaggerated How wonderful! smile. But Diana knew that deep down, regardless of whether or not she would have chosen that job for herself, Mrs. Christopher was impressed by her daughter's sudden boldness—making a career change totally out of the blue and seeking a job that would be about so much more than the money. Still, she had said nothing. But not Mrs. Bartle. Judging by how enthusiastic her friend had been about the interview, she knew there'd be no better way to celebrate her success if she did get the job than by going straight downstairs to share the news with the one person who'd be happiest to hear it, the person whose happiness had no ulterior motives or clouding disapproval but existed solely because Diana was happy.
"I am so glad for you, dear," Mrs. Bartle said. "Why don't you come in and meet my great-nephew?"
"You mean William?" Diana asked. Mrs. Bartle nodded as a giant smile brought new light to her face. "What's he doing in Baltimore?"
This great-nephew was the grandson of Mrs. Bartle's late brother, Norman. While she and Henry had never been able to have children of their own, she'd remained exceptionally close to Norman's kids, caring for them as they grew as if she were their second mother. Their children were like grandchildren to her, and when William came along—last, but not least—they'd developed an immediate bond. Her youngest "grandson" was not only one of her best friends today, but also her ultimate pride and joy. She loved to tell the story of how he started out from nothing, the son of an auto mechanic in a little shop in Baltimore, where he'd learned the family trade and had followed in his father's footsteps, all before going to business school and opening his own chain of auto repair shops out west under the family name, also Mrs. Bartle's maiden name, of Carr. Diana had always wondered if the story's ending would seem as sweet if, instead of Carr's Auto Repair, her great-nephew had ended up with a chain of shops called Smith's or Johnson's Auto Repair. Probably not.
"He's looking to open some shops on the East coast. Now that his divorce is final, he's thinking of moving out here again to be closer to his parents and the cooking of his auntie Rose." Mrs. Bartle was beaming with pride. Diana could tell she was just bursting to introduce this legendary great-nephew of hers. How incredibly considerate it had been of her to wait for the excitement of Diana's job announcement to settle before moving on to any exciting announcements of her own. And this was a big deal. After hearing so much about him over the years, Diana couldn't wait to meet William. She wondered if he'd heard as much about her as she'd heard about him. She hoped not.
"Aunt Rose, who's there?" a voice questioned from inside. How sweet. Judging by how long they'd been in the hallway, her great-nephew probably thought Diana was some hard-selling door-to-door salesperson taking advantage of an old lady's kindness, and he was trying to rescue her.
"We're coming right in, dear," Mrs. Bartle reassured him. And taking Diana gently by the arm, she led her into the living room.
The man who rose from the couch didn't look anything like any self-motivated great-nephew Diana had ever envisioned—this man was hot! He was about five to ten years older than she was, with brown hair and that truly masculine sexiness that could only be described as "rugged good looks." But this was Mrs. Bartle's great-nephew, for Lord's sake. To entertain the thoughts she was starting to have was practically incestuous. Besides, Diana had already committed herself to Mr. Wonderful, aka "Yeah, Thanks."
"This," Mrs. Bartle said, beginning the introductions with her hand on Diana's shoulder, "is my very good friend from upstairs—"
"Diana?" the handsome stranger asked, staring at his great-aunt's visitor as if he'd known her in another life.
"Well, yes!" Mrs. Bartle laughed. She turned to Diana. "As you can see, I brag about both of my kids equally. And now you finally get to meet!" Diana smiled warmly, loving that she'd been referred to as one of Mrs. Bartle's "kids." But she didn't think this William guy was just putting two and two together. He seemed to know something. And his stare had grown hauntingly familiar. "This," Mrs. Bartle announced proudly, joining him at his side to polish off the introductions, "is my famous great-nephew, William Barron Carr, but he'll probably prefer if you just call him—"
"Barry?"
Diana couldn't move, breathe or blink. And apparently neither could he. And so they just stood there—united by a one-night stand, separated for fifteen years, and brought together again by one incredible old lady who meant the world to both of them—frozen. For Diana, life had just drained itself of all credibility. Reality had taken a major nosedive, and she didn't know how she'd ever believe anything it dealt her ever again. Things like this didn't really happen. Or did they? Maybe Fate had a different sense of humor than that straight-laced barrel of ordinary they called Reality. One thing was certain: out of all the men in the world that Diana had ever slept with—which was one—she'd managed to make him the great-nephew of the only true friend she'd ever had.
"You two . . . have met before?" Poor Mrs. Bartle looked back and forth at the faces of her two favorite young people, struggling to make sense of the paralyzed thrill that hung in the air between them.
Diana nodded clumsily, her eyes still fixed upon Barry. She wanted to think poorly of him. After all, she'd certainly seen enough movies and talk shows since she was seventeen to know that Barry hadn't treated her very well after they did it. The guy wasn't supposed to hand you a wad of tissues and take off, leaving you cold and alone in the freezing and unfamiliar 1988 air. He was supposed to kiss you goodbye and ask for your number—even if he never planned to use it. But for some reason, she just couldn't dismiss him as a jerk. Perhaps it was because of his bloodline. No one in Mrs. Bartle's family could ever be a jerk.
"I'm sorry I never called you." What? Had he read her mind?
"Exactly how well do you two know each other?" Mrs. Bartle asked, her tone hinting that she might already be aware of the answer. Or perhaps she was just being playful. Barry fumbled with the reins.
"Uh . . . Diana is . . . was . . ." Barry spent a few moments searching for the most appropriate way to say a girl I nailed during my pre-marital, pre-entrepreneurial stud days before switching to a new approach. "We met at a . . . um . . . at . . . uh, well, the, uh . . .the house of a friend!" he finished lamely. It was a true answer, after all, and one that he thought would satisfy his ever-so-unintrusive auntie Rose.
"What friend?" Mrs. Bartle asked, raising her eyebrows. Obviously he hadn't visited Auntie Rose in a while. Diana, however, had a little more practice with her friend's bold, new Private I side, and Barry looked so cute and helpless that she knew a rescue mission was in order.
"The Suttons," Diana chimed in. "I used to baby-sit for their twins. And Barry and I met at a New Year's Eve party they had, oh, I guess it was about fifteen years ago." Barry nodded, looking so completely relieved and grateful that he made her want to continue rescuing him for as long as it took. "Barry," she proceeded, "was the Suttons' mechanic."
"Right. That's right," Barry said quickly.
"Right," Mrs. Bartle echoed, half skeptical and half amused. She always knew when Diana was covering something up. Maybe she was the same way with Barry. But as long as she didn't ask if her great-nephew had put a raincoat on his snake before he wandered into Diana's garden, they would all be fine. "Fifteen years ago, huh?" she asked, looking at Diana. "You must have been seventeen years old!" And this seemed to freak Barry out a lot more than the allegory of the condom would have.
"Se . . . se . . .seventeen?" he stammered, looking panicked.
"And William," Mrs. Bartle continued, "you were only twenty-eight. It's hard to believe you two even recognized each other now."
"Sev-en-teen?" Barry silently mouthed once Mrs. Bartle had turned away. Diana nodded at him coyly. It was funny how in fifteen years it had never occurred to her that the twenty-eight-year-old mechanic with the powder blue pickup truck may have thought she was older than jailbait when he lay down with her in the truck.
"But then again," Mrs. Bartle resumed, looking from one startled face to another, "New Year's Eve can get pretty wild."
"Tell me about it," Diana blurted. And then, in a terribly embarrassed attempt to pretend she hadn't, she began to cough wildly, hoping to erase her words from their memories with the distraction. In Mrs. Bartle's case, it seemed to work.
"Are you all right, dear?" she asked. "William, why don't you go get her a glass of water?" But Barry just stood there, staring at Diana with an adorably goofy smile on his face that signified either sheer nervousness or sheer amusement—Diana couldn't tell which. "William, she's turning blue," Mrs. Bartle pleaded. And, suddenly, Barry's smile disappeared, and with a serious nod, he turned toward the kitchen. Once he was gone, Diana artfully allowed her coughing fit to subside into a light clearing and patting of the throat, eventually sighing to indicate that it was all behind her. Mrs. Bartle kept quiet until the performance was over. "You never forgot him, huh?" she asked once normalcy had been restored.
"Nope," Diana said calmly, staring into space like she was staring at a dream, painted on some canvas a thousand miles away. And for a moment, it didn't even matter that Mrs. Bartle hadn't bought her performance. She was remembering that night in the truck, their night.
"Well, it seems he never forgot you, either," Mrs. Bartle said. "I mean, I've been in grocery stores and shopping malls with him when the girls would come up. He's been cursed at, slapped even. Although they were always the ones who ran off in tears."
"Mrs. Bartle, what on earth are you talking about?" Diana asked, flung back into the reality of the moment by her confusion.
"Oh, Diana, grab a clue!" her friend exclaimed, hitting her lightly on the shoulder. "I'm saying you must have been special. William hardly ever remembers the women he slept with in his bachelor days. He was quite the stud, you know."
Diana felt like she was about to faint. She couldn't believe how much this old woman knew—how much she was able to figure out just by watching, how well she understood their bizarre behaviors, loved them anyway, pardoned old indiscretions. But Mrs. Bartle always knew everything. More incredible was how cool she'd played it in front of Barry, who upon returning with the glass of water, stood frozen in the entryway, gripping it tightly in his hand.
"Thank you, William," Mrs. Bartle said, taking the glass from him like he was a fragile little boy playing "waiter," and she didn't have the heart to break his by letting him know how terrible he was at it.
Diana gulped the water down as only one who'd been stranded in the desert for two days could, made an excuse about resting up for work, and bolted as fast as her feet would carry her out of the living room that had just housed the singular most thrilling and embarrassing moment of her entire life.