“Hello Michael.”
She’d saved my number to her phone’s memory.
“Hey good looking, I just realized I don’t have your address.”
After a pause she said, “What if I told my daughter you called me ‘good looking’ and asked for my address?”
“Jennie and I are in complete agreement about her mother’s good looks. Is she there?”
“Yes, should I get her for you?”
“Only after a little more flirting.”
“You are bad.”
“I only get worse, now what’s the address?”
“I’ll text it to you, here’s my daughter.”
As she moved the phone from her mouth I heard, as she intended, her say “Your very bad boyfriend is on the phone. Tell him he needs a cold shower.”
* * * * *
It was my first trip to the suburbs. After checking in with the rent-a-cop at the subdivision’s front gate I drove my jalopy down shaded streets, waiting to get pulled over. It looked like only shiny new Mercedes, BMWs, Cadillacs, and Lexus, with an occasional Porche or Maserati, were legal in this neighborhood.
My phone led me to a circular driveway at the end of a cul de sac. Nice house. I parked behind a black Range Rover, got out, rang the bell, wondered about Jennie’s father. Jennie talked about her Mom all the time – they were more best friends than parent and child – but rarely mentioned her father. When she did it was positive, but bland, a vague assurance that he was “okay.” Still, I’d imagined him as a bookend for his wife and daughter: tip-top condition, good-looking, smart and incisive.
Jennie opened the door, kissed my lips, said, “Hey lover, ready to meet the family.”
She looked great. Her loose fitting dress, held on by spaghetti straps, dipped down her chest, stopping just short of her cleavage, clinched at the waist, then hung to the floor in a series of graceful folds. What was most striking, however, was the cascade of colors, oranges and yellows, greens and blues, imposed on patterns of butterfly wings.
I said, “That’s a lovely dress,” she slipped her hand into mine, and turning, the bottom of the dress swirling about, we headed into the house.
In the living room, large, cathedral ceiling, gorgeous furniture, ceiling to floor back window overlooking a swimming pool, was Mrs. Hollins, her dress also long, open shouldered, loose-fitting and a rainbow of colors: chartreuse, pink, magenta.
And while neither dress was overtly sexual, this particular mother and daughter presenting themselves in public dressed alike was. And, as meticulous as they were about their appearance, that was no accident. I said, “Mrs. Hollins, you’re stunning, your dress, like your daughter’s, is beautiful, love the colors.”
Mrs. Hollins said, “Thank you,” adding as a man entered the room, “Michael, this is my husband, Tom. Tom, this is Michael, Jennie’s beau.”
Contrary to my expectations he did not match his wife and daughter. He was his wife’s height, or possibly a bit shorter, at the moment her heels gave her an inch or so on him, and if not fat, was pudgy. Saying, “It’s good to finally meet you sir,” I reached for his hand and studied his face. His features were affable, not those of your best friend – him you’d want smart and tough, someone who had your back – but friendly, the face of a guy who got along with everyone, liked everyone, a you wouldn’t ask to cut another $250.00 off the price of a car because you wanted him to come out okay and knew he’d never rip you off.