A Good Man Is Hard To Find : Part 3

Because She Can: A Novel
By Bridie Clark

(Page 3 of 6)

Not a perspective that's uniquely ours, I realize. Bea is stand-out fabulous. Naturally thin, despite a lifelong aversion to "healthy" food that prevents her from eating vegetables-she subsists on steak frites and KFC, but you'd never know it to look at her. Classic, fresh-faced, straight-off-the-Miss-Porter's-lacrosse-field good looks. Thick cascades of flaxen hair that would make a Breck girl weep with envy, enormous eyes the color of sea glass. In the looks department, Beatrice could give Charlize Theron a run for her money-a fact of which everyone is aware but her.

Then there's her blissful marriage to a man who still pens spontaneous love letters, who took a year between college and law school to study French cooking, who brings her home violets (Bea's favorite) every single Friday. Plus she's got her thriving career as an interior decorator-the creative work she's always loved, with great flexibility in her hours.

Yeah. If I didn't love Bea like the sister I'd never had, I'd probably have to hate her.

But I do love her. Always have, ever since she sat a few rows ahead of me during one of the placement tests we were forced to take during our first week at Princeton. She and I had each happened to wear a brightly colored grosgrain ribbon tied around our ponytails for luck-one of those random details that one takes notice of while scanning the room during a mind-numbingly dull, four-hour-long quantitative reasoning test. Leaving the test room, we struck up a lighthearted conversation over our shared, if misguided, fashion superstitions-a shallow dive into what would become a deep friendship.

"You are going to thank me for dragging you out tonight," Bea whispered now, grabbing my elbow hard to get my undivided attention. Her knuckles were white. "You're never going to guess who's here. Guess!"

I glanced around the party, not really seeing anyone who'd merit her level of excitement.

"Pabst Blue Ribbon," Bea pronounced the words slowly, solemnly.

My eyes grew as wide as hers. "You're joking."

"Would I joke? He's here. And I think he's gotten even more gorgeous since college, if that's possible." She jerked her head slightly to the left, and I looked over nonchalantly.

Randall Cox.

There he was, across the room. I almost couldn't believe my eyes, but there was no mistaking the tall, lean rower's build, the wavy auburn locks and piercing blue eyes, the air of absolute confidence.

"Catch me if I faint," I instructed Bea, only half-joking.

A little background: Randall Cox was the most desirable man that anyone I knew knew. The gold standard in hotness. During our freshman year, Bea and I would walk ever so slowly by Randall's off-campus apartment building, hoping for just a glimpse. He was a senior, a Princeton icon with an equally gorgeous girlfriend.

By second semester, Bea and I had developed an intricate underground network of spies to keep us informed of Randall's public appearances at parties or local bars. Then we'd plant ourselves wherever he'd been with hopes that lightning would strike twice in the same week. If by chance we were so blessed, we'd pretend not to notice him-such were our highly mature mating rituals as eighteen-year-olds.

Once, Bea saw Randall coming out of McCosh Hall and pretended to take a picture of me in front of the building. That framed photo, with Randall's slightly blurry figure in the background, rested on our dorm-room mantel for years.

In other words, we stalked him. Hard.

"You have got to talk to him," said Bea, squinting to check if any miniquiche had gotten stuck in my teeth. "You must. I'll never speak to you again if you don't." Harry raised his eyebrows and wisely took that as his cue to hit the bar.

Déjà vu. Two weeks before Randall's graduation (a very traumatic event in our young lives, needless to say), Bea and I had spotted him through the window of the Annex, the local watering hole. Hearts aflutter, we'd emptied out our piddling student bank accounts to grease the bouncer.

"This is your last chance," Bea coached as we made our way to the bar where Randall was waiting for a refill of his pitcher of beer. Our crush had really become my crush; Bea was slowly starting to warm up to Harry, who'd been pursuing her relentlessly all year.

Standing at the bar with our backs to Randall, trying desperately to look cool, we struggled for a plan, some entrance ramp into talking to him. Say hello? Too unoriginal. A girl couldn't be so pedestrian when starting a conversation with a Greek god.

Twenty seconds of awkward vacillation later, Bea did the unthinkable. Pretending to trip on an uneven floorboard, she checked me hard with her right shoulder and sent me careening backward into Randall. He steadied my arms with his strong hands, and for one sweet, golden moment, I could feel his strong chest pressing against my back.

Copyright © 2007 by Bridie Clark

About the Author

Bridie Clark is a former book and magazine editor who has worked for several major New York publishers. She lives in New York City with her husband. This is her first novel.