A Good Man Is Hard To Find : Part 4

Because She Can: A Novel
By Bridie Clark

(Page 4 of 6)

I peered up to find Randall looking down at me, amused. I was awestruck. And dumbstruck. I couldn't move or breathe. He smiled-graciously, I might add, considering that I'd caused him to spill some of his freshly refilled pitcher down the front of his rugby shirt.

"Can I get you another pitcher?" I offered, shocked and proud that I'd been able to form words in his presence.

"Hmm. I don't know, can you?" he asked, fingering the laminated ID I was holding in my hand. He grinned. It was as bad as fake IDs got. The girl in the picture had long, stringy white blond hair and freckles. I have my father's olive skin and light brown eyes, and like most of my peers at the time, I was wearing my dark hair in the ubiquitous "Rachel" cut. Instead of freckles, I had a spotty, scarlet blush spreading like wildfire across my cheeks and down my chest ... very alluring.

I stared at Randall. Forget witty banter-I was suddenly unable to connect syllables to form words.

"Hey, no worries," Randall said finally, perhaps realizing that I'd exhausted myself with my first sentence. He asked the bartender to top off his pitcher and ordered a Pabst Blue Ribbon, which he handed to me. I mumbled my thanks, and he nodded good-bye, joining a group of his crew buddies at the pool table nearby.

No contest, this was the most exciting moment I'd ever experienced in my eighteen years of life. I felt dizzy and exhilarated-still too giddy, in fact, to start kicking myself for my nonexistent conversational skills. After I'd savored every precious drop of the beer he'd bought me (smuggling the empty bottle out in my purse, natch), Bea and I walked home in a daze, collapsed on her futon, and analyzed the entire encounter.

"I really think he liked you," she murmured before dropping off to sleep-further cementing the bond of our friendship.

Weeks later, back home in Iowa, I gave the play-by-play to my mother at our kitchen table. "Randall Cox?" she repeated innocently. Then she proceeded to tell me about her old friendship with his mother, Lucille-what would have been the perfect fodder for conversation. Why hadn't I mentioned my crush to her a few weeks earlier?

History could've been rewritten; the string of failed relationships and love-life disappointments that I'd go on to endure throughout my twenties could've been sidestepped. At age eighteen, I could've started living happily ever after.

So anyway, here was the second chance I'd been waiting a decade for. Hadn't I evolved from that tongue-tied teenager into a confident, articulate woman? Yes, I thought, I'm going to talk to him-

I was still giving myself a pep talk when I saw Bea's expression change.

"Hi, girls," said a sonorous voice behind me. I turned around. There was Randall-staggeringly gorgeous Randall-extending his hand. I could hear my heart thudding like a bass drum.

"I think we were at Princeton together. Randall Cox," he said. Beatrice shook his hand and introduced herself.

"Claire Truman," I answered in a surprisingly calm voice that belied my inner percussion. "I think you were a senior when we were freshmen, right?" Hmm, yes, the memory is vague, my tone of voice implied. Little did he know I'd once saved an empty detergent bottle he'd used for three weeks. And I still remembered the color of the window curtains in his room, visible from the outside courtyard. And I knew his shoe size. And if I spent ten minutes looking for it, I was pretty confident that I could find that blurry snapshot of him outside of McCosh.

"Right. You're both looking very grown up." Randall kept his eyes on me as he said it. Wow. This dress. Men generally zoom right in on Beatrice, and she has to deflect them back to me. I was never going to take this dress off-well, unless Randall himself happened to ask me to.

"I'm going to refresh my drink," said Bea with a twinkle in her eye. "Can I get either of you something?"

"I'm fine, thanks," Randall and I said at the same time. Then we laughed. Talking in unison? We were freaking adorable!

After Bea headed off, Randall and I moved seamlessly into the two staples of New York cocktail party chitchat: where we lived, where we worked. Even small talk with Randall was riveting-or maybe it was just the thrill of being able to stare directly at him while standing three feet apart.

"I went back to Goldman after getting my MBA," he told me after I'd given my far less impressive synopsis, "and I live all the way uptown-Fifth Avenue and Eighty-second Street."

"Right by the Met?"

Randall smiled modestly. "My terrace looks out over the Met, yeah. I wish I were home more to enjoy it, but the view from my office is all I've been seeing lately."

Forget crazy real estate: My mind burned feverishly with the most important but as yet unanswered question. Was he single? Could a guy who looked so fabulous on paper and in person be unattached?

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.