There’s an elderly woman standing beside a stool, looking pretty spectacular in a gold lamé dress, and a young guy in a shirt with a popped collar is backing away from her, red-faced, shouting, “What the fuck?”
“Now, don’t get fresh,” she says. “I never put out on the first date.”
I don’t think—I just get to my feet and head over. There’s no bartender in sight, and I’m not about to let some jackass mess with someone who could be his grandma. I mean, I’ve met a lot of assholes, but there’s something special about the kind of guy who’ll shout at old ladies. What’s he going to do next? Steal candy from baby unicorns?
“I’ll be right back, Harry,” I call over my shoulder. Turning to the guy, I say, “I have a can of Mace in my purse, so you have, oh, about two seconds to explain yourself and leave. Or you can just leave. What’ll it be?”
He’s still red-faced, pissed enough that he wants to do something about it, but he backs away at the Mace threat. Which he should. I do have some, always, and I have used it. Just ask the half dozen guys who seemed unclear about the meaning of “no.”
That’s the part of being a dating blogger they don’t talk about on the candy pink website. One thing I’ll say for Constance, she gave all of us self-defense lessons on the company dollar, and two Christmases ago she gave all of us ladies Mace concealed in perfume bottles. Which is great in theory, but Beth once mixed it up with her actual perfume and sprayed her neck, and…well, it wasn’t pretty.
“She catfished me!” the guy shouts.
I almost laugh at that. Because, God, it’s funny. This woman has to be in her seventies, and he looks to be maybe twenty-five. But I stand strong and say, “You should feel privileged. They’re the greatest generation, you know. Now, you have the choice between leaving calmly and retaining a little dignity or hopping out of here with a face full of Mace. Oh, and I’m a dating blogger, and I’m super tempted to write about this and/or film it, so I would recommend the former.”
I dimly register someone hurrying toward us from the other end of the bar, but my total focus is on the dude. His face is crumpled with anger, but he’s not totally stupid: there’s only one option, really. So he picks up a napkin and throws it, which is kind of hilarious because it just drifts lazily down, then turns around and leaves.
When I turn back to the older lady, someone else is standing across the bar from her—the bartender, presumably—and I gasp. “It’s you.”
Because it’s the short-haired woman from the dog park.
“And it’s you,” she says. “I’m sorry again about earlier… I like Ghost, but he’s a real asshole.” She lifts her hands as if to apologize for the sentiment. “It’s not his fault. His humans feed him steak and rice and let him jump all over the furniture and terrorize the mailman. And get this. They pay for a special TV channel that shows squirrels running up trees. I mean, he would have tackled the TV by now if it weren’t mounted on the wall. Sorry I didn’t come over sooner,” she says, turning her head to include the older woman in the comment. “The place is surprisingly busy for a Tuesday night, and I’m a bit out of practice. Used to be a bartender, but now I’m just filling in.”
“Because you’re Tina, the Jill of All Trades,” I say, remembering. “I saw your card.”
She grins. “It’s a nice way of saying professional slacker, although I have a part-time job at Tea of Fortune.”
Which makes me like her automatically. Because I know the woman who started Tea of Fortune. When she chooses to tuck someone under her wing, it’s for one of two reasons: A) they’re super, low-key awesome in ways others don’t always recognize or B) they’re weird as hell. I’m betting Tina is in the A) camp. “I’m Molly. I’m a writer. That’s a nice way of saying I’m unemployed.”
“You girls and your jabbering,” the older woman says. “I need a drink.”
I glance back at my table, because I was really getting somewhere with Harry, but his chair is empty. He must have jack-in-the-boxed the moment I got up.
“Shit.” I don’t even have his number, but he has mine. Hopefully, he’ll use it once he gets over being spooked. If not, I can call him again at work.
“Did your date leave you too?” the older woman asks, shaking her head and tsking. “Men these days. So unreliable. My third husband, Henry, would never have tried such a thing. This is more of a Paul move. He was number two.”
Goodness, this woman is a treasure trove. I may not work for Beyond the Sheets anymore, but I still have the urge to sit her down for a talk. It’s clear she has stories for days. I used to volunteer at a retirement home in Seattle for that very reason. A lot of elderly people love to talk, and I love to listen. I wrote up their stories for their grandkids and, at their urging, got a couple of articles published in a local journal. I’m proud of that work, actually, more so than anything I did for the blog.
“How’d you even find this one, Mrs. Dahl?” Tina asks, slipping behind the bar and pouring a drink. I notice she uses a taster glass, which seems like a smart move. Her question suggests that the elderly lady is something of a fixture. “Usually you’re in here with men within a ten-year age range.”
Even better. She’s a serial dater. I may be in love.
“Oh, I let my granddaughter set up one of those dating profiles for me,” Mrs. Dahl says with a saucy little swish of her hand. “She arranged everything.”
“Isn’t she eight?” Tina asks.
“Yes, but she’s perfectly capable of using the internet. I gave her a box of pictures to choose from and told her to find me a date with a handsome, noble man who had the look of her grandfather Henry, but she went and found me a Paul.” She gave a kids these days shrug.
Tina and I exchange an amused look. “Don’t worry,” she says in an undertone, “I know how to get in touch with her daughter.”
And presumably she’d give her a talking-to about leaving Mrs. Dahl and the little girl alone together with a computer.
“Well, Mrs. Dahl,” I say, lowering into the chair next to her, “men under the age of thirty have the emotional maturity of a cucumber”—why yes, I did pick a phallic vegetable on purpose—“so you’re lucky you got stuck with me instead. I would love to hear everything about Henry and Paul, and all of the rest.”
Tina grins at me and pours another taster glass, sliding it across the bar. “On the house.”
Mrs. Dahl and I have a lovely conversation, with Tina sidling over to chat with us now and then, whenever there’s a lull in the crowd. With Mrs. Dahl’s permission, I take notes in my little book so I can write up some stories for her and her family. Because I was right—this woman has a history that doesn’t stop. I’m going to have to verify some of the information, because I have a feeling she has a tendency to exaggerate, but damn. What a life.
I’m about to offer to drive her home when my phone beeps with an email message. It’s from my work account, which hasn’t been closed yet, but what catches my eye is the subject line.
You’re not the only one who can do some light stalking…