the Story Shop

  "One evening and you're in love?"he said.

  "Ah, but we waltzed until dawn. Then we shared tuna sandwiches, then we danced again...and we laughed and told stories."

  "So, do you know her name? Will you see her again?"

  "Yes, of course. It's Sylvana diMitrio," I said, almost panting. "She left so quickly I didn't have a chance to get her phone number or address, but she was clearly extremely interested in this studio so I'm sure she'll be back...but she doesn't need any lessons. She was a wonderful dancer, like an angel."

  I could see that Sammy was shocked.

  "Don't be so surprised," I said. "She'll be back, I'm sure she..."

  "My friend," Sammy said, "Sylvana diMitrio was a very talented dancer in her day. She was the previous owner of this studio and..."

  "In her day?" I said, "She is still a talented dance. I should know. we danced for hours. Now I see why she was so interested in this studio. Previous owner, eh?" I chuckled. It was delightful.

  "My friend," Sammy said, "Sylvana diMitrio died seventeen years ago."

  Chapter One

  It was a typical evening. I had placed the dinner, hot, on a plate before him and he read the newspaper while it got cold. Then he carefully folded the paper, nibbled the now-cold meal, pushed the plate away–still mostly uneaten– then went into the living room to collapse on the couch and watch a ball game.

  He hadn't kissed me in months. The last time we embraced was on his birthday, last year. Make love? That had vanished years ago. In fact, this man I married rarely touched me, not a gentle pat, not a smooth caress, nothing.

  Where was the marvelous man I married twenty-two years ago? Then he was thoughtful, considerate and passionate. He always wore that wonderful cologne. We made love almost every night. His first concern was my welfare. Was I happy? Was I content? Now my feelings were of little concern. More important was the ball game score.

  I told Sandra, my best friend, that the love had gone out of our marriage. She listened patiently then suggested couples.com, an Internet site. I could connect with someone, I could have an affair, I could be happy again. I was reluctant. I had never, ever considered cheating on the man I married, but to find someone who cared, who had feelings, who put me first, even if it was on a website, that was so tempting that I decided to try it.

  This website required that you register with a false name, without any photos. Anyone you contacted would not be able to identify you. I decided to call myself Sandra, my friend's name. I typed an introductory message on a so-called Bulletin Board, for all registrants to see. If anyone was interested in further communication, I would get a private message.

  I wrote that my name was Sandra and I was forty-seven years old, slightly overweight and my hair had a touch of grey. I wore glasses, liked to cook and to listen to classical music, especially Chopin. I liked to travel. My favourite colour was red and I loved to dance. I spent two years at a community college and was now working in a local library.

  After exhausting all the things that might sound interesting, I waited. Two weeks went by without a single private message. Well, that's not quite true. I did get a couple of sarcastic messages that suggested that being "slightly overweight" was undoubtedly due to my love for cooking. Perhaps the overweight remark and the grey hair were unnecessary. Perhaps I should not have been so honest. Perhaps I should have presented myself as a fashion model, gorgeous and available, a playboy centerfold.

  Then, on the fifteenth day, I got a wonderful private communication. He said his name was Jake and he was very thin so my being slightly overweight made us a perfect average. I thought that was so, so sweet. Then he said that, although I had a touch of grey, he had a bald spot...so I was much better off than he. I realized right away that this was a man I could like. He wrote of places he'd visited and they were so like the places where I had vacationed. He mentioned his love for reading, how he enjoyed fishing and how lonely he was.

  We communicated via couples.com for almost a month, then he suggested that we meet. My heart leapt to my mouth and I could hardly breathe when I read his message. It took me nearly an hour to compose a response. Couples could be a thousand miles apart. How could we meet? But Jake had said he lived in Burlington and that was my town, too...so I agreed to meet him.

  He suggested Henry' Steakhouse explaining that, since I loved seafood, Henry's had a wide selection including lobster, shrimp and scallops. This man was so thoughtful. I felt I'd known him all my life. In fact, I really felt that I had fallen in love with him, strange as that may seem. Was I about to have an affair? I was frightened, anxious, eager. I deserved some love and affection, didn't I? I said I would be at Henry's at 7 pm and I would be wearing a red blouse. He remembered that it was my favourite colour. What a sweet man.

  On that Saturday afternoon I told my husband that I would be spending the evening with my friend Sandra, but I would leave his dinner in the microwave. He said he was playing poker with the gang and would eat out. I left early and arrived at the steakhouse by 6:45 pm. I was trembling. I sat at a table in the far corner, kept straightening my hair, pushing the wisps of grey to the back. I hoped the table would somehow hide my extra pounds. I looked in my small mirror a thousand times, checking my lipstick, my hair, my teeth. Did I remember to brush before I left home? Was my collar straight?

  At precisely 7 pm a well-dressed gentleman walked through the front door. I held my breath. He turned and looked about and saw me. I had removed my glasses, but he seemed hesitant. Was he about to leave? Was I that bad? How could he tell, from that distance? Then he began to walk toward my table. I wasn't breathing.

  When he was just a few feet away I saw that it was my husband and he was smiling. He leaned forward, placed his hands on the table and whispered: "Sandra, I presume?"

  There was that wonderful smell of cologne. I stuttered but could say nothing. I was sure my cheeks were as red as my blouse. He pulled me gently to my feet, placed my face in his hands and kissed me long and passionately. I remember this man. He is the man I married, oh so long ago.

  "Yes," I whispered. "I am Sandra."

  We embraced, he kissed my ear and said in a soft voice: "I love you...Sandra."

  Now you may think that our marriage returned to its earliest state, when we got married, all love and affection...but that is not the case. However, whenever our relationship seemed to drag, to hesitate, to become predictable and routine, we would send private messages on couples.com and meet at Henry's. We are now married for fifty years and I cannot be a happier woman.

  I had many wealthy clients, made a bundle of money and lived high on the hog, but I was now almost forty years old...so I went back to school. I was, as you might imagine, the oldest student at the university, but my mind was nimble and I quickly became quite good at scoring high on exams. In fact, I graduated with a bachelor's degree at the top of the class. I was quite proud, actually: Sofia Bond, B.A. The name Sophia meant 'lover of wisdom' in Greek. I looked that up long ago. It was appropriate.

  My specialty was English Literature: a study area guaranteed to provide a significant handicap when looking for a job. I did, however, have a minor in law and legal studies, so I pored through the classified ads hoping for something that would match my evident talents.

  It took almost a week to find one that read:

  The Milton Group, a law firm located in Toronto, is looking for an experienced legal receptionist/legal secretary. Law firm experience required.

  Please note: You will be working directly with the general public (in person, by telephone, and online) and often dealing with clients who are facing serious stress. The ideal candidate for this position must be capable of providing excellent customer service to all prospective clients.

  It was exactly what I wanted. The "experienced" requirement I would fake. I was very good at faking, because of my previous profession. I also was very good at providing excellent customer service, again because of my previous profession.

  I phoned
to make an appointment and showed up exactly at the appointed hour. The guy across the desk was pretty good looking. He smiled politely and I smiled back. He asked about my earlier experience and I invented a story about secretarial work at a law firm out west that had closed and gone to the U.S. He asked about certain matters of law and I regurgitated what I had learned–and memorized–at university. I was careful to show some knee. I had been described as being 'well assembled', whatever the hell that meant. However, if it meant boobs and butt, that was right on the money and I was determined to display my wares to best advantage. In fact, he spent so much time gazing at my knees that he neglected to ask how fast I typed. I had a good story for that, too. In fact, I was a pretty good typist, but hardly secretarial material. I typed only to write my memoirs which I intended to sell to the highest bidder... one of these days. I would shock a lot of people, especially some of the wealthy clients associated with my earlier vocation.

  It took less than a half hour for the lawyer to say I was hired and could start in the morning, at 9 am. He asked if I needed a ride home. That was a nice gesture, but I had my BMW parked at the curb. I was determined to enjoy the assets provided by my previous profession and lived in a very nice condo on Maple Avenue, with elaborate stereo system, marble counters, Jacuzzi and a view of the lake. I took a hot bath, listened to Bartók, made myself a plate of pasta aglio et olio, pulled a law book off the shelf and continued reading where I left off.

  At 9 am on the nose I arrived at the law office, dressed in a tight fitting but unpretentious pantsuit in grey with matching soft soled shoes and a necklace of miniature pearls. No earrings. I've found that earrings were distracting unless they were studs in which case they had no merit at all. I also wore very little makeup and certainly no lipstick. Lips too red were come-ons and I wasn't about to attract attention in that manner. Suffice it to say that a little eye shadow and lash black was all I needed. I was almost forty but I wasn't inert.

  My lawyer's name was John Jaroslaw. Jaroslaw sounded like a kind of cabbage concoction but actually meant fierce and glorious in Polish. I looked that up even before I applied for this job. Fierce and glorious. Nice. I would test that description...one of these days. He was on the phone when I arrived but waved me into his office and pointed to the leather chair. I sat and waited. He smiled. I smiled back. When he ended his call he said that a client would be here in twenty minutes and I should take notes of their conversation. Of course I knew nothing of that absurd writing style called shorthand, but I could scribble notes fast and had a very good memory.

  When the client walked in I recognized him as the manager at First Dominion Bank. Shit! This was going to be awkward. It never occurred to me that...that we would have the same clients. I should have anticipated something like this. However, I was dressed rather differently than my customary outfit during the tenure of my earlier profession, so that would help. Further, I pulled my dark glasses out of my purse and slipped them on, whispering to my lawyer that I had a problem with macular degeneration. He looked a bit confused but rose from his chair to greet the bank manager. I sat on a smallish corner chair and held my notepad on my knee, pencil poised, head down. The banker looked once, showed no sign of recognition, then began an animated conversation with my lawyer.

  It was a close call and I didn't want a repetition so I changed my hair style and colour and kept my dark glasses handy. I was getting good at this secretarial stuff. I spent a lot of time looking up case histories. It wasn't part of my job description, but I was good at that, too. There was a picture of some gal and a couple of kids on his desk, so I assumed he was married. However, I figured it was just a matter of time before we'd get to know each other more intimately.

  It was time to close up shop and I was putting all the open files in the safe when my lawyer came into my front office. He looked so sad. I asked what was bothering him. He said that his wife wanted a divorce. I almost jumped for joy. In fact, I almost suggested a good divorce lawyer, someone from my earlier vocation. I said all the soothing words that I could recollect and asked him to sit and we could talk. He sat. We talked. I knew what was coming. He needed something to take his head off his personal problems. I was quite familiar with that state of mind.

  We made love on his desk, cleared of papers, phone and other paraphernalia. When he collapsed onto the huge leather chair, he asked where I had learned to do all that stuff. I was tempted to tell him, but said I read a lot of trashy novels. I laughed when I said it...and he accepted the remark.

  It took over a year before my lawyer was completely rid of his wife and kids. Yes, she kept the kids. I never understood that component of the law: mothers keep the kiddies. However, John, my lawyer–we were now on a first name basis–seemed content to see his kids once in a blue moon. We went on holidays together, John and I. He moved out of his wife's house–yes, she got the house– and moved into my condo. He couldn't believe I owned such a fancy abode, on my salary. I said I had money before I became his secretary and I had a rather large bank account and lots of money invested. He was suitably impressed as he should be. I may be forty but I wasn't dead.

  I expected a proposal of marriage before the year was out. It was to come on New Year's Eve, I was certain. Indeed, I even found the diamond ring hidden in one of his socks. It was gigantic...and suited my status. We had been invited to a friend's home for a celebration of the new year. The house was more like a mansion. My John had wealthy friends. This one was Jeremoth Liebowitz. Jeremoth was an Israeli name meaning something about fearing death. I looked it up before coming to the party. I told John and he said that it might signify the death of the old year and the birth of the new. That response didn't surprise me; my lawyer was a clever soul. What surprised me was Jeremoth. He was my most valuable customer in the old days. What was I to do? I hesitated when he opened the front door, I coughed lightly, looked at my feet, pushed some hair down my forehead. John asked if I felt ill. I was about to answer in the affirmative, hoping he would take me home, but Jeremoth took my hand and pulled me into the front hall of his house. There was a crystal chandelier that was so damn bright that I would find it difficult to hide my identity.

  "Sofia!" Jeremoth said. "I almost didn't recognize you."

  Then he looked at my John, quizzically at first, then with some understanding. He winked at John who was by now quite curious. Damn! I was not looking forward to the rest of the evening. Ah, but it got worse. Half of the guys at the party were previous clients of mine. They were all delighted to see me and they all winked at my John. Needless to say, John soon learned of my previous occupation and I was unceremoniously dumped. No ring, no wedding, finito.

  Well, I went back to my old job, but this time I hired girls, attractive and talented young girls. I now ran Sofia's Escort and Courtesan Service, known among the wealthy as SECS. It has a nice ring to it, don't you think? I made more money than ever ... and my clients? They included good old Jerry Liebowitz, all the guys at that New Year's Eve party and my lawyer friend, John Jaroslaw.

  When my John showed up he didn't take one of my talented girls, he was very particular. He took me.

  I remember being well liked. In fact, I guess I was rather attractive to women. They didn't exactly flock to my side, but they never shunned me either and they often looked twice in my direction when I passed them on the street or in a restaurant. So now, why were they suddenly so remote, so uncaring, so cool? I would sit by an attractive woman at Hagey's Bar and she would ignore me or look right past me as though I weren't there at all. I'd say something innocuous like, "I reckon we'll get rain later today." I smiled brightly, expecting some response, even if only a nod of the head. Nothing. This has got to change.

  I dressed well and usually drove my purple Corvette about town with the top down, even in cool weather. However, I didn't have my car with me now. In fact, I couldn't even remember where I had parked it. Nevertheless, my pockets were full of money and I intended to spend it with a woman ... somehow. I phoned my b
uddy Tom but he didn't answer the phone, so I decided to go it alone. It was a mite chilly so I went back to my apartment to grab my coat. My key wouldn't fit the lock, so I pulled out several other keys. None fit. Damn! Had I changed the lock? I remember that there had been a burglary a month ago but I can't recall changing the lock. No problem. My jacket would keep me warm enough. I'd solve the lock problem later.

  I walked to the Rec Centre where there would be a dance tonight. They had advertised the community party for over a month and I expected to meet lots of unattached women. I straightened my tie, pushed back my hair and swaggered through the door. There were red stains on my jacket. I don't know where they came from, but it would be pretty dark inside and nobody would notice. The place was packed, the music was loud, the women were all gorgeous. I walked slowly to the bar but didn't want to drink. I felt that the smell of alcohol on my breath might be off-putting. Instead, I inspected the gals.

  One gal in particular caught my attention. She was tall, elegant with a body that cried out for attention. She certainly got my attention! I sidled up to her side and whispered. "Hello beautiful, how about a dance?" Perhaps that was too forward, too brash, too offensive because she didn't even look in my direction. I left and wandered about for a while before I tried again. I'd try a different tack. "Excuse me miss, would you consider a waltz or a tango or...?" The woman turned away and walked off. What!? That wasn't just a rejection, that was rude, bordering on uncivilized. My next attempt went like this: "Hi there. My name is Carl Blender ... and your name is?" I was ignored, again, and it went like that all night.