The Heart Can Lead You Astray

It was an opportunity that most guys would never consider an opportunity. But Byron Adler, in his late thirties and never married, was not like most guys. He could be anywhere, and if he spotted some honey he'd like to know, he'd make a move, as he did on this blustery February day at the Reese Honda dealership. Reading a book he brought with him in the waiting room while the mechanics worked on his Accord, he couldn't help notice her sitting across the room, reading an old Time magazine. She looked to be around his age, perhaps a little younger, but not much. Long brown hair. Light olive complexion. Petite. Cute. Real cute! Those beautiful brown eyes—he could stare at them all day. Well, he could if he was somewhere else. Being here, being she was someone who didn't know Byron from Myron, he tried to be subtle, sneaking peeks of her over his book.

He liked what she wore, too. Green corduroy pants. Suede boots. Blue sweater. Nothing particularly sexy or revealing—it was winter, after all—but it fit her to a T, or at least it fit his image of her to a T. Who was she and how could he find out? Byron had his ways, stealthy Byron who today would pull one of his stealthy moves. A coffee machine sat close to the counter, so when she got up to confer with the manager about her car, Byron poured himself a cup of brew while discreetly glancing at the invoice which contained her name: Lynette Cohen. He also got her address and zip code, could hardly believe she lived close by, maybe just two miles from his apartment building.

This was in the early nineties. William Clinton sat in the White House. Few people were online and you could still find a pay phone. Byron did own a computer, mainly to play games and write letters. Tonight, just hours after getting his car back, he booted up to Word Perfect and wrote this letter:

Dear Lynette:

We met today at Reese Honda. Well, not exactly met. We were there at the same time, waiting for our cars. Obviously, I noticed you. Not sure if you noticed me, the guy wearing the blue and white ski jacket and jeans, reading. I'm writing because I'd like to get to know you better. I know how outrageous and/or weird this might look to you, but I prefer to be honest rather than make something up. We're practically neighbors. I know that because I got your name and address off your invoice while getting coffee. Hope that doesn't scare you off. If you're interested, here's my phone number: 510-667-3039.

Hope to hear from you.

Byron Adler

Byron didn't mail it right away. He thought his chances of winning a million-dollar lottery were better than getting feedback from this chick. It's not so much that he lacked confidence as he didn't think any woman would go for a guy who got her information that way. She might be flattered, but he also figured she wouldn't trust him. Maybe he should change the letter, tell her he got her name and address some other way, a more conventional way. But then he'd be forced to cover his tracks with another lie. Oh, what the hell, he said finally. If he didn't hear from her, nothing lost. He dropped it in the mail, figured she'd get it the next day, day after that at the latest—they shared the same zip code.

Three days went by, then four, then five, then six. On the seventh day God rested. Not Lynette Cohen; she gave Byron a call. "Hi, I'm Lynette Cohen," she said. "I got your letter. Obviously. And yes, I remember you."

"Wow, you actually called."

She giggled. "Yes, I actually did. It sounds like you didn't think I would."

"Honestly, well, I wasn't sure, though I thought the odds were against it."

"Looks like you beat the odds, Byron. Maybe you should play either of our phone numbers for this week's lottery."

She had a sense of humor. He liked her already. "Well, maybe I should. So, you remember me at the dealership."

"Of course. You were reading. That is, when you weren't looking at me."

"Um, well, ah—″

"Don't feel embarrassed," she giggled. "I noticed you, too. I notice guys with beards and who wear their hair like they just stepped out of the sixties. Also, you looked intelligent, reading Parting The Waters. Great book. I read it myself not too long ago."

"So why didn't you ask for MY number." He smiled when he heard her laugh.

"I'm not that assertive. But I'm impressed with the way you got mine. You pulled it off quite well. Are you a detective or something?"

More laughter. "Hardly. I teach school and coach wrestling." He got more specific and so did she. Lynette worked as a graphic designer. Byron taught history at a local high school and coached the school's varsity wrestling team. He had a sister. She had a brother, a Milton Cohen, Byron's age. His name rang a bell. Was this the same Milton Cohen that he got Bar Mitzvahed with at Temple Har Sinai back in June of 1970? Sometimes, synagogues and temples double up when things get busy. Yes, she confirmed! "I was just nine," she said, "but I have a vague memory of Milt being up there with someone else. So that someone was you? Ohmygod! Small world."

Lanvale, a region within a metro area, was indeed a small world, heavily Jewish since the early part of the last century. It was an insular world where people either knew you or knew people who knew you or your siblings or your parents. Connections were tight and numerous and vast. Later on, this world would have their own Facebook site. Byron's last and only connection with Milton Cohen was that Saturday in June when they were both thirteen. Milt was married and living in Connecticut, Lynette revealed. "Doing great," she said, "raking in big bucks as a hedge fund manager."

"Tell him I said hi."

"I will. So, Byron, where do we go from here?"

He suggested the Rusty Scupper, a suburban bistro where they could sip wine and talk, "get to know each other better," he said. "It shouldn't be too crowded midweek."

*****

Lynette's digs gave Byron the impression that she was somewhat bohemian. She lived in Tutor Park, an old, genteel city neighborhood dating from the late nineteenth century. This wasn't Lanvale. In fact, many years before, it was restricted against Jews. Many of the homes sat on big lawns and were designed with large porches. Lynette lived in one of those houses in a room on the third floor. Others lived there too, single people who either preferred a boarding house sort of arrangement or were saving money to buy their own place. The house, painted a canary yellow, faced Tutor Avenue, a broad, two-way street bisected by a grass median where streetcars ran before World War Two. The grass would have to wait for spring because that February, slushy snow covered the ground.

Byron stepped up on the porch and rang the bell. A middle-age man (the home's owner he later learned) answered, said he'd let Lynette know. Minutes later, a full ten minutes later, she came out wearing a short leather coat, black tights, a red corduroy jumper and those swede boots she had worn at the Honda dealership. Her hair, straight when he last her, had waves in it. He wondered if she restyled it just for him.

She pointed to her Honda Civic hatch parked in front. "It needed a new clutch. Not cheap. But I can't complain after one-hundred and sixty-thousand miles."

"My Accord's gone just over one-hundred-thousand," he said, trying to keep up the small talk. "I hope my automatic transmission lasts as long as your stick shift." Moments after pulling away, he said, "So, you read Parting The Waters, too. Taylor Branch lives not too far from here, you know."

She nodded. "I know, I've seen his house. But as many times as I've gone by it, I've never seen him."

"And what would you do if you did?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe ask for his autograph. Or, maybe not. He seems too private for that rock star kind of celebrity."

They talked on about other books they'd read, movies they'd seen, family members, his sister Beth and more about Milton. He was surprised to learn that Milt had a suffered a heart attack last year. "He's got a very stressful job," she said. "Sure, he makes gobs of coin, but to me it's not worth the health risk that goes with it." She paused to look him over. "It looks like you take care of yourself, not one of those sports coaches, ex-jocks with big bellies."

"Gotta keep up with my guys," he said. "I do road work with them, even spar on the mat with them. Of course, I go easy on them." He winked.

A half hour later, they were seated in the Rusty Scupper, a place with lots of wood beams and plants. As Byron predicted, it wasn't crowded. They both ordered Chardonnay. First dates: awkward as hell. Well, at least it wasn't a blind date. Plus, for a first date, things so far were going pretty good, Byron thought. The conversation kept moving, small talk but also substantive stuff. And even if it had been unduly strained, he just enjoyed looking at her in the subdued lighting. Cute as could be, a real babe, with that puckered mouth, high cheek bones and those eyes, inquisitive as they were beautiful. He didn't think she'd ever been married, and he was right. "But I've had my share of long-term relationships," she said. "I'm beginning to think I might not be cut out for marriage." He asked why and she said, "Because I'm not big on having kids. Plus, I had an unpleasant eighteen-month live-in relationship. That was enough to convince me that marriage might not be in the cards." She paused and pursed her lips. "Are you looking to get married, Byron?"

"Not really." He reached across the table and took her hand. "Just checking your ring size."

She guffawed. "You're a funny guy, Byron."

Narrowing his hazel eyes, he shot her a faux threatening look. "Whaddaya mean I'm funny? Funny how?"

"Oh, I loved that movie, too," she said laughing.

Things were going so well, he ordered another round of drinks. They talked on until it was close to closing time. He glanced at his watch. "Damn, where did the time go?"

"Time flies when you're having fun on a first date," she said. "Not the norm." She took his hand. "I've had a terrific time, Byron. Thanks for looking at that invoice."

When they got outside, Byron's maroon Honda Accord glazed with a thin coat of ice. "Must have sleeted when we were in there," he said. "Now to get that ice off." She insisted on taking the spare scraper to help him clear the front and back windshields. That impressed him. Apparently, she wasn't just some babe that left all the heavy lifting to the man. He kissed her in the car before he drove off. More kissing followed after he parked the car in front of her place. Her lips were warm and soft, her affection evident in the deep way she kissed him and in the noises she made, a soft, sexy whimper he found so hot and feminine he could barely contain himself. He brushed his fingers across her smooth face and said, "In case you're wondering, I'd like a second date."

"And in case you're wondering," she said, "I like you. A lot. So yes, a second date would be great."

He watched her take the steps up to the porch, watched as she turned and waved. He waved back and then drove off, excited and looking forward to seeing her again. Then he thought of Sandra Nyquist, the comely lass he'd been seeing for over a year. The sex was great, the conversations less so. Sandra was a sweet kid, sweet and pretty, and she didn't look anything like Lynette. Where Lynette was brunette and petite, Sandra was blond and tall, a tad over five-nine, two inches below his height. She also had a wonderful glib sense of humor. However, she didn't share his intellectual pursuits. She was a corporate secretary, smart but not college educated.

Byron wasn't the type that could date two women at once, could divide his emotions if things progressed beyond casual dating. If things turned "serious" with Lynette, he'd be faced with a choice. It was still much too early to make that sort of decision; he was just giving himself a head's up.

Days later, he and Lynette made plans to see Schindler's List, the movie about a German industrialist who saved the lives of twelve-hundred Jews during the Holocaust. He could have seen the movie with Sandra instead. But, because she wasn't Jewish, he felt that he could share it in a more personal way with Lynette. Into its second week at a local theater, the movie was still drawing large crowds. When Lynette cried during parts of it, he threw an arm around her for comfort, kissed her and let her head rest on his shoulder. They kissed for a long minute on the sidewalk outside the theater, and then Byron drove her over to his place. They both loved music, classical and rock mostly, and she was interested in hearing his sound system. "Next best thing to hearing live," he told her, his tone just on the edge of a brag.

"Anything would be an improvement over my little record player," she said.

She didn't know just how vast an improvement until she entered his one-bedroom apartment on the tenth floor of the high-rise he called home. "Of course, I can't play it too loud at night," he said, as she stared wide-eyed at the forty-inch tall JBL speakers that were shaped like giant metronomes. She liked that he still kept a turntable alongside a CD player. The living room served as his listening room, and he had it "dedicated" for optimum acoustics. A couple scatter rugs and drapes over the sliding glass balcony doors helped absorb the sound. Two book cases held more CDs and vinyl as well as books. The speakers, standing close to one wall of the rectangular room, faced a leather sofa against the opposite wall, decorated with framed prints of LeRoy Naiman's work.

Lynette, dressed in jeans and a sweater, slipped off her boots and made herself at home on the sofa, watching Byron pour Moscato into the two glasses sitting on the coffee table. "Wine and fine music just go together," he said.

"Agreed," she said.

Byron placed the bottle back in the fridge, then popped in a CD of Jethro Tull's Songs From The Wood album. He chose this because "it brings out the best in my system," he said. "It's got acoustic and electric guitar, flute, percussion and other instruments. Plus, it's just great stuff." He adjusted the volume on his Marantz receiver, then sat next to his guest.

Lynette removed the booklet from its plastic case and perused the song list and liner notes. "I've still got my old cassettes of Aqualung and Thick As A Brick. Haven't heard this one at all. But I like it already," she added, a few moments into the first cut.

Byron had been in this position before with other women, listening to music while wondering what came next, if anything. He hoped that their sidewalk make-out would progress into something even hotter and heavier, though he didn't assume that would happen. She was grooving on the music. sipping her wine and rocking her shapely, little bod in rhythm. Every so often, she'd brush the bangs out of her beautiful brown eyes. Jethro Tull wasn't exactly make-out music and Lynette appeared to be enjoying herself just doing this. And maybe that's as far as things would go, and that was okay. He was enjoying being with someone who shared similar interests.

After the fifth cut, Lynette said, "I'd like to hear more later, but do you have any Chopin? The first piano concerto perhaps?"

"Ohmygod, one of my favorite pieces. Coming right up." Within moments, he had her request into the CD player, a recording by Marta Argerich.

"So beautiful and romantic," Lynette said, now swaying with the sound of Chopin's lush melodies. She took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Thanks."

"I aim to please."

"Well, so far you've made good on that claim."

He snuggled closer and she responded, rubbing her shoulder up against his. He turned to kiss her, and she responded to that also. By the warm and passionate way she kissed him, he sensed that she wanted to go further. Moments later, she confirmed it by letting him climb on top of her. They were still fully clothed, locked in tender make-out as the concerto went into its second movement. "This might be easier in my bedroom," he said.

"Yes, we'd have a lot more room," she said, and then reached over to the coffee table, grabbed the remote and put the music on pause. "Can we hear the rest afterward?"

This was more than okay with him, and soon they were in the semi-darkness of his bedroom. He slipped off his clothes while watching her sitting on the edge of his bed, watching her slipping off hers. There was something incredibly surreal about this. Not too long ago, they were in the waiting room of a Honda dealership, strangers to each other. Well, not complete strangers, though little did he know then the connection he had had to her brother Milton. Now they were again in the same room under very different circumstances, naked and alone. He liked her body, her tight little tush and long legs, her firm boobs and the crease that ran down her flat belly. He liked her cinnamon-like scent and the look and feel of her skin, a whiter shade of dark and silky smooth. He was thirteen and she nine the last they saw one another from the sacred formality of a house of worship. Now it was up close and personal, about as personal and revealing as two people could get.

"Make love to me, Byron."

"You forgot to say please."

She gave him a teasing love tap. Then: "Okay, please make love to me. Better?"

"Better."

They faced each other sideways, she holding his erect cock in her hand and he tonguing her hardened nipples while slipping one of his fingers inside her wetness. He moved closer to kiss her, and then slipped between her legs. He trusted what she had told him about being on birth control. Thus he had no use for those gourmet lambskin condoms tucked inside a clothes drawer.

Because this was their first time getting intimate, Byron didn't expect the sex to be great and it wasn't. Lynette didn't lose herself in the moment like Sandra did. In fact, she seemed kind of mechanical, just went through the motions. She appeared turned on, but just barely—no moaning, no cries for more. He climaxed, she didn't. Well, it was their first time and first times can be awkward, Byron rationalized. He expected it to improve with time.

That aside, he still felt a special thrill being with her. Byron wasn't one to think that some things were "meant to be," though he could see himself making an exception in this case. Earlier, when they were listening to music, he learned that Lynette and his mom shared the same birthday, May 8th. Coincidence? Probably, but then there was that connection to Milton. He felt as if they had been waiting for each other, not knowing it, of course. But hindsight is like that, isn't it? Easy to look back and see what couldn't be seen earlier.

She shared related thoughts when they were holding each other. "I get the feeling, Byron, that somehow we were fated to end up in this position. Think of the yellow brick road that lead to Oz. Somehow, way back when, we got on our own yellow brick roads that later on intersected just at the right moment. And here we are." She flashed him a look of amused skepticism that said she wasn't entirely sold on this. "Okay, so maybe not. But it sure feels that way."

*****

It felt that way to him also and even more so after the next few dates. He wasn't yet in love with Lynette but he sensed he could be given more time, with no other romantic interests to distract him. Thus, he needed to be honest with Sandra Nyquist. Thus far, he had told neither woman about the other. Sandra, however, sensed something was up because Byron had been busy on Saturday nights, nights that Byron usually reserved for her. He confirmed her suspicions when he called to tell her the truth. "I need to follow my heart," he said. He teared up when he heard her crying. He didn't think he loved Sandra, but he did like her a lot. It hurt him to hurt her, to hear her so upset, sobbing. "I'm so sorry," he said, "but it wouldn't be fair to either of you if I tried to carry on with both you and Lynette."