Page 3 of Her Wicker Temptation

I give her a look. “I think maybe I should date?”

Rachel pauses. “Really?”

“That reaction isn’t encouraging.”

“No, it is.” She sets the pot on the edge of the table and slides into the opposite side of the booth. “You’ve just never said that before.”

“I’ve never thought it before.”

“Not once?”

“Not seriously.” I glance at Locke, then back at her. “Watching you two has done something unfortunate to my judgment.”

Rachel follows my glance, and I immediately regret giving her the clue. I point my fork at her. “Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re about to.”

She bites back a smile. For a few seconds, I wonder whether I could have one too. A Wicker Man.

Not Locke. The thought isn’t about him. It’s about the fact that Rachel got another chance at having someone, and the man who came from that wish grew into a life of his own and still wanted her in it. I picture that possibility turned in my direction: someone with his own wants and opinions, someone I might choose who could choose me back.

I reach for another bite, then stop and set the fork beside the plate. Common sense catches up. Nobody knows whether what happened that night can be repeated, and wanting someone in my life again is still a considerable distance from experimenting with spontaneous life creation.

“I’m going to try dating,” I tell Rachel.

“Because you want to date, or because you think you should?”

“I liked being married. Maybe I’d like it again.”

Rachel nods without turning it into encouragement or sympathy. “Then dating seems pretty low risk.”

“Exactly.”

A week later, my first date is with a fifty-one-year-old insurance agent named Graham. He’s pleasant and punctual and so completely uninterested in his own life that by the end of dinner I begin to wonder whether he’s been assigned one temporarily.

I spend most of dinner trying to find something he wants. Travel. Sports. Music. Anything. Graham is agreeable about all of it and enthusiastic about none of it.

There’s nothing wrong with being content. Dave and I once lost almost an entire rainy weekend to takeout and old movies and considered it time well spent. But Dave always wanted things. A river he wanted to kayak. A trail he wanted to hike. A restaurant three towns away that sounded good enough to justify the drive.

By dessert, I know Graham is divorced, owns his house, and likes his job reasonably well. I still have no idea what makes him happy. I’m not sure he knows, either.

My second date is with Martin, who a woman in accounting assures me is handsome. She’s right.

Shortly after we sit down, he says, “You know, you’re not my usual type.” I smooth the edge of the napkin beside my plate before I respond. It isn’t that I need to be every man’s idea of beautiful. But there’s a peculiar indignity in getting dressed for a first date, walking into a restaurant willing to see whether you might find a good match, and having him announce almost immediately that he generally prefers the woman you aren’t.

For one brief second, I wish he’d simply looked pleased to see me. Then irritation takes over because he seems to think this is useful information.

“What is your usual type?” I ask.

“Tall, thin blondes. Long hair.”

I’m five-five, softly curvy, and my hair is brown with enough caramel highlights to keep my stylist in business. That is exactly what my profile picture captured.

Martin shifts in his chair. “Not that there’s anything wrong with how you look.”

“That is enormously reassuring.”