Part Two
The day had finally arrived. February 13, 2010. The architect and I were set to go out on our first date.
We had spent countless days, before the main event, texting until my fingers ached. He was so congenial and amusing. He was without guile or affect; just a genuine guy who shared with me what he was planning to wear for our “big night” and his excitement for future plans past the fundraiser. I couldn’t believe he had the same anticipatory feelings as I was suppressing. It was almost too good to be true.
I did my romantic due diligence. For example, I had friends come over to consult as to what I should wear to match both his beauty and his fashion sense. We scoured my closet and consider going shopping, both brick and mortar and online. My friend’s husband, Lawrence, laughed that unless I chose to don a white wedding gown, I wouldn’t be properly attired in contrast to my date. I decided on a suede maxi skirt with a coordinating blouse and an ornate Indian scarf as the weather was quite cold. February in the high desert is not a joke. Especially when you are elderly.
My 90 year old grandfather and I were unusually close like best friends from the same era, a relationship that only deepened as we were bound by grief over the sudden death of his oldest daughter and my only mother. He was a pragmatic person as well. While he worried that I hadn’t gotten married during her lifetime (he was a romantic guy who, at 7, proposed to his neighbor, my 5 year old grandmother and he made good on his childhood promises to afford her decades of a great marriage), he felt compelled to make sure I tied the knot in his lifetime. He would confide in me that he worried once he was gone there would be nobody to protect my heart and, as a firm proponent of love and commitment, he felt no human being was whole without a dedicated mate. From the time I was a small child, I would confide in both grandparents about the boys I fancied or the men with whom I considered building a life. Nothing had panned out and become permanent, but I continued to share all potential prospects with my grandfather. At 90, he felt the cold of a Canadian winter quite acutely and had become a bit of a snow bird, acquiring a second home in the balmy Trinidad and Tobago to which he fled for the winter months he could no longer endure in Toronto. I would ring him frequently and while I didn’t know what to make out of the invitation from the architect, I couldn’t help but share the story with my grandfather. He, of course, was beyond excited and hoped there could be a future there. I was apprehensive as I not only felt unworthy, but also a little past my prime as we were both in our 30s yet he was six years younger than me. My grandfather wouldn’t hear anything negative and suddenly sprung into a protective mode where he acted as though I was an adolescent by saying it was improper for me to go out at night when there was nobody home to make sure I arrived back safely. So, he booked a flight to Las Vegas and decided to make the long trek, hoping to see me finally ensconced.
And here I sit, 14 years later, pondering: I wonder if I was as happy that night as I am thinking about it since?
He was the perfect gentleman from the inception of our evening as my skirt too tight to climb the height of his truck and he had to help me into the chariot. He listened attentively when I spoke of my career and said the fact that I had sold anything meant I could sell everything as most people only dream of being a paid writer and selling screenplays. We arrived at The M Resort.
The theme of the event was breast cancer awareness and it was the first time I heard the phrase “shero” to refer to those women (and some male) warriors who courageously fought that hateful disease. He was the only man in the room wearing a tux and the only first date I have ever attended where I was introduced to and spent the evening with the parents. (they were both delightful and seated at our table alongside his business partner and extended family.) When his friends wanted to do shots in the bar, he ordered seven, which oddly included one for me when I not only don’t drink, but neither of the other wives or girlfriends were offered a chance to partake. He counted me in with his friends and I was as touched as any teetotaler could be. His mother encouraged him to take me to a nightclub after the function and we also attended another party in the hotel that night. He was courteous and attentive throughout the evening turning into holiday. I remember we spent some time on a rooftop deck before realizing it was 2 in the morning (and Valentine’s Day)
When he drove me home, I insisted he didn’t have to walk me to the door. I remember him insisting right back that he did. There was that precious, romantic lingering moment at the door (fade to black) and I remember, after that moment, closing said door gently so as not to wake anybody in my house. (My aunt had graciously come from LA to make sure my grandfather was not alone so that I could relax and enjoy my evening). I can recall walking up the stairs and hearing the faint ping of a text on my phone that simply read, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Shero.”
And I can still smile for that moment with no regret, only profound gratitude for the reminder that there’s is a lot of love left in the world to enjoy….For everybody…should they choose to embrace it…
Post Script
While he inspired me that night, he also inspired so much of what I think is beautiful and what turns up in my scripts. I wasn’t sure I ever told him that. So, in January of 2023, I penned a heartfelt email of gratitude for the time we spent together and how he had impacted my life. I told him I had only the fondest memories and wished him every happiness. He took less than a day to respond. He thanked me and shared he was getting married the next month. I sincerely could not have been happier for her. He’s one of a kind…FWA, 2/13/24