Free Perfect Sax by Jerrilyn Farmer Page B

better, you would find remarkable.”
    The Pantry’s host opened the door once more and this time looked at me. “One?” he asked, brisk and efficient.
    “Why don’t you join me for breakfast,” I suggested, turning to Dexter. “I can use your cell phone to check up on you. And don’t try anything funny. I have friends at the LAPD, you know.”
    “Ah,” said Dexter, “that makes you all the more desirable.”
    I laughed.
    “I’ll go park the car,” he said.
    I may have been dumped on the side of the road. And I may have misjudged the Red Line schedule. But my night was beginning to get just a little bit brighter.

“I Want to Talk About You”
    A nd so, eventually, Dexter Wyatt drove me home. But first we’d had a fairly hilarious early-morning breakfast at the Pantry while Dex dialed his family and friends to give me instant character references. “To set Madeline’s mind at ease,” he explained to all on his cell phone. “she’s still squirrelly.” I talked to his sister Zenya who was bursting with apologies. She had managed to get Bill calmed down and they were already at home. I talked to Dex’s college roommate from Penn, who said Dex was a decent-enough guy except for his habit of waking up East Coast friends at 5:30 A.M. Connecticut time on a Sunday morning. I talked to Dex’s high school girlfriend, Mary Kate, who was now married to a Beverly Hills gastroenterologist, and seemed unworried by the call or the late hour, since she was up with her seven-month-old twins. They all agreed that Dexter was an easygoing guy who had a tendency to avoid conflicts, steady work, and marriage.
    Over freshly scrambled eggs and refills of hot coffee, Dexter Wyatt and I had one of those weird, off-center, very personal conversations that can only happen between strangers at 2:30 A.M. Dexter admitted he was never going to fall in love completely.
    “You may not have met the right person yet,” I suggested.
    “That’s nice of you to say.” Dex put his coffee cup down and gave me a slow smile. “But you know I probably have. I’ve met lots of right women. I’ve even been involved with a few. But they all figure out I’m not the right person to get involved with.”
    “Because…?”
    “Because,” he said carefully, “I am a guy whose mother died when he was eleven. A guy who doesn’t have a lot of faith that someone you love will make it until next week. A guy without much trust in life. In a nutshell.”
    “How did your mother die?”
    “Cancer. I can almost remember when she was healthy. Mostly what I remember was that she was sick and then sicker and then she was gone. But things like that happen. Anyway, that was over twenty years ago. It’s an old, old scar.” Dex took in my concerned expression and began to laugh. “Hey, this is one romantic conversation, isn’t it? So tell me why you believe in love.”
    “Who said I believe in love?”
    “You don’t?”
    “Well, no. I do. But not just because I’m a ‘girl’ and we’re programmed to want to fall in love or anything. I know that’s what you think.”
    “You do?”
    “Of course I do. You think there is a conspiracy among womankind to find husbands. To this end, you think we go out at night wearing sexy dresses and strappy sandals scouting out men with nice cars and good hair. And pretty soon everyone thinks they’re in love. When they—or I should really say you—are most vulnerable, the woman will demand to be married and have babies and tie you down for the rest of your life, making you work like a dog to pay for private school and braces.”
    He looked at me across the table, a smile still on his lips. “Pretty impressive.”
    “Now here is the truly sad part. You need to believe women are out there trying to trap you into serious relationships.”
    “I do?”
    I nodded. “So you avoid finding a steady career. You travel. You knock around. You won’t take life or commitments or relationships seriously. But I’m just