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    Blind Date
    Blind Date
    Blind Date
    Ebook114 pages1 hour

    Blind Date

    By T. J. Robertson

    ()

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    About this ebook

    When Wanda Costa, playing Cupid, invites her best friend, Susan Ross, and her husband's bosom buddy, Mark Roberts, to share a home-cooked dinner in celebration of their wedding anniversary, the antics of some uninvited guests--the newly weds' officious landlady, Susan's pompous ex-fiancé, and a quirky escapee from an assisted-living center--turn their apartment into a theater of the absurd.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherT. J. Robertson
    Release dateMay 11, 2011
    ISBN9781458181671
    Blind Date
    Author

    T. J. Robertson

    Although I’ve made my living as a teacher and guidance counselor, I’ve always had a passion for writing. Thomas Bouregy and Company published my novel, Return to Paradise Cove, under their Avalon imprint. Two of my one-act plays, A Different Kind of Death, and The Flirt, have been produced, respectively, in New Haven, Connecticut, and Sacramento, California. Short stories of mine have appeared in commercial magazines such as Action and True Romance as well as in certain literary and professional ones.

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      Book preview

      Blind Date - T. J. Robertson

      Blind Date

      by

      T. J. Robertson

      Smashwords Edition

      * * * * *

      Blind Date

      Copyright © 2011 by T. J. Robertson

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      * * * * *

      * * * * *

      * * * * *

      Chapter 1

      Being a successful female executive in the competitive world of banking and finance, Susan Ross experienced periods of stress, times of crisis, and even spells of quiet desperation more often than she cared to admit. So, upon such occasions--no matter what the season--at some point her inner compass would be sure to lead her down to her favorite place of refuge--Cape Cod.

      As soon as her car crossed over the Bourne Bridge, she would slow down, lower her window, and take a deep breath. More often than not, a good dose of that Cape-Cod salt air would be enough to lift her spirits. If not, a visit to Drummer Boy Park, a leisurely bike ride through Nickerson State Park, or a desultory stroll along Corporation Beach would almost certainly do so.

      The summer, of course, provided her with even more opportunities for self renewal. A plunge into the incoming tide at Paine's Creek Beach or a dip in fresh water of Scargo Lake would do wonders for her mental health.

      If all else failed to perk her up, as a last resort she would clamber aboard her sailboat, aptly named Footloose and Fancy-Free, and shove off, leaving both the shore and her cares behind. She would wile away the hours gliding aimlessly across the shimmering blue waters of the bay, all the while savoring the scent of the salt air, the caress of the fresh breeze, and the spray of the blown spume. The refrain of the waves, gently lapping at the bow of the boat, was ever the same: Simplify, simplify, simplify.

      Although it was difficult for an executive as energetic, driven, and successful as was she to do so, she, nevertheless, took that advice to heart. As a result of these outings for the first time in her life she became aware of the beauty, bounty, diversity, and, of course, simplicity of Mother Nature. Whether it was a flock of screaming herring gulls, a pod of playful seals, a solitary harbor porpoise, or a piece of driftwood--she would peal with delight at the sight and sound of whatever chance chose to put in her path.

      One thing was for sure; she always returned from such jaunts on the Footloose and Fancy-Free feeling calmer, more refreshed, and ready once again for combat within the corporate world from which most of her pressing problems came.

      On this particular day, however, the culprit, who had caused such intense and persistent mental anguish, wasn't some other bank executive--usually male--trying to climb another rung in the ladder of success at her expense. He was, instead, her fiancé.

      The gentle breeze was toying with errant strands of her blond hair, which were peeking out from beneath her cap; the splendor of the sky on this cloudless, Cape-Cod day was proving no match for the beauty of her sapphire eyes; and the bright red buoys were bobbing higher and higher in the wake of the sailboat as if trying, in envy, to catch a glimpse of her ruby lips. Her taut breasts strained sensually against the cotton fabric of her lavender tank top and her fine hips and shapely thighs, respectively, appeared even finer and more shapely beneath her tight-clinging white shorts.

      Rufus Fenstermacher, she murmured, tightening her grip on the handle of the tiller as if she might have been squeezing his throat. I've had it with these jealous, petty outbursts of yours. One more and it’s strike three; you’re out. Do you understand?"

      Apparently, once again, her jaunt in the Footloose and Fancy Free had caused a kind of magical catharsis; for that audible warning to one, Rufus Fenstermacher, brought the seething anger, which he had caused, to the surface and helped dissipate it. So, feeling calmer and more at ease, she leaned back, stretched her long, slender legs, and began to doze.

      Although her mumblings had come to an abrupt halt, her sailboat had not and, at that moment, its bow hit another boat broadside.

      Mark Roberts, wearing a white T-shirt, emblazoned in black with the words, A Wise Man Doesn't Need Advice And A Fool Won't Take It, and a pair of beige cargo shorts, was sprawled out on the floor of his dinghy, his head and broad shoulders propped up against a float cushion at the stern and his muscular calves draped over the rowing seat. A battered, broad-brimmed Musto hat kept his unruly, sandy, corn-silk-like hair under tight control and a pair of aviator sunglasses, perched on the bridge of his aquiline nose, shielded his hazel eyes from the glare of the noonday sun. Bronzed cheeks, a tight but generous mouth, and a stubbly, square jaw gave his face a look of inherent strength and confidence. His left hand, calloused from hard work, held a strand of deep-sea fishing line, the end of which was lying on the bottom of the bay, and remained alert to the slightest tug. All the while the anchored dinghy was bobbing gently up and down at the whim of the waves.

      Women, he mused, pulling the brim of his hat down until it touched the rim of his glasses, you can't live with them and you can't live without them. Well, Penelope, my darling, I sure as heck can live without you.

      The sarcasm he directed at the woman in question would have continued had he not suddenly found himself, like a space capsule, hurtling through the air and splashing down into the water; for, at that moment Susan Ross and her sailboat had hit him and his skiff broadside.

      As a result of the force of the impact she had somersaulted over the stern of her sailboat and ended up, unscathed, in the drink. She was treading water and watching helplessly as her sailboat, bereft of its pilot, continued on out across the bay when, all of a sudden, Mark's head broke the surface of the water several yards from her.. Oh! she shrieked as much from shock as from fright.

      After taking several gulps of fresh air and clearing his eyes, he. too, appeared unhurt. Look, Miss, I apologize for frightening you, he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. I know I should've done the gallant thing and stayed under water and drowned, but the truth is I'm a coward. As if to emphasize that last point he threw his head back, releasing a shower of droplets from his hair.

      So taken aback was she by his nasty greeting that she found herself at a loss for words.

      Can you swim? he asked, treading water.

      What do you think I'm doing now? she retorted, finding her voice again.

      I believe they call it treading water, he answered, raising an eyebrow in amused contempt.

      If she found his sarcasm irksome, she found his smiling at her as if she were a child even more so. Of course, I can swim, she snapped.

      Do you think you can make it to the island? he asked, pointing behind her.

      She turned her head and gasped in surprise. In all the commotion she had forgotten just how close she was to it. Recovering, she answered his question with one of her own. What are you going to do?

      Since the tide's coming in, I'm going to hang onto the stern of my skiff, he replied, gesturing toward his water-laden boat, bobbing nearby and try to keep its bow headed toward the island. Hopefully the current will carry it and me there."

      Well, I have a better idea, she retorted.

      The calmness and self-confidence with which those words rolled off her tongue surprised him. Oh, really? he replied, weighing her with a critical squint.

      She nodded.

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