82 Desire

applied myself rather assiduously to becoming a ne’er-do-well.”
    “Is that what you are now?”
    “I’m working on it.”
    “You’re working on getting drunk.”
    He lifted his glass to her. “I’m Dean Woolverton.”
    She leaned back, eyes wide, in a kind of self-conscious double take. “That’s really your name?”
    It was the last reaction he expected. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
    “It’s the weirdest thing. Mine’s Dina Wolf.”
    “Omigod. We’re the same person.” He heard himself speaking and felt profoundly depressed. Why in hell had he left Bebe? Maybe she was cheating on him, but at least he didn’t have to have inane conversations with her.
    In fact , he thought, I don’t have to have inane conversations with anybody. I could leave right now and I think I will.
    But Dina Wolf had sat down. “When’s your birthday?”
    Oh, well. Might as well get with the program. “I’m a Sagittarius,” he said, though he didn’t really have a clue what he was.
    “Good. I was born in the spring, so we can’t be the same person. That means I can buy you a drink without seeming selfish.”
    “I thought the man bought the drinks.”
    She pointed to their respective glasses. “You’re empty. I’m full.” She summoned the bartender. “Now. On with your life story.”
    “You’re quite the take-charge lady.”
    “I used to train dogs. So you hated your father.”
    “What do you mean by that?”
    “People would kill to go to Harvard. You decided not to like it because your dad made you go there.”
    “Ah. And where did you go?”
    “Florida State.”
    Once again he raised his glass, dimly aware that it was a drunk’s gesture. “Well, you’re a smart cookie.”
    “Did you like your mother?”
    He put the glass down and felt a dopey smile spread across his face. “My mother was an angel.”
    “Oh, really? Then you’d probably make a good husband.”
    “I didn’t.”
    She pursed her mouth. “I see. What were your wife’s complaints?”
    “She didn’t complain exactly. She just found someone else.”
    “And now you’re trying to do the same.”
    There was something unnervingly straightforward about the woman—he would have preferred a softer approach. “What about you?” he asked. “What are you doing?”
    “Waiting for my husband—see that big guy over there?”
    Russell glanced over his shoulder, and Dina Wolf laughed.
    “I’m kidding, I’m a graphic designer, unmarried. Talking to a cute guy, just for fun. No strings, no obligations, just talk.”
    Actually, he didn’t much care at that point who or what she was. In fact, he was extremely confused by her. He’d never met a woman in a baseball cap who talked like this. He said, “You’re damn right, Dina Wolf. I didn’t like my father much at all. I did a lot of things he wanted me to do—”
    “Trying to get his approval.”
    “You a shrink or a graphic designer? I was going to say, I didn’t like the old coot, but he gave me a lot. In a way, I guess I owe him big-time. Everything I became I owe to my father.”
    “Except,” she said, “what you are now.”
    “Why would you say that?”
    She shrugged. “Just being provocative.”
    But nothing could have been more true. He hadn’t wanted to go to Harvard, would have been perfectly happy at Tulane. Then maybe law school and an ordinary life in Uptown New Orleans. But once having gone to Harvard, he didn’t know what he wanted. He couldn’t bring himself to leave New Orleans, yet he couldn’t seem to fit in either. He worked for a bank for a while, but it was so deadly boring he finally got fired for taking too many mental health days.
    Whereupon his dad about popped a gasket. He was perfectly clear about it, too—Russell’s behavior made him look bad.
    And so Russell went to work in the oil patch. Being a roustabout suited him. He was young, he was arrogant, and after a couple of months, he looked good with his shirt off. His mom thought the sun rose and set on him, and his dad was pissed as hell. All was right with the world.
    Until an accident on the oil rig. He was covered by the company’s insurance, money wasn’t the problem. It was far more complicated than that—he lost partial use of his leg. Thus he needed someone to drive him to physical therapy, someone to help him with his exercises, someone to cook his meals, someone to shop for him, and someone to do his laundry. And he had such a person. A person temperamentally suited to all these