He’s got a bachelor pad. I wouldn’t even call it a pad. It’s a mansion in Belvedere, across the Golden Gate Bridge in Marin. Tiburon territory. There aren’t any feminine flourishes, no picture frames, no baked goods on the counter, no mascara on the bathroom vanity. Marc mocked, “Well he’s probably some rich married guy with a pied-a-terre in the city.”
“It’s not a pied-a-terre!” I shot back defensively. “It’s a sprawling compound with a two-car garage that fits his silver Porsche SUV. No wife would let her husband drive that thing. At least I wouldn’t. I need that money for shopping sprees at Saks.”
Marc shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you. Let’s all go out for drinks sometime.”
Every time I’m with Eli, I can’t stop these nagging voices in my head. But what married man would spend every weekend with me? What married man would ask me to come to a party that his co-worker is throwing? I wasn’t able to go, I was hanging out with my family that night. But if I did go, they couldn’t all be in on the joke that he’s married while dating an oblivious but intelligent woman ten years his junior.
“Sweetheart, I was so bummed you couldn’t come to the party with me. I wanted to take you away for the weekend. I know how hard you’ve been working.”
“Eli, will you go on vacation with me? I found a place in Mexico. There’s wireless. You could work, I could work too if I needed to get some stuff done. What do you say?”
“Of course. I would love to go. Let me know what you plan.”
Do married men go on vacation with their flings? He can’t be married. He just can’t be.